Tyger Burning

by T. C. McCarthy

  The area immediately before the door was clear of corpses. Maung moved a centimeter each second, closing his eyes for the last meter and praying that there was no shape detection, no cameras pointed at the hallway. His left hand touched it. Maung was about to reach for the door’s controls when he stopped, noticing a gentle vibration that translated to his suit glove and into his fingers, registering somewhere in his mind that this was an important observation. He drew his hand away. The fact that the door vibrated should’ve told him something—should’ve given him an idea—but for now his mind was still blank. When he rested his faceplate against the door in frustration, Maung almost laughed. There had to be air on the other side; the vibration was from machinery and air handling that now echoed faintly inside his helmet and it occurred to him that if the air carried those sounds it might carry others.

  Maung worked his forearm pad at the same time he whispered orders to his suit computer. When he was ready, he sat up and adjusted himself, making sure that one of the suit’s audio pickups pressed against the door, feeding sound into his headphones. There were voices. They sounded garbled, but he deciphered most of it and the computer assisted by transcribing the conversation onto his heads-up.

  “You know this is a one-way deal. You take this option and you’re giving yourself a death sentence.” The accent was different from the American ones. Maybe British.

  The man who responded sounded tired. “I get my mind back for a few days. And you take care of my family.”

  “That’s the deal. You enter our test program on Mars and your family gets a free ride. Your kids can go to any school for free, and the government moves them into a nice place where they’ll be safe. They never have to worry again.”

  “I want it,” the American said. “Send me to Phobos.”

  Maung heard a shuffling near the door; someone was close by on the other side. The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him and Maung drifted backward and toward the bodies, picking several of the closest corpses and dragging them over his suit, not knowing if his movements triggered an alarm, but there had to be an inner airlock door that would close and then the air had to cycle, giving him time to bury himself. By the time the door opened, a blanket of corpses hid him. Maung prayed, closing his eyes and then opening them just a slit to see the shadows of men floating overhead, one of them in the yellow suit of a drifter.

  Their shift was almost over and Maung and Than sped back to the control room as fast as they could, taking chances at every elevator shaft and climbing with leaps. Nam pinged them the whole way. But Maung told Than not to answer because giving details wouldn’t help them get out of trouble and the signal could be intercepted by anyone within range. It took twenty minutes. By the time they arrived, Maung’s suit had filled with moisture and his faceplate fogged from the exertion, so that it was a genuine relief to get there—despite Nam’s rage—just so he could rest.

  “You don’t know what you’ve done,” said Nam.

  Maung gestured for Nam to wait. “We found something, Nam. We need your help.”

  “Listen to him,” Than said. “I don’t even believe what he heard, but maybe you know more.”

  “I don’t need to listen to Maung. I don’t need to listen to you. You went someplace that’s off limits and refused to listen and I bet that by now the American security team is on its way here to arrest you both. I don’t know how you made it this far back after bootlegging it into a restricted zone.”

  “First Walther attacks and now they’re taking our drifters?” Than shouted. “Something is going on, Nam. That’s why we’ve been losing so many. The Americans and their allies have some kind of a program where the drifters can volunteer in exchange for their families being taken care of.”

  Nam looked at Maung and then back at Than. He didn’t know, thought Maung. He wasn’t sure if Nam was in on it until then but the man’s face slackened and he let go of the handhold so that Nam floated upward without realizing it, then banged his head on the ceiling.

  “Walther was an accident; my team found nothing except a faulty brain connection that made him less controllable, so stop creating conspiracy where none exists.”

  “Fine,” said Maung. “But Than’s not inventing the Allied unit; we watched them take the drifter. I heard the conversation and recorded it.” Maung hit a few buttons on his forearm and direct transmitted the recording to Nam’s suit. It took less than a second. A minute later, Nam sat in his seat with both knees tucked under the desk, and his face in his hands.

  “I have no idea what this means,” he said. “Old Man Charleston told me to stay out of that area because of one of his side projects but if what you’re saying is true . . .”

  Maung finished his sentence. “Then Old Man Charleston might be with the government—with the Allies. At least for some of his projects.”

  “And has been forever,” Than said. “I don’t know why this upsets you so much, Nam. It’s common knowledge the Old Man has his own side deals—that he makes money however he can.”

  Nam launched himself from the desk and seized Than by the front of his suit, sending both of them to slam into the far wall. “You idiot. Do you know how many of those drifters were Burmese? Do you know how many Burmese guards died trying to keep quotas up when we were short on drifters?”

  “So?” Than asked. His voice shook with fear and he looked at Maung with a confused expression.

  “So they’re our people. Old Man Charleston’s people. I thought even scum like him had its limits. We took our own chances coming here and knew the risks. But he’d been making the risks worse, stacking the deck against us to earn a little extra on the side, and we have to go out there and take up the slack to make sure we meet quota every time he steals one of our drifters.”

  Maung gasped with pain. He yanked a glove off and snatched at his neck to feel the hot skin puffed around his port. He touched it and hissed.

  “What’s wrong?” Nam asked.

  Maung caught his breath and blinked the tears from his eyes. “You want to get back at the Old Man?”

  “Now I do. If they don’t come to arrest you and me, I do. Yes.”

  Than shook his head. “You two are crazy.”

  “Nam,” said Maung, “we need to do three things: The skin around my data port is infected; when Walther slammed me with the torch it worsened something that had already been stewing. The doctor has to see me. Now. Then you need to get me coms with Old Man Charleston. But before that, we need to find out what’s going on at Phobos. That’s what this is all about. I have a feeling that if we look there, we’ll find out what’s going on out here and on Earth.”

  Nam nodded. He pulled himself over and motioned for Maung to lean forward, then took out a flashlight to look at his neck.

  “They’re going to have to amputate your head, Tatmaw,” he said. “That looks bad. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  “I didn’t feel really bad until today. Next time you give me a data cable, make sure the damn bots are clean.”

  Maung heard voices. He assumed he was in the dark side sick bay, but Nam gave him a narcotic to ease the pain and he floated in and out of consciousness, doing his best to remember everything that happened. Sometimes Nang spoke. She stood next to his bed and stroked his hair, which made him sad because it had to be a dream; she would never touch a Tatmawdaw. Other times his family came—all of them. His mother looked stern and upset, like getting sick was his fault, and Maung guessed he was a kid again. His mother held his hand. She led him through the crowded streets of Mandalay, taking him to a monk, the one that everyone said could see through you and into the future. The sun beat on his forehead and mosquitoes clouded around them until finally they reached the steps of a temple where his mother smiled down at him, motioning for him to go forward. She couldn’t go in. Maung had to do this alone . . .

  “He is what?” someone asked.

  The other voice was Nam’s. “He is a Dream Warrior, Doctor. A killer. And if you don’
t fix him, he’ll die, but we need him for a project that the Americans are running on Dark Side. So this has to be a secret; if you tell anyone, you die.”

  “I need to see the orders on this one, Nam. This can’t be true. There’s no way I’m going near him and I’ll be damned if I’m keeping this a secret.”

  Maung heard movement around him; he opened his eyes. Burmese guards streamed into sickbay, surrounding the doctor, and a few of them grinned in a way that suggested they wanted the Japanese doctor to keep refusing so they could “convince” him.

  “Your people killed a lot of ours, Doctor,” said Nam. “Tokyo was almost as ruthless in their orders as Beijing.”

  “I had nothing to do with that!”

  Nam gestured at his men. “I’m pretty sure they don’t care whether you did or not.”

  The doctor had a moustache. It surprised Maung because it looked so odd on an Asian and in the bluish lights, the man’s skin looked pale. He leaned over Maung and whispered something in Japanese.

  Finally he straightened. “It’s bad. This may be staph or something else so I’ll try microbots but he may need to be taken off Karin; if that’s the case, there’s nothing I can do. You can’t blame me for something that’s out of my control.”

  “Of course not,” said Nam, grinning. “That would be unreasonable.”

  Maung cringed when they began cutting. The bots removed sections of his neck but he was immobilized on an operating table and felt nothing except a slight pressure—the sensation of millions of tiny creatures nibbling on rotting skin. He smelled the rot now. It reminded him of the decay permeating the entire asteroid, but since this time the odor came from him, Maung couldn’t shake his fear and wondered what would happen if it didn’t work. The doctor stepped into view, interrupting his thoughts; he lowered his face toward Maung’s and then spit on him.

  “You’re dead, Tatmaw. As soon as I get back to Sunny Side, you’re as good as dead. I’ll report your ass and there’s nothing Nam can do to stop it.”

  The smell of incense made Maung smile. He was a child and when he looked back, the temple exit framed his mother, the Myanmar sun silhouetting her on an early morning. He turned and looked forward at the monk who waited for him. The man’s youth surprised Maung. The way his mother had talked, with respect only reserved for old people, Maung had assumed the holy man would be ancient like the ones in the local village temple. This one looked like a teenager; his robes almost were too big for the monk’s small frame and dragged on the floor.

  The monk smiled and took Maung’s hand, leading him deeper into the temple. “I already see why your mother brought you here,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  The monk led him through a long, narrow passage, the walls constructed by clay bricks, which tinged the air with a red color, and which deepened the orange of the monk’s robe. The colors made everything warm. Unconsciously, Maung swung his and the monk’s hand back and forth, the way he did with his mother.

  “You glow. We will look at you more closely and give you a message for your parents.”

  Maung was about to ask another question when someone shook him, forcing the dream to evaporate at the same instant he opened his eyes. Even the dim light of Karin’s LEDs made him blink and Maung had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. He wanted to remember. Maung tried to return to sleep, to follow the monk into his temple and recall what happened that day but now someone shouted at him and shone a bright light into his eyes.

  “It’s OK, Pa,” said Than. “It’s me—not that scumbag of a doctor.”

  Nam was there too. They both grinned and Maung could barely speak; he motioned toward a squeeze-pouch of water and when he finished taking a sip he whispered.

  “The doctor. He spat on me and said he was going to report me anyway—when he got back to Sunny Side.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Nam. “It’s not a problem anymore.”

  Than looked away. Maung sensed the tension and looked back at Nam. “What? What happened?”

  “The elevator had a catastrophic decompression event on the way back to Sunny Side, just after it left here. Vented all its air. And it turns out the doctor’s suit, and all the emergency ones onboard, were defective. And by the way.” Nam paused to flick his finger against Than’s shoulder. “You two got lucky; nobody detected your little trip to the classified area—as far as I can tell.”

  Maung grinned. He saw that the murder bothered Than and wished he had that kind of conscience, but the doctor’s expression and words erased any kind of sympathy he might otherwise have mustered. This was a killing that needed to happen. As far as he was concerned, there was no need to pray except to say thanks that Nam’s assassination plan succeeded.

  “I don’t think what the Japanese did was so bad,” said Than. “So they used nukes. So what? It was war.”

  “Yeah, but have you seen any North Koreans lately?” Nam asked. “Any survivors?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly.”

  Maung’s eyes almost closed again. He glanced at the clock but time was meaningless without knowing how long he was out, and he struggled to sit up before Nam motioned for him to relax.

  “How long was I out?”

  “A week. We thought we’d killed the doctor too soon because I swear that you almost died from fever twice. But we managed with the drugs we stole from him before he got on the transport elevator.”

  Nam grinned from ear to ear; so did Than.

  “What are you two smiling at?” Maung asked.

  “You have a visitor,” said Than; he glanced at Nam. “Should we let this villain in?”

  Nam’s expression went serious again. “Maung. We’ve bandaged your neck, but from now on your data port is exposed; unless you’re in a suit, everyone can see it. The Sunny Siders think we called the doctor for someone with meningitis. That’s what you’ll tell anyone who asks; you don’t know how you got it, it just happened.”

  “Got it,” said Maung. “Who’s the visitor?”

  But Nam and Than drifted noiselessly out of sick bay and sealed the door, leaving Maung’s question unanswered.

  Nang was more beautiful than he remembered. She held onto the bed railing and smiled, and for a moment he believed that he hallucinated again and that this wasn’t really Nang but a vision like the many he’d had so recently. But he smelled her hair. It was in a ponytail and Maung noticed that she’d put on makeup—something she hadn’t done before—and somehow she managed to make the bulky environmental suit look good. He couldn’t talk.

  “You’re alive, Tatmaw?”

  Maung took a sip of water. “Barely. Apparently I nearly died. Or maybe I did and you’re talking to a phantom.”

  Nang touched his arm and then his forehead. “Nope. You’re real. I was worried about you. When I heard that the doctor had come over here for someone with meningitis, and then saw your name on the sick roster, I asked a friend to assign me to the American detail again.”

  “The Korean guy.”

  “Yeah,” said Nang. “At first he didn’t want to but I was able to persuade him.”

  “Are you two? You know . . .” Maung tried not to get angry at the mentioning of the Korean guard, the one who originally put him on the prisoner’s elevator when he first arrived. The one who gets to spend so much time with her.

  “Are we what?” she asked.

  “Seeing each other.”

  Nang punched him in the arm. “No. Why would I be with him? Sure, he tried but his face is too American. It’s puffy.” She smiled and when she looked at Maung the rest of the room vanished.

  “Look,” said Nang, “I wanted to apologize for the way I was when we said good-bye on Sunny Side. Those guys are jerks. I shouldn’t have laughed at you.”

  Maung smiled. “It’s OK. I was a jerk too.”

  “Why did you want to know if I was seeing the Korean guy?” she asked. When Maung shrugged and looked away, embarrassed, she grabbed his chin and turned it to face
her. “You really are stupid, but in a cute way, Tatmaw.”

  Maung almost choked when she kissed him. Nang leaned forward and now the smell of her hair sank down, soaked through his face and drowned him while her tongue met his. Before he knew it, both his arms wrapped around her. He tried pulling her into the bed, but she backed off and laughed.

  “No way, Tatmaw. Not while we’re in sick bay and not while I’m in this awful suit.”

  Maung hadn’t smiled like this in years. Part of him reached out to the dead and to his wife, looking for forgiveness, but the sight of Nang erased any doubts; his wife would like her. “It’s been a while; I’m not too good at this, Nang.”

  “Me neither. I have to go but we’ll figure this out, OK? Maybe your assignment won’t be like all the other Tatmaws; maybe you’ll get a chance to leave someday, with me.”

  She kissed him again. Maung held her for as long as he could but finally she broke free, laughing, and headed for the door; before it slid shut she looked over her shoulder and grinned.

  “You’re also kind of sexy, Maung. For a jungle-village idiot.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Everyone talked about how Karin is a living hell,” said Maung. When he moved, the stiffness of his neck made him wince, as if all his muscles and bone had frozen into a solid block of steel. “It sucks, but it’s not as bad as everyone said.”

  At first Nam laughed. “People exaggerate. Tell stories.” Then his face went serious and he shook his head. “But it’s not easy, either, Maung, and you’ve seen some of it already. People die here. And I hate to do this but we need you back on duty; it’s been a week. How are you feeling?”

  “Like we need to find out about Phobos.”