Tyger Burning

by T. C. McCarthy

  Nang clicked onto a private frequency. “How did you find out about me?”

  “I’m a super-aware! How did you think you could hide, Nang? You lied. I’d forgotten about the secret ship but now that I review the data, that ship was never for the warden; it’s for you, for your operation. I bet nobody else knows about it except you. What are your orders? Wait for an opportunity to kill me and then slit my throat?”

  “No.” She was obviously angry, and her tone saddened Maung. “I wouldn’t do that even if it had been ordered, you jungle idiot. Sometimes you don’t act like a super-aware, Maung. Do the math. If I’d been sent to kill you, you’d have been dead before you got a chance to activate.”

  The other guards were waiting. They’d already reached the exit and filled the main tunnel where Maung counted at least fifty, and he said a prayer of thanks that at least this many survived and that no additional Myanmarese had perished. Red lights flashed. Maung knew that the Karin alarms were blaring but the impact had opened the station to space and vacuum.

  “So then what?” he asked. “What are your orders?”

  “I’m supposed to watch you and report, Maung. That’s it. I wasn't even sure you were a super-aware when the mission started.”

  Maung pushed through the mass of guards as his semi-aware urged him to move—fast. “And to sleep with me.”

  “That wasn’t the plan, asshole. I fell in love with you, Maung, and that was me—not the plan. But now I’m not sure if I made the right decision.”

  Maung reeled with confusion. Part of him wanted to hate her out of terror; his semi-aware spit data, warning that the Allies had known his identity and secret for some time. There was a deeper story here and it wasn’t consistent with what Maung had always assumed: that the Americans wanted him dead.

  This is not the case, his semi-aware said. I now estimate that there’s a seventy-five percent chance they’ve been trying to capture you for years—not kill you. There’s also a significant probability that the Americans did not kill our fellow Dream Warriors at the end of the war. Someone else did.

  Nam cut in. “We have to get to the control room first, Maung. Our Burmese men are fine with waiting here for the Fleet, but first we have to find extra oxygen and a safe place for them to hold out.”

  “And we don’t know where the final Chinese drop ships are landing,” Than said. “Or how many they’ll face—the ones that can’t fit on the ship with us.”

  Maung nodded. “Are the Sunny Side guards ready to fight too?”

  “Most,” said Nam. “Some are freaking out, but Nang has already taught one of them how to fire the Sommen rifle. It should help.”

  Mark your data on who you assess could have killed my wife and the other Dream Warriors, he told his system. I want it rapidly available any time I need it.

  Agreed.

  Maung saw a data port. He pulled his cable out and took a moment to link in, only to find that his helmet port had been crushed; the impact against the shaft wall deformed it so that he couldn’t access anything. He tried broadcasting, but there was nothing. The entire Sunny Side was dead except for emergency lighting and making things worse, the impact had broken sections of the tunnels so the group had to squeeze through narrow gaps—some so tiny that Maung widened them by firing the Sommen weapon. Upon firing, he was puzzled again. The rifle gave no sign of having decreased in power, despite all the use it had gotten but there was no time to waste on figuring it out; the group dragged themselves onward through wreckage. Near the command section they encountered the first bodies. A section of the prison had been completely destroyed and prisoners’ corpses drifted through the tunnels, contorted in frozen expressions of agony.

  What if I stay? he asked his semi-aware. What if I remain to help with the fight?

  You can escape, Maung. I don’t understand.

  Maung gripped the rifle so that his knuckles ached. These are my people. I cannot abandon them to the Chinese, who could have more Dream Warriors.

  At this point, there are no electronics for the Chinese to exploit, Maung, except you. If you stay, you will be the main target. If the Chinese succeed in taking you, then it’s highly likely you’d be used to help slaughter your friends.

  Maung relaxed a bit once they reached Sunny Side’s control room. He handed the rifle to Nam, who handed it to a Burmese guard, and then Maung prayed that everyone could hear his transmission.

  “The Chinese have likely already landed. Given their electronic capabilities, they’ve probably pinpointed our location but we have no idea where they are or how long it will take for them to get here. Use the rifle. Hold out for as long as you can.” Maung checked his chronometer. “We can’t risk radioing the Fleet since the Chinese are still out there and I can’t risk opening ourselves to the creeper. Ten hours. The Fleet will be here in ten hours and all you have to do is defend yourselves until rescued.”

  An influx of shame prevented Maung from looking up as he finished. “I want to stay but I can’t. This is good-bye.”

  The remaining Myanmar guards saluted him and before he could stop it his semi-aware calculated how many would die in the coming attack, even with the Sommen rifle. Maybe all. His eyes welled with tears and he walked forward, hugging each man.

  “I’m sorry, brothers.”

  One of them nudged Maung gently toward Nam and Than. “Pa-Maung, go. If you wait here they might get you and you at least must survive.”

  Maung sobbed, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of being responsible for more death, and Nam took his arm, helping him bounce toward the door.

  “Show us where to go, Nang,” Maung said.

  Nam sounded nervous. “You have to radio the Fleet and warn them about the creeper; what if it attacks them over radio?”

  The four reached the hidden dock and drifted across empty space toward a ship’s access hatch, where the Chinese attacks had broken its port locks; otherwise it was intact. Maung marveled at the sleekness of the craft, which even looked fast, a long, slender needle that cut through both space and atmosphere, with a massive engine pod at the rear. A few moments later they were in. Maung and the others strapped into acceleration couches while Nang and Nam powered up the craft.

  “I already warned them,” Maung finally said. “As soon as the Chinese semi-aware swallowed the packet, I sent a quick, coded, burst transmission toward Fleet and instructed them to shut down all electronics.”

  “Do you think they did?” Than asked.

  Maung let tiredness take over. It was the first time he’d rested in what seemed like weeks and already his eyelids were shutting. “I don’t care,” he said. “They’re Allied scum.”

  “We still going to Phobos?” Nam asked.

  “Yeah. Mars. We’ve got to figure out what’s going on—with the Sommen and Chinese; I’m convinced they’re connected. I’m glad you came with me because I can’t do this alone.”

  Nam shrugged. “So Phobos is where you’ll find answers.”

  “Phobos,” said Maung. “Avoid the Fleet if you can; make sure to activate every stealth feature this thing has.” He was on the verge of falling asleep when he remembered one more thing. “And watch out for Nang, Nam. She’s working with the Allies and has been spying on me this whole time. She has to fly this thing, but don’t let her make any transmissions.”

  “How am I supposed to navigate without access to coms?” Nang asked.

  “Nam,” said Maung, yawning. “Can you and Than fix my data port? It got damaged during the missile strikes.” He looked at Nang. “Even if I’m asleep, I’ve set up several thousand navigation solutions depending on our speed, departure time, and whatever else. We’re not letting you talk to your Allied friends, Nang.”

  “You know . . . we’re not the bad guys, Maung. I’m not the enemy.”

  But Maung was already asleep.

  BOOK THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Maung stared as long as he could at the expanse of red and brown, an infinite plain of vol
canic rock and soil that stretched to the horizon, peppered with large and small boulders. Something moved in his periphery. Maung whipped his head to focus but it was too late; they and the Phobos-Mars shuttle—that had just landed them on a pristine concrete pad—now descended under the Martian surface. The Americans had dug their main surface port deeply under the red soil and Maung sighed. Why did everything have to be underground?

  “Did you see anything out there?” he asked Than. “Anything that moved?”

  “I didn’t see anything except rock. Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  The weight of gravity descended on Maung, pushing him downward into the cushion so he was glad he sat, but a minute later they stood to exit; he and the others nearly collapsed under the weight of their new bodies. The drugs given to them had maintained their bone density, but not having used their muscles in gravity had taken its toll, and the atrophy was acute, to the point where Nam lowered himself to his hands and knees. They shuffled out of the shuttle and into a receiving area, where a security guard met them, laughing.

  Maung noticed how tall and slim the man looked; he wore a gray jumpsuit, a kind of semienvironment rig with a neck ring for locking on a helmet.

  “It’s OK. You’ll get used to gravity again. Eventually.”

  “I think I’m dying,” Than said, then repeated it in English.

  “Just be glad this isn’t Earth,” said the guard. “Acclimatization there is supposed to be worse. A lot worse.”

  Maung gasped for air, sweating. “I don’t think anything could be worse than this.”

  An alarm sounded. At first Maung froze and Nam and Than dropped to their stomachs, covering their heads in anticipation, but then the guard laughed again and waved them forward.

  “Relax. It’s just a drill. After what happened on Karin and now that we’re at war, we have them all the time.”

  “What happened on Karin?” Nang asked. “What war?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  Maung wanted to strangle him for not spitting it out. “No. What?”

  “The Chinese nuked it. The rock is still there, partially melted.”

  “What happened to the prison guards?”

  The American lowered his head and sighed. “Nobody made it out. The Chinese landed a few drop ships and unloaded nukes. They waited for the first groups of Allied Marines to land and get close before they set all of them off. The Fleet is fine. But nobody made it off Karin.”

  Maung dropped to the floor. He couldn’t get the guards’ faces out of his mind and when Nang put her hand on his shoulder he barely noticed, forgetting for a moment that she had become an enemy; Maung was back on the asteroid, inside Karin.

  “Listen,” the guard continued, “anyone transferring from zero-g or micro-g assignments, gets a couple of days to acclimate; when you guys are ready to see your quarters and get your assignments, let me know. Take your time. I’m really sorry if you lost people.”

  Maung sensed wetness on his cheek. He almost laughed when he understood that he was crying and nothing his wetware did could relieve him from the pain of his thoughts—that he killed all those men by not coming up with a better plan.

  “Maung,” Nang said, quietly so only he could hear it. “I’m sorry I spied on you. Please let me back in. There was nothing else you could have done.”

  More than a few days passed. Maung marveled at the space they were given compared to Karin; all four had their own small room in a suite that met in a common area with a small kitchen and adjoining bathroom and shower, with water conservation timing like Karin’s. The similar features made Maung relax a bit. They’d landed someplace safe and almost familiar and so slowly, the showers, sleeping in gravity, and a young American who guided them through hours of exercise each “day” combined to nurse him back. Maung tried to silence memories of Karin. The thoughts were still there, waiting to ambush him, but he distracted himself by marveling at the fact that he’d become so accustomed to living underground—with solid rock on all sides. And he and Nang were talking; it was a start, Maung thought.

  One day, someone pounded on their access hatch, startling them all, and a man in an environment suit shoved his way in. He was older than the other Americans on Mars. The man’s suit was a faded orange that showed so much wear Maung was surprised it still functioned, and its lower legs and boots were covered with the dark red dust of Mars itself. He cradled a helmet in one hand. The other hand rested on a pistol, the metal of which looked worn, its once blued edges now bright from having been drawn and fired, over and over again.

  The man glared. “I don’t know how this happened.”

  “What?” Maung asked.

  “You. Four Laotians. On Mars. My posting asked specifically for native born Americans.”

  “That’s me,” Nang said. “I’m American.”

  The man gave her a look that made Maung want to punch him, but this wasn’t someone he was used to—not since the war; this, he figured, was someone whose life was war and who no longer remembered how to live. His face was muddy red, creased with the wrinkles of having seen too much sun, from having lived outside for decades.

  “Someone must have messed up,” the man continued. “But I have to assign you somewhere and I may as well give you the most dangerous job. No training required since you all have military backgrounds.”

  “Who are you?” Nam asked.

  He ran a hand through short gray hair, and Maung wondered if the man’s thick beard, also almost completely gray, was against regulations. “Colonel Gibson. Head of security and someone who spent years in your stinking jungles. Follow me; there’s an empty slot in the outposts and you four will work just fine.”

  “We’re Laotian,” Than pleaded. “Not Burmese; they weren’t our jungles.” The colonel moved out the hatch and waited for the group to join him in the hallway and Than’s voice cracked. “We’re not the ones you fought!”

  “I wish you were; Burmese are tough sons of bitches who’d be perfect for this assignment. You’re going to need new suits for topside duty. And weapons.”

  “Under there is what you have to be careful of,” said Colonel Gibson. “They’ll wait for you to screw up.” He pointed to the expanse of red dirt, littered with black rocks of all sizes, some of them looking so sharp that Maung made sure not to snag on them for fear of ripping his suit. “There are things underground that will rip your guts out if you’re not careful. Do everything I tell you.”

  The view made Maung queasy. Almost every direction provided an unobstructed line of site to the horizon and a slight breeze whistled in his helmet pickups, an environment that once more reminded him of ghosts and demons so that he silently prayed while they walked. Phobos set on the horizon. Not too far from it, the sun rose, turning the sky a deep blue that faded to red. It was all wrong. His semi-aware had to remind him that the sky colors on Mars were different from earth, but the information failed to settle a feeling that everything had gone surreal.

  “I feel sick,” Maung said.

  Than responded, “Me too.”

  “Take a damn tab!” the colonel said. “They’re right by your mouth on the left side, the pink ones. Anti-nausea. For newcomers. You’ll get used to this in a day or two.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was swallow anything, but Maung forced himself to tongue the pill, letting it dissolve into nothing. A moment later the nausea vanished.

  “I didn’t expect to feel so sick,” he said.

  The colonel grunted. “A lot of newcomers get it; Mars is more disorienting than people think, especially if you’re accustomed to being underground or on a space station.”

  “What were you talking about earlier?” Nang asked. “I don’t see anything. What’s in the dirt that we have to watch out for?”

  “You know they’re there,” the colonel said. “Waiting for you to mess up, to pull you down; I’ll explain it soon, but for now just keep moving. And walk behind me, following the exact path that I take.”
/>   “How long you been on Mars?” Maung asked.

  “Too long. I’ve forgotten what green looks like. And now I have to deal with you jungle idiots, as if serving on this hole isn’t punishment enough, as if taking antiradiation meds and regular cancer treatments isn’t worse than a death sentence, now they give me you.”

  Maung wanted to scream at the guy, tell him how much he deserved to be here, cooked and forgotten—but he couldn’t. Even though his face was invisible behind a reflective gold faceplate, the colonel still looked dangerous. A hunter. Maung imagined that the colonel was an adopted child of the planet, a local, whose motions and gestures showed a level of comfort that screamed I am part of these rocks—just as sharp and ugly.

  “What the hell!” Nam yelled, jumping to the side.

  The dirt rippled near Maung’s feet and he stepped back; without warning the colonel snatched at his suit sleeve, almost yanking him off his feet, shouting for the others to keep up when he jogged toward the sun.

  “How far are we going?” Maung asked. Already he was out of breath. The brightening sun darkened his faceplate automatically, to the point where he almost couldn’t see.

  Than sounded winded too. “And where are we going?”

  “Not far,” the colonel said. “We’re heading for your assigned outpost and we’re almost there, but draw your pistols—just in case things get sporty. Apparently they’ve detected our movements.”

  “What detected our movement?” Maung asked.

  But the colonel only laughed.

  Maung was almost exhausted when he saw it on the horizon: a small square hut—jet black as if formed from carbon or graphite. At first Maung thought it sat on the Martian surface but as they got closer he soon recognized it was on a perch, that the hut sat on a massive column rising from the red dust and into the sky, so high that Maung hesitated at the idea of climbing it. The colonel told them this was their outpost, their new home: a carbon nanotube column bonded to bedrock and atop which rested their post. The early rays of the sun washed the sides of it in light, light that it immediately absorbed and devoured, not reflecting anything.