Stormblood

by Jeremy Szal

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kindosh said in the least apologetic of voices, ‘that wasn’t a request.’ Behind me Kowalski’s men shifted in their suits, but none of them said anything. Kindosh turned back to me, all business. ‘We reward cooperation, we always have. But don’t take too long to think about it. It’d be quite unfortunate if your brother found himself in deeper trouble in the meantime.’

  I swallowed back two dozen venomous replies and looked between the image of my dead friend, killed by poisoned stormtech suppressors, and that of my long-lost brother, caught in the act of poisoning the stormtech.

  3

  Hand Covers Bruise

  We rode the clatterlift alone in silence.

  Built along the spine of Compass, the lift is the quickest method of accessing each floor and subsector of the asteroid. Kowalski was to escort me to my apartment in Starklands and accompany me wherever I went. Supposedly for my protection, but no doubt meant to encourage some co-operation through her mere presence. I know how these people work.

  The awkward silence stretched on as we plummeted down through kilometres of space. To my credit, I held out. She broke it. ‘Please, make both our lives easier and stay out of trouble.’ She took out her vaper and sucked deeply. Tendrils of sweetened smoke curled around her like ghostly fingers. ‘I’ve got dozens of unidentified skinnie deaths on my plate without dealing with this, too.’

  ‘Got it.’

  I didn’t intend to make trouble, but the stormtech frequently had other plans. On the one hand, it didn’t have a strong enough hold on me to be overpowering, and if I clamped down on the urges hard enough, they faded. On the other, I could be triggered by something as simple as getting looked at the wrong way on the street. Reapers’ bodies demanded a continuous release of adrenaline, which was almost impossible to stop once we got going. I’d seen a Reaper get his arm blown off in the heat of battle, still roaring as he slaughtered two dozen Harvester infantry in a rampage. It was hours later that he camedown and realised his arm ended at the elbow joint.

  I held my hands behind my back, the vambrace plates grinding. I’d expected Kindosh to take the Hendrix, but it must have slipped her mind and I was still smuggling the genome in my suit. I’d shot Grim a message the moment we’d left Kindosh’s office and he’d responded that he was okay and would be swinging around later to talk shop. A small victory, but you’ve got to celebrate them where you can.

  I’d shrugged back into my armour before we left, but the plates weren’t connecting. My left side was exposed, revealing blue strands flickering around my ribs like seaweed in an ocean current. Kowalski watched it with something between fascination and unease.

  ‘What does it feel like?’ She stared, but didn’t try to touch it, like so many people thought they had the right to do.

  ‘It tickles,’ I said quietly as the plates finally slid into place, covering me up. She nodded slowly and I felt the stormtech strumming through my muscles. Tonight’s excitement had riled it up, and now it was eagerly awaiting the next adventure.

  On the clatterlift’s panel was a layout of floors, subsectors and docking levels positioned around the asteroid superstructure like a nervous system. Several nodes were blocked out with a bruise-coloured label. ‘They’re Void Zones,’ Katherine Kowalski explained when I asked. ‘Floors damaged in the Reaper War, some still exposed to vacuum, too unstable to enter.’

  I found I was making a mental note of them as she spoke. I’ve had boots on enough alien planets in far-flung galactic regions of space to know you should never be a stranger to your surroundings. Especially not when your enemies know it better. I began snapping images of floors, levels, subsectors closed to the public, zones that led out to the asteroid’s surface for EVA work, floors wired with life-support systems conditioned for certain species. A minute later, our clatterlift coasted to a smooth stop on Starklands.

  We spilled out into the sprawling streets. The rocky ceiling had been covered with pixelsheeting, the display set to the black canvas of a night sky, scattered with blue stars and the steely reds and greys of planets and moons. But if I zoomed in, I could see some of the sheeting flickering, superconductor cables and loose wiring dangling through holes in the fabric.

  ‘Look.’ She nodded to a trio of figures making their way to the Harmony Station. It was the Kaiji. Just over two metres tall, barrel-chested with slender, ash-coloured bodies. Heavy, hooded clothing obscured the aliens’ features. These had to be the Ambassadors that Kindosh had mentioned. I remembered sitting in a cozy little New Vladi noodlehouse one evening, hunched over a bowl of steaming ramen, listening to their interstellar broadcast urging humans not to use stormtech.

  We turned into the main boulevard. Overhead lights painted the streets a constellation of gentle blue-whites and neon purples. The sharp minerals of petrichor scented the air. Bustling restaurants, lively bars, film theatres, glass libraries, multilevel arcades and shops crowded every cubic metre of the street as close as breath and heartbeat. Streams of aerial traffic navigated between opulent penthouses, rooftops and blinking skyscrapers. Buildings loomed over us, done up with layered glass and angular edges, wide as small mountains. Side streets led down towards sweeping hotel lobbies, galleries and showrooms displaying the latest tech or artwork. Silver-flecked ivy crawled up latticework walls and lush green gardens spilled down from balconies. New Vladi had never been this open, this loud, this extreme. I stood and breathed the madness of the city into my lungs. I had a buzz in the back of my skull, a feeling that something bizarre and new was around every corner, down every alleyway.

  Only the chiselled walls of the asteroid told us we were not planetside. Chunks of the bare, exposed rocks were scorched black. Fingerprints of war. But Compass had been lucky. I’d seen entire worlds blasted to smoking ruins when Harvest was done with them.

  New Vladivostok’s population was mainly Russian, Japanese and Korean with a smattering of Poles, Ukrainians and Kazakhs. Compass is infinitely more diverse. We walked through a mix of Africans, Hispanics, Indians, Nordics, and races completely new to me. There were enough other folks equipped with armour, hardsuits and varieties of exoskeletons that I blended in easily enough.

  As we walked down the streets, we passed one of Harmony’s rehab facilities. One of those polished, angular designs, desperate to stand out amid the throng. Looked like the place where I’d had stormtech violently detoxed from my body, stripping away my strength, enhanced senses and ability to heal. Advanced self-healing was one of the most valuable assets of stormtech; short of a decapitated arm or getting your skull split open, our bodies could patch up almost anything. But that ability had been wrung out of me along with everything else the stormtech bolstered, in exchange for being free from stormtech. Or as free as anyone could be. A sign outside was displayed with hotline numbers for all types of addiction and violent or suicidal thoughts.

  ‘When did you come here?’ I asked Kowalski as we picked up our pace through the rush hour. I glanced over my shoulder in case the Jackal really was stupid enough to attack me despite being under Harmony guard.

  ‘When I was a kid,’ she said over the roar of overhead chainships. ‘Dad worked on a mining colony on an asteroid belt in the Fernik Sector. Horrific conditions, even before the Reaper War. He hit it big one day and got the whole family over here. Joined Harmony when I was sixteen, working in narcotics. Kindosh took me under her wing.’

  There was clearly more to it. Spend enough time with Harmony types and you learn to read them. I remembered her rigid posture in Kindosh’s office. There was definitely something she wasn’t telling me.

  In the middle of a concourse was a colossal statue of a Reaper. The marble had been chiselled to the nanometre, from its bulky armour, helmet and autorifle to the heavy boot planted square in the squealing, mud-caked face of a Harvest insurrectionist with anti-Harmony slogans plastered on his armour. We had something similar in New Vladi, only our
s was modelled after an axe-wielding bogatyr. Medieval warriors from the windswept tundra of east Russia, like my ancestors. A terminal underneath the Compass statue detailed the bloody statistics of the war. I didn’t need to read it to know how many habitats, planets and stations Harvest had levelled, how many civilians we’d lost: I’d lived through it. People gathered around the heroic statue in awe, remembering our fight. But they’d never built a monument to the battle we fought daily against stormtech. They’d never make a statue out of the dying man in the alleyway.

  Kowalski must have sensed my thoughts as she carefully guided me back into the main road and away from the marble Reaper.

  The conditions of the streets worsened as we approached the Southern District, the grimier part of Starkland. Squalid tenements hunched over crowded shopping plazas, neon blinking behind grimy display windows, the walls infested with jungles of exposed wiring. The streets were less streamlined, more haphazard, with industrial yards, smoking workshops, coffeehouses and street stalls weaving into the dermis of the floor like sweat glands, blood capillaries and nerve endings.

  These areas were populated with skinnies. I saw at least three at an outdoor eatery, blue fluctuating down their arms as they slurped broth. It was clear that other people were avoiding them. To many, stormtech meant you weren’t entirely human anymore. You were tainted, transformed, infected. A younger man squatting in the alley was so far gone that the ropes of saliva drooling from of his mouth were blue.

  My apartment building was the same ubiquitous gunmetal grey as the dozens of serried buildings around it. A quick scan of my palmerlog at my door at the third floor and we were inside.

  ‘What the hell?’ I froze in the open door as the room morphed around us. Tables, chairs, kitchen counters and wallframes folded away as the room expanded backwards, creating more space. Furniture melted into the walls or floors, only to snap back into position as if nothing had happened, upgraded and new. The nanoplastic dining table was now rich granite, the battered lounge now black leather, draped with wool blankets and pillows, the coffee table made of rich oakwood. The dingy kitchenette had dissolved into a marbled galley kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances. The whole room had adopted a polished, showroom sheen. Even the air was fresh with the smell of smoky wood and wet stones. The luxurious coffee machine pinged as we walked in, fresh beans grinding away. An elegant wine carafe filled with some local vintage sat waiting on the tabletop.

  ‘I take it this is your boss’s doing,’ I muttered. Kowalski didn’t say anything, and she didn’t have to. Harmony might be the same, but using bribery was certainly new. ‘Even a dump like this comes with upgradable living space?’ I asked.

  ‘Everywhere on Compass does. You can live somewhere like … well, like this place, and still have the most luxurious living space inside. Or the other way around.’

  That explained the Jackal’s home, at least. I grinned at the absurdity of it all. I’d heard how defiant Compass could be. They’d carved out an asteroid and stacked cities atop each other inside it. Why stop there? And, of course, what was given could as easily be taken away.

  ‘Good evening,’ came a sniffly voice, like that of a classic butler. There was a gratuitous puff of smoke as a lazy-eyed black rabbit the size of a coffee table and eerily lifelike, was projected in front of us. The rabbit’s mouth moved as the building’s Rubix, an AI caretaker, spoke. ‘Can I be of service to you this evening, Vakov Fukasawa and guest?’

  So they’d upgraded the intelligence level of the Rubix, too. The previous Rubix could barely hold up its end of a conversation.

  ‘Why the hell are you a giant rabbit?’ I asked.

  ‘This is the form I prefer,’ the AI replied with swift finesse, whiskers twitching. ‘Now, is there anything you require?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said.

  ‘Surely there is something I could do?’ the Rubix persisted, anxious to please. I reassured it that I was fine. The rabbit gave a sad sigh and vanished back into smoke. A couple of minutes later I discovered that I had a security upgrade by way of an autocannon that folded out of the walls on verbal command. Wasn’t too sure what to think about that.

  ‘I’d suggest you help me finish that wine, but it’s been a long day.’ I stretched my arms and felt the stormtech roll from one shoulder joint to the other.

  Kowalski shot me a questioning glance. ‘Kindosh will manacle us together if you try anything related to the case without telling me first.’

  ‘I’d like to see her try.’ Kowalski didn’t smile. I sobered up. ‘I don’t intend to make trouble,’ I told her.

  She hesitated, then the pressure seemed to puddle out of her. ‘I’ll come for you tomorrow. I don’t have to tell you how important this is, Vakov. Think on it?’ Darkening skies framed her as she lingered in the doorway. ‘Everyone in the Common is alive because of you Reapers. My sister and all her kids are still here because you put yourself in the line of fire. Nothing changes that.’

  My helmet obscured my semi-smile as I waved her goodbye. I was starting to like her, and I honestly did feel a little bad as I slipped out the window and dropped four storeys into the dingy alleyway, the stormtech thrumming at the unexpected rush of danger.

  Kindosh might feed me my own guts for this. But my little brother was involved with drug syndicates and Reaper deaths, and he clearly wouldn’t talk to Harmony.

  Only one way to find out what was going on. Ask the man himself.

  Kindosh had made the mistake of telling me which floor Artyom was on. There was only one alehouse on it, so it was an easy find. Like most levels of Compass, Limefields wore its own aesthetic. I couldn’t place it until I plugged a few queries into a search engine and discovered Limefields was meant to replicate a 1920s city square on Earth. Low, broad buildings in red, brown and white rose up around the boulevards, showered with golden light from nearby streetlamps. Wooden planks bounced under my feet as I strode along a lengthy boardwalk packed with vaudeville street performers, drinking clubs and gambling parlours. Curlicue twists of stairs curled up to antique libraries, burlesque theatres and domed pavilions, where crowds in era-specific dress flocked to parties.

  I walked along until I found Artyom’s alehouse: an exclusive venue called The Wild Hare with a distinct cinnamon smell. Columns of carved mahogany supported the high, ornate ceiling. Low conversation drifted like smoke between the leather armchairs, marble-top tables and Tiffany lamps. Faint music spilled from an antique gramophone. Over a hundred bespoke brews stood behind the rhodonite counter, connecting to a complication of bronze pipework. But it was the impressionist paintings of the Shenoi that stood out.

  Since all we knew about the Shenoi was their biotech, usually found buried deep underground or in asteroid rocks, we had no way of solving the mystery of the aliens’ origins. What they’d been, what they’d looked like. Didn’t stop people from guessing, though. The artworks ranged from towering, tentacled monstrosities to quiet hooded figures to ethereal beings of pure energy and everything in between.

  Their entire species was extinct: what did it matter what they looked like?

  And then I saw my little brother. His mouth pursed as he sopped up ale spills on the counter. I took a moment to watch him from the shadows. He seemed so distant and familiar at the same time, like a distorted reflection of myself: the same mixed features, glossy black hair, dark eyes and angular jaw as me.

  I almost backed off and left him undisturbed. Like he wanted. I don’t break my promises lightly, and I’d already broken the one that mattered the most to him. He’d come to Compass for a fresh start, after all. But my brother was in trouble, and this needed doing. Connecting my palmerlog to the alehouse’s menu, I ordered a bathtub gin and tonic, garnished with mint and rosemary. I ducked into a discreet alcove seat guarded by a mural of a stork in midflight. I tugged my helmet off, placing it on the table beside me, and waited until my brother brought
the gin over in a chilled copa glass.

  He froze the moment he saw me.

  ‘Hey, Artyom,’ I said in Russian, my voice carefully level. ‘How’re you holding up?’

  He set the glass down with a bang on the table. ‘What are you doing here?’ was all he would say.

  At twenty-four he was three years younger than me, a little shorter and leaner, but in the right light we could have been twins. I saw the way he unconsciously hunched and turned away from me. Uncomfortable in my presence. Angry. An unexpected tightness built up in my chest.

  ‘We need to talk.’ I hoped no one in the vicinity had inbuilt translators. The last time we’d spoken he’d refused to use Japanese anymore, and I wanted to respect at least one of his wishes. I gestured to the seat opposite me.

  I’d expected him to refuse, but he slid into the booth, hands folded on the table. ‘We’ve got nothing to discuss.’ He was talking to me. Progress.

  ‘We do when Harmony arrest me to talk about it.’

  ‘You should leave, Vak.’

  I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called me that. I held out the arrow-shaped pendant he’d given me all those years ago on top of that mountain. ‘Does this mean nothing to you?’

  My heart squeezed as I saw a spark of emotion in his eyes. As if he wanted to speak, but something greater was stopping him. He had started to move away when I grabbed him back. There was a series of deliberate slashes across his forearms and wrists. Some were only the residue of scars, like the ones he’d made by the frozen lake after our father had punched out one of his teeth out in a rage, and he’d seen no way out of our domestic nightmare. He’d have bled out if I hadn’t patched him up. The other scars were fresher. A crisscrossing, bloody tapestry.