Unreconciled

by W. Michael Gear

  “Bugs with language?” Dek wondered.

  Wejee shot him a cautioning glance. “Now, Dek, don’t go making judgments based on Terrestrial life. On Donovan that can get you killed. Things don’t work the same here.”

  To Michaela, he said, “And we haven’t even begun to look at the oceans and rivers. But if an old hand can give you any advice, Doctor Hailwood, you’ll live a lot longer out there if you’ll take for granted that everything on this planet is trying to kill you.”

  “We’ll be taking care to make sure we don’t expose ourselves to any unnecessary risks.”

  “Good. Take that care, and then take it twice more, if you get my meaning. Nobody has ever died of old age on Donovan.”

  “I hear you, Wejee. We’ll be extra careful.”

  “Good. But prepare yourself, Doctor. If I’m any kind of a guesser, you’re going to lose a couple of people in the first month.”

  “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Dek wondered.

  Wejee’s knowing eyes had no give. “Just the opposite, Dek. That’s unbridled optimism on my part.”

  PARTURITION

  I sit in the observation dome, knowing it is the last time that I shall do so. This has been my haven. My retreat. I have come to this place when I was drowning in self-doubt. When my faith wavered, and I was frail and terrified that I wasn’t worthy of being chosen for such an immense responsibility.

  Here, looking out at the universe, I drew sustenance. In this place I was able, somehow, to summon enough courage to meet the challenge. Even if only for one more day. But it carried me through.

  As the Prophets had said it would. Back in the beginning, before their language became that of the universe.

  I so desperately wish I could appreciate the profundity of their words and utterances. But I fear they’ve fallen so deeply into the universe, that our frail and stumbling brains can no longer comprehend. This saddens me, for I am desperately envious of the Truths they now understand.

  Sometimes they sing.

  Used to be they’d sing in a sort of unison, now it’s only occasional, and one at a time.

  We’ve tried to record their songs. Learned the words to the early ones. Today we will sing their “ecstasy” song as we leave Deck Three. Depart the womb where we have gestated for these last ten years.

  Everything goes back to procreation, be it peoples or individuals. Figurative birth. Literal birth. Life and death.

  Sex is the inverse of death. Like Siamese twins, one cannot exist without the other. Opposites crossed. The divine reconciliation of opposites.

  The universe laughs.

  In the background I can hear the Irredenta. Excitement fills their voices. There is banging, the sound of crates being slid across the sialon deck. The preparations have been going on for hours. Kalico Aguila sent a list of things for them to do. Orders. Bring this, don’t bring that. Wear shoes or boots. Hats are necessary. A long list of reasons for the above had been included.

  We have no way of knowing what might be true or what might be a lie. Being Corporate, whatever she tells us is probably a lie. What we do know is that the universe has brought us this far. It has taught us that we can only depend upon ourselves and the Prophets.

  The universe will provide. We will continue to live with that faith and take with us only what we can carry.

  I gave the order based upon something the Prophet Callista said a couple of nights ago. Sounded like, “Taaa whaaa ya c . . . c . . . carree.”

  Take what you can carry?

  So often, I can only guess. But for the most part, the universe has backed my guesses. None, so far, have been proven horribly wrong.

  Given that three hundred and forty-two people once lived here, that’s a lot of possessions. Why the universe wants us to leave so much behind is beyond me, but it is not my place to question.

  Somewhere in the background I hear a crash. Perhaps a shelf has collapsed or been torn down?

  Cackling laughter breaks out from one of the children. They’re half manic with excitement. Born here, they’ve never known anything else. Deck Three is their world.

  As Ashanti rotates, I see Capella III come into view: a green, blue, and brown globe with white polar caps, its oceans and continents brilliant in the star’s light. Within moments the terminator is visible like a black line through the middle of the planet.

  Before I sleep again, we will be down there.

  I catch a gleam of silver off to the right. Crane my head.

  With a smile on my lips, I recognize the shuttle. Watch it close until it slips beyond the observation dome’s field of view.

  I rise, tilt my head back, and whisper, “Thank you for the strength and vision to do what I must.”

  I turn. Walk unsteadily out of the dome and into the chaos that is Deck Three. I see old belongings strewn about. Once-precious possessions too large or heavy to be carried. Not our concern. Let the Ashanti crew clean it up. A reminder of their original sin.

  Many of these things will be missed in our new home. But then perhaps that is the lesson we’re supposed to take away with us. We will leave here humbly. Wearing nothing that so much as hints of hubris or vanity. As the living graves of the dead and vessels of their immortality, we go as near to naked as we can. No one has ever been born wearing clothes. This is our womb. The hallway to the shuttle shall be our vagina. The shuttle shall deliver us into the sunlight.

  When we walk out into a new world, we shall be as infants.

  And then the hard work really begins.

  19

  The amiable ship’s voice said, “Shuttle Corporate One. You are on approach to Ashanti. Request permission to take control of your navigational functions prior to docking.”

  “Thank you, Ashanti. Corporate One prefers to maintain manual control. Please notify us if there is any deviation during our approach.” Ensign Juri Makarov replied.

  “Roger that, Corporate One.”

  Where she sat in the right-hand seat behind the pilot, Kalico Aguila smiled to herself. Word was that any able shuttle pilot would decline surrendering control. Docking was about a pilot’s only way to show off given the automation that was space travel.

  Through the transparency, Kalico watched the A-7 shuttle drop down into Ashanti’s docking bay. Ensign Makarov eased them onto the grapples without so much as a quiver.

  But then, Makarov had been flying almost constantly since Turalon’s arrival more than four years ago.

  “We have docking,” Ashanti said through the com. “We have hard seal. Welcome aboard. Captain Galluzzi will meet you at the hatch.”

  “Hard dock, hard seal,” Makarov confirmed from the pilot’s chair.

  “Deal with it, you piece of shit,” Talina Perez muttered where she sat beside Kalico. The expression on the woman’s face was the one she adopted when she and the quetzal presence she called Demon were sparring over control of Talina’s limbic system.

  “Quetzal’s don’t like flying?” Kalico asked.

  “Hate it,” Talina told her, unbuckling. “Good news for us. Means that Whitey and his bunch aren’t going to have any desire to commandeer a shuttle, steal a starship, and invert symmetry in a desperate attempt to space back to Earth and invade it.”

  Kalico stepped free of her seat, head cocked. “Too bad. I’d consider giving them Freelander if they ever wanted to give it a try. Might be worth it just to see them attend their first Board meeting. Ultimate predators finding themselves face to face with ultimate predators. Wonder who’d win?”

  Tal grinned, glanced at Mark Talbot where he rose from the left seat. The man was dressed in full and battered combat armor, his helmet clipped to his belt. From the seat rack he retrieved his service rifle.

  “You ready?” Tal asked, slinging her own rifle.

  “Good to go, Tal.” Talbot stepped forward, the slight whine o
f his servos distinct in the shuttle’s silence as the turbines spun down.

  Sheyela Smith had managed to cobble together a small powerpack that had allowed Talbot to salvage his worn-out armor. The system wasn’t military grade, but Talbot and the rest of the marines had their tech back online, at least for the time being. For the most part the remaining marines only wore armor during quetzal and mobber alerts. Today they would wear it to keep the so-called Irredenta in line. After all, there was no telling what kind of surprise the Unreconciled might have cooked up to “celebrate” their release, birth, or whatever.

  Tal, dressed in coveralls, her knife and pistol on her utility belt, led the way.

  Stepping into the cargo bay, it was to see it set up as a passenger cabin with rows of seats. Kalico gave it a preliminary inspection.

  Corporal Abu Sassi and privates Dina Michegan and Katsuro Miso rose from their seats, all dressed in shining combat armor, their helmets clipped to their belts. The rows of seats looked oddly out of place given that the shuttle had been used for shipping cargo into orbit for the past few years instead of as a people hauler.

  Kalico took a stance, calling, “All right, people. You’ve been briefed on the Irredenta. Your mission is to ensure that they are deposited at Tyson Station with the least amount of disruption. Your opinions about them, your reaction to them, is not part of this operation. You will ensure that they board this shuttle, that they are seated, and transported to Tyson without incident. Any last questions?”

  Of course there weren’t. She, Galluzzi, Bogarten, and Abu Sassi had planned this down to the final resort, which was to gas the entire cabin if things started to get out of control. Separated from the command deck by the hatch—and with the marines in full combat armor with their breathing systems—the Irredenta could be rendered unconscious and harmless.

  “Let’s do this,” Talbot muttered, leading the way to the hatch.

  On the other side, Galluzzi waited; the man looked like he had an electrical short in his underwear given how he was bouncing on his feet. The way his right hand twitched reminded her of a spastic mouse.

  “Good to see you, Supervisor,” he greeted. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Got the corridors sealed?” Kalico asked, taking the captain’s salute.

  “They’ve got one route to take. From their main hatch, right down here and into the shuttle.”

  “All right.” She turned. “Mark, you and Abu Sassi have the enviable job of bringing up the rear to ensure that no one is left behind.”

  “On it,” Abu Sassi said, giving her a salute. Then he and Talbot disappeared into the corridor.

  “My people will sweep the entirety of Deck Three as soon as you’ve spaced, Supervisor.” Galluzzi was still fidgeting. “Don’t think they’d leave us a lethal going-away gift, but Batuhan comes across as the kind who might carry a grudge. Or at least might want to make a parting statement.”

  “See to it.” She looked around. “I’d hate to have them compromise the ship. It’s the only reliable one we’ve got.”

  Which was true. Freelander was a ghost ship, and Vixen, besides only being a survey ship, had a programming flaw that would take her fifty years into the future if she spaced for Solar System. At least Ashanti had made the transit to Donovan in the expected two-and-a-half-year time frame. It was the next seven and half years that hadn’t been anticipated. They’d just have to take on faith that she’d return home a lot closer than the navigational error that had left her so far from Capella.

  That was the thing about life on Donovan. One always had to pick from bad choices.

  “F.O. Turner reports all is ready,” Ashanti’s voice sounded from the speakers.

  “Supervisor?” Galluzzi asked in a voice filled with tension.

  “Proceed,” Kalico told him.

  In his com, Galluzzi said, “You have the okay. Open the hatch.”

  The captain gave her a salute. “Supervisor, I wish you good spacing. I’ll see you on the planet after we’ve secured the ship.”

  He turned on his heel, stepping through a hatch, and sealing it behind him.

  “I guess that’s our cue to lock ourselves in the command deck.” Talina turned. “So how about that, Demon? You’re about to ride down to the planet with a bunch of human cannibals. Given the way your kind treats their elders, that ought to have you feeling right at home.”

  Kalico wondered what sort of retort the beast in Talina’s gut made to that.

  At the command deck hatch, she followed Talina in and watched as Juri Makarov flipped the switch that sent the dogs clicking home to lock the door.

  Retreating to her seat, Kalico accessed the holos that interfaced with Ashanti. In the image, First Officer Turner dissolved the last of the bonding agent on the Deck Three hatch and beat feet for the secure hatch that led up to Deck Two.

  Abu Sassi moved into view; dressed in full armor, he tapped the panel control beside the sialon hatch. Through his helmet, Kalico could hear the whine as the latches retracted.

  With a tug, Abu Sassi pulled the hatch open.

  Talbot’s armored form stepped to the far side, rifle at the ready.

  “Attention please,” Abu Sassi used his helmet speaker to project it into Deck Three’s dim recesses. “Your transportation is ready. Please proceed forward, down the companionway, and to the shuttle.”

  The familiar drawings on the side of the hallway could be seen, the skeletons erotically posed. But beyond lay a dark haze.

  Kalico waited; each beat of her heart measured her rising tension. Where the hell were the Unreconciled? They’d had ample notice that this was their relocation day.

  Unless they were planning something else.

  “Supervisor?” Galluzzi’s stressed voice asked through com. “Think we should send someone in?”

  Talina muttered, “You don’t think they did us some big favor like committing mass suicide, do you?”

  “We’re not that lucky.” Into com, Kalico said, “Sergeant, send a drone in.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She watched as a recon drone detached from Abu Sassi’s shoulder; the little flying sensor whirred off down the hall. A separate monitor snapped on, showing the halls bathed in the green-and-shadow glow of IR and UV. The walls were all decorated with images, the effect spookily reminiscent of the scrawlings in Freelander.

  And there were the people, reflected in visual spectrum and IR heat signatures. All lining up. Just as the drone fixed on them, the parade started forward. Kalico stared in disbelief. Where the hell were their clothes? Men, women, and children—they had only fabric wraps around their waists.

  Batuhan was in the lead, followed by four young men who carried his ornately carved chair. Behind them were the four women with babes in arms, and following were three people borne on litters carried by men.

  Kalico tried to get a better image of the people being carried. Looked like two women and a man, all three of them emaciated, looking half dead, but their hands were working spastically, their legs kicking and trembling.

  Immediately to their rear were the rest of the people, dressed in the skimpy patchwork of clothing. Their hair long and unkempt, they shuffled forward in ranks.

  “They’re going down dressed like that?” Talina wondered. “To Tyson Station? What do they think it is, a beach?”

  As the people passed the hatch, a weird and eerie song burst from their lips. They locked step, walking in time to the rising and falling half-chant. Kalico tried to make out the slurred-sounding words, something about an ecstasy of everlasting life, eternal salvation, and being the living graves of the purified.

  At the hatch, Abu Sassi had stepped back. As per orders, he and Talbot had taken positions to either side, standing at attention, rifles at port arms. The pose was to make them look more like an honor guard than a threat. But if the situation went sideways, they
could both tap the gas grenades on their hips, use the stun guns on their belts. And if worse came to worst, fall back on the non-lethal rounds in their rifles.

  Emerging into the full light of the corridor, Batuhan walked barefoot ahead of his chair. For the exodus he had at least draped his loins in a sheet. Like a king, he strode with back straight, head up, his weird spiky hairdo in a great fan sticking up from his head. The man’s skin was still covered with the splotchy white makeup, and the intricate scar patterns on his face and the eye carved on his forehead contrasted with the missing flesh of his nose.

  The four young men bearing his chair—though less intricately scarred than Batuhan—had large sections of their bodies scarified; their half-glazed eyes flashed in every direction, taking in the marines. She could see them swallowing hard. One was almost shaking, looked to be on the verge of panic.

  Why?

  “Sergeant, keep that drone searching.” Kalico rubbed her chin. “Check for anything unusual in there. Any odd heat sources. I want the chem sensors to reconfigure for anything explosive.”

  “Roger that.”

  She wasn’t sure what to watch—the drone or the continuing procession of the Irredenta. The amount and patterning of the scarring, she realized, was different depending upon the person. Batuhan, in the lead, had the most and greatest intricacy. Then the four throne-bearers, then the four women. After that, the amount of scarring dropped, with fewer and fewer designs.

  It’s a sign of rank.

  To her surprise, most of the women were either carrying an infant, or showed some degree of pregnancy where they walked under shouldered burdens. Like the men, they, too, only had a wrap around their hips and went barefoot. And of the children—all of them clad only in breechcloths—none looked to be over the age of six.

  The children walked with a bouncing excitement, eyes aglow with the adventure. All of them were skinny little specimens, with hollow guts and too-well-defined ribs. To Kalico’s disgust they’d all been scarified, but nothing like their parents. Their hair, with varying measures of effectiveness, had been done up in the fan. Looking closely, Kalico couldn’t tell the little boys from the girls.