“Extinct,” I say. “Yes. Everything is extinct!”
“Sorry,” Porter says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’ll be less upset if you can plot a long-range rotation for me.”
“Of course. Where are we going?” he asks.
I frown. I’ve been avoiding this proverbial lion’s den for five years.
“Union Command.”
12
“How do I look?” I ask, stepping into Lil’ Bitch’n’s cargo bay. I’m dressed in a modified BCS. It has more armor, a golden eagle insignia covering the chest, a ‘shock rod’—basically a taser—hanging from the belt, and a black mask with reflective eye goggles. I’ve never been to Command Central, but apparently the facility is protected by Overseers dressed like this.
Burnett volunteered to access the data I’m looking for on his own, which I appreciate. Porter is something of a genius with tech, and Morton has become a respectable pilot, but Burnett doesn’t always have a lot to offer. But here he is, stepping up.
His virtue is loyalty. Like a puppy.
But I can’t trust him to do what needs doing if things go sideways. So, I’m going, too, and the only way to do that is to cover every inch of my skin and hope no one takes a peek at the ID Porter forged.
“Like a ninja,” Chuy says, knowing exactly what I’d want to hear.
“Cool,” I say.
“Like future-Nazi ninja,” Drago says.
“Also, kind of cool,” I say, looking myself over.
If Drago shaved, squeezed himself into a BCS, and had the capability to hide his accent, I’d probably bring him along. Chuy, too, but a female Overseer might stand out, and Porter only had time to create one faux security BCS. That left me with Carter, the wildcard, without whom I might have destroyed Whip’s starship. She’s pulled her weight since we found her, and she hasn’t tried to kill my Union crew again.
She also doesn’t need to wear a mask.
A person’s station in the Union is determined by two things—physical prowess and intelligence. Those who are born with the total package are elevated into positions of power, and those who aren’t are shunted downward. My boys wound up collecting junk from abandoned worlds because they weren’t prize ponies. Porter is overweight. Morton has a slight lazy eye, slouches, and his face is as unsymmetrical as a Picasso portrait. Burnett…he’s bald, frail, and a few gumdrops short of a gingerbread house.
But Carter—she’s the total package. Fit, beautiful, white, and a look in her eyes that says, ‘I’m the smartest person you know.’ Anyone looking at her will likely assume she’s someone important, hopefully to the point where no one will bother checking her ID.
“Hold on,” Morton says from the cockpit.
I pull the mask off my head and take a seat between Chuy and Drago, across from Carter and Burnett. Lil Bitch’n shakes as we lift off, and then it’s smooth sailing as we leave the hangar bay and turn toward planet 009-32-1923.
“So,” Burnett says. “We’ve got a minute.”
“Oh boy,” Drago says, leaning his head against the hull. “Here we go.”
“What’s…happening?” Carter asks.
“Burnett likes… How you say? Ice breakers.” Drago closes his eyes. “Wake me when done.”
“Okay,” Burnett says, turning to Carter. “Pets?”
She just stares at him.
“No pets?”
Nothing.
“We don’t have pets, either,” he says.
Her eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. She turns to me. “No one has pets?”
“Where the human race goes, most living things go extinct,” I say.
“Unless they taste good,” Chuy adds.
This furrows Carter’s brow. “Hold on. What you’re describing is reprehensible. It’s an afront to basic human decency.”
Burnett looks wounded. “Well, I wouldn’t say th—”
“You won’t say anything,” Carter says and then she turns back to me. “How do you sleep at night?”
“He doesn’t,” Chuy says. “Not much, anyway.”
“You help them,” Carter says. “All of you. And then bemoan the fates of all the worlds you help destroy. You’re no better than Christopher Columbus.”
Drago opens one eye. “I thought America celebrated Columbus Day. He was hero explorer. Found American continent.”
Carter crosses her arms. “He was a genocidal asshole who got lost and accidentally landed in Venezuela, claimed it for Spain, and then instigated the world’s most deadly landgrab, raping and pillaging as he went.” Carter leans forward, elbows on knees. “How is that any different from what you three are doing for the Union?”
“We are not raping…animals?” Drago guesses.
“You are helping them corrupt and destroy worlds,” she counters.
I’ve got a slew of arguments lined up. I repeat them to myself at night when I’m not sleeping.
Billions of people will die of starvation if we don’t find new planets.
The creatures dying aren’t sentient.
Carter would still be stuck on a planet if we hadn’t become Exo-Hunters.
Finding my people is priority number one.
But at what cost?
I lower my head. This is how atrocities are justified. “She’s right.”
“She is?” Chuy says.
“You’re damn right, I am,” Carter says, and she’s not done yet. “‘I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.’”
The silence that follows is painful.
Burnett breaks it. “Wow… Just… Uhh. People don’t speak like that anymore. Sounds serious, though. What is it?”
“Marine Corps oath of enlistment,” I say.
“What does it mean?” he asks.
“That the Union, who destroyed the United States, and the rest of the world, was—and is—my enemy.”
“But…there is no United States anymore,” Burnett says. “No constitution. No President. Right?”
“For those who believe in it,” Carter says. “The United States isn’t just a location on a planet. It’s a set of ideals. And those who turn their backs on those ideals…they’re—”
“Traitors.” I squeeze my hands together, not because I’m angry with Carter, but because I agree with her.
Drago grunts. “I made similar oath…”
“Wrong ideals,” Carter says.
He looks her in the eyes. Her speech to me stirred something that’s been lying dormant in all of us. “But same enemy.”
Carter gives him a nod.
“Umm, what’s happening?” Burnett says. “I feel like I’m missing something.”
“We’re about to go rogue,” Chuy says.
“But why?”
“To fight for a better life,” I say.
“But life is good,” Burnett says.
“Not just for people,” I tell him. “But for every living thing.”
“Oh. Oh.” He sobers under the weight of realization and the undeniable fact that while the Union doesn’t remember racism, that’s not the only prerequisite for being evil. How we treat the world around us is a good indicator of a society’s moral compass. And mine has been pointed in the wrong direction for a while now.
I nudge Chuy. “Looks like we’ll be pirates, after all.” I look at Carter. “Thank you…for realigning my moral compass.”
“Just doing my job,” she says.
“Still going to get my people back,” I tell her. “That hasn’t changed for me. Never will.”
“Without enabling the Fourth Reich,” she says. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“Sorry,” Burnett says. “But what does this mean for me
?”
“Means you’ve got a choice to make,” I tell him. Our little ‘rah-rah-sis-boom-bah, yeah America!’ rally has put us in an awkward position. Two of the crew members critical to the mission in which we’re ankle deep were born and bred Union. Morton might not know about the shift in allegiance, but Burnett does, and I can’t do this without him.
“You can stay a Union man,” Carter says. “Or you can take a stand and fight for what is right.”
“If I take a stand, does that mean I get to stay on the Bitch’n and keep my friends?”
Oh. My. God. So much like a puppy, it hurts. “Yes, Burnett, you’d get to stay. It also means you’ll get a callsign.”
“A callsign! Like Dark Horse and Chuy and Drago?”
“Yes…” I tell him.
Eyes wide, he says, “I want to be…Burn!”
“Burn…” I say. “Are you sure? Your real name is Burnett…”
He shakes his head, oblivious. “I don’t see the problem.”
“You’re right.” I smile at him. “It’s perfect.”
“Approaching Command Central if you want to see it from the outside,” Morton says over comms.
I stand, take two steps toward the cockpit, and stop in front of Carter. “Thank you.”
She gives a nod. No hint of self-righteousness, judgment, or gloating. She’s just happy I made the right choice. So am I.
I head for the cockpit and stop behind Morton, confused by what I’m seeing. We’re in orbit above a planet that appears to be almost entirely black, like it’s nighttime, but it’s actually lit by this solar system’s star. I’ve never seen it before, but something about it feels familiar. “I thought we were looking at Command Central.”
“We are,” he says.
“Shit…” I say, suddenly understanding the odds against our pinprick rebellion’s success. “Command Central is a planet.”
13
“Was it always like this?” I ask.
Morton looks up at me, confused puppy expression on his face. “Like what?”
“Like…that.” I motion to the view of what looks like a charred planet with gray oceans. “It’s like if Satan built a Death Star…or Cybertron.”
Wearing a shit-eating grin, he says, “I don’t know what any of those things are.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose for a moment. “Why are the continents black? Why does the whole planet look coated in metal?”
“Because it is,” he says. “Command Central is a feat of human ingenuity and engineering. It is a sprawling metropolis. The tallest building stretches five thousand feet into the sky. It’s a planet-sized city. Prime living for those who prefer urban settings, home to the High Council, the Overseers, and the Predictors.”
“Was there ever life here?” I’m not sure why that’s important. Command Central has been around for hundreds of years. Whatever was here before humanity arrived has nothing to do with me, and there’s nothing to be done about it. Who’d want to live in a shithole like this, anyway?
“Emergent life,” he says. “Single cell organisms. They might still live in the oceans.”
“Looks pretty polluted,” I say.
“The oceans were always a shade of gray. Not as dark, of course. When Command Central was discovered, it was rich in two things—oxygen and Oxium—the metal that built everything you see below, Bitch’n, and most other modern spacecraft. It’s easy to work with, light, and has tensile, compressive, yield and impact strengths that are beyond comparison. Without it, the Union wouldn’t have been able to expand so rapidly. Luckily, this was the second habitable world discovered in the early expansionist era.”
“Which planet was the first?” I ask.
“They called it Beta Prime.” He pushes a few buttons, preparing to enter Command Central’s atmosphere. “This was before planets were identified with numerical codes.”
“How come I’ve never heard of it?”
He shrugs. “It’s insignificant. No one has been to Beta Prime in hundreds of years.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It was an experiment. To see if human beings could acclimate to environments that weren’t outright toxic, but not exactly friendly. When the population survived, the planet was abandoned.”
“Abandoned? What about the colonists?”
“They were criminals and undesirables,” he says. “They formed violent tribes and warred with each other until none were left. That’s what I was taught. It’s not really something people talk about much.”
“How can anyone know that the people there are dead if no one has been back?”
Another shrug. “Not really my area of expertise. I have no reason to doubt the historical data, though.”
“Given the Union’s penchant for erasing the past, I’d say you have a pretty good reason to doubt the historical data.” He’s talking about the early Union days, when humanity was Nazi as fuck. I’m not surprised they dove headfirst into Atrocity Land when testing the interstellar waters, but just leaving an entire planet behind is odd. I file it away for a rainy day. Might be worth looking into if I get bored…which is unlikely.
“You should probably take a seat, sir,” Morton says. “The upper layers of atmosphere are thick. Our descent could be rough.”
I head for the door and then stop. “Oh hey, just a heads up. We’re going rogue, betraying the Union, and becoming pirates…or something like that.”
“That sounds exciting,” he says with a grin. “What’s a pirate?”
“I’ll explain it to you later,” I tell him. “Are you okay with the rest? You understand it, right?”
“I’m a crew member of the Bitch’n, serving under your command. I will follow wherever you lead.”
“Even if it brings us into direct conflict with the Union?”
“That would be…inadvisable, but…yes. Obviously.”
“Why obviously?” I ask.
“We’re…what’s the word you have used? Family. Right?”
He’s right. I have used the word family to describe my team. What he doesn’t realize is that I was referring to my people from the 80s. But he’s not wrong, either. The boys have earned their spot on the mantle with the rest.
“You guys…” He’s looking out the windshield, so he misses me wipe away a single tear. I’m genuinely moved by his and Burnett’s loyalty. I just hope I don’t get them killed. I give him a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
I head back to the cargo bay, take my seat, and buckle up. Lil’ Bitch’n shakes as we enter the atmosphere, but dampeners keep the sound to a minimum and help eliminate some of the jolt. After we punch through the roughest layers, I say, “So, apparently, Command Central is a planet.”
“Whole planet?” Drago asks.
“The whole damn thing.”
“Is that a problem?” Burnett asks. “How does that change our situation?”
It doesn’t. Not really. It’s not like we’re attacking Command Central. We’re sneaking into one facility, getting what we need and sneaking back out. Planet or not, we assumed it would be heavily guarded even if the Union isn’t militarized like they were in the good ol’ days.
“It’s just damn intimidating,” Chuy says.
Burnett nods. “I see your point. Drago scares me because of his size. And his face. And his penchant for—”
Drago clears his throat, cutting Burnett short.
“Even that is scary,” Burnett says, and then he turns to me. “How do you do it? Overcome fear.”
“You don’t need to overcome it,” I say. “A fearless soldier is dangerous to the enemy and to his own people. It’s more like…you take the fear and all the nervous energy that comes with it, and you redirect it. All it really takes is conviction—that what you’re fighting for is worth dying for.”
“Like the first law of thermodynamics,” he says.
“First law of thermo…dyno…ramics?” Drago says.
Burnett smiles. He’s not always the smartest person in the
room. “Thermodynamics. It’s—”
“Also known as the Law of Conservation of Energy,” Carter chimes in. “Energy can’t be created or destroyed. It can only be transformed into one form or another.”
I’m expecting Burnett to be sad that Carter has just stolen his thunder, but he smiles wide. “Exactly! But in this case, the energy built by the human body in response to fear—rapid heartbeat, a surge of adrenaline, narrowing vision—is transformed into something positive.”
I snap my fingers and point at him. “And that’s called bravery.”
“What if bravery isn’t enough?” he asks.
“Music,” I say. “Something inspirational.”
Burnett leans forward. He’s never heard real music, but he’s always intrigued by the concept. “Would you normally have played music now, on the cusp of launching a dangerous mission?”
“Now is the perfect time for music,” I say, and I frown when the only thing I hear is a muffled rumble. For a large part of my life, music was everything. Before joining the military, I was in a high school garage band. I played guitar and sang, but when people saw a black kid playing British New Wave tunes, most of them laughed, no matter how good I played or how hard I sang. Of all the things I miss about the old world—the sky, freedom, pay-per-view porn—my heart aches for music.
I flinch when Drago stomps his foot twice and then claps.
“What was that?” Chuy asks. “You kill a bug?”
Drago grins. Stomps his foot twice, followed by a clap.
When he does it a third time, muscle memory takes over, and I do it with him. He smiles at me and we’re stomping out the opening beat to Queen’s We Will Rock You.
When Chuy joins in, Burnett laughs. “Is this… Is this music?”
“Hardly,” Carter says, but then she stomps and claps with the rest of us. Like me, she’s a music fan, and it’s been a long time.
I’m about to belt out the lyrics when a jolt runs through the ship.
The rumble stops, and our thumping with it.
“We’ve touched down.” Morton’s voice fills my comms, and then he uses a turn of phrase he picked up from me. “The clock is ticking.”
And he’s not wrong. We’re not supposed to be here, and visits to the Database—capital D—are usually scheduled. Database isn’t a very creative name for the place, but these are Nazis. They appropriated culture with the same ease that Butch Cassidy robbed banks, but they sucked at creating anything meaningful themselves. Probably because art is a reflection of the heart. Not much you can do with a heart of lifeless coal.
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