Triorion Omnibus

by L. J. Hachmeister

  Jaeia allowed Acting-Commander Rook to discuss the plans for ground deployment and the dangers of radiation, climate exposure, and plague while she readied the projection unit.

  “If Commander Kyron is alive, her location will undoubtedly be below ground in one of the pressurized living units, or ‘Pits,’” she said as an image of Earth rotated on the axis of the camera. She zoomed in, highlighting Pit locations in red. “These Pits were created as fallout shelters during the Last Great War in 2052, and were expanded when post-war surface temperatures and conditions became inhospitable. Eleven centuries later, we now have thousands of kilometers of uncharted territories. To complicate matters, the residents of Earth are a mixture of humans, Sentient outcasts, and drifters from the Homeworlds. They do not like outsiders, especially from any government or military. Our presence is unwelcome, so navigation will be that much more difficult.”

  Jaeia switched the projection to cycle through maps.

  “We have rough layouts of 226 of the 5,000 known Pits. All are outdated. Even so, I suggest that in the next few hours you study them. Common is spoken by some but not all. These are the major regional dialects,” she said, instructing the computer to upload the data into the uniform sleeves of the troops. “You’ll need your translators on you at all times.”

  Jaeia paused. Normally she would offer some sort of insight into the planet’s culture and customs per her duty as Contact Team commander, but in this case she found she didn’t have any. I’ve studied all of the available databases and read all the logs—why can’t I think of something?

  (Because I don’t want to go.)

  Appalled at her own subconscious, Jaeia tried to rationalize her own resistance to the mission. I must have accidentally gleaned something unfavorable about Earth that I haven’t fully realized yet.

  A different answer surfaced from within her innermost thoughts: (Earth is a bad memory, its history best left forgotten.)

  No, I can’t think like that; I have to stay focused on the mission.

  Despite herself, she pressed forward. “We have cases of medical supplies, food, water, and clothes, but bribing the locals will only get you so far. Stay in your units, stay together, and report back frequently to your team leader. I will lead the Contact Team’s undercover unit to the targeted Pit once we’ve established probability.”

  Jaeia allowed Acting-Commander Rook to finish the debriefing as she headed back to her assigned quarters. Deployment is in less than three hours, she thought, checking the time on her sleeve. No time to rest.

  Upon entering her quarters, Jaeia went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face.

  “Stay sharp,” she said to the tired-looking reflection in the mirror.

  I have to get my op reports ready, she thought, but her legs steered her to her bed.

  More fatigued than she realized, she laid down facing the window. As the ship raced from site to site on the booster highway, she watched the array of radiant colors streak by. So beautiful. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to this, she thought, slightly dizzy from the cosmic pull of the jumps.

  Her com beeped, and she dragged herself over to her desk.

  “Admiral,” Jaeia acknowledged as his image took form on her display.

  “Jaeia—what’s your status?”

  “We’re almost to Earth. How’s the situation on the perimeter? I read that the blackouts have moved into the borderworlds.”

  “We’ve sent another squadron out to investigate. Wren’s overseeing the mission from remote com.”

  “How about Triel? Any word?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Jaeia,” he said.

  The uncharacteristic way he paused got her attention. He knows that any transmission is going to be tapped, even on a secure channel.

  Instinctively she allowed her mind to relax, reaching out to him across the stars, finding his mind unusually accessible. This is a great act of risk—and trust.

  “The ship she stole has been spotted in the same system as the Hixon,” he said.

  The Hixon. Jaeia felt his mind fixated on the ship so intensely that the memory shined.

  “Has she made contact yet?” she asked.

  “Her ship is closing in—fast. Whatever happens, Jaeia, I know she’s a good friend to you, and I wanted to assure you that we’re doing everything we can to mitigate the situation. I’ve instructed the commanding officer of the Hixon to allow her to board if she engages.”

  Jaeia bowed her head. “I should be there for her—and Reht. This shouldn’t have happened this way.”

  There was no forgiveness in his voice. “Take care of your sister. I will oversee Triel’s return.”

  The admiral signed out, his image disappearing as the projection camera flipped off.

  The Hixon, Jaeia thought, mulling over her next move. Doing a search on the Alliance network or even my personal computer is too dangerous. I’ll have to switch up my tactics.

  It was hard to find his contact signature anymore; the Nagoorian had taken political office again, and his personal messages were filtered and refiltered by his staff of five hundred. But Jaeia ran through the list of his public numbers until she remembered the formula he had given her long ago for decoding his private signature.

  “The square of the root of the first number of my campaign signature, multiplied by the number of times I’ve ever considered resigning from office.”

  It was his way of trying to be funny.

  “Pancar.” Jaeia smiled as his image came to life on her desk. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Same here, Commander,” he replied. He looked at her curiously, studying her physique.

  It’s hard for anyone who hasn’t seen me in the past few months to adjust to my adult appearance, she reminded herself, blushing.

  “I’ve heard about the problems on the border,” Pancar continued. “I hope it’s nothing too serious. I have to address the matter tomorrow at the peace conference.”

  Jaeia shook her head. “I don’t have much to tell you, Pancar, except that we’re still investigating the matter. So far we don’t have any casualty reports, but we don’t have any hard data, either. Just blackouts.”

  “That’s a tough message to sell, Commander.” He read her facial features correctly. “I didn’t think you called to chat, especially not on this line. How can I be of service?”

  I know of your covert ties to Unipoesa, she thought, typing an old proverb from Tauros Prime in a text message. When rearranged with the number sequence she was about to tell him, it repeatedly spelled out Hixon. You’re the admiral’s closest confidant, and my only hope for understanding what he wants me to know.

  “Actually, I have to get going. Just wanted to see a friendly face, I guess,” Jaeia said. “By the way, I’m considering changing my number to 774-921-423-5836; all my private numbers have been posted on the nets. Just get back to me on that line, okay?”

  “I understand,” he replied. “Well, for the time being, I might have to hard mail you. The lines are always down during lightning season.”

  He got the message, and he’d find a way to privatize his response. She smiled and nodded. “Thanks. You’ve always been a good friend.”

  Even after the transmission terminated, Jaeia sat staring at the projector, tapping her fingers against the keyboard. Pancar will probably piggyback his message into my private mailbox—

  Oh Gods—a piggybacked message—

  The words catapulted her backwards. She remembered that strange message she had received much earlier: “Late for dinner again. Sorry. The man on fire knows my excuse.”

  Man on fire. She concentrated on it, rolling the idea around in her head, allowing her mind to relax, expand, digging deep into her collective knowledge.

  This isn’t Sebbs, she intuited. I don’t recognize the word choice or pattern. Still, this is someone who can’t risk exposure but needs to contact me very badly—someone who’s probably been trying for some time.
/>   Late for dinner again...

  Her sleeve beeped, breaking her thoughts. The message blinked, its originator code reading “Nagoor State House.”

  That was fast, she thought. That can’t be a good sign.

  Jaeia downloaded the massive content into her personal datafile as she received her first officer’s notification that they were nearing Earth.

  “I’d better get going,” she mumbled, straightening her uniform top and retying her hair.

  Unable ignore the flashing red light of the received transmission, Jaeia rechecked the time on her sleeve and gave in to temptation. I have a few minutes.

  She flipped open the message, unsure of what to expect. When she started reading, she was still an Alliance proponent, proud of her allegiance to the peacekeeping federation of the Starways. But the more she read, the more she realized that things weren’t quite what they seemed, and that her worst fears might be true after all.

  “COME ON JETTA,” JAHX said, chasing after her through the red and gray apartment. “It’s my turn already.”

  “No way,” she said, diving between Galm’s legs under the kitchen table. “You hogged it all yesterday. It’s my turn to read.”

  “No, it’s mine!” Jaeia said, catching up to them and making her bid to steal the tattered blue book from Jetta’s hands.

  “You three,” Galm said, putting down his newspaper and reaching under the table to pull them out. “There are other books, you know.”

  “No there aren’t,” Lohien laughed softly as she added spices to the soup cooking on the stovetop.

  “The Stone Garden,” Galm said, thumbing through the worn pages of their favorite story. “I’ve only read this to you three about a hundred times.”

  Jetta wormed her way onto her uncle’s lap, her siblings squeezing in beside her, eager to hear the story they already knew by heart.

  It isn’t real...

  Joy turned to desperation as the waxen reality of her dream melted away, and she slipped back into the real world.

  Jetta peeled back heavy eyelids. When the blurred walls became one again, she saw that she was back in Jade’s place. Things were different. Her flattened cardboard bed was gone. Instead, she was tied to one of the routing pipes, arms above her head, her legs bound underneath her. Coupled with the pain from the gunshot and bite wounds, her body screamed for release from the stressful position.

  “Hey—she’s awake.”

  Bossy slapped Agracia on the back, making her turn around. The older Jock was once again swaying to the beat of her headphones with the same glazed-over look of indifference. She picked at her teeth with a knife and spat the contents on the ground as she looked Jetta up and down.

  “Some stunt you pulled back there,” Agracia said. “Fighting, but not really winning? Wolves not killing you? I don’t get it. And what happened back in the locker rooms? You fake that seizure? What, you can’t handle a little pain?”

  Jetta remembered blacking out—but was it a seizure? It might have been a combination of the pain stimuli and the cumulative aftereffects of removing the biochip, but she wasn’t sure.

  Agracia walked over to her and stooped down to her level. “I don’t give a chak one way or another. All I know is that everybody wants a piece of you now. You one hot ticket. You ugly, but you hot, right?”

  Jetta struggled to loosen the bindings, causing her shirtsleeve to rip straight down her right arm.

  Agracia’s jaw dropped wide open. “What’s a Skirt like you doing with that tattoo?”

  Bossy, who had been stuffing her face with instant macaroni and cheese, looked up, mouth open, noodles dropping to the floor. “What the hell?”

  “What?” Jetta asked, not understanding their shock at seeing her tattoo.

  Agracia’s eyes narrowed as she played with the knife in her hand. “I don’t know what kind of gorsh-shit you pulling. Why do you have that mark on you?”

  Jetta instinctively opened her mind but quickly retreated, conditioned to the shock cuff. She expected a reaction—even a warning buzz—but there was none. No punishment, not even the slightest tingle.

  She looked down at the cuff. It was still flashing like it was on, but it didn’t seem to be functioning correctly.

  That weird sensation in my ankle right before I blacked out—

  Had she short-circuited the device when Bossy overcharged her system? Jetta tentatively tried again, this time bridging the gap to touch Agracia’s mind.

  I can see you.

  Jetta smiled. This would be fun. “Untie me.”

  Agracia smirked. “Answer my question, Skirt, or I’m gonna make my own mark.”

  Eager for both physical and psionic release, Jetta didn’t waste any time. She jumped straight into her captors’ minds, relishing the power she had been forced to hold back.

  “Oh chak!” Bossy screamed, pressing her remote furiously. Agracia dove for hers, but it did no good.

  Skimming over bad memories, Jetta stirred their fears, but didn’t push too far just yet.

  (Make them pay.)

  Agracia hunched over, gulping for air, eyes dilated, sweat beading on her brow. Grasping for something imaginary, Bossy fell to her knees, face panicked and arms outstretched.

  “Untie me,” Jetta said calmly. “And take that godich cuff off—or you’ll find out what I can really do.”

  Agracia rubbed her eyes in disbelief before setting her loose.

  “Sit,” Jetta said, massaging her wrists and ankles. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  “I won’t beg for my life,” Agracia said. She didn’t seem to understand her predicament. “You can go shove it.”

  “Where do we go from here?” Jetta asked, eyeing the knife that Agracia still held in her shaking hands. Bossy’s arms dropped to her side, and she clicked off the safety of her 20-20s. “Do you really think you can hurt me like that?”

  Agracia’s face flushed. “You’re a chakking leech. Just take what you want and get the hell out.”

  It wasn’t but a fraction of a second after the word leech came out of Agracia’s mouth that Jetta knocked her from her seat. Agracia’s headphones flew off her head as Jetta came down on her neck. Blood boiling, Jetta squeezed the Jock’s throat until she could barely utter any sound at all.

  Bossy screamed in the background, threatening to blow her to pieces, but Jetta ignored her. She was already in, seeking what she would need to destroy Agracia Waychild from the inside out.

  Jetta sloshed through memory after memory of wild, drunken nights and mornings full of body aches and hangover sickness. Between binges she witnessed dangerous trips to the surface and fights with other Jocks over terrestrial relics. Fast-moving hoverboards carried her from one safety point to another, running from Necros, running from the Dogs, Jocks, Johnnies, Meatheads—running from her past.

  That’s the key, Jetta thought, pitching deeper into Agracia’s roots.

  An alcoholic human father, obese and miserable, flitted past. Only a bad aftertaste and a pitiful absence in her heart remained. Her mother, a mixed-breed woman with no more maternal instinct than the male Scabbers she serviced, regarded her with dead eyes and a white-powder lined mouth.

  Nowhere to go, Jetta realized, unable to find her own space in the cramped studio apartment. Barefooted half-siblings, too many to count, crawled over her in desperate search for food. The smell of urine and mold overpowered her senses, making her escape to the streets for reprieve.

  A choice had to be made. Be a Jock, a fighter, or a Puppet. There were no other options on Earth—especially not for girl. Strike out or be struck down.

  “I won’t turn out like my parents,” Agracia whispered, huddling up behind a dumpster, trying to keep warm.

  Perfect, Jetta thought, readying to exploit Agracia’s self-hatred, her disgust for family. But just as she pulled back, she noticed the discontinuity. Stacked together, the memories from Agracia’s childhood didn’t seem real. The sensation felt akin to a false belief, something she had e
ncountered when she had absorbed the memories of POWs who had created an alternate reality to escape from the horrors of war. But this was different. This seemed—

  “—manufactured,” Jetta said aloud.

  She dove back in and tried again. The same memories from Agracia’s childhood spun out before her, but when she tested their depth, she saw their stilted, two-dimensional construction, like a flat picture on a screen. Curious, she pushed past them, struggling to break through the dense fibers of Agracia’s belief, her own habituation to the memory of her childhood.

  Impossible...

  Images exploded in front of her, assaulting her senses. Jetta gasped for air, reflexively releasing Agracia as she struggled for control.

  Vast gaps spanned between the incomplete memories, but Jetta saw enough to piece together a disturbing picture. Test after test, mental and physical, in windowless gray rooms. Men and women in military uniforms screaming in her face. Endless battle simulations that didn’t stop even after she collapsed.

  “Candidate 0113 has failed personality trials. We will have to terminate her from the program.”

  It was Damon Unipoesa’s voice, loud and clear. He turned to her, his face, his words, bereft of any mercy. “Know when you’re defeated.”

  Tidas Razar stood in the distance. “We could use an Agent on Earth. Her aptitude is perfect for that environment.”

  Gloved hands reached for the needle in her arm. Bright lights shone in her eyes, but not before she saw the white substance dripping into the intravenous line.

  Unipoesa’s voice whispered in her ear as her eyes grew too heavy to keep open: “Know when you’re defeated.”

  Jetta released her, panting for breath. Stunned, Agracia, gaped at her in disbelief.

  “I’m going to chakking—” Bossy screamed, cocking her arm back to throw the 20-20 grenade at Jetta.

  “No,” Agracia said through hoarse vocal cords, tackling Bossy. “Don’t.”

  Jetta sat down on a crate and held her head in her hands, trying to sort out what she just gleaned. Why does Agracia the Scabber Jock from Old Earth have memories of Unipoesa and Razar?