Triorion Omnibus

by L. J. Hachmeister

  The memory changed form. Blue-paneled walls above her, with a soft-glowing light illuminating the sign near the foot of her bed: Bunk 6, Barrack 12. Stiff sheets and a coarse blanket rubbed up against her skin when she shifted. No way to fall asleep with a full, aching bladder, but leaving the warm protection of her bed would be equally miserable.

  Can’t sleep.

  Go quickly, and maybe nothing will happen.

  Dangling her feet off the bunk, she paused for a moment, listening to the snores and sleep sounds of her other barrack mates before dropping quietly to the floor. She tiptoed around the other beds to the lavatories, counting each step to keep herself calm.

  In the mirror above one of the sinks, her reflection caught her attention. Agracia couldn’t believe her eyes. She had never seen herself without heavy eyeliner, a streak of color in her hair, and a scowl. This was someone different. This was—

  “Tarsha,” a voice whispered.

  She looked ahead. A scream started in the tips of her toes and skyrocketed its way to her throat.

  The splayed-open body of Sarrie Dhox, a fellow cadet, hung from a stall door, her blood and viscera collecting around the drain in the floor. Whoever had done this had performed the gruesome act with clinical precision, applying tourniquets to her limbs to keep her alive after slicing them off.

  “Sarrie!” she cried, trying to loosen the bindings holding her up, “who did this to you?”

  “Tarsha,” the girl said with her last breath, “it’s you he’s after.”

  She dropped down, cracking her knees against the cold bathroom tiles. “Why?!” she screamed.

  The military police showed up only seconds later. She was shoved aside as medics, teachers, officers, and other cadets flooded the lavatories.

  Sarrie wasn’t the first, she remembered. There had been Henderson, though the teachers had been quicker about covering that one up. More would follow.

  (Li...) Agracia realized. (He’s going to kill me.)

  She felt Jetta tugging at the buried layers of her psyche, burrowing into her deepest secrets. Without her consent, Agracia tumbled backward and inward into a long-suppressed memory.

  “You are without God’s grace!” her mother shouted, holding a frying pan above her head.

  That frying pan came down with brutal force, smacking her in the face and sending her spiraling to the ground.

  But that wasn’t real. What Jetta uncovered was.

  Agracia saw herself as Tarsha again, this time standing before a massive holosim with innumerable game pieces.

  (The Endgame,) she remembered.

  “You’re a disgrace to that uniform, candidate, and to all the people that have wasted their time and money training you. Why did you evacuate the ground teams? You needed to drop your missiles! What the hell were you thinking?” a man in uniform screamed in her face. “Know when you’re defeated!”

  Damon Unipoesa. That was his name. He was the Program’s proctor. At one time he had been her idol, a father figure that she looked up to, but now he was her tormentor, pushing her beyond her limits, beyond any reason, to a point from which she didn’t think she could return.

  Horror-struck, Agracia watched herself scratch at the raw patches of skin under her uniform. No matter how many times she showered, she always felt grubby and vile. There was something about her, some kind of phantom stink leaking through her pores.

  Sickening—

  Can’t get clean, can’t get off this grime, she thought, digging her nails into the red-ring of angry skin around the opposite wrist.

  A dark voice inside her played into her fears: (What can Unipoesa do to me now? I’ve lost the last thirty-eight straight battles; there’s nothing he can do to bring me any lower.)

  But impossible assignments and unwinnable simulations didn’t stop him from delivering swift and harsh punishments for her failure. (It’s as if he wants to ice me out...)

  And then Li walked in.

  “But Sir, we’re not scheduled to battle for seven more months—” Tarsha said as Li sat opposite her on the game console.

  She and Li were both leagues ahead of any other student, and for a long time Tarsha held the top rank, but their score differential had slowly diminished as Unipoesa pushed her to the brink.

  “Your final is now. I’d suggest you pay better attention to your front lines this time.”

  Unipoesa leaned over and whispered into her ear: “You’re weak. You’re pathetic. You’re no match for Li. Let’s get this over with.”

  She froze. The moments seemed to pass in some distant dreamlike realness, even in the memory. There had once been a purpose in her training, though now it seemed impossible to recall. Now only confusion and disappointment dominated, and a terrible, pitting shame that hollowed out her stomach

  I can’t do this. She tried to hide her shaking hands, but her entire body trembled. Catching a glimpse of her reflection on the chrome plates below the holosim projector, she cringed. I don’t belong in this uniform.

  Anger percolated through. The strategist in her saw the underpinnings of Unipoesa’s manipulations, and hated herself for letting him get to her. But somehow, despite this, she still cared about what he thought.

  You made me love you, she thought, remembering better times; the lilt in his voice when he spoke with her, and the ways his eyes were always careful not to linger too long when he approved of her strategies. Even after all these years of trying to strip me of any type of humanity, putting me through hell—I know why you did it. You wanted to make me a better commander, you want to save the Starways.

  The game started, but she couldn’t bring herself to take the controls, not even when Li began pulverizing her forces. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Everybody saw it—the other teachers, cadets, Li, and Unipoesa. It didn’t matter anymore. The only person in the galaxy that meant anything to her was in her face and threatening her termination.

  “Know when you’re defeated,” Unipoesa spat in her ear.

  The memory vanished, only to be replaced by something even more disturbing.

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

  Masked faces came into view beneath the bright ceiling lights. “Now count backward from a hundred...”

  Something stung her hand and traveled up her arm, spreading a blanket of drowsiness across her body. A familiar tune played in the background—

  (My music!) Agracia thought, thinking of the industrial tune that constantly cycled in her headphones.

  “Relax, Agracia Waychild,” someone said.

  (That’s not my name!) she tried to say, but her lips felt numb and unresponsive to her commands.

  “I hate that godich noise,” said a gruff voice above her.

  “This is that gorsh-shit the Scabbers listen to. It’ll blend right in,” a different voice replied.

  A red-haired man slipped the headphones over her head. She struggled at first, but as the music repeated over and over, she found herself soothed.

  “She’s our toughest agent; her training made her resistant to our standard conditioning. She’ll have to wear these things almost continuously to keep her sensitized to our control. It also means we’ll only be able to trigger her with visual stimuli.”

  “Whatever it takes, Lieutenant,” the gruff voice said, sounding unusually irritated. “I want her stationed as soon as possible. Keep this quiet.”

  “What about the Commander, Sir? He’s been inquiring about her status.”

  “Get this through your head, Shelby—this is Agracia Waychild, the Scabber. Tarsha Leone is dead.”

  No, I’m not dead.

  I’M NOT DEAD!

  Agracia opened her eyes to a circle of curious and concerned onlookers.

  “Gracie!” Bossy said as she scrambled to her side. “You okay?”

  “Are you alright?” the Healer asked, offering her hand.

  Agracia scooted up against the wall of the brothel. “I’m not
dead!”

  Bracing her by the shoulders, Jetta got in her face. “No, you’re not. You’re just remembering.”

  Tears squeezed through closed eyelids. Bossy had never seen her cry—she couldn’t remember ever crying, at least not as Agracia. “Who... who am I?”

  Empathy softened Jetta’s face. “You are Tarsha Leone.”

  “No,” Bossy shouted. “She’s my Gracie!”

  Her little sidekick reached for a ball of 20-20, but Jetta seemed to anticipate the move and disarmed her before she had a chance to remove the pin.

  “Stop it,” Agracia said, covering her eyes with her hand. “Please. I’m neither. I’m not Tarsha Leone, but I’m not Agracia Waychild. I’m...”

  Slender fingers touched her wrist, sending a comfort warmer than any alcohol flowing through her body. She looked up to see the Healer, whose eyes sparkled with a glittery sheen. “You have been reborn.”

  She relaxed a little and took in a slow breath. The pulse thundering in her temples receded to a dull roar, and the headache faded to a low but steady drum.

  Huh. Leeches ain’t that bad, an old voice whispered in her head. She half-smiled. Well, that’s the Scabber personality shining through.

  “You’re still my Gracie,” Bossy insisted, taking her hand.

  Agracia made sure to appear confident for her companion, even though she didn’t feel the least bit certain. Tarsha Leone is a remembered dream, something that happened in a different lifetime on the other side of the galaxy. And Agracia—she isn’t real either. She’s some half-baked idea of the United Starways Coalition, a freakjob they thought could blend in with Old Earth’s underworld.

  But as Agracia looked at her young friend, she realized an important truth. “You’re right, kid. I’m still Agracia. After all, she’s the one that kept me alive all these years.”

  “Don’t call me kid!” Bossy said, sounding more relieved than irritated.

  Jetta shrugged her shoulders. “Agracia it is.”

  The Alliance officer offered her a hand up. “I got what I needed out of that gummed up head of yours. And I saw that you’re traveling to the Deadzone.”

  “Yeah,” Agracia said, adjusting her belt and gear with unsteady hands. “It’s weird ‘cause it’s where I woulda taken you. You know that, though.”

  “Yes. It can’t be coincidence that Victor’s job and my tattoo are located in the same area. We’ll travel together for safety.”

  “Gorsh-shit!” Bossy exclaimed.

  Agracia pulled her aside. “We need all the help we can get in Necroland.”

  “There will be more than Necros to worry about,” Jetta commented.

  “No kidding. I’ve got tails,” Agracia said, pointing to a few shifty-eyed men hovering around a food vendor across the street. “Guess our Tourist friend doesn’t trust us so much.”

  Jetta peeked around the corner, her keen eyes sweeping the block before returning.

  “We’ll meet up with you near the border. Don’t be late.”

  “Hey, wait,” Agracia said. Something hitched in her throat when Jetta turned around, and she found herself unable to say everything she wanted to. “That... that was something else. What other magic tricks you got up your sleeve?”

  “Was that your idea of a thank you?”

  Agracia squirmed nervously in her boots. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

  After a pause, Jetta nodded and disappeared into the shadows with the Healer.

  “Thanks for what?” Bossy rapped her friend’s forehead with her knuckles. “Implanting dumb ideas in your skull?”

  “Quit it,” Agracia said, shoving her away. “She kept her end of the bargain. She showed me the truth.”

  Bossy’s face soured. “Bunch of chakking mind games if you ask me. You’ve always been Agracia Waychild.”

  “Just like you’ve always been Bossy?”

  It was a low blow, and it hit her companion hard. If anything, Bossy’s past was more perplexing and muddled than her own.

  “Assino,” Bossy muttered, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Hey, wait!” Agracia said as Bossy took off down the street toward the warehouse.

  But Bossy didn’t slow her stride. Agracia jogged along, weaving in and out of the crowd, shouting for Bossy to slow down as elbows and legs connected with her face and legs.

  Someone shoved her off the street, and she collided with a mobile cart of raccoon meat. The vendor held tightly to his stock of dried skins and cursed at her. “Chakking watch it, kid!”

  Agracia steadied herself against the barred window of a liquor shop. She saw her reflection in the glass next to the flashing ads for Redfly. From the depths of her mind came that same gruff voice: “Tarsha Leone is dead...”

  “I’m not dead,” she whispered back.

  As she sank back into the flow of human traffic, she no longer saw herself as one of the countless dregs of a forgotten world, but as an unknowing player in an intricate lie.

  Thinking of Unipoesa, she made herself a promise.

  Never again.

  THE ONLY WAY TO PLACATE Bossy was through booze, sex, or action, none of which she had immediate access to. I guess the only thing left is to tell her everything...

  “So... don’t you wanna know?” Agracia asked over the grind of pistons as their flat car ascended the railway to the Pit exit.

  Bossy faced away from her, arms crossed and spine rigid, next to the headlamp mounted on the front of the car. While chomping loudly on her lollipop, she said, “Go to hell, Gracie.”

  This ain’t gonna be easy. After all, their bond was rooted in a shared past—two throwaways who paired up and beaten the odds on a dead world. But something told Agracia that Bossy had to know. “My ma wasn’t a boozer, and I didn’t have a house full of half-brothers and -sisters. I was sent here because I failed out of the United Starways Coalition’s Command Development Program.”

  Bossy thought about it for a minute. “Never heard any gorsh-shit that thick.”

  “It was a hush-hush thing.”

  “You’re a chakking Skirt then?” Bossy said, whipping around. They both ducked simultaneously as they passed under a support beam, but it didn’t break Bossy’s thought. “I should slit your throat.”

  “Whadda ‘bout you then? Don’t you think it’s more than coincidence that you and me met? If I was some pet of the government, they’d probably invest in someone to keep me safe. You’re the best fighter around these parts. Don’t you think that means something?”

  Bossy’s eyes narrowed and her hands twitched above her grenades. “Just what are you trying to say?”

  “That you’re important too, assino. That maybe the holes in your memory were put there for a reason.”

  “You think I’m a Skirt?” Bossy said, tackling her. Agracia smacked her head on the wooden frame of the flat car, and stars exploded across her eyes.

  She had to be careful. Bossy was her best friend—but first and foremost a fighting-ring dark horse.

  “I think that we need to find out the truth about your past.”

  Bossy’s hold on her slackened just slightly, but the anger remained in her eyes.

  “You’re my best mate,” Agracia continued, minding the tone of her voice. “No matter what, you and I survived this stink of a world together, against Meatheads, Jocks, Joes, Johnnies, Tourists—the worst of ‘em. It don’t matter what happened in the past except that if someone is using us, we need to set them straight. We both need to remember.”

  The flame in Bossy’s eyes fizzled to a smolder. She rolled her lollipop to the other side of her mouth before popping it out and holding it near Agracia’s face. “How can you trust Dr. Death? How can you think she doesn’t want to chak us over? What if your memories aren’t real?”

  “They’re real,” Agracia said. “Or I’d be dead. Dr. Death got all she needed about the location of the tattoo; I felt her suck it right out of my head. The reason I’m still alive is because she knows that it wasn’t me that captured her�
��it was Agracia the Scabber.”

  “Not Agracia ‘reborn,’” Bossy said, mocking the Healer and sticking the lollipop back in her mouth. “Come on, Gracie—you better than that.”

  Agracia rolled out of the way as another low-hanging beam passed over them. In the distance she could see the glow of the portal light up ahead. We’re nearly there.

  “Suits on,” Agracia said.

  Both of them smacked on their helmets and zipped up their hazard suits.

  Not bad, she thought. Shandin’s biosuits seemed top of the line, at least for Old Earth. They didn’t smell like a fat man’s armpit, didn’t have any patches or leaks, and the readouts on her visor were clear, accurate, and continually processing. Most of the time she just guessed the level of radiation and plague by the wreckage of her surroundings—now she had detailed maps and limited sensor sweeps of the area.

  “Fancy schmancy,” Bossy remarked, knocking on her helmet.

  The weapons and other gear she’d pulled from Shandin’s warehouse didn’t seem too shoddy either. Not state-of-the-art, but not busted out and overused. It made her even more leery about the true nature of the job. And how badly we’re gonna get screwed over.

  “Okay, fine,” Agracia said, holding onto the railing as the flat car slowed and they approached the end of the line. “I don’t know why, but Jetta still needs me for something.”

  “Duh,” Bossy snorted. “With her rep, I can’t imagine her not wanting revenge. If I didn’t hate her guts, I’d probably ditch you and be her best mate.”

  Agracia grinned, although Bossy wouldn’t see it behind her helmet. “Jerk.”

  They opened the magnetic Pit doors to relatively calm skies. The clouds looked like churning pools of mud, and the wind came steadily from the north. If her helmet’s filters hadn’t been so efficient, she would taste the sulfur in the air.

  “Up ahead.” Agracia pointed toward the mountainous west. The sun was just rising in the east, but, like most days, it was banished behind a dark curtain of clouds, keeping the daytime world in the grim heart of twilight.

  “Jeezus,” Bossy exclaimed when she spotted the Rover parked behind the safehouse.