“Get off me asshole!” cries Mariah.
Cole hears the indistinct words of a man’s voice reply, but he can’t make them out. Within seconds, he’s rounding the corridor. In the narrow halogen-lit hall behind the strip club, just beyond the back door, two drunk men are crowding around Mariah. She’s wearing a long coat, tightly closed, and digging through her purse—presumably for a stunner. The men keep blocking her as she tries to get past. One, a young grav biker with tatted arms, the other an older guy with a mane of white hair and a nice sport coat.
“There’s no need to be a bitch,” says the older man in the nice clothes.
“Yeah, we were just offering to help,” says the young biker.
“I don’t need anyone to walk me home!” Mariah shoves past the technician, but he catches her wrist.
“Hey!” Cole beats a path up to them. “You two—piss off.”
All three look at Cole. The older man squares up to him, and his greater size becomes all too apparent. The man has broad shoulders and a craggy, lined face that suggests he’s no stranger to a fight. But then, neither is Cole.
“Or what, fuck-naut?” growls the sportcoat, causing his younger companion to grin. He balls his hand into a fist. “Think you can take me?”
Mariah looks from Sportcoat to Cole with wide eyes, edging toward the wall. She must have forgotten her stunner because she’s abandoned digging in her purse.
A couple knuckle draggers like you are no match for an ex-Strider, is what Cole almost says. But then he considers the right thing to do. The smart thing to do. The civil thing to do. And he says, “Look, nobody wants any trouble, okay? Let’s all just go home before the cops show up.”
The older man cracks his knuckles, his thick gold ring reflecting the symbol of some college alma mater. “They won’t get here before I fuck up your pretty face.”
“Hey, my bouncer is grabbing his backpack,” says Mariah. “He’ll be here any minute. Let’s just all go home, okay?”
“No one’s talking to you, slut.”
Cole’s fist moves on its own. His knuckles strike dead in the kidney, and the older man drops to his knees, gasping for air. In the next second, Cole is staring in surprise at his own fist, which is smarting. He’d forgotten how much punching a guy hurts.
The grav biker lunges and throws a right cross. Even buzzed from the sake, Cole’s old training kicks in, and he catches the clumsy punch and drives his knee straight into the man’s stomach. A quick foot sweep and the two assailants are both on the ground.
Mariah looks at Cole with slack-jawed surprise. Judging by the audible moaning and breathing of the two men he just laid out, Cole is certain he did no lethal damage. Reasonably certain.
A few minutes later, Cole and Mariah are in the elevator as it whizzes up the arcology. As the car rises above the subterranean levels, windows reveal a view of the Pike City Valley. Crop rows, greenhouses, and little modular homes all nestled in the valley of a moon crater. Under the giant dome, all is a pleasant Earth-like habitat, with stars twinkling in the sky.
“Thank you,” says Mariah. “My bouncer and his dumb-shit Capruan girlfriend were taking their sweet time. I should have waited.”
“Don’t mention it,” says Cole with a shrug.
Silence falls over the car. The elevator is high enough now to see over the ridges of the caldera. Beyond the dome is an airless plane of empty craters and greyish-yellow dirt. The profile of the fiery orange gas giant Thoth—the planet this colony orbits—takes up half the sky. It casts the moon’s natural barren landscape in a reddish glow. As he tries to work up his nerve, Cole looks up to the elevator readout. 102…103…104…
The next tram level’s coming any second now, Cole chides himself. Just say it loser. Say it. Say it!
Ding! The elevator comes to a stop, hissing slightly as the airtight seal is broken.
“Well, this is me,” says Mariah. She gives a polite smile and steps out.
“Hey Mariah,” says Cole, catching the door before it closes. “I know you’ve had a long night, but there’s this farmer’s market on Sunday, in the Farm District. I thought we could…”
“Look, Cole, thank you for the help, but you know the rules.” All traces of the playful, seductive Mariah from the nightclub have vanished. Her cotton candy lip gloss has rubbed off. A few lines are showing under her eyes. Her expression is placid. Tired. “I gotta go.”
“Right, I get it,” says Cole. “But really, I’m not usually a…well, a client of those types of places. If you got to know me, you’d—”
“I don’t want to know you!” Mariah scowls. “I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t want to date you, I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want to get your drinks anymore. Come near me again, and you can take it up with the bouncer.” She punches the wall panel, and the elevator doors slam shut.
The car speeds upward again. Cole stares at the ticking floor numbers, speechless. His bracer starts to beep.
Incoming call: Synthia, Level 5 AI.
Cole hits “end.” A few minutes later, as he trudges into his tiny apartment, he only wants one thing—to dream. The floor is a mess of moldering clothes, empty cartons, and wads of trash. It’s a tiny studio that looks out over the dark lunar planes. A single holo-monitor hovers over his desk, the only source of light he ever needs. He has to wade through the piles of junk to get to his bed and flop down.
He reaches for an inhaler on his nightstand. It’s a polished black bottle with two nozzles for the nasal passages. Three quick snorts and the Capruan drug will be coursing through his body. His heart pounds with anticipation. First, there will be euphoria. Then the numbness lulling him to sleep. And then an epic fantasy of dreams—some thrilling, some frightening, some utterly sensual. Wherever the flights of fancy take him, it will be far away from this shitty lunar backwater—and any thought of Mariah and her stinging rejection.
Cole fits the nozzles into his nose. His thumb wraps around the canister.
Digital tones fill the room. Holographic letters dance over his desk.
“Jesus Christ, Synthia!” Cole shouts. “Give it up, already!”
But when he looks over, he sees Incoming call: Earth Naval Command, Generational Starship UES Freedom Endeavor.
He groans. Even worse. Of all the times… But his little jobs for the Navy are the only thing paying for the smack.
Cole tosses the inhaler aside and reluctantly drags himself over to the console. He touches a button, and the floating letters vanish, replaced by a three-dimensional view of a woman’s face. It’s the admiral of the Triton fleet, and unlike the graffiti representation of her in the alley, this image reveals a woman with beautiful, if somewhat dour features and soft green eyes.
“Cole,” says the admiral with typical military rigidity.
“Mother.”
“Cole.” Admiral Alexia Sadler clears her throat. “It’s been a long time.”
A long time? Cole thinks. He rubs his eyes, feeling his buzz wearing off—he should be drifting off on a Dreamscape trip. Instead, he’s sitting on his booze-stained mattress, in his pig-sty apartment, across from the hologram of his anal-retentive mother. He longs to reach for the bourbon bottle under his bed.
“6 years, Mom.”
The admiral’s eyes do a quick sweep of the room, but she makes no comment on his animal living conditions. “I’ve been meaning to call between hyperlight jumps, but—”
“Look, Mom, I got things to do. And if it’s you calling and not Lieutenant Murena, it must be important. So let’s have it.”
“Fine.” Alexia fidgets with a metal-encased cigar from her desk—something she always does when itching for a smoke. “I’ve got a mission for you, and it’s an important one. I just hope you’re sober enough.”
It’s all Cole can do not to hit the “end” command. But locating black market Strider tech for the Navy pays way better than a real job—even more if he helps catch the buyers a
nd sellers. And if Alexia is calling, this payday has to be big.
“What’s the job? Stolen LANCE drive? Hacked orbital cache? Must be something juicy if the admiral herself is calling.”
“A null-telescopic array near Pike City went offline. I need you to fix the receiver dish on the ground and retrieve the telemetry.”
“You’re kidding. I track down Strider tech, not satellite antennas. Call the cable guy.”
Alexia’s voice sharpens an octave. “The dish was hijacked with a Strider flash drive.”
That gets Cole’s attention. “But those chips are biometrically tagged. Only Strider DNA unlocks them. That means—”
“A former Strider supplied hackers with the chip.”
One of my own. Cole’s head falls into his hands. She wants me to fuck over a comrade-in-arms. “Jesus. You expect me to bring in a Strider.”
“Actually, we caught a break. This chip has been used by seditionists before to hack military hardware. Whoever this Strider supplier is, he stays in the shadows. But the dish was receiving data from an orbital telescope for Naval Intelligence. It’s vital we recover the intel. So vital in fact, I’m authorized to offer you sixty thousand.”
Sixty thousand checks! Four times any previous job. Cole runs a hand through his hair. It’s greasier than he expects, and he tries to recall if he showered today. He sniffs his hand. “The Zhenyi Interstellar Telescope studies the Roanoke rift, way beyond explored space. What’s the Navy so interested in out there? And why would the Trueborn care?”
“That’s classified.”
“I. Am. Scandalized!”
“This isn’t a joke, Cole. This mission is vital to galactic security. You’re the only person on that moon who’s—”
“—an ex-Strider. I know.”
Alexia’s chin lifts a fraction. The pinched lines of her crow’s feet relax. “My son.”
Cole is stunned. Suddenly, he feels tired. Worn out. The booze has turned to sick in his stomach. “What’s left of him.”
“I’m not playing that game, Cole.” The cigar spins faster in Alexia’s fingers. “You chose to join the Strider mutiny. You’re the one shooting that Capruan crap up your nose. You don’t like your life on that rock? Take a look in the mirror.”
“The Old Man believed in what we did at Swarga. In case you missed it, his speech went viral. You should watch it.”
“My father threw away a decorated career in the Navy. He betrayed everything he ever believed in—for you. I’m giving you a chance to turn things around. Don’t let your grandfather’s sacrifice be in vain.”
Cole snorts. “This why you called? One more lecture for the road? Cause I gotta tell you, parental disapproval pairs real nice with a hit of Dreamscape.”
Alexia punches her spotless glass desktop. She grinds her teeth as if to bite back a tirade. “I called to give you a mission. And because…” Alexia slips the cigar in her shirt pocket. She straightens her posture. Clears her throat. “I miss you.”
The tender note catches Cole off guard. He finds himself thinking, Miss you too, Mom. But instead, he says, “Send me the mission brief.”
“Already uploaded to your Bracer. The dish is fifty clicks from your position.”
“Hostiles expected?”
“Our satellite images show no activity, but contact is possible. Bring a scorcher.”
“I don’t own a gun.”
“You’re an ex-Strider on a frontier colony, and you don’t have a rifle? Not even a sidearm?”
Cole stares hard into the night, stars beyond the dome blurring together. The reason is simple really. Because some nights he gets low. Real low. Tonight, for example. And sometimes, the fleeting high of dreamscape isn’t enough. Some nights, he wants a more permanent answer to it all. A scorcher in arm’s reach would make for an easy one. “I have my reasons.”
The answer hangs in the air a moment. The blue light of the comm channel hums on Cole’s skin. He gets the feeling the holographic admiral is going to say something else.
Instead, she dissolves into pixelated snow.
Mark 03
Clearwater Oasis
Planet Aldrin, McNeil System
2350 Hours, OGT
The snoring is a dead giveaway. Karli has been lying patiently on her cot for an hour after excruciating hour, waiting for the moment. The tiny motel room is dark, but for the glow of the festival, lights streaming in through the parted curtains. The smell of fried chicken and spicy Capruan herbs have been wafting through the open window all night, driving Karli’s mouth to water. But the churning in her stomach isn’t from hunger—it’s from the thought of Dylon’s text, beckoning her to sneak out in the middle of the night for a meeting with his boss.
She carefully rolls over and looks at the double bed. Her father’s on the near side, back to her, snoring like a buzzsaw. Little Cam lies next to him. Tate is snoring on the cot. The human and Capruan folk music carries on the summer breeze.
Karli throws the blanket off of her. Some time ago, as her father drifted off to the sound of the TV, she slipped out of her nightclothes and into her jeans and halter top—all while under the covers. She stops in front of a scratched mirror on a scored and beaten vanity. A few primps to her short walnut brown hair, a spray of deodorant under her skinny arms, and a little red lipstick swiped from her mother’s bathroom, and she’s ready to go out. Almost. She hesitates.
The girl staring back at her on the other side of the mirror looks like someone else. A girl with red lips and a stylish top, her hair done up with a barrette, rhinestones in her jeans—like a socialite from a boom-colony. Then Karli notices the chapped lips, the farmer’s tan staining her face and arms, and the sand-blasted tips of her hair. The girl in the mirror is a fake. A phony. A desert farmer playing at urban college student. Karli reaches up to wipe away the lipstick. For reasons she can’t explain, standing there in the yellow half-light, she thinks better of it. She likes the lipstick.
In the next moment, Karli is throwing a leg over the windowsill, carefully sliding out. The unbroken snoring is a welcome reassurance that she’s about to make good her escape.
“Where are you going?” whispers a tiny voice.
Karli starts and bangs her head on the top of the windowsill. Her littlest brother Cam is sitting upright next to Dad. Thankfully, their father is still snoring. She says, “I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back soon, Cam-Zam. I promise. Go to sleep.”
The boy doesn’t move. There’s worry in his eyes.
“If you go back to sleep,” Karli whispers, “I’ll bring you banana pancakes in the morning.”
“Promise?” he whispers back.
“Pinky swear!”
The boy flops back down on his pillow, and Karli breathes a sigh of relief.
The climb down from the second story is easy enough. Karli uses grooves that once provided handholds for starship crews—back when these buildings were modules in space, to shimmy sideways. When she reaches a bundle of exterior pipes, she slides down like a fireman.
She travels the dusty thoroughfare between quiet blocks of modular buildings. Dunes of bone-white sand have piled up against the metal walls, street benches, and barrels of trash. The night air is comfortably warm, with a crisp smell of desert grass on the breeze. After a ten minute walk through the deserted street, she enters the music, lights, and crowds of the fair. Soon, Karli is weaving through a press of bodies.
She comes to the Starnet pavilion, with its rollercoasters of neon light zipping along the tent roof and among the company booths, each overengineered with smooth hyper-clean surfaces. The various stellecomm vendors have all the latest gadgets on display and animated banners advertising their hyperlight data-packet plans, none of which she could ever afford. The most prominent display is a cylindrical metal room ten meters across. It looks like a high tech launch vehicle, alive with videos and news reports and compendium entries about humanity’s only living, fully sapient a
rtificial intelligence, Synthia. Videos of her holographic avatar stream around its walls, showing images of a young woman with a perfect figure, bright golden eyes, and matching shoulder-length hair. It would take a month of pay for Karli to earn a call with the famous AI.
She checks the text thread on her Bangl just to make sure.
From Karli: U mean 2way talking like face2face?
From D. Treadaway: You got it sunkissed! The Synthia booth in the Stellecomm tent at ur fair. 23:00 Omicron Time. The Doc will b waiting.
Karli takes a deep breath and touches her Bangl to the monitor at the back of the pavilion.
“Transaction approved,” says the computer voice. “Twenty minutes of hyper-connect has been added to your account. Proceed into the uplink alcove.”
Twenty minutes?! Karli is aghast. Most families on the frontier are lucky to send and receive regular video mail. But live, two-way communication between different solar systems? That’s a treasured luxury, parceled out a few minutes at a time—a luxury not typically found on hydroponic farms.
The titanium doors sense Karli’s approach and slide open with a pleasant swip. Half of the octagonal titanium-plated room is taken up by a 3-dimensional projection of a grand study. Cozy light adds a glow to redwood walls, shelves, and a desk. Chairs and ottomans are upholstered in black leather. The fireplace is shale-colored brick. Wireframe models of skyscrapers rotate on the coffee table. A bank of windows along the left wall form a half-pipe from floor to ceiling, with nothing but stars and clouds beyond.
It’s an airship, Karli realizes.
At the center of the holographic image is a man in expensive loafers, nice slacks, and a knitted sweater vest. His back is to her as he bends down to examine something on the floor. He’s looking at a bug—a real one that’s flown into the projection from outside this Synthia booth. The 3D projection flickers and pixelates around the bug, disrupted by the foreign object. On Aldrin, it’s hard to keep dust and insects out of any room, no matter how expensive.
His thinning blonde hair and vaguely Nordic accent only add to a pleasant, fatherly presence. “Synthia, note how it ignores ambient light but retreats from thermal heat. This planet has no moon, so our little fellow finds it more useful to navigate by infrared.”
Galaxyborn: Season 1 Premiere Page 3