Lonely Castles

by S. A. Tholin

  "Right, because optics are the problem when it comes to killing innocents."

  "I didn't say it was the only problem." He shot her an irritated glance. "You know, you really need to stop acting so high and mighty. You're the one born in the era so bad that Hierochloe thought the only way to save humanity was mind control. If you don't like what you see, you need to remember that we're just the ones stuck trying to clean up a mess that your generation started."

  "Point taken, though I don't think I personally had that much to do with anything."

  "You were literally a Hierochloe employee. You wore their logo on your clothes and their hardware in your body. If a phoenix tattoo is enough to warrant death, then how much worse are you? The only reason nobody's put a bullet in the back of your head is because nobody knows who the real enemy is."

  "Wow. Okay. I guess that means you don't want to watch Wolfeye Detective Agency with me later."

  He grimaced, a flush creeping up his pale cheeks. "Apologies. I took that a bit far."

  "A bit, yeah."

  "You've got to realise, the second bullet would be for me. Elsinore isn't exactly the greatest family name. I guess I spend a lot of time thinking about that. About how people would feel, if they knew."

  "You can hardly be blamed for the actions of your ancestors."

  "You'd think. Doesn't always feel like that, though. Just look at Hereward. If our troops manage to capture Justin Markham, do you think they'll treat his family as individuals, or as complicit by blood association?" He shook his head. "All I know is that I'd rather be an Elsinore in Room 36B than a Markham on Hereward, and that's saying something."

  General-Commander Justin Markham was the RebEarther in charge of Hereward. He'd been part of the conquest nearly fifty years previously and remained there ever since as its de facto ruler. A hero to RebEarth; a high-value target to the Primaterre.

  Joy and Lutzen had spent a great deal of time collating data and reports to get a better idea of what was happening on Hereward. He'd told her which areas would be priority targets and predicted troop movements with frightening accuracy, but she'd been better at interpreting individual reports and the tone of the discourse. Fear lurked between the lines. Something was wrong in the city, and the Primaterre officers were unwilling to advance too far, too quickly.

  "They're clearly thinking that Markham is based here," Lutzen had said, pointing out a stronghold near the city's spaceport. "But the only confirmed sighting of Commander Cassimer places him over here, moving towards the centre of the city. Why do you suppose that is?"

  "Because he's not going for Markham. His target is Skald. See this building here?" She'd pointed to a concrete slab of a building. "See how many people there are outside it? The streets are so packed they nearly look black. But nobody's going inside, and nobody's leaving, either. Skald's got to be controlling them, creating a human shield for himself."

  "Makes for a difficult target," Lutzen had mused, rubbing his chin. "Shooting their way through would take too long and leave them exposed. Infiltration, maybe, through the sewer tunnels, or via the roof."

  "Too dangerous." But almost certainly what Cassimer would do. "A better idea would be aerosolised antimicrobials. Something like the habitat decontamination spray, maybe. A medic friend of mine said that it would flush anything out of a person's system; even Skald. Spray that over the area, and his control would break. In the ensuing confusion, infiltration opportunities might arise."

  "Interesting idea."

  "You have contacts, right? Maybe something could be done, or they could pass the idea on to the commander? He'd try it, I'm sure he would."

  "I'll see what I can do," Lutzen had said.

  But on her monitors, the streets surrounding the building were still choked with people. Maybe she was wrong about it being Constant's target. She hoped so, she really did, but the brutalist angles of the building reminded her of the silver fortress. Perhaps that was just her imagination, or perhaps Skald had retreated to the familiar. No – not perhaps. He was in there, she was sure of it, and Constant was coming for him.

  "Hey, Elsinore, have you seen Lutzen? I need to talk to him."

  "Lutzen and his team left on the Hesperia last night. Before you ask, no, I've no idea where he went or when he'll be back, or why the hell you want to talk to him, anyway. You think you're on friendly terms with him?" Elsinore shook his head, a condescending smile playing on his lips. "Friendly's just a skin for him to wear. He'll moult as soon as it suits him and slither away a new creature."

  "You sure have a way of seeing the best in everyone." She shivered, looking towards the Cascade's viewports. Yellow Xanthe filled them, but for a thin ribbon of black space. "Wideawake's been gone a week, and Hammersmith's got the Imago. We're all alone in a dead system, with no means of escape. Doesn't that bother you?"

  "Welcome to the entirety of my life. No escape is par for the course. Still, if the worst should happen and nobody returns, a few derelicts are in spacewalk range." His eyes flashed silver, and the viewports switched to display mode, showing the stranded ships whose bowels carried the bones of Xanthe refugees. "That's something else I think about a lot: how easy it would be to slip on a spacesuit and go over there to fix one up. It would take a long time by myself, but running this Cascade has taught me a lot about mechanics and engineering. I could scavenge parts from other ships. Sooner or later, I'd have a workable one, and then I'd start it up and fold out of here and never look back."

  "Have you ever tried?"

  "No," he admitted. "I'd say it's because I've never been in space and I'd probably just end up getting myself killed, but truth is, I'd rather accidentally detach and float off into space than get caught by Hammersmith."

  * * *

  Joy fell asleep in the flickering light of monitors, her dreams a collage of fragmented news streams and frontline reports. A restaurant on Artemisia had been bombed by RebEarth, who promised worse to come if the Primaterre did not retreat from Hereward. In her dreams, Joy walked through the burning ruins, embers nipping her skin, the cries of the wounded shrill in her ears. Casualty lists scrolled in the air, the letters swarming like insects, slipping through her fingers when she tried to arrange them into names. A shadow fell over her, and when she turned, she saw her reflection in the glossy surface of a Kirkclair cenotaph.

  And then she woke up and the shadow was still there.

  "Get up." Hammersmith threw a bag on her desk. "Get dressed. I expect to see you onboard the Imago in ten."

  She made it in nine, which wasn't bad considering how far her office was from the hangar, and how difficult it had been put on the outfit Hammersmith had brought. It was a prismatic suit like the one Meeks had worn on the Andromache, constructed from thousands of glittering silver-white scales capable of visual and digital camouflage. The skin-tight suit was an almost creepily perfect fit, hugging her every curve, and when it connected with her primer – WELCOME, AUTHORIZED USER SOMERSET, J – she realised it was a custom job, designed specifically for her.

  Onboard the Imago, she found Elsinore already strapped into a seat, wearing dirty green coveralls and work boots that were at least two sizes too large. He looked equal parts confused and sleepy.

  "What's going on?" she asked, but before Elsinore could answer, Hammersmith limped past her and slid into the pilot's seat. In the lights of the instrument board, a pearling of sweat gleamed on his forehead. His eyes were ringed with darkness, but his gaze was sharp with chemical intensity. She knew that look well enough from Constant. Wherever Hammersmith had been, whatever he'd been doing, he'd been running on stims for days, if not longer. No sleep, no rest, no respite for body or mind.

  "Strap in." Hammersmith flicked a switch on the instrument board. The Imago's exterior lights flared, and the hangar force field dropped. With a soft judder, the shuttle launched.

  Elsinore whispered something under his breath. His gaze was fixed on gibbous Xanthe, his index fingernail scratching a nervous pattern on his ar
mrest. He thought of skeletons, no doubt, old and sun-bleached, and of the fresher remains, coated in yellow sand. But Joy had been to worse places with far worse people, and the heft of the Morrigan on her hip, the shimmer of Libra on its grip, told her not to be afraid.

  Hammersmith tapped another button, and silver crackled along the Cascade's pylons. Elsinore made a strange, choked sound. Outside, constellations shifted.

  * * *

  "The stars are so bright here." Elsinore leaned as far forward as his harness would allow, gawping at the viewport. "And the air, it tastes different, don't you think?"

  "It's the same recycled air as before," Joy said, smiling.

  "Well, yes, but there's something new about it. Something fresh. Do you think we'll be landing on actual ground? Stars, I hope so. I wonder what dirt feels like. I bet it's great. And the sun! Maybe there'll be two suns."

  "A sea would be nice. I haven't seen one of those since I was a baby. Too young to remember it, but for the photographs." Or so she'd thought, but as she said it, something tugged at her memory, releasing sensations. Coarse sand between her toes. The rush of cold as a wave lapped her feet. The coconut scent of sun lotion on her mother's skin. Her brother's hand, sticky with melted ice cream, holding hers tight.

  Lost moments. Lovely moments, of a kind Elsinore had never had. No wonder the air tasted new to him. She reached out, placing her hand on his, hoping for his sake that they wouldn't return to 36B before he'd had a chance to feel something real.

  * * *

  Ten hours into their journey, signals began to drop from the Imago's sensors. Another seven hours and the sensors had gone entirely dark. They were in space as empty as it got.

  Then Elsinore spotted it on their starboard side. A ship, sleek and black and invisible to any sensor. It drifted like a sleeping shark in the void.

  "A Tower monitor ship. Room 36's?"

  Hammersmith didn't answer, tight-lipped until the Imago docked with the monitor. Then he stood, grimacing as he stretched his tall frame. "Follow me."

  The monitor ship was silent to the point of seeming abandoned. Hammersmith hurried down its corridors as fast as his limp would allow, occasionally pressing a hand to his side, until they reached a well-lit medical bay. Two Tower med-techs waited there, tending to an unconscious man in a surgical chair. Joy had never met him, but she recognised his face immediately. His name was Waldorf, and he was one of the Cascade engineers she had investigated for Hammersmith – a sight ominous enough that she'd had enough of mystery.

  "What are we doing here, Hammersmith?"

  "Work." He sat down in an empty surgical chair. A med-tech came over to examine him, wordlessly removing his armour, peeling fabric from skin blackened with bruises. Hammersmith glanced at the med-tech and switched from speech to text.

  There was a problem on Cato. An Oriel officer accused his team of being liars before shooting them all and locking himself in their ship's comms room. That problem has been contained, the data he sent off-world intercepted and destroyed. But the dam is cracking. I can catch the droplets, but not stop the flood.

  The med-tech injected something into Hammersmith's neck. The colonel hissed with pain, his abdomen rippling and bulging as pre-programmed DNAno began to repair internal damage.

  "Hammersmith." A black-clad towerman stood in the doorway. "Our operation on Melinoe was a success. Captain Adare stands ready to execute on Hereward."

  "He'll be losing a decade-old cover."

  "Adare says he's ready to come home."

  "Lucky him." Hammersmith sighed. "Good work on Melinoe. Is the ship here?"

  "ETA one hour. The engineer's shuttle is docked and prepped."

  "Thank you, Becket. That'll be all."

  As the towerman left the room, Hammersmith turned back to Joy.

  We may not have long, he texted. We need to act now, or risk losing everything. Though you couldn't get the raw primer, we must prepare for the second phase.

  "I'm sorry I failed," Joy said, bracing for the dressing-down she'd been dreading for weeks, but Hammersmith shrugged.

  Doesn't matter. New opportunities are being seized as we speak. We will have our primer, and once we do, we need to be ready. Did I tell you how we managed to put a priming signal blocker inside a Cascade the first–

  He doubled over, clutching his chest with a sharp intake of breath.

  The med-tech calmly pressed another jet injector to Hammersmith's neck. "Old augments and long-term stim use are a bad combination, Hammersmith. I recommend full restorative surgery within the next six months, or something will expire – an augment, or you."

  "Six months is good enough for me," Hammersmith growled, putting his armour back on. "Elsinore, you know the story. Enlighten Somerset."

  "The... the whole story?" Elsinore asked, nervously.

  Hammersmith gave him a long look. "You think that'd be a good idea?"

  "N-no, I..." Elsinore bit his lip, glancing first at the gun at Hammersmith's side, then at Joy. Something flashed in his eyes. Fear, and guilt too, perhaps. Whatever it was, he gave her the short version of the story: We infiltrated a Cascade and installed the signal blocker directly on its data core. It worked then, it'll work again. But installing the blocker is dangerous – potentially deadly – and accessing a Cascade undetected is even harder. Impossible if you're not a Union engineer. So first, you need to acquire a schedule to tell you when a certain engineer is expected to stop by at which Cascade. You need access codes, of course, but because not all Union engineers are Primaterre citizens, they aren't necessarily stored on primers.

  "Our analysts handled those things," Hammersmith said. "They're good with data, but less good with people. The files you put together were helpful, Somerset. Our target had to be somebody who wouldn't be missed for a few days. Waldorf is single, reclusive, outright hostile towards what little family he has. He can't stand his neighbours and the only friends he has are online."

  "But they play Eschathon every night," Joy objected. "His friends will think it's weird if he's not around."

  "Eschathon's servers are currently down and will remain that way for a week, courtesy of a recently-hired manager. Wideawake is quite efficient when he chooses to be. Besides that, Waldorf's personality makes his eventual accident quite in character."

  "Accident?" Joy asked, praying that she wasn't about to be made an accessory to murder.

  "He will have no memory of the past few days. He'll be found inside the wreckage of his shuttle, the alcohol levels in his blood enough to explain the accident. Alive, as the death of a Union Engineer would trigger an investigation. He'll be back playing Eschathon two weeks from now."

  Even so, Elsinore texted, schedules, codes and an engineer shuttle aren't enough to access the Cascade. There are still extensive biometric scans; handprint and ocular.

  "Exactly." Hammersmith stood. "So take a seat, Elsinore. It's time for you to be of use."

  Behind the colonel, the med-tech leaning over the unconscious man straightened his back. He held a pair of forceps in his hands, and clamped between them, an eye. Optic nerves dangled like seaweed.

  "No." Elsinore took a step backwards. "Hammersmith, please. I don't want to–"

  The second med-tech pressed a jet injector to his neck and squeezed its trigger. Elsinore stumbled to his knees, mumbling pleas as Hammersmith hoisted him into the chair and snapped the restraints shut around his limbs.

  34.

  JOY

  Elsinore's new eyes did not suit his face. Too dark against his pale skin, too wide for his narrow features, too ready to smile. He rubbed them every now and then, hard enough to turn them red and raw, and scratched bloody patterns on the loose skin on his hands. The light of the Cascade reflected in his augment-replacement contact lenses, turning them quicksilver bright.

  The fold completed and the light faded. Through the viewports of their little engineer shuttle, Joy could see the familiar warmth of Sol. The signal traffic was intense, a crackling kaleidoscope
of information, and she opened her primer to it, briefly enjoying the sights and sounds of home.

  "Here we go. Here we go." Elsinore picked at his right hand, stretching his index finger's skin to twice its normal length. His gaze was fixed on the growing, gleaming shape of Sol's Cascade. Though the first ever constructed, it showed none of its age. Its silver flames cast dancing reflections on white hull plates and curving pylons. A perfect, polished shell, housing rift generators that did not need a good kick to get going.

  Though a fleet of Primaterre frigates served as its outer defence, Cascade space was technically neutral. Even so, the Primaterre sun was emblazoned on the structure, and the engineering crew stationed inside it were Primaterre to a man. It was a requirement of the Protectorate, and one that the galactic community and the Cascade Engineers Union begrudgingly agreed to, as long as the CEU were allowed to send non-Primaterre engineers on scheduled maintenance and inspections.

  "Stop, Elsinore." Joy took his hand and held it, trying very hard not to recoil at the moist touch of grafted skin. "Or should I say Master Engineer Waldorf? Best get into character before we dock. Waldorf likes whiskey, computer games and staying indoors to enjoy the former two, preferably at the same time. Works hard, plays hard, drinks hard. I'm guessing he'd probably act put out by having to do an inspection, while secretly loving it."

  "Doesn't matter." Elsinore pulled his hand away, skin rolling. "The engineers are busy. The Cascade is massive. We won't see another soul; not even security."

  Security. Joy wished he hadn't mentioned that word. It was easier to breathe with such thoughts pushed aside, easier to function as long as she thought of this as just another trip. Hammersmith had laid out the plan and its dangers before leaving on a red-and-black ship. He had changed into phoenix-painted armour by then, his metallic eyes turned blue by contacts, settling into a predatory ease. If only he were with them now. In his company, the mounted weaponry on the Cascade wouldn't look so threatening, the bands of mines nothing more than floating pebbles.