by S. A. Tholin
"...lock it up before the Primos get here."
A woman's voice, coming from outside the decontamination chamber. Joy slipped into the showers, hiding in the darkest corner. The prismatic scales on her suit adjusted to the shadows, except for her gauntlets, whose palms remained a default white where she had touched the freezing wheel.
"We still have people on the ship. Mist–"
"Mist this and Mist that. People like you going on about how great she is all the time is the reason the captain told her to stay behind in the first place. You want to do her a favour? If she survives, stop acting like you give a shit, or the captain's going to space her the next time she's in a bad mood."
The chair was kicked inside, the interior airlock sealing shut with a hiss. Two RebEarthers hurried past the showers.
"Memory needs to learn to cope with competition."
"Don't need to cope with anything so long as murder's an option."
Lovely; like something off a RebEarth motivational poster. Unfortunately, Joy couldn't take the sage advice as the two RebEarthers were far from alone. A dim corridor separated the showers and the central lab, and she could hear voices in there. At least two dozen hostiles, maybe more. Sticking close to the wall, she sidled as close to the lab's entrance as she dared.
Some original features remained – recessed sinks, an emergency shower – but the lab looked more like a tacky lounge. The ubiquitous murals were matched by wall-to-wall red carpeting. The furniture – two plush sofas and a coffee table – was also red. She supposed it was meant to give the impression of dedication to the cause, but in actual fact, it looked more like there'd been a sale on anything red.
The black-haired woman was in there, reclining on a sofa next to Skald. He held out his palm to her, and she licked it clean before kissing him, long and sloppily enough for the other RebEarthers to look uncomfortable. Definitely long enough for Joy to want to scrub her eyeballs clean. Who was this insane woman?
The Tower database provided answers, matching both man and woman to identities. He was Axel Denver, a construction worker who'd once boarded the Ever Onward, and the woman kissing the mockery of Axel was the notorious outlaw Memory Black, whose rap sheet was as horrible as her taste in men.
The database found other matches in the room, naming RebEarthers, listing their histories and known associates. The information could prove useful, but for now, all that mattered was that she couldn't see Constant anywhere. He definitely wasn't in the lab – but there was a door in the back, marked with a biohazard symbol. What would've been storage once was now the perfect place to keep a prisoner.
Okay. So, murder was not an option, but there had to be some way of making the puzzle pieces work for her. This had been a lab, not too dissimilar from her former workplace. She knew how the equipment worked, how to handle it and, maybe more importantly, how not to handle it.
This lab had been built for a high biosafety level, more like Scathach's primer vault than a botany lab, and like the primer vault, it would have automatic safety measures. The decontamination procedure had been deactivated, but that was such an obvious thing – no doubt the RebEarthers had switched it off when they got tired of getting sprayed down. Chances were that they hadn't considered the other decontamination protocols. Why would they, when there was no risk of them ever being triggered?
She found a first aid cupboard in the shower area. No drugs but for a bottle of mild painkillers a decade past their expiry date. The label was peeling, and she ripped it off, cleaning the plastic bottle as best she could. A low-quality respirator lay crumpled at the bottom of the cupboard, covered in mysterious stains. She put it on, the familiar feel almost as awful as the acrid smell.
She undid the straps on her gauntlets, peeling back prismatic material. Ice burn had turned her skin red, but it didn't look as bad as she'd expected. Well, not yet. She held her breath and sliced her combat knife across her palm.
Blood welled up, and she climbed the office chair to reach a ceiling vent. She made a fist, squeezing blood through the vent's slats. More red for the RebEarth hideout; more red from Little Red.
"Biological contaminant detected. Sterilisation protocol in effect. All personnel evacuate."
The computerised voice was a sweet sound, but not so sweet as the smell of ethylene oxide in the air. She secured her respirator, drew her gun, and headed down the corridor.
47.
CASSIMER
A door between them and Mist's crew wasn't enough. Cassimer found the side panel, pried it open and reached into his primer database for a refresher on how to rewire door locks. Kivik leaned against the bulkhead, smiling.
"Compromise, Primo. Do you see the advantages of being civilised now?"
"Might not have gone so well if it weren't for your history with the woman."
"You think negotiating with an ex-girlfriend is easy? It's far simpler to impress a stranger than someone who used to share your toothbrush. Anyone else would've quaked in their boots at the sight of the Shipwrecker and the Hellfire of Hypatia. Mist too, if she could see past her spite for me." Kivik's smile grew obnoxiously wide. "I'm guessing you have little experience with exes. How do your people do relationships, anyway? Government-mandated mate for life? You strike me as the sort of person who'd go for that. Or maybe it's just that you negotiate with girlfriends the same way you negotiate with everyone else." He ran a finger across his throat.
"Quiet. I need to focus." On the lock – and the sudden onslaught of available data nodes. With the jammers destroyed, his awareness was extending, his primer reaching out in search of connections.
"You're losing a lot of juice, Primo." Kivik, whispering, nodded towards Cassimer's arm. Still bleeding, and his med-augments had run dry. His HUD advised contacting the nearest medical professional. "I get not giving me a gun, but if someone comes... we'll stand a better chance if I'm not shackled."
Yes. But that someone could be Joy.
"Not after what you did to Kiruna."
"Kiruna? What the hell is a Kiruna?"
Cassimer didn't reply, but couldn't help shooting a glare at the man.
"Wait, are you talking about the Primo I killed on Velloa? The blonde?" Kivik arched an eyebrow. "You seriously holding a grudge over that?"
"It was unnecessary. It was murder."
"Unnecessary? That bitch–" Kivik took a step back as Cassimer turned, raising his shackled hands in apology. "All right, all right. That woman took out dozens of my men. People I knew. People I liked. Hell, she took a good pop at me, too. How many RebEarth men had she killed before Velloa? How many would she have gone on to kill? You know the answer better than I do, Primo."
Dozens. Hundreds.
Kivik smirked. "I killed her to save lives. I'm sure you've used the same justification many times. Maybe you were even right to do so, on occasion."
The lock flashed red. He took Kivik by the neck and shoved the man against the wall. Held him there, nice and secure in what felt like a fitting end to the conversation, and opened his primer's command channel. A single banneret commander was in proximity.
"Polmak." A surprising choice. All banneret commanders were busy, but few so busy as Polmak. Always working, always requested for some high-stakes mission or another.
"Cassimer? Earth have mercy, it's good to–"
"I need command-level access."
"Right." Polmak obliged. Cassimer's HUD switched to mission mode, displaying battlefield and company data. Three teams moved through the ship, a fourth inside the station it was docked to. Hopewell, Rearcross and Rhys; elsewhere, Daneborg and Lucklaw. Their names glowed bright, almost unreal. When he'd stayed behind on Hereward, he hadn't expected to ever see them again. He hadn't expected them to come for him.
He connected to Hopewell's visual and saw her insert a fresh ammo block. Mist fogged her visor, the temperature readings 25 below zero. Her suit lights were on full, casting the surroundings in an arctic white glare.
"Found some." Rearcross app
roached, carrying a bundle of environment suits over his arm. The silvery material glittered in the light, the helmet visors reflecting rows and rows of cryo pods. Three dozen sleepers, at least; Cassimer's primer identifying a handful as Primaterre citizens. Rampart men, listed as missing in action.
"About time. Rhys, do your thing and make it quick."
The medic pressed a cryo pod's panel and moved on to the next as soon as the waking process started. Hopewell breathed deeply, in a way Cassimer knew she only did when stressed, and tapped her fingers against her rifle.
"Hopewell."
"Commander?" Her visual flickered as she blinked, and her breathing picked up. Rhys and Rearcross turned to look at her, and how strange it was to see their faces, the anxious anticipation in their eyes. "Oh mercy. It's really you." And then, to her team: "It's the commander. Our commander. He's alive!"
Alive, yes, but perhaps mad. He could have sworn he'd heard the demon say little sister, and he could have sworn he'd felt Joy's presence onboard the ship. A ridiculous notion. He'd woken up in cold water and filth just the same as every day. He had only started to feel different once he'd believed Joy to be near. That made sense, it did, but he had to ask.
"Is Somerset with you?"
No, Hopewell would say, laughing, she's back home. He could hear her say that, and he could imagine Joy in the Tower whites that looked insufferable on everyone else but beautiful on her. She'd be in an office somewhere nice, overlooking leafy canopies and cobbled streets, her hair gold in the sunshine. Safe, working on safe things, and happy, because Bastion would've kept his disappearance a secret. For once he was glad of their desire to tell good stories – and then he realised that Hopewell hadn't said that at all.
"We had to split up. She went to find you. You haven't seen her?"
He saw her everywhere – in the amber lights of door panels, in the stars and in the Earth painted on the wall – but not on his HUD. That made no sense. Even if she were... couldn't finish that thought; had to rephrase. Even if her primer had gone into post-mortem deactivation, there should still be a glimmer of her left.
"Kivik. Are there more jammers?"
Kivik, groaning with pain, shook his head. "No. Not onboard the ship."
Not onboard the ship. He glanced over his shoulder at a nearby viewport. The station was visible through it, little more than a decaying hovel at first sight. But its heart was a safe room, built to withstand railgun fire – and no doubt beyond the reach of any Primaterre primer.
* * *
The Shipwrecker showed him to the docked airlock. A silver connection tube swayed between the ship and the station like a starlight bridge across the void.
"Boots."
It had to be difficult for the RebEarth captain to abase himself so before the enemy, and yet he unlaced his boots without complaint. Cooperative, but only because he was still looking for a way out of his predicament, Cassimer thought. His spark wasn't gone, was merely contained, awaiting an opportunity.
Cassimer took the boots from the RebEarther and put them on. Too small, but not by much. The bridge lights cast an astral glow on Kivik's face, and, momentarily, Cassimer could see the man behind the feather tattoos. There was insolence in his eyes, but something else too. Something worthwhile. Something human. Not that that had ever been enough before.
He pointed his gun between charcoal-grey eyes and let his finger slide onto the trigger.
"Go on then." Kivik set his jaw, hard and sharp. "I'll join the rest of the ghosts waiting for you. I doubt we'll have to wait long."
Joy believed that life had inherent value, that shared genetics made all humans worthy of the same basic regard and dignity. He loved that in her, he did, in the same way that he loved how the Thames had meandered through submerged London and how sunlight had streamed through linden trees to dapple the boulevards of Paris. Beautiful, dreamlike things; wonderful things that he couldn't live without.
But that didn't make them true. Earth was off-limits, and as for humans, experience had taught him beyond a doubt that they were among the worst the universe had to offer. Humanity was not a sufficient moral baseline.
Except maybe now it was.
"You say you hate the demon. Why?"
"RebEarth–"
"No." He pressed the gun to Kivik's forehead. "The real reason."
"The hospital on Hereward. I intended to take back the primer samples from the Bright-Winged One. Not a coup, exactly, just resetting things back to the way they were before all that nonsense. My brother was one of Markham's lieutenants. I wanted to evac him from Hereward before the cataphracts burned it all to hell. Instead, I found him and my two nieces dead on the floor, cryo-black blood pouring from their mouths, lichen dusting their faces. And I've seen a lot of shit in my time, Primo, but that..."
"We terminated them. Not the demon."
"You killed them, sure, but getting killed by Primos is part of the game. That's why we wear the phoenix brand on our faces. These feathers, they're saying yeah, I know this marks me for death, and I don't care. It's defiance. It's shouting at lightning. It's how we like it. You killed them. Fine. I'm sure it must've seemed necessary. But the Bright-Winged One did worse. He turned them into fanatics kneeling at a master's feet. He made puppets out of rebels. You killed them, but he destroyed them."
"You want revenge?"
"I want nothing more."
On his HUD, Cassimer could see Team Three approaching. They'd be at his position in minutes, ready to sweep the station. They were good men who would obey his command, but Daneborg was with them. If the recon man saw Kivik, Cassimer didn't think he'd be able to deny the kill.
But the Primaterre had enemies on both sides of the walls now. Kivik would never be an ally, but might serve as a useful diversion.
He holstered his gun, grabbed Kivik's arms and squeezed until both humerus bones fractured. The RebEarther howled with pain, collapsing to the floor when Cassimer let go.
"Go. Survive. Take your revenge."
"Go? You broke my fucking arms," Kivik hissed, angry tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "How the hell am I supposed to make it out of here like this?"
"You're a resourceful man. And if you don't... What was it you said? That's life."
48.
JOY
"Drop your weapons." She sidled up to the doorway, heart pounding, and aimed her Morrigan at Skald's vessel. If he truly was a god to these people, perhaps they'd think twice before risking his life. "On your knees, hands behind your heads."
Nobody obeyed. The air filtered through her respirator felt too hot to breathe, and sweat ran down her neck. On your knees, hands behind your heads. When Constant spoke such commands, people listened. He didn't have to raise his voice, let alone his weapon, but she wasn't him. So very, very, much not him.
But he wouldn't expect her to be. He'd want her to find her own way.
"You may be feeling a stinging sensation on your skin. Like a burn, or the burrowing of subdermal worms." Tower had gifted her with the vocabulary, and her own discomfort with the details. "Your eyes are tearing up. Your vision is blurring. Some of you may suffer partial or complete visual loss."
The RebEarthers weren't afraid of her or the Morrigan, but invisible enemies were a different thing altogether. They might fear a death they couldn't fight, and the computer voice running on repeat alongside a warning siren helped. For the moment, she had their attention.
"They are side-effects caused by your station's decontamination system. The ethylene oxide vapour is harmful, but the concentration isn't high. Any damage will be superficial or temporary. If you've gone blind, don't worry. You will get your vision back. Or you would... except the ethylene oxide triggered too late. The weaponised beryllium particles I released into the ventilation system have already done their job." An almost effortless segue into the total nonsense part of her plan. Wideawake was right; the breath of beasts on her neck was a powerful motivator. "You will have started to feel the effects. Right no
w, the beryllium is ravaging your mucous membranes. Your airways will be tightening, your lungs aching as they're choked by unchecked scar tissue growth. Some of you will have seen berylliosis before, I'm sure. It's a professional hazard of miners, shipwrights and those who spend more time in space than on solid ground. But what you've seen is the slow death. What you're feeling is the quick version, courtesy of Oriel."
There was no such thing as 'weaponised beryllium particles', (well, probably not), but the ethylene oxide would be causing respiratory symptoms. The RebEarthers had to be feeling them by now, a sensation that Joy remembered so well. It felt very much like dying.
A woman coughed, and when she removed her hand from her mouth, bloody spittle ran between her fingers in thick threads. Oh, that had them scared all right, so scared – except for Skald, who simply smiled at her.
"But I'm not here to kill you. I have the antidote right here." She shook the painkiller bottle, the pills inside rattling. "I'll trade you for it."
"A Primo who doesn't want to kill us?" A man at the back of the room shook his head. "That'd be a first."
"Yeah," she said, "but it doesn't have to be a last."
A murmur went through the room. Though all the RebEarthers wore the phoenix somewhere about their person, they weren't a uniform crowd. Half a dozen young women wore black like Memory, but sported no tattoos. Some wore lichen in their hair, others didn't. A group in the back had added bright white wings to their armour or body art, while others decidedly kept their distance from Skald's vessel. Interesting. Possibly useful.
But despite their differences, they all wanted the antidote, she could tell; the coughing woman especially.
"Trade." Memory stood, placed her hands on her hips, and regarded Joy with ill-disguised contempt. "Tell you what I'll trade you for it: a bullet."