by S. A. Tholin
CASSIMER
First, the familiar:
A white veil of anaesthetics and sedatives blanketing him as Rhys locked his flight harness in place. The smell of ozone and the sounds of tense conversation drifting from the cockpit.
"...of course we can outrun them, but stars, Polmak, you do like to cut it close..."
"...hadn't planned on evaccing half a dozen Rampart men, but how about some gratitude..."
Silver fire and shifting constellations, followed by the turning rings of Scathach Station. The med-wing, where techs did preliminary work on restoring his augments. Vysoke-Myto and Amager came to see him – or at least he thought so, but the white veil made the world a whirling fog, and he wasn't sure who was with him, or if he was even there. Sometimes he woke and thought himself back in the cold waters of his cell, or lost in a memory extracted by the warm waters of Skald. The whiteness brightened in those moments, sedatives increased to keep him still and calm, but he didn't want false reassurances. He wanted something real, something true, but when he called out for it, Tallinn came to him and whispered in his ear: nothing truer than death.
Then, his quarters. He woke up in his bunk, surrounded by familiar grey walls. The greenhouse he'd constructed illuminated his desk, the orchid's petals pure and white. Everything was the way he'd left it, as though he'd never left at all.
He took a clean undershirt from his drawer and pulled it over shoulders that didn't ache and ribs that showed no signs of bruising. His thigh had healed, too, and the medics hadn't left him a scar. Even his weapons were back in his locker, recovered by Daneborg from the Host Fetter. All that he had to remind him of the experience was a blank slot on the company roster, and a notice on his HUD that he should appoint a new medic to his banner ASAP.
Movement outside his door. He tensed, half-expecting the door to open to Memory. She had come, as she always did, and she had come for him.
Instead, the door opened to the new and unexplored.
"Good morning. I brought breakfast." Joy smiled at him over a tray heavy with cups of coffee, tea, glasses of different varieties of juice, as well as water (sparkling and still). Two ration bars, and one bowl of steel-cut oats, plain.
He looked at the tray, and he looked at her, and wondered if he was still dreaming, somehow able to see beyond the horizon.
"You made this?"
"When you were in the med-wing, you told me you wanted porridge. You were pretty out of it, so I wasn't sure whether you meant it or not, but better safe than sorry, right? I got ration bars, too, just in case. Actually, Rhys said you should eat them anyway. Said you need the calories. I didn't know what you like to drink in the morning, and when I asked around, nobody could say, so..." She nodded at the tray. "Take your pick. Or let me know if you want anything else. It's only a short run to the mess."
"I don't know either," he said, so unused to this, so unused to breakfast that consisted of more than a shake or a ration bar. "I'll try them all. I want to... I want to find out what I like."
"Sounds like a plan." She set the tray down on his desk and turned to admire the orchid, her fingertips grazing its vitro-plastic housing.
He had remembered right; the Tower whites did look beautiful on her. He couldn't help it; he had to touch her, had to make sure she was real. His hand trailed from her neck down her back.
"Did I say anything else in the med-wing?"
"They've got some very strong drugs up there, so yeah, lots. But nothing that you need to worry about, and nothing that can't wait for later." She laughed, delighted, as he pulled her closer. "Unless you're done waiting?"
"Later is an abstract concept." He unzipped her jacket and ran his hand up the inside of her shirt. Her heart fluttered against his fingertips, his beard scratching her neck as he kissed her. "Only the moment is real."
* * *
Her skin against his was real, her body under his realer still. When she lay in his arms, her rapid breathing slowly calming, he knew that he was home.
She had no scars either, but when he asked, she showed him where she'd been stabbed. A long gash across her stomach, ending at her ribcage. He ran a finger along the imaginary line. She sighed softly at his touch, inviting more. It seemed impossible to hurt her, and yet someone had.
"The demon?"
She quietly shook her head, silky hair caressing his bare shoulder. Whatever had happened, it had left wounds deeper than the physical. He wanted to assure her that she was safe with him, but knew from experience that words made little difference. Instead, he gave her his trust and told her about the sea cave and the water that wasn't really water. He told her about the Hecate, and the long shadows it had cast over his life.
"When the demon dredged up the memory, making me relive it–"
"Oh, Constant..."
"No," he said, holding her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. "No, it was good. I needed to see it. It showed me the distance between me and the Hecate, how much time and space has passed since then. I saw the boy sit on the floor with a gun pressed to his temple because he thought that his life had ended. For a long time, that's how it was. I died on the Hecate, and afterwards all I did was waiting for death to catch up and finish the job. But in the sea cave, I saw all the moments between then and now. I saw the forests of Mars and the valleys of Hypatia. I saw victories and defeats, comrades and enemies. I saw my life like a glittering band of good and bad, and I realised that the Hecate is just one of many memories. It wasn't death."
He smiled at her, and how easy that suddenly seemed, how light the burden on his shoulders. "I saw you too, Joy; brightest of all. I saw you, and sometimes I think – and I understand that this is crazy – that you were with me on the Hecate. That I am alive because you dreamed of me."
* * *
Breakfast was cold by the time he got to it. He couldn't decide whether that made it less appealing or twice as good considering why it had gone cold. It was a thought he'd never normally have shared, but he told Joy, and he was glad he did. Because she smiled, and better yet, ran her fingers across the scar that wasn't there, giving him a pensive look.
"For what it's worth, I do think the person who did it is regretting his actions."
"If he isn't yet, he will."
"Don't worry about it. It was a bad situation, but Lucklaw got me out of it. Everything's fine now," she said, buttoning up her jacket. Its shoulders were decorated with the three rays of a captain, and the Tower emblem on its breast contradicted the notion that everything was fine.
"You're in uniform."
"I have work to do. On Scathach, so you definitely don't have to worry about me for the next couple of days. I'll be here."
"Right here?"
"Right here's the only place I want to be. If I'm anywhere else, it's because I have to be."
"I understand." He did, but he had never expected to see her again, and now that she was here, it seemed stupid to be apart even for a moment. Worse, it seemed like tempting fate. As soon as either of them stepped out that door, anything could happen. As soon as she left, the door might become titanium bars and the floor dripping wet. As soon as she left, he might open his eyes and find that he was the one who had dreamed.
"Are you all right?"
"No," he admitted, "but I think I can be."
He had worried it'd be a foolish thing to say, but her honey-brown eyes turned shiny with tears, and she touched his cheek like only she could; her fingertips telling him that it was okay, that he was okay, that it was okay for him to love her.
"I'm so glad." Perhaps to keep the tears at bay, she added: "I like the beard, by the way. You should keep it."
"Regulation says it has to go, but 1004 days from now, perhaps I'll take your advice."
"1002," she corrected. "You must've lost track of the days in the med-wing."
"But you kept count."
"Always."
* * *
War had turned the common room silent. Dogs barked in the distance, so a few canine
units still had to be on the station. His own banneret men were on Hereward, temporarily transferred to other banners. His rescue team remained on the station, but judging by Polmak's hurried stride towards the elevator to Vysoke-Myto's office, the commander would be departing shortly. Cassimer's own schedule was unpleasantly empty. Not cleared for duty yet, but he intended to amend that as soon as possible.
Juneau's drifter scratched the walls of his habitat cube, pounding hard against them when it saw Cassimer. Either the major or one of its keepers had been thoughtless enough to give it a marker pen, and it had scrawled jagged patterns all across the habitat and its own skin, painting widening black circles around its eyes. It was a sickness at the heart of Scathach, and Cassimer contemplated doing what Juneau didn't have the sense to do and putting it out of its misery, but decided against it. Not so soon after being with Joy.
Janitorial staff had taken the opportunity to deep clean the common room which, frankly, was a good idea. They prowled between sofas and entertainment systems, scouring floors and dusting the soil of hundreds of worlds from surfaces. One of them, mopping near Hopewell, was shooting the lieutenant sharp glares that she either didn't notice or pointedly ignored.
Florey's suit lay spread out on the floor, Hopewell carefully oiling it piece by piece. A very thorough job, if thoroughly unsuited for the common room. The banneretcy had a perfectly good workshop – but he supposed he understood wanting to be around company.
"Commander." She stood to attention when she saw him. "I... I wanted to apologise. I'm so very sorry."
"It's fine. As long as it's all put away before end of shift."
"No, Commander, I mean..." Her confused expression smoothed into a smile. "I mean, yes, Commander."
"Leave it for now. I need to speak with you and Lucklaw."
* * *
He had already read the mission report. It had been a success, by all accounts, the Kalevala primer prototypes now safe and sound on Miranda Station. He had also seen the casualty reports and knew the status of his men. Still, he wanted to hear it from the people who'd been there.
Hopewell's quarters, after Lucklaw ensured their privacy by shutting down all comms, made for an acceptable meeting venue. Three years in the banneretcy, and Cassimer had never seen the inside of one of his squad's quarters before. Significantly smaller than his own – just large enough to accommodate the three of them – and in regards to Hopewell, significantly tidier than expected. Everything in its place, but for an ammo block carelessly left on her desk, and bare of decorations apart from the calming scenery of a beach displayed on the walls.
"Valletta's going to be out of action for a month or two, but he's going to be fine. I'm checking in on him later. If he's conscious, he'll be pleased to hear that you're back, Commander. We all are." Hopewell looked genuinely moved, and as if to deflect from her show of emotion, she said: "Rearcross especially. Jumping at shadows, you know, seeing impurity everywhere. I honestly think that if Somerset hadn't turned up when she did, I'd have been forced to send him in for a psych eval."
Lucklaw made a face. "As if her promotion wasn't grating enough. I can't stand everyone acting like she's some kind of special. The Earthborn? Hundreds of billions of people were born on Earth, most of them leaving not so much as a scratch on history. Somerset's all right, but the people who think she's special, they're not going see that. The epithet blinds them to the real person."
"What of Lutzen and his men?" Cassimer asked.
"Dead," Hopewell said. "I handled Lutzen myself. I feel kind of weird about it. It's not right, you know, taking aim at the Primaterre sun. Still, the station psychiatrist's pleased – I usually spend my sessions talking about last night's game, so having actual issues to deal with must be refreshing."
"Whatever they were, they were not Primaterre." In this, Cassimer was certain. Lutzen had had a primer and had looked and sounded the part, but he had been a foreigner cloaked in familiarity. The Primaterre wasn't RebEarth, with its factions within factions. The Primaterre were united, pure in their purpose. Though that purity had been born of a lie, Cassimer had to believe that the Primaterre Protectorate had transcended the deception.
"The official story agrees with you, Commander." Lucklaw tapped his fingers against the desk, nudging the ammo block. "They don't tell us anything, of course, but Vysoke-Myto let slip to Polmak that Lutzen's unit were a clandestine cell of undercover agents. They'd been on Hereward for years – decades – infiltrating RebEarth. Working in exo-space for so long without the support of a banneret commander? Chances are they went off-mission a long time ago. Command will say that a lack of purity corrupted Lutzen's mind. In a way, they're right. Remember what happened to the supply ship Amalthea? When their priming was interrupted, the crew all but imploded. Their captain told me that before they ended up joining RebEarth, they'd already killed some of their own."
"Sure, but what about us? We know the truth, and we're still here." Hopewell touched the banner on her chest. "Still doing our duty. Primaterre, pure and proud."
"You think we're better people than Lutzen or the Amalthea's crew? No. I think not."
But he was thinking something, and Cassimer wanted to hear it.
"You have a theory, Lieutenant?"
"Nothing that isn't already accepted Bastion wisdom. We have the three things required to hold a team together outside of Primaterre space: a common enemy, a common cause, and a leader. We have you, Commander, and your path to follow."
"My path may not lead anywhere good."
"If we wanted to go to good places, we would've cashed in our vacation days and gone to my beach house. We certainly wouldn't have travelled halfway across the galaxy to a RebEarth slaver's ship." Hopewell shrugged, taking a ration bar from her nightstand drawer. A breach of regulation – food items were not to be kept inside personal quarters – but he let it slide. Owed her that much, at the very least.
"That place was nothing," Lucklaw said. "Not in comparison to what will come next."
"Don't know what you're talking about." Hopewell took a bite out of her ration bar. "My schedule's open. Doubt we'll have anything coming up until the commander's been cleared, and besides, we got the primer samples back. Killing vessels is all well and good, but it's not a matter of urgency."
Cassimer didn't know what Lucklaw was talking about either, but he didn't have to know to feel that something was coming to a head. Whatever had occupied the lieutenant's thoughts for so many months – whatever Cassimer had neglected to make him talk about. He should have pushed the subject harder, because the look on Lucklaw's face told him that they were far past the point of no return, deeper inside enemy territory than they had ever been on Hereward.
After Cato, he had told his men to forget the enemy within. He had thrown them and himself into a war that was noisy, wild and violent, a bloody distraction from the truth. For him, it worked. All he needed was forward momentum and objectives to complete. But Lucklaw wasn't like him. Lucklaw saw more than the battlefield. He saw streams of light and problems that couldn't be fixed with brute force. He devoted himself to thinking, always thinking, searching for solutions and workarounds.
Stars, as a comms specialist, that was practically his job description. Cassimer should have seen that Lucklaw wouldn't be able to let the priming go. It was exactly the sort of enemy that he'd been trained to fight – born to fight. Cassimer should have seen it, a long time ago, and he was blind for not doing so.
Or perhaps he had seen it and had done nothing, tacitly allowing Lucklaw to wage a war alone. If he had, it had been because he'd known that this moment would come, when the war was coming to swallow them whole, the moment where he would have no choice but to fight – because though it was neither sensible nor rational, it was what he wanted. What he had always wanted.
"Hang on. Someone's at the door." Hopewell stood, wiping her hands on her trousers, and went to the door.
It slid open, and a muzzle flash lit the room orange.
50.
JOY
She was inside Scathach's pharmacy storeroom, leaning back against a cool metal wall. Labels fluttered in the breeze of air conditioners. A screwdriver whirred quietly as Rhys opened the ceiling vent.
She was also in Room 36, where virtual night had fallen outside stained glass windows. Lamps cast a hushed glow over ink-spattered desks. Dust motes stirred when she touched the spines of books, and the smells of the library mingled with the pharmacy's scent of antiseptics and cedar. One sensation genuine, the other simulated, yet nearly indistinguishable.
Hammersmith waited there, his mindspace presence no less intimidating than the real man. He was a cold dark silence, his eyes fixed on her.
"If I may explain my actions, sir–"
"I'm not interested in explanations, only results. You've received your mission brief. Do your job and do it right. I'm too busy running damage control to deal with you."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause problems–"
"Not everything is about you," he snapped, before giving her a tired look and a bit of earnestness. "The rest of us are more than capable of getting into trouble on our own. That's why I need to know that I can rely on you, Somerset. I need you to... I need you to remain pure of purpose."
"I promise," she said, and like that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the library of locked-away truths.
"Hey." Something brushed against her face – something real – and she blinked, dropping out of the Tower mindspace. Rhys held a tissue to her nose. "Your boss give you a hard time?"
"No," she said, gratefully taking the tissue to wipe blood from her face. "I think I might have preferred it if he had. Now it just feels like he's saving it up."
"Just remember that you're not on Cato anymore. He may be your superior, but that doesn't mean he can treat you however he likes. There are rules."
On Scathach, perhaps, but within the creaking hull of Room 36B, less so.
"I stashed the suit and the equipment. We're good to go for tonight." Rhys looked up at the vent, neatly screwed back in place, the hidden exo-suit a hint of silver between the slats. "As long as the man in your head is ready to go, that is. I assume he was on top of the surveillance systems and we're not about to get stormed by BaseSec?"