Lonely Castles

by S. A. Tholin

  "But EMPs do," Cassimer said.

  Three of his Helreginn squad had learned that the hard way on Matisse when an enemy battleship had gone down over their sector of the city. When the nuclear fire had died down, the Helreginn cataphracts caught in the blast had still been alive. One, his armour mostly intact, had crawled towards the city limits harried by enemy fire. Eventually his weapons systems had given up, and the Matisse troops had advanced, picking his armour apart piece by piece, welding and sawing and blasting their way through. There'd been little of him left when the rest of the squad reached his position two days later, but just enough that he had been resuscitated. Once the medics cleared him for duty, their commander at the time had said: "Bet you're glad your kill switch didn't work.", and Cassimer remembered the perfect calm with which the cataphract had replied: "No.".

  "Correct," Juneau said. "It's infuriating to realise that there are a lot of things about primers that I could have seen years ago – if only I'd been allowed to. Oriel could easily have amplified the kill switch signal to prevent unpleasant situations."

  "Or put in a block so that people don't die when houseplants mind-control their superiors," Hopewell said.

  "That too." Juneau paused long enough for Hopewell to digest the information and speak up again.

  "Wait, so, what are you saying? Primaterre people are part fish?"

  "No, Lieutenant." Juneau made a pained expression. "Primers are a blend of synthetic DNA and semi-organic nanites. The template for the electrocommunication does seem to have been based on that of electric eels, but–"

  "So we're synthetic fish?"

  "No. The electrocommunication function is part machine, part organic."

  "Cyborg fish," Joy whispered to Hopewell, and Juneau glared at them before continuing.

  "I believe that the kill switch function may have been incidental, rather than intended. As I said, the energy required to broadcast is immense, and it generates that energy from the bio-electricity of its user's body. It can be used to send a signal, or released back into the body, acting as something akin to an EMP. Such a shock is inevitably and instantly fatal. I think that the electrocommunication was intended to be just that – communication – but its limitations made the creators rethink. Instead of scrapping it, they repurposed it. Quite impressive, really."

  "Doesn't matter if it's impressive. Doesn't matter what it is. How do we block the kill switch signal?" Hammersmith said.

  "What you do is ignore the signal and focus on the receptors." She held up a jet injector, almost triumphantly. "Early trials show that one dose of this inhibitor shuts them down for a minimum of eighteen hours. The inhibitor may continue to be effective after that, up to a maximum of thirty-six hours. Captain Rhys, as you assisted with the medical trial, would you care to explain the rest?"

  "Not really," Rhys said, glancing at Cassimer. "And I could've done without the credit."

  "Very well. The captain and I introduced a primer to Bone's system eighteen hours ago, and then we injected him with the inhibitor. While I've been talking, I've been activating his kill switch on a constant loop. As you see..." She turned towards the habitat, smiling. "He's still alive."

  "You made that thing a citizen?" Hammersmith growled.

  "Worse," Cassimer said. "They made it Bastion."

  "Indeed." Juneau seemed to find the whole thing amusing. "Private Bone at your service, Commander. Of course, without your authorisation, it's only a preliminary recruitment. He has no access to his primer's functions, but we do have access to his kill switch code."

  "It's an abomination."

  "It was that or run the trials on one of us," Rhys said calmly. "Who would you have volunteered for that task, Commander? Me? Yourself?"

  Neither. None of them; not even the towermen. Rhys knew that, of course, and all right, the medic had made the right call, but did he have to look so smug about it? Cassimer swallowed his anger, and so did Hammersmith.

  "So you're saying that we're ready to go?"

  "Yes, Colonel, but be aware that since our opportunity to run trials is limited, I can't predict with certainty how long the inhibitor will protect a user from being kill switched. Body size, metabolism and augmentation will impact the duration negatively. Bluntly put, Commander Cassimer can expect to die first, while Somerset has the best chance of longevity."

  Not ideal, but far from the worst possible scenario. Hammersmith seemed to agree.

  "We leave for Earth in seventy-two hours. The analysts will remain on the Cascade, while Lieutenant Lucklaw will return to Scathach."

  "What? No way. Lucklaw's not getting benched. He's been with us from the start. He's part of the team."

  "It's all right, Hopewell," Lucklaw said, although he did look pleased at her objection. "I understand."

  "I don't," Cassimer said. "We're going to need our comms specialist, Hammersmith."

  "And if our mission fails? If we all die as the first crew of the Hesperia did? Lieutenant Lucklaw is young, wealthy and privileged. He is in a position to shoulder the burden if it should come to that. This war cannot die with us."

  58.

  CASSIMER

  No communications were allowed, no final goodbyes permitted. Hammersmith's only concession was a fifteen second window to download personal mail. Cassimer hadn't expected anything, but there was a letter from Amager, written with grating amounts of gratitude, and a note from Polmak, updating him on the status of Scathach. Valletta had written too, although his message was barely comprehensible:

  "ALIve & welllll, letmekno if u need me & pls say thnx to Summerset."

  Good of him to write. Good that he was alive (if not quite so 'welllll' as he wanted to make out). Better if he'd asked a nurse to assist with the typing. Still, Cassimer appreciated it.

  That left one letter unread. He wasn't sure if he wanted to open it. Wasn't sure what it would say, or if it would be at all good to read moments before departure.

  He had brought his armour crate aboard the Hesperia, finding a secluded space to dress in. Each seal of his suit felt like inevitability locking in. The point of no return was approaching, and he wanted to hang onto the cliff's edge a little longer.

  Through a porthole, he could see the war room. Rhys lingered there, also holding on, also unwilling to let go. Joy stood with Lucklaw at the shuttle that would see him back to Scathach. Talking, whispering, and then, just as Lucklaw was about to leave, they hugged. Quickly, awkwardly. A last goodbye, and he wanted to go out there and tell them both that they were mistaken; that everything would be fine. That everything was going to be all right.

  Or maybe he wanted someone to tell him that.

  He opened the letter.

  Its recipient field was a long list of CCs, several of them redacted. Bastion had been as unsure about forwarding it as he was about reading it. The original sender's address was partially redacted, making a reply impossible, but what little he could see was unfamiliar. Foreign.

  The message contained only a video file. His HUD didn't recognise the format, and wondered if he was sure about playing it. No, but he confirmed regardless.

  A thin man stared into the camera. Twitchy, nervous, glancing around as though he couldn't believe where he was. Only a little backdrop was visible: a rustic cabinet, the corner of a painted seascape. Worn wallpaper. A puff of steam coming from the side, along with sounds of pots and pans and a woman's hushed voice.

  "Hello." The thin man cleared his throat. "I don't know who you are. I asked, but your people declined to answer and mine claim ignorance. I suppose you know how it is. It took me forever to convince them to let me send you this message. It's unheard of, they said, and I told them that's the point. That what you did for me was equally unexpected. A message won't go far to repay the debt, but I had to let you know that I am grateful. Every night, my family and I include the nameless stranger in our prayers. That might not mean much to you, I know, but being able to tell my children that their father came home from Tuonela becaus
e a Primaterre soldier appeared out of nowhere like an angel of mercy; that brings me hope. Hope that maybe the future can be something none of us expected."

  Tuonela. Cassimer remembered the man; remembered snowflakes on his skin and the blue flight suit clinging to his body like a sheathe of ice. Kiruna had wanted to kill him. Cassimer had chosen a different path.

  The Hesperia's external lights switched on. Cold white light flooded the war room, sunbright spots reflected in its viewports. Hammersmith's black armour was washed pale; Joy's hair glowed. Motes of dust swarmed in front of the wall where Hopewell's surprise, the paint still wet, reached from floor to ceiling.

  The Primaterre sun encircled a stylised Tower adorned with Oriel's stained glass window. The gunner's mural was simple, and it was bold.

  "This is a covert operation," Hammersmith had grumbled. "As a rule, we don't leave signatures."

  "Then call this the exception. Look at Xanthe. The people who died down there, they're nothing but bones and bad memories. Tragedy robbed them of their individuality, made them anonymous parts of an awful whole – except for the person who made that big HELP sign. They left a mark. They were here. This?" Hopewell had said, gesturing towards the wall. "It's not a signature. It's a reply. We were here too. Too late to help Xanthe, but not too late to do what we can. If we're successful, it's a celebration. If we're not, it'll be a reminder to all who come after us that we tried."

  Perhaps the Kalevalan man was Cassimer's mark. One single act of mercy. It didn't seem like much, but then the door opened to Joy, and he knew that mercy was greatness.

  Mercy was a family reunited. Mercy was a prisoner's first breath outside his cell. Mercy was love uninterrupted.

  "We leave in twenty minutes." Joy's Tower whites had been replaced with the lightweight scale-patterned armour of a strike team captain. A deep cowl hung down her back, its inside covered in a fine-mesh camail. Too black, too Tower, and he would have hated to see her in it if it weren't for the violet and jade aurora that glowed on her cuirass and pauldrons. For the first time, he thought the use of a cosmetic augment justified.

  "I'll be ready in five." He picked up his right gauntlet from the armour crate.

  "No." She stepped into the compartment, sealing the door behind her. A smile on her lips, and in her honey-brown eyes, a look that was the antithesis of Tower. "What I'm saying is, we've got twenty minutes."

  Mercy was greatness. Mercy was twenty minutes on the edge of a cliff. Mercy was a hand in his when the twenty minutes were up and all that was left was the leap.

  * * *

  Silver flames painted the Hesperia's interior with ethereal light. Banneret suits gleamed like knightly armour, the mesh in Joy's cowl a veil of stars. The universe took a deep breath, and their ship folded from one Cascade to another.

  It was instantaneous travel made possible by over a millennia of humanity's hard work and dedication. Outside the viewports, the yellow orb of Xanthe had been replaced by the warmth of Sol. Cassimer had never lived in this system, but his armour was emblazoned with the image of its sun's rays encircling the cross that represented Earth. He had fought and killed under that banner, had bled for it, had represented it in all things. It was home, in a way that no station, base or house could ever be.

  The Hesperia delicately separated from the stream of Cascade traffic, avoiding foreign traders and Primaterre ships. It dutifully responded when the Primaterre fleet recognised it, and then it slipped into space less trafficked and disappeared off all sensors. Even Cassimer's own sensors could no longer detect the ship, and he switched off his HUD to stop the onslaught of concerned alerts.

  Nobody had said anything in quite a while. He watched his team, wondering what they were thinking. Florey had been quiet ever since finding out that their destination was Earth. Hopewell, tapping her boots against the floor, was likely worrying about the Luna Belt. They'd be in range of it soon, and then they'd find out whether Juneau's science was sound, or whether they'd all end up like Aurillac and Appledore.

  Hammersmith seemed convinced of the latter. Stone-faced, cold-eyed, breathing slowly, steadily. All the calm of death, and in his shadow, Elsinore quivered. Cassimer might've felt sorry for the young operative, if he could look at him without wanting to break his neck.

  As if she'd read his mind, Joy squeezed his hand. Her eyes were gold in Sol's light. This was the system where she had been born and raised. She was coming home, too, but not for herself.

  "You've fought many wars, Constant, but this was your first. This is your war, and has been since the Hecate. This is Hammersmith's mission, Hammersmith's ship, and I am Hammersmith's operative. But before I was Tower, I was Bastion. I was yours. When we reach Earth, if you need the ship, the mission, me – I've done everything in my power to make it possible for you to finish this whichever way you choose. I'm with you, no matter what."

  She had whispered this to him when they had still been so close that their heartbeats had felt as one, and he saw the same devotion in her eyes now.

  Across the aisle, Hopewell breathed in sharply. Juneau craned her neck to look out one of the viewports. The Luna Belt was too small and too distantly spaced to be visible to the naked eye, but Cassimer's visual augments picked the satellites up like a band of hotspots.

  Ten minutes away. Five. One.

  And then they drifted in silence for what felt like forever.

  Rhys was first to speak: "Well, if you want a doctor's opinion, I'm happy to say we all still appear to be alive."

  "Thank the stars." Hopewell sighed and relaxed just enough to remember her fear of flying. She gripped her armrests, squeezing Florey's hand so hard he must've felt it even through his gauntlet, but he remained a million miles away.

  "Thank me, not the stars." Juneau stared at her tablet, frowning deeply. "One electric pulse detected every two milliseconds. The Luna Belt tried to trigger our kill switches several hundred thousand times."

  "Last hundred thousand chances these bastards will ever get," Hopewell said.

  Cassimer didn't disagree, but a soldier ought not go into battle with rage in their heart. He looked at his team, and he looked at Hammersmith, who had his face in his hands, and at Elsinore, who had piloted the Hesperia across the invisible border that had killed his parents.

  "A moment of silence," he said, "to honour those whose sacrifice made this possible."

  And to make Hammersmith understand that they needn't be at odds. Tower or Bastion, they were Primaterre, and though the towerman had little left but anger, that anger had its roots in love – for home and family, for truth and freedom.

  The silence lasted until the blue Earth filled the viewports. Oceans, so still they seemed glassy, lapped the craggy curves of continents. Clouds drifted across plains, swathed mountain peaks and the ruins of high-elevation cities. Rusting struts rose from the sea that had once been called the Gulf of Mexico, but now, removed from the context of humans and nations, was a borderless part of the world ocean. Platforms sloped on broken supports, city blocks caught in a glacial but inevitable slide towards the waves.

  Elsinore took the shuttle down until they could see flocks of rose-feathered birds nesting in the empty windows of offices. Saltwater corrosion had left buildings so fragile that they trembled in the wake of the Hesperia. Only the thick growth of greenbrier and hempvine seemed to hold the structures together.

  The shuttle continued along the coast. Boats lay wrecked on beaches, ships decaying on landing pads. Lights blinked here and there, little winks of life painting alabaster walls neon.

  The architecture changed as they travelled north. Coastal communities sprawled into cities where rivers still ran dark with pollution, and then, for a while, there was nothing but pock-marked wasteland. A few hundred miles north of a massive crater, signs of civilisation returned, but it was no longer home to anything human. Animals prowled the ruins, and Cassimer wondered if they remembered the builders. If they did, he doubted they mourned their absence.

 
; "Newfoundland," Juneau said as they passed over a large island. "The architect ship Dorset's shuttles launched from here. She was one of the very first arc ships, constructed during the Great Northern Expansion, so long ago that I doubt there's any trace of her legacy. A plaque, maybe. Not much to commemorate one of humanity's greatest achievements. But my mother told me the story of how our ancestors left Earth for what lies beyond, as her mother had told it to her. It was a cold December morning, in the shadow of a lonely mountain. The winter sun made the rocky barrens around the spaceport glitter as green as a field of grass. How strange it must have been for my ancestors to wake from cryo sleep on humid Artemisia. I like the heat and the jungles, but seeing this... I wonder if I might not have liked sea cliffs and bitter winds better."

  The major's story broke the dam. Soon everyone was talking, sharing tales or legends about Earth. Some true, some highly questionable. So much history had been lost to war and disaster, the millennia before the first arc ship launch particularly in debate. Records then had been kept largely in digital formats, and several global EMPs had wiped them out. The history of that period was mostly guesswork based on what little physical evidence existed. Even so, Cassimer doubted very much that Rhys's stories – of a returned fabled king and reformed chivalrous orders – had any basis in reality.

  Still, the medic's stories added a welcome touch of myth to the conversation. That's what this was about, after all. Juneau knew full well that the barrens had glittered green because the rocks were peridotite, and no doubt she knew the name of the mountain and the coordinates of the Dorset's launch site, but even the rational Oriel officer had chosen to dress her anecdote in poetic silks.

  Myth was a shield, protecting them from the fact that they were about to set foot on a planet that their hearts and minds screamed was forbidden. And a sword, he supposed, to prepare themselves for the reality of Earth.