Valhalla Station: A Space Opera Noir Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga: Empire Earth Book 1)

by Bruns, David

  “Only you can’t ban a person’s own brain chemistry,” Rabh said.

  “I am working on the hack,” Erkennen offered, quick to defend his area of expertise. “Give me time—”

  “See, that’s the most precious commodity now, isn’t it?” Tony said. “Everyone needs more time. Ruben needs time to infiltrate whoever blew up his refinery. Adriana needs time to repair the ring over Callisto. And you, Gregor, need time to counter this Dreamscape. Time, it seems, is more precious than platinum these days.”

  “Callisto was an accident,” Kisaan insisted. “From time to time, the Resistance pops its head up like a gopher, conducts some sabotage, then disappears again. These kinds of problems are nothing new, Tony.”

  “The coordination of them, though,” said Tony, staring hard at Kisaan’s holo. “That’s very new.”

  “You think they’re coordinated?” Ruben asked.

  “Well,” Tony said, leaning forward and staring at each of them in turn, “I don’t believe in coincidence. And they all share one thing in common. ”

  “Which is?” prompted Erkennen.

  “They all strike at our bottom line,” Tony noted. “Refining capacity on Mars. Gas mining on Jupiter. And productivity itself, as more workers become addicted to Dreamscape.”

  “But the attacks are so small—” Adriana began.

  “And so are the amounts of gases pulled out of those tankers in the Belt,” Tony said. “So small, and yet over time…”

  The five of them sat quietly, considering the implications. Erkennen, the scientist, was the first to solve the equation.

  “They’re trying to subvert the corporate economy,” he said. “But at this rate, it would take many years to—”

  “Would it?” Adriana Rabh asked. “Factor in citizen morale, Gregor. It’s not just about a balance sheet. We can make those numbers look however we want. But, at the end of the day—”

  “It’s about the billions of workers who keep the economy moving,” Ruben said. He turned to Elise Kisaan. “And Earth still has the most indentured workers of any colony in the system, working all those factory farms and traditional industrial centers.”

  “Paranoia,” Kisaan said. “You see conspiracies in the shadows.”

  “A refinery here. A docking ring there,” Tony said. “Seemingly small incidents in the grand scheme but with high public profiles, stretching us across the system to deal with them. And now, our workers indulge themselves in Dreamscape, which is more than our paid vacations and free pleasure palaces ever did for them. They’re becoming addicted to their own endorphins.”

  Elise Kisaan jerked forward suddenly. In the 3D world of holograms, Ruben couldn’t see what it was that had demanded her attention. When she began cursing, a sinking feeling spawned in his stomach .

  “What is it, Elise?” Tony asked.

  “The Midwestern Collective, North America,” she answered, though her attention was on the problem. “Our monitors are reporting … a blight? How is that even possible? From the moment a seed is planted, we monitor—”

  “Are you a believer now, Elise?” Adriana asked.

  In answer, the Regent of Earth killed her connection. The four remaining faction leaders sat looking at one another.

  “Gregor,” Tony said quietly. There was rage beneath the façade. Ruben had seen it before. Someone near at hand would bear the brunt of Tony’s wrath later. “So far, you are the only faction unaffected by this … effort. I suggest you increase security around your most sensitive tech projects.”

  “Of course,” Erkennen said. “I’ll attend to it immediately.”

  As his image disappeared, Adriana sighed.

  “Hold it together, old lady,” Tony said. “And strengthen the firewalls around our corporate accounts.”

  “Yes, Tony.” For the first time since Ruben had known Adriana Rabh, the normally unflappable empress of finance sounded frightened. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Her image too faded.

  “That leaves just the two of us, Ruben.”

  “Actually,” Ruben said, “we should talk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chapter 20

  Edith Birch • Valhalla Station, Callisto

  Seventeen hundred.

  Luther slept soundly.

  He should after all that bourbon, Edith thought. She’d been liberal with it as she’d made his drinks that evening. She needed him docile before she left the bed and logged in.

  The close quiet of night lay over the Community Dome. Luther’s arm draped over her, his body spooning her from behind. She wondered how that intimacy would feel with a different man, a better man. Luther’s embrace felt like captivity, shackling her to the bed. One of his thick hands cupped her left breast, an earlier attempt at foreplay by a drunkard. Edith’s skin was too warm where their bodies touched. Luther’s sweaty bulk had quickly absorbed the alcohol in his bloodstream, carrying it to his brain where it targeted his GABA-A receptors and worked with his own brain chemistry to sedate him into sleep. Volunteering in the infirmary had taught Edith a few things.

  Seventeen twenty-two .

  She’d lain here, in this position for almost half an hour. Once Luther’s clumsy pawing had stopped, Edith had begun counting the seconds. It should be safe to move again soon. Sometimes it was hard to hold back rushing the count. To take her leave a little early.

  Seventeen thirty-eight .

  But hurrying risked waking Luther. So Edith was patient and ignored the sweat forming along the skin of her naked back and buttocks and legs. She ignored the sour breath pulsing at the back of her neck. She counted calmly, precisely, in a way that gave her the confidence of control.

  Seventeen fifty .

  She’d played along with the progressive stages of Luther’s intoxication: from demanding Don Juan to slurring Lothario to fever-dreamed Rip Van Winkle. She’d acquiesced to his grunting, sloppy demand for sex, as always, while the alcohol did its work. And, as always, she’d checked out while he moved on top of her. When his brain had at last sunk beneath an ocher sea of bourbon, she’d turned away, drawing his arm around her and cuddling him close to her to hasten his sleep. When Luther had at last reached the Van Winkle stage, the countdown had begun.

  Eighteen hundred .

  Now was the most dangerous moment, the moment just before freedom. Edith could almost taste its sweetness. This was the time to be the most disciplined, to fight against grabbing that moment too quickly and too hard. The anticipation of being away from Luther could be just as intoxicating as the bourbon she’d plied him with.

  She lifted his arm. Luther shifted, mumbling annoyance. Slowly, carefully, Edith slipped out of bed. She’d practiced the maneuver so many times, she was able to rise and replace her body with a pillow in one smooth motion. Luther blew out his opinion with a wet breath before settling back into amber dreams.

  Edith pulled on a nightshirt, stepped lightly from the bedroom and pulled the door behind her to keep the computer’s light from waking him. Drunk and disturbed could be far worse than sober and focused. But she left the door open a crack. She needed to be able to hear him.

  Sitting down at the small desk, Edith sighed and accessed CorpNet via the computer terminal they shared. She logged in and was surprised when a new verification requirement popped up.

  This must be what they were talking about today , she thought, remembering conversations she’d overheard in the marketplace. Enhanced security .

  In the days since the shuttle crashed into the orbital ring, she’d seen marshals and Regent Rabh’s private security personnel on practically every street corner inside the Community Dome. CorpNet’s talking heads insisted the incident—like the refinery mishap on Mars—had been the work of the Resistance, stirring unease and whispered conversations among Callistans.

  The Resistance—that fifth column of self-proclaimed freedom fighters doing their best to overthrow SynCorp and achieve self-rule for all mankind, or so they c
laimed. Edith had never been quite sure what all the fuss was about. The Company took care of everyone. Without SynCorp, the governments of Earth would have strangled humanity with the red tape of bureaucracy until the planet itself flogged them into extinction with hurricanes and dust storms and wildfires. It was SynCorp that had taken control, and mankind had survived. Edith supposed she could admire the principles the Resistance stood for, but she was perfectly happy to live the life SynCorp offered.

  With one exception. She was determined to get away from Luther. But to make that happen—and to live safely beyond his reach—she needed money. The Company didn’t like change. Oh, she could take her black eyes and bruised forearms to the Marshals Service, and they’d dutifully arrest Luther. But likely as not, they’d garnish his wages for bail and put him back in orbit over Jupiter, mining its gases. Edith knew that, of the two of them, she was less essential, less a part of the Company’s bottom line. And that made her less valuable. SynCorp would enforce the letter of the law but without any real motivation to protect her. And then Luther would be out of jail, out the money she’d cost him from every future paycheck until his bail was paid, and pissed off.

  Maybe the rebels aren’t so crazy after all , Edith mused.

  She answered the security question and logged into her data trader account. Using fake credentials, she routed the link to CorpNet through multiple IP hubs both on-world and off. Anyone trying to track her transactions would have a difficult time finding their source.

  From the bedroom, Luther’s snoring became animated. Edith’s fingers froze over the keys. The only light in the small room came from the terminal. It shouldn’t be visible through the crack in the doorway. She could hear the shuffling of covers and Luther mumbling. Then he calmed again, and the silence of their quarters broadened. He was still sleeping, if restless. Luther was a lummox when it came to online tech, but he had the devil’s own luck finding her out if he suspected something. Even when there was nothing to find, like with his jealousy over Reyansh. She couldn’t be too careful.

  After forcing herself to count to thirty, she began working again. Three messages greeted her onscreen, all from someone she’d only ever known as Crow. She scanned them, determined what she could and couldn’t provide in trade, then logged in to the black-market site linked from Crow’s data requests. The promised amount of SynCorp Dollars for each à la carte data request was significant. She accessed Luther’s work schedule on the terminal, located the necessary information, and filled four of Crow’s five data requests.

  Edith waited as the data transferred, when time always seemed to move slowest. This part of the process never failed to make her nervous. If she were going to get caught, this would be when. A Company worm would tag and backtrack her encrypted transaction. Marshals would pound on the door, demanding entry. And she’d be taken away—away from her life, away from Luther.

  Would that be so bad after all? she wondered.

  No, there was another way. Edith focused on that future. Another one or two transactions and she’d have enough SCDs to leave covertly, no questions asked. She’d planned it all out and run through the list of steps a hundred times, a thousand. She’d wait until Luther was on one of his extended shifts over Jupiter to make her move, near the end of the month when he’d work extra to earn overtime. She’d book passage on a ship returning to the inner planets and pay well enough for privacy, traveling under fake credentials bought from the same black marketeer who’d given her the fake log-in and routing protection algorithm. Since Luther inevitably took his overtime pay and hit the casino with his buddies, she’d be nearly a day out, a day closer to home, before he realized she was gone. With the rest of the SCDs Crow paid her, she’d purchase a new life as matron of a farming community on Earth. Matrons were revered by their workers—the good ones were, anyway—and Edith was determined to be one of the good ones.

  To see green, growing fields again—and blue skies! To feel the rain on her face. To breathe air without the tint of machine oil beneath it.

  Iowa. She’d always dreamed of living on a farm in Iowa. Now, with enough cash, she could.

  Edith sent a silent thank-you prayer Crow’s way. As if in answer, four individual payment receipts appeared onscreen. Edith’s face lit up. She was suddenly aware of an emotion deep inside her, spreading outward along her limbs. It felt alien. When she finally recognized the feeling for what it was, her eyes began to blur. For the first time in a very long time, she had hope . Edith was close to freedom. She allowed herself a moment to know that, to record it in her memory. To imagine feeling the cool Iowa wind on her face.

  The covers shifted again in the bedroom. Edith pushed away her dream and sat quietly until Luther had settled again. He took longer this time. The haze of alcohol was lifting.

  That’s okay. I’ve done what I needed to do .

  Her smile returned. Just a few more payments from Crow. That’s all she needed .

  Emboldened, Edith logged out of the fake account and into her legitimate personal one, just to see if there might be a message from home. Like many young girls, she’d been anxious to leave her family and begin living life with a new husband. After reality had displaced her little-girl fantasy of what that married life would be, she’d experienced a keen sense of homesickness, a kind of longing for the simplicity of being cared for by others. That was years ago, though, and over time the acute desire to return to Mississippi had become a dull ache of nostalgia. Hearing from home took the edge off that.

  Her inbox popped up. Nothing new from home, unfortunately. But there was a message from Krys. That was weird. And it’d been sent at 2 a.m. Why hadn’t Krys just pinged her sceye? Edith opened it.

  HI, EDITH. COULD YOU COME TO THE INFIRMARY TODAY? ALL THE STUFF THAT’S HAPPENED LATELY—WE NEED TO DO ANOTHER INVENTORY. PING ME WHEN YOU GET THIS AND LET ME KNOW, OKAY?

  KRYS

  Edith read it again. Nothing unusual in the content, though the message itself still felt odd. Maybe Krys had been worried about waking her up, so she’d sent a message instead of calling.

  Maybe she’s worried about Luther . About making him angry if she woke us both up .

  That was probably it.

  “Shyeedith.” A rumble from the bedroom. “Where are you?”

  Startled, Edith quickly logged out and pressed the two-fingered shortcut key for the session erase protocol.

  “Shyeedith? ”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she called back. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Get back in ’ere,” Luther said, his words trailing off.

  Edith returned to the bedroom and crawled into bed. The heat of his body pressed against her back. She pulled his heavy arm around her chest.

  “Do’n like it when’re gone,” Luther drawled. “Do’n like it…”

  “I know, dear,” she said. “But I’m here now.”

  For now .

  He grunted and began to snore.

  But Edith was too excited to sleep. Partly because the horizon of freedom was so near. Partly because she always experienced a thrill when holding secrets close from Luther. No matter how small, they felt like a victory worth celebrating inside.

  And there was a third reason sleep wouldn’t find her. Edith couldn’t shake the tumor of foreboding that had settled in the back of her skull. Something was off about Krys’s message. Something bad.

  • • •

  Edith waited as Krys finished with a patient. The infirmary was reassuming its natural state of mediocrity. One of the Beven kids had an earache. Someone in that household was always getting sick, part of the process of acclimating to life on Callisto.

  Sometimes you don’t know how good you’ve got it , Edith thought.

  Krys had nodded to her with what seemed like a forced smile when Edith entered the clinic. Still nervous from last night’s restless wakefulness, Edith had tried to make polite conversation.

  “I’d have been here earlier, but Luther had a hangover,” she explained. Krys h
ad merely nodded with a kind smile and a quick flick of the eyes that let Edith know she needed to care for the Bevens first. Now, fifteen minutes later, an excited kind of anticipation resurrected Edith’s fear from the previous night.

  “The gravity can sometimes play havoc with a growing boy’s inner ear,” Krys told Maya Beven. “The prescription should stabilize him. Once he’s not dizzy anymore, the steroid will help flush him out.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Krys,” Darinn Beven said with the twinkle of a crush in his eyes.

  “Yes, thank you.” His mother’s smile was one of relief.

  “I’m not a doctor,” Krys said to the boy, “but you’re welcome all the same.”

  Maya Beven gathered up her son, nodding to Edith as they left.

  “Must be nice just having a little earache to treat after everything that happened,” Edith said, forcing herself to be patient.

  “You’ve got that right,” Krys sighed. She looked beyond Edith to find an empty waiting room. Something in her eyes said she’d almost rather it be full.

  “What is it, Krys? You’ve got me in knots! Please, whatever it is, just tell me.”

  Krys closed the door to the private examination room. She seemed to be steeling herself to a task she was loath to do.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell? Is Luther having an affair and she saw him with his mistress at a bar? Actually, that wasn’t as threatening a thought as it should have been. Edith was surprised to realize that.

  “You know the blood test we all had to take,” Krys said. “ When we thought there was a virus or something that might’ve caused the pilot to crash into the ring.”

  “Yeah, of course. Oh, Jesus.” Edith’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve got it. Whatever it is, I’ve got it. Luther passed it on to me or—”

  “No,” Krys said, “no. Edith, have a seat.” She motioned to the exam table. Edith sat down, releasing a long breath. “Your SCI will confirm this in a few days. But I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

  “Krys, what is it?”