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

by Bruns, David

  “Thanks,” she said. “I think.”

  We were almost at the top. I thought through what getting that message meant. Tony must still be alive, or at least he’d been alive when he’d sent it. And if he was alive, the rest of the rumors being ground out like hamburger meat from CorpNet’s mill might be bullshit too. I wouldn’t know for sure till I got back to the Hearse.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Edith asked.

  “What?” I said, pushing the black star out of my head till I could do something about it. “No. I told you that already.”

  “Is Adriana Rabh going to kill me?”

  “No .”

  “Okay then,” she said. Edith sighed beside me. “Okay.”

  • • •

  Edith Birch • Rabh Regency Station

  The vator doors parted. Guards dressed in Rabh security uniforms walked in pairs in both directions. Other personnel wearing the Rabh logo on their shoulders moved just as rapidly toward their own crises .

  “Come on,” Fischer said. “I’m on the clock here, Edith.”

  She followed, staying close. The man scared her to death. She’d lived in Luther’s shadow so long, she’d forgotten what feeling scared really felt like, ironically. When you live with terror every day, terror becomes the norm. Walking beside Fischer, Edith watched the busy bees of Regency Station part before him like the Red Sea at Moses’s command. That’s what frightened her, the power Fischer seemed to wield without exerting the least bit of effort. And yet, she’d never felt safer than walking in his wake.

  Two doors appeared ahead, taller and more ornate than she’d seen elsewhere, and emblazoned with two double-bar-R Rabh symbols. Fischer touched the chime, and the doors slipped into the walls. Edith walked into a room far less impressive than the doors leading into it. Sparse, utilitarian. It was a room an accountant could admire for its lack of waste.

  “Eugene,” said the old woman behind the desk.

  Adriana Rabh!

  Edith had only seen her in newsfeeds. Her ivory skin and silver hair made her seem more a living statue than a human being. She was ancient but carried the years with a regality befitting Queen Midas, as some called her. “I trust the contract has been closed?”

  Fischer nodded. “Luther Birch is pushing up daisies.”

  Edith saw a smile tease the sides of Rabh’s mouth. A quick glance at Fischer found a sparkle in his eyes. She decided they were sharing a secret joke she’d just as soon not be in on.

  “And who’s this?”

  Suddenly self-conscious, Edith cast her eyes downward .

  “Edith Birch, our maverick entrepreneur’s better half.”

  “Mrs. Birch,” Rabh acknowledged. To Fischer, and more probingly: “And you’ve brought her here because…”

  “These are dangerous times,” he answered, his tone darkening. “I’m looking out for you.”

  The regent seemed nonplussed. Edith thought Fischer had been talking to her before realizing he’d actually meant his words for Adriana Rabh.

  “Do tell,” Rabh said.

  Fischer shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re the keeper of the gold,” he said, “the regent who makes sure SynCorp’s finances run smoothly. I figured you could use a first-rate bean counter.”

  Edith’s head twisted toward Fischer in amazement. What had he just said?

  But Rabh’s secret smile returned. It seemed less natural this time. “I see.” Turning her piercing eyes again on Edith, she said, “You’re an accountant?”

  Edith said something under her breath.

  “Speak up, dear. The Company is falling apart. I don’t have all day.”

  “I said, yes, ma’am. I have extensive experience with—”

  Adriana waved her hand. To Fischer: “I assume this makes us even?”

  “Zero sum,” Fischer said, winking at Edith. Her cheeks suddenly felt warm. “And now, I have another party to get to.”

  “Edith, dear,” Rabh said, pressing a button on her desk. The elegant doors behind them opened. “I’ll have my personal assistant set you up here on the station. We’ll talk soon about your duties.”

  “Um… ”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m pregnant, Regent,” she said. “Would it be possible—”

  “I’ll have my personal physician—”

  “I was hoping for a friend from the clinic,” Edith interjected. Adriana Rabh’s mouth hung open, ready to finish saying what she’d started. She wasn’t used to being interrupted. Shit , Edith thought. Too late now . More quietly, she continued, “Her name is Krystin Drake. And there’s a Doctor Estevez—”

  “Yes, fine, whatever,” Rabh said. “See yourself out, dear. Mr. Fischer and I need a moment.”

  Edith turned to go, then paused. “How did you know I’m an accountant?”

  “I do my homework,” Fischer said. “Part of the job.”

  “Oh. Right. Well…” She could feel Rabh’s eyes on her back, urging her out the door. Edith swallowed, beginning to believe once again in a future that now included raising a child. The thought both thrilled and terrified her. She flicked her eyes at Fischer. Kind of like he did.

  Then, quite formally, she held out her right hand. “Thank you, Mr. Fischer. For everything.”

  The enforcer reached out and took her hand in his.

  “For the love of God,” he said, “don’t name the child Eugene. Even if it’s a boy. Especially if it’s a boy.”

  • • •

  Stacks Fischer • Rabh Regency Station

  The doors closed behind Birch’s widow. I could still hear her light giggle in my head. It was a bright spot of sunlight in a dark place. Adriana’s worried expression kicked it out.

  “Everything’s going to shit,” she said.

  “So far, Callisto has fared better,” I answered. “For example, you’re not dead.”

  “Yet.”

  “Yet,” I allowed. “Whoever’s behind these Soldiers of the Solar Revolution, they’re running a game.”

  Adriana sat down again. She seemed tired. Her empire was falling apart. I guess that would weigh on a person, all right. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re using SynCorp’s own best weapon against it. Propaganda. They’re directing the narrative, Telemachus might say. And I think it’s starting to backfire.”

  “Don’t leave me in suspense, Eugene, you seem to have this all figured out.”

  “Not all, but some. Maybe.” I considered sitting down. My feet were tired. But then my butt would get comfortable, and I needed to move. I had a black star message to open. “Look at the Basement. You’d think the citizen-workers would welcome their liberators, wouldn’t you? If you believe the headlines, anyway. And some are. But the Company has taken care of these people for a long time. No one likes not knowing where their kid’s next meal is coming from. So far, the Soldiers are all talk and little walk. They’re getting cocky. SynCorp’s citizens? Just scared.”

  Adriana considered that. Turned it over in that steel-trap mind of hers.

  “Can you hold here?” I asked. “Can Callisto hold?”

  “As long as anywhere,” she said. Then, amused: “I’ve got a colony full of Vikings, don’t I? ”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, not judging. Very much. “We’ve taken some short-term losses, Adriana. I’m confident in our long-game chances.”

  Adriana regarded me. We’d known each other a long time. Could smell each other’s bullshit from a long way off, even upwind. She was still sniffing. “And Tony?”

  I shrugged. “He’s dead or he’s not.” I didn’t tell her about the tightbeam waiting for me in the Hearse. I was pretty sure Adriana was playing for the home team. But these days had been full of unwanted surprises. I’d keep my hole card to myself. “I’m betting on not.”

  “Your confidence gives me confidence, Eugene,” she said. I think she even meant it. “I’ll try and contact Gregor on Titan. I’m closest. See if we can’t work together, form a dyke against the floodwaters.”
>
  I nodded. Made sense.

  “It’s Kisaan, isn’t it,” Adriana said with more surety than wonder. “She’s finally made her move.”

  I waggled my head. “Her clones are certainly doing the dirty work. The Soldiers of the Solar Revolution? Just a new-and-improved New Earth Order, far as I can see.”

  That old cult of Cassandra, the zealots that’d tried to pound mankind back into the Stone Age with the weather a few decades back, one killer storm monster at a time. The Company had saved what was left of humanity by bringing the Neo leader, Elise Kisaan, to heel by giving her the biggest jewel in the system to rule. Now she was biting off the heads of the other four factions. Winner take all.

  Took her long enough, if you ask me .

  “I never trusted that bitch,” Adriana said. “Ming Qinlao should’ve killed her when she had the chance.”

  I shrugged. Strategery is above my pay grade. I’m a doer.

  “I’ll keep in touch, Adriana,” I said. Then, genuinely, with zero bullshit: “Stay safe.”

  “You too, Eugene.” A self-assured smile lit up her face. “You too.”

  Chapter 29

  Kwazi Jabari • Aboard the Pax Corporatum

  Two more days.

  Two more days of being rolled out like an organ grinder’s monkey, made to dance and sing the praises of the Syndicate Corporation. To reassure the Callistans all was well. Don’t believe what you’re seeing on CorpNet. All the way out here, you’re safe and sound.

  The coup happening in the inner system didn’t matter a whit to Kwazi. His sole concern was that the unlimited credit line Tony Taulke had handed him with his medal might be disrupted somehow. Without it, he’d lose access to Dreamscape. No way to pay.

  At least Helena Telemachus had finally allowed Milani to turn his SCI back on. Temporarily, each time following a public performance. It was off now, but the occasional hits of Amy’s beautiful face had helped calm him down. He’d actually begun looking forward to being summoned to another performance. He knew there was a reward to follow each time. There was another in a couple of hours .

  Kwazi sat down at the terminal and pulled up s-mail. Time to prepare for the next performance. He scanned the subject lines.

  KWAZI, WE LOVE YOU!

  MARTIAN, COME HOME: WE NEED A HERO MORE THAN EVER!

  THE TRUTH IS A NIGHTMARE, NOT A DREAM.

  He hard-stopped at the third subject line. That was new.

  Kwazi opened the message.

  A video file began to play. It was jumbled, the camera schizophrenic. It was loud. Kwazi reduced the terminal’s volume. Data readouts appeared. Biometric readings. Heart rate. Pulse ox. The name above the data read Amanda Topulos . Two other data sets appeared, one labeled Aika Furukawa , the other Beren Trent .

  The blood pounded in Kwazi’s ears. The front-channel of his brain tried to understand what his eyes were seeing. Qinlao emergency medical personnel ferried Amy and his friends from the hell Facility 12 had become. Amy was still in the vac-suit he’d put her in.

  They were alive. They’d left the complex alive…

  Stretchers ran past the jerky cameras. One bore him next, and his own biometrics appeared onscreen.

  The image jumped to a much more sedate scene: the bare white walls of Wallace Med in Mars orbit. Aika and Amy were in beds, side by side, in a room. Their machines beeped and pinged with life.

  They’re alive!

  But how could that be? He’d seen Amy in the hospital morgue.

  “I’m afraid Ms. Topulos died,” Telemachus had told him while they were still fishing bodies out of the tunnels. “Your whole crew—with so many others. I’m so sorry, Mr. Jabari.”

  The screen flickered. A new timestamp branded the vid a couple days after the explosions. The beds were empty now. Words typed themselves across the screen.

  BEREN TRENT: TERMINATED.

  What happened?

  AIKA FURUKAWA: TERMINATED.

  No. Nonononononono, please don’t—

  AMANDA TOPULOS: TERMINATED.

  A fresh wave of loss swept through him. Kwazi’s lungs refused to work. For a fleeting moment, for a short time, the twisted hope that it had all been a cruel joke, that Amy and his friends were alive had bloomed inside his belly. Who could be so cruel as to show him this? To make him think—

  KWAZI JABARI.

  The words appeared, letter by letter, across the screen.

  THE SYNDICATE CORPORATION MURDERED YOUR FRIENDS.

  THE TRUTH IS A NIGHTMARE, NOT A DREAM.

  The screen went dark.

  No , Kwazi thought, standing up from the desk. It can’t be true .

  “You’re nothing but an image,” Telemachus said in his memory, “a fiction we created with a tragic backstory.”

  The truth slammed into Kwazi’s gut. Helena Telemachus had murdered his family, his future … just to create an origin story?

  The fiction of the hero of Mars.

  • • •

  “I can’t believe it, Kwazi. I just can’t believe it.”

  Milani Stuart sat, mouth open, staring at the screen. “It just can’t be true.”

  “Of course it’s true.” Kwazi spat out the words. Watching the footage over and over the past hour had replaced the lonely depression he’d known since leaving Mars with a new sense of self that lived on hate. “Helena Telemachus murdered Amy. And Brent and Aika. And who knows how many others.”

  But Milani was shaking her head. “There’s so much on CorpNet now, so much propaganda. These SSR claiming to have killed faction leaders… How can you believe this?”

  “I believe what I see. Amy’s biometrics coming out of the tunnels. The readouts in the hospital.” Kwazi’s breath hitched in his throat. His hands began to shake. “Her body on that slab.”

  “I just can’t—”

  “You have to help me!” Kwazi reached out and grabbed Milani’s shoulders, turning her roughly to face him. “I have to get off this ship!”

  The look on her face, the wide-eyed fear, made him stop.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her. “It’s just that—I need your help, Milani. You promised to help me.”

  “I know, but … what do you mean? Where would you go?”

  Kwazi’s face was grim but also held a new kind of determination. “Abrams gave me a contact on Callisto, a guy named Braxton, to re-up Dreamscape for me—a permanent subscription. He can hide us.”

  Milani regarded him a moment. She was trying to keep her expression neutral. He could tell.

  “Oh, Kwazi. Even if what’s on those vids is true— ”

  “It is true! Think about it, Milani. Think about what the Company’s done. The stories we see in the Basement, all the time. Assassinations between the factions. Tony Taulke himself might have ordered the bombing of Facility Twelve!”

  Milani’s expression made it clear the thought had never crossed her mind. “Now you’re just being paranoid,” she said.

  “Am I?” Kwazi gestured at the screen. He rolled back the feed until Amy’s biometrics were displayed beside the footage of her rescuers hauling her from the ruined tunnels. “Forget the words on the screen. Look at the medical readouts. You’re a doctor. Are those fake?”

  “I mean,” Milani said, “they could be…”

  “You’re all I’ve got, Milani,” he insisted. “Please, just get me to the surface. I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  “I don’t want that,” she said, deflating. “I don’t want that at all.”

  “Then come with me! We’ll look out for each other. I’ll pay Braxton well enough—he can hide us.”

  Milani breathed in, then out again. She shook her head.

  “But, Kwazi, the way we found you before … a few more days and you’d have died, lost in Dreamscape. How can you ask me to help you do that?”

  Kwazi grew calm. He reached out and stroked her face. He hated himself for doing it. But he had to get off the ship. He had to reconnect with Amy.r />
  “You’ll be with me, Milani. You won’t let that happen. But if you don’t come with me, I’ll find another way. I’ll get off this ship and find Braxton and—”

  “Okay, okay!” she said. “But my parents are on Mars. There might be retaliation. ”

  The room grew silent as both of them considered the cost for walking out on the Syndicate Corporation.

  “I think they have bigger things to worry about,” Kwazi said. “The Company’s being pulled apart. And good riddance to the murdering bastards.”

  “All right, then,” Milani said, meeting his gaze. “All right.”

  • • •

  Getting off the Pax Corporatum had been easier than they’d feared. They were heading to the venue ahead of Kwazi’s next speech. This one was going systemwide, Milani explained to the guards. Everything had to be perfect. Would they like to interrupt Ms. Telemachus, who was meeting with Regent Rabh, to confirm?

  The guards had demurred.

  There was activity in the Community Dome, anemic foot traffic. The asteroid shield had been withdrawn, revealing the newly sealed plastisteel dome overhead. Through it shined the natural amber yellow of sunlight reflected from Jupiter’s surface. It felt like ethereal twilight to Kwazi, so used as he was to the rust-tinged haze of the Martian surface.

  “When can you reconnect me?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

  “In here,” she said, guiding them toward a doorway with a red cross over it. The sign read Station Infirmary . “But you have to promise me, Kwazi—when I pull you out of Dreamscape, you come out—no arguments.”

  “Sure, of course,” he lied. “Whatever you say whenever you say it.”

  A single tech behind a small reception desk looked up as they entered the clinic. “How can I help you?” she asked. When her eyes found Kwazi, she released her breath.

  “I’m Dr. Milani Stuart, and this is my friend Kwazi Jabari.”

  “Yes,” said the woman, a kind of lusty reverence drawing out the S . “I know Mr. Jabari.” She stuck out her hand. “My name is Krystin Drake. Sir, can I just say how much I appreciate all you’ve done and … all you’ve suffered. You’re a true inspiration to us here on Valhalla Station. I mean, truly, when you speak—”