Velocity Weapon

by Megan E O'Keefe

  The first doorway was hers. It’d been yanked open, but her things were still in place, each item left in the kind of pristine condition reserved for historical rooms maintained by museums. The next, Lolla’s. Ripped to pieces. Every last scrap of cloth torn in some way, even her walls had been attacked—the plaster left clouds of white like a flour dusting across the surface of her things. Blood, too. Though not as much as had been in the living room. A spray—not arterial, Jules’s mind told her as if the logical part of herself had separated out and was trying, desperately trying, to soothe the frantic side. A punch to the jaw, maybe. Could be nasal. Not deadly. Not enough for that.

  Though she could not say what had happened after Lolla had left this room.

  Jules moved on. Made her leaden legs claw forward through the chaos of the hallway. Nox’s room—tossed but not bloodied, his weapons broken into tiny metal pieces. The barrels of guns made of composites that should never flex bent back upon themselves, pointing toward the trigger-puller in sick jest. But no blood. Nox and Lolla were okay, she told herself. Injured, maybe. But not here. Not dead. There just weren’t enough places left in this hallway to hide two bodies.

  But there was enough room left to hide one.

  Jules’s heartbeat pounded in her ears so hard it was all she could hear, all she could feel. The pounding, itching force of her own blood moving through her veins. How greedy she was, to keep that blood inside her when the others had spilled so much.

  She must face it. She’d known she must face it from the moment she saw that torn wristpad tangled beneath the door. Little details, little clues that gathered in her subconscious when she had stepped inside congealed like a scab over her mind. The thought demanded her attention. Demanded she rip it off.

  Harlan would not go down without a fight. Harlan would not lose his wristpad. Harlan would see the others to safety before himself.

  If she had been here… He would have shoved her out with the rest.

  His door was closed. That was all the confirmation she needed, and the reality of it punched her in the chest, took her breath away. Everything else about this raid had been so carefully managed, arranged after the fact with the precision of an artist. Whoever had closed that door had wanted her to open it.

  And so she did.

  Harlan sprawled on his back across the low bed, both hands crossed over his torso where he had tried, in vain, to shove a pillowcase into the gaping rose of a wound in his bare chest. He’d gone to bed—they all must have. His blue pajama pants were stained brown from the waist down to the knees, the steady waterfall of blood effecting a twisted tie-dye. His wrist, the one laid over the crumpled wad of pillowcase, jagged like a lightning bolt, the already dark skin mottled in storm-cloud bruises of grey and purple and brown. Broken when the pad was ripped free.

  Jules began to shake.

  His chest fluttered. Once. Twice. A slow, rasping rise.

  “Harlan?”

  She was on her knees beside him, bundling up the soggy pillowcase in her own hands to shove it down, hard, into his chest cavity. His body spasmed, pale grey eyes wrenched open. The whites she had once seen as so old and yellowed had blown to red. His unbroken arm thrashed in the remains of his things, searching for a weapon.

  “It’s me. It’s Jules.” Her bloodied fingers smeared across her wristpad as she tried to dial up a medivan.

  “Stay with me.” That was what you said, right? That was what you were supposed to say. And, also: “Help is coming.”

  “Too late,” he rasped. His chest whistled the shrill whine of death. “Lolla. Find her.”

  “Where is she? Is she okay?” But his eyes had gone flat.

  Jules had experienced a lot of death in her life. Had handed it out herself when the need arose. But she’d never really seen it, she realized. Never felt the cold viciousness of there being nothing where there had once been something. No, not cold. Cold implied intentional indifference. This was just… Just nothing. Harlan was, and now he wasn’t. All the fine threads of his life’s potential snipped short from one breath to the next.

  One breath. What could one do if it was all they had left? Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Everything was nothing after all, in the end.

  Had she ever stopped shaking? No. Of course not. But she’d stopped feeling it. And now it took her. Rocked her from blood-stained knees to jittering jaw. Vibrated her from the inside out, made every muscle and sinew simultaneously weak and spasmodic, contracting and jellying and wracking her to the core. Vibration was life, some distant part of her thought. The shimmy and shake of electrons at all the right wavelengths to produce sentience and consciousness and here she was, coming apart at the seams. Shaking enough for the both of them.

  The front door slammed open. The crack of sound slapped her in the face, rocked her back into a crouching position, her stunner in her hand though her grip was weak and slippery due to the blood—Harlan’s blood—lubricating her grip. A flash in her mind—they’d come back. They’d come back for her and they were going to do her like Harlan, but fuck that, they’d find her a harder fight.

  Jules was on her feet, sliding in the blood but finding her footing again as she made it to the hall where the torn blankets and the twisted clothes wiped the blood off her boots and she found her footing again. She braced herself, cranked the stunner as high as it would go, and fished through the junk until she found a beat-up old pry bar to use as a bludgeon.

  Someone—some guy—shouted. She didn’t recognize the words, only the alarm in the voice, the shrill panic, and she bolted toward the end of the hall, kicked the door wide to come out screaming and swinging, but it was Nox. Just Nox. Standing in the middle of the living room, staring at her with eyes wider than any she’d ever seen. Like holding a mirror to herself, a mirror to her pain and her rage and in that moment, he knew. Knew what she’d seen. And, to her never-ending wonderment, he began to shake, just as she had.

  Their eyes met, and something passed between them. Nothing like support, nothing like familial love and camaraderie. No. An understanding. An agreement.

  A contract, of a sort.

  This family was broken. But they’d hold together, just long enough. Long enough for vengeance.

  INTERLUDE: CALLIE

  PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3542

  A YEAR TO THE DAY AFTER DRALEE

  Biran Aventure Greeve was coming to see her. Well, not her, exactly. He was coming to sit behind her camera, nod solemnly at her questions, and turn those captivating hazel eyes upon all of Ada Prime as he explained, for the thousandth time, the importance of the Battle of Dralee. The importance of holding out hope—of clinging to our home while the higher-ups of Prime itched to order their evacuation.

  The cold war hadn’t just been between Icarion and Ada.

  Callie had reported little on the political tug-of-war happening up at the Cannery. She didn’t need to. There weren’t any facts that she could share—nothing that wouldn’t get her arrested—and the public did a good enough job of keeping themselves informed by keeping that rumor mill churning. Everything that went on at the Cannery was speculation, until a Keeper gave the official nod, and Callie’s business wasn’t speculation. It was facts. Fact: It had been one year since Dralee, and they were still here. There had been no exodus. Not yet.

  Her heel bounced under the desk. Biran was coming to see her. And he was coming with more facts.

  It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked in the year since Dralee. He was on her show every morning since the bombardment, for stars’ sake. But he hadn’t been here in person since the announcement about the convoy, preferring to CamCast his face down to her—and out to the people—with his sleeves rolled up as he worked behind some desk or another. She would have called it petty posturing, stagecraft to make the people feel better by showing them their leaders hard at work. But it wasn’t. The other Keepers would do that, but not Biran.

  She didn’t know why she knew that. But she did.

 
; She’d expected Biran to walk through the door. She hadn’t expected General Jessa Anford at his side. Callie sucked air through her teeth and pressed one hand onto her knee to stop her foot from bouncing even faster.

  Makeup didn’t even blink. They swarmed Biran, though they pressed a little less powder under his eyes than they might have previously, letting the dark circles shine through. General Anford accepted the powder but declined the lip gloss, her naturally full lips pulling thin as she gently, but firmly, turned the makeup guy away from her. Callie’s heart ached a little for him. He’d only been trying to do his job.

  Callie stood as Biran and the general approached, her smile picture perfect as she pretended to herself that the cameras were already recording, and extended her hand to whichever of them would take it. Jessa was first, her strong fingers making Callie’s bones creak as they shook. Callie was pretty sure she hadn’t done that on purpose. Pretty sure.

  “General Anford, this is a surprise,” Callie said, flicking Biran a gaze that was also an accusation—Why didn’t you warn me? Last year that would have made him blush. Now, he just shrugged apologetically.

  “My fault,” Biran said smoothly, placing a hand between Jessa’s shoulder blades to guide her to a seat behind the desk. Callie scooted back, making room as a stagehand brought in another chair. “I should have given you a heads-up, but things came together quickly this morning. I hope you don’t mind, Ms. Mera.”

  “Call me Callie, please. And of course I don’t mind. It really is an honor to meet you, General Anford.”

  She inclined her head. “Likewise, Ms. Mera.”

  “Five minutes,” a stagehand called out.

  Callie’s cheeks flushed as she sat down. She crossed one leg, then the other, struggling to put a cap on her nervous energy. If she had notes to review, she’d be diving into them now, but she hadn’t had a clue the general was coming, and that, really, was the problem.

  She took a long breath, relying on her snapped-on smile to hide the big ball of uncertainty roiling in her belly. The cameras rolled.

  “Gooood morning, Alexandria-Ada! I’m your old friend, Callie Mera, here this morning with two special guests joining us in person, the S-S-Speaker.” Breathe, Callie. Breathe. “Speaker for the Keepers, Biran Aventure Greeve, and General Jess-sa Halian Anford.”

  Shit. The corners of her smile strained. Biran swooped in, voice smooth as anything.

  “Thank you for having us this morning, Callie. It’s a pleasure to see you again, even on such a solemn day.”

  “And thank you for welcoming me on such short notice,” the general said.

  “You’re welcome here anytime, General Anford.” Callie gripped her knee under the desk. These people had facts. Facts she desperately wanted to pull out of them, and might not have another chance. She decided on a careful nudge. “I would have thought you’d be busy today.”

  Jessa’s right brow arched. “I am busy every day, Ms. Mera. The anniversary of the Battle of Dralee does not change the state of the war with Icarion.”

  “So you have no concerns regarding a follow-up attack?”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “My intelligence gives me no reason for concern. The war remains, as it has since the bombardment, cold.” She snorted. “Icarion lacks the nerve, or the weapon. Either way, Ada is as safe as it’s ever been.”

  Callie tried, and failed, to keep her eyes from widening. She could practically hear the forums and chatrooms lighting up with that bit of information. General Jessa Anford believed Icarion was incapable, or unwilling, to use the rumored RKV that had initiated the bombardment. The official statements had said as much, but her dismissive attitude was more confirmation than those stale press releases could ever be.

  “We are here,” Biran interjected, the crease between his brows telling Callie that he was imagining the same chatroom blowup, “to honor our fallen and our taken. In fact, a recent review of the Battle of Dralee has revealed our heroes fought harder for us than we ever imagined.”

  “Yes,” Anford said, turning as if she were about to point to a display, then stopped herself as she realized the video would be queued up by the production staff. “Speaker Greeve recently reviewed reconstructed footage of the battle and discovered extraordinary bravery on the part of his sister.”

  Biran flushed with pride.

  Anford continued, “If your crew would be so kind as to display the footage I am beaming to them now.” She tapped out a few quick commands on her wristpad.

  The little voice in Callie’s earpiece said, “Got it.”

  “We’re ready, General,” she said. Anford nodded.

  Callie did not relax her smile, not for a second, even as she knew the screen would flick over to the simulation that played out on the screen inset in her desk, keeping her up on the visuals. Vector images of ships swam into view on a field of black, the moon Dralee a distant curve in the background as the patrol squad approached that liminal space on the cusp of the moon’s gravity well.

  Scout ships—smaller triangles—took the point position on the three-dimensional, pyramid formation, the heavier gunships holding up the middle and rear. Sergeant Greeve’s ship had been flagged with a yellow dart, tracking her path in the center of the formation.

  “We’ve been over the footage of the battle multiple times, of course, but this new reconstruction reveals what we missed—the moments before the first impacts occurred. As you can see, the first shots took out three of the five scout ships.”

  Those blips disappeared, leaving the two scout ships forming the point of the pyramid exposed, cut off from the bulk of the gunship flotilla.

  “The two remaining scouts were as good as dead. And would have been, if Greeve had not acted.”

  The sergeant’s ship, flying that yellow marker, shot forward, swooping in to shield the two scout ships with its larger body. Sanda’s gunship rocked as it took a direct hit to the flank, the scout ships scattering, retreating to the safety of the pyramid’s base.

  It hadn’t been safe, though. More Icarion ships had popped into space around them, revealing the use of cloaking technology that Ada had no experience with, and wiped them all from the sky. But Sanda had tried. She’d put her ship between those guns and her exposed soldiers. She’d risked, and probably lost, her life for them. Bought them a little time. A fighting chance.

  Tears stood in Biran’s eyes when the cameras cut back to them from the simulation, but they did not fall.

  “Wow,” Callie managed, the word sticking in her throat. “Wow.”

  “Yes,” Anford agreed. She pulled a small box from her breast pocket, the kind of black, leatherlike case that would carry an engagement ring, and set it on the desk. Callie didn’t need to tell her camera people what to do. They split the screen, showing Biran’s face on the right and that box on the left.

  “With Speaker Greeve’s permission, I have promoted her in absentia.” Not posthumously. She flipped the lid of the box open, revealing the long purple bar that would be pinned to her uniform to represent her new rank, should she ever return. “Today, this first year anniversary of the Battle of Dralee, I raise Sergeant Sanda Maram Greeve to the rank of major.”

  The question pushed against her lips. Callie bit it back, pressing her tongue into the roof of her mouth, until the need to ask was almost a physical pressure. It would hurt. Stars and void, it would hurt. But she had to ask. Her viewers would want to know.

  “Considering that footage, Speaker Greeve, do you still believe your sister survived the attack?”

  He’d been expecting the question. Hadn’t wanted it—no one would ever want to be asked if they believed someone they loved had survived a bloody assault—but he wasn’t stupid. He pulled himself up straight, reaching across the desk to brush his fingers against the dark purple bar. The cameras would love that.

  “I have to, Callie. I have to.”

  CHAPTER 30

  PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3771

  DAY THIRTY-ONE OF SCRAPING BY


  Do you have anything that doesn’t suck?” Sanda asked. She had her head and torso shoved to the waist inside one of Bero’s access ducts, fiddling with the wiring that controlled the emergency LEDs. Between the age of the wires, and her misuse of the system to imprison Tomas, the cursed things had begun shorting out. It was not a pleasant thing to wake up to red-and-yellow LEDs blowing up your bedroom like you were visiting fire night at the club.

  “My previous crew uploaded a great variety of music to suit many tastes.” Stiff strains of Beethoven forced themselves out of his speakers.

  “Classical? Really. Were your crew walking stereotypes? C’mon, Big B. There’s gotta be something better in your library. Somebody on this ship had taste, I know it. Something with a guitar.”

  “There are many known types of guitar, not including digital renditions. I have access to over three hundred files containing at least one chord produced by a string instrument or its digital equivalent.”

  “Three hundred? That’s nothing. I kept over ten thousand in my wristpad when I was a kid.”

  “My systems were not prepared for the musical appetite of adolescents.”

  She stopped in the middle of attaching a nut to a wire she’d just disconnected. “Are you calling me an adolescent?”

  “You are of an adult age.”

  She puffed out a breath, nudging hair out of her eyes. “I really can’t tell when you’re being a jerk or not, you know that?”

  “I do.”

  She snort-giggled, and Bero flickered his lights in his approximation of a laugh. “Well played, buddy.”

  A heavy slap echoed in the small access duct. She jumped and whacked her forehead on the bare circuit board above her. “Ugh. This better be an emergency, Tomas. If not, I’d suggest you run along and pretend whoever was knocking on this duct just now was a ghost of crews past, otherwise I might just make you join them.”