by Amie Kaufman
Still, he asks her one last time: “Where is it, Park?”
She smiles at him. A cracked and bloodied smile. A triumphant, glorious ****-you of a smile. She raises her voice loud enough to be heard. “You’ll find out. Real soon. We remember.”
He draws his gun, flicks off the safety, businesslike, and aims between her eyes.
She closes them, spreading her arms like she’s trying to encompass all the universe in her grasp, and still smiling, she mouths her dead husband’s name.
Hans.
He pulls the trigger, and she crumples before the echoes die.
Christie turns away, holsters his weapon and lifts his helmet back into place, speaking to the soldiers beside him. “We’ll have to do this the hard way.”
They straighten to attention, awaiting orders.
“Start a house-to-house search. Flip it all, turn everything inside out. I want you so far inside the business of these locals that you’d be considered married on some planets. You understand? Someone out there knows where this Thermex is, and one way or another, we’re going to find them.”
“Sir, yessir,” come the replies.
“Move it out, pounders.”
RADIO TRANSMISSION: BEITECH PLANETSIDE COMMS—ATLAS CHANNEL E:001
PARTICIPANTS:
Yukiko Oshiro, Sergeant, BeiTech Ground Forces Rhys Lindstrom, Specialist, BeiTech Ground Forces Duke Woźniak, Corporal, BeiTech Ground Forces Corey Markham, Private, BeiTech Ground Forces Prisha Karpadia, Private, BeiTech Ground Forces
DATE: 09/04/75
TIMESTAMP: 20:20
OSHIRO, Y: All right, pounders, the LT wants every apartment in this block tossed. Cordon off and search by twos. Duke, Karpadia, you start on Level Two. Markham, Lindstrom, you’re with me.
MARKHAM, C: Christ, aren’t we pulling out tomorrow morning? Who gives a ****? It’s storming like a mother****er out here.
OSHIRO, Y: You really want to run the risk of **** blowing up this close to the goal line? Because the brass don’t. They’ve got every swinging **** out in the field, Markham, and your *** isn’t special. So roust these ****ers out of bed and toss every inch. Ducts. Ceiling space. Basements. Anyone gets a whiff of that missing Thermex, you squeal in girlish delight over comms immediately. Copy?
WOŹNIAK, D: Roger that, Sarge.
MARKHAM, C: Can I request my squeals be manly, Sarge?
OSHIRO, Y: No. I said girlish. Now get it done, Markham.
MARKHAM, C: Copy that.
MARKHAM, C: [clears throat]
MARKHAM, C: [high-pitched] I mean, copy that.
WOŹNIAK, D: Son of a *****.
OSHIRO, Y: Duke, report status?
WOŹNIAK, D: [inaudible]
OSHIRO, Y: Say again?
WOŹNIAK, D: The Duke’s infrared is fritzing. Piece of…
OSHIRO, Y: Lindstrom?
LINDSTROM, R: Duke, get your helmet off. Gimme a look.
WOŹNIAK, D: Be gentle, Hustler.
LINDSTROM, R: Running a diagnostic now, Sarge. Ten seconds.
LINDSTROM, R: You know this suit would be in better shape if you didn’t sleep in the ****ing thing…
MARKHAM, C: You just let the Duke be the Duke, Cherry.
WOŹNIAK, D: Thank you, Markham.
MARKHAM, C: No problem.
MARKHAM, C: [high-pitched] I mean, no problem.
LINDSTROM, R: Um…yeah, this IR system is shot. Main board is fried. Is this…is this toothpaste? Duke…do you brush your teeth in your ATLAS?
WOŹNIAK, D: The first casualty of war is oral hygiene, Hustler.
OSHIRO, Y: Can you fix it, Cherry?
LINDSTROM, R: Not here. I’d need to get a replacement unit. Back at barracks.
OSHIRO, Y: Go get one. These ****ers have enough Thermex to blow us into orbit. I don’t want anyone running blind in here. Duke, you go with Cherry and do not let him out of your sight. Markham, Karpadia, take Level Two. I’ll run Level One solo. Constant comms, am I clear?
MARKHAM, C: [high-pitched] Copy that, boss.
WOŹNIAK, D: Nobody get blown up while the Duke is gone, you hear?
OSHIRO, Y: Move your ***, Cherry. I want you two back here for the next block.
LINDSTROM, R: Roger that. Back in twenty.
RADIO TRANSMISSION: BEITECH PLANETSIDE COMMS—ATLAS CHANNEL L:0091
PARTICIPANTS:
Rhys Lindstrom, Specialist, BeiTech Ground Forces
Duke Woźniak, Corporal, BeiTech Ground Forces
DATE: 09/04/75
TIMESTAMP: 20:24
LINDSTROM, R: Honestly, how the **** do you get toothpaste in your IR unit? You can’t brush your teeth with your helmet on.
WOŹNIAK, D: The Duke is a mystery, wrapped in an enigma.
LINDSTROM, R: Do you shower in that ATLAS too?
WOŹNIAK, D: Only on Wednesdays.
WOŹNIAK, D: And you’re one to talk, considering you were still wearing your suit while hitting that sugar in the secondary comms array.
LINDSTROM, R: You heard about that?
WOŹNIAK, D: The Duke has a thousand eyes, Hustler. You’ll learn this in time. And if you need lessons on putting the “man” in “romance,” he will happily oblige.
WOŹNIAK, D: Though honestly, I expected more from a man who spends as much time on his hair as you.
LINDSTROM, R: Um.
WOŹNIAK, D: Seriously, how do you make it do that? The **** defies gravity.
LINDSTROM, R: No, I mean, Um, I just got a service alert. Enviro systems at the hospital are down again. I gotta go check it out.
WOŹNIAK, D: Oh no you don’t. We’re headed to barracks.
LINDSTROM, R: It’s the hospital, Duke. There’s kids and old people in there, not to mention some of our people. They could freeze to death if those enviros stay down overnight. Especially in a storm this bad.
WOŹNIAK, D: Isn’t this around the seven hundredth time you’ve been called out to the hospital in the last few weeks? Aren’t you supposed to be fixing the thing?
LINDSTROM, R: The hardware is up to ****. There’s only so much I can do.
WOŹNIAK, D: And the Duke is sure the frequency of your visits has nothing to do with the fem you were romancing in the comms array the other night. Who just happens to be a pretty little nurse.
LINDSTROM, R: You know abou—
WOŹNIAK, D: One. Thousand. Eyes.
LINDSTROM, R: I gotta go talk to her, chum. She’s ****ed at me.
WOŹNIAK, D: Well, if you’re making sweet love to her still wearing your ATLAS, the Duke is not at all surprised.
WOŹNIAK, D: And the Duke doesn’t want to be the one to break this to you, but come tomorrow night, it’s not really going to matter…
LINDSTROM, R: That’s why it’s important I set this straight, okay? It’ll only take a few minutes. You head to barracks and get the replacement IR unit, I’ll hit the hospital, and we’ll meet back at G Block and I can install it. Oshiro won’t ever know.
WOŹNIAK, D: No way.
LINDSTROM, R: Chum, come onnnn.
WOŹNIAK, D: Oh well, since you put it like that, the Duke is one hundred percent convinced…
LINDSTROM, R: Don’t you have any romance in your soul? What happened to the chum who stood in his fem’s closet for four hours with his tongue in his hands?
WOŹNIAK, D: He died. Somewhere in that forest of overcoats and shoes.
LINDSTROM, R: I’ll teach you to play cards.
WOŹNIAK, D: The Duke rejects your premise. He knows how to play cards.
LINDSTROM, R: I’ll teach you how to win at cards.
WOŹNIAK, D: …The Duke has just been on a bad streak lately.
LINDSTROM, R: You suck at cards, Duke
. You’re pants-on-head awful.
WOŹNIAK, D: How dare you, sir. Up with this, the Duke shall not put.
LINDSTROM, R: Ten minutes. Tops.
WOŹNIAK, D: …
LINDSTROM, R: Think of all the ISĦ – you could win.
LINDSTROM, R: Think of all the ISĦ – you could win off Markham and Karpadia.
WOŹNIAK, D: Hmm.
WOŹNIAK, D: All right, then.
WOŹNIAK, D: Ten minutes, Hustler. You meet Duke outside G Block in ten minutes or he’ll kill you and your whole family.
LINDSTROM, R: You’re a prince!
WOŹNIAK, D: As a Duke, he is content.
WOŹNIAK, D: Move your ***. Clock is ticking.
Footage taken from the security cam feed in the hospital shows Lindstrom walking back out into the reception area from Asha Grant’s supply closet, expression hidden by his helmet. He’s fallen into the habit of his fellow pounders, decorating his ATLAS with personalized insignia. The word HUSTLER is stenciled on his chest, along with the four suits from a deck of cards—spades, diamonds, clubs, and right over the spot his real one would be, a heart.
Grant enters behind him, looking tired but wired, her green eyes alight. I imagine the flies on the walls in that supply closet are all aflutter.
Lindstrom turns to Grant, raising a finger as if he’s about to speak. But the crack of a slamming door cuts across the feed, the storm rising in volume, and four towering figures in ATLAS rigs march into the foyer from the midnight dark outside. The lead figure scans the area, eight red optics glowing. He has a master sergeant’s chevrons and rockers on his arm. The words I AM NOT COME TO BRING PEACE, BUT A SWORD. MATT 10:34 are written across his breastplate.
“Grid search, two-by-twos,” he orders, voice tinged with an electronic rasp. “Ali, Zhōu, take the ground floor. Lewis, you’re with me.”
Yeah. These ***holes again…
Ali and Zhōu hoist their rifles and are set to march off when Master Sergeant Marcino notices Lindstrom hovering by the reception desk.
“Well now,” he says. “What brings you up here, Specialist?”
The MSG looks meaningfully at Asha Grant. Seems for all Oshiro’s warnings, the Duke isn’t the only one who’s heard rumors about Lindstrom’s extracurricular activities.
“Enviro rig is down again, sir,” Lindstrom reports. “Trying to get it back up.”
Marcino glances at Grant once more, and you can hear the sneer in his voice.
“I’ll bet you were, Cherry.”
Lewis and Ali chuckle, but Lindstrom doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Should be on door-to-doors with Sergeant Oshiro’s squad?” Marcino asks.
“Yessir, I’m headed right back there after this.”
Marcino stares a moment longer, then turns to his team. “Hit the bricks, pounders. They ain’t paying us by the hour. I want every inch of this hospital tossed. Every closet. Every basement. Every air duct. Move out.”
Grant’s face grows a little pale. “If you let us know what you’re looking for…?”
“The rest of that stolen Thermex, civilian,” Marcino says. “Unless you—”
The MSG breaks off, glances to the ceiling above his head. It’s hard to catch over the security cam rigs, but there’s a soft scuffling. Quick. Then quiet.
“…Did anyone hear that?”
“I heard that,” Ali reports.
“It’s the enviro system,” Grant explains, not batting an eye. “The pipes shrink when it starts to cool down.”
Lindstrom glances to the girl, replying after just a moment’s hesitation—I’m guessing Miss Grant never told Lindstrom about the mouse she has hiding in her ceiling. Too many secrets between these kids.
It was never gonna end well.
“It’s true, sir,” Lindstrom lies. “Gets cold quick up there. I better get down to th—”
“Stay right there, Cherry.” Marcino turns to Lewis and Zhōu. “You two get up there and check it out.”
Grant’s eyes grow a little wider, shining a little too bright. She might be the consummate liar, but suddenly thoughts of that little girl above her head—who she is and what it’ll mean if she gets caught—are showing through the chinks in her armor.
“It’s probably just a mouse,” she says.
“A mouse?” Marcino scoffs.
“The cleverest mouse,” she says, a little louder. “And they never get caught.”
Lewis is already climbing up on the reception desk, pulling the ceiling panels aside. Looks like Grant is fighting against pure panic now. Hands in fists. Jaw clenched. She knows what’s at stake. The plan her cousin Kady has given her, the incoming Mao, the lives hanging in the balance. But you can see it in her eyes, even through this ****ty cam feed. She’s not even in that hospital on Kerenza anymore. She’s in another hospital. On another day. Standing over the empty bed of another little girl who needed her. Another little girl she let down.
She looks at her wrist. The name tattooed there.
Samaira.
Lewis sticks her head up through the ceiling panel, infrared scanning the crawlspace above their heads. Breath escaping in a soft curse.
“Holy ****ing—”
“Katya, run!”
Grant picks up the chair from behind the reception desk, slams it into Lewis’s legs, sending her toppling to the floor with a bang. The sound of faint footsteps scampering away across the ceiling can be heard as Zhōu shouts, bringing up her burst rifle. Lindstrom raises his hands, steps between the pair and yells, “Hold up! Hold up!”
Marcino has his rifle aimed at Grant, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Civilian, get on your knees! Specialist, step away from the target!”
“Hold fire, she’s unarmed!” Lindstrom shouts.
“Step away from the target!” Marcino roars.
Lewis is back on her feet, flechette cannon trained on Grant. Ali is covering the pair, too. Lindstrom stares down the barrels of four weapons, hands still raised.
“Lindstrom, get out of the ****ing way!”
“Okay, okay!” Lindstrom lowers his hands, backs away from Grant. She looks at him desperately, tears shining in her eyes as he steps farther away. “I just didn’t want to get hit in the cross fire on a civi, Jesus…”
Lindstrom steps back. Lewis marches forward and slaps Grant with one armored fist, splitting her lip and sending her sprawling. She slings her rifle at her back, reaches to the magrestraints at her waist, hissing beneath her breath.
“*****, you’re gonna ****ing pay for—”
A deafening boom rings out in the room, and Lewis’s suit is spattered in red. The private glances up and sees her master sergeant toppling forward, the face of his ATLAS blown out by a point-blank shot to the back of his skull. As Marcino falls, Lindstrom turns his service pistol on Zhōu and fires into the side of her head. ATLAS rigs are built to withstand a lot of punishment, but you need more than seven millimeters of plasteel to stop a straight shot from inside a meter with a .50-cal pistol—particularly from a techhead who knows the weak spots to aim for. Zhōu drops like a stone.
Ali is quicker than his squaddie, shouting as he unloads four shots into Lindstrom’s arm and chest. The kid returns fire, putting two rounds into Ali’s throat. They both fall backward, Ali gurgling, blood frothing from the puncture in the nanoweave below his chin. Lindstrom’s plasteel breastplate is cracked and smoking, but he doesn’t seem hurt. He hits the deck with a curse, pistol still in hand. Pretty neat shooting for a techgeek—he’s taken out three of Marcino’s squad in quick succession.
Pity there were four of them.
Lewis has her MX cannon slung off her back, raised toward Lindstrom. I’ve seen footage of what those flechette guns can do to living flesh—you can take my word it’s somewhere on t
he south side of pretty. Private Lewis takes square aim at Lindstrom’s chest, breathes out slow, finger closing on the trigger.
An office chair slams across her back for the second time in as many minutes. Young Private Lewis is not having a great day. With both her feet planted square, the impact doesn’t even put her off balance, but it does distract her—she turns and finds Asha Grant standing behind her, dark hair come loose from her ponytail, lips swollen and bloody from Lewis’s slap.
It’s kinda weird, chum. Reviewing all these files, I’ve gotten a little used to watching girls who are stupid good at what they do. Kady Grant, cutting her way through doors of impossible code like a straight razor; Hanna Donnelly, using those three black belts of hers on BeiTech audit team members to full and bloody effect.
But Asha Grant isn’t a hacker wizard like her cousin. She’s not a kung fu expert. She’s not particularly brilliant at anything. She’s a ****ing pharmacy intern, chum. Just a regular person like you. An ordinary person caught up in a really **** situation. So I think, out of every person in these files, that makes her the bravest.
Grant wipes the blood from her swollen lip, eyes flashing as Lewis raises her weapon toward the girl’s face. Staring down the barrel and not even blinking.
“**** you,” she spits.
BOOM.
Her face is painted red. Lewis topples forward, a smoking hole where her own face used to be. Lindstrom stands behind her, swaying on unsteady legs, hand shaking on his pistol grip. He staggers, breastplate cracked and blackened from the burst rifle shots. Grant runs to his side as he sinks to his knees, tearing off his helmet and gasping for breath. He’s pale as death under there, skin filmed in sweat despite the chill. I see the look in his eyes. I recognize it.
The look of a kid who’s never killed anyone before now.
A look I saw in the mirror not so long ago.
Not so far from here.
“Are you okay?” they both whisper.
He looks into her eyes and shakes his head, and tears spill from her lashes. His breath is coming quick, and she whispers, “Oh God,” as just for a heartbeat everything they are falls away and they remember what they were. A billion light-years from here, back when nothing and no one else mattered but them. When they were each other’s everything. And he pulls her close and her mouth finds his, her fingers running through his hair as she kisses him like he’s the only thing she can remember in all the universe. As if they’re kissing for the very first and very last time.