De la Cruz continued pulling himself slowly across the darkened surface of Icarus, pacing himself so he didn’t use more oxygen than absolutely necessary. It was only a temporary solution, he realized. Eventually, he’d run out. “The Sun’s going to get me,” he thought, “just as it got the original Icarus.”
He paused and bobbed gently above the Icaran surface, tethered by a light handhold on a piece of rock. He turned and looked back in the direction he’d come. There was a hell hound coming for him from just beyond the horizon. He couldn’t outrun it much longer. Why not greet the inevitable face-on?
Santiago de la Cruz drifted into a sitting position inches above the surface and crossed his legs, assuming the Lotus position. He began to breathe in a slow, regular rhythm as he calmed his heartbeat and composed his thoughts. The problem, he thought, is rotation. And oxygen. If this damn piece of rock didn’t rotate, I’d be able to hide in its shadow indefinitely. And if I had more oxygen . . . But there was nothing he could do about either.
Up ahead in the expanding aurora of the Sun, de la Cruz noticed a brilliant point of light, as if a morning star shined in the heavens to presage the Sun. It grew larger, however, as the slow rotation of Icarus brought him nearer. Suddenly, de la Cruz realized what it was. It was the Prometheus! It was still there, where the collision with Icarus had left it, drifting now about two miles above the surface as the asteroid rotated beneath it. While Icarus turned constantly toward the Sun, the wrecked Prometheus hovered in stationary position, orbiting the Sun parallel with Icarus. De la Cruz’s heart leapt within him as he thrust aside thoughts of stoic acceptance. “There’s my shade!” he thought. “And oxygen, too, if the tanks weren’t ruptured!” Two miles up. So close—and yet so far!
De la Cruz coiled his legs beneath him, calculated his trajectory, and kicked off from the Icaran surface as hard as he could. Arms stretched out in front of him, like a diver in a slow-motion arc, de la Cruz aimed for the derelict hulk. His leap carried him into the full blaze of the Sun. The temperature soared on the shell of his suit and harsh UV radiation flooded over him. But he spread his wings and flew. The leap to the ship seemed to take forever. “If I miss it,” he thought, “I’ll end up diving into the Sun.”
But he didn’t miss it.
Nor did the rescue ship miss his emergency beacon. De la Cruz floated in the welcome shade of the Prometheus as he waited for the ship from Earth. They’d arrest him, he thought. Maybe imprison him. It’d be the last time a human was allowed in space. It wasn’t important. What was important was that a human had gotten to the last world in the Solar System before the robots. A human had flown to Icarus at high noon—and his wings had not melted.
Santiago de la Cruz looked out into the blackness of space. Hard pinpricks of starlight punctured the dark. They’d always called to him. They’d pulled him into space and across a dozen worlds. Their harsh reality would test him no more. But it doesn’t matter, he thought. Even if unattainable—the stars still beckon.
SOFT CASUALTY
by Michael Z. Williamson
The former colonists of the Freehold of Grainne are fed up with the occupation of their planet by the UN forces of Earth. No longer content with lobbing missiles at the opposition, the locals intend to go that extra step. And now Jandro Hauer is about to find out that even a trip to the local bazaar can be an invitation to horror.
JANDRO HAUER waited in the hot, bright light of Iota Persei for his shuttle to clear for boarding. On his forearm was a medication patch feeding a steady dose of strong tranquilizer. Above that was an IV line from a bottle hanging off his collar. He’d be in orbit in a few hours, and then transferred to a starship home. Perhaps then he could calm down.
“Hey, Soldier,” someone called. There were eighty or so people at this boarding. He looked toward the voice to see another uniform. A US Marine with a powered prosthesis on his right leg gave a slight wave.
“Hey, Marine,” he replied. “Soldier” wasn’t strictly accurate for the combined South American Service Contingent, but it was close enough.
“I noticed the meds,” the man said, pantomiming at his own arm. “Are you a casualty? If it’s okay to ask.”
Jefferson was a beautiful city, or at least it had been before the war.
Jandro Hauer looked out from his quarters. This building had once been apartments for the middling wealthy. The enlisted people had a good view, the officers were lower down. That’s because the locals occasionally fired a missile. Usually Air Defense intercepted it. Usually. Three floors up there was a hole, and a sealed-off area, where one had gotten through and killed two troops. That’s why he was inside the window with the lights off, not out on the balcony. He could see the towers of brilliant white clouds rising over the coastal hills just fine from here.
Support troops spent a lot of time indoors, not interacting with the planet or its residents. It was safer that way. That, and it meant not having to deal with the bright local light, thin air, and vicious fauna.
He still didn’t get it. The former colonists were so willing to fight the UN and Earth they’d destroy their own city in the process, which would just guarantee whatever was rebuilt would look like all the other major colonial cities. Being independent had let them develop a unique architecture and style. That wasn’t going to last with them reverting to Colony status.
It was 1900, but still full light here. The local day was twenty-eight and some odd hours. The UN Forces stuck to Earth’s 24-hour clock. That led to some really surreal days where it would be midnight at noon.
A chime at the door indicated his roommate returning. He stepped aside because . . .
Jason Jardine swiped the lights on as he stepped in.
“Off!” Jandro shouted.
Jason scrabbled with the touch plate. “Sorry,” he said as the room darkened.
“Always check the window first, Jase,” he said. Jase was a Senior Corporal in Finance, but had only been here a week. He was still adapting. It was his first offworld mobilization.
The man nodded. “Yeah.”
Some troops even kept the windows opaque 24/7, or 28/10 here. That was safer, but it didn’t let them have a view.
“Goddamn, it’s a hell of a city,” Jardine said, walking over to the window.
“It is. That concentration of wealth thing is pretty dang good, if you’re the one with the wealth.” He looked around inside.
Troops had scribbled notes, art, tags and names on the walls. There had been decorations. Even though war trophies weren’t allowed, there were ways to get stuff out.
Jardine looked where he was looking.
He said, “Just pay some local a few Marks to sign it over as something sold to you, and as long as it passes Customs, you’re fine. The guy you replaced picked up quite a few neat things in town.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Depends. If they have kids to feed, they’ll sell just about anything. You know prostitution was legal here, right?”
“I heard. Not just legal, but unregulated.”
“Pretty much. So some of them are still in business, and others are freelance.”
Jardine said, “Just wear an all-over polybarrier.”
“Not really. Most are actually clean. That was one of things they were very strict on.”
“I heard they’re cheap, too.” Jardine stowed his day pack on a rack by the door.
“I’ve heard that. Never tried, not planning to. I also hear some of them made a fortune.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing rich guys. Apparently when you have a lot of money, you want to spend it.”
“Makes sense. Almost like a tax.”
“Hah. Good.” He hadn’t thought of it that way. What would you do if you had all that money? “Heading for chow?”
Jase said, “Nah, I was wondering if we could go out and eat? Into the compound area, I mean. I know there’s vendors out there. Do you know much about them?”
“Yeah, I’ll go with you.
I’ve eaten at several. That will be a change from the chow hall. They’re doing lameo chili again anyway.” He hated military chili. It wasn’t chili with paprika and rice and whatever else they put in to make it international. It was nothing like the chili he’d had when visiting Texas, or that you got in a restaurant back home. He’d also had enough sandwiches lately. He didn’t want another bland burger thing.
He took a step, looked down, and said, “Let me change into casuals.” He was still wearing a battle uniform, even though he never went out on patrol. They had orders to “support the battlefighters.” That meant dressing up like them during the work day.
He went to his room, undressed and tossed the battle uniform onto the bed for later. It was a nice room. Most of the furnishings were still there and in good shape. The dresser was real wood of some figured sort. He grabbed a clean casual uniform from the top drawer and pulled it on. He was back into the common room in two minutes.
“Let’s go,” he said to Jase.
Six squares of this area was controlled compound, barricaded off with triple concrete and polyarmor walls. Inside that were military and UN contractors only. Outside that was another four blocks of restricted area, where local contractors took care of nonessential functions. Outside that, chaos.
Though even there, most of the fighting was subtle. It wasn’t until you got outside of the metroplex that violence started in earnest. Here, they didn’t even need armor. As long as it was stored in their quarters, it was considered “within reach.”
They walked the two blocks to the inner perimeter and berm, scanned out through the gate, and entered the Gray Zone. It was patrolled by bots with cameras, and there were a few MPs rolling around in carts. He still wasn’t sure how many, but there was usually a cart in sight. He looked both ways and saw one patrol. There were probably a hundred troops in sight, more around the rest of the perimeter.
The local sun was gradually going down. It was late summer, and it was merely hot, not scorching. It reminded him a bit of Rio, except for the thin air and higher gravity. The sky was clearer, though, and this city had a split personality. Most of it continued to function, its business and politics monitored by the Interim Government in this compound and in those two buildings to the south, protected by lots of heavy floater platforms, manned air support and ground-based lasers. Very little got shot at it these days, but occasional gunfire happened to little effect.
This area was a low-intensity war zone.
To punctuate that, his phone chimed a message.
He looked fast, wondering if there was something inbound, some political change.
It was from Kaela Smith at the MP station.
The screen read, “Jandro, the sniper casualty earlier today. Moritz got shot. Sorry. —Kay.”
He didn’t even swear, he just wiped the screen.
Jase asked, “Something bad?”
He realized he was tearing up. “That sniper this morning at the West side? Got Sammy Moritz.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
“No, it’s just . . .” he took a deep breath, because this was scary. “Right after we secured this area and set up for the diplomats and provisional government, they shot some guy at the gate. Just dropped him from a distance and that was all. He got replaced by someone else. They got shot. Moritz was the fifth or sixth person in that duty slot.”
“That’s sick.” Jase apparently hadn’t heard about this yet.
“Very. They’re not targeting battlefighters or staff. Just people at random, or in this case, not random. It’s been six people in about three months in that slot.”
“Glad I’m not an MP. At least not that MP.”
“It’s creepy. I wonder which poor bastard gets it next.” He didn’t want to think like that, but he couldn’t help it. One field unit kept losing cooks. Convoys got disrupted. They needed live drivers because automated ones got waylaid or hijacked. The enemy was outnumbered, but technologically smart and vicious.
He always wondered if they’d come after Logistics some day.
Jase asked, “Can’t they rotate around?”
“They do. But they seem to follow the slot, not the location.”
“Sheesu.”
“These fuckers have no sense of decency. We laughed, it was hilarious, when they abducted Huff, stripped him naked and made him walk back. But if you’re a prole, you’re likely to just wind up dead.”
“Is that why the no fraternizing order?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. Outside the second line, nothing is safe.”
“Almost makes me glad to be stuck in here.”
“Almost. Would like to actually fight, though. Or support it. Something.” He actually wasn’t sure about that, but he kept telling himself that.
“Yes, but logistics is what wins wars,” Jase said. “And my family’s glad I’m safe,” he added.
“Hey, at least you’re here, doing something.” They crossed into the plaza that had been a park of sorts. Much of the greenery was chewed up from troops walking and playing. One of the trees had been used for climbing until the CO stopped it.
Jase nodded. “You’re right about that, and so was the Captain. These people really don’t want us.”
He said, “It’s resistance to change. In twenty years, their kids will love life and wonder why anyone lived this way.” They were told that, and he wanted to believe it.
“I hope so. The poor people must appreciate it.”
“So I’m told. I see interviews.”
Jase gave him a disgusted look. “Oh, come on, you don’t think those are faked.”
Jandro sighed. That hadn’t come out right in English. “No, not at all. But everyone I’ve met locally has a couple of different things going. I’ve also read that civilians will tell occupying forces anything to keep them happy. And I can’t imagine a lot of frustrated rich people are shooting at us.”
“No, but maybe the people doing the shooting need money badly enough to do it for them. Or are held hostage some other way.”
“Or maybe they’re just afraid of us from propaganda. Hate isn’t rational.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Good. Jase didn’t like the conspiracy nuts any more than he did. Sure, there were problems back home, but no one started a war just for a political edge. Paid bribes, manipulated language, made economic payoffs, but not start wars.
“So what looks good?” he said. There were ten or so little carts and knockdown kiosks offering food.
“Pizza’s always good. Or I always like it. But it just doesn’t taste right here.”
“They grow different grain breeds.”
Jase looked over. “That must be it. Don’t they use real animals, too?”
“Yes, raised out in the open air and then killed.”
“That’s awful. It’s so awful I want to try that, just to stare at people and tell them.”
“Hah. It was really trippy the first time. I got used to it. It’s just meat. You realize that’s in the dining hall too, right?”
“I didn’t.” Jase looked at him with distrust.
“All food has to be locally sourced. There’s just no effective way to bring in that much meat from outsystem, process it in orbit and land it. So we get it here.”
“Why don’t they tell everyone?”
“It’s inspected and approved. There’s some sort of BuAg exemption until we can build enough facilities here. So they don’t mention the source in case it disturbs people.”
“I guess I can see colonies needing that, but once you get to cities,” he waved around at the surroundings, “shouldn’t you be building vatories?”
“Exactly. So you’ve already eaten dead stuff, and these people either don’t have a choice, or actually like it.”
“The chow hall meat is a bit stronger tasting than home, I guess. Wow. Suffering animals. One more way we’re tougher than civilians.”
“You can’t really brag about it. Someone will call a counselor.”
He nodded. “There is that. I feel sorry for the grunts. You can’t boast about being in combat. It’s seen as some sort of moral and mental handicap. No wonder they all burn out.”
“Six months is a long time. I’ve been here a week and it’s getting old fast.”
“So what are you eating?”
“How’s the bratwurst?” Jase asked, and pointed at a cart under a broad tree that was warping the plascrete walkway.
“Spicy and greasy. Occasionally there are small bone chips from processing.”
“How spicy?”
“Middling. Hot for Europe, medium for Tex.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Looks like he’s closing, too. Better run.”
They jogged over to the cart, and looked over the menu. It was posted on a scrolling screen in English, Mandarin, Arabic and Russian. Next to the screen was a tag certifying inspection and authorization to be in the Gray Zone.
The cook looked up and nodded.
“You’re just in time. What can I get you?”
Jandro said, “I’ll take a cheddar brat.”
The man nodded. “Got it.”
Jase said, “The ‘Meatlog.’ That sounds suggestive.”
“I had one before. It’s good. Savory and salty as well as spicy.”
“Sure. That’s two hundred grams? I’ll take two.”
The cook, Gustin, per his nametag, flipped three sausages off the grill, said, “That’s all I had left. You’re in luck,” and rolled them around to drain on the rack. Then he rolled each into a bun, and pointed to the condiments. “What would you like?”
Jase considered and pointed. “Lemme get the dark chili mustard, onions, relish and banana peppers.”
The man didn’t stint on the toppings. Each boat-shaped bun was overflowing.
The Year’s Best Military SF & Space Opera Page 21