Static Ruin

by Corey J. White

  “Sir!”

  I turn in my seat; one of Dehner’s personal guard stands inside the doorway, back military-rigid, mouth tight.

  “What is it, Osman?”

  “Sir, I’ve been trying to reach you on comms.”

  “We’ve been discussing sensitive matters,” Dehner replies.

  “Sir, scanners show imperial vessels arriving in orbit.”

  My chair squeals on the tiled floor as I stand. “What the fuck is this, Dehner?”

  He looks at me, mouth agape, confusion written in the whites of his eyes. “I swear I don’t know what this is about, Mariam.”

  “It’s the Emperor’s Guard, sir.”

  “Dima,” I say, “can you lead me to my ship?”

  “Of course.” She stands, dessert forgotten, lines of her face turned hard, ready for anything. Good. Don’t let Dehner soften you. No man is worth that price.

  I make a kiss sound and Ocho appears from beneath the table, climbs up my body, and perches on my shoulder. I nod to Pale and he scarfs the remainder of the two desserts and gets up from his seat, mouth smeared with grayish ice cream.

  I glare at Dehner one last time. “Be seeing you,” I say, and I see his Adam’s apple shifting from across the table. Dima pulls me away, leaving me no time to enjoy his discomfort.

  This is what being a fugitive means: no time for dessert, no time to smirk.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My lungs burn, legs ache as I struggle to keep up with Dima, leading us through a corridor wide enough for a heavy tank. Pale drags behind me as I pull on his arm. I glance back and his hand is pressed to his stomach, eyes downturned.

  “Dima, slow down!”

  “There’s no time,” Dima yells over her shoulder.

  Sommer’s skylights close overhead, creak and grind of machinery moving the massive steel plates. We reach a reinforced door the width of the tunnel and Dima keys a code into the control panel.

  Wheels squeal in their tracks as the door draws aside gradually, and I rest my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

  “You okay, buddy?” I ask Pale. He only shrugs. “We’re almost there.”

  “I’ve got Neer on comms: he can’t hold them off any longer,” Dima says.

  “Let me guess, they’re saying I’m a dangerous terrorist, and they have to come down here for your own safety?”

  “Something like that,” Dima says. She smiles, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it. To her—to most people—imperial forces are both unstoppable force and immovable object. To me, they’re just another pack of assholes, the biggest pack, with the biggest assholes.

  We slip through the still-widening gap. A few ships line the dock: scout planes not suitable for the void, a huge, beat-up old frigate that can barely fit beneath the roof, and a shiny corvette tucked away in one corner. The Rua idles in the center beneath the two retracting hangar doors, dirt spiraling across the ground beneath it in accidental arabesque.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen it properly since we escaped from Joon-ho. Divots spot the hull where armor was vaporized, patches scorched black with laser burn.

  “Waren, are we good to go?”

  “Ready when you are,” he says over comms.

  I pat Pale on the head, and give him Ocho. “Go get strapped in, alright?” He nods and runs for the ship. “Goodbye, Dima. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Take this,” Dima says, handing me a shard.

  “What is it?”

  “Everything I could find on your mother. Sorry there wasn’t more.”

  “I’m surprised you found anything so quickly.”

  “It’s all indexed along with the Teo avatar.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank me after you get away.”

  She squeezes my arm and I walk toward the Rua. The dock doors finish retracting with a hollow dhoom.

  A flash of light brighter than the sun puts me on my ass, ears ringing, skin hot and dry. I get onto all fours and blink against the temporary blindness, feel a hand lift me to my feet: Dima, helping me toward the ship. I raise my eyes back to the sky; distant blue streaked with white falling like shooting stars. I raise a hand and form a shield across the dock just before another barrage of lasfire rains down, hammering the shield like a dull patter of pain across the roof of my skull.

  When we reach the air lock to the Rua, I push Dima aside gently. “Get out of here,” I yell over the steady drum of the orbital bombardment.

  “Will you be alright?”

  “Worry for them, Dima, not me.”

  She smiles for real this time, and jogs away.

  I dress quickly into my voidsuit, body a distant entity while I focus my thoughts on maintaining the shield. I step back into the air lock, closing both doors and clipping the tether to my belt.

  “Departing now,” Waren says, voice clean and too close through the comms system of my helmet, like he’s inside it with me. “You aren’t coming inside?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Alright,” he says in a condescending singsong. At least he knows better than to argue.

  The ship lifts steadily above the lip of the dock and I raise my shield with it. The hangar doors close and we fly away from Sommer, racing to clear the rain of weaponized light. Already forest fires are burning, dry leaf litter set ablaze by the assault. The landscape glowing orange around scorched black patches. Waren turns the Rua’s nose up to the sky, and with a bone-rattling shudder we pull away from the earth, ascending higher until Sommer is just a distant fire burning in a field of smoky dark.

  “Tell me when it’s safe to go outside, Waren. And show me where the ships are.”

  “Anything else? A coffee perhaps?” he says, but he draws a shapeless mass of square brackets across my helmet’s HUD.

  “I could murder a cup.”

  The blue of atmosphere thins as we continue to climb, fading dark, indigo dyed black. The ships of the Emperor’s Guard drift in a holding orbit, hanging stationary over Sommer—frigates and fighters in a cloud around three heavy cruisers.

  “You’re clear,” Waren says, and the outer air lock door irises open silently.

  I swing out into the void and follow the handholds to clamber up the side of the Rua’s roof. I fasten the tether to an anchor point and wrap it tight around my right arm, staying crouched low to the hull.

  “Time to get their attention,” I mutter, and my voice echoes back from the helmet glass in a death-soaked drawl. I want this. Why do I want this?

  I inhale deep and reach my left hand out in service of my intent, every one of those ships close enough to touch, to crush. I hum quiet in the back of my throat and grab the cruisers. They move in slow motion, massive ships buffeted by an unseen sea. The hum builds to a growl and I slam the ships together, like knuckles on jaw. Superstructures buckle and explosions bloom in the dark of the void. Breached reactor cores glow plasma hot, a second sun over Sanderak for a few short seconds. Still I keep crushing, the three ships tangled and torn, drifting in dead orbit.

  My brain thrums inside my skull, reverb at its natural frequency. A grin stretches across my mouth, gritted teeth flashed at the universe. I see the reflection in my helmet glass: rictus, death’s head, murderous joy. My smile falters.

  How many ships will they send before they give up? How many do I have to kill before they leave me alone?

  Frigates rally, pulling away from the carnage. Fighters streak through fields of debris, cruisers broken behind them, scattered formations remade as they track our escape. Thirty of them, at least. Thirty pilots ready to die for their orders.

  “How much longer, Waren?”

  “I thought you liked this bit.”

  “How much longer?” I bark.

  The fighters close in, hulls sleek as knife blades, plunging right for us. I snarl, ready to strike out across the desolation, and— Just like that, they’re gone. The fighters fold away with the fabric of realspace, blades resheathed in the void. Sanderak disappears, that smoky maybe-
home reduced to a single pixel, small as a distant star, extinguished from view with all the rest. Replaced by the inky swirling black of worm-space.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ocho and Pale are waiting in the ready room when I cycle through the air lock. Pale holds Ocho out toward me, her body hanging limp in his arms but tail flicking steadily.

  “Thanks, buddy,” I say, cradling her against my shoulder. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Better,” he says.

  “Good. I better not slip in any vomit, alright?”

  He shakes his head sheepishly and I pass him my helmet to put away. Once I’m out of the suit, Pale follows me to the cockpit.

  I drop into the pilot’s seat. “Everything alright, Waren?”

  “Green across the board.”

  I close my eyes and jam a thumb and forefinger against my eyeballs, trying to reach the throbbing pain near the back of my skull. Usually a headache means I pushed my mind too far, too hard, but this is something else. Fatigue. Dehydration. A normal headache, I guess, rather than a space witch headache.

  “How’d they find us, Waren? I can’t figure it out. If it wasn’t Dehner, it had to be someone else.”

  “You’re working on the assumption that somebody sold us out. How did they find us on Joon-ho?”

  “I figure someone got a glimpse of my face.”

  “While that is possible, with enough slaved AIs they could track us through worm-space, even across multiple journeys,” Waren says, the word “slaved” dripping with distaste.

  “Why do you keep helping me, Waren?”

  “I suppose I still feel I owe you for granting me my freedom.”

  “Are you really free when you chain yourself to me?”

  “That’s something I think about often. Would you say it was loyalty to Mookie that led you to Homan Sphere?”

  “I guess,” I say. “Loyalty and guilt.”

  “You were loyal to Mookie, and I’m loyal to you. But even beyond loyalty there’s the debt I owe.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Waren.”

  “Perhaps not, but here we are.”

  I lean back in the seat and kick my feet up onto the dash. “I think you’re just curious.”

  “Curious?”

  “You could find other humans, but I’m your only chance to travel with a space witch.”

  “I’ve said it before, Mars: you’re never boring.”

  “Do me a favor, Waren?”

  “What is it?”

  “Let me know when you start getting bored; give me a chance to find another ship.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Thanks, Waren, for everything.”

  * * *

  Sera looks the same. Not like when I found her on Ergot, prematurely gray and utterly drug-fucked, but the same as the day she helped me escape MEPHISTO. She’s shorter, she’s missing two front teeth, and her cheeks are a little chubbier, but it’s so recognizably her.

  The video plays across the wall of my cabin, child-Sera meandering along a dirt track, tugging on our mother’s hand. Sanderak eucalypts line either side of the path, the crunch of leaves and bark crisp in the audio track. The camera hovers over Cilla’s head, trailing the mother and daughter on their gentle walk between towering hardwood trees.

  Cilla turns back to check the camera is still following, and I lean close for a better look, reach out and touch the wall. It was disconcerting enough seeing the statue and the preserved corpse, but seeing her in motion is somehow worse. It’s my face, but it doesn’t move right; it smiles too easily. It’s like I’m watching footage of myself from a parallel reality where I’m pregnant and I have a young daughter, and my eyes are pure and clear. Those eyes have only seen a usual amount of pain and hardship. They haven’t seen people torn apart and killed, dismembered, and rendered in every conceivable combination.

  My mother is who I could have been if my life had been normal.

  When they rest in the shade of a gnarled tree, Cilla sits and idly rubs her small round belly. That’s me in there, gestating.

  Cilla has no way of knowing she’s got maybe six months to live. Then she’ll be dead and her two daughters will be gone, stolen from this planet, this landscape she seems to love.

  A voice calls out: “What are you doing out here?”

  Cilla turns and some of the joy falls from her face. She looks like me for that instant; harder, hurt. The drone rotates until Cilla and Sera disappear from sight. A tall, lanky man charges along the forest trail. Teo.

  Cilla whispers something and the video goes black.

  I stay there on the floor, fingers pressed to the wall.

  * * *

  I hold the fork gently between my teeth, forgetting the bowl of rehydrated egg-like proteins that rests in my lap. I’m stunned quiet by the bustling system of Delaney, spread out before me.

  Transit lanes shimmer thick with ship lights—couriers, tourists, biz folk, as well as massive haulers taking raw materials from the two quarry planets closest to Delaney’s sun. It could be the busiest system I’ve ever visited.

  We’re still well out on the edge, just beyond minimum safe distance for transit via wormhole, drifting slow toward Azken—the heart of the Hurtt Corporation.

  “Mars,” Pale says; “I’m sick of eggs.”

  I take the fork out of my mouth and move the unappetizing mass of fake egg around the bowl. “If someone hadn’t eaten all the other supplies, we wouldn’t need to have it for every meal.”

  Pale drops his head and eats another mouthful, chewing around a frown.

  “You could try some of Ocho’s food,” I say.

  He shakes his head, but I get a little smile out of him.

  I pour more hot sauce on my eggs, and go back over the Hurtt dossier while I eat. Rafael Hurtt is the founder and CEO; a self-made trillionaire. He’s one of the richest people in imperial space, and the only private citizen to own an entire planet.

  Hurtt made his first billions in mining. He was widely ridiculed for buying mining rights for TSD-1 and TAAS-0. The planets had massive deposits of precious minerals but were too close to Delaney’s sun for conventional mining equipment. Hurtt outfitted his ships and machinery with proprietary shielding designed for close-solar work, and within a standard year his company was one of the top five mining conglomerates. Three years later he’d bought out his biggest competitors.

  The two quarry planets became the lynchpins of Hurtt’s rapidly expanding enterprise. Since then he’s moved into pharmaceuticals, prefab housing, farming technology, shipbuilding, arms manufacture, and void only knows what else.

  Waren directs the Rua toward one of the primary transit lanes feeding into Azken. We’re just one ship among hundreds; nothing to see here, no terrorist on board, no mass-murderer on the lam.

  Dehner’s dossier says Teo should be on Azken. Hurtt keeps all his researchers close—probably to keep other syndicates from headhunting or kidnapping them.

  “We’re in luck,” Waren says. “Rafael Hurtt is hosting a fund-raiser and charity auction for the refugees of Montero.”

  “You think I should approach him at a fund-raiser? A million things could go wrong, Waren.”

  “And you’ll deal with every one of them.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Skyscrapers fill the horizon, climbing high on all sides of the busy dock. The sky glows an indeterminate color, night washed away by the concentration of city lights. People filter between parked ships. A trio chatters excitedly as they pass the open air lock of the Rua, a cloud of citrus perfume and herbal smoke drifting behind them.

  Pale blocks the air lock holding Ocho, and the two of them glare accusingly. I scratch Ocho on the chin. “You’re not coming with me. It’s too risky.”

  Pale pouts.

  “Waren, make sure you keep an eye on them.”

  “Of course.”

  If it was any other kid I’d be worried for them on a planet as vibrant as this, but with Pale I’m more worried for everyo
ne else. Anything could happen if he wandered off, got scared, angry, or confused. I need to protect him from himself as much as anyone else.

  I leave my cloak bundled on the floor inside the air lock for Ocho to sleep on, and check my outfit one more time. It’s as close to upscale as I could find among my limited wardrobe, a black jumpsuit with fine white pinstripes. Top two buttons undone, lapel folded back, hair brushed over my shoulder. I slip my feet into the stilettos Waren printed for me, struggling to remember the last time I had the chance to wear high-heeled shoes.

  “How do I look?”

  “You should put your hair back up,” Waren says.

  “Everyone’s a critic.” I tie my hair in a bun and fix the rebreather to my face to block surveillance. I put a hand on Pale’s shoulder and gently push him away from the door. “Stay here,” I say again and through the mask my voice sounds harsher than I’d meant.

  I leave the ship and wait for the door to hiss closed behind me. I fall into step with a small group of revelers dressed in red and gold, already drunk, cheering and howling at the sky though the night has barely started. I trail them out of the dock then lose them immediately on the street. The roads are closed to traffic, bustling with thousands of bodies. The city is electric, hum of fuck and commerce beneath a thumping downtrap beat. Crowds flock like migrating birds, heading toward star-bright columns of light reaching to the sky.

  With people pressed in all around me, my heart thuds hard to the distant bass track, rattling my sternum. Psychic itch of flight or fight, short of breath. I squash the urge to pull the mask from my face, even for a second. I inhale deep and hold it for a moment, releasing a long sigh that lingers around my mouth, suffocating, trapped by the rebreather. I keep moving.

  It’s not that I like being alone, but I’m never this anxious on my own.

  Running lights of heavy surveillance drones circle overhead. Airships hang static just outside the city center—the rich enjoying the atmosphere without having to mingle with the rest of us.

  The current of the crowd slows, and I crane my neck to see ahead. A security checkpoint manned by androids and flesh-and-blood guards blocks access to the fund-raiser dance party in the city square. They’re filtering everyone through scanner fences, people corralled like cattle—cattle that could be armed or dangerously augmented.