Messenger

by James Walker

  “We checked the flight records on your suit, and we analyzed the damage and radiation readings,” Pierson said. “It all corroborates your story. Although such evidence could be faked, that seems extremely unlikely, given how much time it would take to devise and execute such an elaborate scheme. Between that and Astral vouching for you, even Colonel Artega has been convinced to trust you.”

  “Then?” Celeste prompted.

  Pierson walked behind the chair and unfastened her restraints. First her wrists came loose, and then her ankles. “You're free,” he said.

  Celeste stood up and rubbed her sore wrists. The silver-haired woman came forward and offered her hand, which Celeste accepted. The woman's handshake was firm and warm.

  “I'm Esther Klein, SLIC technical advisor,” she said. “I'm told that you prefer to be called Celeste?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please come with me, Celeste,” Esther said. “I'll take you to the infirmary so we can look you over and see what we can do to keep you healthy.”

  Celeste followed Esther through a series of sterile corridors broken up by eerie views of the bottom of the sound. Upon arrival at the infirmary, Esther used all of the available equipment to perform a detailed examination, even taking numerous samples and analyzing them on the spot. The process took a long time. A concerned frown creased Es­ther's face as she addressed Celeste.

  “In some ways, you're truly the envy of us normals,” she said. “Immune system is superb. Strength, reflexes, and cardiovascular fitness are at levels no ordinary human could ever match. The biomechanical tissue lacing your musculoskeletal structure makes your body incredi­bly durable. Most of your organs are functioning at peak efficiency.”

  “But?” Celeste said.

  Esther's eyes were pained. “The price for these abilities is heavy,” she said. “Your metabolism is running on continuous overdrive. The strain on your body is enormous. Even supposing perfect maintenance, I would guess your maximum lifespan is about half that of a normal human. I... I'm so sorry, Celeste.”

  “That's all right,” Celeste said. “I'd be surprised if I get anywhere near that upper limit. What else?”

  “Reproductive system is a mess,” Esther said. “The chances of ever having children are... well...” She trailed off.

  Celeste almost laughed. Funny, how the thought of a normal life with a family had never occurred to her before. If she felt sad, it was not from the crushing of a dream, but rather the fact that she had never even thought to dream it in the first place.

  “No surprise,” she said. “I pretty much knew that already, anyway. The more pressing question is, once my supply of nutrient solution runs out, can you keep me alive?”

  “I think so,” Esther said. “No, I'm sure of it. One vial of the solution is being analyzed in another lab as we speak. I know it won't be easy, but between studying your physiology and gleaning what we can from the solution you brought back, we'll be able to figure out what you need to stay alive. It may not be as well-tuned as what Spacy gave you, but it will keep you going.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?” Celeste asked. “You aren't just saying that to assuage my fears?”

  “It's my true opinion,” Esther assured her. “I promise.”

  A strange feeling flowed through Celeste. It was so foreign that she hardly knew what to make of it. Was this relief? Yes, that was surely it. Thoughts flooded through her mind: of standing atop a mountain, staring at the beautiful vista beyond; of enjoying a good meal; of praying for the eternal repose of the old man who had taken her in before he was killed by Union operatives; a hundred things she wanted to do, if only she had the time. And above all that—something else, something much more important, which she had the means to accomplish as few other people did.

  Perhaps Major Cutter had been right. She was not quite ready to die yet after all.

  “Tell him I'll do it,” she said suddenly.

  “Hm?” Esther arched her brows inquiringly.

  “Major Cutter,” Celeste said. “Tell him that I will lend you my strength against the Theran Union.”

  52

  Vic was reclining on the cot in his storage closet turned temporary quarters, playing a game on his headset, when someone knocked on the door. He paused the game and called, “Who's there?”

  “It's Eliot,” came the reply. “The governor's making some kind of announcement. Something major is going down. You'd better see this.”

  “All right.”

  Vic followed Eliot at a trot to the lounge, which was already packed with people watching a live broadcast from Governor Song. The governor lacked her usual charismatic presence. She seemed tired, and her face was tinged with an unhealthy pallor.

  “...and thus I am abdicating as governor of Chalice, effective immediately,” she announced. “My replacement is the T.U. Spacy officer, Commodore Bertrand Falsrain. And now, a message from your new governor.”

  Liumei stepped off the stage with a bow. Vic recognized the cold, aristocratic face of the man who stepped in to replace her as belonging to the Spacy officer Pierson had dueled in Fort Spriggan.

  “Greetings, people of Chalice,” Falsrain said. His bearing exuded supreme confidence. “No doubt you are all surprised by this sudden change. Alas, the former governor's ailing health prevents her from continuing her duties, and by her authority, she has chosen me as the most fitting replacement.

  “I have more surprises for you. I regret to say that the Theran Union has been keeping a profound secret from you all. You see, there exists, in our very midst, a sentience not of human origin. An alien intelligence.”

  A cruel smile creased Falsrain's face as he paused to let his words sink in. “Where many others have failed,” he went on, “I have succeeded in establishing communication with this intelligence. Soon enough, I will convey its will to you all. But not yet. There are some preparations which must be made first.

  “I have still another surprise for you,” he continued. “This one I address to the members of the Sarisan Liberty Coalition. Do you remember the early days of your abortive resistance, when a man by the name of Admiral Andre Maximillian, famed as the legendary Pirate Hunter, struck down again and again your feeble uprisings? For security purposes, his appearance was never made public, and his identity, save for his name, was kept a closely guarded secret. And then sud­denly he disappeared.”

  Falsrain paused again, relishing the tension created by his words. “Well,” he said, “I would now, for the first time, like to make public a photograph of the famous Pirate Hunter.” He nodded to someone off-camera. “If you please.”

  An image of Pierson in SLIC uniform appeared in the corner of the screen. “This is the face of Admiral Maximillian,” Falsrain said. “You may know him better as Major Pierson Cutter. No longer the Pirate Hunter, feared attack dog of T.U. Spacy, but the hero of Halispont, savior of the resistance. Or is he? From Spacy officer to Vocom mercenary to resistance fighter. It's hard to say where lies the heart of a man who changes allegiances so freely. If you want an explanation, I suppose you'll have to ask him yourself.

  “That is all.”

  With that, Falsrain stepped off the stage, and the broadcast terminated.

  “What the hell,” Eliot exclaimed against the bewildered clamor that engulfed the lounge. “Do you think that's true?” he asked, wheeling on Vic.

  Vic recalled the words he had overheard between Falsrain and Pierson in Fort Spriggan. “I think... probably,” he replied.

  “But what the hell does it mean?” Eliot wondered. “The rebellion's worst enemy becomes its greatest hero. Did he have a change of heart, or what?”

  “I don't know.” Vic turned to exit the lounge. “I'm gonna go look for him.”

  Eliot fell into step next to him. “I'll come with you.”

  *

  After a few minutes of combing the base, Vic and Eliot found a corridor jammed with people in front of two guards blocking the way. Eliot used his bulk to elbow h
is way through the crowd, with Vic following in his wake. As they reached the front of the crowd, one of the guards barred the way with his hand.

  “There's a meeting between the senior officers going on right now,” he said. “No unauthorized personnel.”

  “Is it about that broadcast just now?” Vic asked. “The one by Falsrain?”

  “I'm not authorized to say,” the guard answered.

  “Cut the crap,” Eliot snapped. “Why else would all these people be here? We're both Quicksilvers. We have a right to know what's going on with one of our commanding officers.”

  “Stand back, Sergeant,” the guard warned.

  Eliot drew back a step. “Looks like they're not gonna let us past.”

  As Eliot turned away, he winked at Vic, then spun around and dashed through the guards, elbowing them out of the way. Vic ran behind him, followed by the other rebels who had packed into the corridor. Despite the guards' protests, the crowd surged past them and soon arrived at the room where the meeting was taking place—the infirmary.

  Four people occupied the infirmary: Esther, Guntar, Amos, and Pierson; the latter with his uniform half-unbuttoned, exposing a bandaged shoulder. Guntar turned toward the crowd pouring into the infirmary with a snarl.

  “What the hell is all this? I thought we told the guards not to let anyone past.”

  “Colonel,” Eliot exclaimed. “Is this about that broadcast just now?”

  “Like it's any of your damn business,” Guntar snapped. “This is a meeting between senior officers. Get the hell out.”

  “But sir,” Eliot said. “Meaning no disrespect, but as a Quicksilver, I've been fighting under you and Major Cutter for a long time. I think I speak for all of us who are left when I say that we have a right to hear the major's explanation for ourselves.”

  “Not just the Quicksilvers,” someone else interjected. “Major Cutter is a hero to everyone in SLIC. We all want to hear what he has to say.”

  Guntar met the insistent gazes of the gathered rebels and relented. “Fine. But these proceedings will remain orderly. If anyone starts causing a ruckus, I'll clean his clock and throw him into the stockade my­self.”

  He then turned to Pierson and asked, “Well? The crap that Falsrain joker was spouting—is it true?”

  There was a long pause. “It's true,” Pierson admitted.

  “That's a hell of a secret to keep from the rest of us,” Guntar said.

  “I never lied to anyone,” Pierson said.

  “You lied by omission,” Guntar said. “It never occurred to you that maybe this was something we had a right to know?”

  “I wanted to help you,” Pierson said. “Would someone claiming to be the infamous Pirate Hunter be accepted into SLIC? 'Hello, I'm Admiral Maximillian. Sorry about all those comrades I killed, but I'd like to join the resistance now.' I'd have been rejected as a madman. Or, on the off-chance I was believed, I might well have been executed.”

  “That's pretty thin, Cutter,” Guntar said. “Or should I call you by your real name, Maximillian?”

  “I'd rather you didn't,” Pierson replied.

  Amos interjected, “What I'd like to know is why you changed sides. You put down a lot of rebel uprisings. Why would such a dedicated Spacy officer defect to our side?”

  Pierson's eyes grew distant as he turned his gaze on nothing in particular. “It's not an especially remarkable story,” he said. “But all right. Since it's come to this, I'll tell you everything.”

  *

  Pierson began, “My father was a former Spacy officer turned politician. I was raised to follow in his footsteps. After graduating from the academy at the top of my class, I joined the special forces and fought on Thera in the interminable skirmishes between the puppet states of the Union's great powers. Thanks to my success there, I was soon transferred to the space fleet and promoted to a command position.

  “My first assignment was an extended campaign to curb rampant piracy in the asteroid belt. I rose through the ranks all the way to fleet commander. In retrospect, I suspect my father's influence had something to do with my rapid advancement, but I had an undeniable talent for hunting pirates. That's where I earned my famous nickname.

  “No sooner had piracy been crushed in the asteroid belt than High Command received word of burgeoning uprisings in the Sarisan colonies. I was transferred to Saris with orders to neutralize the rebellion. It was a tall order. Mounting debt resulted in budget cuts which slashed the fleet's size and equipment; the colony's remoteness meant that supplies were slow to arrive; and the Sarisan planetary system is enormous, which means available forces are always spread thin.

  “You have to realize, up until this point, I had spent my whole life indoctrinated by Theran propaganda. I wasn't blind. I could see the corruption and the incompetence that were endemic to the system. But I believed that, fundamentally, the Union's rule was the proper way of things, a way to impose order and civilization on the chaotic human species.”

  He sighed, perhaps in shame at what he perceived to be his former naïvete, then he went on. “When I wasn't commanding expeditions from my flagship, I directed the campaign against the rebellion from Spacy's Sarisan headquarters on Phoenix. Phoenix is nothing like Chalice—a volcanic moon with a thick, toxic atmosphere, and light gravity so that you have to exercise daily in special high-g chambers to pre­vent physiological deterioration.

  “I liked to get away from that dreary base whenever possible. As a safeguard against assassination attempts, my identity was kept secret, so I could mingle freely among the citizenry if I wished. I took advantage of that to visit the nearby civilian colony regularly, especially the biodome where they kept a beautiful forest. It was a welcome relief from the barren rock and industrial infrastructure that comprised the rest of that world.

  “Once, during my walks there, I met an old man. We struck up a conversation. He didn't fit my image of the colonists at all. He was cultured, refined, and sharp-witted; a pleasure to talk to. He had some un­favorable things to say about the Union. In a nutshell, he thought that its power was too absolute and thus, so was its corruption. His words were enough that I could have had him arrested on suspicion of trea­son, but I didn't. His arguments were reasonable, and he was just a harmless, gentle old man. He didn't have the makings of a violent revolutionary. So I left him alone.

  “A few days later, I ran into him again in the biodome. We went to the park for a game of cell, and I lost. I was nationally rated, so it came as a shock that I could lose to a mere plebeian. The first cracks in my bigotry began to appear at that moment. I demanded a rematch. The old man had to go home then, but he agreed to play me again in the future.

  “Our meetings in the biodome became a regular occurrence. We became friends. The only unpleasant thing about our meetings was his continued insistence on criticizing the Theran Union's rule. It was all the more troubling because I could think of few refutations to his arguments. Over time, my confidence in the justice of the Union's rule be­gan to wane as a result of my conversations with him. And yet, despite this internal conflict, I continued orchestrating a successful campaign to crack down on the insurrections. It was torturous. In a way, these were the worst times of my life.

  “Then, one day, the old man failed to show up for our meeting at the appointed time. I didn't think much of it, believing that he simply had a more urgent engagement. But time passed, and he still failed to appear. Finally, I grew concerned, and I used my authority to look up his records. I discovered that he had been executed on charges of treason. In reality, his only crime was disapproval of the Union's rule and a willingness to voice it.”

  Pierson's expression grew pained. “I was devastated. This harmless old man, perhaps the wisest and most pleasant human being I had ever met, had been killed simply for holding the wrong opinions. My faith in the Theran Union was shattered. I realized at that moment what a vile institution it was, and how far my actions had gone to supporting its domination.

  “I
knew that I could not simply step down from my position as supreme commander of the anti-revolutionary forces, so I arranged to fake my own death. I was extremely thorough about it. Everyone was fooled. The Union never let knowledge of my 'death' become public. That would have been too demoralizing for its own forces, and too bolstering for the rebels. Instead, my existence was allowed to simply fade away.

  “Having severed my ties with the Union, I remade myself into a corporate mercenary. When creating my new identity, I wanted to honor the memory of the man who opened my eyes to the truth. The old man named Pierson Cutter.”

  Pierson took a long breath. The recounting of his story seemed to have shaken him. He concluded, “I worked as a mercenary for a few years, trying to find a new place for myself in the world. Finally, when the opportunity to join the rebellion presented itself, I leapt at the chance. I've been fighting with all my strength to depose the Union's rule ever since.”

  *

  As Pierson recounted his tale, the size of his audience grew. They could not all fit into the infirmary, so the crowd spilled out into the adjoining corridor, with necks craning and ears straining to hear the war hero's tale.

  “I get the gist of your story,” Guntar said when Pierson had finished. “I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that we appreciate your contributions to the war effort. Hell, we'd still be getting slaughtered by the Union's drones if not for your raid on the Halispont atmospheric proces­sor.

  “But,” a deep furrow creased Guntar's brow, “I've always had this feeling like you're marching to a different beat than the rest of us. I suppose being a former Union big shot would account for some of that. But I think this is a good time to clear the air. What are you really after? What do you want for the colonies, beyond independence from Theran control?”