by S. A. Tholin
She was about to respond, but instead turned, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow as a heaving cough wracked her body.
On Cassimer's display, a concerned message from Florey popped up. Cassimer sent a quick reply to stand down.
"Joy?" He instinctively reached for her shoulder, but before he could touch her, she fell to her knees.
"I'm fine. Just need to..." She rolled back her sleeve and pressed a button on her metal bracelet. Soon, she was no longer coughing, her breathing returning to normal. "Sorry. It's the dust. If it gets in my lungs bad enough, I can't breathe."
"It's all right." He offered her a hand, and she didn't even hesitate. His fingers closed around hers and suddenly he was all too aware of his barrier of nano-weave and composite armour plates. To him, she was life and warmth, honey and copper. To her, he was a suit of armour, inside of which could be anyone; could be nothing.
He knew what it was to look at a human and see nothing but emptiness. No worse horror than that. No worse horror than him.
He'd held her hand a beat too long, and her grateful smile wavered. To salvage the situation, he gently turned her wrist to examine the metal bracelet.
Obviously a medical device; similar to his suit's pharmaceutical distribution system, but much cruder. Perhaps as old as the gun, and like the gun, barely scratched. Underneath an unfamiliar logo of three white reeds in a red triangle, a screen displayed the number seven in bold black font.
"Commander." Lucklaw's voice came over the channel, loud and clear. Cassimer let go of Joy's arm. He didn't bother muting his own end of the conversation.
"Delivery satisfactory?"
"Affirmative. Outdated, and whoever cobbled together some of these components has some real backwards ideas about electrical engineering, but it'll suffice."
Joy watched with mounting hope. "I hope it's okay? Couldn't get all of the things exactly to your specifications, but Duncan said it should be close enough."
"Yes. It's fine." Here came the difficult part of the conversation. Lying wasn't impure if it served the greater good, but that made it taste no less bitter.
"Can I use the comms array now? I'll be quick, I promise."
"I cannot allow unauthorised personnel to use the array while we're on mission." Or after the mission, for that matter. Once back on Scathach Station, he could put in a notification, and if Bastion cleared it, the notification could be passed along to the public. Perhaps somebody would know Joy, or smell potential profit in the rescue - but the Primaterre would not rescue non-citizens, and he could never live up to his end of the bargain struck.
"Oh. I guess that makes sense." To her credit, she made a fair go of hiding her disappointment. "So, what do I do until then? Do I wait at your base?"
Again with the disarming innocence. It was as if to her, friendly assistance was the norm; as if where she was from, favours were repaid and promises kept.
"It's a restricted area beyond this point. No unauthorised personnel." He wanted to tell her that he would notify the authorities of her predicament regardless, but the array was too fine carrot to waste. "However, as expediting the mission is in all our interest, there is an opportunity for you to assist."
12. Joy
One moment she'd been standing in front of Commander Cassimer like a good little girl, nodding her head and accepting the absolute crap he was selling her - and then she was back underground, shaking her flashlight to get the batteries to sputter to life.
"Son of a bitch!" The echo travelled deep into the dark. It was a good idea to be silent in tunnels, to not attract attention, but Joy didn't care. She wanted to throw something at the wall, wanted the satisfaction of smashing something to bits, but she had nothing left but her flashlight and her gun. The soldiers hadn't returned her backpack, and maybe she should've asked for it, or maybe asking would've got her shot, and how was she supposed to know what to do about anything anymore?
She took a deep breath, trying to calm down before she'd need another dose. Seven was the number etched on her retina; seven was the number of life. Had to be careful, or seven would soon become six.
"Is basic decency not a thing in the future? It's one thing to lie to someone, but to lie and steal their backpack?"
She had no choice but to go back to Natham's farm to replenish her supplies. Natham's farm, where Commander Cassimer wanted her to spy on the settlers. He hadn't used that word, exactly, but that was the gist of it. Information, he'd requested; intel that might expedite his team's mission and allow her access to the array sooner.
Yeah right, Imaginary Finn sneered. He lied to you once. Looked you right in the eye and made a deal. What's to stop him from reneging again?
Nothing, was the obvious answer - and then there was the matter of why they wanted information on the settlers. "We're not here for war", Cassimer had said, but apparently his word was about as good as dust. If she gave them information that they then used to kill everyone at Natham's farm? She'd be responsible. And could she, who still felt bad about hunting and killing her own eight-legged dinner, handle that?
No, said Finn, but the obvious answer wasn't always the right answer. She stood at a fork in the road, and there were no helpful chalk marks to guide her.
"Let's be logical," she said to herself, Imaginary Finn, and whoever else might want to listen in. Walls had ears, went the saying, and incredibly, that was true even of sewer walls. "If the Primaterre want to kill the farmers, they could do it without my help. So maybe they're being careful, or maybe they just love learning about local culture. But since I can't trust them, why should I help them?"
Up ahead, a rusted grate split the tunnel in two. A hole had been cut in the grate, a long time ago, but it was a tight squeeze. Though less tight than usual, since she was no longer encumbered by a backpack. The physical reminder of her lost property was bitter enough that her throat tightened with anger. She'd been hard done by, and that was difficult to overlook.
"So let's re-examine Duncan's ideas. I could tell the farmers everything I know about the soldiers." Which, admittedly, wasn't much. Their location, of course - assuming that they had only one base. She couldn't even say how many soldiers there were. She'd seen three, maybe four. The commander she knew by deceptively trustworthy voice, but the soldier that had accompanied him could've been someone new to her. Impossible to say given their armour. Faceless and absolutely terrifying was apparently the fashion in the Primaterre Protectorate.
"Still, a location's got to be worth something. Rivka did sound like she was out for blood. Maybe she'll organise something with Nexus. If they ended up killing the Primaterre soldiers, I'd be able to use the array as much as I like."
You mean as much as Rivka likes. Which, when it comes to you, isn't much at all.
"Oh, shut up, Finn. Your negativity isn't helpful." Still, she'd rather come up with a plan that didn't involve wholesale slaughter. The soldiers were liars and the locals were among the most unpleasant people she'd ever met, but neither crime deserved a death sentence.
So, onto plan C. She was certain now that Duncan was right about why the Primaterre had come. Commander Cassimer was a man of few words - well, in regards to her anyway; as far as she knew, he could've been babbling away to his team the whole time - but he had said something rather revealing, snuck into the middle of his instructions; the important masquerading as the insignificant.
"If any off-worlders have recently arrived, we need to know. Any talk about incidents of an unusual nature is of interest."
Incidents of an unusual nature; the sort of heading under which governments filed occurrences such as the ghost rockets of old Scandinavia (probably actual ghosts, maybe valkyries), the dark rings of Neptune (possibly remnants of an ancient vacuum-dwelling civilisation) and the Loch Ness monster (not the original tourism-hoax, but the one that almost certainly dwelled in the man-made lake outside New Inverness, Mars).
That phrase had been just about the only thing that had stopped her from pelting Cassi
mer's shiny visor with dust, because deep inside, she couldn't help but be intrigued.
Why had the Ever Onward crashed? Probably an engine malfunction or something similarly mundane. Why was Cato so isolated? Well, gee, having spent nearly seven months on its dusty surface, she could think of more than a few very good reasons. Who was the Driver? What was with all the red lichen everywhere? Why was Rivka such a cow?
Questions, questions, questions - but none worth pondering when basic survival was at the forefront of her mind.
But if the Primaterre had sent its soldiers to Cato, whatever they were looking for had to be important. Important enough that if she found out what it was, maybe even found it first, that could be the sort of currency that might get her off Cato.
A dangerous prospect. A tightrope walk between two factions, neither of which had much to recommend itself other than not having killed her on sight.
Although, that wasn't entirely true. She flexed her fingers, remembering the electric tingle of Cassimer's gauntlet. As terrifying as the armour was, there was still a man inside - and when she had fallen, it was the man who'd helped her stand.
Back on Mars, it would've been expected. There, a slip on the sidewalk resulted in helpful hands and concerned questions. That particular spirit of helpfulness had transcended both class and politics. Martians might have disagreed on plenty, but never on basic human decency.
But that was the Mars of a century ago. For all she knew, it might've gone the way of Cato, reduced to polluted rookeries where sullen settlers shuffled along, glancing at each other only to assess if the other had something worth stealing.
And so the trivial gesture had become something greater, and neither her hand nor her heart could forget it.
◆◆◆
They were quiet, the people of Cato, even when gathered in numbers. Thirty-odd travellers, more than Joy had ever seen at Natham's farm, waited at the train station. Waiting and whispering, barely more than shadows. At the back of the crowd, one voice rose above the rest, raucous and cajoling. Rivka.
Joy pulled her hood down and wrapped her scarf tightly about her face. In a crowd like this, it was easy enough to slip past unnoticed, but why risk it? Her encounter with Cassimer had left her more raw and hurt than she cared to admit, and Rivka's jeers would only add salt.
She made her way through the crowd, repressing the urge to apologise to those she pushed past. Courtesy would only mark her as an outsider and net her unwanted attention. Nexus had taught her all about that; an unpleasant lesson in vulnerability that she didn't want to ever repeat.
Nearing the surface, she took a moment to acclimatise to the sky. Cato's plains were an overwhelming expanse to eyes used to tunnels. Perhaps that was why the drifters were the way they were - as their world had shrunk to narrow darkness, so too had their minds. Smaller and darker every day, until there was only room for madness.
A group of about a dozen men crowded the top of the station stairs. They'd come all the way from Nexus, judging by their clothes which - while old and patched - were colourful and reasonably clean. One or two seemed familiar - from the force field maintenance crew, Joy thought. Duncan had briefly worked with them, but the arrangement had ended acrimoniously.
They were armed, but that was only sensible for travellers who didn't want to disappear, never to be seen again (eaten by tunnel drifters, if Duncan was to be believed, and Joy only did when she had to stop to sleep, when suddenly the existence of cannibals in those dark tunnels seemed completely natural).
Their mood, however, didn't strike her any more aggressive than usual. Joy knew little of war, or how men acted when killing was their purpose, but this, whatever it was, didn't strike her as it.
Some faces were grim - but not oh my god I'm going to die in battle grim. Some smiled and laughed, but not with the reckless abandon of might as well have fun while I still live, and there was no organisation whatsoever. Men and women crowded the central well, laughter came from inside metal shacks, and on the outskirts of the farm, Joy could see people running. She stopped, shielding her eyes from the sun. Were they running from something? No - it actually looked like they were racing each other.
She arched an eyebrow. People having fun on Cato? Why I never!
Natham's shack, centre of all festivities, had been bedecked with wreaths of lichen and orange electrical cable in a terrible, yet endearing, attempt at bunting. Traders had set up temporary stalls, and business was brisk. A goat roasted on a spit over an open fire, while another one was already being served, big chunks of meat handed to those who could pay.
And you're not one of those lucky few, so keep moving and ignore the growling in your stomach.
◆◆◆
She found Natham, deep in his cups, at a table outside his shack. A few seats down, a man was singing a low tune. He wasn't much of a singer, but it was the first music Joy had heard on Cato, and it was absolutely wonderful.
The clouds parted, pale sun spilling over the central square. The singer's hair and bushy beard glittered silver, and the woman next to him turned her face towards the sky, as though she wanted to lap up every ounce of light. The dust sparkled as particles of silica caught the sunlight.
It wasn't enough to make Cato and its people beautiful, but it gave Joy a sort of understanding. She had grown up in a city of glass and steel, where red-brick pavements were lined with empress trees and violet silverleaf. She had seen blue skies and tasted clear water, and not one day, no matter how miserable, had gone by without the sound of music or laughter.
Cato's locals had none of that, and who was she to deem them unpleasant? Their shapes and humours had grown from Cato's sands; a hard and brittle people, yes, but blameless in their creation and undeserving of an outsider's judgment.
To the sound of cheering, a brawl broke out on the other side of the settlement. Two men, bony and unwashed, tumbled in the dust. Nearby diners vacated their seats to avoid getting involved, and Joy hurried to sit next to Natham.
"Hello Natham." Always good to be polite to the man who supposedly ran the farm, especially when he reeked so strongly of alcohol that the spark of a lit match would be enough to set him ablaze.
He regarded her with glassy mirth, recognition slow to surface. "Joy. Nice to see you. You always bring us such nice things."
She shifted slightly to the right as one of his hands began to creep across the bench. "Seems like you've got an abundance of nice things today. I take it this is some sort of fair?"
Natham moved closer and she inched away again - and then the farmer slumped over. A ragged snore vibrated against the table.
"Don't mind him," said the woman who'd worshipped the sun. She'd slid over a few seats on the bench, now sitting opposite Joy. "Silly old drunk. Makes trading here easy, though, just ply the big man with booze until he gives you the bargain of a lifetime."
"Don't think we've met. I'm Joy." She extended her hand in greetings.
"I know." The woman made no attempt to shake her hand. "Fresh blood is grist to the gossip mill. Especially when the fresh blood is bold enough to go scavenging. Can't do it myself - hate being underground, hate being too far from Nexus. There's too much silence out here. Makes you forget."
"Forget what?" It sounded like a silly joke (forget - forget what - ha ha), but Joy meant the question in earnest. Rivka had said something similar, and it had stuck in her mind.
The woman ignored the question with a blithe smile. "I'm Keeva, brewer by trade. The slobbering idiot next to you is courtesy of my product. I'd like to stay longer - the fair only happens once a year, after all - but I reckon it's in my best interest to leave before Rivka gets wind of how much I managed to squeeze her old man for."
"Rivka is Natham's daughter?" Suddenly the snoring old man next to her - whose hands had yet again wandered near her thigh (even in a near-comatose state Natham couldn't help himself) - seemed less the harmless farmer and more the ruthless abuser.
Keeva nodded. "Takes after her mother in all
but ability to keep her liquor. I'll give you that little bit of advice for free, as it can't be easy to be fresh, but starting now, any information will cost you." A wide grin revealed sharp teeth, and a myriad of wrinkles sprang from the corners of her eyes.
"Surely a successful business woman like yourself can afford herself a friendly conversation free of charge?"
Keeva laughed, and to Joy's surprise, stayed to talk until the sun hung low in the sky. Keeva drank while they spoke, which helped ease things along, but the brewer was nice, practically civil, and pleasant company. The conversation meandered like a lazy river from topics such as brewing to Nexus politics (an undercity thug was angling to replace the mayor, who himself had taken his seat after wiping it clean of his predecessor's blood. More violent than Martian politics, but the motivations and machinations remained remarkably similar).
When twilight rolled in on chilly mists, Joy finally dared broach the subject that weighed on her heart.
"So, last time I was here, Natham told me about these off-world soldiers. Primaterre soldiers?" It wasn't a strange turn for the conversation to take; like Keeva had said, fresh blood was juicy gossip material. Yet Joy's heart raced, and she found herself preferring to trace a crack in the table top with her fingernail than to look up at Keeva. "Have you heard anything about that?"
Relax, Joy. She can't read your mind.
In spite of Imaginary Finn's advice, whatever part of her brain handled anxiety kept on trucking words from panicked thoughts to increasingly dry lips.
"I'm going to be scavenging in this area, see, and I'm worried about running into them. Don't know much about the Primaterre, but they sound..." Finding the right word was difficult.
Her first encounter with them was vivid in her memory. She'd seen the soldiers' footprints in the dust, deep and wide, imprints of civilisation upon a wild world. Hope had stirred in her heart, and then, trapped in the cramped bunker, hope had turned into the cold-sweat terror of being held at gunpoint.