The Burning Dark

by Adam Christopher

  “Early retirement,” said the pilot. “Sounds nice.” Then he activated the main comms and began swapping technical chatter with the hangar controller on board the station.

  Ida sat back with his hands linked behind his head. He smiled and closed his eyes. The purple spots had gone, at least.

  Yes, sounds nice.

  * * *

  “Groups four and five, embark.”

  Finally, things were moving again. Serra swallowed, her throat dry, as she glanced to her left. Half her row turned smartly, fell out, then grabbed their bags and kit and jogged over to the ramp leading up into the gaping loading bay of the transport.

  “Taking them long enough. Jesus Christ.”

  Serra nodded. Beside her, Carter was chewing his lip as he watched the marines get herded into the back of the ship.

  He was right. It was taking fucking forever. This was the last-but-one transport ship off the Coast City, and it was supposed to take nearly everyone that was left aboard, leaving just essential support crew. Having nearly a whole battalion of marines stuck at the ass-end of the galaxy was not much use to the Fleet, not when the Spiders were making moves all over the damn show. The sooner the station was disassembled and the sooner the combat troops and other Fleet personnel were off it and doing something useful somewhere else, the better.

  They’d been standing around in the Coast City’s hangar for a couple of hours now. The operation was supposed to be efficient, the whole production running practically on automatic. But there was something up with the computer on board the U-Star Sunken Treasure. Something about the manifest system getting stuck, refusing to update the catalog of personnel sitting patiently on the transport. Apparently it had been rebooted several times already, but until it was working, they couldn’t load any more. But, finally, things seemed to be happening.

  The Coast City had four berths available in its hangar: two small bays for shuttles, two for larger ships, including troop carriers like the Sunken Treasure. The carrier itself belonged to a larger U-Star, Athansor, which sat out in space a few hundred klicks away. As well as picking up the bulk of the remaining station crew, it was here to drop someone off. Why anyone new would come to the station at the end of its life, with half its structure nothing more than a delicate framework of girders and open space, Serra didn’t know. She didn’t care either. All she cared about was getting off the damn thing. She didn’t like it here. She never had, not really, but over the last few weeks there was something else bothering her.

  On the other side of the hangar, away from the huge featureless box that was the Sunken Treasure, the first small bay was empty, the station’s own shuttle out on routine patrol. In the other bay sat another shuttle, the one from the Athansor. It looked newer than their own craft.

  As the marines began to be loaded into the transport again, Carter and Serra stood, kit at their feet, waiting for their group to be called. As they idled, they both watched the new shuttle as a single passenger disembarked. He was middle-aged and uniformed—an officer, although it was impossible to see his rank from this distance.

  Carter tilted his head as though that would give him a better look. “Any idea who that is?”

  Serra shrugged, but from the row of marines behind her came a deep voice as DeJohn leaned forward, his breath hot on the back of her neck.

  “Heard he was some kind of hero. Supposed to have saved a whole planet, or some shit. But fucked if I’ve heard of him.”

  Serra felt Carter stiffen as he stood next to her. He craned his neck around to DeJohn.

  “What, there’s no record of it? That means Black Ops.”

  Ah, shit. Serra glanced at Carter and saw his face blush red. DeJohn gave a Hey, don’t look at me expression and stepped back.

  “Charlie…,” Serra whispered. Carter looked at her, his eyes narrow.

  Black Ops. DeJohn didn’t know—nobody aboard the Coast City did outside of the officers, and of them only a small, select group—about a small but important slice of Carter’s service history. Serra knew, of course; Carter had told her, even though it would mean court-martial and an unpleasant, violent end for the both of them if it ever got out.

  Black Ops. It was not a topic to bring up, not around Carter. Serra mouthed “Charlie” to him, and he seemed to relax a little, his shoulders falling and the heat leaving his cheeks.

  Serra turned and watched as the new arrival was met by the station’s temporary commander, the provost marshal. The marshal was supposed to be in charge of security, but with the commandant suddenly absent, he’d stepped in as the last officer of sufficient rank on board, all the other senior officers having left on the previous transport. Serra frowned.

  “And you know this how, exactly, Corporal?” Carter asked.

  DeJohn sniffed. “Didn’t you read the briefing?”

  Carter grinned and turned around. “Wait, you can read?”

  Serra laughed along with the other two. That was better. Good.

  “Shame the commandant isn’t here to meet him, then,” she said.

  Behind her, DeJohn sighed. “Not this again.”

  “Look,” said Serra, turning. “It’s fucked up. How come the commandant isn’t here? Isn’t he supposed to stay on the station until the very end?”

  DeJohn laughed. He was standing with his hands behind his back, his own row of marines forming a scraggly, disorganized group as they waited for their orders.

  “You expecting this boat to sink, marine?”

  Serra spun around and snapped to attention. The warrant officer in front of her held a computer pad in one hand, his attention apparently fixed on it as he tapped at the screen with his finger. Carter stood to attention too, but snuck a sideways glance at Serra, his lip curled in a smirk.

  “Well, Psi-Sergeant Serra?” The warrant officer’s eyes didn’t leave his pad.

  “No, sir,” said Serra. Damn, did she want to get off this boat.

  Nobody said anything for a moment. The warrant officer continued to tap on his pad. Serra and Carter stood rigid. Serra could hear DeJohn breathing behind her.

  Finally the warrant officer dropped the pad to his side. He took a step back and raised his voice to address the several ranks of marines still waiting in the hangar.

  “Okay, there is still a problem with the transport manifest, so we can’t take everyone. Groups six to nine will embark on my order. Groups ten and up, you’re staying put.”

  The sound of several dozen marines, all packed up and ready to go, sick to death of their current posting and sick to death of standing around in the hangar, murmuring their displeasure as they shuffled to collect their kits, filled the hangar. DeJohn sighed more dramatically than the rest.

  “The fuck?” he said, and then added, “Sir.”

  The warrant officer glanced over Serra’s shoulder at the marine. “Them is, as they say, marine, the breaks. Any problem, you’re free to take it up with Commandant Elbridge.”

  “The commandant isn’t even on board this U-Star,” said DeJohn, “Sir.”

  “And life is hard and unfair, marine.”

  Serra tried very hard not to smile. From the corner of her eye, she could see Carter having even more difficulty.

  Over on the other side of the hangar, the new arrival and the provost marshal were heading out.

  The warrant officer stepped closer to Serra and raised his computer pad again.

  “Fleet regulation specifies that at least one psi-marine is to remain on any U-Star at all times. Lafferty drew the card and is on the way out, which leaves you on duty, Psi-Sergeant.”

  At this, Carter and Serra exchanged a look. As much as she wanted to get off this godforsaken space station and out of this system with its fucking evil star and all the crap its fucked-up light was causing, she didn’t want to be away from Carter. She could see it in his eyes too. One day they’d leave the Fleet altogether, the both of them, get married, move out to a quiet colony, have kids. Carter was getting an itch, and Serra would follo
w him wherever he needed to go.

  The warrant officer sniffed. “Problem, marine?”

  Serra stood to attention, eyes-front. “No, sir.”

  The warrant officer glanced at Carter, catching the tail end of his grin. He raised an eyebrow, then shook his head and began tapping on his pad again. Then he walked off without another word.

  Serra relaxed. When she looked at Carter, she was grinning too.

  A heavy hand clapped her on the shoulder, making her jump. DeJohn leaned between the two of them, his shaved scalp glistening in the hangar lights.

  “Looks like time to have a party, girls and boys.”

  “If by ‘party’ you mean make sure the demolition drones don’t take us apart when they go haywire,” said Carter, “then sure, let’s party.” He grabbed his kit and motioned to Serra. She nodded and picked hers up.

  “Hey,” said DeJohn, stepping forward as his row of marines fell out. Carter turned but Serra made a point of keeping herself pointed toward the exit. If she was staying on board for the remainder of the station’s life, she would unpack her kit in Carter’s cabin. Being the sole occupant of the psi-marine berth was going to be a real drag, and there was no one left aboard who was likely to make a fuss about her and Carter breaking Fleet regulations by sharing quarters. DeJohn was right, in his own, stupid way. It was party time at the edge of Fleetspace.

  “Hey,” said DeJohn again. Serra turned with a much-exaggerated display of boredom, but DeJohn didn’t notice. He waved them back over and dropped his voice.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s just us. We got this whole damn boat to ourselves—”

  “And two hundred other marines,” said Carter, folding his arms. DeJohn screwed his face up like he’d just bitten something very sour.

  “Naw, I mean us. We’re a fireteam now, am I right? One marine, one marine-engineer, one psi-marine.”

  Serra folded her arms too. “Your point?”

  “Think we need to say hello to our so-called hero. Show him a thing or two, you know?”

  DeJohn rubbed his fist into the palm of the other hand with relish. Carter stood still, not doing anything except sucking in his cheeks. Then he turned quickly and patted Serra’s shoulder for her to follow.

  Out of DeJohn’s earshot, Serra asked her lover if he was okay, but he didn’t answer.

  * * *

  Ida shifted on the couch. Looking up, he was blinded by the light that hung in the steel globe directly overhead. He turned his head to look at medic, a young Japanese woman who had introduced herself as Izanami.

  Ida wasn’t sure this was entirely necessary—the only part of him that needed medical attention was his robot knee, and only as part of a routine check. He was on his way out of the Fleet, not a raw recruit whose psychopathic tendencies were to be identified and, if possible, developed. But psychotherapy was all part of standard Fleet procedure, and his training died hard.

  Izanami sat perfectly still, hands clasped in her lap. She smiled, the white of her teeth matching the white of her medic’s tunic and skirt, contrasting a little—but not that much—with her pale skin. She was practically monochromatic.

  Ida had been on board not quite two cycles, and so far Izanami was the only person other than the provost marshal who had spoken more than a few words to him. She’d turned up at his cabin, knocking politely on the door before appearing around the frame with a big, friendly smile. She introduced herself as a neurotherapist, but like most of the station’s crew, she was no longer on active duty, merely stuck on the Coast City until the final transport ship arrived. With a skeleton crew of just over two hundred—and a full complement of medical drones capable of dealing, at the extreme end of the spectrum, with ten thousand war-wounded—she was surplus to requirements.

  Ida shifted on the fake leather couch. To hell with it. The couch was comfortable.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” said Izanami.

  Ida laughed. “Please don’t tell me they teach you that opening line at the academy?”

  “Sorry,” said Izanami. She gestured to the room. “Old habits! I haven’t had much to do here. I’m clearly dying to psychoanalyze someone, and you seem to be a willing victim, Captain.”

  Ida waved a hand, dismissing her apology. “I’m joking. But, let’s see.… I was born in Avebury, England, 2920, Anno Domini. But only by accident. My father worked for the Fleet, so we traveled around a lot and were only in the Britannic States for a couple of months when I decided to make an early appearance. He was from Idaho—well, what used to be Idaho, before the Fleet Confederacy reorganized the United States in … whenever. He still called it that, anyway.”

  Izanami smiled, but there was something off about the expression, and Ida didn’t like it. It was years since he’d been on a Fleet shrink’s couch, and he thought perhaps he was straying from the point. He frowned and tried to find a better place from which to continue his personal history. He turned back to face the ceiling, closing his eyes against the dazzling light globe directly above. He cleared his throat.

  “Well…”

  For a second Ida thought he felt Izanami’s hand on his bare forearm. Her fingers were cold, almost painfully so, and he flinched, jerking his head up from the couch to look.

  Izanami hadn’t moved, her fingers woven together on her lap. Her smile was somehow warmer now. Ida felt himself relax. He was jumpy; that was for sure. Maybe the whispers he’d heard around the place were worrying him more than he thought.

  “So,” Izanami said, “who are you going home to, now you’re retired?”

  Ida looked at Izanami, annoyed at the question. But, of course, she didn’t know. She sat still in her chair, clearly expecting an answer.

  “Oh,” he began, then paused. “Not much time for family life in a job like mine. But … there was someone, though. Once.”

  Ida stopped, and frowned. He hoped Izanami would move on.

  “Tell me about her.”

  No such luck. Ida coughed. “Ah, well, her name was Astrid. She had blond hair, and she … she died.” He raised himself up on one elbow. “Do we need to talk about this now?”

  The room seemed colder. Izanami met Ida’s gaze, her face now expressionless. Her eyes seemed to catch a reflection from the steel lamp and flashed blue for a second.

  “I have a husband,” she said.

  Ida raised an eyebrow.

  “He left me,” she continued. “Sometimes I think that is harder than death.”

  Ida’s jaw worked as his brain tried to catch up with the conversation.

  “I’m … ah…” Ida lay back on the couch. He squinted into the lamp; when he looked away he saw purple spots and streaking shadows until he blinked them gone.

  “It’s okay,” said Izanami.

  Ida glanced sideways at her and she was smiling again, and for a moment he was lost in her eyes. Then he saw that they actually were blue, a rare color indeed for a Japanese woman.

  * * *

  “You’re not serious?”

  DeJohn’s face split into a wide grin. Serra looked across the canteen table at Carter, daring to hope he at least saw some sense, but he was smiling too. Except … there was something else, something behind the smile, behind his eyes. He was bored—hell, they were all bored—and he seemed content to let DeJohn take the lead on practically everything now. Carter was better than that; she knew it. If only he’d snap the hell out of it. If only DeJohn would just let it go.

  “Hey, hey,” said DeJohn. He looked first over one shoulder, then the other, like he was worried someone else in the canteen would overhear them. That was bullshit too; DeJohn didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone else heard. But he still leaned in to the table and lowered his voice. All part of his stupid game.

  “He’s an officer with a Fleet Medal, jackass,” Serra hissed at DeJohn. Her eyes remained on Carter’s face, though. His smile thinned a little.

  “He ain’t no such goddamn thing, marine,” said DeJohn. “Some kind of hero, right? Bullshit
. I checked. Bullshit. There’s no record of him or anything. Saved a planet? There’s no way we wouldn’t know about that. No way! Hell, save a planet? That doesn’t happen. That’s called winning. Which is something we sure as hell ain’t doing.”

  “But if he was Black Ops, he wouldn’t have a record, would he,” said Carter quietly.

  “Bah!” said DeJohn, sitting back in his chair. “You telling me Black Ops are saving planets now? A little difficult to keep something like that quiet. And you’re telling me they hand out Fleet Medals in Black Ops? Black Ops is called Black Ops for a reason. They do the nasty shit so we don’t have to. They don’t give out medals for that.”

  Serra tried to catch Carter’s eye, but he was staring, unblinking, at DeJohn. She glanced down—she couldn’t help it—at the silver bar sewn into his tunic.

  FOR SERVICES RENDERED

  “You’re right,” said Carter. Serra blinked. There was a light in Carter’s eyes, a fire. His smile crept up at the corners. “He’s a goddamn liar.”

  Serra slumped in her chair as DeJohn laughed. Damn. It. She’d try to talk him down, but later, not here.

  “So,” said Carter, leaning in across the table, “what do you think we should do about it?”

  Serra folded her arms and gazed into the air somewhere above the table as DeJohn told Carter exactly what he had in mind.

  Idiots, she thought.

  * * *

  This had to be it, surely. Ida checked the computer pad in his hand, rotating the screen to view the station map from a different angle.

  Left, Corridor Eleven, Omega Deck. Then left again, and then straight on. Service elevator to the next level, keep on going. Ida traced the route on the pad, his finger leaving a red trail on the station schematic. He tapped the “home” button and stroked the station locator icon on the pad’s main screen. The device bleated, then came back with an error. Ida looked around, but the plating had been taken off this section of corridor already, taking with it the level and corridor ident signs.

  Somebody had screwed up. His duties weren’t exactly onerous—he was officially retired and merely an observer on the station. But as such he’d been given a few minor chores, including demolition sign-offs for each section, as well as a list of station modules already packed away that he had to cross-check against the master manifest. It was stupid, really. They were the kind of checks that the demolition crews would be doing anyway, so all Ida was doing was duplicating the paperwork and, no doubt, pissing off the skeleton crew who were doing their best to get on with their difficult and dangerous work without him slowing them down. King too—the provost marshal hadn’t been exactly thrilled to welcome him on board and had been a little frosty ever since. Perhaps he thought that by sending Ida here, Fleet Command were butting in, questioning whether the marshal was capable of running a tight operation.