The Burning Dark

by Adam Christopher

  “Easy, marine.” Ida laid a hand on Carter’s shoulder, and the marine gave him a hard look.

  But Serra’s hand rested on his other shoulder, and she pushed him back. He looked at her and blinked, and seeing her face, he seemed to relax a little.

  “What happened?” Ida asked. “Are you hurt?”

  Ida gently took Carter’s forehead between the fingers of one hand and rolled the marine’s head to expose the back of it. There was a grid pattern in his closely cropped hair that showed where he’d lain, and the scalp underneath looked red, but otherwise he was unharmed. If he’d been attacked by DeJohn, the other marine hadn’t managed to land a blow to the head.

  Carter gave Ida an unfocused look, like he was concentrating on a particularly difficult engineering problem. He blinked again.

  Ida recognized the signs of a concussion.

  “Ah … that’s a very good question, sir,” Carter said quietly.

  Ida smirked. He’d called him sir. Perhaps a concussion was good for him.

  Then Carter’s hand grabbed at Ida’s chest, pulling the front of his shirt into a bunch as he sat up from the floor. Ida looked down and could see the veins bulging in the marine’s biceps. His jaw was tight, the muscles under his ears bunched and white. His eyes were wide.

  “I … remember…”

  “Charlie, what is it, babe?” Serra asked, trailing her fingers around his face.

  He flinched at her touch, but then relaxed, the red flush on his face sinking back into his bones. He breathed quickly in a controlled way, trying to calm himself down.

  “I saw someone. It … I don’t know who it was. A woman. Never found DeJohn. But … nah…” Carter shook his head, his eyes now fixed on the floor between his legs. The armed marine shifted to give him more room. From farther down the passage came the sound of more booted feet, running to the rescue.

  Ida turned back to Carter. “Who was it? What did you see?”

  Carter laughed. The laugh was empty, spent of emotion, an expression of fear and resignation at impossible things.

  “Whoever it was, I don’t think she’s part of the crew. I didn’t recognize the suit either. It was strange. Not Fleet issue. It had letters on it, maybe some kind of insignia.” He moved his hand in the air over his own chest, miming his description. “C—C—C—P.” He shook his head.

  Ida frowned, unsure whether he should recognize the initials or not. He pushed the thought to one side.

  Serra looked at Ida and then up at the armed marine. “A stowaway?”

  “Or an infiltrator,” said Ida. “That would explain the suit.”

  Serra nodded. “Spacewalk between the hub and their ship?”

  “Could be. The manifest bug can’t be a coincidence. If they’ve tampered with the station systems so we can’t detect their ship, they might also be able to knock out life scanners inside so we can’t see them as they sneak around the station. Maybe that’s what’s caused the manifest to bug, DeJohn to drop off the system. Right?”

  But Carter was shaking his head, his agitation returning. He rubbed his greasy temple.

  “No, there was something else, like … like they weren’t really there, they weren’t part of … ah, I dunno.”

  Ida stood up and stroked his chin in thought. A trio of marines jogged around the corner, pulling up as they saw the group standing around the man on the floor. Ida’s former guard stepped toward the newcomers and filled them in on what was happening.

  Ida glanced over at Izanami, who was standing well back in the shadows at the edge of the passageway, giving everybody room. He nodded to her, and then looked back at Carter.

  “Okay, we’ll let the medic take care of you, and then we’ve got to take this to King. This facility is supposed to be on lockdown.”

  Serra looked up at him. “He’s not going to like this.”

  “Well, he can like it or he can lump it, but this time he can’t brush it off.” Ida rolled his neck a little, conscious now that he was bringing the subject back to himself. He felt everyone’s eyes on him and quickly moved back to business. “We have an intruder. That’s about as serious as it gets.”

  Ida turned on his heel. The marine at the front of the new group brought himself to a quiet attention, but Ida wasn’t looking at him. He was looking past him.

  Ida looked at Izanami. In the half dark of the corridor her eyes flashed with pale blue light.

  Ida looked over his shoulder, down at Carter. “Do you think you can walk, marine?”

  Carter snorted and bent his knees. “I’m not a cripple.”

  Ida smiled. Carter’s old attitude was coming back, which meant he was feeling better. Damn.

  Carter stood, Serra and a marine on each side for support. Ida stuffed his hands in his pockets and stepped back, eyeing Carter up and down, making sure there wasn’t an injury he’d missed.

  Carter froze.

  Serra’s eyes searched his face. “What is it?” she mouthed.

  But he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring straight ahead, into the shadows. His face blanched to a deathly white, and when he opened his mouth, his scream was long and high.

  Ida swore and turned, following Carter’s eye line. But there was no one there except Izanami, standing apart from the group, keeping out of everyone’s way. Smiling in the darkness. Her eyes moved from Carter to Ida. Then she turned and walked away toward the bulkhead door.

  Ida frowned. Behind him, Carter collapsed into the arms of Serra and the other marine.

  21

  “This is exactly what I don’t need.”

  Ida snorted and shifted the weight on his feet. The provost marshal paced back and forth in the ready room, apparently talking to himself. Ida wasn’t sure whether King was more concerned about possible infiltrators attacking his marines or about this screwing up his carefully planned schedule.

  King stopped pacing and glanced at Ida and Serra. Serra stood to attention, looking pale and ill as she stared at the wall behind King’s commandeered desk. Ida followed her gaze to the painting there—a print, Japanese, of some nautical disaster. It must have been as expensive as the desk and the rug. The desk was clear, the book Ida had seen open there now absent.

  “Where is Sergeant Major Carter now?” asked the marshal.

  Serra’s heels clicked together. “He’s been admitted to the infirmary, sir, and is under sedation, sir.”

  King nodded. “Very well. I’m moving this station to alert status. Our guests are due in just two cycles. We are going to sweep this station from top to bottom and get rid of our rats. Captain Cleveland…”

  Here it came. Confined to quarters to twiddle his thumbs. He wondered if Izanami would at least keep him company. Ida glanced to his left, where she was standing demurely, smiling but staring ahead, her eyes apparently focused on the same point as Serra’s. Maybe she knew what the print was about. Ida wondered who was looking after Carter.

  “You and Psi-Sergeant Serra will lead the search. Dismissed.”

  Ida blinked, then coughed politely into his fist. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly, Marshal.”

  King ground his teeth. “This station is operating on a skeleton crew, if you hadn’t noticed. Retired or not, you hold the second-highest rank on board. For the moment I’m going to forget about the radio—”

  Ida drew breath to speak but the marshal held up a hand.

  “I said for the moment. Until we get this situation under control, I’m officially reinstating you to service.”

  Ida opened his mouth again, but he wasn’t sure what to say. King raised an eyebrow.

  Reinstated to service? It was a surprise, but it made sense. Orders changed all the time in war, often suddenly; Ida had plenty of experience with that. And King was right. If the station was under threat, they needed everyone to pull together.

  Ida felt a smile grow on his face. He saw King look at him, and quickly brought himself to attention. He snapped a salute.

  “Captain Abraham Idaho Cleve
land reporting for duty, sir!”

  King nodded and moved back around behind his desk. With the marshal’s back turned, Ida glanced sideways at Serra, but she was motionless, her glazed eyes fixed on the wall. On Ida’s other side, Izanami had that damn smile on her face again.

  “At ease, Captain,” King said as he sat behind the desk. “We need to flush out our rats, and quick. This station needs to be secure for our VIPs. I’m giving you a chance here, Captain. You say you’re a hero? Show us. You and Psi-Sergeant Serra will assemble your teams. Dismissed.”

  Serra’s heels clicked as she came to life. “Understood, sir.” The marine spun elegantly around, snapped her heels again, and left the office at a formal march.

  Ida and King regarded each other for a few moments. Then King nodded, and this time the smile on his face seemed genuine. Ida saluted and glanced at Izanami, who at last tore her eyes off the wall and looked at him, her smile still firmly in place. Ida turned back to the marshal, said “sir,” then waved at Izanami. “Come on,” he said, and he turned to leave.

  “I’ll monitor from here, Captain,” said King.

  Ida turned back. “Ah … yes, sir.” He frowned, nodded at Izanami, and left.

  * * *

  Each of the twenty-three decks of the vast torus structure that formed the bulk of the Coast City had a series of large atriums at the four compass points that housed both passenger and service elevators and other access points. Ida had picked the northern lobby on Deck 20 as the closest one to Carter’s incident. Ida told Serra he’d meet her in twenty minutes at the assembly point nearest to her cabin.

  Then he returned to his quarters to prepare for the bug hunt. While the Coast City had an ample supply of uniforms, fatigues, and combat suits, Ida preferred his own, custom suit, brought with him from his own U-Star. He’d clung to it like a safety blanket, a reminder that he wasn’t crazy, that he had served the Fleet and retired with honor. As he stood in his cabin, holding the combat jacket in his hands, he rubbed a thumb over the rank insignia and the small silver bar sewn onto the left breast. You don’t get that, he thought, from being a liar.

  Ida was surprised to find himself needing the combat suit again, surprised to find himself suddenly wielding authority after his confinement to quarters. But damn, did it feel good. He’d given his life to the Fleet, only to end up in forced retirement. But now the provost marshal had stepped up, shown his faith, and Ida was a captain again, combat suit and all.

  Unfortunately, he’d have to wear it incomplete—the helmet sat on a shelf in the cupboard, the psi-fi link between it and the rest of the suit somehow unable to pair, no matter how many times Ida cycled the system.

  “Are you excited?”

  He turned, looking up from the jacket. Izanami was standing in the cabin’s open door, and he realized that he’d been rude, leaving her to trail behind him while he was lost in his own world.

  “How’s Carter?”

  Izanami stepped in, her eyes glittering in the cabin’s subdued lighting. “Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s well looked after.”

  “Good, good.” Ida tossed the jacket onto the bed and went to drag the rest of his combat gear out of one of the lockers. He thought he heard her soft footfalls on the floor and then a rustle behind him as she sat on his bed. He was about to ask who, exactly, was looking after Carter, but then he found the rest of his combat suit. He yanked it from under a pile of other bits and turned around.

  Ida paused, then looked over at his desk. The silver oblong of the space radio was there, plugged in, the blue LED shining bright. Which was odd, since he didn’t remember seeing it as he’d come into his cabin, and the blue light really was bright in the half-lit cabin. He walked over to the desk, running a finger along the top of the radio. He couldn’t believe it was there.

  “What’s this—?”

  “I brought it back,” said Izanami. “Thought you might like to listen to her again.”

  Ida whistled. “King is going to throw you out of an air lock when he finds out.” He turned to the bed. Izanami’s words bothered him more than he cared to admit as he picked up the last pieces of his kit—gloves, belt, shoulder utility harness covered in pouches and metal snap-rings for holding additional equipment. “Time to get this bug hunt under way. Will you stay here? If there are rats, they may run. I can get a marine on the door.”

  Izanami shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’ll lock the door.”

  Ida nodded. “Keep it quiet and keep it dark,” he said. He adjusted his gloves and then nodded a farewell.

  “She’s a mystery, isn’t she?”

  Ida froze at the cabin door. “Um…”

  “She blasted off from Baikonur Cosmodrome in May 1961 and never returned.”

  When he turned around, Izanami was standing right behind him. She smiled and Ida felt cold, even under his intelligent combat suit.

  “A space pioneer,” she said, “lost on reentry.” Her eyes flashed blue, reflecting the light of the subspace radio. “Dead for a thousand years.”

  Why Izanami found the whole thing so amusing, Ida wasn’t sure. But there wasn’t time to discuss it now. She was right, the message was a mystery, and clearly she’d spent some more time unpicking the signal, getting a better fix on its origin. But now there was real work to be done, hunting down the infiltrators and securing the station. As King had said, he had a chance now to show who he really was. It was time to move on.

  “Fine,” he said, surprising himself with the hardness of his voice. He pointed at the subspace radio. “As soon as we’ve secured the station, that needs to go back to wherever King stowed it.”

  Izanami took a step backwards, never letting her gaze drop from Ida’s. Ida shivered. He supposed the recording had become a little obsession for her too. After all, she had nothing to do around the station. But he knew now that he should never have built the damned thing. Getting rid of it would be the best decision, for Izanami and for him.

  “But right now I need you to stay here.” Ida turned and headed toward Serra’s rendezvous, adjusting the buckle on his equipment harness as he did, trying to remember why Carter’s description of the red letters CCCP on the infiltrator’s space suit was familiar.

  22

  Serra was waiting for Ida, and suddenly Ida felt he was out of place, his earlier bravado evaporating. His combat suit was a dark blue and he was missing the helmet, while Serra and her team were clad in the Coast City’s olive green battlesuits.

  Get it together, Captain.

  As he approached, Serra turned and flipped the visor of her helmet up and looked him up and down. Ida smiled tightly but Serra didn’t say anything, instead tossing him a small rifle identical to the one she and the others were carrying. Ida caught the weapon and checked the small ammunition indicator display on the butt. It was loaded with soft ceramic shells, lethal to flesh and blood but, in the event of a full-on shoot-out, unable to penetrate far into the interior skin of the space station. The last thing you wanted to do in a crisis was breach the hull and pop everyone inside the station like overripe grapes.

  “Thanks,” said Ida, clipping the weapon to the webbing across the front of his combat suit. He felt better. “What’s the plan, marine?”

  Serra glanced over the assembled troops—Ida counted the two security officers who had kept him confined to his cabin among the ten marines present. The task force was a small but impressive one. Fully armored up and with helmet visors closed, they looked like a cluster of particularly angry turtles standing on their hind legs.

  “The central core of the Coast City is locked off with marines patrolling key thoroughfares and junctions,” said Serra. “Observation drones are monitoring other access points. That leaves us with the hub itself, eighty percent of which is uninhabitable.”

  “Observation drones?”

  Serra nodded. “We’ve borrowed some demolition robots and set them to cover the access wells leading to the bridge and spire. Those areas are open to space, but might make an i
deal access point for our rats.”

  Ida smirked. “I’d hate to come up against a demolition drone programmed to be a security guard.”

  Serra’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Exactly.”

  “With the lockdown active, how many levels do we need to cover?”

  “Just eleven. We split into two teams, start at opposite ends, top and bottom, then spiral toward the center clockwise and anticlockwise. Even if the rats manage to keep ahead of us, we’ll have them squeezed between the two groups.” Serra pulled a narrow rectangular computer pad from the holster on her thigh and held it up to Ida. As he watched, her gauntleted finger traced a map of their route through the station.

  It was a nice plan, and a simple one. Ida had wondered whether scouring an entire space station was beyond the capabilities of the skeleton crew, even with him freshly recruited, but with the patrol points and observation drones doing most of their work, all they had to accomplish was a coordinated sweep that would force any infiltrators out into the open. Serra had done a good job, and he said so.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Ida smiled. Captain. Yep, it was a good feeling. He was back at work.

  Serra seemed to notice and grinned; then she turned to the other marines. “Decker, Blackmoore, Ahuriri, Reitman, with me. Lawrence, Perrett, Leena, Newman, follow Captain Cleveland.”

  She turned back to Ida. “Top or bottom?”

  He looked at the ceiling. “Up, please.”

  Serra nodded. “Let’s roll.”

  * * *

  For the first time in … oh, a long time, Ida felt less like a spare part and more like the old Captain Cleveland. Taking point of his party of five, stalking forward slowly, rifle raised and sighted all the way, he immersed himself in the mission, losing himself in years of training and combat experience. He was in control, and that felt good, but there was more to it. He was needed and trusted. King’s vote of confidence seemed to have brought Serra around too, which was, Ida thought, a small first step on the long journey to winning back the respect he deserved aboard the Coast City.