Under Shadows

by Jason LaPier

  He had an encrypted communications package on his WrappiMate, but the range on it was mediocre. He needed to amplify his signal if he were to reach Ipo. The rail had a transmission car, but all the pods were full by the time he got there. Worse, there was a line.

  Jax and Lealina were both pale-faced when Runstom returned to the passenger car. Well, Jax was always pale-faced, but in any case, it was clear they’d heard the news. Lealina was tapping away at a pad. Jax sat close to her, his lanky hands flexing nervously.

  “It must be Jansen,” he said when he saw Runstom approach.

  Runstom nodded and sat down. “I need to call my boss at Ipo,” he said. “Transmission pods are all full and there’s a line.”

  Jax blinked. “ModPol is already at Ipo,” he said quickly. “They can move in, right? They can rescue the ark.”

  An emptiness grew inside Runstom. “They don’t have jurisdiction on Terroneous.”

  “But the space above Terroneous?”

  “A gray area,” Runstom said. But gray was close enough for something like this. ModPol would rush to the rescue. The meeting with Victoria Horus and Francois Newman ran through his mind. Their inside information. They knew this attack was coming. They knew ModPol would be close enough to help.

  They could have sent the info to Terroneous. Warned them of the impending attack. And then what? The FSC wouldn’t have accepted their help. Instead, they’d be forced to cobble together a defense fleet of some kind. Runstom started to understand the role of deception in all of this. ModPol could help Terroneous. But Terroneous didn’t want that help. Instead, by letting things play out and standing by, ModPol could still fulfill their mission. They could protect people that need it. At that moment in time, it was too late for anything else.

  “But you’re right,” Runstom said. “ModPol can move in.”

  Lealina looked up from her pad. “The FSC can’t agree to a response,” she whispered. Pain twisted her face and droplets formed at the corners of her eyes. “Those people are going to die.”

  “I need to talk to my boss,” Runstom said.

  “Come on.” She stood up and yanked Runstom by the elbow. “I’ll get you a pod.”

  Back at the transmission car, Lealina waved her TEOB credentials and pushed through the growing line. She yanked a young man out of the first pod, flashed her creds, and shoved Runstom inside. The pod door closed off the ensuing argument.

  The silence inside the milky-white bubble was unnerving. But it told Runstom his conversation would be completely contained. The makers of the pods had their customers’ privacy at the top of mind.

  He disconnected the worn and scratched rectangular pad that was still there from the previous occupant and connected the thin cable to the only port in his WrappiMate. His screen winked icon-laden graphics at him, letting him know an external, extended-range antenna had been installed and was being integrated. Everything went green after a few seconds. He opened the comms app.

  “Horus – I mean, Victoria. Vicky. Hi, it’s Officer Runstom. I mean Public Relations – I mean, it’s Stanford. I’m on a rail on the surface of Terroneous. About an hour from a city called Nuzwick. I just got word of the attack.” He paused, then concluded with, “Please advise.”

  He didn’t bother to edit the message before it went out. He had no idea whether she would answer right away. Ipo was close enough that the delay could be measured in seconds, but with the attack, she could be occupied.

  A minute later, the reply came in. “Stan, thank you for calling in. We’re already scrambling the MPD fighters here on Ipo. By the time you get to town, we’ll be halfway to the ark.”

  The icon indicated Horus was still connected. Despite the delay, she wanted to treat it like any other audio call.

  “Won’t we be violating the no-fly zone around Terroneous?”

  “Yes, technically we will. But there is no time to negotiate. We’re taking out the Space Waste command ship to protect the ark. We’ll ask forgiveness for the no-fly violation after the fact.”

  As he suspected then. “Command ship?” he said. “The same carrier that was at Eridani?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said unevenly. The delay gave the impression of hesitation. “Despite our successful rout of the Wasters at Eridani, the command ship was able to Xarp back to Barnard.” There was another short pause, and then her voice continued. “Listen, Stanford. This ain’t over yet. A bunch of the members of the FSC will all be in Nuzwick for the homecoming of your friend Jackson. Timing on this is critical. Chasing the Wasters out of Terroneous space is one thing, but we can’t put boots on the ground without their permission.”

  “Why do we need boots on the ground?”

  “Now what I need you to do,” she started, then stopped. His delayed question interrupted her. “I told you, this ain’t over, Stan. I need you to work your magic. Be real with them. Remember, you’re good at this because everyone trusts you. Because you tell the truth. They can see it. So you tell them. Tell them what will happen if the Wasters get to that ark before we do. Tell them how important the lives of those Earthlings are – not just to Terroneous, but to ModPol as well. You tell them about how your father was an Earthling.”

  Runstom’s heart stopped moving. “What did you say? My father?”

  The delay was excruciatingly long. For decades, he’d wasted no spare thought on the man who had impregnated his mother. And then, only in the past couple of weeks, it had come up. More than once.

  “I’m sorry, Stanford,” Horus said finally. “I spoke out of turn. I can’t talk any more right now. Just remember; troop carriers are going to follow the fighters. If we need those troops to drop to Terroneous for any reason, we need the FSC’s permission. I need you to get that permission. This whole operation depends upon it. Am I making myself clear?”

  It was the first time Runstom had heard Horus’s voice in a tone other than the usual chummy, assuring, encouraging one. It had grown hard. The comms app indicated that the conversation had ended. If he replied to her, she’d receive the message, but she would not hear it right away.

  He felt his head grow heavy, pulling against his neck. His father, an Earthling? Sylvia had never said anything of the sort. Never said anything at all. She never lied about it. Just said nothing.

  A pounding noise from behind snapped his head back up. He stood and exited the pod.

  *

  The ceremony was already canceled by the time they reached Nuzwick. Lealina had taken the lead as soon as they’d stepped from the train. Swept along in her wake, Runstom and Jax pushed through the crowded streets of the small town. A cold rain had hissed down, muting the meager streetlights that were trying to beat back the dark shadow of the colossus, Barnard-5. Before long, Runstom found himself in the conference room temporarily commandeered by the Terroneous Federated Security Committee. Each of the four present committee members was flanked by a number of staff. Each had taken over a corner of the room, clusters of busybodies jabbing at hastily mounted wall-pads or relaying messages via video, voice, and text to unseen recipients.

  Lealina paused upon sweeping into the room. Her entrance got a moment’s glance from the occupants, but only barely so. Runstom followed her gaze to an older man he recognized from the broadcast that had demanded the return of Jax.

  “Jarvis,” Lealina said.

  He turned and stepped forward as they approached his corner. He glanced back at the collection of chaos behind him, six people talking at once, and stepped forward further to meet them in the center.

  “Lealina.” He took her hand. “I’m sorry about the ceremony.”

  She waved it off with her free hand. “Another time.”

  “And here’s Jack Fugere in the flesh,” he said. He released her hand to take Jax’s in a firm shake. “I wasn’t sure whether to believe that ModPol released you, son.”

  Jax shook the hand rigorously. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”

  “Jax, Stanford,” Lealina said. “This is
Jarvis Wainrite. He’s the deputy mayor in Nuzwick, and the head spokesperson for the FSC.”

  Wainrite nodded at Jax, then turned to shake Runstom’s hand cautiously. The grip much weaker than he’d just observed. “Nice to meet you, Stanford.”

  An old feeling crawled across Runstom’s skin. The feeling of being a source of discomfort. The bizarre skin. The unwanted cop. Even if he wasn’t a cop anymore. “Nice to meet you,” he returned, almost adding Mr. Wainrite. Victoria Horus’s influence was worming its way through his mind. “Jarvis.”

  “I should say,” he said. “The pleasure is mine. Not every day an old moonbilly like me gets to meet Stanford Runstom.”

  In the gap Runstom’s stunned silence left, Lealina jumped back in. “Jarvis, what the hell is going on? Can we protect the ark?”

  He sighed, his face bunching and exaggerating its wrinkles. “The bastards hit it before it got anywhere near our planetary defenses. And you know when I say planetary defenses, I mean the pebbleguns that protect the orbitals.”

  “What about the fleet?” she said.

  Those words surprised Runstom, knowing there was no such thing. Wainrite shook his head. “They’re volunteers, all of them. Getting them to sign up to protect the planet is one thing, but getting them to risk their livelihoods – and their lives – to defend the ark is something entirely different. Most of them are terrified of Space Waste.”

  “So that’s it?” she said, her voice growing strained. Jax’s face contorted as he made a motion to comfort her, then froze when she jabbed a finger at Wainrite. “You’re telling me we’re just going to let those people die?”

  “Of course not, Lealina,” he snapped in a hushed voice. “We’re considering all of our options.”

  She blinked, lips tightening. “Why are they doing this?”

  “Recruitment,” Runstom said. The three of them stared at him wide-eyed.

  “How do you know that?” Wainrite said.

  Jax huffed. “Actually, that makes complete sense. They’re always looking for new members. Seems like fresh meat from Earth would be ideal …” He trailed off under their glares, then put his hands up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so crude. It’s just a phrase I heard when I was … well … forced to join them.”

  “You joined Space Waste?” Wainrite breathed.

  “They were the ones that rescued him from ModPol,” Lealina said, quick to defend. Jax had given her the full story on the train. In fact, he’d given her far more details than Runstom would have preferred. He could only conclude the B-fourean truly trusted this woman.

  “I was forced,” Jax repeated.

  “Like the Earthlings will be,” Runstom said.

  “So if they’re trying to recruit them, why shoot them?” Wainrite said.

  “I don’t know,” Runstom said. The words of his boss still in his head. Boots on the ground. “ModPol is moving in on them now.”

  “ModPol,” Wainrite muttered with disdain.

  “ModPol Defense,” Runstom said, hoping that meant something. “There were fighterships stationed at Ipo.”

  “I heard about the trial contract there.” Wainrite nodded upward, as though they could see the sky through the building. “But they’ve got no right to invade Terroneous space.”

  Runstom nodded. “Of course not. They won’t need to cross very far to engage the Wasters.”

  “Sir!” They turned to a particularly insistent aide bounding up behind Wainrite. “Mr. Wainrite, sir. The ark radioed in. Their life support is damaged.”

  “Life support,” he said. “Can they get to the orbital?”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” the aide said, waving a pad whose screen was decorated with vectors. “The Wasters are between the ark and the dock. The ark has been forced off course.”

  “But they’re close, right?” Lealina said. “If their life support is failing, can they land on Terroneous?”

  The aide looked at each of them and then at her pad. Her mouth opened and closed.

  “Give it to me,” Wainrite said, yanking away the pad. “These old arks are made to handle crash-landings. If they can come down to the surface, we can send an emergency crew.”

  “If they land clean, they can just pop the seals open,” Lealina said, her voice brightening. “They don’t need life support here!”

  If they land. Boots on the ground. Runstom wasn’t sure how Horus knew it would happen this way. But so it was. If they were landing on the surface, then Space Waste planned it that way. Which meant they were going to follow.

  Wainrite pointed the pad at his aide. “Can we get them a message?”

  The young woman shrugged. “Sure, they’ve been in communication with our traffic towers.”

  “Unencrypted,” he mumbled.

  She shrank a bit. “I’m afraid so, sir. It’s our only channel to them.”

  “We need to find a place to tell them to land,” Lealina said. “Close enough that we can get to them with a rescue team. But not close to any population centers.”

  “Right, right,” Wainrite said, poking at the pad. “I’m thinking the Low Desert.”

  “We’re a week into the night cycle,” Lealina said. “The temperature in the desert is going to be cold. Dangerously cold.”

  “It’ll have to do,” Wainrite said.

  Runstom grabbed him by the arm. “Listen, Jarvis. Right behind those MPD fighters are a handful of troop carriers. The FSC needs to authorize them to land on Terroneous.”

  His head jerked up and his eyes widened. “Absolutely not! Those Fender scum are not stepping a single boot on our sovereign moon.”

  Runstom threw a palm to the sky. “You think this isn’t part of the Wasters’ plans? If the ark comes to the Terroneous surface, the Wasters will follow. And they don’t care about any goddamn jurisdiction.”

  Wainrite’s face bunched and reddened. “So that’s it, huh? That’s the ModPol plan? Rush to our rescue and look like goddamn heroes? Well we don’t need you. We have our own forces.”

  “Your forces are volunteers,” Runstom said evenly. “They’ll get slaughtered – if you can even get them to show up.”

  “Jarvis,” Lealina said, pulling him from out of Runstom’s face with a gentle tug of his arm. “The people on that ark need us to keep our cool. We need to work together.”

  He looked at her, breathing heavily through his nose. Then back at Runstom. “We’re not making any deals. This isn’t a contract.”

  “We don’t need a contract,” Runstom said. “Just permission.”

  “Fine,” he finally managed. He waved the pad. “We tell the ark to land in the Low Desert. And the Fenders can drop there. But that’s it. They don’t leave the fucking desert. And we have no fucking contract.”

  Runstom took a slow breath. It was all Horus had really asked him to do, though he imagined she wanted him to leverage for more. Did it matter? The ModPol Defenders were the best chance at protecting the Earthlings.

  “No contract,” he said. “And they don’t leave the desert.”

  *

  Once when he was a child, Jax’s parents had taken him to see a play about the birth of the colonies. He was too young to understand the nuances, but old enough to get the gist. The old world was in trouble: it was overcrowded, food distribution was challenging, and the seas were rising. People were getting sick a lot more than was normal, from a variety of factors. Prolonged exposure in the damaged atmosphere was bad for the lungs, skin, and even eyes. People just stopped going outside, and instead they suffered from viral infections so easily spread in the crowded, closed-in spaces.

  And yet, in other parts of the play, men and women stood together uncrowded, entangled in energetic discussion about the future of the human race. These characters were costumed to easily identify their roles. Suits, which were grey pants and a grey jacket over a white shirt and a long red necktie, represented the politicians. The scientists and doctors wore white coats that hung below the knees, every one of them carrying thin squ
ares of wood with flaps of paper attached to them, some kind of old notebook. The third type of costume paired blue pants with short-sleeved shirts of various colors, decorated with logos Jax couldn’t quite make out.

  Later it had to be explained to Jax that this third group represented the heads of the tech industry. Which qualities best served these unique leaders was the subject of much debate between his father and his mother. His father, the software engineer, praised their pragmatism and their high standards. His mother admired their risk-taking and their willingness to dive in and get their hands dirty when the work needed to be done – even when that meant bending the rules and eschewing the will of the world’s governments. According to the play, these five – three men and two women – used their resources in a sort of half-competition, half-cooperation to advance spaceflight far beyond the capabilities of government-funded organizations. Orbital docks, research colonies on Sol-4 (the Earthlings called it “Mars”), and asteroid mining contributed to a cycle of advancement. All of this technology was driven by ever-improving software powered by greater levels of artificial intelligence. There had been a fear in those days that AI would somehow become conscious. Jax had a hard time imagining how such an irrational belief had become commonplace; but then again, it wasn’t the first nor the last thing humans would get wrong.

  What followed in the next act of the play was the first spaceship carrying humans to leave the solar system. With access to superfuels found in some asteroids, the most enterprising industrialists pushed rocket acceleration to greater limits. In the late twenty-second century, the first mission to an extrasolar star was conducted: the ship made it to Alpha Centauri in just under two decades.

  While life on Earth plunged into crowded poverty, a land-grab was launching into the stars. Alliances were formed, broken, and constantly renegotiated between corporations, while the weakening governments retracted their reach. The first arcologies began appearing on Earth at that time as well: the massive self-contained structures that were the prototypes for domes like the kind Jax grew up in on Barnard-4. Only the wealthiest could afford to live in them, seeking them out to escape the hordes of sick and starving.