by Allen Ivers
Perhaps some of that equipment could be better used in Forward Wall Medical Stations?
As he stepped out from the hospital ward, the colony's structures stretched out before them. The Aurora tower stood just across the boulevard, its knobbly frame reaching high into the sky, with its heavy engines seated down underground to serve as a foundation.
What was once the tallest structure in the area had since been dwarfed by the three taller skyscrapers and a fourth going up. The gleaming daggers of glass and steel reached high into the sky, as if to taunt the conquered world beneath them. There was no seam or steel frame, just their glassy sleeves catching the midday light and lighting the entire city with an autumn warmth not previously seen outside of memory.
Beneath their familial embrace, shopkeepers hawked their wares, cafes served their fare, and maglev trains hummed their loads in a suburban ballet of peace and prosperity. They had taken a wildland and crafted civilization out of nothing but dust.
Even Earth wasn’t this welcoming anymore, with permanent storms rocking the coastlines and intense heat baking the Midlands. Colonies like Vanguard were comparably temperate, especially for those without the means to buy it on Earth.
People poured into these fringe worlds like they might forge their fortune from the very soil. There was a time when living on the Reaches was considered a rich man’s retreat, a healthy and quiet retirement; until a few short months ago, it was almost the desirable choice.
They had names for colonials now: Dusters, people scratching a living from the dust. Minister Caldwell had a few more choice titles for them.
“May I speak freely, sir?” Holmst broke the silence.
“He’s alive,” Riley jumped on the moment, “For the low, low price of whatever Princess decides to spend on him. But so long as she doesn't divert any Military supply…”
“They left him alive, sir.”
Who did? Riley pivoted on his heels, turning back to Holmst.
His aide had stopped in the middle of the boulevard. He was halfway between declaring his discovery and caught up in the act of it. His eyes were darting around, replaying the mission in his head, before bouncing back up to his commander’s icy face.
“I had a pretty good view of it. And I’ve been going over it again and again. They had every opportunity to finish the job. They didn’t."
He was caught up in the momentum now, closing the distance between the two. Thankfully, there was a break in the trains overhead, allowing Holmst to have his little moment.
"They don’t have much care for their own losses. They come after us until we are dead and gone.”
Riley sighed, “They’re persistent. You’re not telling me something I don’t already know, Lieutenant.”
“They had him, sir. I mean it, they had him. So he stabs one with his quick knife? What of it? They’re made of the damn things. He should be hamburger. But he takes one last Drone down and they just… bugger off? It doesn’t make sense.”
Holmst took the last few steps toward Riley, the mental ball officially rolling downhill, avalanche warning in effect, “The civilian we rescued? He wasn’t an accident. He was left alive to bait the trap. Pretty basic mechanic. Get us deep enough inside the jaws before they snap it closed on us: maximizes casualties. It's Guerilla Warfare 101."
And now the thesis statement. "Sir, they’re smart enough to make plans.”
“Are you suggesting that Aaron is… boobytrapped?” Riley couldn’t imagine how that would be possible.
Holmst pursed his lips, going over the instant replay in his head one more time, “We’re missing something, sir. I know it.”
10
Aaron
They later told him it wasn’t the first time he’d woken up, but it was the first time he could remember doing so.
The bedding was stiff, with pressed sheets and a heated blanket draped over him like a crusty & scratchy tortoiseshell. He could feel the seams in the bed through the thin mattress, where sections of mattress could be pulled away to grant doctors access without moving him.
Diodes kissed his skin and the tell-tale beeps of a dozen life signs being monitored cut the air just a few feet away from him. A large diode clung to the back of his neck, right at the base of his skull, one long line of tape and cord that went from ear to ear. Tubes pressed against his skin, and a plastic reservoir strapped to his thigh, weighty and full.
He tried to flex his leg, but a tingling numb was his only response. He could only hope that was a painkiller and not a far worse discovery.
Aside from the chirping of medical equipment, the only sound was a dull hum that came from his right, modulating every so often, with the tell-tale rise and fall of city life. Wait a minute… where was he?
Then he opened his eyes, cracking the sand at the edges of his lids like he was breaking free of an eggshell.
Off the opposite wall, hung a calendar with a dozen scribbled notes on it. His eyes couldn’t focus on any one word long enough before they would slide off.
The lights were dim, but a warm and welcome light beamed in through the window. The blinds had been drawn to allow that inviting glow to stretch out in the room.
The pale blue sky overhead, just like –
Those eyes
Aaron shook his head, adrenaline pumping. That dull hum had risen in pitch, a soft whine to match his tension.
He could remember the Farm, the shouting, and that horrible pain. He looked down at his bedsheets, where two distinct lumps sat. His legs. They had been so—
Don't pull the bandage, rip it.
He hesitated for a moment before flipping the bed sheet aside. Mercifully, his leg was there to greet him, albeit with a nasty jagged scar down from thigh to knee.
He had been hit from behind, so this was an exit wound -- the back side of his leg was liable to be a real horror show. The damage had mostly healed, aside from the drainage tube still gurgling on his hip.
“We have to prevent infections,” a voice called out, silky and low.
Aaron glanced at the door. A tall and slender silhouette hung in the entry, with clean clothes and a tightly kept ponytail. Her posture seemed closed, with one hand on hip and legs close together, allowing only tiny darts of light to slip through her frame.
The light from the hallway beyond blinded Aaron to more specifics but wrapped them in a kind of otherworldly glow, as though she might have come from some benevolent higher place to bestow kindness and forgiveness.
“Remember me?” The voice asked, with a chirp of playful to it.
“Where am I?” Aaron stopped short of demanding an answer. He had no reason to think he was in any danger, but he didn't much care for this person's flirty opener.
The figure stepped forward, letting the light from the window dance upward to reveal their face. A hard jaw with a perfectly curved brow and pale lips: it was as though they had been carved from marble in honor something greater.
It was ethereal. Or maybe that was just the drugs.
“At Hospital, in Vanguard. You were injured out at the Rimpau Homestead,” the alto voice intoned, “We’ve spent the better part of the last week rebuilding you.”
Aaron looked back down at his leg. One week? That scar looked several months of healing old.
The figure smiled, predicting his line of thought, “Modern medical marvels, Mr. Havenes.”
They took another step into the light, further from their divine backlighting. She was still beautiful, even in the fluorescents of the office, with bright eyes and high cheekbones.
Her look softened as he continued to marvel at her. Good, she thinks it’s the medication. “Talania Dedria, with the Governor’s office?” She said, offering up the freebie.
She spent the next hour answering his questions: The aftermath of the battle, the curiosity of his survival, and the fate of his friends. None of the Capitals had suffered such egregious wounds as he had; or at the very least, none had survived that experience.
But those that
had survived the battle -- including the patriarch of the Rimpau Homestead -- had not ceased their talk of Aaron’s heroics. They returned with stories of a man who belonged in ancient folklore, who would feast in the Halls of Valhalla and lay at rest behind the Pearly Gates before beginning life anew with the Traveler, to walk with the Dunsweir on the Great Sojourn across the stars.
It was like they had witnessed an entirely different battle than he had and constructed a magnificent fresco to commemorate the day. Maybe it was the staging or the lighting, but Aaron didn’t remember any specific act that required so much as a footnote in a history book, let alone a full chapter title.
Aaron felt a wave of nausea broadside him, and he buckled over, the acidic bile a rising tide in his throat. Talania looked out the door, "Um… can we get a—"
But Aaron quashed the impulse, waving her off. He hung his head over the tile floor for a long moment before sitting back on the cold refreshment of his pillows.
They patched his leg up good as new in less than a week; they had him hooked up to more computers than a ship’s navigator; and yet, they didn't have a proper fix for nausea. It was always the most common problems that were treated as ordinary, unfixable, traditional.
“It’s the painkillers,” Talania offered, “Gives ya one hell of a case of vertigo. Up till now, you haven’t been sitting up.”
“Coulda warned me,” he snarked, forcing a crooked grin.
Her only response was a shrug, awfully dismissive for the otherwise angelic entry she had made. Suppose she wouldn’t live up to the mild case of deification any more than he would.
“It'll pass, especially if we get you movin' around,” Talania suggested, “What do ya say? Want to take that new leg out for a spin? The sun's out.”
“I can walk?” He asked, incredulous. He felt the phantom of that Jergad arm plunging through his leg.
She tapped her hands on the footrest of his bed, “Buddy, the talent in this building, you can probably tap dance. Not sure if you could before, but you probably can now. Just don’t pull out the bag.”
To go out into the city, amongst everyday people again: to argue with store clerks, banter with passengers on an El-Train, or just stand and listen to the passing of the world.
“Where are the guards?” Aaron blurted, nodding towards the empty doorway.
Talania smiled wider, just a hint of devilry on the curve of her lip. Like a child breaking the rules while the family is away. And she was inviting him to join her. “You’re not just a Capital anymore, Mr. Havenes. At some point, we have to start treating you like a person again.”
Aaron swept his feet off the bed, dangling his toes over the harsh tile floor. His legs felt bruised and sore, creaking and popping with even small movements. A week of sedentary life had robbed him of even the most basic flexibility.
Extending his legs, injured or not, brought painful warmth to the muscles in his thighs. He took a moment here, rolling through the motion time and again until the pain subsided.
Talania waited with the patience of a garden statue, observing his routine and silently judging. Or was it appraising? He was more than just a curiosity to her. He could see it in how her eyes lingered for that half-second before politely breaking contact.
She had to have seen him dozens of times during his stay, but he couldn’t shake the blush filling his cheeks as he felt her eyes studying the curve of his shoulders and the corded muscles of his back. Before it was clinical; this was something else.
He inched off the bed, letting his toes graze the icy floor. He did not expect to get a response from only one of his feet. His left leg felt the pressure and the texture, but the dissonant lack of the crisp burn nearly threw off his balance. He tilted on the bed, as his brain immediately assumed he wasn’t level.
Talania squashed the urge to chuckle, “We repaired the neuropathy as best we could, but…” Made sense.
The drastic scar in his leg probably took out more than just bone and muscle tissue, and all of that would have to be replaced by farmed tissue or artificial material.
He was going to have to see what Eden thought of the work.
After the initial stomach turn, he was able to throw his weight onto his feet. A few testing steps later found remarkable stability. Not only could he walk, he could probably run if properly motivated. The fact that Eden made do with the supplies available to her after having this miracle factory at her disposal was a testament to her patience and commitment.
Talania held on to his wrist with a considerate touch, more guide than support. She walked him through the bustling halls of the hospital.
Staff cycled through holographic displays and stenciled information in the air with their fingertips, while Nurses followed autonomous beds toward the appropriate medical bays.
It was like wandering through the home factory where dreams were packaged for delivery to the masses: granting verticality to the paralyzed, clarity to dementia, and life to the dying.
These were angels and miracles trundling about like any other day, like the raw sorcery they wielded had bored them into an empty sleep.
“They process about two hundred patients a day,” Talania volunteered, seeing his eyes wander off, “It’s a rather quaint operation.”
“So this is what qualifies as quaint?” He asked.
“Compared to a proper hospital. Ever seen one?”
He shook his head. “Too rich for my blood.”
Every so often Aaron caught one of them staring as they passed. But they weren't gawking at his wound, neatly concealed by his neutral gown. They were watching him, like there was a spotlight tracking as they walked. One nurse’s station traded whispers and sideways stares.
“We should sell tickets.” He thought out loud.
“I’m sorry?”
Aaron nodded towards the gaggle of nurses, widening his eyes and leaning back in shallow mockery of their amazement. He’d be worried about offending, but it was rude to point, so turnabout’s fair play.
Talania smiled, expertly swallowing the laugh, “You’re a bit of a local celebrity, Mr. Havenes.”
“For what?”
She stopped at the double-doors, tapping the giant toggle on the wall, “A mild case of valor above and beyond. Everybody wants to know more about the mystery Cinderella story. Some tabloids are suggesting you used to be military or a firefighter, first responder -- the story changes page to page. You didn’t save orphans or anything, did you?”
It seemed like everyone had concocted a more interesting life for him than he actually led. They thought awfully highly of him, or the barrier for entry on heroism was a lot lower than he first presumed.
Talania shrugged at his non-response, “Well, handsome, if you lie and say you were a paramedic, I could stand to win some money.”
He didn’t have time to absorb those words as the doors swung open, burying him in focused light. When his eyes adjusted he could finally make out the sources.
The sun was particularly bright that morning as if burning that much stronger to impress its guests, but that light was picked up by the three glittering towers overhead, that shone with equal luster. It appeared like mankind had intended to socket gems in the sky, but Aaron knew them for the reflector dishes they were -- collecting sunlight to bounce down onto the solar farm below.
As utilitarian as they were, they were an intoxicating sight, like a trifecta of jewels in mankind’s crown. Beneath their splendor lay a proper world, a band of steel and silver to carry those gems.
Shiny elevated trains whisked along their magnetic tracks, their sweet hum a calming serenade of industry and progress. They zipped in and out of buildings, ferrying who-knows-what to God-knows-where like a frantic hive, both neurotically furious and calming in their efficiency, like they could not be overwhelmed no matter the load.
The dozens of buildings in sight were a sampling of architectural brilliance, more art than function, with sweeping curves and shapes that defied any average understandin
g of physics. These were not structures made for explicit intent like the Mining Rigs or the Capital Apartments; these were elegant designs sculpted for their own sake, a pleasure drawn straight from the mind into the world, a testament to Humanity’s command of the elements.
For sure, the gravity on Vanguard was less than Solar Standard, and the tectonic functions had long since quieted, but those buildings held a part of Aaron’s mind hostage, a disquieting beauty as if to challenge the hand of fate: Witness Me and my Will.
Aaron's wonderment faded the lower his eyes went. On the street level, people walked with a purpose of mind, with not a single soul loitering. Perhaps they were numbed to this majesty? If a person was to see this kind of landscape on the daily, did they really cease to appreciate the madness of it all, the impossible wonder of the achievements on display?
No. He saw that familiar look now. He saw it in that Market four short years ago, and: he saw it in their eyes today.
Every passing businessman or lab coat down to the youngest child bore the same purposeful stare, eager to be anywhere but here, so focused on the future as to ignore the present. It was troubled, quiet and reserved - not by the present, but by the possible.
It was the anxiety of a life lived in silence for fear of standing out. What did they have to fear, so far behind the Wall and amongst such grandeur?
Of course – count the seemingly ubiquitous cameras, the far-too-chatty security guards given a wide berth by passersby.
And the immaculately kept streets. Cities have poverty; poverty means grime. These streets were spotless.
Where was all the dirt?
Talania took up that furious pace again, leading Aaron down the road. The bouncy pavement gave back for every step he gave it, as if he wore springs in his feet.
It made walking downright pleasant, even engaging. Steps that might pound on the knees and toes instead propelled one onward to further steps. He thought he would have to try to stop, rather than push forward.