“You were a criminal, Andrei. A predator. I don’t need to tell you that life consists of slow and weak people chasing even slower and weaker people. The only goal is to be as far up the food chain as possible. There’s no nobility to aspire to, except the nobility to find the end switch to the game, as I am doing.”
Andrei shook his head. “I’m not a criminal.”
Amnon gestured at the surroundings. The bars, the particle beam suspender, the signs. PLEASE STAND 2 METERS FROM UNSECURED PRISONERS AT ALL TIMES. “Could have fooled me, Mr Kazmer. But think on my proposal. I’m offering you a hero’s death – it’s far more than you deserve.”
Then he turned around, and started walking away. Andrei could hardly see him through the blur of tears.
“I’ll be back in a day or so.” Amnon said. “I have an army to position and deploy. It’s the dawn of war, Mr Kazmer, and I don’t think there will be a dusk.”
The door slammed shut like metal teeth, with Andrei on the wrong side of the jaws.
Konotouri Gamma – March 16, 2136 - 2000 hours
The marines under Wake’s command were billeted in Konotouri Gamma, the third habitat wheel of the station. At the time, it had been spacious accomodations. When you combined the spatially restricted nature of interstellar travel with the low status of the Solar Arm’s cannon fodder, it wasn’t often a marine really got to stretch his legs out.
Now, four of them were dead or missing, and their leader had been arrested after a psychotic episode. The wing of the barracks felt absolutely lonely, like a Gothic mansion. All it was missing were sweeping balustrades of stairs and an unplayed piano.
Ubra Zolot was now just marking time.
Oiling weapons that were already oiled, and performing maintenance to kit that needed no maintenance. She was the only surviving, and sane member of the team, and she wasn’t sure about the second part.
She’d found her memory file, and had started re-learning about herself. Apparently, Black Shift transport had blanked her memory, and it had happened a second time on the planet. But she hadn’t been dried out and rehydrated down there, had she?
Something didn’t compute.
She went to a doctor in Konotouri Beta. A polite, well-heeled woman who’d made it clear how much she despised Ubra and had done the bare minimum to get her out of her face.
“The thing with Black Shift is that it’s relatively new,” the woman had said, “and we’re still learning about its side effects. When you suck all the moisture out of a body, that’s a pretty major shock to system normality. It’s possible that there could be recurrent fugue states.”
“So you think this could happen again? That I could just…blank out? And lose all my memories?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not capable of speculating on that.”
“It’s outside your field?”
“I have three degrees in applied neuroscience. What I’m saying is that you are not one of my patients, and I am not being paid to treat you.”
“Oh.” Ubra felt insulted as the woman left.
Their arrival had been a catalogue of disasters, and with Kazmer locked up, she was essentially a pariah. On the way to Konotouri Beta she’d put up with countless people bumping into her and jostling her out of the way. Earlier, she’d gone to play baccarat on Konotouri Delta – her file said she’d loved the game as a child. It took just one hand before the dealer accused her of counting cards.
I’m Jonah, she thought. And they’re looking for a fish’s mouth to throw me into.
As she got ready to leave the laboratory, she caught sight of the scientist. What was his name? Nyphur?
Whoever he was, he was a wreck. His face was a blue-black deathmask of bruises. His posture suggested that there was a brace under his coat. Strange, that he’d be up and doing things.
He was over at a DNA analysis machine. He shared a brief glance at her as she approached. “Hello, Private Zolot.”
Can’t anyone at least pretend to be friendly? “Surprised to see you here, with the battering you took. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s classified.”
“When you’re finished, do you mind if I get on the computer?”
“Suit yourself.”
As Nyphur worked, he kept casting glances around the laboratory. Ubra wondered why. Those were the sorts of glances you cast when you were worried about being overheard, and why would he be worried about such a thing?
Finally, Nyphur spoke into the silence.
“A few days ago, you gained access to the main computer system.” Nyphur said. “Was that easy? Could you do it again?”
“I have some skills in that area.” She had no memory of accessing anything. The Black Shift headset had re-set her memories to the way they’d been as she’d awoken on the ship. Everything since might as well have happened to someone else. But she supposed she would have left herself a backdoor. “Why?”
“There’s so much I can’t tell you.” He said. “My only hope is that when the moment comes, you’ll know the difference betweeny your friends and your enemies. I might get in contact with you soon. Whether you answer it or not is your call.”
He gestured at the computer, and left.
With a few keystrokes, she accessed the logs. Whatever set off Kazmer happened after he ran a test on the skull, Ubra thought, and I can’t stand it that nobody is fucking following that up.
She went back through the logs, looking at all the entries.
Strange, she thought. There’s a whole day missing here. Just everything scrubbed and gone.
The day of the attack…
She knew some opsec, some system security. It was impossible that this was an error. An entire day had been wiped with surgical precision.
What exactly was Nyphur doing?
Later that night, when she was alone, her suit flashed blue.
Communication.
Konotouri Delta – March 17, 2136 - 1200 hours
Hours or days later, Amnon returned to Andrei in the prison.
“You know, there’s an old African saying: an old man dying is like a library burning,” Amnon stroked Andrei’s immobilized chin. “The idea being that once you die, all the knowledge you had is lost. Do you agree?’
Andrei kept silent.
“You’re not an old man,” Amnon went on. “And in any case, I don’t think there was much worth reading in your library. Textbooks on torture and murder. Instruction manuals on how to fake passports and bluff border guards. Almanacs on the right angle to send a bullet through someone’s chin so that they fall and never get up. But still, I do feel like I burned a library. I sent you into space with no memories. So let’s replace those missing books. Let me show you who you were, Andrei Kazmer, before you went into hydrosleep and crossed the stars.”
He pressed a button. A holographic image flashed in front of them.
Andrei was looking into a little diorama, one that his brain soon parsed as a courtroom. Every surface was ornate, opulent wood, and when he saw the sign CERES COURTHOUSE he realised they must have been brought in at massive expense. Wood, out in the Asteroid Belt.
“Next order of business,” a judge was saying behind a bench. “Case 0635332, the sentencing of Kazmer, R.”
And then he saw himself come through the door.
He was encased in a living coffin. Magnets studded his prison outfit, anchoring him to the sides. A crude magnetic version of the particle imprisonment he was in now.
He was sweating, terrified. Both in the holographic video and outside of it.
“Don’t make me watch this,” he said to Amnon.
He was talking to air. The man had left the room.
“Mr Kazmer, your crimes are numerous, manifest, and chilling. You have shown yourself a hundredfold to be a man with no scruples and no conscious. Your plea of insanity has been heard and rejected, as has your appeal for clemency.”
Video-Kazmer stared at the judge. “You know something, faggot? You’re not safe.�
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The judge looked confused. “Beg pardon, Mr Kazmer?”
“I’m just saying. You’re not safe. As soon as you leave this courthouse, someone might grab you. Snatch you. You’ll never be found.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr Kazmer?”
“I have friends. So many friends. Some might even be in this building.”
“End this embarrassing display.” The judge said.
“Here’s something,” Video-Kazmer said. “Take a rat, and starve it for two or three days. It’ll just go manic, absolute batshit. Nothing burns calories as fast as a creature that doesn’t have any. Touch it without gloves and you’ll lose a finger.”
“Security, please gag Mr Kazmer.”
“Then, take someone, strap them to a board, then open their stomach with a knife. You want to take care, or you’ll perforate the bowel. Then you take the starving rat, put it inside the stomach, and sew it back up. Do it right and the fun doesn’t stop for days.” Just then, a thick gag was wadded into his mouth, and his tongue was baffled behind several inches of leather.
“Mr Kazmer, clearly you are living out a fantasy where we’re afraid of you. Where you matter.” The judge says. “Indulge yourself, if you want, but let me explain how things stand in the real world. You are nothing. You are nobody. You are docket number #0635332, and I will completely forget your existence as soon as docket number #0635333 walks through the door.”
Video-Kazmer’s smile faded.
The judge then spent twenty minutes reading out a list of charges –homicides, battery, robbery, theft, extortion, impersonating a police officer, treason, dereliction of duty, and a host of others. Video-Kazmer continued mumbling unintelligible threats behind his gag.
Real life Kazmer tried not to listen. He tried to pretend that it was not him on the holographic video, being tried. But even though he could escape the condemning voice of the judge, he couldn’t escape the condemning voice in his head.
Suppose the video is fake, he thought. It’s possible. Could be something put together by Amnon to humiliate you. Just a few short hours ago, you attacked and beat a scientist. Why? Because you thought he’d done something wrong. You had no hard proof – just a few pieces of circumstantial evidence. Yet the fists flew nonetheless! It doesn’t matter if the video is fake – you are well on the way to recreating all of that man’s mistakes.
As the mournful role-call of sin was read, Andrei studied the faces in the crowd.
People who seemed like reporters. People who seemed like lawyers.
He wondered if any of them were his friends, come to see the sentencing.
He wondered if he had any friends.
Whether I did back then, I certainly don’t know, he thought, sadly. Most of his command had been slaughtered. Ubra had seen him get arrested, and had done nothing to help. And did he deserve any help? Did he really?
Then, he noticed Amnon in the crowd.
It had taken him a long time. Amnon was a lot younger, that was clear, but something about his face had changed. Perhaps he really had had plastic surgery. He had a commissioner’s badge on his shirt, that of the Solar Arm Constabulary. He was surrounded by what looked like reporters, and they were taking statements.
He said something about how he’s met me before, when I was on the wrong side of the law. Was he the one who captured me?
In the holograph, the judge was winding down. Or winding up. This trial was a significant one. Careers would be launched from it – Amnon in particular had obviously risen far since these days. But on the other side, one man in particular would have his life ended. It hadn’t been much of one, though. Just an evil man making one mistake after another. And he’d been given a chance to start over and make amends, and he’d carried on making mistakes.
I hate myself. Andrei though. I truly despise what I am.
“…And thus the empaneled jury of twelve deems it fitting to award 473 consecutive years in prison. This sentence is hereby handed down in full accord of the law, in respect of the rights of the accused and his victims. Mr Kazmer, do you have any last request?”
The gag was wrenched from Video-Kazmer’s mouth. “Give me twelve bullets. Yep. That’ll do it. Just twelve. You can live, judge. I like you. Got a bit of spirit.”
“A depressing display. Guards, take him away.”
You were wrong, past me. Misery welled up inside him, like a scab torn from a wound. You don’t need twelve bullets to solve your problem. You need one. Just like I need one now.
Caitanya-9 – March 18, 2136 - 0800 hours
Amnon’s fleet landed. A fleet of nearly eighty ships swooped under the cover of Detsen and entered the exosphere of the planet.
They flew in nearly single file behind a huge, two hundred meter wide heat shield, which shrieked and lit up with flame as it descended on a superheated cushion of air.
Anyone looking on the ground would have seen the massive fireball descending, and thought that they were about to die to a meteor strike.
They were not wrong.
Scores of Hammerhead-class frigates fanned out, securing the landing zone. They were the most versatile ships the Solar Arm could boast – with variable wingspans and aelerons, they could perform in zero-G space or the atmospheres of dense gas giants. They’d survived the corrosive sulphur of Venus, and the 10-force gales of Neptune.
Slower, heavier Yakulst-class artillery ships glided to the ground. They packed gigaton-level MOABs that could strike and eradicate bunkers up to six kilometers in the ground. When the Yakulsts’ main guns fired, the landscape became a roiling sea of flame. It was death at ground zero. Being ten kilometers away barely improved your odds.
Fifteen Ceylon-class transports overpassed the LZ, dropping their payloads of man and equipment in a flurry of parachutes. Infantry. Dune buggies. Mighty extrusion diggers that could strip away hundreds of feet of bedrock in hours. Several hundred Spidermechas – ground-based mobile armor suits with eight arms, incredible speed and mobility, and a battery of weapons. The huge metallic spiders surged across the ground, each shielding a single human driver inside a capsule.
From inside a Spidermecha, General-Adjutant Sakharov regarded the harsh landscape.
The planet was brutish, austere, pompous. The wind had a cutting edge, as if you could feel the landslides and volcanoes propelling each gust of air. He could hear a constant series of explosions and thuds, booming from over the horizon. Tectonic activity on a grand scale.
But the planet didn’t matter. The natives didn’t matter. This was a state of the art war waged against what appeared to be a primitive enemy.
He spoke to Sarkoth Amnon, up on the station. “LZ is secure. You can bring your personal transport down any time.”
“I will be down there as soon as circumstances allow,” Amnon said. Detsen’s magnetosphere made comms crackly. “You are to complete our strategic objectives with or without my involvement – I do not expect victory to take long. And given the language barrier, we’re free from any burden of negotiations. And they are not covered by the Pan-Asteroid Belt Armistice guaranteeing the rights of prisoners. This is a beautiful war, general. No collateral, just damage!”
Sakharov ordered an advance on the beacon, which had been given the name of Rorke’s Drift, after a presumeably mythical event where 19th century infantry had made a stand against the odds.
As far as he knew, this was the first time any geological feature on Caitanya-9 had been given a name.
Satellite recon had shown that the Spheres were digging a hole in the site. Twice, the moons collapsed it. There was perhaps twenty or thirty at the site, coming and going from beneath dense clouds.
They knew so little about these strange glowing orbs. And this made him uneasy.
“What have they got in store for us?” He muttered aloud, not knowing or caring who was listening over the intercom?
“Pardon?” His aide de camp asked.
“Just a few days ago, they made mincemeat of a bunch of marin
es. Call it paranoia, but I can’t help but wonder if we’re the next bodies into the grinder.”
Minutes later, the marching orders were given.
They began their advance on Rorke’s Drift.
Caitanya-9 – March 18, 2136 - 0830 hours
Behind the glowing exterior of his Sphere, Zelity watched the fireball descend over Caitanya-9, along with thousands of personnel. The rest of the Defiant had abandoned the floating city, and were digging for the beacon. He was performing recon, along with Mykor’s daughter Zandra and six or seven others.
Soon it was clear that nightmares coming true.
“They have digging equipment,” Zandra breathed, half speaking and half thinking. “Wonderful. This isn’t about getting revenge, or beating the shit out of us. This is about digging.”
“They know there’s something here.”
“Give me a second. I need to talk to father.”
Zandra’s transparent Sphere became clouded and opaque as she communicated telepathically with Mykor, leaving the scouts alone with their thoughts.
Zelity’s were increasingly troubled.
This should have been a moment of moral clarity, sharp as a cutting laser. Thanks to the reactivated beacon, they’d all but found the Doorway. And they were now perhaps hours away from destruction. The gap between life and death had become very narrow, and it should have left little space for wandering in circles.
So why do I keep thinking about pangolins?
Earlier that day, as he’d taken a chlorine bath just before getting into his Sphere, he’d looked down and seen eerie yellow trackwork running across his sternum. The spidery lines had looked almost like words. Like a tattoo.
He’d had a recent bout of amnesia after a head injury. They’d restored his memories, and there was nothing there about getting a tattoo. In any case, none of the Defiant had the skills or the inclination. Body decoration was one of many luxuries they’d left behind when they’d defected from the Sons of the Vanitar, years ago. It absolutely couldn’t have been a tattoo.
Black Shift (The Consilience War Book 1) Page 13