The Ninth Circle

by R. M. Meluch

  Dr. Rose, crouching in the control room’s hatchway, yelped, “What are those!”

  Little green men, Glenn thought. She said, “Aaron, I think you should go aft.”

  She would have liked to grab one of the attacking orbs for identification, but this was not the Merrimack. Beauty didn’t have a hook. Beauty barely had a force field. Best Beauty could do here was survive.

  Poul Vrba stomped forward to the control room, stumbled over Dr. Rose getting in, and shouted, “Get us out of the asteroid field!”

  He saw Glenn in the pilot’s seat. Shouted louder, “What are you doing there!”

  Glenn told Vrba, “The asteroids are chasing us.”

  “What did you do to provoke them!”

  Glenn ignored the question. She jinked the little ship hard. Beauty did not jink well. Glenn’s stomach lurched sideways.

  Vrba caught his balance. “You did something! No being with the level of intelligence to achieve space travel would just attack a stranger without trying to communicate first!”

  “This is their first communication,” Glenn said, trying to line up an entry into atmosphere.

  And realized Vrba was right. She really was provoking the orbs. They didn’t want Spring Beauty in the atmosphere.

  A second flock of orbs converged like hornets from the starboard. They glanced off the ship’s inertial field as Glenn pushed the ship’s nose down—down according to the ship’s internal artificial gravity.

  Vrba ordered the pilot, “Do something!”

  “Whatever she tells me,” Manny said.

  Dr. Helmut Roodoverhemd, xenosociologist, climbed over Dr. Rose, staggered into the small control room, and crawled to the communications console. He spoke into the ship’s com, insisting this was a League of Earth Nations vessel.

  “We are peaceful. Permit us to pass.” Roodoverhemd translated the message into all the languages in the universal data bank and sent it out by all known communications media.

  Scientists counted on peaceful intent to get them through any hostiles.

  Yes. That always works.

  Glenn ignored him. Roodoverhemd wasn’t in her way.

  Many orbs drove into her path. They peppered the monitor display. Forced her to veer off her approach.

  I am flying into a hot zone on a ship equipped with peashooters, good only for shooting peas.

  The Beauty didn’t even carry antipirate guns.

  Glenn hauled the ship in ways it was never meant to move. Caught herself in a lean, then exchanged wide-eyed looks with the pilot.

  “That’s not supposed to happen,” said Manny.

  “No, it’s not,” said Glenn. “We’re losing inertial field.”

  She veered the ship up and over.

  “Strap in. I’m going to kill artificial gravity.”

  Poul Vrba roared, “What the hell are you doing! Let the pilot—”

  “Pilot?” Glenn cut him off. “This boat does not have a pilot. I’m sorry, you have a bus driver.”

  Antigrav cut out. Vrba lifted off the deck. Roodoverhemd clutched at the com station.

  Glenn’s ponytail slowly lifted off her neck.

  Vrba yelled at the pilot, “You can’t let her—!”

  “Let the woman drive,” said Manny. And to Glenn, “What can I do?”

  Glenn glanced aside. Manny was pale but willing. She asked, “Any combat training?”

  “No.”

  “Get everyone into the lifeboat.”

  Manny nodded, unstrapped, and floated out of the control room, herding Doctors Vrba, Roodoverhemd, and Rose out with him.

  After they were gone, Glenn was peripherally aware of someone else entering the cabin behind her. The man air-swam into the copilot’s chair, pulled himself down, and strapped himself in.

  Glenn glanced aside. Double-glanced. Cried in horror, “Get out!”

  “I’m with you, babe,” Patrick said.

  Patrick had been in several crises. Was not proud of the way he’d handled himself.

  He said now, “One just cannot go around screaming every time one thinks he’s going to die.”

  Patrick was doing an admirable job of not screaming. He was terrified here. He was here.

  Glenn couldn’t make herself demand he go to the lifeboat. She took more comfort and strength from his presence than she ever could have imagined. She wheeled the Beauty hard out of a swarm of attackers.

  The little ship lumbered. The orbs turned clumsily after.

  “Are they killer bots?” Patrick asked, his voice stretched thin.

  Glenn shook her head, no. Rome had more pride than that. “Don’t think so.”

  Rome didn’t use killer bots anymore.

  “They don’t look right.”

  And had the orbs been Roman, the Beauty would be dead already.

  Glenn circled the ship wide. More of the orbs moved in between her and the planet on her new approach vector. “They don’t want us in atmo.”

  The Spring Beauty executed a sick-making roll, pulling g’s.

  Spacecraft never pulled g’s.

  The inertial compensation system went off-line. That meant no energy barrier. Without it, the ship would burn up in the atmosphere.

  The energy field flickered back on. Next time it went off, it might stay off.

  “This is it.” Glenn stabbed into as steep a dive as she dared.

  Spring Beauty slashed into the planetary atmosphere, streaming a wide contrail behind her across continents.

  Glenn checked altitude. Adjusted inertials for a controlled descent. Checked her six for orbs. Noted, “They’re not chasing.”

  “Ha!” Patrick rejoiced—

  —just before the inertials glitched out.

  A current of very thin air sheared off a stabilizer. The boxy ship wheeled and tumbled. Glenn’s teeth clacked together. Her chin hit her chest. Her body wrenched sideways in her straps.

  Inertials gasped back on. Glenn adjusted the ship’s attitude so that up was up.

  She nursed the ship into a lumpy, jarring descent, inertials flickering on and off. The Beauty was as aerodynamic as a Guernsey cow, but with a lot more mass.

  Patrick must have blacked out. He lolled in his harness.

  The inertials came back on. Patrick’s head lifted. He gave a muddled, waking, “Huh?”

  The air grew denser. Glenn tried to control the ship’s wrack, shudder, and shake. Her heart seemed to be vibrating in her mouth. She bit her tongue.

  As soon as the lifeboat readings showed locked, pressurized, and green across the board, Glenn threw the release.

  The control balked.

  Negative release.

  The catches jammed. Spring Beauty was going down, and she was taking the lifeboat with her.

  Needles of fear stabbed under Glenn’s tongue.

  She couldn’t control the ship and fight with the release mechanism at the same time.

  She banged on the lifeboat release with her palm heel. “Patrick, make this happen.”

  Patrick took over wrestling with the release, while Glenn fought to regain control of their descent.

  White, shaking, Patrick asked, “C-can I hit it?”

  Eyes locked forward Glenn said, “You can kick it. Talk dirty to it. Anything.”

  The ship cartwheeled. The piggybacked lifeboat tumbled with it.

  Fear crowded Glenn’s thoughts—the dire need to save all those people, her husband, herself. Thickness swelled in her chest. Didn’t dare think about any of that.

  The voices were the worst of it. She was not accustomed to hearing sounds like wounded puppies during a crisis. She shut out the screams.

  Nothing existed but the job at hand.

  Flame plumed out of the ship’s nose and streamed fore to aft, eclipsing the view.

  Instrument readings were erratic.

  A hull breach somewhere topside let in the burning heat and dense air. Smoke filled the cabin. Glenn pulled the front of her shirt up over her nose and squinted her eyes. The s
hip juddered, heavy air bludgeoning its torn hull.

  Glenn was aware of Patrick’s voice from beside her. Heard him as if at a distance. “Babe? Are we going to make it?”

  The most positive thing she could tell Patrick was, “The impact won’t be hard enough to compromise the antimatter magnetic containment field.”

  That meant: If we die, we won’t take out a five-hundred-kilometer radius with us.

  Thick vegetation came into sudden sharp focus below. Ferny, feathery, leafy foliage. Glenn could imagine those were the green trees of home.

  A piece of the ship’s nose tore off and hit the forward view screen. Cracked it.

  Open air streamed in. Heat and smoke shut the eyes. Glenn smelled the stench of scorched hair. Hers.

  Muffled screaming and stomping of the trapped passengers carried forward from the still-attached lifeboat through the ship’s hull.

  She wished she could have saved them. She felt that failure like a physical wound.

  Felt Patrick’s palm press against her back. “I love you, Glenn Hull.”

  Pallas, Nicanor, Leo, Galeo, Faunus, and Orissus sat hunch-shouldered in a tight circle in their barracks hut. The sun angled in. The hour was coming up on roll call.

  Nicanor shivered in the heat. He whispered, “What do we do about Cinna and Nox?”

  “Do?” Orissus hissed. “They’re kind of done.”

  “I mean what do we say when they don’t show up for muster?”

  Pallas nodded. A Roman was accountable for his tent mates. “We can’t exactly say we don’t know where they are.”

  When two squad members failed to show up, it would be the fault of all eight. I don’t know was not an answer. I don’t know was an admission of negligence.

  “We can’t wait for muster to do something,” Nicanor said. “We need to act first.”

  “And do what?” said Leo.

  Faunus said what no one else would, “We need to report Cinna and Nox AWOL.”

  With the unspeakable finally spoken, Orissus picked up from there, “We go to the commandant right now. Tell him Nox and Cinna were gone when we woke up, and we haven’t seen them, and we’re concerned. We ask him to ping them.”

  A satellite would be able to locate Nox and Cinna by the ident capsules embedded in their earlobes. The Vigil would find Cinna’s body at the foot of Widow’s Edge. And Nox? The brothers didn’t know where they would find Nox. Nox hadn’t told them where he was going.

  Leo and Galeo nodded.

  They all looked to Pallas.

  Pallas turned his eyes heavenward, beautiful and sad as a lonely angel. Pallas said, “I can’t.”

  “I can’t get enthusiastic about it either,” said Faunus. “But what choice is there?”

  Nicanor said, “Nox volunteered to take the blame for us. We need to go on. We need to honor his sacrifice.”

  Pallas turned his back. “I can’t do this.”

  Orissus cried in a whisper, “It’s done!”

  They were between Scylla and Charybdis. There was no decent way to go. “I can’t smear two brothers with a lie,” Pallas said.

  “Then what do we do?” Faunus demanded. “Confess?”

  Pallas shuddered.

  Galeo said, “If we confess, that makes a liar out of Nox.”

  Nicanor blurted, “I’m going to fall on my sword.”

  The silence returned. It thickened, solidified. There was nothing more to say.

  The best they could do was salvage their names.

  It was a hard thing to accept, the dying. They had scarcely started adulthood. They hadn’t lived.

  Pallas turned back to his brothers. A tear trickled down the side of his nose.

  No way out but this.

  They bowed their heads, struggled.

  Hard breathing disturbed the quiet. These were to be their last breaths.

  Nicanor’s midriff convulsed. He swallowed down hard.

  From the far side of the door carried the approaching sound of grit crunching under boot soles.

  The door opened inward. A slash of sunlight split the floor. Figures darkened the doorway. A plumed helmet defined the silhouette of an officer.

  The brothers should have made their decision quicker. It was too late for sword-falling now.

  5

  IT WAS DECIDED FOR THEM.

  The adjutant called their names.

  Antonius Pallas

  Antonius Orissus

  Antonius Galeo

  Antonius Leo

  Antonius Nicanor

  Antonius Faunus

  He called six names.

  And stopped.

  The two omissions screamed like a telltale heart.

  They knew.

  The adjutant had not called Antonius Cinna. And he hadn’t called Antonius Nox.

  Orissus’ eyes slid to his nearest brother, Faunus. The unspoken thought passed between them:

  Nox rolled on us.

  Orissus mouthed words without sound. Rat. Rat. Rat.

  Then the base praefect stepped forward, his eyes raking the brothers up and down.

  The praefect was a grand, austere veteran foot soldier. He wore his battle scars like medals. Breathed as if there were scars in his lungs.

  He asked any of them, all of them, “Where is Antonius Cinna?”

  Pallas tried to say he didn’t know. The lie stuck in his throat. He said instead, “He is not here, Domni.”

  “I can see that. You don’t know how he came to be at the bottom of Widow’s Edge?”

  The brothers stammered for a response, exchanging glances. Orissus bluffed, “You mean he jumped?”

  “Were you there?” the praefect asked back.

  Pallas lifted his chin, summoned up a lie. “No, Domni.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “No, Domni.”

  “Render aid?”

  Pallas swallowed hard. This one hurt because it was the truth. Pallas’ voice broke, “No, Domni.”

  “Abandon your man?”

  The words burned.

  “Is that what Nox told you?” Pallas said softly, choking on resentment.

  The old praefect’s eyes widened into bulging orbs. He roared, wheezing. “Do you think I haven’t jumped off that cliff myself! Do you think I haven’t pushed ’phebes over myself!” His face purpled, veins stood out, primed to frag. “Do you think—? No. Never mind. No one cares what you think! You’re a waste of oxygen.” He pulled his sidearm and jabbed it at Pallas’ face.

  Pallas held his ground, blinking. He said nothing.

  The praefect jammed his sidearm back into its holster and stalked out of the hut. The guards marched the brothers outside.

  The Spring Beauty’s controls gave one last gasp. Her inertials kicked back in to slow her jangled plummeting. The helm had pitch and roll control but not yaw, so she came spinning down like a house out of Kansas.

  She hit the treetops, flaming and shredding alien vegetation. At the very end she rallied and touched ground with a gentle flump and died.

  Halon hissed on the lively flames inside and out. The ship settled with a sigh.

  The lifeboat clamps unhooked. The escape craft slid slowly off the Beauty’s fuselage and stopped at an angle against a stand of trees. Its parachute deployed in a large plume that draped itself in the branches.

  Glenn wiped her face. Her eyebrows crumbled off. The insides of her nostrils felt raw.

  She gave the ship’s console a pat. “Good girl.”

  Beside her, Patrick looked chalky white. He said, “I knew you could do it.”

  Glenn’s hairless eyebrows skewed and arched, skeptical. “‘I love you, Glenn Hull?’”

  “I had to get that in there just in case I was wrong,” Patrick said, and he shivered.

  His eyes took on a glassy vacancy. Glenn unstrapped herself from her seat, then unstrapped Patrick. His body oozed to the deck.

  Glenn kicked open the first aid kit, found an intradermal and gave Patrick a shot for the shock.


  Within seconds he blinked back to normality. He looked up at her. “Sorry.”

  “You did good,” Glenn said. She helped him sit up.

  The lifeboat hatch opened. Its contents staggered out. Glenn closed up the first aid kit and sent Patrick aft with it to dispense to the needy.

  Moaning, some screaming, and a blur of talking sounded from back there. Nothing Glenn cared to hear. She had the answer ready when the team leader stomped forward to demand, “Where the hell are we?”

  Glenn read out their exact latitude and longitude.

  Not the answer he’d expected. Poul Vrba had a righteous rant prepared and couldn’t deliver it. He made his way back to the lifeboat and reported their location to the others.

  Sounds of delight rose amid the crying.

  “We’re here!”

  “The camp is just a klick or two away! That way!”

  “How lucky is that!”

  Glenn recognized Dr. Minyas’ voice.

  Luck. Glenn pursed her lips, shook her head. Sure. Rhymes with luck.

  Glenn checked the engine core containment field. Found it functioning and stable. She picked up her gear from the deck and tossed it out through the gaping hole where the forward view screen used to be. She didn’t want to walk back among those people to get out.

  From the direction of the LEN camp, three hoverskiffs came whipping through the Zoen underbrush. They were laden with first aid supplies and fire suppressants.

  Their crews found the fires already out.

  They loaded the injured onto one of the hovers. There was a broken rib, a broken wrist, a twisted ankle. A dislocated shoulder. Contusions to go around. Patrick had already treated the shock cases.

  Glenn and Patrick were the only ones singed. Glenn waved off the medic. His name was Cecil. Not sure if that was his first or last name. “I’m fine,” Glenn told Cecil. “Go take care of someone screaming.”

  The descent had been terrifying enough, but Glenn was not accustomed to the expressiveness of civilians. Glenn served among man jacks and man janes who kept glib lines ready, like Honey I forgot to duck, to deploy in case of emergency, so they wouldn’t sound weak or cowardly. Lines like I love you Glenn Hull. That had been well done on Patrick’s part.

  Someone was shrieking like world’s end. The screamer was on her feet, wasn’t wearing any blood, and wasn’t standing over someone else who was bleeding.