by M. ORENDA
“None of us are in need of such,” Petra says, fighting irritation. “We all got reasons for doing what we do.”
“What is your reason? Why are you protecting me?”
“You were on my ship. Had to make one choice, or the other.”
“This was not the easier way.”
“Depends on what you want to live with,” Petra says, words clipped and tight. “A girl treated like cargo, like she’s got no voice, no strength… life throws that in your face once, and maybe there’s nothing you can do about it. Life throws that in your face again, and you damn well better figure it out. I got enough bad dreams without hearing your screaming.”
This last part is harsher than she intends, and somewhere, down deep, she regrets it. Easy enough, for those so young and innocent, to follow the path of the Earthbound Buddha, loving all enemies and staring up at the stars with such bright eyes. Easy for those souls to pass into further existence, ascend into the light, reaping the harvest of good deeds and pure thoughts.
Harder, for a soul like her, having planted not just a few seeds of anger, but dark forests of such, to pass into anything but one of those hungry dimensions that all priests warn of, filled with the shadows of unresolved fear and murderous intent, a way for the punished to be punished again, purely because that’s become their mindset, the terrain of their spirit, the only reality the heart knows.
There is no atonement, no forgiveness, in religions of the old East. There is only the reaping of what’s been sown, in this life or the next. And so now she’s sitting here, breathing the same air as the first dead, in a compartment where they murmured of things gone wrong, of errors and miscalculations, of dreams slipping away into the darkness, and she’s watching this girl teeter on the edge of her own uncertain future, and the hell inside is raging.
“You’re thinking of giving yourself up,” Petra says, intent on keeping her tone softer than usual. “But you don’t know what you’re giving up to. Lots of mysteries in life. You think you belong here? Okay. Best to figure out why first, before you go putting your life in the hands of the Block.”
“You don’t understand,” the girl whispers. “You don’t hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“It can’t be described. It has no name.”
“No? What’s it sound like?”
“Home,” the girl says, and she’s serious, the weight of the words absolute, no give or take. “It sounds like home.”
“Mars is no home for humans,” Petra replies. “Not even I believe so, an’ I was born here… shouldn’t know anything different. Tubes can be home for a while. The palaces of Fort Liberty, or New Beijing, can make for pretty bird cages, but death smiles through every window, just the same, and there’s no forgetting it. This world is death for us, her moods swinging from eighty degrees to one-fifty below zero, face desolate, harrowing, with storms of toxic dust that last for months, gusts that’ll rip you off the ground, carry away equipment, crash whatever flies. This is no benevolent mother. So, whatever you hear… it isn’t ‘welcome home’.”
“But it is,” Niri says, lowering her voice as if this is the secret. “She is a benevolent mother. And she wants us here. She wants all of us.”
All us of us… ? It makes no sense, some kind of sick joke coming from a girl who’s never taken six unassisted steps across red plain. Petra gives a half-shake of her head, summoning the last bit of patience she’s got, which is far less than what the Earthbound Buddha had when dealing with his unenlightened flock. “Think you got your karma mixed up. This isn’t Earth. This isn’t anything like Earth. This mothering rock is good at filling graveyards and corporate bank accounts. Our machines, being made of metal, have a more spiritual connection to iron soil than we do. There was no time for you to really see it in the light, but—”
“I don’t need to see it,” Niri replies, unshakable. “I can hear it.”
Petra stares at her, now fully aware that Voss was right. Logan was right. The girl can’t hear anything above the sound of her own crazy, and that’s the end of that. No further diagnosis needed. Maybe it gets better, maybe it doesn’t, but lives now hang on what the captain decides to do about it.
Fucking unlucky idiot, that captain.
“Okay,” she says, rising from her chair, feeling the need to put space between her and the disaster that’s appeared in the form of girl kneeling on a mat, a girl who’d walk right into the jaws of any corporation in Red Filter and sign herself up for whatever they have in mind because she can ‘hear it’.
What do they want you for? Why make an insane Earthbounder a citizen?
It makes no sense. But then again, why would it? She’s just smuggler, not privy to state secrets. Wexler gave this girl citizenship because he wants her close, and he’s not the only one. Niri, and her hearing, have already cost the lives of too many people to be as insignificant as her lunacy makes her sound.
Petra looks back over her shoulder, catching the young Assaulter standing in the hatchway. His expression’s guarded, in that way of theirs, but it’s clear he’s thinking along the same lines, only his concerns might be more tactical.
Petra stands, content to leave the girl to her deep thinking. She joins Logan in the corridor, keeping her voice hushed. “She’s… ”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Not exactly corporate material.”
“No.”
“And they didn’t tell you what this girl is for?”
He glares at her. “I wouldn’t tell you if they had. That said, we operate on the principal that we’re saving lives. We barely got her out of the slum she was in. We were attacked on the way out. We’ve been under attack ever since. This place is not secure. The same people who destroyed your ship will find us here. You have to contact Voss.”
“And give this girl to Rhys Corp? With her mind not working?”
“You can’t protect her.”
“Neither can Voss,” she snaps back. “I give her to him, and he gives her to Wexler, and Wexler does whatever he wants.”
“She’s a citizen.”
“Which changes nothing for the powerful.”
“What is it with you?” Logan asks, his patience just as thin as hers. “What do you see when you look at her?”
Petra grimaces, having nothing she’s willing to say.
So he keeps going. “Look, I don’t like it either. But she can’t stay here. She’s going to die here. That’s reality. And you can’t change it. You can’t save her by getting her killed.”
“Yeah,” Petra says. “Should just hand her over. That’s what Voss would do, right? If he were me, without orders, just his own conscience to answer to?”
Logan slants her a measuring look. “You’re not Voss.”
“You think he could hold this ‘indefensible’ position?”
“I think he could get everyone out alive.”
“Well, he’s got to be on his way, right?”
Logan presses his lips together, considering what he should say. “It’s a small planet. I imagine everyone can see just about everything. So, yeah, they’ve been busy looking, and sooner or later, they’ll notice that something’s different, the outline of our shuttle, or movement of some kind, so yeah… he’s coming.”
“Good,” she says, walking past him, intent on getting a pair of fresh socks and another box of ammunition for her rifle. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
Skimmers are light, almost too light to be considered gunships. Not well armored, its fuselage a mesh of slanted angles to avoid radar detection, its bulk balanced on a pair of vectored thrust EM-Drive engines. This one offers two benches in the hold, seating six guys each, locked knee-to-knee—three seasoned Assaulters and nine clueless skinnies—crammed together in a metal box the size of storage crate.
It’s the first time out for the skinnies, their experience limited to guard and policing duties in Red Filter, years of administrative work, staring at screens, monitoring a compliant population… nothing r
emotely resembling combat. Of course, it shows, in wide eyes and nervous glances, in sweating foreheads and tapping boots and breathy prayers, most handling their weapons like maybe it’s the second or third time.
“Don’t you look at me with those puppy dog eyes, you motherfucker,” Wyatt lays into one of them. “What are you here for? Where did they find you?”
“My… my doctorate is in military sciences, and—”
“Your what?”
“My doctorate.”
“FIRST SERGEANT!”
“My doctorate, First Sergeant!”
Wyatt bursts out laughing, like he can’t stand it. “Military sciences? That’s scary, isn’t it? Military sciences. You gonna write me an essay, sitting there shaking in your boots, teeth knocking together like a mama’s boy… ” He points to the dark-haired kid on the left. “What are you here for?”
“To be a soldier, First Sergeant!”
“Really? What does that mean?”
“I’m here to defend the New Republic from our enemies, sir.”
“First Sergeant.”
“I’m here to defend us from our enemies, First Sergeant.”
“Yeah? How you gonna do that, puke?”
The dark-haired kid hesitates, looks lost.
“You’re going to kill, you idiotic motherfucker.”
“I’m going to kill, First Sergeant!”
“Keep that weapon pointed at the deck, you stupid fuck. If I see that muzzle coming up one more time, I’m going to beat you with it. Do you want to get beat with your own weapon?”
“No, First Sergeant!”
Wyatt’s doing what sergeants do, trying to get them to show teeth, trying to turn puppies into sheepdogs, into wolf hunters. Doesn’t matter that there’s not enough time. Whether he’s got five minutes, five weeks, or five months, he’s going to be the sergeant they need, which means they’ll fear him more than the enemy when he’s done. They’ll fear pissing him off, and they’ll fear disappointing him, and ultimately, they’ll follow him into Hell and thank him for the opportunity to go. It’s a time honored tradition, a remnant of military culture that dates back to Old Republic. And if Red Filter doctorates are worth their paper, these kids will recognize that it exists to keep them alive, that the sergeant who kicks their ass today will be the one saving it tomorrow.
Still… a quick glance over pristine brown armor, unscarred visors and young faces doesn’t inspire confidence.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the comm line. “Blackheart One Actual, we’re picking up radar and looks like three drones sitting on the target area. The LZ is hot, over.”
“Roger that,” Voss says, pulling himself into a crouched stand and leaning his head and shoulders through the open cockpit hatch. The pilot’s attention is focused through the angular windows, though he’s navigating several images at once. The ground topography shows in superimposed holo, red symbols flashing where the drones are positioned.
Voss nods, drawing a line across the holo image with his fingers. “They’re on the high ground here, but they’ve got a canyon behind them, which should be a blind spot. Can you go low, come up through that canyon undetected?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get us as close as you can, where there’s cover.”
“Roger that.” The pilot reaches up, shifting the three dimensional holo with his fingers, narrowing the view on the shallow canyon. The computer magnifies the terrain, showing a rolling slope with limited cover. Further magnification finds the path of an old colony road leading to the summit, the wreckage of a large vehicle, severely damaged and left to rust.
“What is that?” Voss points to the wreck.
“Looks like the remains of a track, old tech, sixty-ton vehicle, give or take, used by red plain wanderers and smugglers.”
“It’s just under the summit.”
“I can get you there, sir.”
“Get me there,” Voss says. “Then disappear the way you came, find yourself a good spot to hide. If the enemy appears, I need you to get behind them.”
“Uh… ”
“They’ll be focused on killing us, and I need you to come in behind them and light ‘em up with your plasma cannon. You got me?”
“Engage them from behind?” the pilot asks, as if it’s somehow unclear.
Voss takes a second, accustomed to pilots who direct themselves, and other aircraft, with cold efficiency in battle, engage targets, save lives, all on their own. This is a new experience. “Affirmative,” he says. “Engage from behind. Kill them. Do not kill us. Do you understand?”
“Roger that,” the pilot, call sign Skimmer One—because he’s the only one—says. “Proceeding to new LZ, be on coordinates in two minutes.”
“Copy that,” Voss ducks back into the hold, signaling to Wyatt with two fingers. The sergeant breaks into a wide grin.
“Pucker up, girls,” he says, slapping knees, exuberant. “Moon’s out, goons out, time to smash some poons out.”
DARKNESS
ARSIA MONS REGION MARS DATE: DAY 11, MONTH 10/ 24, YEAR 2,225 The skimmer sets down on a burst of dust and ice. Its cargo ramp lowers, hissing until it hits the stops, the pale dirt under the ship lighting up in thermal green hues.
Voss shoulders his way to the front and gives the signal, then slips into the night, boots whispering as they touch sand. It feels like he’s feather light despite the suit, the heavy armor, battle rattle and ruck, reduced G taking all the work out. He leads with his weapon at shoulder height, and Wyatt’s at his back, signaling orders to the skinnies to take position around the old track wreckage they’d spotted from the air.
They’re as quiet as they can be. A few skinnies take a knee and starting scanning the windswept slope, the soft ridges leading to the summit.
Bright trails of the Milky Way glint through dust clouds, distant whorls of light. Jupiter is a pale disc above the horizon, with the double star of Earth and Moon flung high above it. The terrain sits frozen, rock and frost, barren ground spread out under the eclipsing orbits of two tiny moons, Phobos and Deimos, the Greek words for panic and terror.
The skimmer lifts off, rising to hover above them as it vectors slowly around, the twin prongs of its plasma cannon hooked like fangs under its angular fuselage. It floats down along the slope then softly accelerates, gliding off to find a good place to hide.
Voss crosses into the shadow of the wreckage and crouches along its torn chassis. The thing is a hulk, holes in its metal torn outward, as if by a blast, sheared track pieces still scattered where they were flung ages ago. He’s never seen one before, but it’s not hard to figure out. It’s, more or less, just a big transport vehicle, reminiscent of lightly armored track vehicles on Earth.
It makes for good cover though, weathered to the point that it’s hard to see from the air, with a thick enough skin to hide the faint heat signatures betrayed by their suits and providing adequate space to set up secure comms and equipment.
He signals that he’s moving inside, and Wyatt taps his shoulder, signifying that they’ll move together. Up over some debris and he’s inside. Left. Right. There’s nothing there, just the wind moaning through rusty gaps, no heat in the darkness, no movement, no drones, no life.
He sweeps the interior, and it’s all the same, only the driver’s station is complete and undamaged, it’s hatch left wide open.
“Clear,” he says, breaking the silence.
Wyatt proceeds to order some skinnies into position for security, some to unpack rockets and auto-mortars.
Gojo moves into the wreckage, hauling in his comm gear and his computer equipment, ready to set it all up.
Skeetos whir in the close distance.
Still, there’s a quiet, a strange weight to the moment.
Voss glances over the driver’s station, everything at a slant because the vehicle went into a ditch. Two chairs sit in silence behind an opaque windshield, panels of switches visible under thick layers of grime. Empty. Abandoned…
&nbs
p; But not abandoned quickly. He steps back, realizing that the debris piled under his boots isn’t just debris. It’s a carpet of discarded ration containers, an open med kit… It’s a moment of desperation from the past, another life dovetailed his, laid out for a guy in an armored suit and combat on his mind.
No time for it. He turns back, reaching for balance along the inside of the hatch. Only there’s more evidence there, cabinets busted open, radio equipment dangling by cords, a tangle of personal effects, something glass, various bits of junk and an old holo pad, one of its tiny lenses cracked.
He reaches out and picks up… a gut suspicion maybe.
The device powers up, weak but still functioning.
One press of the button, and there it is, a fractured light image, a woman holding a little girl… a woman who looks so familiar that it gives him serious pause, the holo taking on a chilling meaning.
Petra.
He glares at the driver’s seat, then into the shadows of the blast area, not so distracted that he can’t recognize a key when it’s been dropped in his lap. This is where she killed them. And the holo image is why.
“Gojo,” he says on close com. “You got control of those drones?”
“Signal acquired, sir. Installing packets, but these are slow machines. We should have control of them in about eight minutes, and I can’t guarantee security. We could lose them if a bigger signal comes through.”
“Roger that. Moving to second stage, and comm six. You are Blackheart Two Actual. Blackheart One is moving to a contact position.”
“Roger, switching to comm six.”
Voss steps out of the driver compartment, signaling to Wyatt. The sniper shoulders his gear, grabs his rifle, and they move out.
A few hard clicks in the dark. Petra turns her head, catching the movement of the closest drone in the green shades of her visor’s night screen. The drone issues a ratcheting mechanical whine, its cage rotating between its jointed legs, lenses focusing somewhere across the plain.
“Whatcha looking at?” she says, expecting no reply and receiving none. “I don’t see anything.”