Elemental

by Steven Savile

  Tevo allowed herself to be given a tour of the underground complex after that, and had just returned to the hangar when she ran into Womack. The warrant officer looked concerned. “Have you seen the Chief?” he inquired.

  “No,” Tevo replied. “I thought she was with you.”

  “No, ma’am,” the pilot responded. “She left the ship shortly after you went below. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “I’ll keep an eye peeled,” Tevo assured him, and watched Womack walk away. Should I be worried? she wondered. Or was the Chief simply goofing off somewhere? And what about what she had observed in the complex below? Small things really, like the nonreg tattoo on the com tech’s cheek, or the fact that a completely different man could be seen standing next to Kavar’s wife in the holo cube on his desk. All of which could mean something—or absolutely nothing.

  Servos whined loudly as a marine clad in a twelve-foot-tall exoskeleton stalked past. The framework was yellow with black stripes. Beacons flashed on durasteel shoulders. As Tevo followed the machine toward the ship, she noticed that a security camera was tracking along with her. That added to the sense of unease as the supply officer followed the exoskeleton up into the LST’s cargo compartment, where she waved at the loadmaster on her way to the main lock and the compartments beyond. She was looking for Sergeant Mendoza, but was pleased to find both the noncom and Lieutenant Pasco in the tiny wardroom. They looked up as she entered. “Just the person we wanted to see,” Pasco said as he came to his feet. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Tevo shook her head. “No, thanks … What’s up?”

  “Well,” Mendoza began, glancing at Pasco as if for reassurance. “I think something’s wrong here.”

  Tevo’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Well, so do I … Tell me what you’ve got.”

  It turned out that the marine had noticed three incongruities. The first, and most glaring, item was that all of the station’s marines were wearing sidearms, even though there was no reason to do so. Equally strange, from his perspective at least, was the fact that one of the privates was at least forty years old. And another, a teenaged kid, kept referring to Mendoza as “sir,” rather than Sarge, or Sergeant.

  Once Mendoza was finished, Tevo shared her observations, and the marines listened intently. Finally, when she was finished, it was Pasco who gave voice to what all three were already thinking. “I don’t know how, or why, but I think these people either killed the marines who were stationed here or took them prisoner. That leaves us with very little choice but to take the place back.”

  Mendoza looked concerned. “Yes, sir, but what if we’re wrong?”

  “Then I’m going to have a job transforming large rocks into small ones,” Tevo said grimly. “But the alternative, which is to do nothing, is even worse. Especially if they’re after all the A-5 stored in the salt domes under the base. So, here’s what I want you to do … The key is to communicate with our people one-on-one in a way that won’t tip the bad guys off. Then, when everyone is ready, we’ll make our move. Lieutenant, you’re more qualified to handle that part of the operation, so let me know what I can do to support you.”

  Pasco had been hoping that the naval officer would delegate the actual assault to him and nodded wolfishly. “No problem, Ensign … The sergeant and I will prepare a plan.”

  “Good,” Tevo said soberly. “But be careful … If we’re wrong, and these people are legit, then I’d never forgive myself if somebody got killed.”

  “Roger that,” Pasco acknowledged fervently. “By the way, we’re outgunned, so can I include your people in the assault team?”

  “Go for it,” Tevo replied. “And while you’re doing that—I’ll locate Womack. Perhaps the two of us can find Chief Yanty.”

  The impromptu meeting broke up after that—and it was ten minutes later when Tevo entered the cockpit. Womack was there, seated in the pilot’s position, where he was updating the ship’s log. Yanty was nowhere to be seen. The warrant officer looked up as Tevo entered. He could see that something was wrong from the expression on her face. “Hey, Ensign … What’s up?”

  As Tevo dropped into the cramped copilot’s seat, she noticed that it was damp, as if it had just been cleaned. Then, as she went to move one of her boots, it made a scritching sound. That seemed odd, but the naval officer had a lot on her mind, and was in a hurry to brief Womack. “So,” she said, once the sitrep had been delivered, “all hell’s going to break loose … But we need the chief. Did you locate her?”

  With assistance from two of Halby’s fake marines, Womack had been able to carry the dead petty officer into the cargo compartment, where they dumped the body into a half-empty cargo module. Loadmaster Richy had been standing no more than thirty feet away at the time—checking cargo off his manifest. But now, having learned that Tevo and Pasco were onto the deception, the warrant officer needed to speak with Halby as quickly as possible. He started to rise. “No, ma’am. But I’ll take another look. If you’re right, and these people are posing as marines, we need to find the chief pronto.”

  And it was then, as Womack began to get up out of his seat, that Tevo realized the truth. Like Yanty, the warrant officer had been to Hardscrabble before. So, if the people currently in control of the base were imposters, then Womack should have realized that and warned her. Unless the pilot was in on it—and part of a conspiracy.

  That was the moment when Tevo knew that the sticky stuff under her boots was blood, that Womack had murdered Yanty, and that she was in trouble. Because just as some of the ensign’s thoughts registered on her face, Womack’s registered on his, and the pilot made his move. Being trapped within a tight space, and confronted with a much larger opponent, there wasn’t much the supply officer could do but grab hold of Womack’s wrists as his fingers wrapped themselves around her throat. The male was stronger than Tevo, however, so it wasn’t long before the naval officer’s vision began to blur. Knowing she was about to lose consciousness, Tevo let go of her assailant’s wrists and scrabbled at the instrument panel. She wasn’t a pilot, but she could read and knew where the intercom switch was. The officer’s right thumb made contact, and as Womack was forced to momentarily release his grip, Tevo uttered a garbled cry.

  Womack hit the supply officer with his fist. The blow hurt, but gave Tevo a chance to breathe, and that was good. Tevo brought a knee up into Womack’s crotch, heard the pilot grunt, and stuck her right index finger into his left eye. That produced a cry of pain—and the pilot pulled back to clutch at his face.

  Pasco arrived five seconds later, pistol-whipped Womack, and dragged the pilot back to the point where he could be strapped into a seat. Tevo followed, speaking as succinctly as she could, conscious of the need to take swift action.

  “All right,” Pasco said once the report was over. “The gloves are off! Womack did us a favor … Now that we know the score, some scumbags are going to die. Here, can you fire one of these?”

  The pistol, which Mendoza had removed from the ship’s arms locker, felt heavy in Tevo’s hand. “I’m no expert,” the supply officer confessed.

  “But I fired one in OCS.”

  “Terrific,” the marine replied dryly. “Try not to shoot any of our people … And hide it. We’re going to a party.”

  By the time the LST’s full complement of marines and sailors left the ship carrying a large case of what Second Lieutenant Pasco promised were “liquid refreshments” and made their way toward the all-purpose lift, Halby had begun to feel pretty good about the way things were going. Chief Yanty’s body had been disposed of by then and, given the petty officer’s past problems with alcohol, Womack felt confident that Ensign Tevo would accept the story that the tipsy noncom had wandered out onto Hardscrabble’s stormy surface and died of exposure.

  So when Pasco, Tevo, and most of the men and women under the command entered the combination chow hall and rec room, neither Halby nor the members of her strike team were ready for what happened next. Just as the syndicate officer had b
egun to wonder why Womack wasn’t present, Mendoza opened what was supposed to be a cooler full of beer and removed a 12-gauge shotgun, which he tossed to Pasco. Then, seizing a submachine gun for himself, the noncom turned to cover the room.

  Tevo had been hopeful that the element of surprise, combined with overwhelming firepower, would cause the imposters to surrender without a fight, but, thanks to her role in the great mutiny, Halby had been sentenced to death in absentia. If captured, the people in her assault team were unlikely to fare much better. They knew that, and immediately went for their weapons as Pasco ordered them to “Freeze!”

  What followed consumed less than sixty seconds, but it seemed to last for an eternity. The 12-gauge made a loud boom as a pirate drew his handgun, only to be snatched off his feet and slammed into the wall behind him.

  Mendoza had the automatic weapon in position by then, and was just about to squeeze the trigger when Halby tossed a cup of hot coffee into the noncom’s face. The marine swore and dropped the submachine gun to claw at his scalded skin. Halby’s sidearm cleared the regulation shoulder holster a moment later and Tevo, who was still in the process of wrestling her weapon out into the open, saw that the woman she knew as Gunnery Sergeant Raster was going to shoot Pasco in the back. The shotgun went off again, Tevo’s pistol finally cleared her clothes, and Halby fired. The slug hit Pasco high on his left shoulder and spun the marine around even as the rest of the LST’s crew and security team entered the fray.

  Tevo ignored everything else to focus on the woman who was about to shoot Pasco again. Having traveled for what seemed like forever, her handgun finally came into alignment; the naval officer pulled the trigger, and kept pulling the trigger, until all fifteen rounds had been fired. Halby jerked like a marionette on a string, and was already dead by the time the last nine bullets smashed into her broken body.

  Tevo was still standing there, dry firing into the bloody corpse when Pasco closed a hand over her empty weapon. “That’s what I like about you,” the marine observed. “When you do something—you go all out.”

  Tevo came back to her senses, turned to see how the rest of battle had progressed, and was pleased to find that it was over. Roughly half of the imposters were dead or wounded. The rest stood with hands behind their heads as the marines patted them down. Satisfied that everything was under control, Tevo turned back to Pasco and yelled at Omada. “The Lieutenant’s been hit! We need a first aid kit over here … .”

  The next two hours were spent tracking the rest of the pirates to their various hidey-holes, where most were killed, although a few surrendered. Then, having been thoroughly searched, the surviving members of Halby’s team were locked into an empty storage room. Rather than trust Womack to pilot the LST, Tevo instructed Omada to program one of the message torps that orbited the planet and send for help.

  Tevo would have been happy to rest on her laurels at that point, but it wasn’t to be. A scant twenty hours had passed before three syndicate tankers dropped into orbit and one of the commanding officers demanded to speak with Halby.

  But it was Tevo who appeared on the com screen, demanded that the tankers surrender, and ordered Omada to launch surface to orbit missiles as all of the pirate vessels attempted to flee. One of the tankers escaped in time, but two were transformed into thousands of pieces of debris, which were still in orbit around Hardscrabble when the Confed relief force arrived a week later. Tevo was relieved of her temporary command at that point; Pasco and the rest of the crew were taken aboard a cruiser along with the surviving prisoners.

  Two weeks later, Tevo found herself aboard the Epsilon Indi, in Commander Owani’s office, standing at rigid attention. “So,” the XO said as he eyed the ensign through steepled fingers. “You countered an attempt to hijack one of our SFRs and destroyed two syndicate ships, all on your first run. Not bad … So, now that you know what it’s like to be a real honest-to-god supply officer, do you still want that transfer to Intel?”

  Tevo felt her heart race but kept her eyes focused on a spot over Owani’s head. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  Owani shook his head in mock disappointment. “Request denied. But, if it’s any consolation, I put you in for a medal … Of course there’s a war on, and the bureaucracy grinds slowly, so as much as a year may pass before you have an opportunity to wear it. In the meantime I want you to have this.”

  Light glinted off polished brass as the .50 caliber shell cart wheeled through the air and Tevo reached out to grab it. The metal was cool to the touch—but the officer felt an inner warmth as her fingers closed around it. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome,” Owani replied sincerely. “Now get the hell out of my office … I have work to do.”

  Tevo did a neat about-face, marched out into the corridor, and paused to examine the projectile that gleamed in the palm of her hand. Now, having been to Hardscrabble Station, she knew what the object was worth.

  The Last Mortal Man

  BY SYNE MITCHELL

  Syne Mitchell is an award-winning author who lives in the rain-drenched mountains east of Seattle with her husband, Eric Nylund. She is the author of the books Murphy’s Gambit (2000), Technogenesis (2002), The Changeling Plague (2003), and End in Fire (2005). Her short fiction has appeared in such publications as Writers of the Future, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, and Talebones. “The Last Mortal Man” is set in the world of a soon-to-be-published novel of the same title. Whereas the novel paints a broad picture of a world where immortality is commonplace, the short story provides an intimate view of the personal consequences.

  “The Last Mortal Man” was inspired by Mitchell’s dissatisfaction with mortality. “I resent the fact that death is a ‘when,’ not an ‘if,’” she said. “Being a writer, I get to invent my own worlds, so I created one which offered the possibility of immortality. Then, of course, being a writer, I set about figuring out why and how that would be a bad thing.”

  Visit her Web site at www.sff.net/people/syne.

  HB: This is Hugh Billingsworth of KUKWY news, here at Cedars-Sinai standing beside what might possibly be the last deathbed in human history. Those of you who’ve followed Lysander Sterling’s epic life know of his eccentricity regarding nanology, and his refusal—despite pleas from family, friends, and fans—to accept conversion to Deathless. Without treatment, doctors say Lysander has less than an hour to live. The question on everyone’s mind is: in this, his potentially final minutes, will he break with his public stance of refusing conversion and accept eternal life?

  HB: As we wait to see how this latest health crisis resolves, we’ll interview those closest to Lysander, review his brilliant and innovative career as a digital artist and animator, interspersed with brain captures of Lysander’s own memories—never before has the artist been this open with his public. Only KUKWY brings you this exclusive, live coverage of this emerging drama.

  HB: To understand Lysander, the man, and his remarkable life, we have to go back to its beginning. Earlier today, Lysander allowed KUKWY technicians to record memories from critical points in his life. Those of you with full immersion units, get ready to experience how it all began:

  She’s there, trembling and pale in your arms, smelling of dandelions and cut grass. The wind riffles through her hair and trails golden strands across your cheek. The hammock cradling you both sways. Sunlight pierces the shifting leaves of aspen overhead.

  You hold her gently, shocked at how thin she’s become, how delicate the skin stretched over her bones.

  “Please, Maria.” You fight to keep your voice strong; tears would distract from your plea. “Let me help you. It’s a simple procedure—everyone does it, eventually. I’ll pay—”

  She covers your lips with a thin, feverish finger. “No,” she whispers, and replaces her finger with a kiss.

  You grab her shoulders and push her up. She sits astride you now, legs dangling over the sides of the hammock.

  “But why?” It’s all you can do to keep from howling th
e words, from shaking her until she agrees. “You don’t have to go through this pain, the vomiting, the fevers. You don’t have to …” the last word—despite your resolution—is a choked whisper, “ … die. Don’t leave me.”

  Maria smiles very sadly. “I want to live.” She strokes your cheek with hot, dry fingers. “I want to spend as much time with you as possible—that’s why I can’t convert.”

  You slide your hands down her back, pained to feel the ridges of her ribs, the knobs of her spine—so fragile. “Nanology can cure you, replace your cells with perfect replication and error checking. You won’t die, you won’t age. We can be together—forever.”

  Maria dips her hand below the hammock to capture a dandelion. She holds it like a wineglass. “If I pull a petal from this flower,” she plucks one yellow tab away, “and replace it with a petal from another flower, is it still the original dandelion?”

  You frown. You know where this argument is going. You’ve fought it a hundred different ways. “Of course it is.”

  “And if I replace them all.” She continues plucking until the green center lies exposed.

  “Biology,” you tell her in a warning tone.

  She continues as if you hadn’t spoken, “And if I replace the center.” She picks it and tosses it aside. “And if I replace the stem.” She holds up empty, juice-stained hands. “Is it the same flower then?”

  You catch her hands between yours and hold them tight, so she has to listen. “Every cell you were born with has died and been replaced thousands of times over. We’re all constantly born anew. This is no different.”

  Maria shakes her head, a few more strands of golden hair float away on the breeze. Treasure for the robins in the morning. “I’m sorry. I just don’t see it that way. Aging replaces me with me; nanology replaces me with nanoscale machines, pretending to be me.”

  You argue on, knowing it’s hopeless. Maria’s self-reliance and courage first drew you to her. Now those same traits may kill her. But you have to try. If by some logical legerdemain you could change her mind—just long enough for the procedure—