FountainCorp Security: Diaries of a Space Marine

by Watson Davis

But I was.

  # # #

  "If you're going to get your Family contacts to do your dirty work," Brigadier General Jillian Busque said over their encrypted comm line, "let me know first. I had to come up with explanations for ditching all my logistics arrangements once the station blew."

  "Well, hello to you, too." Dr. Nieve pushed himself back from his desk, leaning back in his form-fitting office chair, stretching his arms and legs. "But what are you talking about?"

  "The Frozen Lotus," Jill said.

  "Yeah?" Dr. Nieve said. "What have you got for me on that? How are we doing?"

  "The Frozen Lotus has been atomized," Jill said.

  "Were you able to salvage the data before you annihilated the computers?" Nieve studied his fingernails, checking the beds, picking at the cuticles.

  "No," Jill said, a question in her voice. "Wasn't us. I thought you'd worked with your Family friends to do the wetwork behind my back."

  "The Family doesn't have friends," Nieve corrected her. "But, no, I didn't tell them anything about that job. They're not the right people for that kind of work."

  "Somebody blew the place up," Jill said.

  "Maybe Alvin had some sort of self-destruct protocol in place." Nieve shook his head, making calculations, changing some of his plans. "Crap. This is going to set us back. Thanks for the heads-up."

  "You want me to investigate?" Jill asked, her voice hesitant, ready for a fight.

  "Nah," Nieve said, not needing to waste any more time. "I'll take care of it. We are One."

  Quarantine

  The first sliver of light blinded Santina, frightening her. The light showered in from a crack in the faceplate, and she turned her face away, dried tears burning on her cheeks, her throat raw from unheard screams. Clean, fresh air swept in from the seam, and she gasped, sucking it in, pushing herself up toward it with hands bloody from searching for a way out, drinking deep of the freshness of antibacterials and disinfectants because they didn't stink of shit and piss and sweat and death like the inside of the damned suit of armor.

  A click.

  Santina's world exploded in light, in movement, in voices. Hands reached toward her, lifting her from the armor—armor she'd longed to escape from but now she didn't want to leave—laying her on a table, guiding her back down when she tried to roll off, like the hands of the lab techs in the place she'd been before, like the monsters who'd killed Horatio, Adolfo, Ursula, and the others.

  "No!" She fought back, kicking, punching, and shrieking even as she retched, her arms swinging to push their hands from her—so many hands, so many people jabbering around her.

  "Hold still."

  "You're all right."

  "You're safe now."

  Straps tightened around her wrists, her ankles, across her chest, forcing her back against the cushion. She snarled, straining against those bonds, trying to snap them, thoughts no longer going through her head, only fear, only a denial to let this go on.

  "Shh." A woman in a yellow and white armored suit leaned over her, a clear mask over her broad face, a wisp of brown hair pressed against her pink forehead, and blue eyes. "What's your name, darling?"

  "Get away from me," Santina growled. She yanked her head out of the woman's hands. "Leave me alone."

  "Now, now." The woman took Santina's chin, twisting her head this way and that to examine her, saying, "We are not your enemy. The Motayen team found you over on the Lotus, and brought you here where you will be safe, where we can care for you."

  "Yeah?" Santina snapped at the woman, biting at her. "Lies. You're all a bunch of liars."

  The woman peered away from Santina, nodding at someone, then backing away. "Relax, and we'll be done in a jiff."

  A light flared on, so bright, sizzling through Santina's eyes into the back of her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, yanking her head away, baring her teeth like a caged dog. The heat of the light worked down from her face, from her neck to her body, to her legs. Hot liquid sprayed on her, the cushion shifting beneath her, depositing her on her feet, the bindings releasing her, the steaming broth streaming down her, covering her, searing into her flesh. Legs shaking, she spat and sputtered, trying not to breathe, the acidic taste in her mouth like lemon—a good taste, sweet, not the bitterness she’d expected, the scent of it climbing up her nostrils, down her throat, into her lungs, filling her up. She coughed and gagged, falling to her knees.

  Jets and spouts surrounded her, lights flashing on between them, the fluids splashing over her on the silver metallic floor, swirling down into a drain, a kaleidoscope of colors.

  Santina's dark hair fell around her face in wet strands, and she panted, exhausted, skin tingling. The taps shifted, changing their configuration, and warm air blasted out, caressing her skin, the dry air whisking away the remains of the liquid, leaving her dry, with her hair frizzing out.

  She crouched, sliding back on the balls of her feet as the banks of nozzles and bulbs retreated to reveal the men and women in the room, all armored. The room was as large as anything Santina had ever seen, the ceiling far above the tops of the walls, a ceiling of girders and pipes, grungy and gunky with age and grease.

  The woman in yellow pointed at something to her right, and a man in a red battlesuit trotted in that direction. The woman approached Santina, creeping forward, taking care with each step, making no sudden movements, and reached her gloved hands out toward Santina like she feared her, or was afraid of scaring her, saying, "What's your name, sweetie?"

  Santina stared down at her own hands, at her own scarred wrists, almost crying, too tired to fight anymore, too scared to keep herself together. "Fuck you."

  "A beautiful name," the woman said, bending down before her, putting one knee on the ground. "My name is Marguerite. If you ever need anything, you ask someone for Dr. Margie, read me?"

  Santina nodded, whispering, "Margie."

  "That's so good," Margie said, rising and placing her fingertips on Santina's neck, directing her to stand—a subtle command, but a command nonetheless. "We hadn't planned on guests on this mission, but I've rearranged some berths to get you a nice little room all to yourself. Just the thing for a girl your age."

  Santina stood, then trudged along, following the path Margie directed her on. Her head bowed, her shoulders slumped, she studied the lab around her. She'd seen several different labs in the past few weeks.

  "Maybe you could tell me something about yourself," Margie said, her hand rubbing Santina's back while easing her toward a hatch guarded by two soldier-types. "Where are you from? I'm sure your mom and dad are worried—"

  "Pfuh," Santina snorted, eyeing the workbench she was approaching on her right.

  "Any friends?" Margie asked.

  "My friends are dead." Santina glared up at Margie, challenging her. "I saw them go. Each one of them."

  "I'm sorry, darling." Margie removed her hands from Santina, holding them up in surrender, palms toward her.

  Santina took her opportunity—she lunged toward the workbench, grabbing the cutter from the top and threw herself against the wall, screaming, "Stay back!"

  The guards at the door reacted first, their arms flying up, one of them leaping further into the room and twirling like a dancer, spinning toward Santina with arms raised, aiming pistols toward her. The other guard dropped to one knee, leveling two more pistols at her.

  Margie turned to the guards, her arms out, her eyes wide. "Everybody stand down. Stand down!"

  Seeing her chance, Santina whipped the blade along her own wrists, the subatomic sharp edge slicing through the flesh, through the bone. She hoped this time she would end the hell of her existence.

  # # #

  Edmund sat on the bench before me, his arms out, palms down. He glared at me, his mouth moving and sweat dripping down his twisted nose, his short hair sticking out, pushed to the side at odd angles, with pale scars on his dusky face, but even more on his thick, muscular torso.

  His locker stood open behind him, his street clo
thes swinging from hangers, revealing pictures of a woman, blue-eyed and blond, and some stickers for the FountainCorp Premier League football team. Malordo lay on her back beside him, her head almost touching his hip with her eyes closed, her arm slung across her forehead, her small-breasted body bare, and her still-armored feet flat on the floor.

  Dr. Battenfield's cold left hand cradled my head, the point of her right elbow resting on my shoulder, pressing down, a metal surgical unit covering my ears as she worked on them. I stared down between my feet, wincing as people's voices boomed, tinny and high, dropping down to a low rumble, then up to a ghostly whisper.

  I tugged at the vambrace on my left forearm, slipped my hand out, and set the armor beside me, ignoring the doctor slapping at my arms. I hoisted my foot, grunting at the weight of the boot, and situated my heel on the edge of the bench; my fingers traversed down, unhooking the fasteners, releasing my foot, letting fresh air in. I lowered the boot gently—silly, considering the amount of damage it could take. I lifted my other foot, balancing the instep on the edge of the bench.

  "Please hold still, Recruit," Dr. Battenfield said in a conversational tone.

  "Hey!" I raised my eyebrows, turning my head toward the doctor until she stopped my head from moving.

  "I said hold still."

  "Oh, yeah." I wiggled my jaw, shutting my eyes and relaxing shoulders I hadn't realized were tight to begin with, relieved to hear the clatter of equipment being pulled off and tossed aside, Sly talking to Callus, Vanessa laughing with Kevin.

  "So you can hear me now?" Edmund said, his voice gruff.

  I opened my eyes. He glared at me, his face stern, his lips pressed together in a fierce line. A doctor bent down behind him taking readings from sensors on his neck. I took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah."

  "When I give you an order, you follow it." His bushy eyebrows waggled. "Do you comprehend what I'm saying?"

  "Yes," I said with a nod. "I do."

  "Is this insubordination bullshit why you're not with HART anymore?" Edmund said. "Is this how you won your Medal of Valor and still got your stupid ass court-martialed?"

  I stood, rubbing at my left ear with my fingers, heart pounding. "My medals are nothing you need to worry about."

  "Hey." Dr. Battenfield yanked at my arm. "Sit back down, I'm not done with you yet."

  Edmund rose to his feet and pushed his own physician away so he could loom over me, snarling, his nostrils flaring. "As long as this is my team, and you're a member of my team, then hell fucking yes, it is very much something I need to worry about. I need soldiers, not heroes."

  He stank of hours in a suit, of an enviro failure.

  "You gave orders on partial data." I pointed up at him, tightening my body, my hearing getting fuzzy, then clearing back up. "Orders that would have left good soldiers dead, and you didn’t give them to me."

  "And you decided to take charge in my absence?" He leaned closer, spittle flying from his mouth as his voice grew louder.

  Malordo sat up, looking over at us. Vanessa backed up, gaping at us over Kevin's shoulder, her face slack and tinged with concern. Sly walked over, taller and wider than both of us.

  "I made a decision for me"—I slammed my fist into my chest— "a decision for my conscience, based on the best information available to me at the time. I ordered no one to come with me."

  “You kinda took over is what you did,” Kevin said.

  "When I give an order, my people execute it, without question." Edmund raised his hand, moving his finger to poke me in the chest.

  I didn't like being poked in the chest; I slapped his hand away. "No soldier should be mindless, no soldier should be an automaton, and no soldier should be a robot. Every soldier must live with themselves when the battle is done."

  "I have access to intel you do not have." The cords in his neck stood out, creating stark shadows in the harsh light. "I have a bigger picture in mind than you see."

  "Fine. Your job is to get me and everyone else up to speed so we can understand your goddamned orders in the context of the fucking mission parameters." My hand shot up, jabbing my index finger into his left pec, the flesh giving way.

  "Dorothea." Malordo reached her arm out, inserting it between the two of us from my right, looking up at Edmund.

  On the other side, Sly coughed, searching for a place to insert his own hands between us.

  "Your job, Provisional Recruit Ohmie, is to carry out my orders." He fought against Sly, trying to hold his ground.

  "If I want to commit suicide on the off chance I can save your moronic, brain-dead ass, that's my choice. Your orders or not."

  He pulled his right arm back, his hand closing into a huge fist.

  I moved forward into Malordo's arms and yelled, "How'd those orders to go and blow turn out? Huh?"

  Kevin reached out, grabbing Edmund's wrist, pulling his fist back. "Come on, boss. Let's calm down."

  "Yeah," Sly said, looking at Edmund, at me, at Edmund again, pursing his lips into a half-smile. "We'll have plenty of time to work this out during quarantine."

  I stepped back over the bench, thrusting Malordo's arms away, and backed out past Dr. Battenfield, who stood pressing herself up against the lockers with her hands up, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as she could.

  Malordo edged away from Edmund, swaying back and forth to use momentum to help her lift her unpowered boots, her hands raised, palms toward Edmund, her boots clacking against the floor.

  I whirled around with my fists on my hips, the skin between my shoulder blades tingling, imagining Edmund's gaze boring into my back like a howitzer shell and I stomped out of the room, grinding my teeth. I strode down the corridor, going left, forcing myself to slow my heart, to slow my breathing, knowing this was all the reaction to the firefight, knowing the jitters would hit soon.

  # # #

  Santina sat on the edge of her bunk, happy to even get a bunk this time. She hummed, rocking back and forth with her eyes shut, not noticing the gray, barren cell, trying to remember better times and failing, picking at the bandages around her wrist.

  The seal to the door broke, releasing a gasp of air.

  She stopped rocking and stared at the door.

  A woman's head eased through the gap: dark-skinned with a broad nose, full lips, black hair in tight cornrows on her head, and a wide, almost feline face with a pronounced jaw. In a deep, throaty whisper, the woman said, "Mind if I come in?"

  Santina snorted. "Not like I can stop you."

  "Yeah, you can," the woman said, scrunching up her lips. "Tell me to go away, and I will go away."

  "Are you another psych worker?" Santina asked.

  "No." The woman licked her lips, tipping her head to the side. "I'm the soldier who dragged you out."

  "Yeah?" Santina lowered her eyes, a tightness growing around her heart, her lungs. She cleared her throat and kicked her feet out, stretching her toes. "I guess I owe you something. Right?"

  "No. You don't owe me a thing. The only person you owe anything to is yourself." The soldier glanced away, turning her eyes back into the area outside Santina's little cell, pursing her lips. "So. You want to talk or you want me to go? Either way, your call, no problem."

  "Yeah, okay. Come on in," Santina said, regretting the words, but knowing she'd regret sending the soldier away even more.

  The woman eased into the room, shutting the door behind her. Santina had never seen a woman built like her before, with a hardness, a threatening physicality with broad, muscular shoulders and arms rippling with strength, a thin waist and wide hips. A golden tattoo of a flaming skull with wings and the word HART glistened on her right biceps.

  "You're a soldier?" Santina asked, stating the obvious, inching away from her.

  "Yeah." She wedged herself into the corner, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes surveying and examining the room, a sour expression on her face. "You?"

  "Not a soldier. I wanted to be a dancer, I guess," Santina said, swinging her
feet, striking her heels on the underside of the bed. The words tasted bitter in her mouth, tasted of a wishful lie. She had never wanted to dance, but taking her clothes off had seemed like easy money. "No. I've never wanted to be anything."

  "How'd you end up...?" The soldier shrugged, gesturing to nowhere in particular.

  "A goddamned lab rat?"

  She nodded. "Yeah, that."

  Santina's heart thundering, she stood, clenching her fists. "You're not any good at this whole asking questions thing, are you? The psychs were better."

  "The psychs have training." The soldier took a deep breath and looked away from Santina, dragging her teeth over her lower lip. "I don't, but sometimes it's more important to talk to someone who's been through something similar."

  "Are you going to stand there and claim to have any idea what I've gone through?" Santina asked, her voice rising. She stepped toward the soldier, realizing the soldier wasn't tall, just thick. "You've got no fucking clue what I've been through."

  The soldier's eyes darted up, locking on Santina's, daring her, challenging her; a shadow surged up in those eyes, a scary shadow, something shattered and glued back together with the sharp bits sticking out. The soldier said, "So tell me about this horrible thing you've been through that no one can possibly understand."

  "Screw you," Santina snarled, one fist grabbing a handful of the soldier's shirt, the other cocking back to punch her in her broken little face.

  The soldier moved, sweeping one forearm in a compact arc, removing Santina's hand from her shirt in a quick blur. The soldier's body shifted around Santina's, flowing around her like water; a tug on the back of Santina's head, and Santina found herself sitting back on the bunk, panting like she'd played a match. The soldier stood before Santina, her left hand clamped around Santina's neck.

  "Okay," the soldier said, her dark eyes boring into Santina's heart. "You're right. Small talk is not what I do. Tiptoeing around shit is not what I do. So, here it is. You tried to kill yourself, right?"

  Santina swallowed and nodded, the soldier's hand clamping down on her neck before she could say anything.