by Brian Trent
But her survival instincts took over.
Celeste pulled herself out of bed, testing her strength. Her captors had clothed her in a gossamer-light tunic unlike anything she’d ever seen. Beneath this, several blue medpatches were grafted onto her body like designer leeches. Nanite infusions.
They were repairing her at the cellular level.
Celeste went to the bathroom and nearly lost her footing from sharp, sudden vertigo. The pressure on her joints instantly alerted her medpatches. Cool, menthol-like endorphins saturated the surgery points beneath.
Why would Quinn heal me up?
Everyone in the Hudson Wastes knew the legend of Quinn’s wrath. He was sure to make a bloody example of her betrayal. He would put her back together just so she’d be in prime health for the pliers, hot pokers, and power drills that would follow. He’d make her a horrific legend…a sadistic testament to what happened to anyone who crossed him.
But then why am I not restrained? And why use such a tremendously expensive technique? Nanite infusions are gold. How can Quinn have amassed so many, that he can throw some away on a woman he’s going to kill anyway?
The door to her room slid open with a hum. A muscular guard stood in the corridor beyond, wearing the starchy, green-and-silver livery of Prometheus Industries.
What the hell?
Celeste stared dumbly for a few seconds.
The guard watched her intently. Very intently, practically licking his lips as he eyeballed her. Celeste realized she hadn’t buttoned up her gown after examining the medpacks. The guard was getting a nice view of her left breast and nipple.
“It’s fifty tradenotes to see the other one,” she snapped, wiping vomit from her mouth.
“She’s up and about,” the guard told someone in the hall.
A woman strode into the room. Asian, and young-looking…barely twenty-years-old, judging by that doll-like face and serene eyes. The woman wore her uniform like a second skin.
Celeste had killed many women. The Wastes were riddled with gladiatrixes and snipers and anarcho-banshees. By comparison, this Promethean officer didn’t impress her. Celeste felt she could effortlessly swat her down and then, without breaking a sweat, tear out the throat of the beefy lech in the hall.
But the Wastes were full of stories about Prometheans. Elite humans jacked to the eyes with tech. Once, Celeste had faced down two cocky arkies in the gloplands: hunter-types who thought they could play games with the locals. She killed them both, but Jesus fuck, it had been difficult. They didn’t seem to want to stay dead. Ultimately, she had to cut them up, bloodily extracting whatever mods she could salvage, and toss the remains to carnivorous transgenics.
“My name is Internal Affairs Officer Keiko Yamanaka,” the doll woman said. “Welcome to Babylon arcology.”
The arcology? How in the fuck?
Then the answer arose in her thoughts.
The Mantid.
It was the only explanation. She dimly remembered insectile shapes pawing at her after the attack, phantom images she’d been too out of it to process. Her ship must have sent a pseudopod to rescue her. Realizing her body’s damage was beyond its abilities to heal, it had then…what? Rushed her to civilization? And negotiated with the local authorities, because arkies wouldn’t bother treating a Wastelander otherwise.
But negotiated what?
Keiko gave an imperceptible nod, as if reading her thoughts. “That’s a rather unusual protector you have.”
“It comes in handy.”
“No doubt.”
Celeste held Keiko’s stare, realizing her initial impressions had been wrong. This was no twenty-year-old greenhorn. There was an ancient, cold quality in those petite features and black eyes. The woman oozed the can-do intensity of a hardened soldier, while bereft of the grim fatalism that often went with it. And why not?
She’s an immortal. This Keiko might as well be the fucking goddess Amaterasu.
The Promethean drew near. “Where did you acquire that ship?”
“My ship?” Is that what this is all about?
“Yes. Where did you acquire it?”
Celeste furrowed her brow. “Where is it now?”
“Safe in one of our hangars,” Keiko said without batting an eye.
“And the other survivors?”
“You were the only one brought to us.”
Even though she had been expecting this answer, Celeste felt like she had swallowed acid.
“You were in bad shape,” Keiko continued without expression. “Another fifteen or twenty minutes, you wouldn’t have survived.”
“Prometheus Industries patched me up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You are witness to a terrorist attack that may have connections to a strike on one of our facilities. Your experience is being reviewed as we speak.”
Celeste nodded. “How is it being reviewed?”
“We got a flash-capture of your recent memories.”
Shit.
Celeste’s heart leapt to her neck. What did recent mean? How thorough was a flash-capture? She tried to recall the last time she had dealt with King D. It was with a sickening realization that the answer came to her: just before the airfield attack. What had they discussed? How much of StrikeDown would be compromised?
Mouth dry, Celeste heard herself ask, “So you made a copy of my brain? Sounds like you have what you need.”
“A flash-capture isn’t a DC. But we know you don’t work for Stillness.”
Celeste waited, heart heavy.
“We’re hoping you can fill in the blanks,” Keiko continued, thinking how woefully inadequate the flash-capture had been. A few days worth of memory, mish-mashed like a photomontage. Most of it was terribly ordinary; showering, pissing, eating. One vivid memory of a sandy-haired man atop her, plunging slowly between her spread thighs.
The only good that had come from the flash-capture was the assault on the airfield. Scrapping with Stillness soldiers. Seeing two tarp-covered missiles. And the explosion.
While her prisoner had been comatose, Keiko had ordered a full DC. But the necessary optical prompting was useless on an unconscious person. Unreadable neural file. The best you got was a pastiche, glowing with emotional hotspots.
Celeste went to the room’s sink and washed her mouth out, spat. “What happens to those memories now? Do I get royalties every time they’re viewed?”
Keiko studied her in the mirror. “The images are being circulated among our analysts. No royalties, sorry.”
Celeste shook excess water from her hands.
“What was your involvement with the missiles?” Keiko prodded.
“I figured you’d already seen that.”
“I saw you in combat with Stillness troops, yes. But why?”
“You arkies might think Wastelanders are all the same. But we have standards. Stillness is a group of Grade-A lunatics. We don’t want people like getting hold of ancient flash-bangs. It’s bad for business. So we decided to take them off the market.”
“And adapt them for your own use?”
Celeste grinned. “Right, because that would be smart. Bring the Republic down on us? Get real, lady. If you saw my recent memories, you see how we operate. Turf wars and trying to survive. These aren’t the Warlord days.”
Keiko was quiet. Her eyes gave no indication whether she believed this or not. “So you were doing community service, is that it? Didn’t want the missiles for yourself?”
“For use against whom?” Celeste looked at her as if she were insane. “We’re happy to grab up ammo, explosives, and medpatches. But nukes and antimatter? Finding that means we’ve got a hand in the big pot. The Republic offers sweet trade-in deals. Stillness doesn’t care about finder-fees; me, that’s all I do care about.” She swallowed the lump in her throa
t.
Keiko nodded. The room’s sniffer programs were monitoring for signs of deception. And Celeste’s vocal patterns, stress, and body temperature were all screaming that she was spinning one big lie…especially that last part about trading with the Republic. But it was true that the Republic offered hefty sums for the recovery of old weapons. Enough to make this woman and her tribe wealthy. So why would she be lying? Why hold onto antimatter missiles, unless her people felt it was more profitable – through threat alone – to keep them as a hole card?
Antimatter! Keiko thought. Being traded back and forth, juggled, and seized in violent attacks by Outland rats. As if we don’t have enough to worry about in the world.
“So what’s next?”
Keiko gave her a curious look. “Excuse me?”
“Do you toss me back outside, mind-rape me some more, or make me an honorary arky?”
“As witness to a case which may affect Prometheus, my superiors will probably approve the full DC analysis. In the meantime, I can grant you a temporary arcology pass.”
“Will you?”
They regarded each other. Celeste’s eyes were all challenge, Keiko’s were thinly veiled contempt. And in that moment, an invisible smile passed between them. They understood each other. Respect flickered at the audacity and authority in the room.
In fact, Keiko felt something deeper than that. Studying the Outlander’s unspooling memories filled her with unexpected feelings. She found herself admiring the raw strength of this mortal. After all, Celeste had no DC backup. Every time people shot at her she was risking permadeath.
Keiko tapped her fingertips together in a peculiar beat. “Your pass is now ready.”
“Do I get a physical copy? You know, to wear around my neck like the slaves of Rome?”
Incredibly, a transparent red card popped out from a small device at Keiko’s beltline. She pressed her fingers against it firmly. Handed it over.
“You are granted a two-step access to the arcology. By accepting this card you take responsibility for it and pledge that you will be its sole carrier at all times. It must remain on your person always—”
“Even in the shower?”
“And any attempt at replication, selling it, or defacing it will result in immediate expulsion. All uses of the card are tracked and its privileges can be altered or revoked at any time. If these privileges are altered or revoked, you will be notified.”
Celeste held the red card up to one eye and peered at Keiko through it. “What do you mean, a two-step access?”
“While we are reviewing the evidence you brought us, you are not permitted to leave hospital grounds. Any attempt to do so will result in your immediate arrest. After the review is complete, and if I feel you can still be useful, you may access the rest of the arcology.”
Celeste pressed the dermal tab behind her ear. “I notice my sensorium is deactivated. Will you turn it back on?”
Keiko continued, unfazed. “Your card will entitle you to a complimentary credit line of one thousand tradenotes. These funds are earmarked for use only within the Babylon arcology and cannot be transferred to any account or person. All unused funds will be revoked at the time of your departure. This is your total credit line and will not be reimbursed or expanded, so you are advised to use it thriftily.”
Celeste got the distinct impression that Keiko was reciting words she had said before. Had other Wastelanders been brought here? Or did visitors from other arcologies go through the same process?
Celeste raised her voice. “Will you turn on my sensorium?”
“No.”
Chapter Thirteen
War Inevitable
Gethin went straight from Decadents to the Hanging Gardens hotel to formally check in, thinking he might be able to catch up on sleep…the first sleep of his new body. Instead, he found himself far too riled. Rather than retire to his room, he did some shopping at the hotel’s clothing outlet, buying some new tunics, undergarments, footwear, and a bag of toiletries. He had everything delivered to his room; by the time he keyed into the lion-and-dragon-themed chamber, his purchases were already inside in clay-hued bags.
It took even less time to initialize reinstatement of his Athenian and London properties. Gethin checked his investment profile and bank accounts. The IPC had already deposited his contracting fee. His link to a complimentary expense account was also reactivated. Gethin grinned. For the duration of the case, his fingertips would be worth more than the GNP of most nations.
Only I’m not crawling through Martian lava tunnels this time looking for aliens that don’t exist, he thought. I’m never leaving Earth again.
Gethin rubbed his neck and leaned back on his bed. Then he sat up again, realizing he had more to do.
He uploaded an Id-fashioned hydra into the wall’s wetport with an insert of his ring finger. There was a pinch as connection was made. The hydra would act as an independent creature set loose into an ocean of information, seeking out all reference to ‘Flight 3107’ or ‘Luna City incident,’ and every variant thereof. It would comb the global communications grid. Billions of hits would be reported; Gethin, like other IPC investigators working this case, had the Herculean task of honing his hydra to cut through walls of chatter for something, anything, useful.
The next essential item was to take a shower.
He rinsed off the copious sweat and oils his body was producing. Part of the adjustment period from regeneration meant excess grime while his internal checks and balances relearned how to cool his body. The speed of the shower’s water startled him. On Mars, water flowed in a gentler, almost loving pattern around drains. Earth’s gravity turned it into a rapid spin cycle.
Gethin put his face directly into the shower spray. His muscles felt like they were on fire.
The next time some idiot on Mars or Venus or a Jovian moon reports an anomaly to the IPC, he mused, they can kiss my ass.
After his shower he lay down on his hotel bed, drawing the arabesque-patterned linens up around his damp body, and tried to sleep.
And ended up sitting up again, deciding to compose a quick email to Mars by tapping his virtuboard fingertips on the hotel mattress:
Paladin Natalia. By now you’ve probably heard that I died aboard my departure shuttle. I suspect you feel it was a karmic bowshot earned for fleeing without bidding you farewell.
I apologize for my cowardly vanishing act.
I miss nothing about Mars.
Except you.
SEND.
At last, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to arrive.
Instead, it was a call from Jack Saylor that arrived. Gethin dressed in two minutes flat and was out the door, en route to meet the giant man at the regen center.
The security officer didn’t look pleased.
“In the spirit of cooperation,” Jack began, “I’m authorized to share with you a recording of the Lunar base explosion.”
“Great.”
The muscles in Jack’s bearded jaw bunched. “It will be easy to misconstrue what the recording shows.”
“Let me decide that. Where is it?”
Jack reluctantly handed over the holocube. “You need a Q-key to open it.” He extended his hand; Gethin enclosed his fingers around it. On his left eye the transfer appeared as two hand icons touching.
INITIATE TRANSACTION? Y/N
Gethin okayed the transfer. He snapped the cube onto the palm of his left hand, and sightjacked with Jack so they could watch the images together in his mind’s theater.
Jack watched the astonishing images. The base explosion. The scintillating web of energy colliding with the shuttle and then snapping off in a new direction towards Mother Blue.
Gethin reviewed the footage. Over and over again.
The man’s green eyes glinted as he replayed the feeds, stilled them, rotated them, used his v
irtuboard fingers to take measurements and perform calculations. His attention to detail was excessive. Several minutes passed. It went on so long that Jack grew impatient.
And still he watched. Jack manually severed the sightjack.
“Wow,” Gethin said at last. He gave the holocube back.
Jack stared. “Wow?”
“What was the device Judith Merril was working on?”
“A cathode rail.”
“Used for what?”
Jack’s jaw muscles clenched anew. “Mr. Bryce, I have the data-file on the cathode project. Everything she told us is accurate. They were building models in virtual environments, running scenarios for—”
“For exotic matter.” Gethin sightjacked again with Jack, spiking a single frame into the man’s optics. It showed the tentacled pattern in mid-bank from the shuttle explosion. “Take a look at that thing. Looks pretty fucking exotic to me.”
Jack swallowed. “I have no idea what this is.”
“I want to speak to someone at Prometheus who has an idea.”
By way of reply, Jack handed him a sheet of smartpaper. “That’s a list of all scientists involved with the TNO project. I’ve sent messages to each of them with the Kepler file attached. So far, no one can identify it. You’ll also find the inventory registrations for everything shipped to that base. Nothing exotic.”
Gethin glanced disinterestedly at the paper even as images, columns of data, and content tabs animated over the surface. “If you were developing exotic matter in the lab it wouldn’t show up on a damned inventory sheet.”
“Send in your own experts to verify what I’m telling you,” Jack said finally.
“I already have.”
“Good.”
“And just so you know, I think it’s almost certain you were attacked.”
Jack blinked. “You…well…good.”
“The question is, by whom?” Gethin pointed to the regen center. “Let’s see if Kenneth Cavor has the answer.”
* * *
The dead man looked much better than when Gethin had seen him last.