The Bonds of Orion

by Owen R. O’Neill

  “How the certification go? Still got all your teeth?”

  Shumway grimaced and winced when it hurt. “Piss off.”

  “I guess you didn't know.”

  “Know what?” carefully balancing the shake on his tray.

  “Those two stick jockeys were friends of hers” still in that sugared, overly companionable tone.

  “You coulda said something,” Shumway muttered, blackly.

  Drury broadened his smile and gave Shumway a friendly pat on the back, then steadied his tray for him when he winced a second time.

  “Your lack of mouth control isn't my problem. Enjoy that shake. You're damn lucky you aren't drinking all your food through a straw.”

  Chapter 27

  Open ocean, Amu Daria

  Epsilon Aquila, Aquila Sector

  Lost in a dark, wet, murderous chaos on a sea gone insane; rain as hot as blood hurtling down, not in drops or even sheets, but in jets driven horizontally by a vicious wind whose roar rivaled the incessant thunder; the air so thick with spray, they had to keep their visors barely cracked in order to breathe.

  Constantly awash, the raft was more in the sea than on it as waves battered and broke over them, a sudden shocking coolness compared to the torrid rain. Huddled together in the bottom of the raft and lashed to it with every rope it possessed, they clung to each other in a desperate parody of a lovers’ embrace. No proper sense of time; just wild continuous tossing, the vast omnipresent noise, and lightning strikes that followed one another with frightful rapidity, hissing into the sea as if goading it before leaping back into darkness.

  At first, they’d tried to run before the storm. The raft had pushed through the cross sea with difficulty in the beginning, but the swell running ahead of the storm damped that out and they picked up speed. All through a long, hot PM, they kept ahead, one of them at the tiller while the other bailed. As the storm got nearer, the swell increased and they shipped water over the bow more and more often. The raft began to wallow. Huron lashed the tiller so they both could bail, and still they pushed on, hearing the thunder closing in from behind.

  Near dusk, the clouds overtook them, blotting out the primary’s last rays, with the flying rain and driving wind, while lightning crashed and the waves grew to a monstrous height. Once, cresting a huge roller, a freakish gust caught the raft’s stern and nearly capsized it only their frantic lunge saved them. The sheets for their shelter tore away, the MROD kit and some of their water went by the board. They took what meager refuge the raft afforded, grateful for the protection of their flight suits.

  When it seemed the storm had reached its ultimate peak and Kris, her body numb and her mind blasted by the sound and fury, believed nothing could live on the sea, or even in it, the violence increased an order of magnitude, crushing down on her with a force that made it impossible to breath, and the thought echoed weakly through her consciousness: This is it . . .

  It stopped. A sudden shocking cessation, a vacuum that hurt her ears, and the wind sweeping the depleted clouds to the north. Within minutes, the sky was clear brilliantly clear so the stars above blazed in even greater glory.

  Loosening the death grip she had on Huron, and which he’d fully reciprocated, she sat up, cramps shooting through her muscles, and looked around. The sea was still running high, but the waves, though white-capped, were no longer manic. Huron lifted himself beside her with a groan. No words, for there was nothing say, and she saw that he moved with more than just stiffness. Perhaps he sensed the scrutiny, for he took his flight helmet off, tied it to the end of a line, and reached for a bailing bucket with a smile she couldn’t read in the starlight. It did nothing to reassure her, however.

  Taking off her helmet, she secured it, grabbed the other bucket and together they cleared the water that was sloshing around their knees. As she tossed a bucketful to leeward, she noticed dozens of shapes, floating on or just under the surface, still giving off a faint phosphorescent glow: the bodies of those squid-like things, killed by the storm. Getting a closer look as a few drifted past, she saw they were more like a weird hairy spider with jellyfish tentacles crammed in a stubby-winged shell than a proper squid.

  “Gawd, those things are ugly” staring at the disgusting carcasses.

  Huron emptied his bucket near one. “You won’t get any argument on that from me.”

  “What’s up with them shooting out of the water like that?”

  “Evading predators, I’d guess.”

  “What the fuck would wanna eat them?”

  “No idea.” He dumped another bucket. “But I sure as hell don’t wanna meet it.”

  Oh, fuck no . . .

  Her mind looped back to his statement about evading predators. What kind of predator would spook a whole huge flock or swarm or shoal or whatever you called it of those goddamned things? Unless . . .

  “Rafe? Do you think it was the explosion?”

  He leaned back, wet bucket on his knee, reflecting a moment. “Yeah. I think that might do it.”

  “Great.” She looked down. Only a couple of centimeters of water were left swilling back and forth in the bottom of the raft. “Got shot down by fuck’n turbo-squids cuz of my own fuck’n missiles.”

  “Strictly speaking, GEVs are classed as naval vessels, like hovercraft and hydrofoils. So you’re clean there.” Now that she could see it better, his smile looked out of place against the crimp of submerged pain around his mouth.

  “Then I got sunk?”

  “‘Craft unexpectedly suffered catastrophic disassembly due to acts of Nature of an unavoidable character.’ That’s what I’d report, anyway.” He activated the propulsion unit and sat by the tiller. “Get some rest. I’ll take this watch.”

  “Lemme” observing the way he moved.

  “How’s your shoulder?”

  Fuck’n sore. “It’s fine. How’s your side?”

  “Dandy. I’ll wake you in four hours. The sea’s going down. It’ll be smooth sailing now.”

  The note of finality in his voice was unmistakable; starting an argument in the middle of night, in the middle of the ocean, over a point of pride, was simply stupid. She was too tired to be that stupid.

  “Get me up if anything changes.”

  “I will.” He patted the space beside him. “Curl up here if you like. This thing handles better when it’s a bit by the stern.”

  She nodded; he scooted over to give her a trifle more room. Folding herself into the space, she pillowed her head against his side, her left arm sliding automatically around his waist. His free arm curved around her back. Her eyes closed. His hand gave her a gentle squeeze, but she was already asleep.

  * * *

  The day broke with the hot orange disc of the primary rising over an exhausted sea. Kris woke to the raft rocking on the gentle swell and the mild, rhythmic creak and splash of oars. Opening her eyes, she squinted over the raft’s tube at the teal-blue sky, then at the rippled surface cloaked in a thin layer of haze, then turned her head to look inboard. Huron sat on the raft’s center thwart, facing her in the stern, rowing. She blinked and rubbed her palms down her face.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Propulsion unit gave up the ghost.” His voice sounded raw and harsh.

  “When?” Hers sounded no better.

  “Before daybreak.”

  “You said you’d wake me if anything changed.”

  “Nothing has. We were heading north. We still are.” Pausing, he leaned over the oars. “Just slower.”

  “Where do ya think we are?”

  “Short of where we wanna be.”

  “I can see that” biting back a more caustic reply.

  He lifted his head and shook it, a slow, heavy motion, breathing deep. “Sorry. Not at my best this AM.”

  She could see that. She could also see the grayish tinge to his cheeks, the waxy pallor, and were his eyes beginning to show a touch of pink?

  “How much water’s in that?” He nodded at a bottle tucked in th
e pocket by her head.

  She took it out and shook it. “Here.”

  Taking it, she saw him swallow once barely enough to wet his throat, she thought before closing it and handing it back. She stowed it carefully with the others. With what they’d lost in the storm, and no MROD unit to replace it, they’d be lucky to stretch their remaining water through the day after tomorrow.

  “What chance d’ya think we got of finding land before dying of thirst?” pointedly neglecting his injury. How bad was it, really? She wished she knew more about the signs of an immunocyte implant failing.

  “We can pray for rain.”

  “That’s fuck’n helpful.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a painful shrug. “We can row.”

  “We can use the flare gun” looking at it in the pocket next the water bottle.

  “Kris . . .” He stared into the sky behind her. “Just before it got light, I saw some tilt-rotors go by way over to the east. Don’t think they were friendly. Pretty sure they were escorting a fleet of hovercraft.”

  “Okay.”

  “Y’know who runs the Doms’ POW system these days.”

  General Heydrich. Whose older brother she’d shot dead in the CIC of IHS Ilya Turabian after he’d had her tortured for a couple of days. General Heydrich, whose reputation for sadism was certainly no less than his brother’s.

  “Yeah. But no one from Ilya got back to report anything. We stopped exchanging prisoners so ”

  “Kris . . .” She saw his chest heave, and the knotted muscles in his jaw made lumps under the pallid skin. “There’s a mole.”

  “A mole?”

  “Yeah.” The breath he’d been hoarding went out in a sigh. “At least one. Probably more. Trin and Nick Nick Taliaferro have been trying to flush ’em out for . . . since the Lacaille raid. They shielded Mankho for years, probably decades. They engineered Mariwen’s kidnapping and that whole plot. They managed to compromise Admiralty B, and that led to the Anandale disaster. God knows what else.” Another slow lift of his chest. “The point is, even if they don’t know what really happened to his brother, if they made any kind of report rumor, hunch, blind guess Heydrich’ll know about it. And you and I were mentioned in the news about Asylum. Just that could be enough. So please . . .” He brought his eyes back from the far horizon to hers. “Don’t fight me on this. I can’t . . . The risk is unacceptable.”

  The look in his eyes made hers drop. If there was a chance Heydrich did know . . . “Alright.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad.” He lifted one arm, grimacing as if it took most of his strength. “The capital is that way. It’s only a matter of rowing.”

  She didn’t bother to look. “So lemme row.”

  Shipping the oars, he slid off the seat with a grunt. “Be my guest.”

  * * *

  She rowed. It had looked simple enough and in theory it was, but theory and practice were farther apart than she’d guessed. Pulling with a jerky, inefficient stroke, she found herself wandering from their desired heading more often than seemed right, and she frequently interrupted their progress to check the heading on the compass in the bow, which appeared to be showing vagaries of its own.

  The primary climbed higher in the sky, and hotter bright yellow, then fierce yellow-white. She began to sweat freely and unsealed the top of her flight suit, regretting these didn’t have the environmental systems the SRF suits did. Her bad shoulder throbbed. Combatting the pain with guilt over thinking about raiding the first-aid kit kept it at bay for a while, but the pain also hampered her stroke. She gave in and swallowed two tablets dry. Strength returned. What she might be doing almost certainly was doing to the nerves, tendons, and blood vessels floated through her mind to be dismissed. Shoulders could be rebuilt.

  She kept rowing.

  The primary reached the height where she was supposed to wake Huron, asleep in the stern. She ignored it. His color looked worse, and he wasn’t sweating. That didn’t seem like a good sign. In fact, it seemed like a bad sign.

  All because she’d gotten pissed off and flipped her shit.

  All over being left out.

  She had to be all in on this. Then she had to fuck it up.

  Why didn’t I listen?

  No turbo-squid would’ve knocked his ass outta the air. He would’ve saved it. At worst, he’d have put it down easy and taxied his way in. Or they could’ve picked him up. And they’d be on their way back now. Laughing about it. Going home.

  Home.

  Why can’t I fuck’n learn . . .

  He rolled over and sat up. “Anything to report?” his voice was a guttural monotone.

  She rested her elbows on her knees, the oars loose in her hands. “No.”

  “I’ll spell you.” He moved haltingly to take her place.

  Was that all he was gonna say? No crack about her obvious intent to let him sleep? No nagging about her shoulder? No smart-assery?

  Oh shit. That’s not good.

  She slid off the seat. He took the oars, his face set like stone. “Try to get some rest. I’ll wake you at noon.”

  Words wouldn’t come. Even her nod was vague. She couldn’t tell if he noticed.

  Settling on her side in the stern, cradling her right arm to her chest, she closed her eyes and heard the creak of the oars against the thole pins. Heard the deep, ragged in-draw of breath with each pull; the exhale following through clenched teeth.

  Fuck. I’ll never be able to sleep.

  But she did.

  * * *

  Awakening this time to sweltering air and shadow across her face: Huron nudging her and offering a water bottle.

  “Look,” he said, in little more than a rusty whisper.

  Pushing herself to sit, ignoring the renewed pain, she looked. To the north, a dark rim to the ocean, shimmering through the marine haze.

  “Land?” her voice a thick croak.

  “Yeah. Here.” He pressed the bottle into her hand.

  She drank a mouthful, pure bliss to her parched throat. “How far, y’think? Thirty–forty klicks?” She had no real idea how tall those barely visible hills on the coastline were. A hundred meters, maybe?

  “About that.” He coughed. “If we keep at it, we could make it by around dawn tomorrow.”

  Dawn tomorrow felt like an excruciatingly long time in the future. It also felt optimistic. She thought of the flare gun again and offered him the water back. He waved it off.

  “Don't tap out yet” as if reading her thoughts. Which he probably was. She’d never been good at hiding them from him.

  Without answering, she looked north. Reaching land wasn’t the end of their problems. Shariati would be long gone. The capital would have fallen in the second assault. It would be chaos. People trying to flee. Dom patrols everywhere . . .

  “Y’think we can sneak off this rock?”

  “Major Sutton did.”

  Sutton was in a shit-ton better shape than you. “Alright. You sleep.”

  They changed places.

  “Glad to.”

  * * *

  Rowing through steaming air too glutted to drink the sweat that dripped off her elbows. A light squall had come up shortly after she started, and as it approached, she’d looked on it as salvation. The rain was heavy but not savage. She managed to catch some of it, drank maybe half a liter and call it blessed. But then it passed and she learned the truth: despite the gift, salvation had been before the squall hit.

  The saturated air seemed to intensify the primary’s brutal glare. Huron twitched and moaned in his sleep. Their fishing kit included some articulated poles, so she used these and the top of her flight suit to rig a kind of shelter to give him some shade. Going back to rowing, her bare skin burned as well as sweated. Drenching it with sea water turned out to be an agonizing mistake.

  She kept on rowing. The land ahead floated above the sea now, as if lazing on top of the band of haze. How far? Impossible to tell in this atmosphere. What if a current was moving them far
ther from land?

  Beneath the shelter, Huron turned over and moaned, an abortive sound: abrupt, uneasy, snatching. She stopped, listened, heard a name, then a few dismembered words. Started rowing again. Stopped again as he tossed. More words, the stumbling tangled whispers of a fever dream. Leaving the oars, she crawled to him. His skin felt like paper heated over a fire. Opening the first-aid, she rummaged until she found a hypospray. Dare she trust it? It was Halith-issue, probably a generic mix of immune-boosters, simulants, analgesics, anti-inflammatories, thrombolytics, antivirals and whatever else they usually put in this stuff. How would his immunocyte implant react to it? More and more, she thought the problem was his immunocyte implant. She put it back.

  He began talking again, a terrible tormented lucidity. His movements grew more restless until she had to crouch over him to keep them in check, praying the fit would pass, that he would fall back asleep, back into blessed unconsciousness or at least return to the meaningless names and fractured phrases. Anything but this. Anything but having to hear the cruelly naked thoughts of this most private man; watching all the walls and barriers being burned away by the fever’s implacable grip, learning how much his armor was there not just to keep things out, but to keep things in.

  The nightmare consuming him clawed at her, pulling her down. His agitated rocking beneath her as she straddled him; calling her name three and four times; strident at first, then low, soft, anguished. Holding his flexing shoulders and telling him she was there, over and over. Then a sudden flood spilling from a soul turning itself inside out. Feelings not so much buried as imprisoned: the love he felt for her, the guilt, the growing sense of failure of a man groping his way out of darkness, only to find he can no longer see . . . All of it breaking free at once, a cataract of words, and every one a razor cut on her fast-beating heart.

  Worst of all, their last morning together; more re-lived than remembered: watching how he’d sealed himself away as she talked; the vault closing, not slamming shut, but closing quietly, with gentle inexorable force; the locks clicking in place, one by one . . . His last question asking if she'd stay for breakfast the final click of the final lock.