by Nick Webb
Just like how she felt.
She hadn’t slept in three days. Well, if closing one’s eyes and laying down in bed counted as sleep, then sure. But rather than drifting off, the only thing she could think of, the only unavoidable image that floated before her mind’s eye was that girl.
That girl she’d sent to her death. All alone, in that fighter, with the blast front from the quantum field torpedo rapidly approaching….
Jake had tried to encourage her, comfort her, after his fashion. Swatted her on the back and gave a curt nod. ‘You did what you had to do, Po,’ he’d said.
“Ensign Ayala, what’s the status of repairs to the aft ion beam cannons?” She sidled up to the skeleton crew of the tactical octagon. Half the bridge crew had temporarily been reassigned to help with the emergency repairs. Po noticed that her voice seemed to call the young, white-haired ensign out of a reverie, and the woman startled.
“Ahead of schedule, sir. And the laser crews are reporting significant progress as well. We’ll be back up to about eighty percent capacity in two hours.”
“Everything all right, Ensign?” Po sat down in the vacant chair next to Ayala and leaned in towards her. Was she hovering? She was hovering. She backed off, and leaned back into the chair.
Ayala cleared her throat and straightened her uniform—a rip in the fabric, probably from the mayhem of the past few weeks, revealed part of the intricate boreal tattoo decorating her body, the prints of the vast oaks and pines jutting up onto her neck, a living remembrance of the Belen that was. Before the Empire came.
“Yes, sir, everything’s fine.” Ayala tried to make her voice sound more engaged, less distracted, but Po was no fool.
“It’s been over a month, hasn’t it? Since your last Milagro?”
Ayala’s face screwed up, perplexed. “Sir?”
Po put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, sorry. Is it all right to talk about? I didn’t mean to—it’s just that I thought, you know, as a Belenite—“
A look of realization dawned over the Ensign’s face, and she forced a chuckle. “Oh. Right. No, outsiders can talk about it. Blessings upon you for reminding me—I’d been so caught up in things…”
“Is it a private ritual? I mean, can non-Belenites attend? I’d heard of the ritual of renewal, but only second-hand. I didn’t know if it required you to get away from the ship to do it, or something like that.” Po crossed her legs. She hadn’t grown up religious, but several of her friends had. And when the Empire came to Earth, forty years ago, Jupiter worship had already begun to be adopted by the celebrity and political classes. It was in vogue, after all. So she was used to being accommodating of, what seemed to her, strange beliefs.
“No, nothing like that,” Ayala laughed, a little more easily than she had earlier. “Well, some of the clans are more private than others. But I belong to a more … shall we say … cosmopolitan clan. My parents are diplomats, after all. We’re used to being in the spotlight.”
“Really?” Po raised her eyebrows. “So you’ve been around the Empire then? Travelled, I mean?”
“Oh sure,” Ayala said, waving a hand. “They were stationed as the official Belenite representatives on Thalia, and later on Vol. Yeah, you could say I’ve seen my share of the Thousand Worlds. And everywhere we went, my mother would always lead the Milagro. That’s what we call it—the monthly ritual of renewal.”
“Isn’t that Spanish? Miracle, isn’t it?”
Ayala nodded. “It is, but it’s come to mean more than just miracle. You know the history of Belen?”
Po shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t. I mean, not much more than what the Empire did to you. Everyone knows that. The Empire requires every school to teach it.”
“They require their version to be taught, yes. Conquerers always do. Our roots are in South America of Old Earth. Our community began there, before the great emigrations in the twenty-second century. They lived in the mountains. In the hills. In the forests. Catholics, Mormons, Buddhists, people of peace. Drawn together by a common cause to live in harmony.”
“Like a commune?” asked Po.
“No. Not quite. They in effect formed a new religion, drawing on beliefs and traditions from many faiths. They wanted to form Zion—that’s what they called it. A peaceful community with no poor, or rather, where everyone was neither rich nor poor. Just … united. At one with each other.” She nodded again. “The original vision was beautiful. But it was hard to practice that kind of vision among so many other people, so we left. When Belen was discovered, our people applied for a permit to settle it, and within thirty years we pulled up roots from Earth and relocated. It was called Commerce at the time, everyone wanted to go to Commerce since it was like Earth, only more lush. More temperate. It was like our Eden.…”
Po glanced down at the tactical console, watching as dozens of merchant freighters flitted in and out of orbit. Most probably filled with illicit material, and some probably containing a slave or two. Or dozens. She sighed. At the mention of Belen—how the Belenites considered it their Eden, she shook her head at how far they all had fallen. Slaves, in the twenty-seventh century.
“In two hundred years we grew rapidly. People had huge families back then. Ten, twelve kids … that was the norm, especially as automated personal assistants became popular, and even more so after doctors developed the dilation pill—when you can have a one hundred percent pain free delivery, and a robot to help you around the house—our people didn’t adhere to the Taboo against robotics back then—what’s to stop you from having ten more kids?”
“I can think of a few …” Po said with a wink. But they were dangerously close to her own taboo. She refused to talk about children. She hadn’t since … well, best not to think about it.
“By the time we’d been there two hundred years, we were pushing, oh, I don’t know, thirty million? Forty? By then our religion had matured, and the Milagro ceremony came about.”
“Ah yes, you were saying others could come? We could see what it’s like? I’m sure there are many among the crew who would love to see it.”
Ayala hesitated. “Of course. I haven’t led a Milagro for years, but, I mean, if others are interested…”
Po stood up. “I’ll be the first one there. Just tell us all when it is, and I’ll see that it’s announced. God knows we need some miracles around here. Or at least a distraction.”
Yes, a distraction. Any distraction, to pull her mind away from the lonesome interior of that fighter she kept imagining, a young, fresh-faced recruit at the controls, firing a torpedo at the Sphinx before struggling to get away, furiously pounding at a still-unfamiliar console, frantically—
A sharp rumble interrupted her reverie.
She turned back to Ayala. “What the hell was that?”
***
An explosion. In engineering. After reporting the news to the XO, she’d begged Commander Po to let her go, to help assess the situation down there. The XO looked at her suspiciously—so she thought—but assented, and now Ensign Ayala’s feet pounded the deck plates of the curved corridors of the vast ship, brushing past work crews and debris still shoved into the corners.
Was it him?
It couldn’t be. Sure, he’d been missing for three whole days now, but how could one of the highest ranking Senators in the Imperial Senate just waltz around undetected on a Resistance ship?
It was impossible, but something in Ayala’s gut told her that something was wrong.
She’d been sent here by The Red. Her mission was clear: infiltrate the Resistance, and use whatever means possible to get in the good graces of the highest leadership. Not to hurt anyone in the Resistance, of course, far from it. But to gather information—any intel she could use to help her people take down the Empire.
Well, not all her people. Not the pacifists. Not the ninety-eight percent of her people that wandered the Thousand Worlds like celebrity vagabonds, stopping at this world or that to give lectures or to otherwise hold court to a mesmeri
zed public, blissfully unaware that their hero-worship, their rubber-necking, was the very thing that the Empire had desired in the first place.
To make Belen an example.
To keep the other worlds in line.
And it worked beautifully. There was a deadly logic to the Empire’s plans regarding Belen, and its fruit was bitter for her people.
But The Red, in the shadows, was fighting back.
Ayala quickened her pace as two medics rushed past her towards engineering. She was nearly there—just two more staircases and hallways….
What if the blast had taken out the entire engineering crew? And hadn’t the Captain and Commander Jemez headed down there earlier?
She turned the final corner to engineering, and wasn’t quite prepared for the scene that greeted her next.
Captain Mercer, Commander Jemez, and Chief Engineer Bernoulli, bleeding, sitting on the ground with their backs against the walls, and laughing their heads off.
***
“And then, friend, get this,” Alessandro continued, through fits of laughter, “after she tossed my computer terminal out the door, she runs her finger along the tabletop, looks at it, and says, ‘what the hell is this? Is this ball dandruff? Is this baldruff?’”
Jake doubled up and laughed hard, still holding the gauze to the side of his head which now sported a long, but shallow, bloody gash.
The grinning scientist continued. “But what could I do? I was in handcuffs at that point, strapped to the chair, and having a very unexpectedly interesting and surprisingly delightful evening!” Bernoulli wheezed a bit, and wiped some of the black grime and dried blood off his face.
“So when did she realize she was in the wrong apartment?” said Ben, when he’d settled down from his subdued laughter.
“She didn’t! Would you tell her? We had quite the night together, let me tell you, friends, and never once did she guess that I wasn’t one Mr. Dong Wong, connoisseur of sexy housekeeper dominatrices.”
Jake saw more movement out of the corner of his eye—another medic, no doubt, trying to fuss over his superficial cuts. But a glance to his left revealed Ensign Ayala, the wispy haired tattooed tactical officer.
“Blessings, Ensign,” he said with a wave, using the traditional Belenite greeting. “I guess Po sent you? Go tell her we’re fine. Bernoulli here just had a minor mishap. Promise her it won’t happen again.” He leaned over to the half-mustached man and raised his eyebrow. “You do promise it won’t happen again, right?”
Alessandro shrugged. “I make no guarantees. Re-infusing neodymium into the crystal matrix is tedious business. We’re lucky to be alive, much less laying out on our asses joking about escorts.”
Ayala took a tentative step forward. “Captain? Are you sure you’re all right? Are we sure it was just caused by the work on the gravitic drive?”
“We’re fine, Ensign.” Jake grunted as he pulled himself up, using the wall to steady himself momentarily. “Alessandro assures me that it was a fluke. Unexpected, to be sure, but just a fluke.”
Ayala eyed him, and Jake wondered what she was thinking about. Considering what to tell Po, no doubt. “Just tell the XO that we’re fine, and that the engines should be ready in, what,” he glanced at Alessandro again, “two hours?”
“Maybe less. This was very unexpected, yes. But not catastrophic. I was surprised because we weren’t even using the auxiliary cap bank when it blew. But nothing my techs can’t replace by the time the drive is ready.” Bernoulli stood up, and offered a hand to Ben, who suppressed a groan as he pulled himself up. No doubt the blast and the collision with the deck had reopened a few of his knife wounds. Jake made a note to send his friend back to sickbay.
Ben seemed to read his mind. “I’m fine,” he said, waving Jake off as he turned down the hallway.
“No you’re not, buddy.” Jake pointed to Ben’s back. “Your wounds reopened back there. Come on, your uniform is spotted all over with blood. Get to sickbay. Now.”
“But—“
“That’s an order, Commander,” he looked his friend straight in the eye, and to take the edge off the sternness of his voice, he threw in a small wink and a lopsided smile.
Ben glowered at him, but turned in the opposite direction towards sickbay.
“Try not to blow up the ship while I’m down there, Captain,” he called as he walked away.
“Not this time,” Jake muttered under his breath as he turned towards the bridge, falling into step with Ensign Ayala, who walked remarkably fast for a short Belenite woman.
***
Ben glanced behind him and watched Jake as he walked away, letting his eyes drill like laser beams into his friend’s back. Twisting back to start the trek to sickbay, he winced. Indeed, the deep cuts in his back had reopened, wetting the back of his uniform with a spreading crimson blotch.
Dammit.
Another gift from the master. The late master, he added to himself. Each step down the corridor made his back pinch in pain, and the sensation brought back to his memory the sight of the dagger spinning through the air, embedding straight into the master’s forehead.
He’d killed before. As a fighter pilot it was part of the job description. To be faster, defter, more accurate, and deadlier than your opponent, and blow up his fighter before he blows up yours. To kill him before he kills you. Such was life itself.
But he’d never seen his opponent’s face. And he’d never killed a man laying prone on the ground before.
It was invigorating.
Was that wrong? To feel that way? What would mother say? She was dead, of course. Incinerated in the blast over Dallas. But she’d surely have a few choice words for him.
Nearly tripping over some stray debris in front of the elevator, he stumbled inside and hit the button for deck twelve. Sickbay.
What would she say to him? He strained against his foggy memory, trying to see if he could remember his last conversation with her. He’d tried to block it out. To focus on his training. His mission. To belong to his new Resistance family.
Why didn’t you go to medical school like I told you to?
It was a gray autumn day. An unseasonable cold front had moved through Texas, bringing with it a hint of winter’s chill. He was home on leave for a week from base in Florida. D-Day was three weeks away.
Because, Mom, I can save more lives in the seat of a fighter than I can in a damn doctor’s office.
Watch your mouth!
Sorry, Mom.
Save lives in a fighter? Oh, honey. What exactly is it that you think fighter pilots do? Those guns don’t shoot candy.
I know, Mom. I’m just saying I can actually make a difference there. Maybe save Earth, or something….
He’d trailed off, knowing precisely how stupid it sounded. The opening elevator door interrupted his thought, and he walked with a slight limp—no amount of discipline could make him ignore the splitting pain in his back—down the hall towards sickbay.
Save Earth? Benjamin, try to be realistic. You’ve always been a dreamy boy, but this is serious, honey. You could die.
I know, Mom.
And how would that make me feel? To see my baby come home in a casket. If they can even find you—Lord knows you’ll be blasted to bits and the biggest piece of you they’ll find is your inflated ego.
Mom—
Why do you put me through this? Don’t you know how long I was in labor with you? Twenty-eight hours, Benjamin! And this is what I get for it? A son who goes off with delusions of grandeur and a death wish?
Mom—
“Commander? Oh, god….” He’d walked into sickbay, and the nurse caught a glimpse of his back. The look on her face told him the blood probably was more copious than he’d thought. She rushed over and, holding him by the arm, led him to an open table. Of the twenty or so beds in sickbay, at least half were still filled by crew members in various states of recovery from wounds sustained during the last battle over Destiny a few days ago.
Or was
it weeks? How long had he been at the master’s mercy?
Mercy? Shit. If that was mercy, then war was heaven.
The nurse eased him out of his shirt and pressed some gauze on the oozing wounds.
“You really shouldn’t be walking around with cuts like this, Commander,” said the nurse, with a look of disapproval.
“I’m the Chief of Security, Ensign Ypres, it’s my duty. And we’re at war. I don’t have the privilege of sitting around on my ass.”
Look, Benjamin, I’d rather have you here at home sitting on your ass than out there getting your ass blown up. Come back home, honey, and we’ll figure out something else for you.
Mom, I’m twenty-two for fuck’s sake, I can do what I—
DON’T YOU TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME, YOUNG MAN.
He didn’t stick around long enough to correct his tone. He’d picked up his still unopened bag and rushed out the door, flagging down the first grav-taxi that came his way.
And that was it. Don’t you take that tone with me, young man. Those were his mother’s final words to him. As if she was talking to a rebellious, troubled teenager. Not a grown man serving his country and his planet. Not a man trying to save the world. But a child.
He opened his eyes, realizing that he’d dropped off for a few seconds. Or minutes. He glanced around, saw that he’d been laying down on the sickbay table, and Nurse Ypres was walking away from him, on towards another patient.
Damn, he must have lost more blood than he thought. Another parting gift from the master.
But under the surface, and now more present in his memory as he drifted on the edge of wakefulness, was the final, terrible gift from the master.
YOU WILL HURT THOSE CLOSEST TO YOU.
What did that even mean? Was he trying to command him to action? Order him to go yell at his best friends or something? Hurt their feelings?
Or was it something more sinister? The man had claimed the picobots were designed to make someone completely submissive and vulnerable to suggestion. And that the first order received after injection would always be the most powerful. The most potent.