Pyro Canyon

by Robert Appleton

  Gus had found Barani asleep outside his door one night on Gilpaxia, battered, bruised and kneecapped. The youngster had won a tidy sum from a rich trader who’d fancied himself as a mental Olympian—the lad had humiliated the braggart three evenings in a row, in fact—and the bully had gotten his revenge in cruel fashion, not only taking Barani’s winnings but beating him to within an inch of his life. The boy had been ten at the time, a precocious child prodigy, broken forever for being the best at something.

  The next day, Gus had hunted down the trader and meted out the exact same punishment Barani had received, saving some for his lackeys as well. Cybernetic limbs came in handy for more than just looking whole again. They smashed up baddies real well.

  From that day on, he’d won himself a friend, heir, partner in propaganda, godson or whatever cute appellation the youngster bestowed on himself in relation to his “rock-hard” mentor. And no one in IPR had a more versatile and devoted nudger—undercover field operative—than Barani, who, it turned out, was actually a cutis nova, descended from the skin-changing hunters of Magmalava, able to alter the color, texture or shade of his skin to blend in with his environment. The ability didn’t manifest until puberty, and as he was still coming to grips with it, Gus had told him to use it sparingly, and to be careful not to lose his temper, which triggered the cutis nova gene every time. It had betrayed him on Crichton’s Folly. The mining syndicate now knew who he was, what he was, and the danger he posed to any establishment.

  L.B. had often chided Gus for putting the lad in harm’s way, but every time they all sat down together to talk it over, to find out what Barani himself wanted, the answer was always the same. “Shaping a better tomorrow.” The IPR motto. But also Gus’s gift to him, an act of kindness the boy had reshaped his life around.

  For whenever Gus needed him, Barani was there.

  “You should be on your way to Galtera,” Gus reminded him, secretly glad the lad had such well-honed intuition. “Didn’t you get the office’s auto dispatch?”

  “Yep. But I never go anywhere ’less you message me first.”

  “You’re an ISPA cadet now, kid. You should by rights take any orders they give you.”

  A grayish-white tone came out in blotches over Barani’s face and neck. Otherwise he was bright red, fighting to control his cutis nova camouflage. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d stay behind and see why you aren’t going to Galtera either.” He huffed, then he unclipped his grav-lev soles from his boots and picked up his suitcase. “Anyways, you’re an ISPA officer, Trillion. You should by rights take any orders they give you.” He shared a wink with L.B., who then raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Gus.

  They were getting good at the teaming-up thing. But he’d thought of another job for Barani, one that would separate them again before the day was out. A potentially vital job. Much safer this time. On Mars.

  Let’s have a few hours together, then I’ll brief him. He might even get a kick out of this one.

  Watching L.B. wrap him in her cloak as they sat together on the bench, conversing softly like favorite aunt and favorite nephew, made Gus forget where he was, indeed, who he was. Loner? Soldier? Family man? Himself? His father?

  The many faces of Trillion. A cutis nova of the mind, from which his true self might never fully emerge. He only vaguely remembered what he used to look like before the operations—fairer, younger, not as striking. Whenever the image hit, he thought of Mother alone on her porch swing, watching the dusk aurora or the hundreds of shooting stars scorching holes in the aqua sky. Fatherless time, heavy and endured.

  * * *

  Hours later, on the other side of the warp jump, the bustling Ireton System glittered like an expensive black ballroom floor, with the lights of queued spacecraft flickering in elegant holding patterns around giant planets, moons and space stations. The largest planet, Ireton Four, had become something of a hub for interstellar commerce over the past couple of decades, its huge omnipod factories churning out tens of millions of units per year. The orange-yellow globe looked inviting, and Gus had heard good things about the thermal gliding near the equator, something he’d always wanted to try.

  “If by some miracle you convince Cardie to play along, you might want to schedule another visit while you’re here.” L.B. applied eyeliner and mascara with precise, generous strokes. It gave her a surprisingly exotic look. His nod of approval in the mirror teased a chuffed-with-herself smile. “You’ve heard of Mondebay and Reichert?” she asked.

  “No. Should I have?”

  “They’re Cardie’s closest friends here on Ireton Four. Both former models, started out on Earth. Now they’re running the IPR department in Mondebay’s Omni franchise. Easily the two most influential people in these parts, after Cardie of course. We’d be wise to get them on board. Any propaganda campaign started by that trifecta would go supernova overnight.”

  Gus wrestled a playful Barani to the bed, threw him onto the pillows. “Yeah, well, that’s the only sort of campaign I had in mind. Thanks for the tip. We should definitely schedule in Mondebay and Reichert then.”

  “And what’s this you’ve got planned for Barani on Mars?”

  The youngster picked himself up off the bed and began pacing back and forth, pinching at his ever-changing skin. His forearms were now light green with black stripes, mirroring the old linoleum floor. Was he finally starting to master his chameleonic ability? No doubt it would take years of psychological modulation, but if anyone had the mental aptitude to adapt to such a remarkable gift, it was Barani. He’d learned every propaganda delivery technique Gus had taught him, and many others besides, during his six months of correspondence tutelage by the IPR advanced media division, all paid for by ISPA. Yep, if the lad continued on as he’d started, he would one day become a fleet admiral.

  But first he’d have to play at being a child again. “It’s a quick prep job in the Martian Theme Park.”

  L.B. spun round, the hem of her robe catching under the chair’s wheel. “So it’s definitely the Brink, our Brink—running theme park rides for tots?”

  “Afraid so.” The notion stuck in his gullet. One of the greatest heroes in interstellar history, survivor of Perihelion itself, reduced to selling tickets alongside an Only Those Taller Than This Martian May Enter plastic figurine. A bum. Idolized by the resident theme park kids, no doubt, but sniggered at by the rest of the galaxy. It took one’s breath away.

  “So what do I have to do?” Barani flipped a somersault, then stood, hands on hips, gazing stoically at Gus.

  “You’re to spend two days and nights in the theme park, as close to Brink and his kid friends as you can. I want you to try and guilt him into a 221. The kids there worship him for who he is, so he has to mention his glory days now and then to keep them interested. Wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. Impressing children is safe, empowering, consequence-free. It’s exactly the way a veteran lets off steam without having to truly face his demons. I want you to learn all you can about him from the kids he hangs out with, find out why he quit Condor and ISPA, what sort of stories he likes to tell. If you can, get him to tell them, egg him on, build him up to a 221—once he finds out the outer colonies are in grave danger, it’ll trigger regret, especially as he spends so much time with youngsters. Yes, a 221 should prime him well for my visit.”

  “Jesus, Trillion, that’s a grubby business.” L.B. shivered, then swept her cloak over her bare white shoulders. “When you break it down to specifics—stirring this emotion and that emotion, manipulating them like ingredients in a soufflé—it makes you sound like a coldhearted bastard. Gives me the chills.”

  “No arguments here,” he agreed.

  “And all those codes you’ve got, reducing emotional states to numbers. It’s about the most morally bankrupt thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Gus looked at poor Barani, whose entire future career was being verbal
ly soiled in front of him by those he loved most. The lad shrugged, then gave the tiniest of smirks, after which his beetroot color settled to a calmer pink. “Don’t worry, I know it’s all a game. All physics is powered by manipulation—one force acting upon another for its own ends. We don’t have to like it, but we can’t deny that somehow it all works.”

  In L.B.’s big, black-framed eyes shone wonder and pride. “Since when did you become wiser than the two of us put together?”

  Barani laughed. “Since I’m the only one not smogged on meds, I guess.”

  “Oh, you’re so asking for a laxative in your nightcap, Bub.” She tossed a cushion at him, sparking a mini pillow fight.

  “And in any case, there are times when the dirtiest jobs become the most critical.” Gus had been percolating the topic in his mind while the others jested. He thought his well-formed observation had defused the high jinks when a pillow struck him full in the kisser. “And that was what I call dirty.” He pivoted his head slowly, threateningly toward L.B., who giggled and readied herself for a two-man onslaught, a pillow in each hand.

  Gus exploded into action, using only his organic arm to wield a cushion. He was no match for the others, who teamed up and pummeled him into submission amid fits of laughter he hadn’t heard for months. His own was foremost among them.

  Chapter Five

  “You’re a hard woman to see, Ms. Acton.” L.B.’s gap-jawed fascination quickly blossomed into a wide, beautiful cherry-and-white grin. Though her gaze appeared fixed on the curtains behind the elegant wooden desk, Gus couldn’t see anyone there.

  “Gah. I do apologize. You’ll have to excuse my new security device.” Another woman’s twangy, slightly embarrassed voice emerged from thin air, soaring above one of the catchy podnet jingles Gus had paid to broadcast here on Ireton Four, on all dedicated music channels for the next forty-eight hours. A subtly jingoistic tune IPR had used before, successfully, in the inner colonies. A seasonal chart-topper. It had a simple, quietly rousing quality that conjured the feeling of an idyllic home under threat, and the noble souls who marched off to defend it. Basic propaganda stuff.

  “When Tommy Rigger ups and flies

  by starways vast, in nova skies,

  by the light of the flickering moon,

  it’s look out, brother, look home, Tom,

  for we’ll be joining soon.

  Aye, we’ll joining soon.”

  Cobbled together by an AI neural simulator from thousands of the best-loved pop tunes and anthems in history, designed to stick in the listener’s memory by repetition and by appealing to specific sentiments, “Starward Bound” had scored the highest yield rating of any song in the last fifty years. But would it work when ISPA needed it most?

  Gus scanned the entire gibbous-shaped room twice, noting how boringly predictable and presidential everything appeared for a politician’s office. He’d at least expected some memorabilia from Jane “Cardie” Acton’s Condor Squadron days, but not a single photo, medal or framed citation could be seen anywhere. Not even a family photograph or a cute child’s toy stood on her strictly officious desk. It was a room as artificial and impersonal as one of those omnipod blueprints for a virtual fantasy experience—before the user filled the schematic with his or her preferences, it had an empty, morose vibe, a simulation without life, without personality.

  A construct.

  A small, quite attractive, slightly dumpy woman flickered into view behind the desk. She unclipped several small virtual projectors from her blouse collar and the belt of her khaki skirt, then she lifted each of her short sleeves and peeled away transparent memory stickers from her upper arms. Nanotech invisibility, a state-of-the-art security device the Sheikers and Finaglers would kill to get hold of. A military tattoo high up on her right arm featured a slogan under the Condor Squadron insignia: I Got This Tan From Pyro Canyon.

  She quickly covered it. “My campaign manager insisted I at least try to blend in.” She winked at L.B., who jokingly covered her eyes for a moment. “Miss Baltacha, is it? Allegra Mondebay and Lenore Reichert vouched for you. Apparently you don’t take no for an answer, especially when it comes to marriage proposals.”

  L.B. laughed. “Touché, ma’am. But it took them nearly two decades to tie the knot. I’d rather not shilly-shally like that with my love life.”

  Congresswoman Acton nodded and looked away. Now in her early forties, she was not remotely how Gus had imagined her. Sure, he’d seen the news footage and the endless interviews of her after Perihelion, when she was in her prime—a somewhat tomboyish, quite shy and distant young woman who spoke well enough but who you sensed was holding a lot back. A natural politician in that regard, then.

  But here Gus had expected to find someone with a superior air, someone monumental and untouchable, a lifetime of being revered written on her facelift and her million-credit couture. Instead, she reminded him of the night-class art teacher every student, male and female, secretly had a crush on. A winning smile, natural skin and curves, unselfconscious about her figure, which was nowhere near as trim as L.B.’s. She also radiated wisdom, as someone who’d tasted all life had to offer and could overflow with the memories, given the right company and circumstance. Yet he sensed something was holding her back here, too—it was obvious from the quickly covered tattoo, the pretentious shell of an office, sans mementos, and the fact that she hadn’t once looked him in the eye.

  What was she ashamed of? It didn’t make sense for her—a legend in her own lifetime—to want to be someone else.

  “Ma’am, may I introduce Corporal Gus Trillion of the IPR 65z division.”

  The congresswoman strode up to him, shook his hand firmly—she had a hell of a grip, in fact—all the while studying him, that familiar puzzled frown he’d seen on countless ex-Condor faces briefly quivering her politician’s poise. “Fuck me.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. But if I look like I’ve just seen Banquo’s ghost, it’s because you’re—”

  “The spitting image of someone you flew with?” He’d been through this rigmarole so many times, but this time he gasped. Witnessing the awestruck reaction in the great Cardie herself…

  Bodes well for what I’m going to try on her, at least.

  “Trillion, you say? Max Trillion? Tell me this is some kind of joke.”

  “No joke, ma’am. I’m Gus, his son.” He briefly explained the surgical procedure, careful not to mention his father’s death at Perihelion. The surprise of seeing his face should be enough to stir all sorts of surface emotions, to excite her sense of nostalgia into a pliable state of mind. From here on, if he played his cards right, she would be more susceptible to his various gambits—a 221, a 79, maybe even a 4 or an 18—whatever it took to guilt her into doing the right thing.

  And it was the right thing. No question of that. With Cardie back in the cockpit, it would be infinitely easier to rally public support for a large-scale colonial force. With Cardie and Brink spearheading the effort, well, that was a propagandist’s wet dream, and the only problem left to solve would be reconditioning those tens of thousands of combat birds that had been left to gather cosmic dust in their super-hangars.

  “I’m confused. What’s this in regard to again?” The congresswoman leaned against her desk, folded her arms. “I haven’t had a request from the IPR since I sued them for harassment. I only agreed to this meeting because Miss Baltacha said it was urgent, and lives were at stake. Well?”

  Ah, so maybe not as nostalgic, as susceptible as he’d hoped. “If you’ll forgive me, ma’am, Miss Baltacha and I are somewhat out on a limb. This visit isn’t sanctioned by the IPR.” Best distance us from any hint of that—she clearly resents it. “A situation has arisen, and the two of us thought—” yes, keep it personal, “—that you might appreciate the jam we’re in.”

  Her gaze flicked back and forth between him and L.B., watchful,
wary. “What kind of a jam?”

  A slender purple glider shot past the window, trailing a political banner that called for greater protection for the children of the border colonies—one of several such gliders Gus had paid for with his IPR account—then performed a loop-the-loop in a thermal updraft. The Congressional Tower stood some four thousand feet above the Hot Lakes, and Ms. Acton’s office was about three quarters of the way up, a perfect altitude for glider pilot lobbyists to ply their issues. An interesting kind of aerial-democracy-turned-propaganda-delivery stunt he was actually quite proud of.

  Not bad for a smogger.

  “It was actually me that discovered it.” L.B. seemed to have cottoned on to the congresswoman’s intense distrust of anything IPR, and had made a smart move. “I took it to the only person I know who has the veracity and the know-how to sell it through the right channels.”

  Sell it? Not cool, L.B. We’re talking to a death-dealing flier, not a politician.

  “What she means to say is, if ISPA knew we had this information, they’d probably bury it and us with it. What we need is a spokesperson who isn’t afraid of them, someone of principle who we know will do the right thing at the right time.” Too much? We don’t want her at war with ISPA, we want her leading its forces.

  L.B. fingered the flexi-screen inside her cloak. “We just want you to know that whatever you decide, you are our first and only choice, ma’am. It means a lot—”

  “Enough. Enough with the tag-teaming bullshit. I live at altitude over a lake of bubbling geysers—trust me, I have enough smoke blown up my ass. One of you get to the point quick or I’ll hammer you both to death with a volume of Stellar Freight Tax Law. Trillion, I want to hear it from you. Your father talked as straight and true as he flew, so astound me—prove that there’s at least one asshole in IPR who has a chance of becoming something more.”