by Joe Zieja
Deet’s eyes flashed. “The seat belt sign is still on!” he cried in a way that sounded much too panicked for an artificial intelligence.
“I like to live on the edge,” Rogers said.
“Oh, yes you do,” Keffoule said slowly.
Sighing, Rogers walked over to where Mailn was sitting, her seat belt still on. He plopped down in an empty seat next to her and joined her looking out the window at absolutely nothing interesting. The shuttle had landed in such a configuration that they were both looking directly at a gray, plain wall. The corner of a NO SMOKING sign could be seen if he stretched his neck far in one direction.
“Pretty intense scenery,” Rogers said.
“Yeah,” Mailn said without looking at him.
“Thinking about going to Haverstown?” Rogers asked.
She looked at him then, her mouth slightly open.
“I guessed,” Rogers said. “The Viking didn’t seem to want you to come down, and I can’t imagine it was because you wanted to spend the whole time in the Monkey Pen.”
Haverstown was not, as the name implied, a town exclusively for Havers. Although many people in Haverstown did, in fact, talk foolishly, the small city was mostly a blind spot for the law. If anyone had any creative ideas for how to get into trouble, they could bring it to fruition in Haverstown.
“I have some folks back there that I might want to see, yeah,” Mailn said. “Captain Alsinbury seems to think I can’t handle myself.”
Having been hit by Mailn several (hundred) times, Rogers had a difficult time imagining any situation in which Mailn couldn’t handle herself. Wondering at the Viking’s caution—in all other situations she seemed ready to just blow up whatever was causing trouble and move on—Rogers thought for a moment. He heard the tone as the seat belt sign turned off, and then heard the unbuckling of clasps from the other members of his ground crew. The pilot made a quick announcement that they could collect their belongings and disembark.
“Well whatever is waiting for you there,” Rogers said, “I want you to take care of it first.”
Mailn raised an eyebrow, her seat belt still fastened. “But don’t you need me?”
Rogers shrugged. “It’d be nice to have someone who doesn’t want to marry me or someone not questioning their consciousness at my side. But if you spend the whole damn time looking out windows at nothing because you’re distracted, you’re not going to be any good to me.” Rogers stretched his arms, yawning. “Besides, we’ve got stuff to talk through with Holdt first. As much as I’d love you to punch bureaucrats in the face for me, I don’t think I’ll need you until we figure out exactly what we’re doing here.”
The sergeant opened her mouth to protest, but Rogers held up a hand.
“Go do what you have to do, and then come back with a clear head,” Rogers said.
For a moment Mailn didn’t say anything. She stared at him, eyes slightly squinted, teeth chewing on the inside of her cheek. If anything, she looked suspicious, which kind of annoyed Rogers. Here he was trying to give her some shore leave, and she was probably sitting there wondering if it was some kind of trap.
“When did you become a leader?” Mailn asked suddenly.
“Oh don’t give me that shit,” Rogers said, standing up. “Next thing I know you’ll be calling me sir.”
“I like Punching Bag better,” Mailn said, unbuckling and standing up.
They filed out of the shuttle via a gangplank, taking their possessions with them, which really just meant their datapads. Except for Xan, who Rogers assumed was carrying a bag of Keffoule’s personal effects. The pilots, still arguing about whether or not they always had to include units in their messages to passengers, didn’t say anything to them as they disembarked. Rogers wanted to ask them a bit more about the whole Flash-being-a-living-legend thing, but he preferred to keep his last meal in his stomach.
As they were stepping off into the docking bay, Rogers felt a tug at his elbow. It was so gentle and weird that he kind of expected to turn around and find a small child standing there, asking if Rogers could help him find his mommy. Instead, however, he found Deet.
“Um,” Rogers said. “Yes?”
Deet paused for an uncomfortable moment. He even turned his head to look around, perhaps to see if anyone else was listening. All of them were within a couple of feet of each other, though, so there was really no chance that he could say anything without everyone around him hearing. Rogers was about to ignore him and move on when Deet finally spoke.
“Rogers?” Deet asked. “I was thinking about what you said before. If you got me out of the garbage . . . does that make me garbage?”
“Oh wow,” Rogers said. “I am not mentally prepared to deal with this right now. And I feel like I owe Belgrave a beating.”
“Yeah,” Mailn said, laughing. “That’s our Captain Rogers. Galaxy-renowned for all the beatings he delivers.”
“I hate this crew,” Rogers said.
• • •
Working for a giant corporation had its perks. Great health benefits, a stable retirement account, and huge opportunities for career growth and progression within a single company. There was even a clause in the contract that said employees could request a free pet from Snaggardir’s—one that had been specifically adapted to life in space, so as not to create any messy and horribly depressing situations. Lucinda had always loved animals growing up, but knew when she’d gotten the position as Mr. Snaggardir’s personal intern that she would never have enough time to take care of something as complex and needy as a dog or a horse.
So Lucinda had picked a gerbil and had named him Snoot, and he was perfect. He’d been her sounding board for so many things over the last six months, and he never protested, never talked down to her, never told her that splitting a one-bedroom apartment between two other interns was “not a proper way to live.” Snoot just listened.
In truth, splitting a one-bedroom apartment between three interns was absolutely not a proper way to live, but there hadn’t been much choice in the matter back when she’d lived on Lar Milieu. Grandelle, as a system, was extremely prosperous, but also extremely expensive.
“I just don’t know about all of this, Snoot,” she said, her voice barely audible over the music blasting through the room. One of the best things about Snaggardir’s employment—especially at their headquarters space station—was that they allowed for every employee, even interns, to have their own rooms. And those rooms were practically soundproof, so she could pump up the tunes whenever she wanted. Right now she was going through an ultra-classics phase, mostly comprised of one hit wonders from Earth. She liked that playlist because it was always switching between different artists.
“I mean, we’re not talking about changing company policy here,” Lucinda said. Snoot nodded sagely—or at least she imagined he nodded sagely. “I think once this all clears up there’s still a place here for me, one that pays me actual credits, but . . .”
She flopped over on her bed, looking up at the ceiling. State-of-the-art holographic panels made it look like she was lying in the middle of a wheat field, puffy clouds rolling lazily overhead. She hadn’t been planetside in half a year, and she was starting to miss it.
“Something about all of this just doesn’t feel right. The Jupiterians were treated unfairly, yes, but is it worth all of this?” Lucinda extended a leg into the air, so that it looked like she was kicking around a low-hanging cloud. It swirled around her sock in response. “Justice is one thing, but . . .” She kicked the cloud to vapors. “This is revenge.”
Mr. Snaggardir had been very careful not to use that word. He was a very careful man, but Lucinda had spent enough time as an intern for the last ten years to understand a bit of subtext. That’s what was bothering her—Mr. Snaggardir thought he was being level-headed and emotionless. He saw himself as just the instrument of Jupiter’s revival, the sails that took the wind rather than the engine that powered the ship. But she’d seen enough in those calculating eyes
to tell her otherwise. General Szinder at least showed his rage on the outside. Mr. Snaggardir was like a dormant volcano, boiling underneath the surface for two centuries. Of course he wasn’t that old, but he represented the pent-up anger of several generations of slighted Jupiterians.
But now there was war, all over the system. All over the galaxy.
Lucinda sighed. She was just an assistant/intern. Even if she did suddenly want to change sides, what could she do? Give Mr. Snaggardir bad notes that resulted in bad war plans? Destroy him by giving him his coffee with regular coconut milk instead of sugar-free coconut milk? Interns, almost by definition, were powerless. Expendable. She was already shocked at the amount of information Mr. Snaggardir allowed her to know.
But people were dying.
People died all the time, of course. And it wasn’t like Mr. Snaggardir was engaging in the wanton, mass-scale slaughter of innocents. He was trying to rebuild his people.
But his people had sort of, kind of, been responsible for collapsing the Milky Way.
That was unfair, she knew. A small portion of the population, supported by the Jupiterian central government, had ignored numerous warnings by reputable scientists on all the other colonized planets about their new terraforming technology. That didn’t mean all of Jupiter needed to be excluded when they’d discovered the Fortuna Stultus galaxy. In fact, if they hadn’t moved all of the planets out of their orbital alignment, they never would have found the first Un-Space entry point.
But people were dying.
“Why is this so complicated ?” she said.
Snoot showed no indication of having any answers for her. He started running on his little wheel, which made Lucinda think of her career. Not for the first time, she wondered what was going to happen if the Jupiterians lost. Of course, the major board of directors had given no indication that this was an option. Everyone was supremely confident, even Dr. Mattic, who was usually a hyper-realist even in the face of overwhelming positivity. But if they did lose . . . what would happen to her? Would she lose her job? Would she . . . die? Worse, would her health plan not be eligible for PYTHON, the Post-Year-Termination Healthcare Operating Network, since her health plan was technically run by the largest criminal organization in the galaxy?
And there was also that “construction” project that everyone kept talking about. That was the one thing they were all very careful not to fully describe while Lucinda was around, which made her very suspicious. They’d been open about blockades; propaganda campaigns; homicidal, self-learning droid armies; and everything else in their complicated plan to retake their place in the galaxy. Except for the “construction” project. She could almost feel the quotes around the word, and the way that General Szinder kept grinning and narrowing his eyes every time he said it didn’t help her confidence.
For some reason, she felt like her decision was going to hinge on what that was. And until she’d really considered that, she hadn’t thought there was any kind of decision to make. Nor did she know what would happen after she made it.
Her datapad reminder alarm went off, and she actually squeaked. She’d been so lost in her thoughts that she’d forgotten they’d called another one of their staff meetings. They seemed to be happening almost hourly lately, though she supposed attempting to overthrow the galaxy would increase the frequency of strategy meetings.
“You know, Snoot,” she said, vaulting off her bed and heading to her closet, “if I ever have to bail, I’m going to make sure to take you with me.”
Snoot showed his appreciation by eating one of his turds.
“I give you such good food,” Lucinda muttered. She knew enough about animals to understand it was nutritionally necessary, but it was still gross.
Lucinda dressed as fast as she could and ran out the door.
The Worst Cup of Coffee Ever
Being inside a government building immediately reminded Rogers why he enjoyed free space more than working a staff job planetside. Actually, it reminded him why he enjoyed having molten iron poured into his eye sockets more than working a staff job planetside. Down here on Prime, you were just too close to the idiocy. Too many eyes, and too many mouths ready to say “Hey, you know what would be a good idea?” Out in free space, you at least had the buffer of communication delays and crackling a piece of paper near the mouthpiece of your datapad and saying “Wait, you’re breaking up! I’ll talk to you later.”
The halls of Meridan Naval Headquarters, which was really just one wing of the tumor-like complex of the other branches of Merida’s defense forces, were decorated much like the quarterdeck of the Flagship. Everything seemed out of place and time, faux-wood details accompanying strangely modern metallic surfaces. As they walked toward Admiral Holdt’s office near the center of the complex, they were treated with both obviously fake orchid displays and complicated mini-biospheres that allowed exotic plants to thrive in an urban environment.
Officers and enlisted of every rank and specialty were scurrying through the halls, looking at datapads or talking animatedly among each other. Nobody was saluting, thankfully, but Rogers could feel the queep bearing down on him like a failed terraforming experiment that had thickened the air.
“What is ‘queep’?” Deet asked. Rogers wasn’t aware he’d been muttering out loud about it all.
“It’s, uh,” Rogers said, struggling for a real description of the word. “It’s a catchall word that sort of encapsulates anything that is useless and stupid.”
“So should I be calling you Captain Queep?” Deet asked.
“Very funny.”
“So,” Keffoule asked as they neared the end of their journey through a small version of hell, “what can you tell me about this Admiral Holdt?”
Rogers gave her a sideways glance. “You mean you haven’t read intelligence reports about him, or anything?”
Blushing, Keffoule failed to meet his eyes. “Captain Rogers, I am not sure what kind of woman you think I am.”
“. . . The commander of a fleet?”
“The respectable, noble commander of a fleet,” Xan said in a warning tone.
Rogers was about to explain the many reasons why someone engaged in war should read intelligence reports, but he didn’t feel like talking anymore. That seemed to be happening a lot, lately.
Rogers didn’t know much about the interior of Meridan Naval Headquarters, but he knew he was headed to the executive section, where all the top brass spent their days telling other brass to tell enlisted troops to push paperwork around.
“How do you know where you’re going?” Deet asked. “I can’t even access a map of the facility.”
“I’m looking at everyone’s faces,” Rogers said, pointing at a pair of young recruits walking by. “If they look like they’re getting more depressed, we’re going in the right direction.”
His method of navigation, however, was short-lived in its efficacy. As he moved farther along the hallway, he started to notice that, instead of panic, there were a lot of blank faces. Slowly he realized that anyone from the MPD—the Meridan Police Department—appeared to have no expression on their faces at all. This was strange on two fronts. First, the MPD didn’t usually pull guard duty at Meridan military installations. Each branch of the military had their own security department for that sort of thing. Second, the sheer unemotional, expressionless looks on their faces made Rogers’ skin crawl. One guy’s cheeks were actually drooping.
“Jeez,” Rogers said. “I feel like I’m surrounded by Xans.”
“But there’s only one Xan,” Tunger said slowly, pointing to Keffoule’s aide.
“I don’t appreciate insults on my religion,” Xan said.
“What is your religion exactly?” Rogers asked. “Nobody ever explained it to me except that face weights are apparently important.”
Before Xan could answer, Rogers saw two familiar figures that made his hackles rise.
“You get the hell away from me right now,” Rogers said.
Two MP
D officers who had been nattering at each other suddenly noticed Rogers and stopped their conversation. One of them, Officer Atikan, cheerily waved and increased his pace to get closer to Rogers. The other, Officer Brooks, gave him the finger.
“I don’t want to talk to either of you,” Rogers reiterated, and made to step around them, but Deet was in his way and made of metal. Before he could change course, he was surrounded.
“Captain Rogers!” Officer Atikan yelled in a syrupy-sweet, singsong voice. “It’s so good to see you again. I hear things have gone well for you since we met on the Lumos.”
“I wish you had stayed on the Lumos,” Rogers muttered. These two officers had nearly sent him into a schizophrenic breakdown after he’d been arrested for blowing up all of the pirates during his last deal-gone-sour.
“I wish you had died,” Brooks growled. “Twice.”
“I was just talking about you,” Atikan said. “Your parade should be ready to go soon.”
Rogers frowned. “Wait, you were serious? Do you really think this is a time for parades? Do you have any idea what is going on out there?”
“It’s always time for a parade,” Atikan said.
“No,” Rogers said. “No it is absolutely not. If you’ll excuse me.”
He pushed his way through the two officers, setting off with far too much enthusiasm for someone visiting a high admiral. As Rogers squeezed between the two of them, Brooks leaned in and whispered with the utmost of creepiness.
“I’ve got your number,” he said, and pushed a small paper with 40R written on it into Rogers’ hand.
“Not my number!” Rogers sang out over his shoulder as he sped away. “Coat size! You’re an idiot!”
His coterie caught up with him relatively quickly, and nobody spoke for a moment.
“Can I ask—” Deet began.