by Tammy Salyer
THREE
An hour later, my weapons are still MIA, but I manage to twist myself into my returned clothing. It hurts in spectacular ways and makes sweat pop out on my forehead, harshly reminding me of the beating the Corps squad dealt me. As Vitruzzi fills the gash on my neck with tissue glue, she hands me a mirror and I see my contused face for the first time. Pulling my shoulder-length auburn hair back with one hand reveals ghoulish streaks of green, red, and black bruises shrouding the side Strahan had thumped with the butt of his rifle from hairline almost to the tip of my slightly pointed chin. The eye on that side opens a little more than halfway; Vitruzzi did a good job of keeping the swelling down, and I count myself lucky not to have a fractured skull. I’ve seen uglier, but not much.
She works efficiently, not wasting movement. She’s done this before. When I ask her if she’s a doctor, her reply is a curt nod. Captain of a transport ship and doctor—everything about Vitruzzi dispenses authority. I’ve already sized her up in my mind, a habit from years of never trusting anyone who’s breathing. She’s muscular, a little taller than me, and dexterous. Her efficient movements betray no weakness or hesitancy. Something about her eyes tells me she’s seen a great deal of the darkness of the human psyche but is still resolutely humane. She lives a hard life, relying on order and control to make sense of it.
When I was still Corps, I met a handful of non-comms, and even fewer officers, with the same presence of leadership. Her type is a rarity though, especially out here on the fringes. It makes me wonder what brought her here, and why she’s resorting to petty extortion when she could be working in a cush hospital on one of the Obals or running a department in one of the Ministries. As I size her up, I realize two things. She’s dead set on getting that disc, and it’ll be a brutal fight if I don’t hold up my end of the deal.
When she’s done, we walk out of the infirmary together and run into Strahan standing outside. Wordlessly, his familiar scowl still firmly set, he follows us to the galley.
I glance through the window of the first door we pass, posted INF 1. Sleeping on the gurney inside is a shaggy-headed blond man with a full beard, wearing a smock similar to the one I’d worn earlier. I recognize him as the man I’d knocked out to get inside the dock control room. His neck and chest are encased in a stiff metal brace with an attached mouthpiece covering the lower half of his face. The device looks as if it would be worn by an underwater diver.
In the Corps, I’d been a Tech 1 Sergeant and a navigator on mass deployment troop carriers. The ISPS is much smaller than the ships I’d been assigned to and I examine it curiously as we make our way forward. The Admin originally commissioned these to be Corps micro-ops combat ships, usually as backup fighters. They travel light and fast, but with enough room and storage for a squad of about ten to live on for a couple of months without resupplying. This one’s been refurbished for use as a transport vessel, probably for low-volume supplies. It’s a fairly old model, and has seen rough use. Scars appear here and there where the metal has been welded and patched, indicating damage, most likely from small arms.
As we ascend a metal staircase beyond the infirmary rooms, I hear three or four new voices. I can’t make out what they’re saying until Vitruzzi presses the opening sequence on the control pad to the galley door. It slides open and three heads swivel toward us.
“Everyone, our guest, Aly Erikson. Desto,” she nods toward the other man I’d seen with Strahan on the dock. “Show her where things are.” Turning to me, she says, “Erikson, I have a feeling you’re smart enough not to make trouble, but that’s not a lesson I’m going to learn the hard way. Strahan will be your shadow while you’re on board. Where you go outside your own bunk, he goes.” Without sparing a second for my protests, she leaves the galley.
They all stare at me and I stare back. Music wafts into the room from an invisible source, its tinny sound and basic beat creating an urgent backdrop to the room’s uncomfortable tension. The words are hard to hear, something…reckless… feckless…Rudie can’t fail. I recognize the song, a flawlessly preserved relic from Earth. The band had been called the Clash.
A smallish woman with hair so short it stands on end is the first to speak. She glides up to me, her eyes slipping over my features—hairline, eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth, neck—probing every centimeter of my skin as if reading a data log. With a friendly grin, hand outstretched, she says, “I’m Venus. I fly this rig. I fly it, and Bodie fixes it. He should be okay, just so you know. No permanent damage the captain says. And just so you know, any enemy of the Admin is a friend of mine.” Energy seems to pour out of her palm into mine as if I’m holding a live wire.
“Dr. Kellen Vilbrandt.” This comes from a wiry man sitting at the table, sizing me up with a veiled expression. He’s young looking, with a long, pale face and black hair. Something about his feigned casualness puts me on edge. That name: Vilbrandt. It causes a faint spark of recognition. Should I know this guy? My brain is still too addled, I can’t remember. If I do know him, I hope it comes to me before I need it to.
Desto steps in front of me so closely that his massive build blocks everything else from my sight. With a boxing glove-sized hand, he takes mine and shakes it. “Mr. Bomani Desto.” He spins “mister” with a touch of sarcasm, making fun of Vilbrandt. “If there’s anything you need while on board, you just let me know. Making you comfortable is my specialty.” Judging by the tightness of his grip, sheer power is another. I can’t miss the lewd suggestion in his introduction. A man with his strength doesn’t have to be polite.
My mouth decides to fire before engaging my brain. “You must be the brains of the crew.”
Instead of being insulted by my sarcasm, a low-pitched chuckle radiates from his throat, and he says, “You’re all right.”
Without letting go of my hand, he pulls me relentlessly toward the wall of cupboards making up the galley storage.
“In here is everything we have to eat. Most of it is pure slop, but nutritious slop. Not much needs cooking, which means not much to clean. We like to keep things simple on the Sphynx.” He turns to face me, and suddenly his expression is savagely serious. “We like simple very much. Meaning, we aren’t going to have any more problems with you, right?” The threat tears through his campy exterior, and I know he won’t hesitate to break me in half if I give him a reason.
Staring hard into his unflinching eyes, I acknowledge his question with a slight nod, extract my hand from his grip and step up to the nearest cupboard to examine what’s inside. It’s not in my interest to give anyone here the impression that I’m harmless or easily intimidated. Regardless of the deal Vitruzzi and I struck, I have more important things to think about then making nice with a bunch of strangers.
I feel more than hear him walk away. Damn he’s quiet. Now I see how he and Strahan had gotten the drop on the Corps squad. Grabbing a nutrient bar that might be palatable, I walk back over to the galley table and have a seat, hoping the solid food will settle my shaky limbs. The pressure of chewing creates a reverberating beat in my head, but I’m ravenous and eat it fast.
They don’t talk much while I eat, and their quiet observation of me should make me uncomfortable, but I’m too distracted by Venus. She’s fidgety, frenetically animated, and stays in constant motion: picking things up and putting them down, wiping off counters, sometimes bobbing her head up and down with the music and staring off into space. Her incessant activity draws my glances again and again.
“Don’t let Venus bother you. She can’t help it.” Desto leans toward me, grinning at my discomfort.
The ceaseless activity makes me feel as if I might jump out of my skin. Trying to stay calm, I start a conversation. “So Venus, you’re the pilot? You seem a little young to be flying a…transport ship. Where did you learn?”
Thankfully, she stops drawing random figures in the air with one finger and looks at me. “I started out flying a mining shuttle between my moon and Spectra 5. I have natural abilities that make me very good
at flying ships.”
I take the bait. “What are those?”
“Well, you know Spectra 5 was where the Admin used to have a curienite mine. I was born with a mutation in my brain from the stuff. My folks mined it their whole lives, so it was built up in their systems. Like poison, you know. Except, it didn’t work like poison. It changed my brain. I just have naturally faster reactions, um, to, well, everything.”
Vilbrandt interrupts, “Basically, her synaptic connections exceed most people’s by a power of ten. It’s as if she’s always in fight-or-flight mode. Her sympathetic nervous system is constantly stimulated because her mind works too quickly to filter or counteract sensory input. It’s somewhat complicated to explain.” He looks around at us with an expression that suggests he’s speaking to a roomful of idiots, and continues, “She also has an adrenal-inhibiting response to offset the cortisol that would naturally build up in someone with her physiology, which keeps her from just burning out. It’s amazing, actually.”
We all look at him the way children examine a fascinating bug. “What kind of doctor are you?” I ask.
“I was a biological engineer.”
Venus says with a cheerful grin, “I’m harder to catch. Which makes me an excellent pilot.”
“Makes it harder for you to chill out and let us relax, is what,” Desto says, grinning at her as if she were a favorite sister.
“That’s very interesting,” I comment. “Having mutations, I mean, adaptations like yours seem like the kind of thing the Admin would exploit. I’m surprised you’re not locked up in some lab.”
“Oh, they took all kinds of samples of my DNA and even some brain tissue when I was still a kid. But I guess they figured, you know, why let all this talent go to waste?”
I wonder how many human guinea pigs the Admin has tortured trying to copy her phenomenal biology.
“I have a perfect flying record. Been doing it since I was fourteen. Never crashed anything that still had energy to fly.” She grins proudly and pours water from a glass into a pitcher, then back in the glass.
The atmosphere in the room seems to be thawing some and I dredge up a small grin in return. Finished with my nutrition bar, I’m ready for another and help myself. Strahan hasn’t sat down, instead opting to lean stiffly against the door we’d entered through, the same expression stamped on his face. He still looks as if he wants to toss me straight out the nearest hatch into thin—nothing.
After sitting down to enjoy, if that’s the right word, my second bar and a glass of water, I watch the rest of the crew carefully, cataloguing my impressions of them. Desto and Venus ease into familiar conversation as if they’d been flying together for a while, but Strahan keeps his sullen distance. Kellen also says very little, and I notice the others don’t try and engage him. I get the impression that he’s not totally at home here, maybe a new crewmember. Our eyes meet several times. He’s watching me as much as I’m watching them.
In a few minutes, Desto draws Strahan into the conversation. “You know, Karl, you didn’t have to smash her head in. You’re supposed to hit the pretty ones lower so you don’t mess up their looks.” He winks at me.
Strahan remains silent.
Desto doesn’t let it go. “Erikson, you know, we’re about three more days from Agate Beach. You got your own bunk, but if you get lonely, I’ll make sure you know how to find me. No need for anyone around here to get cold at night. Just take a look at Karl over there—that’s what happens to a body that doesn’t get enough love.”
This elicits a sneering smirk from Strahan that serves as a silent warning no one can mistake. Shut up, Desto.
I’m not so easy to embarrass. “You know, Desto, if I get that lonely I think I’d be better off finding something battery powered to keep me company. You don’t look like you’ve had much companionship lately. Must be rough being cooped up on this ship with no one else from your species.”
He laughs so hard the dishes in the cupboards rattle and Venus joins him. Kellen’s lips only curl into a ghost of a grin, as if his mind is on other matters. Still laughing, Desto gets up, slaps me good naturedly on the back, nearly causing me to choke on my food, and heads toward the opposite galley door. “Venus, you and I better get back up to the flight deck.”
“Erikson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you find your stay with us…accommodating.” Kellen’s eyes latch into mine, forcing me to pay attention. His comment is strange; what does he mean? I don’t respond, and with a nod, he leaves too. That leaves Strahan and me.
“Come on. V—the captain—says you’re healthy enough to leave the infirmary. I’ll take you to your bunk.”
He leads the way out of the galley door and for the first time I notice that he carries his right leg stiffly, limping slightly. So, I’d hit him after all. No wonder he’s so unpleasant. He waits for me to get through and then points me toward a corridor lined by the crew quarter doors. We’re nearly at the end before he tells me to stop. Punching a code into the keypad opens the metal doors to what will be my bunk. One half-meter step up separates the corridor floor from the cabin.
Lights come on. “This is it: bed, sink with a couple liters of water, can. If you need anything else, ask me, and I’ll ask the captain.”
I nod, irritated at being treated as a prisoner. But if I weren’t here, I’d probably be dead. For the moment, like it or not, I’m completely at their mercy, and our agreement makes us business partners. It doesn’t do me any good to continue provoking anyone. Trying to dispel some of the animosity, I say, “Thanks. I realize things could have gone much worse for me.”
Oblivious to my sincerity, he leans into the room and points out another keypad inside. “Just punch in lima-nine to turn the lights on and off. I’m locking the door. You can’t open it, so don’t try.”
Fine, we’re not playing nice. “And I’m sorry about your leg.” I don’t try to soften the sarcasm in my voice.
For the first time, a hint of a grin turns up the corners of his mouth. “Well, I guess I’m lucky. Ten centimeters up and to the left, and Desto would have a lot more to laugh about.” He thrusts his chin forward, signaling me to go inside.
The gas-filled ceiling glows a murky white as his footsteps recede down the corridor, illuminating my newest cell-slash-room. There’s a narrow bunk to my left, embedded in a niche between sets of drawers below and shelves above. All empty. Another smaller door to the rear leads into the head with a nonbreakable metal mirror, a sink with a bottle of water hooked up to the tap, and a toilet. The identical setup to every Corps crew quarters I’ve ever lived in. After removing my boots, I stretch out on the bunk.
Despite days of unconsciousness, I’m now more tired than groggy. The drugs Vitruzzi had been giving me are finally wearing off, and I have some time to sort out everything that’s happened since jumping out of my last nightmare into this one. How am I going to find David and convince Rajcik to deal with Vitruzzi? Does she think she’ll be able to trade me for the disc? I’m enough of a realist to know that that may not be enough of a bargain for Rajcik. His loyalty isn’t to people, it’s to profits. Even though we’ve smuggled and sold enough illicit munitions together over the last six years to outfit a private army, I wouldn’t bet my life on his loyalty. And what had David said right before being arrested? Don’t let Rajcik out of my sight. What did he mean?
When I followed David, two years my senior, into the Admin Corps Military Academy, I thought the life of a soldier would be a thousand times better than my other option: civil service. Our mother abandoned the family when I was three, leaving me a burden on our dad—David’s dad. The old man never believed I was his. The only impact our mother had on my life was teaching me what it felt like to not matter. I thought the Corps would make me part of something real and noble, that I’d be protecting the perfect and faultless order of The Political and Capital Administration of the Advanced Worlds. Like all fourteen-year-olds, I was naïve.
By twenty, I’d seen more combat than I
could take. The Algol triple-star system was supposed to be peaceful and prosperous, with humanity happily ensconced in the orderly and beneficent arms of the Administration. If that were the case, why had I been ordered to arrest or neutralize more Admin-condemned non-citizens than I wanted to count? The people we targeted didn’t seem like much of a threat to orderly society to me; most of them didn’t even have weapons beyond whatever crude, handmade junk they could piece together for their own protection.
I began to ask questions of my CO, and when he wouldn’t answer, I asked people further up the chain. The more questions I asked, the harder it became to get answers. David warned me to keep quiet or I’d be arrested, or worse, for disobedience. But he knew I couldn’t. He saw the same shit go down as I did and had no more ability to stomach it than I did. It was only a matter of time before the hammer fell and I was extinguished from the Corps like a smothered candle.
Then the Rebellion hit. David and I helped take over our combat craft, crashed it on a moon off of Obal 8 called Dramma Sdutti, and, like hundreds of other soldiers who weren’t caught and exterminated, disappeared from the Admin and the Corps.
We stayed underground for months, hiding in dingy shacks with other ex-soldiers and jumping between non-cit settlements the Admin had already swept for deserters. When we met Rajcik, he instantly knew us for what we were. Deserters were all over the system for a while, before the Admin rounded most of them back up. He recognized the advantages of having people from our backgrounds on his crew, mine as interstellar ship navigator and David as an infantry platoon leader. We were smart, knew weapons, and had a detailed library of knowledge about Corps tactics and operations.