Spectra Arise Trilogy

by Tammy Salyer

  * * *

  Venus pilots us off the moon the instant we roll into the cargo hold and seal the hatch.

  “Whew! That was the shit, wasn’t it?!” Desto jumps off the Rover, grinning like a deranged butcher. Still sitting, I lean back and take in the ceiling, letting the fact that we survived sink into both my senses and muscles before I trust myself to stand.

  “Damn woman, you know how to keep a firefight from getting dull, don’t you?” It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking to me, and I drop my eyes to see his outstretched hand ready to help me out.

  Still winded, I say flatly, “You’re nuts.”

  He laughs, grasping my hand and pulling me out. With a wink, he says to Strahan, “She’s as smart as she looks. Come on, let’s get you to the infirmary.” The two of them start off.

  “You should come too, get that hand cleaned up,” Vitruzzi says, staring at me keenly. What is she thinking? I’m a complete stranger, a dangerous stranger who had nearly killed one of her crew, and yet she’d taken a major risk on me, gambling I would come through for them when the shit hit the fan. And I had. Where does that leave us now?

  Without a hint of mockery, she says, “Thank you, Erikson.”

  * * *

  Standing in INF 1, I wince with every cement fragment I pluck from my knuckles. Vitruzzi cuts through Strahan’s pant leg as he sucks down a cigarette like a jonesing opium addict, teeth embedded in the filter, smoke pouring simultaneously from the end of the butt and out through his flared nostrils.

  As Vitruzzi runs a scanner above Strahan’s wound, a to-scale three-dimensional image appears in the air. It takes me a minute of staring before I can make sense of what I’m seeing.

  “Cybernetic tissue?”

  Strahan replies around the cigarette, “Yeah. Lost the real one from the knee down when I was still in the Corps. Proximity grenade. That, and these.” He waves the last three fingers of his right hand at me.

  Vitruzzi speaks with the distracted tone of a teacher as she works on the wound. “Most of the leg is still natural tissue, only the nerves and bones are synthetic. Titanium fibula, tibia, and tarsals, and semiconducting fibers tracing the neural pathways. His muscles and blood vessels re-grew easily once the structure was replaced. We haven’t been able to perfect the neurological system yet, but the synth-nerve fibers are a functional replacement.” She returns her attention to Strahan. “The bullet went through, but it made a mess. I can suture things back together and put you in regeneration brace, but you’ll be hobbling for a few days.”

  Finished cleaning the scrapes on my hands, I have nothing left here to do and move toward the exit, expecting them to say or do something to stop me. But only their eyes follow me out.

  Now what?

  Now, I wait.

  Once in my bunk, autopilot takes command, and I follow the same, almost ritualistic, pattern I always do. Throwing a rag I’d found across the cabin’s bench, I begin tearing down my weapons and laying them out, uniformly, methodically, piece by piece until the bench is covered with a smorgasbord of black metal. I attack the pieces using a cleaning kit from my belt, scraping each of them clean until they gleam like living embers. Knowing my weapons function smoothly and flawlessly, that they’ll be reliable when I need them, gives me the extra edge of confidence that can mean the difference between living and dying. Soon, the smell of gun oil infuses the pandemonium of thoughts whirling through my head, transporting me back to Obal 3. All I can think about is David, guessing how much danger he’s in, weighing his chances.

  Common sense tells me to accept the probability that he’s dead already, but I don’t believe it. I can’t. Capturing smugglers alive is Admin SOP. The Soldier’s Rebellion had left a mess behind that they’re still trying to clean up, and deserters control many of the system’s black market operations and smuggling rings. With the destruction of the Capital Military Corps’ central personnel database and part of the backup, the Admin lost the ability to reference or track the identities of soldiers who’d deserted or who had simply been lost, their ships obliterated in the uprising. It was a blow that nearly crippled them…for a while. Thousands of deserters like David and I simply disappeared from existence, anonymous and untraceable. In order to clean up the system and regain control, the Admin’s best option is live capture and interrogation. All information is potentially valuable. Because of this, I let myself believe David is still alive. But for how long? Five days have already passed.

  Picking up the bolt of my AK-80 pulse carbine and scrubbing the carbon residue vigorously from its short barrel, I try to imagine what would have happened after David surrendered. He threw out his weapons and went quietly. They’d have had no reason to kill him. But citizens and non-cits carrying weapons get them a guarantee of a quick trial and judgment, followed by an inevitable capital sentence.

  The mechanical process of cleaning and checking my weapons keeps me occupied while I let my mind wander freely. My own version of meditation. Unique, yeah, but it keeps me from bugging out. Next to the AK sits my Sinbad auto-pistol, already cleaned and reassembled, and the Mini-Derg XM2 laser that lives strapped to my right calf. The only piece that can be disassembled and replaced on this small but expendable weapon is the battery. As I press the cold metal into the holster, my mind jumps to thoughts of the Fortress itself.

  Designed and built in secret, the Admin never intended the space station to be exposed; yet they still prepared for the possibility. Instead of locating it on a planet or moon, it was designed to be mobile, keeping it virtually untraceable. I’ve never seen it, never met anyone who claims to have been on it until Vilbrandt, but I’ve heard the stories, and I’m a firm believer that every myth contains some truth. My years in the Corps are enough proof that any government with unlimited power is a government with a reason to hurt people. Sometimes they don’t even need a reason. My naiveté died the first time they commanded me to take aim and fire at an innocent.

  Hot tears of fear and frustration seep into my eyes. Blinking against them, I slam my fist against the bench and force myself to just STOP thinking. I’ll go crazy if I let myself imagine what might be happening to David, but Vilbrandt, with his sidling innuendoes about the types of research done on the Fortress, hadn’t made it any easier. Soon I’ll be back in contact with Rajcik and won’t have time to sit around being tortured by my corrosive thoughts. I hope.

  If Vitruzzi’s guess is right and Rajcik and the crew made it free and clear with those plans, they’re already preparing for the assault on the Fortress. David and I should have rendezvoused with them three days after the mission, two days ago, so Rajcik has probably already written us off. But if I can contact him and make some kind of arrangement to get Vitruzzi the disc, there may still be time to find my brother.

  Resuming my ritual, I wipe the AK’s bolt spring down with the rag and a drop of oil, mentally weighing the likelihood that Rajcik will be willing to deal with Vitruzzi. Maybe he doesn’t need David and me for this job, but then, we’ve operated as a team for six years. He knows he can rely on us when the shooting starts—and there will be a lot of shooting—and he may be counting on the same level of mutual reliance to increase the odds for success. On the other hand, when have I ever seen Rajcik make a deal that could put a payoff in jeopardy? Never. Our lives might not mean a damn thing to him, and Vitruzzi and her crew can write their friends off for good.

  These thoughts continue chasing each other in a maddening circle until I hear footsteps echoing up the metal walkway. I prefer the silence, and slivers of disappointment and irritation cut through me. Reluctantly, I raise my head to see Strahan standing in my doorway.

  “You need any help with those?”

  “What—are we friends now?”

  With a dark frown, he spins around to leave, but then hesitates. Turning halfway back, he says, “You know Erikson, maybe I was wrong about you.”

  “Maybe you were.”

  “At least I’m willing to admit it.” Abruptly, he s
tomp-limps away.

  Clicking the carbine’s barrel into place, I try to ignore an unexpected tinge of regret.

  EIGHT

  My weapons can’t get any cleaner and my thoughts can’t get any grimmer. I’m completely helpless, at the mercy of Vitruzzi and her crew, and it’s infuriating. With nothing to do but wait for time to pass until we reach Spectra 6, I decide to make my way to the galley. The Sinbad is hidden beneath my bunk, the carbine lies on the bench, and the Derg is attached to my calf. Normally the gun is hidden inside the baggy material of my pants, but this time I attach the holster to the outside. I’m not leaving the weapons locked up where they’ll be useless if I need them in a hurry.

  I run into Vilbrandt at the staircase leading up to galley level. The stairs are so narrow I have no choice but to wait for him at the bottom. That’s part of it. The other part is that the thought of brushing against him makes my skin feel slimy.

  “Congratulations on your successful mission.” A red glow seeps through a vent beside him as he reaches my level, casting a mesh shadow over his face that gives his pale features a sallow, sickly glow.

  The memory of his protestations when Vitruzzi had announced my enlistment on the mission makes my teeth clench. “What kind of shit were you trying to pull with Vitruzzi?”

  Of course he knows what I mean. He’s a quick one. “You’re important to me, Erikson.” His tone is sibilant and calm. “If anything happens to you, I stay poor and a fugitive. I’d rather you not risk your life for these…people, if you don’t absolutely have to.” His eyebrows arch, and he ends his sentence on an upward note. The message is clear: he doesn’t think there’s any reason I should risk my life for Vitruzzi’s crew. Prick.

  I want to throw him off guard and ruin that smug calm of his. “She knows you’re trying to deal.”

  “She’s an intelligent woman. I think she has more of a criminal mind than she lets on. Why wouldn’t I try to make a deal with you? I have nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

  His callousness makes me feel as if I’m biting tinfoil. How many people are this cold, this disconnected from normal human emotions? I’m beginning to see why T’Kai was so quick to try and have him erased. It’s unnerving to be around someone this unapologetically avaricious.

  “I told you I couldn’t guarantee anything.”

  His smile is a squashed worm writhing on a hot sidewalk. “Just introduce me to Rajcik. I’m quite certain he will see the benefit of involving me in this enterprise.”

  “We’ll see.” His slippery gaze follows me up the stairs as I maneuver past him.

  * * *

  Desto and Bodie sit in the galley drinking bottles of what looks like flat, warm beer. The fermentation process in space is an imprecise science. Constantly changing pressure and inconsistent matter in both the air and water make for interesting, and usually questionable, brews. Alcohol of any kind is as illegal as weapons are on the governed planets, and plants as marginally useful as hops don’t often warrant room in artificial growing environments. There’s something to be said for the people who continue trying to develop the beverage.

  They nod to me as I enter, much of their earlier coolness seeming to have thawed. Helping out on R’Kadia has earned me some good credit. This newfound trust, or at least indifference, could come in handy.

  Rummaging through the cabinets in hopes of finding something, anything more appetizing than travel-packaged nutrition bars turns out to be a pipe dream. I haven’t eaten more than a few bites of food since waking up almost twenty-four hours ago, yet my appetite has been minimal. Must be a side effect of the drugs and whatever Vitruzzi had been pumping into me through the IV. Surviving a firefight usually makes me ravenous, and my insides feel as hollow as a balloon.

  As Desto and Bodie, whose voice now resembles large stones rolling along a streambed, talk, I sit with them and jump in with an observation, “The amount of seeds we got could turn a solid profit. There are a least fifty kilos there.”

  “We don’t need them for cash,” Desto says. “We just use them to keep the power on and the Sphynx flying.”

  “Right, sure,” I nod, pretending to consider the statement, but I have other ideas. “Have you thought about what you’re going to offer Rajcik for the holodisc?”

  Desto gives me a flat look, his expression completely blank.

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Aren’t you enough?”

  “Let me get this straight. The options are my crew either hands over a copy of the disc, or you’ll kill me?” I pause, hoping to read something in their expressions that says that’s not what they intend. Bodie’s clear blue eyes squint slightly, as if the idea makes him uneasy—all the proof I need. “You’re not going to do that, so it’s not really much of an incentive for Rajcik, is it? I’ll be straight with you, he would kill me himself if he thought it would help his cause.”

  “What cause is that?” asks Bodie.

  “He hates the Admin and he’ll do whatever he can to sabotage it, as long as it’s profitable.”

  Vitruzzi walks in, Strahan limping doggedly behind her. The brace he wears is a sophisticated piece of medical equipment. Not much bigger than a boot, it fully encloses the lower leg and creates a hydro chamber that combines with sensors. These attach to the surrounding tissue and detect the optimal nutrient and chemical necessities of the wounded area. While running continual tissue scans, it releases biochemical components directly into the bloodstream to expedite healing. In the Corps, I’d seen them used to repair soldiers’ broken bones in less than four weeks, and flesh wounds even more quickly. It’s surprising to see such a useful and expensive piece of equipment outside of an Admin medical station. Then again, it’s surprising to meet a doctor out here who knows how to use one.

  Vitruzzi must have overhead us. “So your boss has an agenda. In that case, suppose you tell us what he plans to steal from the Fortress?”

  “That’s not part of our deal.”

  An angry vein begins pulsing in her forehead, a warning that she’s losing patience, but her voice is steady. “Erikson, you did a good job back there and we might not have made it without you.” She glances at Strahan, who eases into a chair next to me. “But I’m not going into this deal without knowing all the details. I didn’t press the issue before because I wanted to be sure you weren’t bullshitting us. But I’ve heard of Rajcik, I know some of the things he’s accused of. If we’re going to deal with him, I have to know what he’s planning. This isn’t negotiable.”

  Damn. The fun just keeps getting better and better. “Weapons. High-tech munitions.”

  “There are lots of illicit arms all over the place. What does the Admin care if you steal a few more?” Strahan asks.

  Bodie follows up with his own question, “And why steal weapons from the Fortress? I can name ten different locations that you could break into with a fraction of the effort that would take.”

  My eyes shift to Vitruzzi whose eyebrows are now creased together, the vein pulsing like an accusation. If she hasn’t already guessed our plan, she’s about to.

  They would have some good points if we were just after a nominal return. But Rajcik wants to strike deeper. He wants to show the Admin how vulnerable they are, prove that their most well-protected facility is still no match for him. It’s a personal vendetta, a primal, gut-stick fight that he’s bringing to their doorstep.

  Sighing, I take the plunge. “The Fortress is the only place you can find a weapon like this. It’s experimental, secret. The only reason we know about it is T’Kai got greedy, and it was the best carrot he could dangle to get Rajcik involved. It’s called the Richter Mini-Nova. The technology is new, but it’s the same concept as a chain reaction fusion bomb.”

  Bodie whistles, almost appreciatively. “Someone could do a lot of damage with a bomb like that.”

  “Or kill a lot of people.” Strahan’s voice is icy. “Whom exactly would you sell something like that to?”

  “Back to the Ad
min. They won’t want it out in the system. Can you imagine the kind of backlash there would be if citizens knew they are designing weapons like this?”

  “And what if they don’t buy it?”

  This is the part this crew won’t like. “They will definitely pay after we threaten to detonate it if they don’t.”

  Alarmed, Bodie sits up straight in his chair. “That’s crazy! You’ll kill thousands of people!”

  Keeping my gaze steady, I scan the room, drawing them all in so that they’ll listen carefully. “Millions, actually. The experimental aspect of the device uses antimatter. If it’s detonated above, say, a city like Tunis, it’ll be completely wiped out, and most of the continent with it. They’ve finally perfected a way to end worlds, to obliterate everything.”

  The look on Strahan’s face, all of their faces, is a livid mix of horror, disgust, and loathing. A natural reaction, really.

  “But you have to understand, we would never actually detonate it. I may be a smuggler, but I’m not a psychopath. Neither is Rajcik. The Admin will pay, they won’t risk that many lives.”

  “You’re out of your mind if you think you can get away with this. No one will recognize your bodies after they catch you,” Vitruzzi says.

  The same thoughts had occurred to me when Rajcik first brought up the idea. It’s a risk, the biggest risk conceivable. “If we can break into the Fortress, we can handle the Admin. It’s worth it.”

  “So you’re suicidal and crazy,” says Desto.

  “Maybe, but if they build something like this, they should be prepared to deal with the possibility of it getting into the wrong hands. Rajcik’s just using their own tools against them. Why should something with that much destructive potential even exist? Maybe the Admin isn’t quite as benevolent as it makes itself out to be.” My impromptu speech surprises me. Don’t forget, I tell myself, you’re just in this for the money. When you start taking sides, you start losing the initiative.