by Tammy Salyer
Brady, back from whatever brainstorming he’d been doing with Vitruzzi, stands up on a cargo box and asks people to quiet down. He says a few words, thanking the settlers for the help they all provided in getting the dish built, recognizes La Mer and Bodie specifically for their contribution, and comments about the success and independence of Agate Beach and the example it sets as an alternative to the Admin’s special brand of control. I feel an inadvertent swelling of pride in our accomplishment, reminding me of the way I used to respond to these kinds of motivational speeches from the high-ranking leaders I’d admired when I first enlisted at the Academy. I stifle the feeling quickly, my cynicism warning me not to get too wrapped up in minor successes that ultimately don’t mean much.
When he’s said everything he intends to, he steps onto the lift to the communication room where Desto and Bodie are already waiting. At the last minute, he motions to David and me. I’m a bit surprised that Brady would want to include me, with our endless disagreements, but don’t hesitate to join them. When we enter the small room, La Mer already sits in front of main com console, a set of earphones clamped around his head, testing various relays and switches. He looks as if he’s concentrating intensely and bites reflexively on his lower lip. He’s not the only one feeling a case of nerves. We all know that his programming—the key to the entire experiment—will do one of three things: fail completely, work enough to hijack the Admin satellites but not enough to hide our pirated use of their system, or be a success.
The room is barely big enough to hold all of us and we wedge ourselves uncomfortably around the console. “Ready to go, La Mer?” Brady asks.
He clears his throat, brightens the resolution of the central VDU, and says, “It all seems ready.”
His apprehensiveness is not reassuring, but I clamp my mouth shut against the question: Are you sure this is going to work? If La Mer is as good as he says he is—and if what he’d done with the Corps personnel database before the Rebellion is any indication, he is—this kind of job is routine.
“The satellites we’re using are all operational. One minute until transmission. Bodie, you’re up.”
Bodie takes a seat next to La Mer and turns on a speaker channel. All our eyes are on the countdown, and as soon as it says 2030, Bodie depresses the comlink and says, “This is central hailing the flightline. Do you read?” The transmission was planned so no specific names or locations would be used—a precautionary measure, though the most damning breach will be if the Admin detects La Mer’s security bypass.
The seconds seem to draw out too long, then finally, Vitruzzi’s voice: “This is Orbiter One. We hear you loud and clear.” Followed by: “Orbiter 2. That’s a copy. Congratulations!” Rob had decided to transmit after all, despite the risk.
La Mer and Bodie turn to each other, grinning so widely their lips seem to have stretched halfway around their heads. David gives Brady an enthusiastic slap on the back, and Desto puts a hand on La Mer’s shoulder, saying, “Never had a doubt, brother.”
“Central, I think—” but Vitruzzi’s voice suddenly cuts out as if it’s been chopped in half.
“What the hell?” Bodie ask, then a light on the console begins to flash ominously.
La Mer looks confused, then cries, “It’s the sensor on the dish. Something’s wrong!”
The two of them bullet from their seats and race to the lift, followed by Desto and Brady. David and I barely get on before it starts descending at full speed, the ratchets on the cable clanking ferociously. Once at the bottom, they rush for the Rover and David and I jump on our bikes, speeding past the settlers’ confused faces to the dish.
From the outside, nothing seems to be wrong with the device. La Mer and Bodie attack one of the housing panels at the base with screwdrivers, and as they yank it off, a thick balloon of gray smoke wafts out. “Shit, dammit, come on, shit…” Bodie intones, a mantra of disgust.
Brady brings an extinguisher into action and douses the inner compartment until it vomits foam. The smoke disappears and we all stand by silently, held rapt with disappointment. Bodie shakes his head, his face a volatile mix of anger and dismay.
“It was the goddamn relay capacitor. It was too small for the juice we sent through it. That’s got to be what happened. It’s fried and who knows what else in there is fucked.” He stands with his shoulders hunched, speaking to the ground, looking like a defeated Pamplona bull.
“Don’t worry, man. It’s fixable. The damn thing works and that’s the good news.” Desto tries to console him.
The rest of us stand mute, feelings that crested in excitement moments before now ebbing in frustration. It might be months before we can reassemble the parts needed to repair it. Brady scans the sky thoughtfully and I guess what he is thinking: Did it really work, or is the Corps on the way to arrest us right now?
He turns back to the group. “There’s nothing we can do until the fire retardant dries out and we get a better look inside. Let’s get back to the mine and let everyone know what happened.”
Bodie paces back and forth in front of the opened panel, each footfall hammering down like he means to hurt the ground. “I’m going to stick around for a while, see if I can do anything. You all go ahead.”
Brady shrugs, letting him brood. I leave him my bike and catch a ride back on the Rover.
EIGHT
On watch in the control room the next morning, my eyes stay glued to the radar screens and cameras we have surrounding the Beach to alert us of unexpected company. I’m more than a little anxious, wondering if we’ll have any unwelcome visitors.
At close to 1200 hours, when my shift is almost over, the walls of the control room begin to vibrate in a familiar way, announcing an incoming ship. Cross had radioed in a few minutes ago to get clearance, so I switch to the video-link inside the mine and see the ’Rize settling smoothly into place on the rock floor. Hydraulic shocks on the landing tripod vent pressurized air in a high-pitched whistle, and the engines reduce speed in a cyclic hum. It’s been a tense morning. I’m anxious for Mason to come and replace me, but it’s Rob who enters the control room.
“I have to hand it to your crew, Aly. That was some piece of work to get that transceiver going.”
“It was only partly successful.”
“I know. I heard. Vitruzzi buzzed me when we got back into radio range and told me there was a fire.”
He comes up beside me and leans over, placing one hand on my shoulder and one on the counter, getting a closer view of the monitors. His proximity doesn’t seem casual; I get the feeling that he’s trying to be near me without it being obvious, and surprisingly, it doesn’t bother me. Heat from his palm radiates through the light fabric of my shirt. Inadvertently, I’m reminded of the way the rest of his body used to feel, naked and pressed against mine like a second skin. A new heat rises, flushing my cheeks.
“Looks like the Sphynx is here,” he says, jolting me.
We watch the internal feed as Venus floats the ship into the mine as gracefully as a hawk riding a thermal and sets it down. His hand is still on my shoulder when the control room door opens and Karl and Mason step inside. Rob straightens and lets his arm fall away as I swivel my chair around quickly. I hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but there’s a residual blush creeping up from the neck of my shirt that implies otherwise.
Karl immediately turns and jets from the room. Mason walks up to the consoles and examines them, completely ignoring Rob. “I’m all set, Aly. Anything I need to know?”
I shake my head, already off my seat and heading toward the door to catch Karl. He’s kicking up the balancer on his sandbike, which is parked among a group of them near the end of the tunnel, before I reach him.
“Hey, wait a minute.” I reach a hand out to take hold of the handlebar, not letting him run from me.
“For what?” His voice echoes loudly inside the cavern, and I see the flash burn of fury in his sepia eyes.
“What are you doing?” It’s such a simple question
on the surface, but what I’m asking is so much deeper.
His jaw clenches until the striations of his masseter are clearly defined, then: “What are you doing?”
Instantly defensive, I counter, “What did it look like I was doing? Watching out for the goddamn colony!” Calm down, Aly, don’t let this get out of hand. I take a deep breath, trying to make it clear that I’m interested in talking, not fighting. “Look, I can see that having Cross here is upsetting you, but I haven’t done anything wrong.”
My tactic has no effect and it’s clear that he’s experiencing some sort of misguided jealous hemorrhage. His sparking eyes bore into my face like an auger. I’ve seen him enraged before but never directed at me. It catches me off guard, so unexpected and undeserved, but I meet his rage with implacability. I haven’t done anything wrong. Finally, he responds, his voice almost drowning in his chaotic emotions, “You’re free to do whatever you like. I don’t control you, and you don’t owe me anything.”
I feel his words like a fist to the stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“Since he’s been here, you and Cross have been like fucking Siamese twins.” I start to interrupt, getting angry now myself, but he keeps going, “You’ve never been happy at the Beach with us lowly non-cits and Admin goose-stepping contractors. Your life’s not flash anymore and you don’t get to be a hotshot thief, sticking it to the Admin with every take. You’re bored, and Cross is living the life that you had before you got stuck with us small timers. If you want to go back to that, do it. I’m not going to stop you.”
I’m completely floored by his accusations and presumptions, unable to argue or even speak. Where did he get such bullshit ideas? I’m at a complete loss and stare at him like I’ve never seen him before. He doesn’t wait for me to figure out how to respond and drives off much too fast, leaving me standing in the mine like so much discarded rubbish.
Feeling numb, I turn around and find David behind me, looking at me with a mixture of bafflement and sympathy. “You didn’t deserve that.”
The muscles in my throat are contracting spasmodically, but I’m not sure if I’m about to scream, vomit, or cry. I look over his shoulder and see a few other people scattered within earshot, their faces reflecting David’s surprise, and I feel an acute need to get the hell out of here. I turn, jump on my bike—much the way Karl just had—and switch it on. I hear David say my name, but I speed off, not wanting sympathy or anything else.
NINE
The silence of nighttime in the cool desert has become an ambient cocoon by the time I roll back into the Beach, wrapping me in a fragile, but blissfully detached, bubble. The suns will begin to rise in a couple of hours, but with most people asleep, for now the settlement is quiet. I am alone, free of obligation, connection, or direction. The things I deny craving the most.
The bike’s quiet engine barely disturbs the stillness as I drive into the mine. The Horizon is docked as before with its ramp down, but this time lights from inside spill into the night. For no reason I care to ponder, I park the bike and walk aboard.
I haven’t been inside this model before and find myself on the bottom level of a two-story cargo hold. The space is huge, its size emphasized by the lack of any shipment to fill it. The ceiling is segmented and looks as if it can be retracted, opening up the hold to make room for bigger machinery, possibly even small inter-atmospheric ships.
“Hello? Rob?” Don’t do this, Aly, I tell myself. If you need someone to talk to, go wake up David. But it’s too late, the hatchway across the hold is opening and Montoya steps out.
“What are you doing in here?” His question is blunt, almost aggressive. He doesn’t appear to be armed, but the angry set of his face shows that doesn’t mean he’s not ready to fight. I, however, never go anywhere without the Derg strapped to my calf, hidden inside the material of my pants, and wonder if I’m actually going to have to reach for it.
“If you didn’t want visitors, you shouldn’t have left the ramp down.”
“Relax, Montoya. It’s fine. Aly is a guest.” Rob enters the space and walks up beside Montoya, facing him with a stern expression that doesn’t invite argument.
Montoya turns and scowls at Rob, then hunches from the hold. The exchange surprises me; I’ve never seen anyone react to Rob with such obvious animosity before.
Rob crosses the hold and I meet him in the middle. “Hey, it’s good to see you. How are you doing?” It’s clear from his concern that he’d seen, or at least heard, the altercation between Karl and I.
“Fine. Friendly crew you have.”
“Yeah, well, they’re not happy with me right now. I’m their captain. I’m supposed to be looking for new jobs so we can make some money, not taking a holiday on a non-cit planet so I can catch up with old friends. You know, some people just have a hard time sitting still.”
“Yeah.” I pause, not really sure what else to say, or even why I’m here. Finally: “Do you have anything to drink?”
He smiles, pleased to be able to help. “Right this way. I’ve got more of that quality claret we were drinking last night, but if you’re more in the mood for some stronger hooch, I’ve got that too. Come on.” He begins walking back through the hold and I follow. His unquestioning easiness makes me feel better about having come in the first place.
Beyond the hold’s hatchway, we enter a wide corridor with large reinforced walls and access tunnels extending horizontally in both directions. The design is common enough for me to know without needing to see a structural schematic that the steering engine harnesses are attached at the ends of each tunnel, and that we’re standing midship, the nexus of the structure and strongest section of hull. Beyond the access tunnels, the corridor is lined with smaller doorways, probably leading to various elements of the craft infrastructure and control: the dual emergency shuttles, avionics, propulsion controls, guidance and attitude sensors, life support, et cetera. As we make our way to the end of the corridor, he eventually stops in front of an open doorway to our right. There’s nothing securing the door and no locking mechanism besides the regular airlock hatch, but it’s what’s inside that draws my attention.
“You don’t leave those in there when you’re in the Obals do you?”
Crates of contraband sit in organized boxes along shelves that fill an entire wall of the small room. Cigarettes, liquor, small arms, medical supplies—luxury items most average people desire but no one is allowed to own.
Cross smiles like a cream-drunk cat. “Yeah, actually, we do.”
I hesitate, certain that I must be missing something, and he continues, “Watch this.”
He squats down in front of the open door and removes a small metal panel from the floor, revealing a dark niche. A moment after he reaches inside, the doorway completely disappears. The metal wall of the corridor suddenly seems to grow right over the top of it, like a flap of skin that heals instantly and leaves no scar. It looks as if there had never been any doorway at all.
I take a sharp step back. “What did you do?”
“A buddy of mine who works in the Ministry of Security R&D Division needed a quick—and discreet—transport job. He traded me this little magic-maker for it.” His smile grows as he explains this, apparently enjoying my disbelief. Leaning over again, he reaches back into the small compartment and pulls free a radio-sized tubular device with a liquid plasma display along the body and a crystalline projector emitting from one end. As he draws it out, the fake wall wavers like radar interference on a VDU.
“It’s a holographic imaging device. You can take an image of anything you want, say a cargo hold wall, and then project the holograph onto a solid object—or even just empty space. Its internal processor will analyze whatever you’re projecting onto and re-pixelate the holo to make it look like it’s part of the object.”
Impressed, I take hold of the device. It’s heavier than it looks, due to the crystal projector, but compact. As I swing it slowly around, the image of the wall moves to wherever the pr
ojector is aimed. “Can it hide anything?”
“The technology can—anything that’s stationary that is. It doesn’t have enough processor power to replicate something that’s moving. This particular device will only cloak about ten square meters. It’s called a cloak, by the way. It’s been a lot of fun to have around.” He reaches for it and replaces it in the floor compartment. “About that drink.”
We walk through the fake wall and he pulls a box containing a variety of clear plastic containers from the center of a shelf. Gripping the neck of one, he pulls out a bottle holding a dark blue liquid almost the color of antifreeze. “Should do us nicely. There are glasses in the galley.”
The corridor ends in a teardrop shaped alcove with an elevator at the far end. We take it up to the second level where it opens out into a round galley with several chairs and small round tables arranged throughout a dining room. The right side of the room is dominated by the basic appliances needed to cook and clean more than simple traveling food and a walk-in that contains most of the ship’s perishables.
As he looks for glasses, I comment, “You have a nice ship here, Rob. Looks like you have room for quite a few more crewmembers.”