Spectra Arise Trilogy

by Tammy Salyer

  “What’s up?” Desto asks, emerging from inside and wiping sweat from his forehead.

  Quantum stands beside me and sighs as if it pains him to have to repeat himself, then says, “You’ve thought about the next steps? We used up a lot of resources looking for Erikson and Vitruzzi. We’ll have just enough to get back to KL, maybe. And then, there’s them.” Without even attempting to conceal the gesture, he waves a hand toward the group.

  David gets it immediately and bites his lower lip, clearly unhappy with the implications.

  “Hmmm…we can’t leave them here,” Desto says matter-of-factly.

  “We can’t take them with us,” Quantum replies.

  “Shh!” I warn. “David, will you get Vitruzzi and Venus? There’s no need to freak any of the fugees out. Not with a bunch of kids.”

  “I think Mason and Hoogs are doing a perimeter sweep,” he says. “I’ll get them too.”

  “No,” Desto says. “Aly is right. We don’t want to freak everyone out by having a huddle behind their backs. Lets talk this over nice and quiet.”

  After Venus and Vitruzzi join the rest of us and Zeta in the Orika’s galley, the debate starts heating up.

  “The majority aren’t even from Eruo Pium. They’re settlers who crash-landed on their way to Obal 6,” Vitruzzi says tonelessly. “And they need our help getting off this rock, where they have a chance.”

  “Vitruzzi, you may be in the search-and-rescue business, but the rest of us are concerned with our own survival,” Quantum says.

  “Yeah, we know what you’re concerned with,” Vitruzzi responds angrily, the first spark I’ve seen in her in what seems like weeks.

  “Does it matter?” Quantum continues, looking around at the rest of us from where he stands by the freezer. “The reality we’re facing is simple: limited food, limited time, and limited risk avoidance. If anyone else sees where aiding a group of refugees fits into that equation, now’s a good time to explain it.”

  It’s hard to meet the rest of the crew’s eyes, but I know where I stand on this one. Sorry, Ryan.

  Finally, David says, “A few of them are from the settlement they mentioned, somewhere east of here, at least. We can take them back and drop off the rest with them. Give them something from the salvage to barter with.”

  “David’s right,” Karl says. “We can’t just abandon them out here. You agree, Quantum?” His face is a mask of neutrality as he turns to the wire-rat, but I know what’s going on behind his eyes. You started the war that caused this, you bastard.

  Karl and I have had many late-night conversations about the events that had brought us into this situation and started the war between the Admin-Corps and the vast numbers of non-cits that were taking the brunt of the Admin’s “policies.” Policies that included a lot of people dying. Ultimately, the only one to blame is the Admin. They brought the fight to themselves when they started treating people like petri dishes. Despite that, however, Quantum was the one who unleashed the first salvo, so to speak. He helped organize the anti-Admin-Corps forces and pushed the button that set everything that’s happened in the last eighteen months in motion. I’m not saying what he did was right or wrong, but if he hadn’t, David and I would be either dead or still running black-market smuggling deals on the fringes of the system. Which may as well be dead. And Vitruzzi and Karl and the rest of the Agate Beachers would be fugitives or dead, too. Wasting time hand-wringing and judging all the scenarios as good or bad doesn’t do any good; they just are.

  At least, that’s where I stand on the issues. But something happened in that war that hit others deeper, more in the heart than in the guts, and Karl is one of them. He’s not as used to the darkness people have within them. Seeing the cold and methodical ferocity the Corps adopted in dealing with the uprising took even world-wise people like him by surprise. The way the humanity of Admin-controlled Corps soldiers bled away in the face of battle, turning them into conscienceless automatons instead of people—it took a toll, on almost everyone. The result is that now survivors are looking for answers and searching for reasons to explain what had happened and why. Finding someone to blame is part of, if not the healing process, at least the reconciliation process. Being able to blame one person makes it easier to ignore the ugly possibility that it’s really every person that is to blame.

  So Karl harbors an unspoken resentment for Quantum. The only thing that keeps him from acting on it is the fact that he knows, deep down, that Quantum is too small for that much blame, and Karl would waste the rest of his life trying to dole out the remainder of it.

  Quantum’s fixed gaze doesn’t waver from his. “If that’s the group’s vote.”

  After another minute, it’s settled. Desto and David volunteer to apprise the fugees of what we can offer them, and I, hopefully, can take care of my own thorny issue.

  “Aly, can you help me prep the ’Bo for takeoff?” Zeta asks. “Venus is helping Karl sort some of the salvage.”

  Sure, why not? These spines aren’t going anywhere.

  * * *

  Once we get airborne, I finally get the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  Standing next to the full-length wall mirror, I slowly begin pulling the synthetic fabric of my less-than-optimal-smelling shirt first away from my torso, then over my head. When the rag grazes my skin, I grit my teeth. It feels as if tiny needles are stabbing into my lats and rib cage, and the material tries to snag on them as it comes up. Dammit, what had those crabs been made of? If I didn’t already hate multilegged, crawling and clacking minimonsters, this experience would be the defining moment.

  Dropping the shirt to the floor with a sigh of relief, I crane my head around to try and see what the hell I’m up against. Three of the fugees stand around the benches, doing their best to clean the grit of their own captivity off. I’m not sure if what they’re doing would be called ogling or gawking, but they aren’t even pretending they’re not watching me.

  “You want to take a picture, boys? Or would you prefer an ass-kicking to remember me by?”

  The blond one reminds me of a schoolyard bully whose body has outgrown his brains. He’d been the most vocal and angry when we’d told them they couldn’t come with us, but none of the fugees could argue that we had any responsibility to take them. They know the deal out here. Everyone looks out for themselves first.

  He snickers and says, “Sweetheart, with an attitude like that, you’re just asking for someone like me to set you straight on some things.”

  Can this be happening right now? I’m half-naked, bleeding from at least three places, my torso is a chaotic tableau of unattractive yellows, greens, and blues, and this guy wants to first drool over me like a poodle with a puppy treat, then threaten me for not appreciating it? After I’d saved his ass? I momentarily entertain the wish that the Admin had started a weapons research program to develop bombs that only killed stupid people.

  Muttering, “And if you had the capacity for complex thought, I’m sure you’d be the man for the job,” I dismiss him and return my attention back to examining my side.

  “What did you say?” he asks, but I ignore him.

  With my arm in the air and my head twisted almost into my own armpit, I catch a glimpse of the small, spiny projectiles, about a quarter- to half-centimeter long, running in a line just at the base of my rib cage and up. I reach around with my right hand and gently feel for them. It stings like crazy when my fingers brush over their tops, but the searing pain that happened when I was first struck has at least dulled. The things feel brittle and a little flexible, not quite as stiff as fine wire.

  “I said, what the hell did you say, girlie?” Blondie has come over beside me and leans over me, his breath hitting my face and making me flinch a little. “You got something to say, you go right ahead.”

  I ponder it for a minute and flip a glance toward his friends still by the benches. They’re all part of the five-person crew that had crashed on the way to Obal 6, these three, the woman named Cari, a
nd another older woman. Neither of the other two men will look at me. Blondie catches my glance and grins obnoxiously, assuming he’s scared me.

  Finally, my voice giving away my utter disinterest in him or anything he has to say, I advise, “If you value anything down here for any reason, you’d best find someplace else to stand. Someplace where I don’t have to look at your ugly fucking mug.”

  The surprise on his face when he realizes I have a modest but laser-torch-sharp bolo knife pressed against his nuts should be entertaining, but I realize with resignation that I’ve seen this kind of idiot wake-up call too often to be moved one way or another by it anymore. The goal is simply to send his stupid ass on its way so I can start pulling these damn spikes out of me. They’re making me cranky.

  “Erikson, is there anything I can help you with?”

  Blondie turns his attention to the locker-room entrance. Quantum has come through and is holding the pocket of his jacket as if to reach for something inside. A quick glance lets him know I’m all set.

  Blondie’s hands go up in a warding-off motion, and he takes a slow step back. Before he thinks of trying anything else, I reach down into my boot without looking away from him and withdraw a Sub-Oss, just for some added incentive. Without another word, he spins around and joins his mates, the three of them hurrying out past Quantum like they’re late for lunch. Good fucking riddance.

  But at least it was a distraction from these damn stingers. I should be grateful, actually. Now I’ll feel much less bad about stranding them in some far-flung, sketchy colony that probably hasn’t seen running water or electricity in a year.

  As if reading my mind, Quantum walks toward the sink, then says, “Now you understand my reasons.”

  “Quantum, if you keep showing up while I’m in the locker room, I may have to interpret your behavior as a threat.”

  Ignoring the comment, he continues, “You’re just holding on to a broken idea. The old system no longer applies. Now it’s every person—”

  “For themselves,” I finish for him. “Thanks for the sociology lesson. Now, do you mind? As you can see…” I wave the knife at my blemished flank before resheathing it and the Oss.

  “I want to talk to you about something.” He pulls off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves before turning on the wash powder dispenser.

  “Can it wait?”

  “No.” Facing me, he says, “I know what that machine is.”

  “You mean the thing we have in the hull? What is it?”

  “A seed sequencer.”

  My expression must show my confusion, so he continues, “A generator, of sorts. It takes raw materials and creates new seeds for crops, for food crops. Do you see what that means?”

  “Yeah, it means we’re going to be better off than ever at the colony. We can produce whatever we need. But how do you know?”

  “Hoogs accessed the Galatea commander’s drive and found his directives. That Admin ship was in the Spectras to drop off the seed sequencer. What we have in the hull was the only thing on the transport that fits the description. I looked it over, and I believe I can operate it.”

  I’m still hung up on the first thing he said. “Why would they drop something that produces crop seeds in the Spectras? There’s hardly enough viable soil in most places to grow anything worthwhile.”

  “Not on the other side of this moon.”

  “Huh? It’s barely…” He’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to understand. And then, I do. “They used the soil compound, didn’t they?”

  His lips thin out as he presses them together in a look that reminds me of a dead snake. “The recorded directives clearly outlined the fecundity and success of their soil enhancement project. The Admin intended to begin planting synthetically generated seeds within the year. The year before the war, that is.”

  How many people had lived on Eruo Pium? How many had the Admin snuffed to test their poisonous compound?

  Feeling my guts go hollow with disgust, I ask, “So what does any of that have to do with me?”

  “KL is too small, too disorganized—and most of its settlers are war casualties with too many injuries—to be able to fully deploy the capacity of the seed sequencer. In other words, the colony isn’t capable of sustaining itself. I want your help to convince Vitruzzi to let me take the soil compound and the sequencer to Obal 6.”

  I laugh, assuming he’s joking.

  His stare grows cold. “We can’t expect to live on salvaged food stores and canned vegetables forever. We have to begin working toward a long-term solution.”

  Cutting the laugh off like a gangrenous limb, I ask, “How does the soil compound count as a long-term solution, Quantum? It’s poison. You know that. It kills everything—for years—before it becomes inert. Where would you even use it?”

  “Obal 6 is a big planet. They may be willing to deploy it to help provide for their remaining population, and to plan for more growth.”

  “No. That’s crazy. We don’t fully understand it. You can’t just let this stuff loose out there. People could get killed.”

  “Why do you care about a few hundred people? How many did we just see killed in the war?”

  “Exactly, there’s been enough death.” I know he’s an opportunist, but I never thought he had it in him to be so incredibly callous. “We don’t need to increase the body count. It’s time to put the system back together, not add to its decay.”

  “You have to under—”

  “No! You have to understand—this conversation is over.” I turn back to the mirror, keeping an eye on him in the reflection.

  After a pause, he says, “Don’t make the mistake of believing the war is over, Aly.” Rubbing his hands against his pants to dry them, he finally leaves.

  What the hell does that mean? The war is over. That’s why everything has taken on these wonderful new dimensions of fucked up. What war is he still fighting?

  Clicking on my VDU, I scroll to Karl’s channel.

  “What’s up, lover?” he says.

  “I’m in the troop locker room. Do you think you could swing by and help me with something?”

  “Yeah, be there in a minute.”

  Trying to shake off the conversation, I pick up a pair of splinter forceps I’d snagged from the med-bay and clamp onto the first spine. Something tells me I’ll be finding myself in the midst of Quantum’s war sooner or later. No reason to start with my flesh looking like a porcupine’s hide.

  THIRTEEN

  After sleeping the sleep of a war veteran on farm animal tranqs for a couple of hours, during which time the two scouts take flight to Eruo Pium’s remaining settled colony, I wake up to the sound of running feet outside the berth Karl and I share. My guts go on a roller-coaster panic drop, but my mind quickly registers the giggling shrieks that trail behind the footsteps. Those kids we’d picked up must have slept less than I just did. But I thought children were supposed to need to recharge?

  Karl’s leg is draped over mine, and he snorts, still asleep, as the last of the laughter fades down the corridor outside. Like me, this is the first chance to rest he’s had since before we boarded the Galatea, and I take a second to just enjoy being next to him. From being a soldier, to deserting and becoming a criminal, then to fighting a war, and now scratching out existence as a scavenger (which is an ugly word for it, but I promised myself no more lies, not even to myself, when Rob Cross had come back into my life and nearly wrecked it) in a system full of equally desperate scavs, I have a habit of living every breath like it will be my last. And no one can blame me for stealing a few minutes of peace to appreciate this man who had saved more than my life; he’d saved my soul.

  My stomach rumbles and reality penetrates through my tranquility. Trying not to wake Karl, I reach inside the gear loft over our bunk and retrieve my VDU to tap out a message asking Venus how much time till we arrive at the colony. She responds with less than an hour to go.

  Deciding that it will be better to be awake and alert than s
till be horizontal when we get there, I gently nudge Karl until his sepia eyes open, and he smiles up at me.

  “We there?” he asks.

  “Not for an hour or so. Thought we’d grab a snack and get ready.”

  His arms wrap around me and he pulls me on top of him, then starts nuzzling my neck. “Delicious,” he whispers through his exploring lips.

  Giggling, I play-fight him off. “Not that kind of snack.”

  “But it’s the only thing that sounds appetizing.”

  We’re interrupted by the children’s laughter and echoing feet running down the corridor again, this time in the opposite direction. “I thought I’d dreamed that sound,” Karl says.

  “Nope, they’ve been playing around out there for a while. They barely slept. It’s like they’re not even human.”

  He rolls onto an elbow and looks at me with a bemused expression. “Have you ever thought about it?”

  “About what?” Then I realize what he’s asking. “Having kids? Didn’t joining the Corps pretty much ensure that wasn’t something either of us ever had to think about?”

  “Come on, Aly. The Corps doesn’t even matter anymore. Nothing is the same as it used to be. There’re tons of kids like them in the system, ones who need homes, safety, people to look out for them.” He pauses. “So, have you?”

  The concept is so foreign to me that my next words come directly from instinct, not contemplation. “What’s there to think about? They eat, sleep, cry, and want things. Basically the same as every adult in the worlds. That’s not really much enticement, if you know what I mean.” His face closes off in frustration, but he doesn’t say anything. “Besides, can you imagine me as a muh”—I can’t quite get the word out—“guardian, some kind of role model? I could teach a kid to shoot from prone and reload faster than average, but—”

  “I know, lover. I get it. It was just a thought. Come on, let’s get some grub.”

  After dressing, we walk to the mess and find Mason and Hoogs already there and occupied with teaching the children how to unload and reload a weapon in combat time. I give Karl a meaningful look, See?, which he emphatically ignores. The oldest girl looks only about eight, and the youngest boy maybe six, but it’s hard to tell beneath their rags and malnourishment what their real ages are. I’d joined the Capital Military Corps Academy when I was fourteen, the youngest age you could enter, but the grim awareness in these kids’ faces shows an intensity of understanding and wisdom that is years beyond where I’d been at their ages. Eight-year-olds with guns. The oldest girl points the pistol Hoogs hands her directly at me before he pulls the barrel aside and warns her not to, and I quickly decide to keep my distance from the children. Looking into her eyes—even for an instant—had been like looking into a ghost’s.