Spectra Arise Trilogy

by Tammy Salyer

“Miss…?”

  “I’m Dr. Eleanor Vitruzzi, previously the head of R&D in the Ministry of Science and Engineering. My expertise is in the field of cyber- and bio-physiology with considerable overlap with virology, immunology, and disease research. So when I tell you that you can’t use that soil compound, I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Dr. Vitruzzi, I-I am, I would say, I am grateful to meet you.” For the first time Whitmore’s in-control attitude gives way, revealing a postwar survivor with the same hanging-by-a-thread worries everyone has. “We in Bogotan are doing our best to stay out front of any catastrophes of the nature of which you are so skilled in coping with—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. You have no idea what you’re dealing with in terms of that compound. I don’t know what Quantum told you, but it can’t be the truth. The man is a calculating opportunist, nothing more. He didn’t like the way we run our colony on Keum Libre, so he looked for the easiest out and he took it—without regard to the health of a pregnant woman, I’ll add. The fact that you’ve listened to a single goddamn word he’s said to you, knowing what he’s done to get here, says all I need to know about your judgment. And I’m telling you, that compound cannot be used.”

  Shit. Vitruzzi’s tactician skills must have been another casualty of the war. But none of us disagrees with her approach.

  “Doctor, I understand your opinion, but based on Quantum’s explanation, it has the potential to become a vital link in replenishing the planet’s food supply. It could save thousands, even millions, of lives. We cannot let a useful resource like—”

  “No, you’re not listening,” Vitruzzi cuts in. “This soil compound isn’t a resource. It’s a poison that we don’t fully understand.”

  David adds, “If it were deployed and you lost control, no one knows exactly what could happen.”

  “Actually, we do know exactly what will happen. The survivors of the KL prison settlement saw the results of the Admin’s testing firsthand. An extinction-level event on a scale we haven’t seen since the terra-forming disasters of last century.” Vitruzzi pauses, then adds, “Or the war. “

  Van Heusen speaks up: “Then we don’t lose control. It’s that simple.”

  “Simple?” V says. “Have you been paying attention to anything but your own ass for the last twenty-four months? Simple doesn’t exist, not anymore.”

  Karl tries to cut in. “Eleanor—”

  “No, goddammit! You’re talking about—”

  “That’s quite enough, Doctor. Please.” Whitmore’s posture is tense, but his voice hasn’t lost any of its calm. “This is a necessary and important discussion. My biggest hope is that we can carry it out in an amicable and thoughtful way. But first, let us get our team back with the compound. We can evaluate next steps then. Together.” He turns to the man he’d called Zabriskie and says, “Jono, can you ask Korine to bring them coats and hats? It’s autumn on Obal 6,” he explains, turning back to us, “and I’m assuming you don’t have many warmer clothes.”

  “Does that mean you’re not holding us?” Karl asks.

  “No, of course not, Mister…?” When Karl doesn’t respond, Whitmore blinks rapidly, gets it under control, then continues, “No. This isn’t a prison, as I’ve already explained. We’ll afford you the same hospitality I would hope you’d extend us if we came to your settlement. As far as we’re concerned, Bogotan and the people of your settlement are not enemies. This is about cooperation, not antagonism. You’re free to stay here, in this building, while you’re on Obal 6. Come and go as you please. As long as you don’t endanger any of our colonists, we will make sure you have what you need until our colonies reach a mutual agreement.”

  He pauses and reaches for his coffee cup but doesn’t pick it up. “My ultimate hope, however, is to integrate. Pool not just our resources, but our people.” He returns his blink-free stare to all of us. “We are not factions, we are survivors. We all need each other to ensure a future.”

  * * *

  Before Whitmore and his men leave us in the gymnasium, he informs us that his people had attempted to “secure” the Orika, but she was locked up tight. Everything they tried to open it had ended up with the hatches either remaining locked or reversing as soon as they started to release. We all know it’s Venus, still inside and keeping herself barricaded in as long as she can, but we don’t tell him that. Karl lets on that it’s the security system and nothing more, and given that it’s our vessel, no one’s getting aboard but us. Looking dubious, Whitmore makes the decision to drop it—for the time being—and exits.

  “I don’t care how much Whitmore acts like sweet old Uncle Fred, we have to get the hell out of here and back to KL before—who knows what,” David says.

  “Yeah, of course, we all agree that’s the case. And if we play nice and Desto doesn’t step on his dick, we can probably do it without anyone getting hurt.” Karl stares hard at Desto as he says this, but his message is loud and clear to all of us. Between Desto’s rage and Vitruzzi’s bouts of…ineffectiveness—to put it nicely—we have double the number of loose canons to cope with, which is twice more than we want. “I don’t think Whitmore wants any trouble either,” he finishes.

  Desto cuts in, “What he wants and what he asked for are two different things, Karl. You heard him. He’s letting that bag of recycled meat vapor walk around free. And—”

  “He’s letting us walk around free too—”

  “—after what he did to Zeta, he can’t be trusted. Hell, V, you said it yourself. The guy has no judgment; he’s off the hook and we don’t know what’s really going on here.”

  “I’m not saying we have to trust him, but we’re in his kitchen. We can’t start cooking his food behind his back and hope he doesn’t notice.” Karl looks at all of us in turn while he speaks, and I roll my eyes at his analogy. He shrugs, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.

  “I’m not suggesting we do anything behind his back,” Desto continues. “We take our goddamn ship and leave. If anyone tries to stop us, we blow their fucking balls off. After I rip Quantum’s off with my bare hands.”

  “What did I just say about not stepping on your dick?” Karl’s reasonable tone begins to show strain, but he takes a deep breath before continuing, ignoring Desto’s grimace of fury. “If we do that, we’ll get shot down, or worse, get stranded midtrip when we run out of fuel. And what about food? And them?” He waves a hand at the kids, then turns and looks off toward the far side of the room, thinking. Turning back, he scrubs his palm over the heavy stubble lining his cheeks and chin, then says, “Look, maybe we need to take a mental time-out. We’ve been at war for almost two years; our first reaction is to fight. But…maybe we’re past that. Maybe we have to let ourselves be past that. Maybe this is the first chance we have—the first chance people have—to start picking up the pieces. If we handle this carefully, calmly, rationally, everyone might get what they want.”

  The crew is quiet for a minute, all of us listening thoughtfully. Impulsively, I grab one of Karl’s hands. It’s cold inside mine but begins warming up quickly. He turns to look at me, having to tilt his head down because I’m so close. The warmth and gratitude in his eyes make it impossible for me to drop mine.

  And I realize—this is it. This is the reason we have to stop fighting, have to stop running, and have to start finding a way to, as Whitmore put it, “recreate this world” together. People helping people. We have to give up the divisions and the factions and the war and the hate because of what I see in Karl’s face when he looks at me. There is more to our lives than surviving, ticking off the minutes until we’re all dead. And he’s standing right in front of me.

  Turning back to face the group, I say quietly, but firmly, “I’m with Karl. This isn’t about shooting our way out of here. It’s our opportunity to try something new.” My eyes find Desto’s. “Think about your kid, Bomani. If you ever want to meet her, you have to be willing to give yourself, and the rest of us, a chance.”

  The mu
scles in his face are as tense as a rebar armature. If his stance were any more rigid, he’d be a statue; only his nostrils move, flaring in the anything-goes moment between giving up or blowing up. Finally, he spins around and grips one of the cots, hurling it into the emptiness of the gymnasium with a rage-filled yell. One of the little girls begins to whimper, and Mason pulls her closer to him, letting her squeeze against his leg as he gently strokes her hair. No one says anything. No one dares.

  Desto’s back stays to us as he glares into the darkness, his shoulders heaving and shuddering and—and…is he crying?

  I glance toward Karl. His stare rests on Desto’s back as he begins to take a step toward him. I reach out and put a hand on his forearm. Turning to me, Karl cocks an eyebrow questioningly. “Let me,” I whisper, giving his arm a light squeeze.

  “Hey, man.” I speak as gently as I can after walking up to Desto. “Zeta’s going to be fine, all right? She’s tough and she’s been through worse. We’re going to get home and you’ll see that you’re worried for no reason. These people seem on the level, you know? They have no reason to hurt anyone.”

  There are no tears on his face, though his shoulders still quake and his breathing comes in quick gasps. The lack of actual tears doesn’t surprise me. I have a hard time imagining he could be capable, but I’ve been wrong about others—grown men, tougher than titanium plating, breaking down in ways that are usually devastating and never pretty. War does strange things to people. It gets to a point where you have to start expecting it.

  “Bomani, you okay?”

  He takes a deep breath and finally looks at me, managing a stunted half smile. “Yeah, Aly, I’ll be okay.”

  Reaching up, I put a hand on his shoulder, hoping the contact will be reassuring, followed by a smile of my own, hoping it looks more encouraging than it feels. “All right, then.”

  Unexpectedly, he wraps a rough and callused palm around my neck and pulls me into a hug. My arms barely reach around his wide, muscular torso as I hug him back. It’s a moment of pure, genuine affection, bringing home more than ever how much my crew has come to mean to me. We’re all in this together, no matter what. No war, no fighting against gangs of crazy, desperate, or greedy scavengers, and no hardships or scarcities are going to get between us again and break this group up. We stick up for each other, through whatever this chaotic system can throw at us.

  Releasing me, he turns fully back to the group. “We need a plan.”

  NINETEEN

  We sketch out something rough and digestible that won’t draw anyone’s suspicion. The first thing we have to do is ensure Venus knows we’re okay and find out if she is, too. Which means a trip to the Orika. From there, we hope to have more options and information that will illuminate a long-term solution.

  Volunteering, I go to the gymnasium door through which Whitmore and his meatheads had entered. It opens freely, but the one called Zabriskie is outside on guard. He looks at me expressionlessly when I step into the hall.

  “So,” I begin, very aware of my innately poor negotiation skills, “we’re wondering if we can check out our ship. Make sure everything is, uh, being taken care of, and get some of our stuff.”

  “No.”

  Okay, this is going to be fun. “Whitmore said we’re free to do as we please.” God, it’s like I’m a child arguing with another child.

  “Yeah, you can run around Bogotan. But not together and not without a guide.”

  “Which is you.”

  “You got it.”

  “And our weapons are…?”

  “Secured.”

  “Uh-huh. So why can’t we get on our ship?”

  “Whitmore told you. We’re trying to work out a deal with your colony. We don’t need more talking heads in the mix making things difficult.”

  “We’re not goddamn talking heads, we’re people—wait.” I stop myself. Pissing off this guy will get me nowhere. “How does access to our ship make things difficult? We can’t communicate with KL anyway. Unless you’re telling me you have working satellites.” His silence is answer enough. “You do, don’t you? So why not just contact KL from here, why send some of your people with Zeta?”

  To the cynic—a.k.a. realist—in me, it seems obvious. They’re going to hit Keum Libre with an attack if Brady doesn’t give up the soil compound willingly. They must be using Zeta as a negotiating chip, and Whitmore had probably been lying about sending a ship in a couple of days to pick up the crew he’s sent to accompany her. They must already have backup in the air, ready to hammer KL as needed. It’s vital that I inform the crew of my suspicions ASAP. This could be the info we need to decide on a game plan. Knowing they have a working satellite is a very, very good piece of information.

  But dammit, Whitmore had seemed so reasonable.

  “Look,” I continue, “we’ll stay off the flight deck and out of the com room. Just let us get to our belongings, changes of clothes, et cetera. If we’re stuck here, it just makes sense. And it’s polite.”

  It will be a risk to let these people near our stores and weapons—not to mention the risk of exposing Venus—but if we can reach out to her, we can covertly establish a communication protocol, as well as give her a sense of what’s going on out here. She may not know if we’re alive or dead, and Venus could do something to compromise herself if she stays in the dark too long. An ace in the hole is only good for us if she’s playable, after all.

  “Wait one,” Zabriskie says and gets on his com. After talking with whoever’s on the other end, he clicks off and says, “You’ll have an escort in an hour or so. Until then—” He juts his chin toward the gym door.

  “You’re a prince,” I comment before heading back inside, but inwardly I’m relieved. Besides, being held hostage here beats the shit out of being held hostage by cannibals. I’m a lot more comfortable with the menu, at least.

  * * *

  Before our escort—who end up being Van Heusen, Zabriskie, and to everyone’s surprise, Whitmore himself—arrive, I quickly sketch out my suspicions to the crew about a potential attack on KL by Bogotan if Brady doesn’t do what they want. We don’t have any time to fully grasp all the implications of this before the gym door swings open and Van Heusen steps inside. The ambidextrous draw holster sporting two pistols draped over his shoulders captures my attention immediately. What made them switch from stun sticks?

  “Which one of you is the pilot?” he asks.

  We hadn’t discussed what would happen if this question came up, but Karl immediately steps forward.

  “Okay. Then, you, you, and you,” he says, pointing to me, David, and Ryan. “The rest stay put.”

  “Only three of us can go aboard?” Hoogs asks.

  Van Heusen doesn’t bother to answer, just steps to the side so the three of us can get past him.

  Sighing with exasperation, I give Karl’s hand a quick squeeze as I walk by. “Back soon,” I promise.

  As I approach the entryway, Desto’s weighty shadow follows. Oh man, don’t fuck this up, Desto. Van Heusen cuts him off before he steps through the door behind me, and I turn on my heels to be ready for whatever happens.

  The two men face each other, and Van Heusen, no shrimp, is nearly eye level with him. One of his hands already clutches a pistol grip. “Are you deaf, scav?”

  Desto stares at the security chief coolly, but I see murder in his eyes.

  Seconds float past in a dream—or nightmare—then Desto smiles at the other man, all of his white teeth bared in mirthful savagery. “Don’t forget my shaving cream, Aly,” he says, then abruptly turns around and rejoins the others.

  I rein in the sigh of relief wanting to slip from my lips, and head into the corridor. The three of us had wrapped up in the hats and coats the woman named Korine brought us, and I’m grateful for them as soon as we step outside. KL and Spectra 6 are warm year-round, sometimes oppressively so; the only way I’m going to get used to this type of cold is if we’re here awhile. I just hope that doesn’t happen.


  Expecting to walk to the landing zone, I snug my synth-wool hat down tight and recheck the zipper on the coat to make sure none of the penetrating breeze can slice through. Instead we’re loaded into a ten-seater land trans. Whitmore drives while Van Heusen takes the backseat and Zabriskie the front. For a moment I wonder if the gym is now guard-free. Not likely. This group hasn’t shown a hint of bad strategy yet.

  Algol A and B are in full view, the sky perfectly crisp, cloudless, and blue. The city streets and buildings extending in every direction look just as well-maintained and clean as they must have been before the war—possibly even cleaner. With fewer people living here, less garbage and fewer signs of consumption mar the cityscape. The moment takes me back to life before the Corps and before this war, and I remember what it was to be a citizen of the Obals in a society that was orderly and peaceful. Out of nowhere, my emotions suddenly feel ripped in half. On the one hand, I’m hit with a wall of sadness and a sense of loss that makes my chest tight and my eyes hot in their sockets—so much devastation, so much waste. But on the other hand, I’m surprised by a sudden clear-headed sense of hope, almost excitement. This is another chance, a new system with new opportunities to get it right.

  But can we this time?

  The drive lasts only a few minutes. With ordinary prewar traffic, it would have taken at least triple that in a city this size, and David and I use the time to examine the area’s layout and organization. No matter how good your sat-maps and schematics are, things always look different from ground level. Occasional lights pepper the buildings, few of which show signs of battle. The mag-rails and streets all seem to be untouched as well. It’s as if the war bypassed Bogotan, and I see why they’ve made it their home. Yet few people walk the streets. Much like Agate Beach and even KL, I’m sure the city’s inhabitants have little free time, occupied with getting and keeping the basics of survival up and running.

  Reaching the southern edge, we get our first exposure to the scars of the war. This side of the berm safeguarding the city from the airfield, which I hadn’t seen after landing thanks to my fun with the nasal filter, looks like the gateway to the apocalypse. A ten-meter-high wall of earth and steel had been—there’s no other way to describe it—melted and turned into a standing wave of fused metallic obsidian before it could collapse into a puddle. The damage extends down the length of the berm from one side of the gate about fifty meters before I recognize an impact crater. Odd. Based on the shape and angle of the crater, the missile that had caused it came from inside the city, as if someone was trying to make the berm impenetrable to those coming from the airfield. Was it the city’s attempt at self-defense, the occupants trying to turn this wall into a stronghold that would keep attackers out? A large contingent of ground forces would most likely have come from a strike from ships using the airfield to get their teams close. The other option would be to send forces inside using the city’s major streets and thoroughfares. I’d bet my favorite carbine those locations are well guarded, maybe even blockaded, too.