Spectra Arise Trilogy

by Tammy Salyer

  In any case, their aim had been off. The giant gate still works, as we’d already seen. Yet it leaves me wondering why a city filled with people who were so worried about outside attackers that they tried to destroy their own points of ingress was never, in fact, attacked.

  We approach the cargo hold hatch, Whitmore, Van Heusen, and Zabriskie trailing the three of us. The wind kicks up, rasping against my exposed cheeks with a gritty feel of dust, but it smells clean. The Obals always make you appreciate good air, and the war hadn’t damaged O 6’s atmosphere significantly if it’s still this fresh. I have to admit, KL is starting to look a little Paleolithic by comparison. It’s possible to walk around without a breathing filter there, but after a while the thickness and particulates in the air clog your throat and lungs enough to make you feel like you’re trying to breathe underwater. Uncomfortable, to say the least, and who knows what the long-term effects would be.

  “Just have to enter the opening sequence,” David says, approaching the Orika’s outer panel, which gives access to the manual entry keypad. If Venus is still inside and saw our approach, she’ll be able to override the safeguards that keep anyone else from getting aboard after David keys in his code.

  “Nice and easy, scav,” Van Heusen warns.

  I’m really starting to not like this meat sack, and the dirty look I throw over my shoulder at him must make that obvious. “We’re not scavs.”

  “Course not, dollface,” he says, and puckers his lips at me in a disgusting leer.

  “Eat me, d—”

  “That will be enough,” Whitmore interrupts and glances meaningfully at Van Heusen, whose face returns to a scowl.

  “Just open it,” he says to David.

  The inset latch to open the panel sticks for a few seconds before David is able to prise it loose and slide the panel open. He enters his key code and steps a bit to the side, staring hopefully at the hatch. The hydraulics inside instantly begin humming, and the ramp lowers smoothly.

  “How did you do that?” Zabriskie asks, suspicion triggered. If they hadn’t been able to open it with simple bypass algorithms, there’s no way a key code should have worked.

  Without missing a beat, David responds, “Facial recognition.” I have to stifle a chuckle at the unintended truth of that.

  The ruse apparently works. Zabriskie’s expression remains doubtful, but he doesn’t ask any more questions.

  “Before we step aboard,” Whitmore says, “I’d like to assure you that we are not pirates and your belongings will not be taken. If there is anything you’d like to share with the city, we’d be happy to have it. And if you have any weapons aboard”—I look at him sharply, already bracing for the conflict that’s coming if he asks that we hand them over—“please leave them be. You may take them when you leave Bogotan, but you understand that we aren’t willing to invite the kind of problems they may cause. Aside from that, for efficiency’s sake, please separate into three groups, and one of us will accompany each of you.”

  “That’s not really going to do any good, Whitmore,” David explains. “Ryan isn’t a regular member of our crew. He doesn’t have anything aboard and isn’t familiar with everyone’s property.”

  Whitmore looks thoughtful for a short, blink-frenzied moment. “I’m sure there’s something he can gather for your group.” His eyebrows rise questioningly.

  David thinks about it, then capitulates. “Sure, yeah. Ryan, can you hit the galley and grab as much of our rations as you can? If you need a backpack, you can pick one up from the crew quarters. Which means”—he looks at Whitmore—“he’ll need to go with whomever picks up our personal gear.”

  Rations? That’s a laugh. What’s left in the galley could probably be carried in just Ryan’s pockets. We’d stored some backup provisions in the cargo hold, just in case, and would have broken them out today if we’d still been on the ship. Before Whitmore had come to escort us from the gym, we’d all agreed that it’s best to leave them unmentioned and aboard, mostly for Venus’s sake, and in case we have to make a break for it. It’s a 140-or-so-hour flight from here to KL, and there isn’t enough food to keep all the adults and children well fed (we’d agreed to give the children full rations, but the rest of us would go hungry), but if just a couple of us are able to break free, it will be enough to sustain whoever does.

  “Aly and I should both get the crew’s items,” David says. “I’ll take the main bunkroom while you go through the spare and your cabin.”

  I nod agreement and he starts aboard. Whitmore beckons at Van Heusen to go with him. Ryan follows, Zabriskie on his tail.

  “You and me, then?” I ask Whitmore.

  “Is that all right with you?” he asks nicely enough.

  Without responding, I step inside the hold where the cargo bins are all still tied down exactly as we’d left them.

  Van Heusen asks, “What’s in all these?”

  “Our stuff,” David replies bluntly and with finality.

  Van Heusen starts to say something, but Whitmore cuts him off with a steely look. The six of us move through the main corridor toward the berthing room. Whitmore and I continue past it as David and Ryan veer inside with their escorts. I enter the cabin Karl and I share, absorbing every detail visible, hoping Venus had left a message or indication of her status.

  The room and the rest of the ship are chilly, barely warmer than the outside air. She’s not running any power, knowing it would give away her presence. As soon as I think this, I realize that the top blanket from my and Karl’s rack is missing and conclude her bunk must already be stripped. Whitmore wouldn’t know anything about my blanket, but I hope a bare bunk in the main berth doesn’t give her away.

  After stuffing a few hygiene items and some clothing in a bag I’d pulled from the under-bunk storage drawer, I suddenly see what I’ve been hoping for. The digits on our universal clock, which runs on its own battery, flash the hour. The seconds are ticking past in regular time, but as soon as they reach 00 and the minute should increment by one, it flickers, then returns to the same time it was just on. I move slowly, trying to make it look like I’m searching for something, doing my best to veil the attention I’m giving the clock. Then it happens again. Same time. It has to be Venus, but what’s the number sequence for?

  “You’re a soldier, Ms. Erikson. Aly—if I may. Is that correct?” Whitmore’s question surprises me, and I glance to where he remains in the doorway. “Your life experience has forced, perhaps offered, you a unique and practical perspective on this kind of situation.”

  “Yeah, sure. What kind of situation is that?”

  “Making choices. Choices that mean the future for humankind.”

  What the hell is he talking about? I stand up straight and give him my attention.

  “The good of one cannot supersede the good of all. If we allow that to happen, even the one will lose. I know you understand that.”

  “Whitmore, I swear you couldn’t have been a dock supervisor before all this. You sure you weren’t a teacher, or maybe a priest? If you have a point, would you just get to it?”

  He grins with genuine amusement. “A soldier, like I thought, a woman who appreciates directness. So I’ll be direct.

  “It is vital that we here at Bogotan acquire this soil amendment compound that your, uh, former…cohort described. And why? What I propose is doing the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people—with one caveat. The greatest number of people with the greatest chance for success. This is a variable that no amount of numbers, no allowance for attrition, can subvert. And we no longer have the numbers to consider attrition an acceptable factor. We cannot live with an expectation that our gains, our human successes, will accumulate enough in the long term to allow us to thrive. If we don’t start thriving en masse right now, today, too many will die for us to possibly regain the worlds we came from. We will fall back into chaos, disease, starvation—in short, the return of a Neolithic human existence.”

  His reference to th
e Neolithic, reminiscent of my earlier thought about KL seeming Stone Age compared to Bogotan, jars me. His tone of voice is more convincing than his words could ever be, and strangely, I realize I’m paying attention. Acutely. No sharp remarks form behind my lips; no arguments; no naysaying. Am I really listening to this?

  “I am no savior, Aly, no beacon of modern mankind, sent to save the world, delusions of grandeur. I am none of that. I am a father aching for the loss of his children, a husband who is tormented by his feelings of gratitude that his wife died before she had to witness all of this, and a believer in the better side of humanity. What we’ve experienced, this war, it was more than enough to drive anyone to their limits. Those of us who haven’t gone a little mad with what we’ve witnessed must already have been crazy to begin with. And that, that right there, is the new normal.”

  I move a little to the side and lean against the wall in order to cover the clock. Whitmore doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are clasped tightly around his midsection, twisting together in a severe wrestling match, as if he’s trying to keep them from flying away. His clear blue eyes almost bug, the intensity and sincerity of his gaze unmistakable. His uncontrolled blink is completely absent. He believes every word he’s saying—and…so do I? Do I?

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I want everyone who has emerged from this civilization-ending tidal wave to have the same freedom to rebuild everything we’ve lost. Why else would we have given up so much of our old way of life, the little comforts we had under the Admin’s system, to salvage Bogotan? We have running water, we have order, we have the beginnings of commerce, we have satellites to communicate with anyone else who may be able to listen. We are putting the pieces back together. And everyone here knows we’re doing what is most important, most vital, for humanity, for our present, and for our future. Our short-term inconveniences mean nothing in the face of long-term survival. Long-term thriving. We want to keep going, Aly, but we need every bit of help we can get. We need you and your crew’s help. We need your settlement’s help. And most of all we need the help of what tools of civilization remain.”

  He takes a long stride and reaches out to put a warm, gentle hand on my shoulder. We look at each other, me speechless, him searching, and that same sincerity remains in his face. “Will you help us?”

  * * *

  Two thoughts run through my brain in quick succession, the latter snapping at the tail of the former. This is exactly what Karl was talking about: put aside the fight so we can all start relearning how to live normal lives. Followed by: When Bodie first analyzed the data to the soil compound, he found communications about making it commercial. Could we have missed something on KL? Could it actually be used safely? Does Bogotan have people who can figure out how?

  I move my eyes to stare pointedly at his hand, staying silent until he removes it. “Help you how, Whitmore? We already told you the compound is dangerous. No one who created it is still alive, and everyone who’s seen it in action says it’s deadly—even the data says that. Like Vitruzzi told you.”

  “And I understand that. But it has incredible effectiveness, according to Quantum.”

  “The only side effect being the massive kill-everything-else-first issue.”

  “Science didn’t die with the war, Aly, we will of course study it before using it. You can help us by—”

  “Convincing my crew to go along with you, right?” I’ve had this conversation before. He almost flinches at my interruption, unsure how to respond to such aggressive bluntness, so I use the dead air to continue. “And what’s in it for me?”

  “What do you mean?” He actually seems surprised. He’s not an idiot, but the priority list of the criminal-enterprise educated doesn’t come naturally to him. So I help.

  “Give my team back our VDUs, and let us contact our colony on Keum Libre. You have working satellites; I can’t think of a better use to put them to.” And this is your chance to prove you’re not bullshitting us. If we don’t let the rest of the colony know where we’re at, when Zeta gets there, they’ll have to assume we’re still stuck on Eruo Pium and send out a pointless rescue mission. Or is that what you want, Whitmore? To get more of our people and ships away from KL to thin the herd, make a takeover that much easier.

  His response comes quickly, too quickly for my suspicions to increase. “Can I have you and your crew’s word that you won’t put our city and people in danger?”

  “You have mine,” I promise. “And I’ll talk with the others.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Ms. Erikson, and your sophistication.” He reaches out to shake hands on the deal.

  “Just don’t fuck with us,” I warn, ignoring his hand.

  TWENTY

  Hot coffee steams beside me on a table. After a second, I wrap both hands around the ceramic mug and cradle it like a precious gem, trying to get heat back into my body. Once we’d returned to our “accommodations” in the high school and dropped off the collected goods, Vitruzzi, Karl, and I were immediately taken by Whitmore to their satellite link up, this time being led on a walk through the biting cold for about a kilometer along the street. The communications hub resides in an office building like you’d find in any business district on any of the Obals. Used to find, that is. I’d lost feeling in my fingers about halfway, despite rounds of blowing on them and then jamming them into my armpits to keep them out of the wind.

  Other than letting everyone know we were going to get in touch with KL, I hadn’t had a spare second to tell them about Whitmore’s and my arrangement before we left to send the transmission. I filled in Karl and V on the way, my teeth chattering to add a dramatic flair to the story. They got the picture regardless, and the relief on their faces about getting back in touch with the colony is as visible as mine. For Whitmore’s sake, he better not have been misleading me.

  Zabriskie sits beside Korine, a slim, middle-aged woman, at the communication console. The two of them have been sending out hails to KL’s satellite frequency every three minutes for the last fifteen, and we’re just waiting for Patrick or whoever’s on watch to respond. Karl’s arm hangs over my chair’s armrest, his warm hand on my thigh. Vitruzzi sits to my left, still and straight-backed, as if preparing to give a speech. She hasn’t said much since we’d arrived planet-side, and I keep meaning to find a few minutes to check in with her. Something on Eruo Pium had spooked her and sent her even further inside whatever dark mental cave she’s been withdrawing into lately. I’m afraid if someone doesn’t start to pull her back out, she might stay there for good.

  There’s no time like the present.

  “V, look, I know you’re not happy with the plan”—giving up the soil amendment compound—“but I don’t really see that we have any other choice. You know? We need to get home. Let them worry about it.” I wave vaguely toward the window overlooking Bogotan's city central. “Besides, remember what you and Bodie read in the data logs from the Fortress?”

  Pain stabs me deep inside, despite the time that’s passed since Bodie was killed. Some people you never get over losing, I guess. The thought makes me glance at Karl, who catches the look and lifts a querying eyebrow at me. Giving him a half smile to tell him I’m okay, I continue, “The data said the compound had commercial potential. Maybe Whitmore’s people can figure out how to make it safe.”

  “Maybe, Aly,” she responds. The look she gives me could make a psychopath feel guilty. “Or maybe not.”

  Had I made a mistake? Taken too much liberty by making a deal that will ripple throughout KL and affect everyone there? No. Vitruzzi has shown that her ability to take meaningful initiative is flawed. If she were operating normally, I could have referred Whitmore to her. If she were operating normally, she would have been the one he’d spoken with. But she’s not operating normally. She’s barely operating at all, and someone has to pick up the slack. If my decision turns out to be less than optimal, at least I made one. Someone has to.

  “Fair enough,” I reply after a second. “But
it’s not our problem anymore. Let it go; let someone else handle it.”

  I’m talking about the compound, but I’m also talking about everything Vitruzzi takes on. It’s too much, running a colony, a hospital, and everything else. She has to realize she can’t hold herself responsible for the way things are or the way things in our system go from here on out, or she’s going to burn out. Already is burning out.

  “Let it go? You’re giving me advice, Aly? You know, that’s about as meaningful as—”

  “Jim, we’re getting another incoming ping from”—Zabriskie cuts himself off and glances toward the three of us—“uh…” He looks at Whitmore significantly, eyebrows arched.

  But whoever’s contacting them is not what I’m thinking about right now. “What do you mean, Vitruzzi? My advice is as meaningful as what?”

  “Forget it,” she says, her eyes as cold and distant as the dark side of a moon.

  “No, I want to hear this.”