Spectra Arise Trilogy

by Tammy Salyer

“Excuse me,” Whitmore breaks in. “I need a few moments. If you all wouldn’t mind waiting outside, just through the door there. The foyer has comfortable seating, and it’s warm. This shouldn’t take long. We’ll get you immediately if your settlement responds.”

  “Sure,” Karl says and rises from his seat, pulling me up by the hand. His grip is tighter than it needs to be. When I glance at him, the message in his expression is as clear as if he were speaking aloud: Give it a rest, Aly.

  Once we’re in the foyer, I pull my hand from Karl’s grip and confront Vitruzzi. But I have to give myself some credit; I try to keep my tone benign. “What’s on your mind, V? I’m just trying to help.”

  She seems to deflate right in front of me, like I’d stuck her with a pin.

  “Why?” she asks, her expression morphing to neutral, as if we’re discussing the merits of eighth-inch screws over quarter-inch screws. “Why are you trying to help? And why should I go along with it? Haven’t I done enough?”

  “Done enough? What do you mean?” I look toward Karl, the question Do you know what she’s talking about? in my eyes.

  She sighs. “Maybe you’re right. Give it to them. Give them anything they ask. I’m out of this. Done. It’s not up to me, and I…I can’t be responsible for things anymore.”

  I can feel my mouth hanging open, but nothing comes out. Am I really hearing this? Her…confession? Is that what it is? Because that’s what it sounds like—and it’s exactly what I’d been thinking moments ago. But her words do nothing to relieve me. Instead, her newfound flexibility, or rather, disengagement, sounds like defeat at a visceral level. Like she’s giving up. Vitruzzi, giving up? It just doesn’t compute. Can’t be true.

  “I…what do you mean you need out? Vitruzzi, there is no out, not of this. People need our help. The compound might be it.”

  “Our help? What happened to ‘survival is as good as it gets’?” She looks at the palm of her hand, as if examining it for profound truths that she no longer believes exist, apparently. Then she chuckles. “Survival isn’t even that good anymore, Aly. If you don’t believe me, ask those corpse-eaters on Eruo Pium what they think.”

  This conversation has moved beyond surprising to outright weird. “The cannibals? What—?”

  “Dr. Wyss. That’s who I’m talking about.”

  Karl and I exchange glances, both of us equally clueless.

  She goes on: “We worked together in the Medical Sciences Research facility on Obal 10. His work on developing neurological recombinations was one of the breakthroughs that helped us build cyber-prosthetic limbs. The big joke in the lab was that he put the mind in our matter. Ha-ha, funny, right?”

  I have to take a step back. She’s not going to be talked down from this ledge until she’s gotten whatever it is that’s jacking up her frequencies back to a manageable level. If that means letting her brain download a bunch of crazy, well, it’s not like Karl and I have anywhere to be at the moment.

  A tornado of apprehension brews in the back of my mind, but I nod quietly. Vitruzzi is a boulder—has always been stable and strong—that’s finally showing signs of cracking.

  “He was brilliant. And his family was beautiful.” Vitruzzi circles the ring of chairs ringing a center table as she talks, her movement keeping me off balance and fidgety. “Marie, his wife, and their twins, Sammy and Margriet—they’d have been about sixteen or seventeen now. They would come to our neighborhood cookouts, and the twins showed Evie how to ride a magbike. Evie would never listen to John or me when we tried to show her things like that. She was too stubborn.”

  Evie and John? That’s right, her husband and daughter who’d died in the Crowers Croup outbreak before the Soldier’s Rebellion. Giving it one last shot, I try: “V, now isn’t really the time for a trip down memory lane.” Her black eyes hit mine and hold them, and I give up. There’s no reasoning with that empty space.

  She stops pacing and grips the back of a chair, facing me. “He had a brilliant and capable mind, Aly. A solid career and family. There was nothing monstrous or depraved in him.” She sits, collapses really, into the overstuffed seat. “But that’s what he became and now he’s dead and it’s my FAULT.”

  Karl’s turn. “Calm down, Eleanor. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m sure we can, uh, we can fix this, okay?”

  Dammit, I wish Brady was here. This is a level of loony that I’m not used to. Her eyes are more focused and severe than I’ve ever seen them, not like the eyes of someone about to lose their shit, but her voice, what she’s saying—this isn’t the Vitruzzi I know. I’m damn certain this isn’t the Vitruzzi anyone knows.

  “I had to shoot him, you know. You were there.” She stabs me with another black look. “He was going to gun us down in the middle of nowhere and serve us up to those cannibals as if we were wild game. But when I saw his face and realized who he was, it all suddenly became clear to me. There was no way I could ignore the truth anymore. No matter how fucking ugly it is.”

  “You mean that guy in the hovercraft?” I ask, who it is she’s talking about finally dawning on me. “The one who tried to run us down as soon as we got out of the emergency pod? You knew that guy?” The odds are almost impossible. “V, that had to be someone else, someone who just looked like the doc you used to know.”

  “Do you think I could make a mistake like that, Aly? We worked together for ten years. His kids used to play with Evie. I know his face as well as I know my own, and I shot him because if I hadn’t, he’d have killed us.”

  “I’ve killed a lot of people, and believe me, when it’s either you or them, it gets easier. Trust me on that.”

  Her short laugh is brittle. “You know what never gets easier? Losing your kid. But when I think about what I let happen, what I caused, I’m—” Her body contorts; her arms cross her chest, and she crunches forward like some huge weight has been dropped onto her shoulders. The anguish in her voice in the next sentence scares me more than any words I’ve ever heard. “I’m glad she isn’t here. I’m glad she’s dead.”

  This is the part where I’m supposed to walk over and hug her and tell her everything is going to be okay. Except—I don’t even know where to start. Looking at the suffering and pure battle fatigue hacked into every groove of her face, I realize: if everything is going to be okay, it takes a more creative imagination than mine to figure out how.

  “V, I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about. But whatever it is you think you let happen, there’s time later to figure out what to do about it. But right now—”

  She cuts me off. “What I let happen is the war. Medina was right when she said it was my fault. You were right when you told me not to trust Rajcik. If I hadn’t believed any help fighting the Admin, even from a psychotic criminal, was better than none, the war wouldn’t have happened. I’m responsible for the war, Aly. I’m the reason so many people are dead.”

  When she stops speaking, the silence draws out the same way it does after a dying person’s last gasp of breath. She thinks she’s responsible for the war, for the millions dead. She holds herself accountable for something that’s so far outside of her ability to control that it’s absurd. Crazy.

  Unfixable.

  “Eleanor, you are so completely wrong about that,” Karl says, disbelief straining his voice. “The war was coming whether we worked with Rajcik or not. He was the catalyst, but you were not the cause. You have to be cra—”

  I grab his arm to stop him, but Vitruzzi breaks in first. “Crazy?”

  The sound of an incoming ship, something bigger than an intra-atmosphere shuttle, cuts off whatever disaster heads our way. We all instinctively look toward the ceiling, tensing against the possibility of an air assault. But it isn’t needed. The ship passes, flying west toward the landing field.

  Just as it glides over, Whitmore exits the com room. He catches the looks on our faces, drawing the conclusion that the ship must be the reason for our troubled expressions. “That was another of Bog
otan’s associates, and I need to go and meet with her. But first, your call to Keum Libre. A man named Patrick Brady is waiting to speak with you.”

  Finally, a break.

  * * *

  Brady’s face looks like the man went twenty rounds with the devil and lost every single one as Vitruzzi fills him in on everything that’s happened to us since getting separated on Eruo Pium. Inexplicably, now that we’ve reestablished contact, a sudden feeling of calm, even optimism, settles over me. Knowing Zeta and the settlement are safe, and just a few days’ flight time away, I start to think we could actually get out of this okay.

  “I thought…Christ, I thought we might have lost you, Eleanor. When Zeta got here with just the ’Bo, and the story she told us…”

  “I know. I know, Patrick. But we made it. We’re fine. All of us. No injuries. And the Orika is still sound.”

  “Good. When are you coming home?”

  Vitruzzi doesn’t look at Whitmore, and I have no idea what she’s thinking. We haven’t had any time to regroup or discuss our plans or options. Everything is happening with the speed, but not the predictability, of dominoes falling.

  “Listen, we’ll come home as soon as we can. But I want you to do one thing first. Copy everything in the data storage from the lab at the landing platform that has to do with the soil compound. Take that and the compound and the cargo from Karl and David’s last run and bring it all here, to Obal 6.”

  “Are they holding you hostage? Is that what this is?” The transmission’s static and fluctuating volume as it bounces through fields of space debris give the rage in his voice a raw, primal edge. “Because if it is—”

  “No. We’re free to go. It’s just a matter of trade. We give them the compound”—she turns her dark eyes on Whitmore—“and they give us what we want in return.”

  Brady is smart and he knows Vitruzzi well. There’s more going on here than she’s letting on—even I hadn’t anticipated her turning this into a barter—and he’s picking that up. “We’ve discussed at length the issues with that stuff, with what it might do. Why are you considering turning it over to this other colony?”

  The obvious answer: we don’t have a choice. If I know Brady, he’s already assuming that, but Vitruzzi offers a different angle. “They have more of a chance of making it viable than we do, Patrick. I think it’s time to get rid of it—and I’m…tired of being responsible for…” Her voice loses its momentum and she lets the sentence hang.

  Her sudden silence isn’t like her, and Brady’s expression shows his confusion at first. “We’re getting a bit of breakup, Eleanor. Repeat that last.”

  “That’s it,” she says. “It makes more sense to give it to them than to keep it.”

  Brady’s eyes stray past her to Karl, who leans close to the video feed camera with a hand on the back of Vitruzzi’s seat. “What do you think, Karl? Is this a good idea?”

  “If it’s not, the KLers aren’t the ones who need to worry about it,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’re just ready to get home. If you can send the Teibo back, we’ll load both ships up with supplies and come back. Soon as we can.” He pauses to let Brady process this, but the time is taken up by a sudden disturbance out in the foyer.

  “Motherfucker, you better be ready to shoot me, because you’re not going to like what I do to you if you don’t.”

  Oh shit. Desto.

  Whitmore rises quickly from the chair he’d taken near the back of the room and rushes out to the foyer.

  “Wait one,” Karl tells Brady, then follows Whitmore, with me right behind him.

  Zabriskie stands outside the double door, partially blocking it, his pistol aimed center mass at Desto.

  “What are you doing here?” Karl asks.

  Desto’s expression is grim, and he stares at Whitmore as he responds. “Let me talk to Zeta. And I’m not asking.”

  “Jono, lower your weapon,” Whitmore demands. Zabriskie’s face is as blank as a dead monitor, but he drops his arm, his thumb resting on his pistol’s safety, but not engaging it. “Of course. Of course. I understand completely. Korine”—he turns to face inside the com room—“please keep Mr. Brady’s connection active. Mr. Desto, come inside. And I apologize for not considering your situation.”

  Desto looks surprised. He’d been ready for a fight, not an agreement. But that doesn’t slow him down. Seconds later, he’s seated in Vitruzzi’s vacated spot.

  “Pat, how’s Zeta? Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s completely fine, Bomani. Don’t worry. She’s over at the platform right now, just taking care of postflight details. I know she’ll be upset she couldn’t be here to talk with you herself.”

  “Well, tell her…tell her I’ll see her as soon as I can. And thanks, Pat.”

  “No problem. You okay?”

  “I will be.” There’s a sinister undertone to this statement that I catch, even still standing in the foyer.

  He stands, leaving the chair pulled out for Vitruzzi to reclaim, and walks out to where the rest of us wait. For the first time since Desto had woken up on Eruo Pium after Zeta had been kidnapped, the ferocious grooves carved across his forehead have relaxed.

  “So, uh, everyone okay back at the gym?” I ask him, knowing that his presence here means one of two things: he’d been lucky enough to sneak out while whoever was left to guard the rest of our crew at the high school had their pants down, or that guard is meeting his or her maker as we speak. I hope like hell it isn’t the second possibility.

  Desto swings an arm loosely around my shoulders. “No one got hurt that didn’t need to be.”

  “What—?”

  “It’s all good, Aly. Our sentry just had a demonstration of some hand-to-hand he didn’t previously know, but he’s not hurt. Much.”

  Whitmore and Zabriskie look alarmed at these words, but Desto merely stares at them. “Korine, send Stybar over to the school to check on Rodriguez,” Whitmore says, and no one else speaks until Vitruzzi comes back into the foyer a few minutes later.

  “Whitmore, Patrick is sending our ship back with the compound and the people you had accompany Zeta. They’ll be here within four days. Now, let’s talk about what you’re giving us.”

  “No, Dr. Vitruzzi.” The words come from someone new. “Let’s talk about what else you can do for us.” Five people have entered the foyer. The first is Commander Medina.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I spit.

  The group of us who flew with her during the war grow instantly mute, our surprise at this unexpected reunion cutting off any other reaction like a guillotine. She seems to realize the effect of her presence but keeps her military bearing as stiff and unreadable as ever. Van Heusen and one other soldier enter with her. I recognize his face as her apparently still next in command, Lieutenant Steward. Then comes the next backhand.

  Quantum.

  Oh how we’ve waited to see this betrayer again, a walking bag of viscera that needs to be spilled. Karl’s hands clench into fists beside me as I involuntarily twitch forward, but I stop myself before doing anything that will lead to nothing except a bottomless pain cave. Desto, however, doesn’t have the same hesitation.

  “Strahan, stop him!” Vitruzzi’s voice echoes clearly through the bowl-shaped foyer.

  Karl tackles Desto from behind as the enraged father-to-be stalks toward Quantum with single-minded purpose, his stride amplifying his dead-set intent on revenge. But for Karl it’s like gripping an elephant, and his assault results only in Desto’s sharp elbow connecting with his collarbone as the larger man tries to shake Karl off.

  Hardly seeming to notice what he’s doing, Desto promises, “I’m going to kill you, Quantum. Say your fucking prayers.”

  “Jesus, big guy, you gotta get ahold of yourself,” Karl says, his teeth clenching against pain as he maneuvers between Desto and the newcomers. “Little help here, people!”

  That’s all it takes to galvanize Vitruzzi and me. She rushe
s up and grips Desto’s shoulders from behind, while I use my body to help Karl block him. Karl links his right arm with my left to create a barrier. Vacantly, I realize every weapon in the room is pointed at Desto, and there’s no telling how much military discipline this security force has. A single nervous finger is all it will take to send a flurry of projectiles that will turn us into a collection of holes surrounded by blood and bone.

  “Out of my way, so help you,” Desto grunts, his eyes wide and unwaveringly focused on Quantum.

  “Think about this,” I say as calmly as I can. “The only way this ends is with you dead.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do. Because you’re going to get us killed, too. Is that what you want?” His eyes leave Quantum for a split second and bounce to my face. “You just heard Brady—Zeta is okay. So lock this revenge shit down before she has to bury an empty goddamn box.”

  An evil-sounding chuckle oozes from my right, and Van Heusen stands a couple meters away, grinning. He catches me looking and says, “We’re this close to having us a roast.”

  My stomach twists into a sickened knot. A roast? This man, whatever kind of soldier he may have been before the war, is now pure monster. I don’t even want to consider what he may have done to survive, yet my brain shoots up a high-contrast memory of foul-breathed Twitch the Cannibal from Eruo Pium—sometimes my imagination is a curse.

  Desto takes a deep breath and lets it out, then puts a hand on Vitruzzi’s, still on his shoulder. “It’s all right, V. I’m good.” But his face shows the moment is merely an intermission, not an end. He steps back toward the com room door and crosses his arms over his wall-like chest, and the rest of us relax. Slightly.

  Quantum hasn’t moved at all, choosing to stay at a safe distance outside the potential crossfire of the security team. Medina watched the entire seconds-long encounter with patient reserve, just waiting for the right moment to continue talking.

  And that hopeful feeling I’d had when I heard Brady’s voice transmitting from KL?