Jupiter Rising

by Zachary Brown

  I grinned at her. Now my head was feeling steady again, I found I liked her bluntness a lot. “I run.”

  She tilted her head in query.

  “It’s peaceful outside at night, fewer gawkers and lots of space. I go through the camp and a little beyond it.”

  “That’s a lot of running.”

  “A lot of running and a bit of fun, especially around the park ruins.” I shifted into a more comfortable position, one that kept her clearly in view.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  An innocent question from a face that was anything but innocent. I thought quickly but not quickly enough, and the pause went on too long. She laughed out loud. “Please. Don’t play shy. You’re looking for Ship 503.”

  “What do you know about Ship 503?” I asked quietly.

  Makani left her desk and stood in front of my chair. “Hardly anything. The Arvani cleared out Orlando when they built this base—but you know all about that.”

  “What Ship do you belong to?”

  She gave me a respectful nod for getting to the point. “I was with 1220 when I was in Maui. Half landship, half fleet, like most of the coastal ships. But then I came inland for family, and things got complicated.” Her eyes closed and she gave a moment of silence to a painful memory. I did not pry further—survivor’s courtesy—and waited for her to continue.

  “If anyone knows anything about Ships in this area, it’s JP, our local IT supplier. You should have a chat with her,” she said.

  My frown questioned her trust in this stranger source. She turned away and returned to her desk, speaking quietly as she did so. “I’ll let her tell you what Ship she hails from. I notice you haven’t told me yours.”

  “Ship 1,” I mumbled, embarrassed to speak it out loud. “Thought you knew that.”

  “Wanted to hear it from you,” she said with a grin.

  She took a piece of paper from a drawer, wrote down a string of numbers and letters, then tore off the written corner and held it out. “JP’s contact. Don’t let her attitude faze you. She’s all right.”

  I hopped down from the chair, accepted the paper, glanced at the codename, and handed it back. “Got it. Thanks. Thanks for the reset, too.”

  She nodded. “Thank me by paying better attention to your personal maintenance.”

  “That’s hard when you don’t really trust Biomech,” I pointed out.

  Her mouth twitched in rueful agreement. “Good people. Compromised tech.”

  “Oh, you’re not going to tell me I’m paranoid?” I challenged her.

  She shook her head. “It’s not paranoia when your world has been conquered and occupied.”

  “Noted,” I agreed. “See you in the speakeasy sometime?”

  “I don’t drink. But my door is always open to you.”

  Was that smile just a little flirtatious? “Noted,” I said again, smiling back. Never hurts to have a friend on the safe side of IT and Biomech.

  + + + +

  I had JP’s codename burning in my brain, and I wanted to find her and talk to her as soon as possible, but I made sleep my mission that night. I didn’t want any more hallucinations, and I certainly didn’t want to collapse in front of CPF informers who’d carry the tale back to Anais. I shared quarters with Ken, so he knew my night habits, and he pretended to collapse in shock when he saw me getting ready for bed before midnight.

  “Glad you’ve found your sense of humor again,” I told him.

  He pulled a puppyish sad face. “Sorry. Not for what I said but for how I behaved.”

  “I think you mean well,” I said in half-acceptance of his half-apology. “But if you want results, you’re going to have to revise your methods, because right now they’re wack.”

  “Don’t hold back,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

  “Do I ever?” I threw my pillow hard at him, he threw it back, and somehow, peace was made.

  3

  * * *

  I slept hard, too hard, and woke sluggish and angry in the morning. Ken was already up and out. He taught basic weapons and self-defense to the recruits, but he also doubled up in the Communications department so he could keep up with everything. I didn’t envy him. In some ways it was worse hearing firsthand what was happening out there. I understood his bitter mood and desperation to do something, anything, useful.

  Devlin was always present for roll call and I was usually on time, but this morning I couldn’t care enough to rush. I showed up just as the 2-Charlie recruits were jogging out to start the morning run with Mal in the lead and a couple of medics bringing up the rear in a base cart—those solar-powered amphibious vehicles the CPF had scavenged from defunct golf courses and retooled to more military purposes. Good. No more stopping for dropouts.

  Devlin watched them leave, then turned to me, looking grim. I thought I knew why. “Before you lecture me for being late, let me remind you that I’m here to teach basic power armor combat from week six, and the morning run is not one of my responsibilities—”

  He cut me off. “It’s nothing to do with you. Rai’s missing.”

  “Who?”

  He stared at me in horror and disappointment. “When Amira Singh gives a damn, she has names, faces, and background checks for everyone in the room within half an hour. Are you that zoned out that you don’t know who the recruits are after two weeks?”

  My ears burned with embarrassment. “I’ve had other things to think about.”

  “Clearly.” Devlin said it in such a superior and chastising way that I stopped feeling ashamed and started feeling annoyed. “Mawusi Rai is one of the fitter recruits. She was doing well in the classroom, too. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed her.”

  “It’s coming back to me,” I lied, intending to scan the records as soon as the conversation was over. “Who saw her last, and when?”

  “Everyone in her troop, and allegedly at lights-out. Mal tried to ping her transponder, but no luck. Says she’s still in her bunk when she’s clearly not. I’m going to order a check of the base surveillance records.”

  “Ugh,” I said. Using base surveillance to trap a recruit felt like becoming the enemy.

  “I know, Amira, but she could be in danger. We have to.”

  “Let me try. I have resources, and maybe, if we need to, we can keep this quiet so no one gets punished unnecessarily.”

  Devlin wavered. He trusted me . . . mostly. He also knew that I had ways of doing things that could cause us all to get punished unnecessarily.

  “I can be discreet,” I said.

  “All right,” he groaned, as if already regretting it. “But I still have to report her missing within forty-eight hours, and if Anais finds out about this, it’s my ass on the line. Please help me preserve my ass.”

  “Su ass es mi ass,” I told him with a grin. “I’ll preserve them both.”

  There were several things I could do immediately. I scanned the recruit records. Mawusi Rai’s face shot and full-body holo sparked only a vague recollection. I’d seen her, but she’d never stood out. She wore her hair in two short braids close to her skull, and her expression was slightly wide-eyed, as might be expected from an excited new recruit who was desperate to impress. She looked young, but they all looked young. The record of her age, last home address, and previous education and training was commonplace and unenlightening.

  I went to the recruit barracks while they were still on their run, and there I made a thorough search of what remained of Rai’s kit. One thing stood out—a medical sample vial tucked into the hospital crease of Rai’s neatly made bunk. I snagged a sterile glove from the room’s first aid kit and protected my hand before taking it out. Blood had smeared the inside of the vial to near-opacity, but I could still see the contents: a small scrap of something brown with the CPF Earth-and-triangle etched into it.

  I stared at it some more, then opened my private channel. “Hey, Ken. Can you ping the Mawusi Rai transponder for me?”

  “Devlin a
lready asked, I am pinging it repeatedly as we speak, and I can inform you that, as before, all indications are that Rai is still in her barracks, in her bunk.” His words were clipped with irritation.

  “Well, Rai’s transponder is here,” I told him calmly, giving the vial a shake to free the small bit of flayed skin from the coagulating blood on the sides. “But she isn’t, so kindly expand your search to include the fitness tracker built into CPF-issue running shoes.”

  “Will do, ma’am,” he replied, still very dry.

  “Hey, Ken,” I said gently. “We have to do this by the book, but for the next few hours we write the book, understand?”

  “It’s not just Rai, Amira. I just got news that some biological bombs went missing on the Moon, at Tranquility.”

  “The bio-bombs they used to wipe Titan and the whole Saturn system? They’re storing them that near to Earth?” My shock was naïve, I knew it, but I couldn’t help my visceral reaction. It wouldn’t take much to erase the last thing I cared about. I thought about Shriek, our struthiform medic and friend. The trauma of world loss had made him eccentric and philosophical. He distanced himself by refusing to learn people’s names so they would not be added to the near-interminable list of dead he already held in his memory. What would world loss do to me? I doubted my coping mechanisms would be that benign.

  Ken wasn’t finished. “It gets worse. The CPF personnel, everyone in charge of administration and security for the missing bio-bombs—they’ve been executed. Something about fears of infiltration by Earth First freedom fighters.”

  My heart rate picked up. Of course they’d blame the Earth First movement. It wasn’t yet common knowledge that the Conglomeration leaders, the Ghosts, were visually indistinguishable from humans. I remembered the Ghost I’d killed on that carrier amid the Trojans, the asteroid shipyards of the Accordance. He’d fooled a lot of human engineers into useless rebellion before I ripped his carotid out.

  I placed the vial carefully on the bed, yanked the gloves off, and wiped my hands roughly against my thighs. Then I took a deep breath. “Ken . . . I get it, but we can’t deal with that right now. We have to focus on what’s happening here in front of us.”

  “Understood,” he said.

  + + + +

  I left the barracks, walking slowly as I ran maps and timings through my head. Was Rai sensible enough to avoid the Arvani field of view? Did she go on foot and under cover, or in plain sight in a stolen cart? I sent out more requests, asking about discrepancies in transport schedules, or missing vehicles. I alerted Jasen and asked him to put the word out on the informal networks. Daytime Jasen was an ordinary admin private, but his nonmilitary standing among the bootleggers and sex workers was near boss level.

  I wanted to visit Makani as well, but I still had the unused contact for JP. It would be awkward to go asking for more favors with that still on my to-do list. I quickly sent a message out to the codename and was startled when the reply pinged in not five minutes later.

  Warehouse B-6, near the corner of Saxon St. and Normandy Road, west side. Come alone.

  A set of coordinates concluded the terse message. Strange location for an IT supplier to hold a meeting, but maybe JP was part of the bootlegger network along with Jasen and Makani—in which case, this was perfectly normal.

  And yet . . .

  I called Ken again, this time using his personal contact. “Ken, track me, but keep it off the record.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not going far. I’ll take a base cart, make it easier to trace. I’m probably being overcautious, but in case I need backup—”

  “No, you’re being unusually sensible. I’ve got you. Go safely.”

  I went.

  + + + +

  The route was short and direct, and it led to an empty parking lot outside a grid of old warehouses. I parked the base cart and allowed myself a moment of nostalgia for the old world.

  Before the Arvani flooded out Manhattan and Miami, but after the collapse of the pre-Accordance government, some effort was made to pack up and preserve the bits and pieces of the amusement park industry until it could be restored in better times. Several warehouses were dedicated to the attempt, and some remained unransacked, like vast elephant boneyards with fragments of dismantled rollercoaster track, rusting ride cars and pods with long-forgotten themes, and shipping containers filled with masks, costumes, and other theater paraphernalia.

  Warehouse B-6 was a classic example of jumble and rust. At least the metal stairs looked sound. I bypassed the decaying junk in the storage area and headed to the upstairs offices. Following JP’s coordinates, I walked along the corridor and peered into doorway after doorway. Empty. Empty. Scattered papers and a solitary orphaned desk drawer. A dead bird, mummified and dusty. Then . . . a figure sitting in an antique, wheeled office chair next to a grimy window, patiently waiting.

  I walked through the door and paused. Her face was familiar.

  “JP. I know you.”

  No need to question why the CPF hadn’t drafted her into their IT department. She was small, barely a meter forty, with bony legs in overlarge jeans and wrists that looked fragile enough to snap with a squeeze. No power armor existed in her size, nor tech suit or space gear of any kind beyond the generic lifepod. I was intrigued to see no visible augmentation, no nano-ink, nothing to hint at any additional boost or edge. But she probably didn’t need it. I knew about JP.

  “Makani told me you’re an IT supplier, but if you’re the JP I know, I bet you’re more than that.”

  She stayed seated by the window and looked at me. I stood still, half a meter into the room, waiting to be allowed further in. JP deserved my respect, and my caution, especially on her own turf.

  “Come in, Singh,” she said finally, her voice flat and without welcome or censure.

  I came in a few more steps and remained standing. “Ship 23, am I right?”

  She looked out of the window again. “22, but I did start in 23. Didn’t get on with my troop commander, so they traded me.”

  “Is 22 still sailing? Or settled?” I asked. Silence. I decided to push. “Sunk?”

  She gave me a glance and a smile. “I’d rather not say in front of your uniform.”

  “Fair enough,” I acknowledged. “What can you say in front of my uniform?”

  Her gaze was once more fixed on the window view. “First things first. You have a recruit missing. You should find her.”

  I blinked. “Any help you can give me with that?”

  “No,” she replied calmly, “but I might be able to help after.”

  “A test of my loyalty?”

  “Loyalty to what? An idea, a dream? Honesty and effectiveness is the test. Can you do what you say you will do?”

  “That depends on what you think I said,” I countered, frowning.

  “Find her quietly, so no one gets punished unnecessarily.”

  “Congratulations on your surveillance,” I snapped. “And yes, after twenty-four hours, whether I find her or not, you can be sure I’ll come to you again.”

  “Don’t be angry. Think of what you’d do in my position.”

  “Think of what you’d do in mine.”

  “I am, which is why I can say two things. First, the commander of Sierra Troop of Ship 97 thanks you for saving him and other key personnel by distracting the CPF with your surrender. Second . . . congrats on your survival. Goodbye, Amira Singh.”

  I didn’t linger. I gave her a curt nod, turned, and left. No running. It wouldn’t have been any use. When someone like JP says “congrats on your survival,” you should seize the compliment and go while it stays true. IT supplier, intelligence gatherer, probably into contraband as well, but ethical, because she chose to meet me in that abandoned building where my death, if needed, would inconvenience no one but myself.

  I got into the base cart and called Ken.

  “That was quick,” he said. “Got any news?”

  “Nothing useful,” I half-lied. “Anyt
hing from your end?”

  “Yep. Anais is coming back tomorrow. Surprise inspection with General TJ Gerrard. Everyone’s running around like headless chickens, getting their kit in order.”

  “Son of a bitch!”  Two weeks’ leave, my ass.

  “Another thing. Your recruit’s shoes are moving around, but the location data is scrambled. Time-delayed, sometimes overlapping, and I doubt she can bilocate. She’s very likely still on base, but I don’t know how much longer that will be true.”

  “Damn,” I said, admiring in spite of my frustration. I was starting to have some suspicions about this recruit. “Have you been sending security to those locations?”

  Ken coughed. “I’ve asked for some quiet checks. We are still keeping this quiet, aren’t we?”

  “Trying to, Ken. You’re sure she hasn’t just put her shoes in a box to be shipped around base as a decoy?”

  “No, these shoes are being worn, and worn by someone with her biometric data. It could be an elaborate trick, but what I’m seeing is a lot more complicated than simply shifting the shoes around.”

  “I’ll ask some questions at IT,” I told him. “See you soon.”

  “Amira, it’s eleven hundred hours. Anais will be back at oh nine hundred hours tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” I said in a tone that was anything but grateful. “Get someone to cover the last hour of your shift and meet me in our quarters. Tell Devlin to come too if he can get free. Be ready to armor up.”

  I had less than a day left to find her. The CPF was one thing, JP was another, and then there was my own growing irritation at the elusive Ms. Rai. Maybe she was a plant, part of a setup by Anais to see if we could be trusted to do the right thing in his absence. Maybe she had been sent by the Resistance to test my loyalty before giving me access to the Ships. Nothing said she couldn’t be both. Either way, I wasn’t going to let her beat me.

  + + + +

  Nano-ink does what it’s supposed to do: adding something extra to what’s there or making up for what’s lost. But it’s also visible, and it creates expectations, which can be good or bad.