by Ari Bach
“This was my brother. My twin. He met with the same executioner that cut me apart.”
She couldn’t think of a condolence to offer. She looked at the coffin and imagined a man like her patient within. She felt a stab of anger toward whoever did all this. He was the strongest, most noble, most passionately alluring man she had ever met. And the most cursed. Who would kill his family? Cut him apart and crush him? It was unthinkable. It was sickening. And to her, it was personal. Doctors take no oaths to bar them from feeling the pain of their patients, or the vengeance of them.
“Who? Who did all this?” she implored.
He took his hand from his brother’s coffin and set it on the other. He looked at it gravely.
“In this coffin is something that she—that the girl who did this doesn’t know I have. Something of hers. Something it would hurt her to know I have. At least that’s what I hope. Tell me, my doctor”—those words, “my doctor,” filled her with light against the dark facts she was learning—“if you could fix me after a year, what could you do with some body that’s been rotting for two?”
The job he had in mind was perverse. She was sickened by it at first. But she had come to understand him in that month. What he wanted was possible. It wasn’t even half as hard as his own surgery. The body wasn’t rotting at all. It had been in stasis. A computerized brain, not a person but a simple A.I. with two settings, had already been programmed and set for the corpse. She wished that he could have reanimated his brother instead, to have given him back what he lost, for in that loss she now knew he had lost too much of himself. He had lost the pin in the grenade, the tourniquet that kept the madness in him from bleeding out.
If he had his brother again, he might have gone on just restarting his business. In that coffin on the right was a lost chance. A future that couldn’t have been because some monster had burned away his brain. A future Dr. Mowat would have given anything to rebuild for her patient. In the coffin on the left was revenge, cruel and twisted, a future of pain, hatred, and blood. And that was the future she had awakened. The only future he had left.
So she gave him what he wanted. And she didn’t hold it against him. She loved the man. She knew it in those last days. She could have told him. He might have even let her stay. But he was busy playing with his new toy. The doctor was, like so many with the privilege of knowing great men, only a pawn. A cameo compared to the star. She knew that what he was doing, what she had helped him to do, was wrong, terribly wrong. But he was an eccentric, all great men were. And he needed it more than he needed her.
She darted through the airlock and into the shuttle. Her eyes protected from the sting of sulfur by the sting of tears. She dared not look out the portal to see Venus fall away, and for the rest of her days on Earth, retired on the sum she’d been paid for that job, she never looked at the morning star again. She ignored the whole night sky and tried not to think about the man she met there, the man who she loved, or the unspeakable task she completed for him.
THE BLACKWING’S canopy was heavier than Tahir expected. He linked on highest crypto to Tasha and Toshiro.
“I’ve got it. Where’s Trygve?”
“Monitoring the northern Skunkforce squad, too far to link to you safely.”
“Relay to him, I’ve got the canopy. It’s intact, but I’ll need help. Tasha, bring the pogo. Toshiro, you—Ah shit, they’re here.”
The white landscape in moonlight was ten times brighter than the Skunkforce camouflage, nothing like the Thaco that could glow to match perfectly. The enemy was combing the place like ants, and they’d see the pogo as soon as it arrived. If T team wanted the rest of the Blackwing, they’d be fighting for it, and Skunkforce was no petty gang. Like Valhalla, they had a knack for trying out their research team’s latest inventions in the field. Tahir had read Veikko’s report from within Skunkworks: 70 percent humor, 25 percent information relevant to stealing the BIRP, 5 percent other. Other included the latest projects they were handing over to Skunkforce for aggressive testing. There were Gat-Zooks, Gatling bazookas. Tahir had to wonder why everything in recent years seemed all about antiquated spinning barrels, Gatling this, Gatling that. Easy enough to see these squads didn’t carry them, much too big. But they would surely have the other prototype Veikko logged.
Flight capable spaz-razors. Tahir hated sharp objects. Microwaves burned and projectiles ripped holes, explosions were all kinds of terrible, but even in a blast it was the shrapnel he loathed. And Skunkforce would be eager to try the flying blades. He stood by the canopy and looked around for the pogo. He knew how Tasha flew. She’d have sent the pogo straight up from where they landed, and it would be coming straight down on the canopy. On him. He could sense Trygve enter his safe link range. Toshiro arrived at the canopy.
“What? You can’t lift that yourself?” he whispered.
“You lift it.”
Toshiro gave it a kick, it didn’t move. He grunted, “I don’t think they know we’re here. Their search patterns aren’t tactical. They’re still just looking for their lost parts.”
They felt a tingle on their shoulders, then the wind of a pogo overhead. They both stuck close to the canopy so Tasha would have only one target to avoid. Trygve linked in.
“Three minutes! Don’t wait for me, tractor me up later!”
“Why? Did they see you?”
“No, dammit, they see you, or the black canopy! On the plateau to your north!”
They looked up at the plateau. There was nothing there. They kept their eyes on it. Then Tasha landed and the ridge sprang to life. Incoming fire, microwaves. Tahir saw something wrong instantly. The beams were hitting the pogo’s dispersion field with red sparks. UNEGA signature microwaves. This wasn’t Skunkforce. It was someone from across the pond. Skunkforce saw them and opened fire immediately. With the damn razors. Thankfully they were visible to the naked eye. Even in the dark, he could see the spinning blades. He dodged two. Toshiro ducked behind the canopy, and the razor bounced off. Tasha finally opened the pogo door.
All three began moving the canopy. Toshiro and Tasha used tractoring waves from inside the pogo hold. Tahir stayed outside to push it off any rocks or salt snags. They only had to move it a meter into the hold, but the damn thing was heavy as rock. Trygve was almost there. He’d make it on site before they lifted off. He might even get to help push the damn heavy fraggin’ canopy before Tahir got hit by a—
The razor severed his head jaggedly from his neck. Half of Valhalla watched the signal as his vision rolled across the salt and went black.
“Inform Dr. Niide,” stated Hellhammer. Most watching switched to Trygve’s vision. He came to the pogo and kicked Tahir’s head into the hold, then got to work on the canopy. Violet dimmed the live feed as Hellhammer spoke again. “That’s the second time this month Tahir has been beheaded. I’d avoid him if I were you.”
“I don’t see why you sent them at all,” argued Veikko. “If we’re just gonna let the Burp gather silt, we don’t need the thing.”
“And it flew fine with the spray-on,” added Violet.
“It made it through salt,” said Heckmallet, “barely, but it won’t do much more without the proper canopy, and we can’t make a new one. We can’t simulate the armor on that thing. We don’t even have the exact specs for its old windscreen.”
“I’m sure you could whip something up,” said Varg.
“Of course we can, we are H team!” Hellhammer was in quite a mood. “But T has succeeded where you failed. We will have the canopy.”
“Failed?” demanded Violet. “We stole the bloody thing! Did you want us to land and hunt for the bloody chunks of it while the hoppers were still on us?”
Veikko joined in. “Maybe we could have if we were in a better shuttle. The P0S—”
“The P-Zero has a name,” whispered Heckmallet. “It’s called the Rubicon, and it’s a fine shuttle.”
All gathered spoke up. “No, it’s not.”
“Sucks.”
“Terrible old heap.”
“Wouldn’t fly it to a landfill.”
“Wouldn’t last to the landfill.”
“The trash would be insulted, worst shuttle ever.”
“Smells like urine.”
“Urine and poverty.”
“The seats hurt my balls.”
Hellhammer’s avatar burned hotter. “Then have Niide remove them when he’s done with Tahir’s head. Get used to the P0—The Rubicon, because the Blackwing has no cargo capacity. It only seats one, and it’s going to stay buried until H team’s say-so.”
He logged out in a puff of smoke. The flock of avatars hovered in silence around the T team feed. Tahir’s remains and the canopy were safely in the pogo and headed home. Skunkworks and whatever UNEGA belligerents T had spotted were busy fighting each other far below. UNEGA, on American soil. Violet spotted a tarantula in the crowd and linked to him directly.
“You’re more worried about that than the Blackwing, aren’t you?”
“It is cause for concern,” Alf replied. “But keep perspective. It doesn’t affect us directly. I am far more concerned for a craft that can fly through our rampart than the petty squabbles of a cold war.”
“But still, couldn’t this heat it up?”
“Oh my yes, it certainly will, regardless of the motives behind it. We’ll see the GAUNE diplomat banging his shoe on the table and UNEGA’s feeble denials. If it happens again fortifications on every coast. New proxy wars. But both sides believe the other is stockpiling mutagenics. They don’t want to fight, they fear it. And this may be selfish of me, but Valhalla does best when the giants are arguing among themselves. We can get away with more.”
We can get away with more. Violet wondered how much V team could get away with.
“Damn right we can,” added Veikko. “We should let ’em go to war. War is good for business, if you’re in our business. And we are. Cuz it’s our business.”
Alf’s avatar just stared at him.
Veikko shifted uncomfortably in reality. “How’s the tank?”
“Ornery,” laughed Alf. “She hesitates to let anyone else ride her. She has your personality, I think. Just a week ago she loaded her cannons as Cato walked by. But the other tanks like her and don’t envy her limb count. A fine steed.”
Veikko and Alf talked until morning, when the sun was almost close enough to rising to give the horizons some dim blue haze. Veikko maintained that as the most elite fighting force in the world, war would make them the most elite body on Earth. Balder maintained that he was happy for them not to be, given the price. Violet listened but didn’t concern herself with the Håvamål-style discussion.
By the time Valkyries were leaving dreamspace for the cafeteria, H team was already en route to install the canopy and dry out the cockpit. T team had returned in the night and rushed Tahir’s head and corpse from the pogo’s stasis alcove to Dr. Niide. Tahir was in good spirits when V encountered him at the buffet line.
“It’s mostly the cutting feeling, that itchy slice in your skin. Even the spaz-razors, even at two hundred kph you can still feel it. I just hate getting cut.”
“Nothing to lose your head about,” said Veikko.
“You know, you made that exact joke last time he got beheaded,” linked Vibs.
“The razors are just nasty,” said Tahir. “I’m ashamed we have the things. At least ours don’t fly. Maybe we should rig them that way. Just keep them linear so the Tiks don’t get jealous.”
“No,” Veikko explained. “They can turn in midflight too. Skunkworks’ can be link controlled, very simple, not a tenth of a Tikari, but they’re a little better than spear laun—Oh my goodness, is that spaghetti?”
Between the gray cubes and yellow hemispheres was a new bin of what appeared to be seasoned spaghetti. Quite a rarity so everyone in T and V took a generous helping. The two teams sat together by the fire, which was extra pleasant in the middle of winter. Being open to the sky, Valhalla still sucked down the frigid air from the surface and their suits had all stayed furry as they entered the building. Only now were they beginning to pull in their fiber.
“So anyways. We’re in,” said Tahir. He seemed to be speaking to the V team half of the table.
“In what?” asked Violet.
“For the Bla—for the…. The Cracked Blag. We’re in.”
“We’re not going,” grumbled Vibeke.
“Yes, you are,” protested Toshiro. “C team forbade it!”
Violet dug into the noodles, which tasted nothing like spaghetti. Almost how she remembered fish tasting, a meaty flavor, vaguely acrid. But not bad, she had more.
“What’s the point?” Vibs mocked. “We’d get our brains hacked, then C would kill us.”
“Daaark, Vibs,” said Toshiro. “My God, this stuff is good.”
“What is?”
“Spaghetti à la Kjetil,” he replied. “Really good stuff, suspiciously good.”
“Suspicious?” laughed Veikko. “Like what, African conflict spaghetti?” He shoveled some off of Violet’s plate despite having his own and slurped up a few strands. “Wow, that is good.”
“You can’t go yourself, Vibs,” Tasha said, “but there’s no reason you can’t hire some goon to do it for you.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” asked Varg.
Veikko choked down his food to blurt back, “Because you’re a—” He stopped speaking as Kjetil emerged from the kitchen to refill the buffet. Veikko shouted out, “Kjetil! How’d you make this spaghetti? It’s awesome!”
“No spaghetti!” he explained. “Centauri chitlins. Little gremlins have such long intestines!”
Toshiro pushed his main course aside in favor of some delicious green putty. Varg dug into the chitlins along with Veikko, who stated calmly, “You can really taste the chyme.”
Violet didn’t write off the substance but switched to brown cylinders for a bit. There was a novelty in eating something from another star system. In the common world, gremlins cost several thousand euros a plate owing to the difficulty of cloning and raising them on Earth. It was only by chance that F team raided an illegal cloning plant that specialized in them. They managed to send the living specimens to the proper authority but arrived back in the ravine with several hundred kilos of processed meat and offal. Both at the request of Kjetil, who had been sneaking the critters into various soups, flambés, casseroles, and other dishes.
“So you hire someone to scour the place for Mishka,” linked Toshiro on high crypto. “They don’t have to go through Aloe. You probably shouldn’t use Aloe to contact them either.”
“Classic spy handling,” mused Vibeke. “We just need to find Fred Leiser.”
“Who’s he?” asked Violet.
“An unlucky fellow from an old book,” answered Vibs. “Someone we can train to do our jobs and send us the results. Valhalla hasn’t been big on agents like this, but it solves everything.”
“Why haven’t we been big on agents?”
“They always betray you or sell you out, and they always ask for things we can’t give them.”
“Ah!” said Veikko. “Mutual respect and benefit.”
“We do hire out specialists, especially online,” linked Tasha. “Nothing like the Blag, though. Actually I don’t know of anyone who ever went there. Without dying, I mean.”
“I do,” Varg said. “A guy named Yoshi from the Nikkei Underground. Traffics information. My boss at the tofu warehouse hired him to scout all his illegal bets.”
“Can he be trusted?” asked Veikko.
“No, not at all.”
“Sounds good. What did he do on the Blag?”
“He bragged about it once when I passed him his share of Heinrich’s winnings on a pickled pint game. Didn’t get into specifics, but it involved mutant organ trading.”
“That’s odd. They do that on the Nikkei Underground. The Nikkei Underground’s already one of the most dangerous, nasty sites around. Why would they go to the Blag?” asked Vib
eke.
“Because the organs were intentionally mutated. They say Høtherus was one of the first people on the Cr—Blag. Though… wait, when did he disappear?” Varg scratched his chin.
“What will Yoshi want in return?”
“My boss, Heinrich, always paid him a percent. But he’s into info rackets. Has a line of people asking him about anything they can’t say on the wikis. Like my boss, he always sent me to get the insider rumors on contestants. Not who won before or who could swallow the most vinegar, but who was playing dirty, who was going to sabotage who. He always knew, Heinrich never lost a bet.”
Veikko pointed out, “We do have tons of information.”
“I don’t think C would like us trading with it,” Violet reminded him.
“C wouldn’t like the icing on their own birthday cakes,” said Veikko, “Fuck ’em. They had their chance to search the ‘location’ for her and lied. We won’t sell him anything on Valhalla, no mention of Hall of the Slain. But we know loads on loads about the gangs, the companies. I can’t believe we wouldn’t have anything he needs. This is perfect.”
“What about Aloe?”
“Log out,” suggested Trygve. “Log in from somewhere else. You can still call her in an emergency, but that would alert C. You just need a mission cover for… what letter are you on?”
“C, actually. No name yet,” admitted Vibeke.
“Obvious, Cra—Oh, never mind.” Tasha looked down.
“Call it project Cato,” said Toshiro.
“Might alert him,” said Tahir. “What’s a term for Cato that begins with a C?”
Tasha spoke fast before Veikko could answer. “What was your last C mission called?”
“After Alpha and Beta, we had to be more creative,” said Vibeke, looking to Varg.
“But we couldn’t,” said Varg, “so we called it ‘Creative.’”