Recruit

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Without thinking, Ryck fired his M99 on full auto, stitching from low and left to high and right, exactly as he was taught at recruit training. Multiple rounds hit both men, and they immediately collapsed. Ryck stared at them, his intense adrenaline boost turning to numb amazement. He’d just killed two men—two living, breathing men.

  Cpl Büyük rushed up in back of him, staring around at the two men who seemed to collapse like slowly deflating balloons. They were already gone, but their bodies both continued to settle around each other.

  The M99 darts did not leave too many visible signs of damage. They were small, only a few millimeters across. What they were, though, was very, very fast, and not much could stop their progress. When they hit soft flesh, the vanes that kept them running true flipped out, becoming four small blades that slice through muscle and blood vessels.

  From the front, the two men—boys might be more accurate—looked like they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Blood was seeping out through a number of entrance wounds, but their miner’s overalls were still whole, and in the shadowy light, the dark blood was not extremely noticeable.

  “Damn, boot. Nice shooting,” the corporal said to him.

  Ryck felt both elated and a little nauseous at the same time. He was elated that he was still alive, that he had won this small battle of life and death. He had vindicated all those months of training. But these two men were not just electrons in the latest game. These were two people, and he had killed them. The first one, the one with the bloody arm, looked barely into his teens. He could have been a schoolboy back on Prophesy.

  “Jenkins, you and the boot stay here and secure this intersection. Hu and Aesop, back to Pallas’ team and let’s see to them.”

  Without a word, LCpl Jenkins flopped down on the deck, pulling one of the dead miners closer to provide a tiny bit of cover and act as a rifle rest. Ryck was a little more hesitant as he mimicked the more experienced Marine, gingerly placing his own M99 on the shoulder of the younger miner. The boys sightless eyes stared back at him.

  More to escape that gaze than anything else, Ryck made a quick glance back to where, much to his surprise, the buried Marines were being helped out from under the rubble. They were covered in dust, and one of them, who Ryck couldn’t make out, was limping and had to be helped to the side of the corridor where he could sit, but no one looked seriously hurt.

  “Um, boot, what say you look down there, you know, where the targets are?” Jenkins asked with a sarcastic tone.

  Ryck wheeled his head around to look back down the corridor. He studiously kept his eyes elevated to escape the accusing gaze of his rifle rest. He was quite relieved when Third Squad arrived on the scene and made a passage of lines to clear further down the mine. He’d done what he’d been trained to do, and he felt no regrets. In all truth, he felt elated. Still, staring at his victims’ faces from centimeters away was a little much for a boot like him.

  Prophesy

  Thirteen months earlier . . .

  Chapter 1

  Ryck knelt next to the field of GKA Wheat, picking up some of the dirt and letting it tumble through his fingers to the ground. A good portion of it simply blew away as dust. United Ag had GM’d the GKA strain specifically for Prophesy, optimized for the planet’s soil mix and lack of water. “Lack of water” did not mean “no” water, though, but since the bankruptcy and closing of the Prophesy Communal Development Corporation, PCDC, the water had ceased to flow in the irrigation canals with not enough rainfall to fill the reservoirs.

  Ryck hadn’t been born yet when his father had made the investment to become a shareholder in PCDC, moving the family from Ellison to Prophesy for a fresh start. Ryck didn’t know anything about Ellison other than the fact that his parents and older brother had made a home there in a small apartment. He couldn’t imagine living like that, in a small apartment in a huge building. The open plains of Prophesy were all he had known while growing up. Life had been tough on the newly terraformed world, but for Ryck, life was good. He reveled in the freedom to run around on his own without constant parental supervision. Together with Lysa, his twin, they had the full run of not only their own property, but also that of the entire community, something they never could have had on Ellison. The urban goliath of that planet was not conducive to children running around free and unsupervised. He was vaguely aware of his father’s struggles to get crops in, but that didn’t affect his early childhood of school and play.

  Things changed when Ryck was 10, though, when PCDC went belly up. The planet was not completely terraformed, and without PCDC pulling up the water locked deep within the rocks, the reservoirs dried up, and the little moisture already released in the air was not enough to sustain a normal agricultural cycle.

  PCDC had been a subsidiary of the universal giant, Excel Holdings, Ltd. When PCDC folded, not only was Ryck’s father’s stock worthless, but also through some legal machinations, he owed Excel for the remainder of his initial settlement buy-in. With the then value of the crops being grown at the time, that meant Excel would get 2/3 of the revenue for the wheat for the next 25 Earth years, which corresponded to 27 crop cycles on Prophesy.

  That did not take into account that with PCDC gone, the planet’s ecosystem itself tried to swing back to its natural equilibrium, and that meant a dry, dusty landscape. Crop yields plummeted, and it became clear that with interest on the debt, the family could never hope to pay it off.

  Ryck’s father tried, though. He scraped together some cash, and along with Mr. Choo on the next plot, tried to dig their own shared well. Over 200 dry meters later, they had reached the limit of the capabilities of the small drilling company they had hired, and they had no money to bring in a company with a bigger rig.

  Ryck watched his father transform from the irreverent, fun-loving man he had known into someone breaking his back and spirit in an attempt to merely survive. Myke, his older brother, dropped out of school to help, but with less and less rain, even the GKA Wheat suffered, providing smaller and smaller yields.

  The tipping point was when Ryck’s mother caught the Dust. Ryck was fifteen at the time and still in school. He and Lysa had come home from school that fateful day when Myke met them at the door. He took both of them in his arms, saying nothing. Fear had swept through Ryck. He didn’t know what was wrong, just that it was something big.

  “Mom’s got the Dust,” he told them.

  Ryck had just stared at his older brother, speechless. “The Dust” was the name given to the virus that struck the settlers each year. Not many people contracted it, but for those who did, 80% died within hours, coughing out their lungs. Ryck and Lysa quietly followed Myke to the community clinic.

  Their mother lay on the hospital bed, her face sallow. Their father sat by her side, holding her hand. Every few minutes, she would erupt into a coughing fit. The first time she did that after they got there, Ryck jumped up and ran to her, grabbing her other hand. Behind him, he could hear Lysa quietly sobbing.

  The virus that caused the Dust had been identified, but without PCDC’s funding, the research to figure out an effective treatment had been abandoned. With new worlds opening up, there were so many new diseases that the big pharmaceuticalsfocused on those diseases where they could help the most people—and make the most profit. On Prophesy, the medical technicians could treat the symptoms and ease the suffering, but that was all. Survival was up to the individual. Some made it, some did not. Ryck’s mother was one of those who did not. With her family around her, she had one last coughing attack before she died, gasping for one final breath before letting go.

  With Ryck’s mother gone, his father sunk even further into depression. He still tried to farm, but it had become obvious that he was never going to be able to dig himself out of debt. Ryck offered to quit school to help out, but his father refused the offer.

  A year after his mother’s death, almost to the day, Ryck’s father was driving the family Deere when it overturned into the gully that lined the
western edge of the property. He was ejected from the cab and killed as he tumbled down the rocks.

  Myke had erupted when TerraLife refused to pay the insurance policy, claiming “suspicious” circumstances of his father’s death and citing their dad’s treatment for depression as evidence of suicide. Myke fought the decision, but to no avail. Privately, Ryck thought the insurance company might have been correct. His father had been extremely withdrawn before the accident, and the insurance payout would have given the farm five or six more years of operating expenses. Most importantly, it would erase the debt to Excel. Ryck and Lysa were born on Prophesy, so legally, they could not owe a settlement buy-in. Myke had been a minor at the time, so he could not be assessed the fee, either. While the three of them still owed operating debts for seeds and fuel that came with the property, personal debts could not be assessed on surviving children.

  Myke lasted one more year on the family farm. Ryck and Lysa had come home from school, excited about their upcoming high school graduation ceremony, to find Myke gone. A note with the single word “Sorry” was left on the kitchen table. Three weeks later, diploma in hand, Ryck turned from student to farmer.

  For two years, he struggled. The first year, despite not knowing what he was doing but with the help from Mr. Choo, he’d managed to barely keep afloat. This year, though, the wheat crop had almost totally failed. Only the monk melons growing in a small patch near the house had come in well, but even if he sold them himself at the market, the revenue would not come close to what he needed for the next crop’s planting. With his credit maxed out to get the Deere back up and running, he didn’t think the co-op would be lending him anything.

  He dropped the remaining dirt from his hand and glanced up at the sun. Its unrelenting rays had burnt out every last drop of moisture from the soil. As a kid, he had loved the bright sunshine. Now, the sun had become his enemy, at least to his mind.

  Well, that’s that, he thought to himself. It’s done.

  He slowly stood up, and without a backwards glance, walked up the gentle slope and to the home compound. It already looked deserted. The old coop in which his mother had tried to raise chickens was leaning precariously to the right, waiting for the next strong wind to knock it over. Ruined parts for the Deere had been discarded near the shed, good only for scrap. Only the house itself looked like it hadn’t been abandoned. The bright pink curtains that were visible through the open kitchen window were about the only splash of color in the washed-out scene.

  Ryck kicked off his shoes as he came in the front door. It was only late afternoon, earlier than when he usually quit work. Lysa wouldn’t be back for quite some time yet. He decided that maybe a good meal was in order. Opening up the cabinet, he took out the last two bottles of Recife Pinot Noir. This was all that was left of the case his father had brought from Ellison. He busied himself in the kitchen, more to take his mind off things than anything else as he cut the onions, carrots, garlic, and Hank’s Beef. Hank’s Beef was not really good for bourguignon. The texture was too soft, and it didn’t hold up well to slow cooking. Ryck would rather be using Sunshine or even Healthy Choice, but all he had was Hank’s. As a kid, he thought there really was a person named Hank who raised actual cows. He’d been oddly disappointed to learn that “Hank” was a corporation, and the “ranch” was a soy and peanut-processing factory in the capital.

  He browned the beef, taking care not to let it break apart, then put it in the slow cooker. In the same pan, he browned the veggies before adding them to the beef. When his mom had made bourguignon, she had also used lardons, which she had Mr. Compton make for her. Compton was long gone, after having given up his farm, but Ryck liked to think that his own version without the pork was just fine.

  He opened one bottle of wine. Lysa would be upset at his lack of manners, but she wasn’t there, so he tilted the bottle up and took a long swallow. Ryck wasn’t overly fond of most off-world products, but wine was different. They had a synthetic local “wine” available, but to Ryck, it could just as easily have been purple-colored vodka, good for getting drunk, but not much else. The real stuff, though, well, he could get used to having a glass of that with each meal.

  With a sigh, he emptied the bottle into the slow cooker, closed the lid, and turned it on low. He’d make noodles later, something that tasted so much better when made by hand. Bourguignon was Lysa’s favorite meal, so hopefully, that would ease the blow.

  It was almost seven hours later, the aroma of the meal filling the home, when the front door opened. Ryck was sitting in his father’s easy chair, back towards the door when his sister entered. He tried to ignore her, but her skintight blue jumpsuit had tiny luminescent micro-LEDs embedded in the fabric that lit in strategic areas as the fabric stretched and pulled. She was a flashing advertisement of her womanly curves. Blue was Tuesday’s uniform: there were seven work uniform colors for each day of the week. She didn’t like to talk when she was in her working clothes, though, so he didn’t say a word as she walked past him and into her room.

  “Something sure smells good,” she remarked as she came back out about five minutes later. “Special occasion?”

  “Anytime you come home is a special occasion,” he said.

  “Ah, no wonder you’re still single, with lines like that,” she told him as she settled in their mom’s chair, her legs drawn up under her.

  She had come in the home dressed in high-tech sluttiness. Now she sat in baggy cotton pants and an oversized t-shirt, all trace of make-up on her face gone. She looked younger than their 19 years.

  He’d opened the second bottle of wine about two hours before to let it breathe. Getting up, he poured her a glass and took one for himself.

  “The Recife? This is a special occasion. And I smell bourguignon. What gives?”

  “Eat first, then talk,” he said.

  Normally, they ate in front of their parents’ chairs watching the vid. Today, though, the formal table seemed more appropriate. They ate their meal mostly in silence, only talking to pass the food to each other. Lysa knew something big was up, and Ryck was trying to marshal his thoughts. Finally, though, dinner was over and the table cleared.

  “OK, little brother, what’s up?” she asked as she pushed his chair around and sat side-saddle on his lap, her arms around his neck.

  Lysa had been born first, 12 minutes before Ryck, and she had lorded that over him as children. Now “little brother” had just become part of his name, so to speak.

  “The wheat crop’s failed,” he simply said. “Nothing to harvest.”

  “I know. I’ve been watching. Maybe the next crop will come in.”

  “It’s just this. I don’t think we can get credit for seeds. We’re still maxed out from the Deere repairs from, what, three years ago?” he asked.

  “You know I can probably swing the seeds. We won’t need that money for another month or so, and I’ve got several friends who’ll be happy to help.”

  Ryck thought knew what kind of “friends” she meant. After being shut down once, he never pried into what she was doing, at least verbally. He had kept quiet both because it was her choice, as she so forcibly told him when he questioned her, and frankly, they needed the money she brought in.

  “It’s just that, I mean, uh, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know if we should plant again. Who knows if next year’ll be better? I mean, ah, grub. I don’t want you to be working like you do just to support us.”

  There, he’d said it. It was out in the open.

  Lysa leaned back, then slowly got up and pulled out one of the dining chairs and sat down. She seemed to be considering what to say next.

  “You have a problem with what I do? With how I support us?” she quietly asked.

  This was dangerous ground. After she first took the job, Ryck told her she shouldn’t be working in a bar, and Lysa had reamed him, saying she was not his property for him to be deciding what she should and should not be doing. She then gave him the cold treatment, not speaking to hi
m for almost a week.

  “No, no, you’ve got me wrong,” he hurriedly protested. “I am so grateful for you. For what you’ve done. It’s just that I don’t think it’s worth it. Not your work, but the farm. I don’t think we can ever make a living here.”

  “So, what’re you saying?” she asked, her voice sounding only slightly mollified.

  “What I’m saying is,” he said, pausing to take a deep breath, “is that I don’t want to farm anymore. I’m done with it.”

  Telling her that was a huge weight off of his shoulders. What had been an internal debate was now out there for his sister to hear.

  She was quiet for a full minute while Ryck waited to hear her response. If she disagreed, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do.

  Finally, she asked, “So what would we do with the farm?”

  “Oh, you can have it. I can sign everything over to you.”

  She gave a chuckle, then asked, “You think I want it? With the debts, the work? Do I look like a farm girl to you?” She raised two hands to frame her face. “Do I want this lovely skin wind and sunburnt? Not on your life, little brother, not on your life. Let’s see if Old Man Choo wants it. He might pay enough to cover our debts.”

  Ryck was shocked. This was their home. They had grown up together in it. And Lysa was ready to toss it, just like that. Of course he was ready to leave, but he hadn’t thought Lysa would be willing, too.

  “So, what are you going to do? Find work in Williamson?” she asked him.

  “I’m going to the capital, yeah, but not to work there. I’m thinking of the Legion.”

  “The Legion? You sure?”

  “Kinda sure. I don’t think I can work inside, cooped up in an office or a factory. And what skills do I have? I can’t even farm, and that’s my job,” he told her with a smile on his face.