by M. ORENDA
“You can’t do that.”
“I can assign additional security wherever I need to.”
“The president… ”
“Niri is a citizen. I took an oath, and so did he.”
“Yes, legally,” the woman concedes. “But why would you---”
“This girl doesn’t trust you. She trusts my medic more than she trusts you, and she’s just expressed a desire to have him present during her indoctrination, probably because your explanations fall short, and your assurances are completely worthless. Logan will stay with her, and if he sees anything that resembles force, or undue coercion, we’re taking her out of there.”
“Your medic has no experience with this,” the doctor argues, frustrated. “There will be no force, no coercion. It doesn’t work like that. Still, there are things he won’t understand. He’ll be out of his depth, and he’s already proven to be a distraction. Perhaps I didn’t explain this the right way, but I must insist that you keep all of your men out of the research area. I’m sorry, but I simply can’t allow you to interfere with our normal procedures.”
The colonel leans forward in his battle armor, the Asura monster bathed in crimson light, a locked visor concealing his scarred human face. “Did it sound like I was asking for your permission?”
The doctor stares at him. She opens her mouth to reply, then falls silent.
There is nothing to say.
No one can argue with such a being.
Out of respect for the woman, Niri flattens her smile, though inwardly, it feels good. It feels right. Logan will be with her, and he can be trusted to protect her… and all that she is.
She slides her gaze to the portal window, watching shadowy trails of dust stream over the wing, coarse and pale like witch’s hair, a warning of chaos threading on a violent wind. “The storm,” she says. “It’s moving faster now. It may become more difficult for these ships to navigate.”
“Also more difficult for anyone trying to track us from the ground,” Voss says, his attention back on the readings displayed by his wrist device. “Difficult to hit us with a rocket.”
Niri glances at the window again. “You think in terms of advantages.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Because an Asura’s world is defined by his strengths.”
He looks at her. “What?”
Dr. Williams grimaces inside her helmet. “He’s not an Asura, Niri. That’s an idealistic characterization, which is a form of attachment. We must be careful about that. Colonel Voss is not supernatural. He’s just a very angry man.”
Angry?
“You forget the Sūtras,” Niri replies. “He is a battle chieftain, like the great Vemacitrin, cast down from the peak of Mount Sumeru for his love of war, dispossessed, and ridiculed by the powerful. Vemacitrin was flawed, and mortal in the eyes of the Devas, yes, certainly… but he chose to unite Heaven through his blood, instead of destroying it.”
There’s a pause, and the colonel looks at the doctor, helmet tilted slightly, as if in accusation. “Nothing elaborate about that.”
“Niri,” Dr. Williams says, exasperated. “The Sūtras … no.”
“He has resonance.”
“You’re not practicing proper awareness.”
“You don’t hear it,” Niri reminds her, knowing that the woman will never understand, not really. “He is important. Logan is important. They can be trusted, and that is rare.”
“We trust him with security. He’s here for security.”
“You don’t hear it,” Niri repeats, slower. “Because you are just a human.”
Silence.
Dr. Williams looks at Colonel Voss, suddenly unsure.
“Just a human?” he asks darkly.
The doctor looks away from him, shaking her head. “Niri is simply using terms we can understand to describe her experience.”
“Is that what that was?” the Colonel asks, the words still sharp, but the tone final, as if he has no further interest in discussing it. “Because it sounded more like you’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”
One minute out from BIOSTAT and the skimmer shudders. Voss leans back against his seat, craning his neck to peer through the open cockpit hatch.
The pilot is sitting at the center of a wrap-around holo screen, one hand gripping the flight stick. He skates the skimmer sideways and dips one wing, crabbing into the crosswind to maintain his approach.
Alarms sound, and the guy’s helmet swings to two-o-clock, gazing out the windows as BIOSTAT’s watchtowers appear from the storm, their laddered steel turrets haloed in a dusty white glare. Warning beacons blink from their armored crowns, the long barrels of auto-guns protruding like dark spines.
The pilot banks left between the towers, following the glowing path that glides ahead of him in holo. Even with winds over 80 mph, the ride is relatively smooth because the atmosphere is thin, and because the Skimmer’s engines operate on float, rather than chop. There’s no hard bucking, no screaming turbines, just that alien lightness, stable even through the storms because the wind has no real force.
Still, the dust is dangerous. It doesn’t destroy equipment with force, but with communication and instrument blackouts, with static, and interference, and chaos, all of which he’d hoped to avoid.
The canyon ridge appears ahead in the holo screen, mapped in neon hues, and washed with light, competing with streams of data.
In broad daylight the view would be simpler, a steep ridge formed by tight vertical spears of rock, with a large flight hangar cut into one of its cliffs.
The hangar is the primary security problem; the station’s one serious liability. The rest of the facility is all underground, between 350 and 500 meters deep, and can only be accessed through a series of elevators.
The hangar though… too big, too obvious, and too easy to hit, a stationary target just waiting to catch a missile. There are those auto-gunners guarding the outside, but if someone gets past them, it’s a problem.
To make matters worse, there’s only minimal security inside the hangar, a bastioned check station in front of the primary elevator, with four guys on duty, maybe six if the station’s on alert.
They’ve got more security below ground, a monitoring station between elevators, a lockdown procedure, but most of it is classified. He has the clearances, but he asks about what else they’ve got, and he still gets static.
Voss lets a frustrated breath slip out through his teeth, putting aside the harder questions because he knows he doesn’t want the answers. Whatever lies in the pit the station occupies, Niri’s already a part of it. They’ve done what they’ve done, and she is what she is. He doesn’t have to like it.
If she wants out, he will get her out.
If she wants in… Amor fucking fati.
He can’t help her with that.
The pilot’s holo grid expands, guiding him on final approach. He levels the wings, and the skimmer passes through the hot energy of atmosphere shielding at the hangar entrance, its bright membrane searing the dust off the aircraft, keeping the storm out and human friendly environment in.
The thrash of wind cuts off, and they drift inside the hanger, the pilot setting the skimmer down close to the others. A moment passes before the power bleeds out of the engines. The pilot lowers ramp, and it descends to the tarmac in a smooth push, the flood of white light seeping in from outside, real colors materializing from the red haze.
Dr. Williams is struggling to unbuckle her safety restraint, and Voss leaves her to it, rising to walk down the ramp. He skims his hand along the edge of the loading door, and ducks to emerge in the hangar.
It’s the belly of a whale, its walls black olivine, cut from the volcanic rock that forms the tectonic rift of the canyon. The ceiling is maybe 100 meters above, sectioned by banks of lights, and catwalks stretching under dulled pipes. The tarmac is another 400 meters in length, maybe a bit more in width, with the security check station at the far end, guarding the elevator.
The check station is an unapologetic box, a dark stone square with firing positions cut into it. The guards look his way, assault rifles slung.
The skimmers power down.
A siren blares. The blast doors are closing, panels swiveling out from the sides of the hangar’s entrance and rolling forward on magnetic tracks. A wall of sectioned diamond-steel plates, each several tons, glide into position and lock together, shuttering closed to secure the facility.
Gojo approaches him at a half-jog, looking like he’s got bad news. “Sir, I can’t raise Petra. There’s something wrong. I need to set up some equipment here. If I patch in to what they’ve got, I should be able to find out more.”
Voss nods, taking that news for what it is… which is close to useless. “Tell me when you’ve got something.”
“Sir.”
Petra… He tries to put it aside because it’s possibly just a comms malfunction. Maybe it’s not the right moment to check in. Maybe she’s too busy drinking with other pirates and reprobates.
The list of probable explanations goes on, and none of it matters, because he doesn’t care what her reasons are… he just wants that check-in. He’s got no sixth sense when it comes to knowing where his people are, or when they’re in trouble, but he’s faced the wait for a positive SITREP many times before, counting seconds while that grace period of practical rationalizations slips away to nothing.
“Outstanding,” he mutters, glancing behind him, searching for the girl.
He catches sight of Dr. Williams leading Niri toward the elevator, walking her along a determined path, and maintaining as much distance from him as possible. The doctor is rushing now, in a hurry to get Niri past the checks before she catches more interference. She gestures to the guards to help, and they comply, moving to assist the girl to remove her helmet, unseal her environment suit, get her through the security doors and out of his reach.
He grimaces, looks back at the skimmers.
The medic is just coming off the closest vessel, hauling heavy gear, his medical ruck swinging from the straps weighing down his shoulder.
“Logan.”
The kid stops, straightens. “Colonel.”
Voss closes the distance between them. “You’re Niri’s security now. You go where she goes. If, at any time, she wants to stop what’s happening, or leave, you will inform me. If anyone attempts to obstruct you or fails to accommodate you in this task, you will inform me of that too.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid replies enthusiastically enough, but Voss can see the flicker of conscience in his eyes, his aversion to this program something he’s never hidden.
“It’s not up to us.” Voss clarifies. “I don’t know what this indoctrination process is, or what else you might see down there, but if it’s voluntary on her part, you let it happen. She’s already in this, whether we agree with it, or not. You squared with that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go.”
Logan nods and chases after Dr. Williams and her charge. Voss watches him skate smoothly through the security doors, even with the burden of his gear, and join the group before they can slip away.
The security guards make Logan leave his medical ruck, his assault rifle, and his helmet in one of the lockers, but they allow his sidearm and wave him into the elevator with the others.
He glances at Voss, and it sparks a moment of pride, knowing how far that kid has come, knowing that he’s worthy of the trust he’s been given, and that if push comes to shove, he’ll do what needs to be done.
Hell no, I don’t agree with this. I’ve never agreed with this. No… not true. Logan agreed with it once, when the missions were just about extracting women from the horrors of a warzone---meaning anywhere on Earth---and getting them to safety, to a ship bound for Mars, all the way to some think tank in Red Filter, because they’re ‘mentally gifted’ and they can help rebuild Earth. Yeah, who wouldn’t be onboard with that? It sounded too perfect. And it was.
There was never any mention of bio-engineering in the official story, no mention of a unique bacterial colony discovered in a subterranean cavern on Mars, and no admitting that the entire goal of this project had been to create genetically altered human beings to communicate with that colony.
The sheer hubris…
Logan can feel the anger, or maybe it’s more like disgust, working its way up from the pit of his stomach. BIOSTAT’s elevator makes it all too clear, with the shielded cameras, protected thermal scanners, and shining fireproof walls, floor grates, and ceilings lined with flame nozzles… for decontamination purposes, in case anyone missed that.
He didn’t.
But then again, he wouldn’t.
He’s not like the others, not someone who was chosen from the roughest Earth ghettos, like Voss, Wyatt, and Gojo. His parents were both Earthbound surgeons, educated and employed by one of the more respectable warlords, and granted a place in low filter because of it.
It was safe, comfortable by Earth standards, but the Logans wanted a better life for little Peter, so it was med and science training day and night, always pushing him to apply for a Rhys Corp contract. As a surgeon though---not an Assaulter---because they were so sure he had the talent for it, and pulling a trigger was something anyone could do.
Yeah, what a waste, only it was the best decision of his life. And never, for one second, has he regretted it, until now.
The colonel chose him as the medic for Team Blackheart, and that was the greatest honor because both the man and the team carry serious distinction. And he learned pretty quick how to sleep in the dirt with the rest of them, in the rain, go hungry, tired, unwashed and unshaven, waste months waiting behind sandbags, obeying orders from the head shed to stand-down on missions based on actionable, time-sensitive intel, only to kit up for a green light on some suicide op with a hopeless, inarticulate objective.
The colonel never lied to him. Never told him it would be fair, never told him it would make sense, never waxed poetic---as many officers do---about the divine arena, about Patton, and Rommel, Alexander, and Cyrus, Sparta, and slaughter of Persians on the salted ridges of Plataea.
With Voss, it’s always, ‘we’re here to save lives, so kit up, and kill motherfuckers’, and that’s it. The guy’s a legend, survived more than almost anyone, so maybe he just doesn’t let his mind wander, tries not to think about why they’ve been lied to. After all, what would it get him? He’s an old gladiator without gods, although Logan has caught him a few times engaged in what appeared to be silent introspection, sitting in the middle of some shithole with a lit cigarette, numb from the heat, from the physical pain, from the exhaustion of the day, and watching the Earth’s sky bleed into another sunset, as if Aristotle himself could make any fucking sense of it.
But here comes Niri. Here comes this mission, and Red Filter, and suddenly it feels like this woman, and his team, his brothers, are all at the mercy of his kind… Doctors, only the strictly corporate ones so all the worse, scientists who accept big money for big projects that carry the ethical weight of toilet paper. Maybe that’s why he chose to become an Assaulter---and not a company surgeon---in the first place. Maybe it was so that he wouldn’t ever be forced to question his participation in some sick profit making venture. But here he is anyway, sitting in an elevator, dropping three hundred and fifty meters through porous basalt while some no-talent like Dr. Williams is talking to him as if he’s a trained dog.
“This elevator goes directly to the monitoring station,” she’s saying, refusing to look at him, like she’s too hormonal to make eye contact. “No doubt it’s different than what you’ve seen on Earth because it’s very clean. The monitoring station has a lot of complicated computer technology, what you’d probably think of as a control center, with gates, and some guns, which I’m sure you’ll recognize, and it’s manned by our armed security personnel, who are very, very capable. There’s never been a problem they couldn’t handle. They monitor every aspect of the facility. When this elevator stops, th
ey’ll let us through the primary security gate, check us, and allow us to get on a second elevator, which drops another one hundred and fifty meters to the facility, to BIOSTAT and the vault itself---”
Logan catches Niri staring at him from the corner. She looks away as soon their gazes meet, but her cheeks are flushed, a curve of a smile still tugging at her lips.
“---residential area, and---” Dr. Williams is still talking. “---and you’re not an observer, just extra security, I hope you---”
He grimaces, trying to focus, but it’s harder than it should be. That look from Niri… Impossible to misinterpret. There’s attraction in it, and some glitter of curiosity, which is a side of her he hasn’t seen.
Shouldn’t see… shouldn’t notice now.
Because she’s too young.
Well, actually only three years younger than he is.
But still too young.
And exotic, beautiful…
Maybe he didn’t notice it before, on the long trip to Mars, when she was sick, and he was the caregiver. Or maybe he noticed, and he just shut it down, because that’s what he does. It’s his duty to focus on the procedure, to be clean, distanced, to keep his eyes averted, or force an unseeing gaze, encouraging patients in ways that sound personal, but aren’t, at least not for him. She’d held his hand for comfort, and it felt right because that’s part of it.
Still, it was all touch. It’s intimacy that, in the mind of the caregiver, never happened, buried under layers of professionalism, nothing to remember… and yet it’s not exactly forgotten, is it?
Not by him. And apparently, not by her either.
Not human.
She’s not human.
But that’s where the anger really comes from. She is human. Only she’s sharing her DNA with something that’s not, and that what the flame nozzles in the elevator are for. That’s what the blast doors in the corridors are for. That’s what the ‘armed security personnel’ are for.