When she managed to calm her racing heartbeat and match her inhales to a seven count, she sat up, opening her eyes. The room was still dark, only one flame lantern flickering in the hallway, leaking in light from the crack under the door. Melin closed her eyes again, heaving a sigh and wondering when she’d just get over it all. She wiped off the snot dripping from her nose with a sleeve, used her other sleeve to clear the tears from her face. When she turned her head, her right eye filled with a galaxy of stars.
There was no way she’d be able to go back to sleep.
She sat down before the console and resumed what she’d been doing every night for the past year—catching up on what she’d missed.
The welcome aboard package could wait until the morning.
Chapter Five
“Sort the incoming and outgoing courier messages from top secret to classified in these folders. Each folder will be organized by date, so ensure they are ready to go,” Izzie told her.
Melin stared at the computer console and fought a yawn. She hadn’t managed to sleep after her venture outside, and her job assignment was going to be tedious to the extreme. At least her late-night hours spent catching up had made her intimately familiar with the workings of modern technology.
That morning Izzie had told her to report to Ser Temir for assignment. Her tone and lifted chin conveyed her irritation that she, the ambassador’s intern, had been forced to deliver a message to an implantless general assistant. Her irritation visibly increased when she had to show Melin where Temir’s office was located.
Melin had followed her to the embassy after dressing in simple tan trousers and a white shirt and biting her tongue.
Temir had taken her to the quartermaster, who issued Melin three sets of uniforms (brown), one pair of boots (black), an ID card, security bracelet, orientation disk, and a wristlet. The quartermaster had explained wristlets were for official communication for the nonimplanted only and not to be used for idle chitchat. Melin had taken it without protest and snapped it onto her right arm. She’d hoped being a nube wouldn’t be so terrible here, but apparently, there were prejudices even on a planet where the tech went down frequently and turned everyone into nubes.
Once she’d returned her extra gear to the Yellow House and changed into her uniform, Melin reported to Temir and learned she had been assigned to Izzie for filing the couriers. Her housemate’s mood had only soured further.
There were two types of courier messages—beamed and hand delivery.
Beamed messages were sent in varying levels of code, depending on classification. The IASS beamed nothing rated higher than secret due to security concerns—those messages were delivered by hand, or rather, by implant. Each human courier’s implant was loaded with a special code accessible only with the ambassador’s diplomatic key. The code was specifically encrypted against access from its bearer, theoretically to prevent torture if captured. In practice, it was a death sentence since the only extraction method was…actual extraction.
Melin wondered what happened when couriers decided to retire. Did they get new implants devoid of all information? Were they allowed to live wherever they wanted, regardless of security risk or inherent secret messages hardwired into their brains? Or did they accept the risk and do the job for the thrill and the IASS’s great dental plan?
“Do you understand?” Izzie asked, speaking slowly and loudly.
Melin nodded and began filing the reports exactly as her housemate described. Despite her irritation, Izzie obviously delighted in being able to delegate tasks to someone lesser than her on the command chain. As Melin dutifully sorted diplomatic messages, Izzie proceeded to officiously type on her top-secret console, officiously access her implant, and officiously vid conference with Gerry from the space station.
Throughout the morning, Melin sorted. There was considerably more filing than she had imagined would need to be done for a quiet, backwater section of the IASS, but much of the top secret or urgent encryptions had more to do with the wormhole and were meant to be forwarded on to the fleet patrolling the area. There didn’t seem to be a reason for messages being sent downplanet only to be forwarded back up, but perhaps it was for situational awareness. Or maybe bureaucracies could only function with extreme inefficiencies built into their foundations.
The task took longer than it should have since her left hand tired easily and she had to use one hand for most of it. She kept her bad hand in her lap, although she caught Izzie shooting glances in her direction every so often as if to accuse her of working too slow.
She finished every item by lunch.
“Is there a gym at the embassy?” Melin asked, glancing at her wristlet. She’d programmed the thing to display the time and require deeper access to get to her messages.
Something buzzed deep in her ear and energy spiked through her body, nearly paralyzing her in surprise. “Do you—” Melin began asking loudly over the buzzing, but stopped at Izzie’s disgusted face.
Several seconds later, everything went dead.
The console screen turned off with an audible pop, and the lights went dark.
The buzzing stopped.
Izzie cursed and batted the light switch, then tapped behind her left ear at her implant. She reached for a lantern with a growl, lighting it with a practiced swipe as she muttered about tech going down at the most random times.
Melin was surprised. Hadn’t Izzie heard the buzzing? It had been so loud, but from the way her housemate carried on, the event was a surprise every time and inconvenient to the extreme. Melin chalked it up to desensitization. Experience something often enough, and it no longer registered.
“The gym will be empty. No one besides the gearheads go when tech is down,” she said, answering Melin’s question minutes too late. “The cafeteria has lunch. Everything should be made up. You’ve got half an hour.”
Melin found the cafeteria through smell and intuition since Izzie had informed her she had a previous lunch engagement and couldn’t be expected to escort a general assistant everywhere.
The cafeteria was drab and not dissimilar to some of the nicer mess halls she’d been in. It was half-filled although the volume grew as people shuffled in for a down-tech break. Melin grabbed a sandwich and drink from the line of premade meals and sat at one of the empty tables, although instead of eating she stared at her dead wristlet, idly twirling it up and down her forearm. It stuck halfway up, and she worked it down, left fingers cramping.
“Mind if I sit here?”
Melin glanced up, surprised to see Major Dar’Tan. When they made eye contact, he blinked, then squinted harder at her face. Melin gazed back until the silence stretched uncomfortably. The major apparently took their staring contest as an invitation and sat across from her, sliding his own tray aside so he could lean forward and enter her personal space.
“How’re you fitting in your first day?” he asked, with a smile too wide to be genuine.
Melin stared at him, noting that he didn’t flinch this time when she met his gaze. “Pretty boring so far,” she admitted, refusing to let him bother her. Sooner or later—preferably sooner—he’d realize she wanted to be left alone.
He shrugged and focused on his own meal. He’d chosen the noodle dish instead of a sandwich. “Most days are like this. Except for when the tech goes down, which sends us on high alert. I’ve got most of my team on the wall right now.”
“Is it usually this frequent?” she asked, curious that the head of security would be telling an absolute nobody this information. Surely he didn’t think she’d be useful to him.
“This is unusual,” Major Dar’Tan admitted. “Normally tech goes down once a month for a couple of hours, no more than a day or two. Two failures in less than two days is odd, but not unheard of.”
His nonchalance was disconcerting, but Melin kept quiet. Maybe a lack of engagement would make him go away. She shoved another bite of sandwich into her mouth, slightly too big for politeness.
“I was surpri
sed to find you’re a general assistant.” He twirled his noodles about his fork, obviously trying to goad her in some sort of conversation. She pointed at her mouth to indicate she couldn’t reply from the too-big bite, but he continued, completely unfazed, “I imagine they have you doing some sort of filing. Boring?”
She swallowed. It lodged halfway down her throat, and she took a swig of her drink to wash it down and prevent a coughing fit. “It’s the first day,” she croaked.
“I might have something matching your particular skill set.” At her flat stare, he grinned and shook his head. “No, not that. I understand you’re retired, and I’m willing to wait more than one day before you get on board with my team. How are your skills at maintaining space armor?”
“Outdated.”
Major Dar’Tan snorted. “Not quite. The space armor we have here is the model X-15C. I pulled your files. Looks like you were wearing those.”
Melin sat back on her bench. So he had done his homework and determined to get her one way or another. She wasn’t sure about his angle or what he expected from her. She really didn’t want to find out, but curiosity won. “What about your current mech?”
“My old mech retired two years ago, and the new one came in this spring,” he said. “He’s not up on the old models and is a bit out of his depth.”
“Hm. Does he have the maintenance software loaded in his implant?” Melin asked. She casually tapped her own head, and his eyes appeared to lock on her scar, then darted away to meet her gaze. He didn’t flinch this time.
“Yes, but that’s no good when tech is down.”
“From what I understand, space armor doesn’t work when tech is down, so there’s no point in repairing beyond functional PMs.” Melin took another bite of her sandwich, watching as Dar’Tan flustered.
“Well, yes,” he admitted. “But you know the actual parameters of the old tech. These young grunts are all trained on the new systems, and while we download the manuals, there’s no substituting actual experience.”
“Get to the point.”
Dar’Tan’s raised his eyebrows at her bluntness. “I want you to train my grunts on practical drills with the armor. Teach them how to move in it, what it can do, what it can’t, and how to do preliminary maintenance and cleaning. There’s one thing to have the information and know it worked in the distant past, it’s another to know you’re in obsolete gear.”
“You do realize I can’t upload in a suit.”
His gaze shifted to the side of her head before he looked away as if embarrassed to draw attention to her disability. She frowned. She had been talking about her hand, but if he thought a lack of implant prevented her, she’d take whatever she could get.
“Yes, but didn’t they train you Light Dragoons to tap in another way in case your implant failed?”
Of course they had, but that was beside the point. Melin just stared at him.
Major Dar’Tan tapped the table with his hand. “Think about it. The security force would be grateful to have a war hero with them.” He stood. “I still want to pick your brain about your local knowledge, Sergeant. I believe Elihu and the scientific team will be stopping by at some point to bend your ear for a tic as well.” He picked up his tray. “Anything is better than being an intern’s office bitch.”
With that final volley, his lips quirked into a smile, and he left to dispose of his tray. Melin stared after him, wondering if she’d ever get the chance to live without the military trying to get her back into its clutches. A fresh start did not mean a return to the military in whatever capacity. If she couldn’t be all, she’d be nothing.
Work that afternoon was as mundane and boring as it had been in the morning.
Three hours after lunch, Melin fought yawn after yawn as she filed reports and cleaned the office spaces. Her left hand released from spasm, and she was able to work faster. Her brain felt fogged by her desire to shut everything down and just do.
Izzie had people coming and going throughout the office in droves, apparently the norm when the tech was down. In-person meeting after in-person meeting. Melin never saw a hint of the ambassador, even though Izzie’s office was in the back entrances of his main suite.
Four hours after lunch, Izzie ordered Melin to the cafeteria to grab snacks for the officials. She returned to find Izzie sitting at her desk, staring in despair at her dark console. Her fingers tapped impatiently along the opaque plexglass table.
Melin set an extra drink at the other woman’s elbow and moved into the main room—where the ambassador was having a conference—after knocking.
“Do you ever talk?” Izzie asked when Melin returned with the empty bag.
Melin tossed the bag into the waste receptacle. She hadn’t brought anything for herself. While she’d regained weight from the long dark, she needed to reduce her caloric intake and increase her PT in order to return her body to thin, ropey muscle. High caloric snacks like muffins weren’t in her plan, particularly if she wasn’t able to get to the gym.
She tidied up to prepare for the end of the day—following the overly simplified list her housemate had given her that morning—then remembered she hadn’t answered the question. Now it had been too long to respond and would be awkward either way.
The silence stretched on. Izzie’s face had elongated into a frown of deep disgust.
When the silence threatened to fill the entire room, Melin answered. “When I need to.”
The look of disgust vanished, replaced by a fawning expression Melin recognized as false-sycophantic after her day of working alongside the other woman. She braced herself for what came next.
“I heard they trained you old soldiers like robots, especially the elite ones.” Izzie’s simpering smile didn’t hide the malice of her tone. “Brainwashed you until all you knew was kill. What did you do to lose your implant?”
Melin ignored her. Fresh start. Fresh start. Fresh start. Fuck, she was exhausted.
“Did you kill your superior officer? My parents always said the Redelki Wars were fought for capitalistic greed and interplanetary gain. How do you feel being involved in wars of conquest?”
Melin moved from dusting the tops of the blank hologram portraits on the wall to the counters. A thin layer of grime stretched across the space she hadn’t touched earlier this morning. Apparently, Izzie thought a thorough cleaning beneath an ambassadorial intern. Melin willed her brain fog to return, but it was being vaporized by a simmering anger originating at her stomach and travelling up to her chest.
Izzie pressed harder. “Or are you too stupid to feel? Is that what that implant did? Take your emotions? Your ability to think?”
Sighing, Melin turned. “What do you want, Izzie?” The internal repetition of fresh start became replaced by the crystal clarity of fuck this shit, and she was too tired to attempt to adjust her attitude.
“Sera G’Darion to you,” Izzie snapped. “Well? How do you feel about yourself after killing scores of helpless terrestrials?”
Melin decided she’d play along. Tilting her head to the side, she pulled her eyes to the ceiling as if in deep contemplation. “I mean, I wouldn’t call it scores,” she mused. Fuck this shit. “More like thousands. I took out a ship, you know.” She put in that last bit conversationally with a little drawl. Her body visibly relaxed, but her entire being focused with laser precision on her target. Each word would hit like a plas-blast, primed for max impact. “After they’d captured me and my platoon, they—the Mordevians—experimented on us. Do you know how long it takes a human to die from decompression? About two minutes. You’re conscious for fifteen seconds, aware when your insides begin to bleed and your lungs rupture and your blood boils inside you.” Izzie’s face paled. Fuck you Izzie. “My friends died that way. They were guinea pigs for a new escape pod. The others—” She sucked in a breath. There was someone behind her.
She turned. The ambassador stood in the doorway just outside the meeting room. Thankfully, he lacked his usual retinue, but the pallor in
his face said he’d heard everything.
“My apologies, Ser Ambassador.” Melin collected herself into parade rest and stared past his shoulder. “Sera G’Darion inquired on the hospitality of the Blood Sun Imperials. I hear we are allies now.”
“Ser Grezzij.” He winced as if what came next truly pained him. “I believe this position might be a bit too, ah, delicate for you. I’ll have you reassigned to something more suiting your nature.”
“Yes, Ser.” Tightness seized her chest. She didn’t miss the triumphant smirk on Izzie’s face. So that had been the point of the goading. And she’d fallen for it like a damn fool.
“I knew we shouldn’t have unimplanted humans in this office,” Izzie said as Melin left. “There was something she did to have it taken out. She’s unbalanced.”
Melin stopped, pursing her lips. She might be a fool, but she’d go down in flames. “Yes, Sera G’Darion, there was something I did to have it removed.” She struggled to keep her voice flatly neutral as rage burned through her. “I was a guest of the War Witch. Implant removal is part of their hospitality plan.”
With that, she turned and walked out the door.
Chapter Six
She made it as far as the main hallway before she removed her top-secret badge. Definitely wouldn’t be needing that anymore. Tucking it into her pocket, she wandered until she discovered she’d entered the quartermaster’s office. Two floors down in the basement, her feet moving without her brain noticing. Breathe, breathe, breathe. She closed her eyes in the dim space. Her hands shook. Fuck, I fucked up. She took a deep, steadying breath.
“You again?” the quartermaster asked, her gruff voice penetrating the darkness of the room.
Melin jumped and peered into the depths of the tiny warehouse. Of course it’s dark; she lives in a basement. Nothing odd about the quartermaster not having a lantern when tech was down.
That Distant Dream Page 6