by S A Asthana
She was a demanding woman. As if killing on her behalf wasn’t enough, he had to also be her living, breathing vibrator. The cost of receiving his protection. Hiding, blending in, but with strings attached. Her perverted acts of lust, her penchant for blood during intercourse—they came with the territory. Bite marks and fingernail cuts stung his inner thighs. Nothing he could do about them. The handcuffs might as well have been tight around his wrists still. A shell of his former self. Broken and desperate.
The strangeness of his situation didn’t stop there. Oh no, it most certainly did not. There was an audience present, like some twisted cherry atop a twisted cake. Hafiz stood guard at the bedroom entrance, his back to the bed’s sheer canopy curtains, his chest facing a hand-carved wooden door. He was Marie’s shadow. A poodle that trailed her everywhere and was privy to everything. Serving a different purpose in her menagerie of slaves, trinkets, and servants, but a plaything nonetheless. Did he do it willingly? Or was he indebted just like Bastien?
“Why don’t you seem scared of Cube?” Marie’s tone was sharp. It cut his thoughts like a knife.
Bastien stared at Hafiz. “Should I be?”
The Queen disrobed, her dress falling to the floor. With nothing on but a sparkling gold choker, she pushed aside the sheer curtain and crawled into bed, stretched onto her stomach and sneered, “You’re confident about my word.”
The unnatural holes on her back were hard to ignore. Sharp, metallic tips pointed out just within their blackness. Ready to shoot out and rip through skin and bone at any moment. Bastien sighed. “I have no choice but to have confidence in your word.”
Marie grabbed a curved smoking pipe from the side table. She lit its contents with a gold Nipponese Sarome cigarette lighter and took a pull. With legs curled she said, “You mentioned you weren’t a murderer. Your dead colleagues might disagree. Explique.”
Bastien avoided eye contact. He wasn’t expecting to be probed for an explanation. The Martian landscape, the Outback, spread out in his mind, its browns and reds melting into the sky’s orange gradient at the horizon. Bastien was a pilot again, flying a 1.V4 over Mars. Mountains, the heights of which put Mount Everest to shame, interrupted the otherwise flat terrain. Their jagged peaks jutted up to the sky and fell sharply into vast valleys. Ravines cracked the land, their sides plunging to depths the Mariana Trench envied. The red planet, with its extremes, appeared as it had for billions of years—dead.
“Dead colleagues. They didn’t have to die,” Bastien said, taking a deep breath as if to prepare for the unspooling of a twisted yarn. “It was self-defense.”
The words were weights rolling off the tongue. Would she understand? Perhaps Marie was a rational being underneath all that strangeness. Perhaps empathy swirled behind her cruel mask.
“I don’t believe you.” She exhaled red smoke from the nostrils. It smelled acrid, like burnt iron. Euphoria.
“It’s true,” Bastien pressed. A white cube complex, a one-mile square with ten stories stacked one mile high, swept in from his memories, its exterior stark against Mars’ reds and browns. Port Sydney was a gargantuan complex, the product of constructing floor upon floor, room beside room, over the course of a century. The Martians built like they dreamed—big.
“Okay, big guy, let’s assume you’re right.” Marie rolled onto her side and faced Bastien, her head propped up by her left hand. “That means you were attacked by your colleagues. Not the other way round. Who ordered them to attack you?” The tone was playful now as if an adult was pretending along with a child’s silly game. Gone was the irritation.
Bastien answered, “Crone.”
Marie laughed hysterically into the pillow. Her body convulsed, its gentle curves interrupted by lines and angles. The chuckles continued until smoke in the lungs forced a fit of dry coughs. Her chest contracted, sternum jutting out between the two breasts, and her limbs contorted awkwardly. She appeared ugly, a perfect byproduct of the city she ruled.
Once the smoke had cleared, she mewed, “Life’s not fair, soldat.” Another pull from the pipe. Smoke pushed out thin nostrils like a tiger’s breath on a cold Martian morning. “Those whom you chose to serve over me now show their true colors, and yet here I am, still gracious enough to help you.” Her eyes darted from left to right across the pillow as if there were moving images requiring attention. The high was kicking in. “Why were they told to attack you?”
“I stood up for what’s right.” Bastien fiddled with his hands, still recovering from his bedfellow’s odd outburst.
Marie took another lazy pull from the pipe, her eyelids heavy. She blew smoke through puckered lips into the pillow. Its swirls flew off the edges and mixed with the red haze permeating within the canopy curtains. The General’s face materialized in Bastien’s gaze just ahead. A smoky specter. He was translucent and formless at first, but his skin eventually thickened, like water vapor turning into ice. The curves on his body angled into jagged turns. Cracks etched across the forehead. He was a foreboding figure, his snarl reminiscent of a life filled with difficult decisions. Perhaps he’d been handsome long ago. A black void encircled the standard military dress—sleek, red coat buttoned from the bottom to the Nehru-collar top with brass lining the chest. Red, fitted pants ended just above chocolate, dress-shoes. Not a wrinkle, nor a spot. It was all neatly pressed.
This was not a mirage, nor a secondhand smoke-inspired hallucination. No, this was a dark memory.
Darkness gave way to austere white walls, angled and sharp, and a smooth, reflective floor. Typical Port Sydney architecture—cold, minimalist. Crone stood at one end, Bastien at the other. He wore the same uniform as his superior, albeit with less brass. The two were engaged in a heated argument.
“General, how can you order me to euthanize one thousand Martian citizens?” Bastien asked. “We are peacekeepers. Saviors. Our ethics—”
“How can I order?” Crone folded his arms across his chest. “This is not my decision, Lieutenant General. I suggest you stand down and follow through.”
“So, this is the High Council’s decision?” Bastien pressed. “Another one of their edicts?”
Crone shouted through gritted teeth, “Of course, it’s their decision. It’s always their decision. How do you not know after all these years?”
“It’s going to cost innocent lives, General. How do you think that will play out with the citizens? The very citizens we are supposed to protect.”
“Stop!” Crone threw up his arms. “You’re still green behind the ears about this. Too righteous for your own good. This is a direct order from the High Council. We need to follow it. They know what’s best, after all.”
“Do they?” Bastien’s face was blood-red. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this angry. His limbs trembled. “All they do is pass down their edicts and none of us even question them. We follow blindly. What had started with scientific analysis has now become management of civic duties and moral judgments. First, they diminished the monthly rations allotted per citizen by twenty percent. Most have lost close to twenty pounds in just the past year. Then, they decreed the fetus incubation center would move all fetuses into stasis. For how long? Nobody knows.”
“Bastien, it’s all to ensure Port Sydney’s long term survival.”
“Is it? Nobody knows what the council thinks or how they think anymore.” Bastien eyes darted across the floor as if it hid answers. “Their code runs inches underneath our feet. All those circuit boards behind walls, within floors, they make up the council. Their artificial intelligence is all around us and yet we don’t know what any of it means!”
“Bastien, silence. They listen to us,” Crone cut in with a finger at his lips, his eyes wide in warning. “They watch us.” He motioned his head towards a small, black surveillance camera in the corner.
“I know they do,” Bastien said. “In less than two years Sydneysiders have become servants of their own creation. We are ruled by a self-maintained AI that’s beyond our control or
understanding, one that now asks us to reduce our population by one percent. Step by step, their edicts are becoming more extreme. Can’t you see what is happening?”
“I do see what’s happening, Lieutenant General. My eyes are wide open.” Crone sounded irritated. “I suggest you open yours too. Seems like you forget why we handed over reins to the High Council in the first place. The Martian dream is dead. There is no way to terraform this goddamned planet. We wasted a century trying to do it. All those false starts and failed experiments.”
“But—”
“Let me speak!” Crone scolded. “AI wouldn’t spend a hundred years chasing pointless dreams of terraforming only to realize it could never work. Those zeros and ones you chide are better suited for running this colony than our neurons and cells.”
“We don’t make any decisions for ourselves anymore!” Bastien shouted. “Port Sydney prided itself for being the most civilized and advanced of the three colonies—not just in terms of technology, but also, human rights. Do you even remember that? I do. That’s what made me proud to be a Martian soldier.”
The General looked away as if embarrassed.
“We always monitored birth rates. I get population control was part of the equation,” Bastien continued. “It was needed to ensure proper resource allocation per citizen, I get all of that. But… a forced purge? I can’t get that.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you get it or not. This is not your decision, Bastien,” Crone countered. “Do not make this any harder.”
“This is a slippery slope, and you know it,” Bastien said through gritted teeth. “Frank, if this purge is allowed, you don’t think another will follow eventually?”
Crone took a step forward, his forefinger pointed at the subordinate. He seemed taller somehow although the same height as Bastien. “You will address me as General.”
“Titles? That’s what you’re worried about in all this?” Bastien sighed.
“Yes, I worry about my title. I have earned it.” Crone slapped his chest. “I have obeyed orders when the situation demanded it. I have done what was needed. It is why I am General.” Crone’s shoulders drooped to his normal six-foot again. Licking parched lips, he pivoted, “Bastien, look… you have a bright career ahead. You’ve done great things for us, and the Council sees amazing potential in you. I see amazing potential in you. Everyone does. But you… just… you just need to get in line. Like me. Standing in line isn’t a bad deal.” He was pointing at the ten stars across his chest as if they too could be Bastien’s one day. Like some kind of trophies for staying shut and following process.
Silence swelled to fill the space. What more was left to say? Crone’s stance was clear.
“No.” Bastien snatched the nine stars off his uniform one by one. They were discarded in a heap. A trash pile of brass. A decade of a remarkable military career lay useless on the floor.
“What… what are you doing, Bastien?” Crone’s tone was sharp.
“I am not a murderer.”
Crone straightened. The snarl had returned. A difficult decision had been made. “Deserting ranks is against the law. You are aware?” His gaze was steel cold like Port Sydney itself.
Bastien nodded. “The people need to know what’s coming. They need to know their military has turned against them.”
“Oh, I see. And you plan on being their savior? Once a righteous buffoon, always a righteous buffoon,” Crone said, his nose held high. “When you wear our red uniform, you follow our rules. I should have known better than to promote you to this level. Its duties are beyond you.”
“At least, I’m not a monster,” Bastien responded. “Your red uniform doesn’t stand for what it once did.”
Crone touched an earpiece and commanded, “Guards. We need an arrest.”
The room’s entrance slid open, and five military police officers stormed in. They must have been waiting outside just in case the General required their services. The quintet encircled Bastien, hunters surrounding their prey. The adrenaline, the fear, everything rushed back. That moment and the brutal combat that had followed could never be forgotten.
“Joe, Farid — guys, don’t do this.”
Bastien recalled his plea. It hadn’t mattered. An order was an order. They would remain in line. Follow process. Forgo principles. Their calls to not resist arrest had soon escalated to blows, and when it became clear Bastien couldn’t be subdued by muscle alone, one of the officers pulled out a pistol. A bloodbath had ensued—Bastien, when forced into a corner, could always hold his own. This time was no different. But there were casualties. The combat had resulted in the five men either taking out one another via friendly fire or being beaten dead by Bastien. The memory, the melee, and the escape aboard a departing cargo spacecraft twisted and mixed with smoke blown from Marie’s mouth and disappeared just as quickly as it had materialized. Bastien sighed.
“Martians aren’t the peacekeepers they once claimed to be,” Marie’s voice drifted up from half-asleep.
Bastien leaned back his head against the headboard. “Not anymore. Not since the High Council took everything over.”
Patterns emerged on the white ceiling. There wasn’t meaning in any of them—aimless, swirling lines. Just like his life to date. He traced them back and forth. Maybe I am high?
He said, “Looking back on it, I wonder if all those police officers would have wanted me dead had they known what was coming. I know for a fact Joe’s daughter was going to be part of the purge because of her terminal cancer. But he…” His words trailed into silence.
“All you wanted was to stand for your morals, but look where that got you,” Marie mused.
The unfortunate truth. Better to be an aimless, swirling line than a rigid, pointed arrow. Less chance of being broken.
“Why did you come back here?” She shifted closer to him and offered a pull from her pipe, an act of comfort in her mind perhaps. But Bastien shook his head. He had never touched a narcotic in his life, and he didn’t plan on starting now. One moral code could remain intact.
“I thought New Paris would be a better place to hide. It is home, after all.” Bastien smiled. “Never been to Nippon One. Don’t speak Japanese. And even if I did no one would have listened to me there anyway. Not the journalists, not the Emperor—no one. When you’re deemed a criminal by the Sydneysiders, no one listens to you.”
“I’m listening. Fuck the Martians.” Marie grabbed Bastien’s chin and turned his face to hers. There was a renewed fervor. “I wish I could go head to head with them. I’d send Crone packing with his tail tucked in.”
The words were surprising. Naïve, even. Maybe it was the euphoria, maybe it was hubris, or maybe, most likely, she was flat-out crazy. Either way, Port Sydney’s military capabilities were years ahead of New Paris. Didn’t she realize that while she was chatting with Cube, a walking, talking attack-bot?
“With all due respect, your highness,” Bastien said, his words chosen very carefully, “I think it would be prudent to not underestimate th—”
“You’re a great fuck.” Marie cut him off and straddled him, biting her bottom lip all the while. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot as if possessed by a demon. She was definitely crazy. The insatiable appetite was evident—she licked her lips like a wildcat. Addiction to the drug was on full display. Blood trailed out her right nostril. Heavy usage of euphoria had many side effects, corrosion of the nasal cartilages being one of them.
Grinding her bare pelvis against his, she commanded, “Get it up.”
Before the words could register, she fell off his lap as if a marionette that had had its strings suddenly cut and passed out face down in the pillow. Bastien couldn’t help but gape. As unpredictable as she was, he was thrown off by her strangeness every time. He was grateful he wouldn’t have to perform again with Hafiz in the room. Having an audience wasn’t his thing. It being the fifth time wouldn’t make it any easier.
The loup still faced the door. Not a single muscle had flinched the ent
ire time. He was probably used to all this.
With a sigh, Bastien got out of bed and dressed. Perhaps I revealed too much? Then again, what difference did it make—whether she believed his innocence or not didn’t matter. She was using him to rebel against Port Sydney. He was using her to gain protection. Two parasitic organisms.
“Time to earn my safety.” Bastien zipped up his jeans. He clipped a black leather holster onto his belt and picked up a Howa single angle pistol, the weapon provided by Marie. The grip-panel metal felt cold against the palm. A familiar rush—the weight of it satisfied him. He could defend himself when needed. Good to hold a gun again, even one as dated as this. Better than nothing.
He envisioned his target at point-blank range, a woman with a nebulous cloud over her face. Thorns covering the body. A strange, humanoid cactus that needed cutting. That’s about as far as he’d gotten in planning the hit. Something would be figured out. His previous involvement in military raids would fuel the preparations. It wasn’t much of a worry. But finding Belle was. If Marie hadn’t been able to track her down, how would he?
The gold choker twinkled around her neck. Such beauty had to be worth a fortune. Gears spun. He glanced over at Hafiz and then let his stare snail its way back to the jewelry. It could come in handy. Exactly how wasn’t clear at this point, but gold had a way of making people talk. Reveal hiding spots for sought after rebels. The ultimate truth serum.