Kali was only a few meters from the end of the tracks before what she’d taken for patch of dusty snow stood up.
It was the girl. She’d flipped her tan jacket inside out to expose its white fur lining, and dived into the snow under cover of the smoke. She held her gloved hand over her face, covering everything except her eyes. The mountain goat fur was perfect—a Shinigami soft-suit would hardly have been a better disguise.
The girl was pointing a small automatic handgun at Kali. As Kali watched in shock, the girl laughed, the expression on her face somewhere between childish glee and maniacal gloating. She’d gamed the hunter and won. She straightened her arm to shoot.
Kali raised the rifle to snap off a shot. The girl fired first and Kali’s round went wild into the snow. The girl’s round glanced off the stock of the rifle, tore through Kali’s hand between her fingers, and cut down the outside of her forearm. Kali dropped the rifle in the snow and grabbed her arm. The cloth of her flight suit was “flack resistant”—something less than bulletproof, but enough for shrapnel and handguns with standard ammo. But this time the suit worked against her, trapping the bullet as it ran down her arm; she could feel hot fragments of it burning her elbow. Blood leaked out at her wrist, and she wrapped the sleeve tight to trap it. Now her right hand was useless; she wasn’t doing any better than Hades back in the Vertel.
The girl stepped closer and aimed the gun at Kali’s face. Kali stared back wordlessly. If the girl came any closer, she’d try to move in, but it would be hard to cross the distance fast enough, and a bad back and shot-up hand wouldn’t help. Even if the suit was bulletproof that didn’t mean taking a hit wouldn’t hurt like hell. Not that the suit would help if the girl shot her in the face. What was she waiting for?
The girl breathed heavily, the air condensing near her mouth in the cold air. The tears had frozen on her cheeks; what was left on her face was a grin of animal pleasure at the chance to even the score.
She opened her mouth said one word clearly: “Bitch!”
Kali didn’t need dialect training to understand that.
The girl dropped her aim and fired. Kali felt the punch in her lower gut and doubled over in pain, dropping to her knees. She cried out and vomited dry heaves into the snow. The hurt radiated deep out of the center of her pelvis, but nothing more than a trickle of bitter, rancid stomach acid came out of her mouth.
The girl had shot her dead center between her ovaries. Either she’d wanted to kill Kali in the worst way possible, with a gut shot, or she’d know the flight suit would stop the bullet but not the pain.
The dry heaves stopped, and Kali panted deeply, staring into the snow. Why was she still alive? More to the point, where the hell was her rifle? She spotted it a meter off in the snow, barrel toward her, and reached for it.
Too late, she realized the girl was standing directly over her. The second shot slammed into her lumbar area, right over the herniated disc in her spine. The thump in the center of her back wasn’t a fraction of the intensity of the pain shooting down her legs as the shocked spinal fluids compressed her nerves. She fell flat on the snow in agony, the rifle forgotten.
Why do they hate us so much? she wondered, somewhere in the back of her mind. But it wasn’t so hard to see. She didn’t blame the girl—she’d have done the same thing. She remembered pumping rounds into the bear that attacked her father. When it was found dead a few days later, she’d felt satisfaction. She’d hoped it had spent a few hours wandering around in a haze of pain, knowing it was going to die. Anyone that hurt her father, she’d have wanted to kill the worst way. She understood that.
Why was she still alive? How much longer did the girl want to play?
Kali rolled to look over her shoulder. The girl was holding the handgun close, trying to rack the slide back. There was a glint of brass in the ejection port. If it wouldn’t have made the agonizing pain in her belly and back even worse, Kali might have laughed. The old, hand-made antique had malfunctioned, failing to eject one cartridge and jamming as it loaded the next.
The girl managed to lock back the slide and strip out the magazine. The spent cartridge dropped into the snow, and the girl pulled a single round from the magazine.
She held it out between fore-finger and thumb and glared directly at Kali. The expression on her face was angry and taunting; it was a look that said, “See, I’ve got one more, and that’s all I need.” Then she raised the gun to single-load the bullet directly into the chamber.
Kali reached for the rifle, her left hand closing on the barrel and the forestock. She heard the “snick” of the slide of the girl’s gun as it closed. There wasn’t time to turn the rifle around, lock in another round, roll over, and shoot. She could almost feel the barrel of the girl’s gun pointing at the back of her head.
Gripping the rifle as tightly as she could and using all the strength she had, Kali rolled and swung. She felt the stock connect with the girl’s arm and then pound into the snow on the other side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the handgun spin away. The girl grabbed her left wrist with a pained look—it was twisted as if the bone might have broken. Then she spun around and ran.
Kali breathed out raggedly. The girl hadn’t run after the handgun—it sat in the snow a few meters away. That was something else to be thankful for.
She pulled the rifle close; it gave her some comfort. If the girl came back with people from the wind-farm, perhaps Kali would have recovered enough to take them on. Maybe she wouldn’t walk back to the Vertel—she would just lie here and let the snow numb the pain. Moving was too hard; it hurt too much. It wasn’t worth it anymore.
A second later, she sat up in shock. The girl hadn’t run in the direction of the wind-farm—she’d run for the Type-K lying in the snow by her father.
Kali dropped the rifle on her legs, flipped it over, and pulled the bolt back and forth with her working left hand. The girl was almost at the Type-K. Kali lifted the rifle with her left hand on the pistol grip and the forestock on her right forearm. Blood spilled from the sleeve of her suit onto her legs as she took aim. The girl reached the Type-K, bent to pick it up, and slapped the stock to shake the snow off it.
Kali put one round into the girl’s upper back and watched her go down. Then she collapsed into the snow to breathe and stare at the sky. She didn’t care whether the shot had done the job or not, it hurt too much to fight anymore. The war was over for her.
By the time Kali could stand and limp the distance, the girl had bled out into the snow from the hole in her chest, and the pool of blood under her had frozen.
A gust of wind blew a shower of ice crystals around the bodies.
Knowing
Kali finally made it back to the Vertel, hunched over and shuffling through the snow with a weapon slung over each shoulder. She’d wrapped her injured arm in her sleeve again and held it close to her aching belly. Blood from her hand stained the front of her flight suit.
Maki was hiding behind the side door, the tip of the barrel of the assault rifle sticking out the open gap.
“I’m glad it’s you,” he said, “but you look like shit.”
“Shit’s warm; I’m not. Let me in.”
Kali propped the guns inside the door and dropped onto one of the benches in the cabin. She tried to catch her breath.
“Let me look at that,” Maki said, taking her hand. “They were gunning for us?”
“I didn’t see a pot of soup.” Kali wondered if there was any mouthwash in the vehicle; she could still taste stomach acid. “She shot me in the fucking uterus.”
Maki raised an eyebrow. “It went through your suit?”
“Nah, it just hurts like hell.”
“I’ll scan it later. Let me wrap this.” He started cleaning off the injury to her hand. “That was on purpose?”
“Zero range—close as you are.”
“They don’t like our medical implants.”
“It was more personal than that,” Kali said.
“They think we want to ster
ilize them and wipe them out.”
“It didn’t feel real political.”
Kali turned to look down the back of the Vertel while Maki worked on her hand. Hades was out cold on his bunk, hooked up to an IV and sprayed down with stabilizing tissue repairs. Out the rear window, she could see Bruno. The line of armored vehicles ringing the town had disappeared—she’d missed the big push. The vehicles had driven into the city on routes computed, in realtime, to drop the hammer on Chon Dō’s army from every direction at the same moment. Chon’s positions had already been pounded from the air in a synchronized attack, now the Northern armor was grinding whatever was left into the dirt. The operation would be over by sundown—that gave Kali some satisfaction.
She thought of the two bodies in the snow. Once she’d been able to stand, she’d checked the girl’s body for weapons. In one pocket of the blood stained fur coat, she’d found a sheaf of holy wheat, a common fetish carried by Halfies and Centies. In another, she’d found a small Fith book—a collection of religious writings on thin paper in tiny print. This one was new enough that Chon’s Denialist Manifesto was fitted in at the end. Kali left a blood smear on a page swiping it with her finger before realizing it wasn’t made of active paper but instead of physical, starch-based sheets. Inside the front cover of the girl’s book was one word handwritten in block capitals: “ZEETA.”
Around the girl’s neck hung a five-spoke Wheel of Syncwar with gold plated flames. Zeeta—if that was her name—was a true believer and a fanatic, and she’d died like one. The medallion was gold foil wrapped around an ovoid black core, hooked to a gold chain. Perhaps some gash piece of black diacom, the core sucked up the light and was impossible to see; even Athena Prime didn't reflect from it. Kali took the rifle and the medallion, but she left the wheat and the book. The girl had more use for them than Kali did.
Kali would have to explain her actions in a debrief, but even if she didn’t report all the details, there wouldn’t be much doubt what happened—the bullets would tell the story. Northern ammunition had particulate tags in the lead. The moment a bullet was fired, its tags recorded the serial number of the barrel and the identity of the shooter from biometric sensors in the weapon. In mid-flight, the bullets imaged the shooter and target. The information was distributed in the lead and could be recovered from shattered fragments. Photographic considerations like exposure time, relative motion, and sensor size not being very favorable, those pictures were never the best. But there wouldn’t be any doubt who shot who.
Likely it wouldn’t matter to the Forces. They’d classify the data and bury it for a couple hundred cycles when everyone involved would be dead and gone, and only a few historians would care. The collateral damage in Bruno would be huge, and two more bodies a detail. The dead would be swept into a pit and medals handed out like flag pins on a festival day.
But if the media got hold of it, it wouldn’t look good. The headline would read, “Local girl shot in back by Athenian Forces.” That the girl had been holding a Type-K wouldn’t be reported, particularly since Kali had to remove it from the scene. There wasn’t much chance a lousy picture from a bullet would help. The North Athenian media hadn’t supported the operation—they’d stress the downside and bury the details in the last paragraph.
Kali felt cold and empty. Zeeta didn't have to die, if she'd stayed at home. But even the young don't get to be innocent if they try to kill you and the people you care about. Zeeta could have run away, and she didn't. She could have gone for the windmills instead of the rifle.
“I need a couple of your bags,” Kali told Maki.
“Two?”
“Yeah.”
Maki went to his kit and returned with two black body bags. Kali tucked them under her arm. It was a long, exposed walk back out to the bodies, but she’d take the chance. She just needed to lay the open bags over the bodies and then they would wrap and seal by themselves; she didn’t have to do any lifting. That way there’d be fewer questions when people arrived.
“What about Chon?” She gestured at Hades. “Is he talking?”
“Chon’s dead.”
“What?”
“Top of the Spiral. Hades says he killed him.”
“Hades is an asshole and a liar.”
“That’s his job.” Maki leaned toward her. “He says we have to find the black seed.”
“What's that?”
Maki shrugged. “The most precious thing in the universe.”
“We’re not on a treasure hunt.”
“It’s also the most dangerous thing in the universe—so he says.”
“Chon had it?”
“Not on him.”
“Then the trail’s cold before the dogs are out. Let’s just get Hades to the field hospital and they can deal with him. If he’s off his head, they can send him back to the Ministry. Kaera can have him.”
Kali turned to look back up at the wind-farm and over to the bodies lying in the snow. If Chon was dead, all of this was a waste. But Hades was a liar—that much was clear. Either he’d lied Chon was alive in order to get picked up, or he was lying now to focus them on the black seed. But if he was lying now, was that because the black seed was more important than Chon or because it was a decoy? The Shinigami had failed to take Chon down so many times it was a habit. There was a reason for that, whatever it was. Most likely, he'd botched the hit and Kaera already knew why.
Fuck the black seed. She wasn’t going to play that game. If it even existed, it could be anywhere on Athena.
She checked the buildings of the wind farm for threats. The twin mountains rose in front and behind of the Vertel, their stratified faces impassive. Nothing moved outside except for the windmills scything away on their hundred-meter poles. The blades throbbed and hissed as they harvested the frozen wind.
Part V — Keto: The Edge of the Storm
Waking
Year 5314
Mission Time: Day Three, 12:30
Kali and Toran turned toward the sound coming from inside the dome.
Through the opening of the main entrance, Kali could see the Builder sitting on its knees by the ruined dorm. As she watched, its arms and hands quivered, flakes of rust pouring from its wrists and elbows as it tried to flex them. Its head rotated slowly, metal scraping on metal, until its eyes pointed at her. They glowed red.
Kali stared openmouthed.
“That’s impossible!” Toran said. “It’s got almost no computing power left.”
A burst of static noise came from where the Builder’s mouth would have been if its jaw hadn’t rusted off.
“It’s not as dead as you say.” Kali walked back into the dome, toward the Builder.
“The fractal batteries might still hold some charge, but the cores’ll have a fraction of the original output,” Toran said.
Kali stopped a few meters away from the Builder. “Quiet—it’s trying to say something.”
“Crew…” the Builder rumbled. “Where…are…”
The machine jerked its right arm to break free of accumulated rust and turned its wrist. Its fingers appeared to be fused together except for the thumb and index finger. It rocked on its knees and twisted at the waist, but only a few degrees in any direction.
“Crew…” it said, at a lower volume. “Where…” Its eyes were dimming—was it losing power already?
Kali stepped closer to hear better. “Where are what?”
“Wait,” Toran said, “you’ve no idea what state its control laws are in.” He stopped a few meters from the machine.
The Builder was moving less now. It shook, and its eyes lost some of their light, their aim dropping toward the ground.
“Crew…” the Builder whispered.
Kali stepped forward and pushed the door on its chest covering its cores until it clicked. Perhaps that would seat the cores and give the machine the power it needed. “Where is what?” she repeated.
The Builder’s metal hand closed on her wrist. Its eyes lit up again and focused on he
r, glowing bright red.
“Where…are…my…children?” it growled.
“Get away from it!” Toran shouted.
“I can’t!” The Builder had caught her by surprise and moved faster than she thought it could. It lifted her arm, the palm of her hand facing up. She twisted her wrist, but the Builder’s finger and thumb trapped the bones of her forearm, and she felt pain. She could have slipped out of a human’s grip with any of several moves, but the Builder’s metal hand was too strong.
The Builder spoke angrily, “You…took…them.”
Kali raised her leg and planted the heel of her boot in its stomach. It landed with a dull thud. Kicking the machine made her feel angry instead of afraid, and that helped. She kicked it again.
Toran circled outside of the Builder’s reach. “Stop that!” he said. “It’s programmed to hold children who are acting out. It won’t let you go until you calm down.”
Kali kicked the Builder again. “I’m not your child,” she said. Her boot thudded into its stomach. “And I don’t have your other children.”
“Open the chest door,” Toran said. “Pull the cores.”
Kali scraped on the edge of the door with the fingers of her other hand, but the door was jammed. She couldn’t open it and the rust cut her fingertips.
Toran paced back and forth with an agitated look on his face.
“Do something,” Kali told him.
“Let me think!” He banged his forehead with his hand as if trying to dislodge some ideas. “Builder!” he said. “What is your first control law?”
“Protect children.”
“You are hurting her. Let her go.”
“Crew, not children. Protect children, no other.”
Kali kicked the Builder in the gut again. “Great. You fixed its voice circuits. Any more ideas where that came from?”
“Builder—let her go and I’ll tell you where the children are.”
The Builder’s head swiveled until its eyes aimed at Toran. “No. Bring children. Then let go.”
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