The Eternity War: Exodus

by Jamie Sawyer

  “Profit is king,” Bukov muttered, twitching his pug-nose at the pod. He barked commands in Russian to Sidekick. The bigger man began lashing the pod in place with some heavy chains. “Is good salvage.”

  Although Zero had done her best to scrub the pod’s data-stacks, I knew that a proper examination would reveal its origin. I wasn’t worried about that though: Bukov didn’t look like the sort of guy to be troubled by such an enquiry.

  “You have cells also?” he asked.

  “As promised.”

  Novak hauled the energy cells from inside the pod and dropped them at Bukov’s feet with a loud thump. The captain inspected them cursorily and gave another shrug.

  “Fine. We take you aboard.” He turned his back and started off into the ship. “Come, here is bridge.”

  The Varyag’s bridge was a tiny room at the nose of the ship, crewed by a handful of Russian sailors who didn’t even bother to look up as we entered. The air was thick with cigarette smoke; Bukov sniffed the atmosphere as he entered and yelled something in Russian at the pilot. She gave him the finger and carried on sucking on the stub of a cigarette.

  “This is crew,” Bukov said. “I run lean. Is less mouths to feed, better for profit.” He shrugged again, which seemed to be something he did a lot. “Means we can carry more cargo. We do many runs. Good for business, yes?”

  “Sure,” Feng muttered.

  “We have no trouble with the Chino,” Bukov muttered. “Many on Kronstadt will do, you understand? You pay for ride, then no trouble for me. But I tell you of this just for warning.”

  “We know,” Novak said. He fired something back at Bukov in his mother-tongue, and the other man answered, nodding slowly.

  “Big one is Russian too, yes?”

  “Am Russian,” Novak said, with his trademark solemnity. “Am Norilsk. From Old Earth.”

  Bukov gave a noncommittal grimace, as if to say he didn’t really care which part of Russia Novak came from.

  The Varyag’s tactical display was an ancient two-D version, but showed just how desperate things in surrounding space had become. We circled through a cloud of ships, evacuation-pods and shuttles. Navy vessels flitted to and from Kronstadt, ignoring the pleas of other evacuation-pods that littered the sector.

  “I … I’ve never seen anything like this,” Lopez said.

  “I have,” I said. “Mau Tanis.”

  Zero’s home colony. The ships in orbit. The death. The destruction. The complete loss of everything that tied a citizen to his or her world.

  “We have to stop it,” Lopez said quietly. “We have to do whatever we can to finish this war.”

  “Be quiet, Lopez,” Feng said.

  This was the sharp end of the exodus.

  “What if people don’t have pods to trade?” Lopez enquired.

  Bukov looked at Lopez as though she were talking crazy. “Then they do not come aboard. Is not charity.”

  Novak grunted. “Some things never change.”

  “How far is Kronstadt?” I asked. “We’ve been in that pod for three days, give or take. I’m not sure how far we drifted off-course.”

  “Is not far. Few hours, if cordon allows.”

  “We could do with some rest.”

  “Fine. Bed down wherever. Will let you know when we reach Kronstadt.”

  It went without saying that we weren’t the only fugees on the ship. Captain Bukov was a capitalist, and in war he saw opportunity. He might run his crew lean, but the corridors and open cabins of the Varyag were crammed with civilians. A family from the Outer Rim. Another flight crew, out of a neighbouring system. A couple who proclaimed themselves Singularity Cultists, the last surviving members of a church from one of the local moons.

  I watched two children—the offspring of the Outer Rim family—make their own entertainment with some metal chips that Bukov had given them. I’ve never been good with ages, and I couldn’t tell whether these kids were five or ten. Of course, the fact that they were painfully emaciated and wearing oversized crew-suits didn’t exactly help.

  Lopez came to sit down next to me. She had hidden a ration pack in her suit when we’d left the evac-pod and had distributed it to the children. They stopped their game and enthusiastically shared Acturan insect-bites and Proximan cornbread.

  “That was decent of you,” I said, keeping my voice quiet, the conversation just between us.

  Simulants could eat, did eat, but it wasn’t necessary. The body would burn up fat, eventually turn against itself. That was kind of the purpose. We were disposable.

  “I’m not always a heartless bitch,” she said.

  “I never said you were.”

  “The others do, though, right?”

  I laughed. “I didn’t think that you cared about what they thought.”

  “Maybe I don’t,” Lopez said. “They say that I’m a princess.”

  “Your callsign is Senator, last time I checked.”

  Lopez ricked her lip into a grimace. “You know what I mean.”

  “Look, your background is what it is. Don’t let them get to you.”

  “I’m not, but that’s my point: my background is important. Maybe”—she paused, shrugged—“maybe I can make a difference. Maybe I have a responsibility to change this, if I can.”

  “Perhaps. Do you think that your father would listen to you?”

  “Probably not. But if I could try … then maybe I should?”

  “Maybe.”

  The children were ravenously eating scraps of freeze-dried cornbread, devouring it as though it were a delicacy.

  “They must be real hungry,” I said. “I’ve eaten that cornbread. It tastes like shit.”

  I saw a little of Zero—of Zoe Campbell—in the eyes of the children on the ship. They, and their parents, were no longer people. They had become haunted, empty. This was the cycle repeating itself, as it would forever.

  “This is what will happen,” Lopez said as she watched the children. “Unless we stop it, the war with the Krell will start all over again. It will be an eternity of war.”

  “It won’t happen. We’ll see to it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SOMEONE’S DREAM

  “We must land on planet,” Bukov said. “My pilot, she is good. Ship can take atmosphere, no problem.”

  The pilot shouted a string of expletives in Russian, although Bukov ignored her.

  “You stay, watch the show,” Bukov insisted of us.

  “To see the Motherland,” Novak muttered, “it is truly something. Yes?”

  He turned abruptly to Lopez and Feng, who gave autonomic nods.

  “Sure thing,” Lopez said, as though persuaded by the force of his conviction.

  “Of course,” Novak said, waving a hand at the display, “you are not seeing it in best light. War is not good for any planet.”

  If nothing else, Novak had that part right.

  “Where will we be landing?” I asked Bukov. “We need to get to Svoboda.”

  “We use cosmodrome at Svoboda,” he answered. “Is safest place for fugees. Biggest city on planet.”

  The Varyag fell in with other military and civilian traffic. The ship shuddered around us as it grazed atmosphere, and the Jackals grappled with any surface they could to stay upright. Outside, space began to lose its vibrancy, the blackness of the void giving way to the thermosphere.

  “Try not to hit anything,” Lopez suggested.

  “Yark is good pilot,” Bukov said. “She never had crash yet!”

  The entire bridge shook with renewed vigour, the Varyag’s space frame groaning. The sudden and violent motion had its effect on Novak, who turned a sickly green as the gravity well caught us. Other ships took the same descent pattern, their hulls glowing orange and white as they breached the planet’s atmosphere.

  Just then, the Varyag’s comms console began to blurt a warning.

  “This is a Type 12 Alliance outpost. Full identification will be required from all citizens before processing
by traffic control. Transgressors will be detained and may be deported, or executed as appropriate.”

  The message repeated in Standard, then again in Russian. Meanwhile, a siren sounded across the bridge, screens flashing red with safety warnings.

  “What’s happening?” Lopez asked.

  “Is fine!” Bukov insisted. “Is not problem!”

  “We’re being painted by targeting lasers,” Feng said, peering at the nearest screen. “Pull us out!”

  Bukov grappled with the console, pushing aside a scrawny young crewman. He jabbed buttons, yelled something into the machine.

  “What’s he saying?” I asked Novak.

  Despite his obvious discomfort, Novak grinned. “He says that he has friend in Space Control. That he pay his tax and wants to land.”

  The message loop abruptly ceased.

  “Bukov, my friend!” answered the same voice. “You are back again so soon.”

  “Yes, yes. I come with gift, yes? Stop pointing lasers at us, or there will be nothing left to give you.”

  The other man laughed. “Of course. Safe journey, my friend.”

  The ship’s descent pattern gradually evened out, although her hull kept screaming. We flew through a swirling mass of grey clouds, which eventually cleared to an even greyer sky.

  “We are coming up on Svoboda,” Bukov said, waving at the view-ports.

  Although I had no headgear—no tactical helmet or scope array—at this range, with my improved simulant vision, I could make out more than enough detail to get a measure of the place. Nothing here was new, and nothing here was welcoming. The only flashes of colour amid the artificial landscape were from neon signs and noticeboards, some almost as tall as the crumbling starscrapers. The city was a collection of jagged towers, dilapidated habitation modules, crumbling factories.

  The terraforming grid stretched over most of the settlement. What had probably started out as a miracle of civil engineering had seen better days, and parts of the grid had collapsed, fallen onto the city below. Closer still, the girders of the grid were spaced kilometres apart, easily wide enough to allow starships to pass through. Svoboda itself was visible beneath the grid.

  There was a pained rhythm to the planet, and the city. Sure, the Krell were here, and the tension such a threat produced was so extreme that I could feel it through the Varyag’s tired hull: could sense the fear and anxiety from the population below. But the Krell presented just another way to die, on a planet where there were already millions of those. I was making a snap-judgement based on scant evidence, given that I’d never been here before, but the closer we got to the surface, the more my view solidified.

  We flew low over a massed shanty town—an adjunct to the city, grown almost as large—and towards Svoboda’s cosmodrome. That was on the perimeter of the city, beyond the atmosphere grid, an arrangement of landing pads and traffic observation towers, ringed by anti-air flak cannons that ponderously tracked incoming traffic. Even by the standards of an outlier colony, those were ancient, outdated pieces of hardware. Someone forgot about Svoboda, I thought. And now it’s too late to do anything about it.

  “We land,” Bukov declared. “Svoboda beckons. Everybody out.”

  The Varyag’s cargo bay door gradually opened with a tortured groan, revealing the world beyond. The crew, and the ragged column of fugees, disembarked the old ship and immediately entered the chaos that was Svoboda cosmodrome.

  The place had been fully militarised, with a kilometre-long landing strip divided into a dozen pads. Most were occupied by shuttles and smaller freighters—capable of atmospheric flight—although many looked as though they had been parked for a long time, darkened hulls suggesting lengthy exposure to the elements.

  Kronstadt was wetter and colder than it had appeared on the approach. A fine drizzle filled the air, and the light seemed all wrong. Not that natural light really seemed to matter; floodlamps were arranged around the perimeter of the airstrip, and the neon glow of the surrounding district was enough to support the muted light cast by Mu-98. Kronstadt enjoyed a twenty-six-hour day, and it was late afternoon, local time. Even so, the planet still felt dark, dismal. As a reminder that it was up there, and that it could make or break Kronstadt, the Shard Gate blazed through the cloud cover. It was brighter than the planet’s star, and beneath the baleful alien glow Alliance Army troopers in exo-suits loaded starships, engineers in semi-powered rigs assisting with hull repairs. Everyone wore respirators, and my wrist-comp informed me that the atmosphere outside was loaded with trace toxins.

  “About that air,” Bukov said, rummaging in his pack. “You might want to use these.”

  He produced four very battered respirator-masks that covered the lower face. Nothing like proper military hardware.

  “That pod will make decent money,” he said. “So I give these for free, yes? Wear them outside.”

  “Thanks,” Lopez said, eagerly strapping on her mask. We all took them and did the same.

  A group of soldiers approached Bukov. Carbines at ease, they wore outdated Army BDUs—battledress uniform—but the urban camouflage package had failed, leaving the uniforms a faded and drab grey that nonetheless seemed to match Kronstadt pretty well. Their leader had a corporal’s badge on one shoulder, a Russian Fed flag on the other, and the Alliance Army insignia all over his body armour. Everyone wore respirators and goggles.

  “Corporal Vostok, my friend!” Bukov said.

  The corporal kept his hands on his carbine. He looked us over, and the ragged mob of fugees behind Bukov, with obvious disdain.

  “You have gift?” he asked.

  “Of course, of course.”

  Bukov passed the man a universal credit chip, and he pocketed it. The soldier’s mood seemed to brighten considerably.

  “Only twenty this run, huh?” he asked.

  “Only twenty,” said Bukov. “My bones are run ragged, yes? I must pay tax to you, and then tax to port authority.”

  Vostok grunted. “Is not my problem, friend. What is with big ones?”

  The Jackals fell in around me. They hulked over Vostok and his men.

  “My name’s Jenkins,” I said. “We’re the survivors of a mining operation. Our ship went down three days ago. Your friend here was good enough to rescue us.”

  “I will bet he was,” said Vostok, his grin visible at the edges of the respirator mask. His accent was Russian, and his voice young, but of what I could see under his mask, his face was well lined and wrinkled. Maybe that was the effect of life on Kronstadt.

  “Are you expecting reinforcements anytime soon?” I asked. That was probably too much for a civilian to ask, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “You are joking, yes?” Vostok said, garnering a smattering of tired laughs from his squad. “There’s no one important down here. Not anymore, anyway. Shit is bad, real bad. I’m not sure how much longer we’re going to be able to hold the line.”

  We passed through a chainlink fence, towards a clutch of Army and Navy prefabs.

  “The damned fishes just keep coming,” Vostok said. “We’re fighting them day and night. Have you seen what happens when one of their ships gets infected?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “It’s terrifying. They become—what is word?”

  Another of Vostok’s squad spoke up, “Colonised.”

  “Yes, that is it, colonised within hours of infection.” The corporal’s eyes loomed large behind his goggles. “Go all silvery, all crazy.”

  “So we’ve heard.”

  Lopez paused beside me, and I heard her say, “Jesus Christo …”

  In the scant little shelter between some of the port’s structures, men and women were gathered. They were lined up in rows, all kneeling, hands on heads. Most were shivering. There must’ve been a couple of hundred of them.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Do not ask,” Vostok said.

  “Well, I am asking,” Lopez countered. “What are those marks on their head
s?”

  Each quaking citizen had a luminous stripe painted down their skull. The civvies were wet through from the constant drizzle, but the paint must’ve been specialised, because it resisted the rain. They had been grouped together according to their stripe colour.

  “Everyone wants a ticket out,” Vostok eventually said. “Those that can afford it are red. Those that can’t are blue.”

  “And the greens?” I asked.

  Vostok’s eyes smiled behind his mask. “They are the payment.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Lopez suggested.

  Vostok just shrugged.

  This was a world that Lopez hadn’t seen before. She looked visibly shaken by the idea that people would pay everything they owned to get out of the system … But the truth was staring her in the face. Fear was in the air, thicker than even the pollutants that clogged Kronstadt’s poisoned atmosphere.

  “Why all the questions?” Bukov asked me. “I pick you up in pod. I bring you here. What do you really want?”

  I thought about lying, about trying to keep up the pretence. But the Shard Gate, glittering down on us, bathing this planet in its exotic rays, reminded me that we were on a clock. The exodus was coming. This was an opportunity for intel that we couldn’t afford to miss.

  “We’re looking for someone,” I said. “A woman.”

  “I can get you plenty of women,” Vostok said, interested suddenly. “But who, exactly?”

  I opened my wrist-comp, and projected the tri-D image of Dr. Olivia Locke into the air in front of me. Vostok examined it with a frown. One of the corporal’s men made a guttural sound; the others laughed.

  “Her name’s Olivia Locke,” I said. “She’s a doctor. A xeno-archaeologist.”

  “Big word,” Bukov muttered, rubbing his hands together to chase out the cold.

  “Do you know her?”

  “Hard to say,” Vostok answered.

  “Would another credit chip help?”

  “It might.”

  I nodded at Lopez. Thankfully, we had money. Not much, but I hoped that we had enough to get by. Feng had searched Phoenix Squad’s lockers aboard the Firebird and discovered that Ving and his men had left funds on the ship. It looked as though they had been working out of the vessel, in fact, and we had made the most of that by plundering their possessions.