Ascension

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  Sitting in a corner, on a backless stool, was an exanoid. She was wearing a bright-blue tunic over her bow-backed frame. She had square-glasses, perched over a short, dark-pink snout. A tuft of fur on her head was dyed purple.

  Re’lien could not help but smile broadly as she met her friend in the flesh. Muur smiled back, a toothy, herbivorous grin. They hugged, Re’lien bending down over the much shorter creature.

  ‘I didn’t realise how accurate your avatar was, but it seems you really are this cute.’

  Re’lien’s face reddened.

  Muur laughed, but it was stifled. Despite their joy of finally meeting, this was not a good time.

  They both sat down. Re’lien’s chair was backed, properly, but Muur had to sit on a stool. The exanoid frame was not suited to generic furniture.

  ‘You going to eat something?’ Muur asked.

  Re’lien shook her head. ‘But don’t not eat on my account. Just nervous, is all.’

  ‘I’m sure Grett is fine.’

  ‘Then why do you look so worried?’

  Muur looked surprised. ‘Edal intuition?’

  ‘Between sentences, you’re frowning deeper than Grett when Franc breaks character.’

  Re’lien tried to smile at the joke, but couldn’t.

  Muur sighed. ‘It’s not just Grett. Sure, I’m worried about her. Didn’t know she was a squogg. Doesn’t change anything. She’s still our friend. But it does mean that there’s more chance something bad has happened. But got other things on my mind…nah, don’t want to burden you.’

  ‘Speak, Muur. We’re friends. You can tell me.’

  ‘Got a message from my dad. First one in almost a year. Said that he wouldn’t be able to message for a while. He had been silent because he was caught in the siege of Zona Nox. Aliens called Xank on the frontier. He’s safe, now, thank the Great Exchange, Terra or even the Imperial Cou…’

  Muur stopped as Re’lien glared.

  ‘Anyway, he said that Nova Zarxa, where he works, is experiencing some political troubles. Grag-Tec is not doing so well and he suspects there’s going to be a communication shutdown. Told me the usual. That he loves me, to be safe, be smart, and to keep eating my protein supplements so I can tangle with a merka if need be.’

  Muur fidgeted with the straw of her mozar-milk shake, drawing spirals in the froth.

  ‘I wish he wasn’t so gung-ho, Re’lien. He and that gray are going to get themselves killed fighting some war, chasing some pirates or trying to overthrow some despot. He doesn’t know his limits. We’re just exanoids. I wish he’d get that in his head. Bow-backed, short-legged, weak-boned exanoids who need another race or an army of syns to protect them.’

  ‘But it makes him happy?’

  Muur stopped, and looked Re’lien in the eyes. She smiled, slightly. ‘It does…’

  ‘Hi, Re’lien, Muur. It’s good to see you both again in the flesh.’

  Franc appeared, carrying a dark-khaki satchel, wearing a black bomber jacket and an Obsidian Corporation novelty-cap.

  ‘Good to see you, too,’ Re’lien said, standing and giving the friend, she had never spoken to in real-life a friendly hug.

  Muur smiled, but didn’t stand. This wasn’t meant to be rude. Exanoids needed to conserve their stamina. Standing and sitting down constantly was hard work.

  ‘Cuppa tea, on the house,’ a hovering-syn said in a synthetic cockney accent, delivering a porcelain tea-set to the table. The tea was fragrant. Re’lien recognised the smell from Roses from Venus. It was an ancient leaf, now cultivated on Venus and other core worlds. It was called Red Bush. The tea-water was red, confirming its scent.

  Muur slurped up the rest of her milk-shake and began serving tea.

  ‘I don’t want to delay any longer than we have to. The squogg-refugee facility is somewhere in the district over. The blocks shift position, occasionally, so I don’t know exactly where. For obvious security reasons, we can’t use our GPS or search for it on the Network. Too many xenophobes could find it otherwise. That means we need to scour the district on foot.’

  ‘Split up?’ Muur offered, after a sip of milked-tea.

  Franc shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. We must stick together. I’ll protect you.’

  Re’lien almost snickered at the prospect but stopped when she saw Franc’s expression. He was completely serious. His eyes were cold. Metallic. He looked like the Troopers who had just returned from their first expeditions. They had been ripped away from the comforts of Mars, and been exposed to the true nature of the galaxy. In the forge of war, they were left only with the Order and cold, hard eyes.

  ‘So, we enter the district and pace it grid by grid till we find the facility. Do you know what we’re looking for?’

  ‘Typical looking Admin building. Big, though. Bigger than any server-farm. It should be one of the few places with a guard house.’

  Muur was pouring her third cup of tea. Franc and Re’lien hadn’t touched their dry cups.

  ‘No more delays. Let’s go.’

  Franc turned on his heels and left the building. Re’lien helped Muur up, who reluctantly put down her tea-cup.

  Re’lien wired some creds to the syn-owner as they departed. Outside, night had descended.

  Grett, I hope you’re okay.

  “Enque, the mantis people, are one of the peculiar free races that have maintained cordial relations with humanity and the exanoids. While insectoid races have tended to stray towards animosity, the enque have always been willing to engage in commerce. This has not stopped many human and exanoid traders from feeling an intense disgust with the people, however, as the enque are notorious for consuming their partners alive as a part of their mating system.” - Extract from the Galactic Races Encyclopaedia

  Chapter 12.

  Justice

  The air was hot. Filled with sweltering condensation. Muggy. Like a swamp made of metal. Steam rose from vents as the Order-Administration industrial areas below continued day and night to churn out syns below the tarmac and metal gratings. These syns would be distributed across Mars to act as cleaners, security guards, monitors, construction workers and anything else that the organic denizens of Mars did not want to do themselves. Surplus syns were sold on to private ventures. Some years, the Order-Administration sold so many syns that they didn’t need to charge any tax for the entire year. Re’lien marvelled how Martian society managed to do it. While the Trooper Order was in charge, ruled by a council of ancient cyborgs and the much younger, High Protector Winston Mengel, the planet itself acted more as an anarchy, run by AI-courts, corporate infrastructure builders and all the property owners on the red rock. The Trooper’s civilian functions, contained in the Order-Administration, was the closest thing to a government. The AI-functions, with some oversight by humans, managed the externalities and essential administrative role of the state. Most of this was ensuring that the infrastructure of all Mars’ stakeholders didn’t run into one another, that sewage matched up, that hover-car lanes didn’t clash and that platforms didn’t ram into one another. The AI-state was so effective in its role that many people forgot that it existed. It did what a government was supposed to – not bump into people and ensure that nobody bumped into each other.

  When someone did start bumping into other people, and syn-security drones were ineffective, planetary guardsmen – Troopers who didn’t want to or didn’t qualify to go on an off-world campaign – would intervene. This was often bloody. Arrests were rare. Troopers were soldiers, not police. But this was a rare occurrence. Crime was low on Mars. Cryptography and smart-ledger systems made white-collar crime almost impossible and the harsh enforcement of the law by Trooper hand dissuaded all but the craziest of criminals from engaging in their twisted enterprise. That was, until now.

  The Gans had changed Mars. Not since the corporate terrorism of 3437, had Mars been under attack in such a manner. They were everywhere, and nowhere. Their organisation was vast, but at the same time seemed non-existent. It was uncle
ar if they were a single body, a coherent movement, a series of terrorist cells or just a bunch of thugs. That was what made them terrifying. Terrorists didn’t win because they killed a lot of people. Far from it. The Gans, and the historical terrorists of the past, killed comparatively very few people. The Gans were winning because they had brought a crushing fear upon their victims. No xeno felt safe on Mars. Even exanoids, who had been allied with humanity for over five-hundred years, didn’t go out at night. It didn’t matter that only one exanoid was killed by Gan thugs. It didn’t matter that more died at the hands of disgruntled merka workers. What mattered was the fear. The invasion of comfort. The destruction of the norm. Terrorists won when they made people oppress themselves.

  For a long time, Re’lien was content to let the Gans win, but now she had been pushed too far. Her friend could be in trouble and it would take more than just some masked street thugs and wannabe tin-men to keep her away from helping her new friends.

  Above that, Re’lien understood fear. And she was afraid. But fear was a tool. It was meant to keep someone safe. Help people achieve their goals of self-preservation. When it didn’t serve its purpose, you threw it away. You buried it deep, because you knew that you couldn’t run away this time. Re’lien had found friends. People she cared about. And despite the acidity in her stomach and beating of her heart, she went on.

  The metal streets of the Order-Administration district were black, lined with blue-white strip lighting. Every building seemed a prison. No windows. No decorations. Just metal. Dark plate-mail made into buildings. They were not warm, or pretty. They were not meant to be. The Order-Administration was not something the Troopers cared that much about. They established it to keep Mars civilised so they could continue to use it as the base of operations for their glorious crusades. The defenders of humanity needed a home, and they needed it to be safe, ordered and clean. So they propped up the AI-state, with minimal interference and minimal bother.

  There was no pageantry in this district. In Trooper military districts, even the Diplomatic Corps offices, the Troopers hung their black and crimson banner and flew the black and red flag of Mars. They had holo-vids of famous battles and long-dead heroes. They exhibited paintings of the heroes who had died in service to humanity. Not here. If not for Re’lien’s tab net-map, she wouldn’t even know they were in an Order-Administration district. No signs. No identification. People weren’t meant to visit these districts. They could be visited – not illegal or anything – but there was no point. Everything was done over the Network. Most of all, grievances. Violent criminals were tried in magistrate courts near Trooper Order districts, in case planetary guardsmen were needed.

  A curious monitor-syn flew past and scanned them. It was routine. They were hanging around essential state buildings. The monitors were there to act as a deterrent, and if necessary, to provide footage of criminals. Re’lien felt safer with them around. While there were Gan sympathisers among the billions of Trooper personnel, as an organisation they were still principled – even if Franc didn’t seem to think so. Re’lien looked forward to serving the Order in the Diplomatic Corps after she received her results. She was confident they would be stellar.

  The monitor-syn blinked at them and then flew away. Franc clicked his tongue in irritation.

  ‘Probably answering to some xenophobic tin-man. Will catch a guy vandalising Order property but will shut its feeds when it sees some real problems.’

  ‘The AI on these security syns are pretty tight, Franc,’ Muur explained. ‘Exanoids don’t skimp on accountable and reliable syns. They can’t ignore a crime even if they wanted to.’

  Franc grunted.

  This street was bare. Clinical and lifeless. They turned a corner. More bare streets, but with shut, sliding doors with zig-zag slits in the centre.

  ‘Any of this look familiar?’ Re’lien asked.

  Franc shook his head. ‘These are server rooms. Too small for living quarters.’

  ‘You sure that her facility is in this district? It may have moved. All these buildings can up and fly away,’ Muur commented.

  ‘I…’ Franc began to tear up, but fought it down, returning to his stoical, stern face. ‘I don’t know. But this is the only lead I have. The district isn’t too big. If we can’t find it here, then we can go somewhere else, maybe Fredala, to have dinner and then think about our next move.’

  Re’lien nodded. They continued down the street. Franc had the holo-screen open on his wrist-tab. His contact listing for Grettaduk had a disconnected wire-symbol next to it. He was waiting for her to reconnect. If she ever reconnected.

  It was dark now. Only the road-lighting, Muur’s glow-in-the-dark patch of hair, and Franc’s wrist-tab illuminated the way. There were no overhead street lights. Only the distant speck of hover-cars way up above.

  Re’lien felt a shiver crawl up her spine. A disembodied voice spoke.

  ‘We remember Ganymede.’

  Re’lien stopped, and spun on her heels.

  Nothing.

  ‘Did you guys hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’ Muur responded.

  Re’lien squinted into the darkness. The thin lights on the ground didn’t reveal any silhouettes. She only heard the faint hum of the monitor drone in the street over.

  Not now, Re’lien, she told herself. No visions now. No hallucinations. Keep yourself together.

  ‘Must have been my imagination,’ she shrugged, but that didn’t stop her hair from standing on end, and her skin becoming covered in gooseflesh. They reached the end of the street.

  ‘Stop,’ Re’lien whispered, only loud enough for the group to hear. Franc didn’t, but Muur stopped immediately.

  ‘Someone is around the…’

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  Franc stopped and looked up from his wrist-tab. A broad-chested man, wearing a plastic neon green gasmask and carrying a metal bat stood a foot away from Franc, staring down at him. His bat trailed across the ground.

  ‘Odd place,’ a teenage male voice said, appearing behind Re’lien and Muur, ‘for xenos to be wandering this time of day. Or any day.’

  ‘Sabotaging?’ Another offered, appearing from an unlit alleyway.

  ‘Definitely,’ said the broad chested man with the bat.

  ‘We’re passing through,’ Muur said, somehow hiding the fear in her voice. Re’lien only noticed that fear because of how familiar she was with the exanoid. ‘No decent markets in Reclamation Corp districts, you dig?’

  The man with the bat cocked his head.

  ‘Mark, you catch anything this pig is saying?’

  ‘Nope, Mark, just oink-oink-oink.’

  Franc backed away slowly, but Re’lien sensed something unusual about him. Her edal intuition was in warp-drive, perceiving everything. Franc was not afraid. If anything, he was angry.

  ‘Marks, or whatever your names are, we’re just heading to the next district. Not xeno-terrorists. Think the blight-shield and Troopers would let in any enemies of mankind?’

  ‘They let in these lot,’ one of the thugs indicated to Muur and Re’lien with dark object. Re’lien saw a flash of metal. A razor edge on a black-steel knife. ‘And they look like saboteurs to me.’

  ‘Worse, Mark. They look like terrorists. This pig taking human jobs and even worse…this…thing with the hood.’

  ‘Aye, Mark. Let’s see what this revolting git with the hood is…’

  Re’lien backed away, reaching for a blade that wasn’t there and hadn’t been there for years. Franc’s back appeared in front of her.

  ‘Outta the way. We don’t want to kill any humans but we make exceptions for xenophiles.’

  ‘I won’t let you hurt them,’ Franc growled.

  The man with the bat tried to grab Franc by the shirt, but he dodged out of the way. Flick, and a baton appeared in Franc’s hand. He pulled it back behind him.

  Franc screamed when his wrist broke. One of the Marks laughed as he lifted up his own baton from Franc’s splintere
d wrist. Franc’s baton lay uselessly on the floor.

  ‘Stay outta our way, freak.’

  Two of them spat on Franc as he fell to his knees. All of them, four in total, advanced on Muur and Re’lien, who had backed into each other.

  Clank. Clank. Clank. Went the bat on the metal street. The knife-man was holding the handle too tightly. He wouldn’t get the versatility needed for even the most rudimentary edal techniques. Flick. Another flicked out its knife. And then a buzz. A plasma saw.

  Muur’s eyes darted towards Franc’s baton, lying at her feet. Sluggishly, as only an exanoid could, Muur dropped to pick up the weapon. She was kicked in the jaw.

  Re’lien shot forward, but tripped. Another assailant caught her by the heel. Her jaw stung as it hit the metal floor. She looked up at the prone Muur. The exanoid’s dark-brown pupils was stark in her bright, white eyes. Fear. Untold fear. Re’lien felt it too. She felt a foot on her back. Another stepped on Muur’s.

  ‘Please. We did nothing,’ Muur said. Her voice was still cool, despite all this. Her exanoid charm never faltered, but it was failing her now.

  ‘You did everything. Where were you pigs on Ganymede? Where were you when these monsters,’ he indicated at Re’lien with his baton, ‘killed our people?’

  ‘I wasn’t born.’ Muur’s voice was starting to waver.

  Mark spat. ‘Pig-skite. That’s what you are. Not even a pig. A pacifist good for nothing skite. And you hanging around these monsters now? These vokken Imperial scum…’

  Mark shook with rage.

  ‘You’re just a vokken traitor!’ he shouted, and he brought up his baton. He fell with a spurt of blood and a bang.

  Re’lien let out a breath as the foot on her got off.

  Franc stood, aiming a smoking pistol at the group. His face was white. His right hand was limp at his side. He aimed at the assailant above Re’lien and…click…click…

  Re’lien’s eyes widened. The gun had jammed. Franc tried to pull back the slide but his damaged hand and wrist batted impotently at his weapon. A dark-hoodied figure approach him. He tried to bat it with the butt of his pistol. He gurgled as blood sprayed from his neck.