by Bruns, David
…a fake smile hiding evil intent?
A fist pounded on the door to his quarters.
“Kwazi? Are you all right?” The door chime rang again. “Kwazi, answer me!”
“Open,” he said. “Lights.”
Milani Stuart stood framed in the doorway, her fist raised. Worry lines painted her face.
“I was stopping by to see how you were doing, and I heard you shouting,” she said, entering his cabin. The door slipped shut behind her. She stood awkwardly for a moment, then walked to his bedside and knelt in front of him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. When Milani took his hand, Kwazi almost pulled away. But he had a sudden craving for the contact.
“The dream again?” Milani asked. The weight of his disclosures to her since leaving Callisto—about Braxton and how Beecham had died—filled the spaces between her words. He could hear the probing concern of the counselor in them.
Kwazi considered telling her the truth about what had just happened. But did he even know himself? And if he’d actually been in Dreamscape instead of merely dreaming, he feared seeing disappointment in her eyes. The physician’s judgment that a hackhead who’d had a bad trip got what he deserved. Lying was just easier.
“Yeah,” he said. “The one where Braxton…”
Kwazi shifted on the bed as Milani moved to sit beside him. The dream-memory arose of sitting side by side with Amy on the Martian cliffside. Viciously, he pushed it away.
“You know, as your counselor, I’d probably suggest something like, those dreams represent your anxiety about what’s happening,” Milani said. Her voice was contemplative but caring. “But what you described on the station—Braxton turning on you, aiming his gun at you—”
“He said Beecham got in the way. That a miner was about to split my spine.”
Why was he rationalizing for Braxton? He already knew the story was a lie.
“I know,” Milani said. “But it feels right to me. Your impression that he might have been trying to kill you, I mean.”
It does?
“I appreciate all you did—all the Soldiers did—to rescue me,” Milani said. “Telemachus…” The doctor shuddered. “I still have nightmares myself.”
Kwazi squeezed her hand, as much for himself as for her. Feeling the soft warmth of her skin against his was reassuring. Something real. And Milani’s eyes were brown, he noticed for the first time. Not gold.
“But I feel like…” she began.
“Yes?”
“I feel like I’m in velvet shackles here.” It was like Milani had lifted a flue, allowing a reservoir of secret thoughts to tumble out of her. “Like I’m supposedly free to do as I wish, but not really. Like Cassandra’s promises are all crap covered in cake icing. But once you take a bite…”
Her words resonated like a bell ringing. They penetrated Kwazi’s bones. First, he’d been the symbol for the Company. Then, Monk had called him the face of the revolution. Saying others’ words for one side or the other, and all of it feeling false. Neither side more real nor more genuine than the other, so it seemed.
“I’ve always wondered why they accepted me so easily into the SSR,” he said. “After only a few days. Now I think I know.”
Milani squeezed his hand.
“I think, eventually, they meant to kill me all along,” he said. The way Telemachus killed … he suddenly realized. “Dead or alive, I’m propaganda they can spread. And they’ve got that avatar now, the one in the video—it’s not perfect, but … will anyone know who doesn’t know me?”
He looked to Milani and noticed her nearness. Her eyes were fearful and full of concern. “Would they even care if they did?” she whispered.
What was real? What was false? Amy had seemed real, so very real, but now…
“Part of me is asking,” Milani said, “what’s the real difference between the SSR and SynCorp? At least under the Company we had peace. And now the SSR and Cassandra’s promises… I mean, who blew up the mine on Mars in the first place?”
It startled him, Milani asking the very question he’d pondered in his dream—or in Dreamscape through Amy? Milani’s eyes searched his, looking a sympathetic soul maybe, or at least someone else who harbored doubts about Cassandra and her promises.
But Kwazi’s brain was too tired to make sense of it. Reality, fantasy, truth, lies. It was all melting together, becoming muddled and monochromatic in his head, a white noise of confusion.
“Do you really want to kill Helena with your own hands?” Milani’s gaze was piercing and fierce.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
Here too, the doubts crept in.
You died because Helena Telemachus—
—murdered me, yes. Just as Cassandra murdered Max and Mikel.
“I—I thought I did. Now … I’m not sure.”
Her face offered him a small smile.
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that! Oh, Kwazi, I was so worried I’d lost you to—”
“General quarters.” The red alert blasted from the speakers. “All crew to general quarters. Fire teams prepare for station assault.”
Their eyes locked. Milani pulled him to her, their lips mashing together. Her arms hugged him hard against her. Kwazi melted into the kiss, surrendered to its human connection. And, more than that, to its connection with Milani Stuart.
Chapter 26
Rebekah Franklin • Masada Station, Orbiting Titan
She heard the beeping of the monitors before she walked into Fischer’s room. The past twenty-four hours had seen a peaceful quiet descend over Masada Station. It was just as empty, but the atmosphere had cleared. It was like someone had refreshed the heavy winter air with a promise of spring sunshine.
Fischer lay in the med-bed, and for a moment she saw her opa in his thinness, his flattened posture. A glance at the monitors showed his vital signs continuing to improve. He was sleeping. Just a few days ago, she would have taken offense on her grandfather’s behalf for having associated the two men in her thoughts. Now Bekah held an almost familial affection for Fischer she couldn’t deny had she wanted to.
“You gonna hover all day?” Fischer asked.
“Oh. I thought you were asleep.”
He opened his eyes and turned to face her. “Old survival strategy,” he said. “Pretend you’re sleeping till you know who’s entered the room.”
Bekah stared at him with a wicked glint of humor. “I guess you trust me, then. Telling me your survival strategies.”
Fischer allowed a half smile.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine. A few more holes than I woke up with yesterday, but they seem to be closing up nicely.”
“You were lucky Daniel had field training in a former life.”
“I’m lucky I got knifed on a station where experimental healing accelerants are available.” Fischer rolled onto his left arm and pulled down the front of his hospital gown. The knife wound in his chest, still purple from internal bleeding, had almost completely healed over.
“I’m ready to get out of here,” he said.
Concern clouded Bekah’s face. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Fischer said, sweeping off the sheet. He levered around on the bed, dropping his legs over the side. The hospital gown, as they always seem to, gaped open in the back.
Bekah averted her eyes. “I’ll just wait for you out here, then,” she said, retreating to the hallway. After a few minutes punctuated by the occasional curse word, she saw his shadow cross the threshold of the doorway.
“Even my knee’s complaining less,” he reported, his voice somewhere between grateful and amazed. “Lead the way.”
“Probably the steroids,” Bekah said as she headed for the lift. She shortened her steps, hoping it wasn’t obvious.
“What’s the latest?” he asked. “Erkennen and his colony of eggheads back from Titan Amusement Park yet?”
“Not yet. They’re prioritizing s
keleton crew staff first. Still breaking down equipment, getting the shuttles ready. It’ll be a day or so before the first wave starts returning.”
“You fixed the heat,” Fischer said admiringly.
“Yeah. I’ve taken Gregor’s camouflage protocol offline. The station’s systems are returning to operational norms. Hopefully, it’ll feel like home when they get back.”
They boarded the lift. Bekah pushed the Level One button.
“Where’s Tripp?” Fischer asked.
“In the War Room,” she said. “Still working on his project to stop Cassandra.”
Fischer made a musing sound. “Glad I didn’t kill him, then.”
Bekah made a vague noise. It still stung that Gregor hadn’t confided in her about Daniel’s true mission. She would have spent a lot less angst on his attitude.
The braking hum of the vator vibrated through her feet.
“I haven’t had a chance before now,” she began.
“Unnecessary.”
“No, but it is,” Bekah said as the doors opened. “Thank you for protecting me. And Daniel,” she added hurriedly. “I—”
“That’s the job,” Fischer said.
She exited the lift and Fischer followed. They were walking side by side now. Bekah was glad she didn’t have to look him in the eye.
“You’re not as hard as you make out,” she said.
Fischer grunted. “Clearly.” He rubbed his chest where the wound was still healing.
“You know what I mean,” she said as they entered the War Room.
“—fucking piece of shit!” greeted them.
Daniel Tripp pounded his console.
Bekah exchanged a look with Fischer, who seemed amused.
“Problem?” Bekah asked.
“I can’t get the goddamned sequencing right!” Daniel exclaimed. His face was flushed with frustration. “I … every time I run the simulation, the algorithm breaks down before it’s able to break down the hybrid genome’s bridging base pair.” He channeled his anger into a short, quick bout of pacing.
“That sounds downright terrible,” Fischer said, earning himself a viper’s look from Daniel.
“It means,” Bekah explained, “we can deliver the viral payload into Cassandra’s system, but not before her enhanced antibodies kill the genetic modification we’re trying to effect.”
Fischer looked from one to the other. “Oh, well … now that you explain it, yeah, it’s obvious.”
Bekah ignored him. “Maybe you need some rest?”
“I can’t rest,” Daniel barked. Then his shoulders sagged. “I appreciate the suggestion, Bekah. I really do. But every time I lie down, my brain just keeps running. I need to work this out.”
Bekah nodded understanding. Programmers were like preachers—called to their service, not merely employed. It was easy to become so immersed in the work you couldn’t eat or sleep until you’d solved the problem. Or saved the person.
“I need to call Gregor, get an update on the repatriation plan,” she said.
“All right,” Daniel acknowledged. “I’ll continue working in the booth. So, y’know, I won’t disturb you.”
Bekah laughed a little as he signed out of the console and headed for the glass-enclosed station usually reserved for beta-testing new programs. Its soundproof walls helped the occupant focus. In Daniel’s case, it would provide a judgment-free zone for any four-letter steam he might need to blow off.
“I thought communications were down,” Fischer said, sitting down next to Bekah. “That’s what Tripp told me.”
“The station’s are,” she said, speaking while her fingers worked. “The Hearse’s, though…” Bekah hesitated. “Uh, well—”
“Uh, well what?” Fischer said, giving her his full attention. “What’d you do to my girl?”
“Nothing,” Bekah said. “Well not nothing . But nothing you’d disapprove of, I think.”
“Try me.”
“I hacked her security,” Bekah said. Then, quickly, “With Daniel’s help.” Why did she feel the need to share the blame?
“You … hacked—”
“Your ship has the only functioning interplanetary communications system on the station at the moment. I needed a way to talk to Gregor and the others.”
Fischer absorbed that. “All right, then. Nothing permanently damaged?”
“Nothing damaged at all,” Bekah reassured him. “Just, um … hacked.”
“I’m sure you’ll put her to rights with a better security protocol when all this is said and done,” Fischer said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course,” Bekah said. “Masada Station to Prometheus Colony. Come in, please.”
A sound of amusement came from Fischer.
“What?” Bekah asked.
“The colony. Named after the guy who stole fire from the gods.”
“Oh, that. My Opa Simon named it. And this station.”
Fischer drew a breath. “Your grandfather was a wise and cautious man.”
Before Bekah could respond, the comms crackled to life.
“Prometheus Colony to Masada Station. Bekah, good to hear from you.” Bekah had been listening to Gregor Erkennen’s mild Russian accent since she was a child. It was like a security blanket woven from sound. Hearing it now felt like warm water running over tired muscles. “Fischer! I see you’re up and about.”
“More or less,” Fischer said.
“I want to thank you for protecting Daniel and Bekah,” Erkennen said. “Without you there, all our secrets would now be in the hands of the enemy. And Daniel…” He stopped, unwilling to continue on an open channel.
“Yeah, about that. If you suspected Richter was a traitor, you should’ve said so. I could’ve had a knife wound or two less.”
“I didn’t suspect a damned thing,” Erkennen said. “Until he betrayed me, Bruno Richter never gave me cause to doubt his loyalty. I only wanted you up there to back him up. Turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?”
Fischer cleared his throat. “I suppose.”
“Bekah, your opa would be very proud of you,” Erkennen said.
“He is proud of me,” she replied, surprised that she’d said it out loud. They sounded egocentric to her, those words. They sounded prideful. But it was Gregor’s verb tense she’d intended to correct. Though her opa had passed on, she still felt his very real presence in her life. Hadn’t his wisdom saved Masada? No, Simon Franklin wasn’t just a memory to his granddaughter. He was a living force inside her heart.
“Is proud, yes,” Erkennen said. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“When are the first teams coming back up?” Bekah asked in a hurry to change the subject.
“At lunar dawn. Essential personnel. We need to get that communications array back up first thing. And yes, I know,” Gregor held up a hand, “there’s a lot of damage. But I think we can bypass and patch our way to functionality in short order. There’s a lot happening in the system. Tony Taulke, captured. Callisto has fallen. Mars is a tug-of-war between Qinlao loyalists and workers swallowing SSR propaganda. And Earth—the rumors from Earth…”
“What rumors?” Fischer asked. “I thought Cassandra had her backyard locked down tight.”
“Oh, she does.” Gregor took a breath. “Maybe too tight. Feeders post snapcasts to CorpNet now and then. They’re not there long, and it’s very confused. But the story that’s emerging if you stitch it together—Cassandra is murdering Earth’s population. It sounds like mass genocide.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Bekah said. “I thought she was ‘freeing humanity?’”
“Maybe that’s how she sees murdering them,” Fischer said, his theory laced with cynicism. “Or maybe she’s just a crazy machine with human skin stretched over for looks.”
“That’s one possibility,” Gregor said. “How is Tripp coming along?”
Bekah glanced at the booth. If the fate of the Company—and maybe billions of citizens—hadn’t rested on Daniel Tripp’
s shoulders, what she saw might almost be comical. His hair standing away from his head, his arms flailing.
“He’s making progress,” Bekah said. “But Project Jericho isn’t ready yet.”
Fischer turned to her. “Project Jericho?”
“I’ll explain when we’re not on a—”
The orbital proximity alarm blared in the War Room. Bekah hadn’t heard it since the last time they’d had a drill, preparing them for the worst-case scenario of an interstellar body hurtling toward Masada Station.
“What the hell is that?” Fischer asked.
She ignored him, her eyes glued to the screen. Gregor was talking quickly with the techs behind him.
“Are you sure?” he asked. Then, turning back to the screen: “We’ve got company.”
“What kind of company?” growled Fischer.
“Sensors show the Pax Corporatum has just entered the system,” Erkennen said.
Beside Bekah, Fischer blew out a string of expletives. She knew why as she muted the Klaxon’s sound.
“It’s not Tony’s ship anymore,” Fischer announced too loudly.
“It’s Cassandra’s,” Gregor confirmed.
“Why are they…” Then Bekah knew the answer before she’d finished the question. “Her cyberattacks failed. So they’ve come here to take the station.”
“We’ve got nothing but unarmed shuttles here,” Gregor said. “But I’ll try and figure something out, get people up there. The three of you can’t possibly defend Masada by … selves.” Gregor’s image snowed, then re-formed. “They’re jamming signals. Bekah, remem … what I … you! Don’t hesitate … use…”
Then his image was gone.
“Oh my God,” Bekah said, the quiet, satisfied serenity of the last day now shattered. They were about to be overrun by the enemy. Gregor had had the right of it: there was no way the three of them could defend the station alone.
She looked to Daniel Tripp again. He’d stopped his raving and, like the rest of them, was staring at the main screen. On it, Tony Taulke’s flagship bore down on Masada Station.
“We should wipe the mainframe, get aboard the Hearse, and get the hell outta dodge,” Fischer said.
