Valhalla Station

by Chris Pourteau

  The door sealed shut, and his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. For a regent with such immense power, Ming kept her quarters simple: a bed, a small table with a carafe of Jameson’s whiskey, a bathroom specially fashioned to meet her low-g needs. A shower, not a tub, which Ruben had always found strange for a woman with limited mobility in a variable gravity environment. The walls were skinned with her favorite projection, the countryside a few hours outside Shanghai. The family retreat on Earth when she’d been a girl. Moonlight shimmered silver on an oval lake.

  “That was a thousand years ago,” she said as he looked around. Again he heard the strength in her voice, raised above the patter of light rain falling on the vibrant flora of the Yangtze River Delta. “When I was a young woman with an infinite future ahead of me.”

  “And I was a young boy,” he answered, his smile wistful. “Sometimes I wonder how that kid ever survived. He used to be afraid of his own shadow.”

  A songbird chirped in the hologram. Its mate answered.

  Distinguishing the different calls of the delta’s native birds was something else Ming had taught him when he was young, a game to help him learn the native flora and wildlife of the Yangtze. Laughing with her, even when he’d guessed wrong, was one of his fondest memories of childhood.

  “That’s a white-eye,” Ruben said.

  “Very good,” Ming said. Her maglev-chair purred in the shadows of the room. “Never lose that, Ruben—that ability to see the trees for the forest. Life is too dangerous to lose that. Details matter.”

  Ruben was shocked to realize what was different about her voice. It was her voice. Not the modulated, enhanced electronica he’d become accustomed to. Ming’s voice was deeper than he remembered, more world weary. But it was hers.

  “Lights: fifty percent,” Ming said. Her chair glided forward. Ruben gasped as the brightness grew in the room. She was still gray, yes, still brittle. Her skin was the color of old candle wax. But her eyes shone with a fire he hadn’t seen in years. And she was sitting almost erect.

  Ming stopped the chair in front of him and carefully stood up. She was smiling. When had he last seen her stand? When had it last even been possible?

  “Ming,” he said, his voice like the Shanghai wind whispering in the walls. “How?”

  “Gregor Erkennen,” Ming answered. “You know how close we’ve been to that faction.”

  Ruben nodded. Gregor’s father, Viktor, had been like a friendly old uncle to both of them until he died. Viktor had always blamed himself for the radiation poisoning Ming suffered from, caused by tech he’d designed. They’d thought her cured of its effects a long time ago, but over the years, mutations in her DNA had turned Ming’s own body against her. Not even the new SynCorp medical implant could mitigate the rate at which she was failing.

  Or had been failing.

  “Are you…” Ruben couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud. “Did Gregor…?”

  With a sigh, Ming returned to her chair. Her body seemed to cave in on itself. Atrophied tendons and muscles contorted her frame. Squinting hard with effort, Ming managed a kind of prideful slump.

  “Cure me?” she said. “No. He was able to augment my SCI. My body is pumping itself full of synthetic hormones. ‘Jet fuel,’ Gregor calls it.”

  Ruben approached her. The white-eyes called to one another, professing love or lust or both, trying to be heard over the light China rain. He kneeled next to her chair.

  “So, it’s true then,” he said. “The rumors are true.”

  “What’s true?”

  As she looked down at him, for a moment Ruben saw past the teary sclera of her milky eyes. Underneath the crust of old age he found the bright, energetic woman Ming had been when he’d first met her—brilliant, with a passion for life. It was like seeing past layers of old varnish on a canvas to find the original, hidden masterpiece beneath.

  “About the implants,” he said. “They can reverse cellular damage, rebuild DNA to counter the aging process.” Ruben stared up at her. “They really are a Fountain of Youth.”

  Ming smiled sadly. “I’m afraid not, little brother. That’s the thing about fuel. Eventually it burns up.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Reaching down, Ming cupped his face. Her own seemed fuller, healthier. But the skin of her hand felt dry.

  “I needed my mind back for a short while,” she said. “The body came as a bonus.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “I’m glad you’re taking over the faction, Ruben,” she said, her thumb stroking his cheek. “I’m glad you’re taking over the family. It should have happened a long time ago.”

  He understood then. The rumors were fat fictions riding on thin facts, myths fueled by hope and fear as rumors always were. There was no Fountain of Youth, no technological marvel to slam the door on death. Not all the genius in the entire Erkennen Faction could accomplish that. Ming’s return from mental and physical oblivion was only temporary.

  “How long do you have?” Ruben asked.

  “Long enough.” Ming smiled, trying to draw him out of his sudden funk. “We need to prepare you for your coming-out party.”

  “Prepare me? What do you mean?”

  She backed her maglev-chair away. It hummed across the floor of her quarters.

  “I promised your mother Sying a long time ago that I would teach you to be more like your father,” Ming said. She turned her chair around to face him again. “Our father.”

  Ruben stood. The rains of Shanghai dimpled lotus leaves on the quiet lake behind Ming. “You have. You’ve kept your promise to her.”

  Ming looked away. The chair’s antigrav hummed, like a monk in meditation.

  “I made decisions in my youth that I’ve come to regret,” she said. “Taking you as my ward isn’t one of them.”

  Ruben remained silent. Hearing Ming speak again in a voice that was authoritative—a voice that was present and aware of the world around her—grounded him.

  “You’re in the prime of your life, Ruben. And like our father, you’re a moral man. Your better instincts guide your decision-making. Which is as it should be.”

  He wanted to return the compliment. He wanted to tell Ming that she too was a moral person. But there had been so many times Ruben had questioned her harsh exercise of power: denying workers in the mines improved safety because it was too expensive. The backroom deals with other factions to assassinate key labor leaders. He wanted to return the compliment, but his own sense of decency, his regard for objective truth, kept him from doing so.

  “I know what you’re thinking, little brother,” she said, startling him. “You’re thinking, who is my sister to speak of morality—the Red Widow of Mars. Ming the Murderer.”

  “What other people call you—”

  “—is well earned,” Ming finished for him. She guided her chair toward Ruben again. “Though that makes them sound like compliments. Titles of honor. They aren’t either of those things. Let’s just call them accurate and leave it at that.”

  Ruben answered with silence.

  “I carved out our place in Tony Taulke’s corporate empire by being cold, Ruben. By not allowing emotion to guide my actions. Many times you disagreed with me,” she said, stopping in front of him. She stared into Ruben’s eyes, her own awake and bright. “You were wrong.”

  He started to reply. Years of frustration standing by her side, watching her earn her reputation for coldness and cruelty, coalesced in the pit of his stomach.

  Her raised hand cut him off.

  “You were wrong then,” she continued. “But now—now yours is the hand the Qinlao Faction needs guiding it to survive. Empires are built with cruelty. They’re preserved with caring.” She backed her chair away and settled it on the floor of her quarters. Slowly, with effort, Ming rose to her feet again.

  So she can look me in the eye, Ruben thought. As an equal. Not an invalid.

  “Some queens are builders,” Ming said. “Others are prese
rvers. Building an empire, particularly in the wake of all that craziness on Earth—the mass migrations, governments failing worldwide, Molotovs in the streets—required hard decisions. Like who should live and who should die—for the greater good.”

  “And the financial fortunes of our family?” Ruben asked, unable to temper his disgust. It was something old and almost forgotten in the day-to-day reality of life under SynCorp. How quickly it returned, hot and vibrant, surprised him.

  “And that,” she acknowledged. Ming’s face grew increasingly flushed as she spoke. “The fortunes of Mars—and all the people who live here—are tied to our faction’s fortunes. The fortunes of all of Sol are tied to ours, and the other factions’. Each has its place, its role to play in maintaining the delicate balance Taulke created. That’s why what’s happening now is such a threat.” She began to shake. Ruben reached a hand out, helping Ming lower herself into the chair.

  “I was cold blooded in helping to build this empire, it’s true,” Ming said, her voice weaker but still her own. “But now, to preserve what we’ve built, it must be nurtured. A steady hand, yes, but a compassionate one. Your hand, Ruben.”

  He regarded her a moment. “What are we talking about, Ming? Why am I really here?”

  When she stared again from below, her eyelids seemed too heavy, even in the minimal gravity.

  “I will not be alive much longer,” she said. “And you must be ready for what’s coming.”

  Ming held his eyes. Ruben wanted to protest, to say what was expected. What are you talking about? You’re healthier than I’ve seen you in years. You have many years ahead of you. But in her steady, resigned gaze he could see the truth: that Gregor Erkennen’s hormone therapy had bought her a last rally before the end. To help him get ready to truly rule the Qinlao Faction.

  Somewhere inside him, a little boy began to cry. His voice trembling, Ruben began, “Ming, I—”

  “Grieve later, little brother,” Ming said. “Now, we must prepare you.”

  He swallowed. “Prepare me for what, exactly?”

  “There’s a conspiracy against the Taulke Faction. It’s growing like a cancer.”

  “A conspiracy?” Ruben’s mind focused. “What do you mean?”

  “I was approached virtually, through a third party, untraceable. A circle-and-sniff to assess interest and willingness to join the others.”

  “The others? You mean the other three factions are part of it?”

  Ming affected her version of a shrug, bent and one shouldered. Erkennen’s therapy was flagging already. “The contact made it sound that way. But he might have been selling a lie to gain a first recruit.”

  Ruben’s eyes narrowed. How many of these discussions had he had as Ming’s consiglieri over the years, advising her from behind the Martian throne? The first rule you learned in that role is to never take anything at face value, especially when it concerned Tony Taulke.

  “Maybe it was Tony himself,” he suggested, remembering his recent late-night conversation with Taulke. Nothing was beyond SynCorp’s CEO. “Testing loyalty. Seeing if he could suck you into a fake scheme, then out you as a traitor.”

  Ming’s slanted half smile appeared. “That would be something Tony Taulke would do, all right. But this felt real.”

  “How long ago did this occur?”

  “Six weeks,” Ming answered.

  “Six weeks?” Ruben tried and failed to keep the concern from his voice. Six weeks ago Ming had been in and out of lucidity, a prisoner in her own broken body. A conspiracy against the head of the Syndicate Corporation sounded suspiciously like the product of a waning mind. “Why am I just now hearing about this?”

  “Because until now, little brother, you didn’t need to know.”

  Her answer infuriated him. “Goddammit, Ming! Had I known, we might have prevented the sabotage in the refinery! We could’ve saved those workers, we could’ve—”

  “That,” she said in her quiet, steely way that always undercut his anger, “that is what the Qinlao Faction needs now. And I’ll show you the communiqué. It self-erased, but I made a recording of it. It should put to rest the concern you’ve been too Ruben to voice out loud, little brother. My warped mind didn’t dream this up. The threat is very real.”

  Ruben took a deep breath. “Even if it’s true,” he said, “worst case scenario: the other three factions are moving against Taulke. What can we do about it?”

  “Not we, little brother. You.” She was getting worked up. “Everything we’ve built—not just the Qinlao Faction, but all across this solar system—everything is put at risk by this … this coup attempt. Clearly, some are willing to risk what they have in hopes of taking over the entire Company. I’m not one of them. You, Ruben. You have to save Tony Taulke. Find a way. Preserve what we’ve fought so hard to build.”

  The fire in Ming’s eyes had faded. Her body sagged against one arm of the chair. Ruben reached out and touched her hand.

  “What is that?” she said. Her voice was thinner. Frailer.

  “What?” he asked quietly. The only sound above the China rain was the frantic chirping of a bird. It seemed lonely for companionship.

  “That.”

  “That’s a white-eye,” Ruben said.

  “Oh,” Ming said, nodding. “I haven’t heard a…”

  “White-eye.”

  “…a white-eye in forever. Isn’t it pretty?”

  Yes, Ruben thought. It’s beautiful.

  “What were we talking about?” she asked. “I asked you to come here, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” he said. “We were just … reminiscing. But I think it’s time you get some rest, big sister.”

  “I think you’re right,” she said with a little of the old Ming’s humor. She smiled pleasantly at him. “I need to rest.”

  Chapter 16

  Edith Birch • Valhalla Station, Callisto

  “Is it true?” the miner asked. She couldn’t seem to keep still on the medical bed. Parker, her name patch read. “Some kind of plague or something?”

  “Not so far,” Krys said, swabbing the crook of the miner’s elbow. She stroked Parker’s skin once, twice to find a vein.

  Edith watched Krystin Drake work. She couldn’t shake the feeling something bad was heading their way. The impact shield now extending over the plastisteel dome kept out the ambient, coppery sunlight reflected from Valhalla Station’s solar mirrors. Residents now relied on the silver illumination of manmade rods imported from Earth, even in the common areas like the marketplace. After so long beneath the warm, amber glow of Jupiter, the artificial, sterile lighting made Edith’s eyes queasy. It was adding to the tension inside her, a nervousness shared among everyone in the infirmary.

  “Can’t you just scan my SCI or something?” Parker asked. “Isn’t it supposed to make medical stuff easier?”

  “The implants are still new,” Krys said. “When there’s fear of a new virus, we still rely on tried-and-true methods as a double check.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “You’re gonna feel a little prick.”

  Parker relaxed a little. “Not the first time that’s happened.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Krys said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “I don’t want this to hurt.”

  “That was his excuse, too.” Parker winced as the needle went in.

  Marshals with the Rabh Faction’s double-bar-R on their right shoulders and the five-pointed star of the Marshals Service on their left stood guard around the infirmary, ensuring compliance with the required blood screenings. The pathogen alert had thrown Callistans into another frenzy close on the heels of the impact incident and shutting the testudo shield. Mobilizing the marshals and Regent Rabh’s personal security force had restored a semblance of order in the colony. Everyone seemed to believe that safety could be assured as long as a uniform was present. The marshals observed as the infirmary’s staff did its work. The badgers were seemingly more at ease than the staff they watche
d over. Edith found that ironic.

  Krys popped the tube of blood into a scanner and peered closely at the data.

  “Well?” Parker asked after a moment. “Am I Patient Zero?”

  Krys tilted her head. “Only for anemia. You haven’t been listening to your implant. You need iron supplements. Edith, can you seal up Ms. Parker’s arm while I get the hypo?”

  “Sure,” Edith said, picking up the flesh sealant. “This might be a little chilly.”

  Parker shivered as Edith applied the foam sealant over the tiny hole in her arm. “Thanks,” the miner said.

  “Sure.”

  A phish of air against her shoulder made Parker jump.

  “Sorry,” said Krys, withdrawing the hypo. “But at least it’s air this time instead of a needle.”

  “Copy that,” Parker said.

  “That should fix you up for a month or so. But you need to start regular iron supplements as part of your regular diet. Twenty milligrams a day. Come back and see us at the end of the production quarter.”

  “Okay.” Parker rubbed her shoulder. “Can I go now?”

  “Yep,” Krys said. “Thanks for coming in.”

  The miner grunted. “Like I had a choice.” She nodded at the nearest marshal and slipped off the table and past the line of others waiting for blood screenings. “Thanks,” she said as an afterthought.

  “Next!” Krys called.

  “We haven’t found a single thing,” Edith said. “No sign of any bug. What set off the alarm in the first place?”

  A man with a few days’ growth of beard took Parker’s place on the bed. He looked tired and pale. He looked worried.

  “Who knows?” Krys said. “But this is protocol. So we follow it. What was that you were saying before about being more important than the farmers here?”

  “You said that,” Edith said. “But I get your point.”

  Her sceye flashed. It was Luther. A fist closed around the top of her spine. The old response. Pavlov’s dog salivated when a bell rang. Her back clenched when Luther called.

  “It’s Luther,” she said. “I haven’t talked to him since this whole thing started. Can I take a break?”