The Razor's Edge

by Seanan McGuire

  But they weren’t roused, were they? All the external packs were on the wall, weren’t they, and all the guns?

  Seemed strange that they wouldn’t have grabbed the guns for a revolt. Seemed strange they could have grabbed the Bloodlines—that would be Ma, among others!—without bothering other services. But the alert was out and they weren’t here, the regular crew, nor his.

  “Squad Forty,” he said to the mic even before his gloves clicked on seal, “this is Lead on Squad Forty, back-up not suited yet,” he said, knowing that someone in Control ought to have a veed feed and see him standing alone and know what he meant. If someone was back-up to Squad Forty they were going to have to show soon, else …

  “Squad Forty, confirmed. Watching for you to get under pressure. Pack M and L are assigned yours. If crew shows with my code, make them double up on extras.”

  But there wasn’t anybody else. It would be him and Binwa, wouldn’t it? Pack M was the full mobility unit with projectiles as well as lasers. It was a leader’s unit—had some range on the jets, had some firepower he’d never tried, but supposed to be automatic. The suit should fit itself in when he got there, and the unit ought to heed him …

  “Sealed,” he said when he was, again seeing the squad room that ought to have sixteen people, empty but for him. The heads-up display came live, bringing almost too much information: local internal and external pressure and atmospheres, state of the connections and network, ammunition count, loitering time, battery state, and … empty slots where Squad Leader ought to have a squad.

  “Control? Squad Forty prepped for EVA, grabbing packs.”

  Not much more to be said, with no one talking back and no one yet coming to be his backup.

  He slapped the plate and walked through, lights coming up as he did. Earnestly wishing there was motion behind him, knowing there wasn’t, he only quarter-turned to the plate on this side, where the pre-packs waited, patient as death, for their missions.

  That slap was bordering wistful; the angled sliver of view showed the stark white of the two closest suits, hanging empty, before the scissors of the closing door left him even more alone.

  “Two seals, Control. Mounting up.”

  “You are authorized to open to vacuum and deploy. You are authorized to use force; your weapons are live.”

  There were two hatches, one with pack rails and one without, and the packs sat there waiting. The hatch could take five at a time if need be—

  Geral backed into Pack M, reaching overhead to pull himself up onto that slight saddle, his elbows and forearms resting on the U of the equipment, his legs on the stirrups. Quick motions clicked the umbilical on each side into the power systems and into the pack’s extended environmental units.

  “Pack M systems attached to Leader,” a quiet voice told him. “Accept, please.”

  He did that, and Pack M let him know that Pack L was attaching to hard points, which he felt, and he took a deep breath. Now the view was augmented even further and all those points there on the left side were weapons far more powerful than a pistol. He shuddered with knowing he’d not armed things yet, and knowing he had too much power, anyway, for someone whose leading had mostly been to a spot at the bar and then open a door for bed and a roll, if he was lucky.

  “Geral, we need you to occupy Bay Four. The other docks are under control from here, so they’re secure … and I got Traffic’s radio feeds locked up tight so they can’t be involved—but if that ship gets to the dock, I can’t stop them here—none of the other service units are responding. Security has gone over, they’re on strike, too. They’re all Revolutionists and we got to stop them. Hold Bay Four!”

  “Confirm, Control. Hold Bay Four.”

  * * *

  He barely noticed space, space being what there was mostly except for the reality of the station and the need to be at a hard-to-reach location. His suit was quiet around him, but he heard his own breathing, kept reminding himself to follow the color-coded dots, to follow the easy-to-read blinking lights … but no, he shouldn’t!

  Resisting the urge to talk to himself about it, he said, “Control, you might want to turn off traffic control lighting. I can see where I’m going without.”

  “Will do. Might need to go silent so they can’t monitor… I’m releasing all suit control to you, Geral. You’re autonomous now.”

  Many of the flashing lights went away. The numbers on the side of the station’s hull didn’t, but the details of a docking collar would be harder to see with the station rotating into darkness, especially if there was someone between you and getting close enough to use ship lights to illuminate it.

  Guidance. He could use some guidance here …

  “Control?”

  Silence.

  Out there, suddenly, there was blackness as the local star was eclipsed, and then again, the light making him a shadow.

  They’d never warned him about this kind of stuff, that he’d be a sharp spot on the hull, that resisting invasion gave the advantage to the people out there who wanted to take…

  “Test, circuit open. Spadoni, please reply. Please initiate routine docking. … There’s my echoes, Spadoni, you can hear me.

  “Spadoni, we are coming to dock. Please turn guidance on. This is Carrassens AnnaV on a scheduled shipment. I am Pilot In Charge Luchinda Eerik of the—”

  Luchinda? His Luchee? It sounded just like her, it did, even across the years and, yeah, she was quick and sharp. A pilot? But there was trouble now …

  Also, Control was on silence and had locked down Traffic’s radio.

  “This is Squad Forty. There’s been riots and Revolutionists. We can’t let you dock until there’s an all-clear ordered. We may use any means to hold this docking bay. We have been authorized to use force, if required.”

  “If you fire on my ship I will return fire, Squad Forty.”

  “I know you will, Luchee,” he said, “Just like you busted my nose, thank you.”

  A pause, not caused by the slow crawl of radio waves. He used it to maneuver his unit to one of the hard points. The dull red triangle glowed in outline on the left and he speared the arms-length metal pipe protecting the cabling into it, feeling the snap as it tightened, followed by inserting the cable into the blue circle on the right with a similar mechanical snap. Pack M and Pack L oriented themselves as the hardpoint locked; he was essentially an external gun turret now.

  He should have heard confirmation from Control on that, but inside the suit everything matched up. Autonomous.

  Through his faceplate he could see another eclipsed star, and then augments hit and he had targeting information on a ship coming nearly straight at him. The bad news was that they must have him now, as well, know that he was not speaking from a station defense battery, he was merely a stud locked upright on a bright hull, casting a shadow to infinity.

  “Squad Forty, we are not looking for a fight. We’re not Revolutionists, we’re a trade ship. And I’m getting counter information from another source claiming that you have been misrouted and misinformed and are to be ignored. If you’re Geral, you’re a braver fool than I ever realized, facing down a ship with a suit!”

  He heard that, breathed a curse that was loud in his own ears even if not broadcast.

  “Control? What status? What support?”

  He was clicking between comm broadcast channels furiously, the head’s up display showing him active bands.

  After a long pause, Binwa broke silence.

  “I still hold Control. Security won’t help. They want to give the station away, the whole station, Geral! Why’s there three ships? At least one of those ships are what they’ve been waiting on. They want to send us all to Fromage Two. They’re going to occupy the station … you got to stop them from getting in.”

  “Squad?” came Luchee’s drawl.

  “AnnaV, I’m sorry. My orders remain.”

  “Dammit, Geral, you’re alone in a spacesuit and there’s three ships out here.”

  �
�I’m on lockpoint,” he managed. “I’ve got war units, Luchee. Are you in a battleship?”

  “Can’t discuss it, Squad Forty. You’re going to have to move away from that dock. I hope you’ll do it soon; my shift is due to end but I’m not allowed to leave docking incidents unresolved. I’m lighting up for rendezvous.”

  The faceplate showed two ghostly outlines now, the M unit’s sensors showing where the approaching ships were, where …

  There! A blot took shape exactly where the faceplate put it, stars going away, and then the blot took color and shape as brilliant points of light, some blinking to varying pulses and others just there.

  Training recall came to him, the five blue lights circling the nose of the ship meaning AnnaV was headed right at him, the slow blinking red lights ringing the blue were the pods-heads, the apparent bright ring between the blue and the red was where AnnaV’s hull swelled to the pod points. More light now, and he was awash in it, the faceplate barely shielding him from the full intensity. The approaching ship slowed, loomed …

  From the station channels:

  “Squad Forty, you must stand down and return your aux-packs to the armory. Your training mission is over. Famy Binwa has been relieved of all command. Your loyalty oath is noted. You must return to the armory …”

  Geral shivered. It was Famy’s ma!

  “Don’t listen! They’ve breached this line, but we resist the revolution. Civilians cannot understand the dangers—”

  “This is Vice Administrator Binwa. My son has been relieved of shift and staff command and is being removed from the control room. You are now under my direct orders, Geral Jethri. Return to station, place yourself under Security’s protection. You will be escorted to upgraded quarters and this incident will be purged from your file.”

  There was a short pause before she spoke again, sharply.

  “Geral Jethri?”

  He swallowed, the promise of upgrades making his stomach clench, as he thought of the twins, both pregnant. His kids. His blood …

  There came sounds of heavy breathing, and pounding, through the earset, then Famy Binwa’s voice, loud.

  “I’m loyal to the Envidaria. This is a breach—I will resist, I will eject, I will—”

  Beneath Geral, the station lurched, vibration traveling through the taut cables locking him and his packs to the surface, shaking him and his suit against the strapping.

  “Geral Jethri? Let me make your choice plain. Return to station and receive an upgrade. Continue this revolt and we will be rid of you.”

  Geral was still trying to understand. Famy. The Revolutionists. Forced labor on the cheese worlds. The—

  “I am,” he whispered, “under the command of Famy Binwa.”

  There was another lurch; this one smaller and more personal.

  “Control?” Geral demanded, wondering if some unknown ship had managed a violent latch-dock out of his view. “Squad Forty reporting anomaly—”

  His faceplate showed him a flashing: UNLOCK ALERT UNLOCK ALERT UNLOCK ALERT UNLOCK at the same time it showed a potential target not much bigger than him drifting away from the station, a tumbling figure, a …

  His faceplate flashed a warning—power issues for the lockpoint.

  A KLUNG shook him; distantly a station thruster showed power and the station twisted. Or he did.

  Jettisoned. He’d been jettisoned!

  Below him the station rolled and the faceplate echoed that, and now it showed him the station as a target, receding slowly.

  Everyone he knew in the universe was out there, targets. Targets, if he was willing.

  * * *

  He’d tried three airlocks, chasing them as the station rotated. It was as if he didn’t exist. His suit showed station comm circuits locked against him, and the last effort to close with the station had been met by a round of attitude jets, almost taunting him.

  Working his suit kept him calm; he had to think hard about it, but it was a new suit and getting easier to use every minute.

  Eventually, one of the ships disappeared beyond the bulk of the station; he could see portions of it as it docked, but wasn’t in comm circuit.

  The other two ships now rode in orbit between him and the station. One was, he knew, the AnnaV. The other he didn’t know—

  “Spacer Geral Jethri, this is AnnaV, offering to connect you with a recovery ship.”

  Luchee’s voice was calm and quiet in his ear.

  “Spacer? I’m a stationer. I can’t …”

  “You are a distressed spacer, discovered free-floating in an orbit you are unable to recover from under your own power. I can certify that. We can do that for you, Geral Jethri.”

  “But the station! I’m Service Squad, I’m supposed to…”

  “They abandoned you, Geral Jethri. You’re locked out.”

  He fought with himself. He had forty hours of air. Enough firepower, though, to …

  Famy Binwa had trusted him. Famy had fooled him. Famy … had ejected without a suit …

  Luchee took a breath.

  “Either you’re a distressed spacer or you’re dead,” she said flatly.

  “I don’t have anything …” He stuttered to a stop.

  She didn’t argue that point. His air showed thirty-eight-point-seven hours now.

  “Geral, I’m going off-duty. My shift is ending. Be smart. I can arrange for pick-up, while I’m Pilot In Charge. That’s all I can do. You need to make the choice.

  “You need to save yourself.”

  Geral stared beyond the lurking ships, beyond the station’s disorienting rotation against the background of a distant three-mooned planet.

  There was silence for a while. When Luchee spoke again, it was like she’d woken him up from a drowse.

  “Geral, we’re docking next. We can’t pick you up; if you’re on-board when we dock, Spadoni will arrest you. They’ll lock you up and take your blood and you won’t even get points for it! You’ll never be free!”

  The station rotated under him.

  “The other ship with us is not docking, Geral. Will you let them pick you up? She … they believe in the Envidaria. They live by it. They’re free! They want to talk to you, Geral. I trust them. Remember, we said we weren’t going to give blood to the Seniors. You promised me, Geral! We’ll be in radio shadow now, be smart!”

  The station’s rotation was patient, unforgiving. AnnaV, in pursuit of a docking bay, slid into the bright side while he and his suit were in the darkness.

  Geral was alone, as he often was. But …

  He had a choice. He could be desperate for what wasn’t going to happen, like Famy Binwa, or he could be like Jethri and Arin had been and make something happen. He could let the Seniors own him or he could …

  “This is Spacer Geral Jethri Quai-Hwang. What ship?”

  He asked as if he knew ships, which he didn’t; as if the name mattered. He’d been prepared to fire upon them, an hour gone, and now …

  A pleasant female voice filled the ether, carried by a strong, directional signal.

  “This is Ship Disian. Geral Jethri, may we match velocity with you and bring you aboard? Please, call me Disian.

  “Also,” came the pleasant voice, with no sense of irony, “it would be good if you would turn off targeting mode and safe your weapons. We can rendezvous in ten minutes.”

  Geral flinched, shook his head at himself, and safed the weapons. The oxygen read-out on his faceplate said thirty-six-point-seven hours and he was free to watch it count down, if he really wanted to. Maybe the station would pull him in, right before the last. Maybe they’d decide they needed his blood too bad to let him go.

  Or, maybe they wouldn’t.

  A deep breath then, and he used his jets, turning to admire the view, and the ship, approaching.

  The oxygen countdown had begun to bore him and he realized that, despite it all, he was getting hungry.

  “Yes, Ship Disian,” he said eventually. “Thank you. Please come for me. This distressed
spacer accepts your offer of aid.”

  The Gunslinger

  Kay Kenyon

  March 2, 1950.

  Despite her training in the rehabilitation of criminals, Lena was nervous about meeting a mass murderer. Especially this one: Maximilian Becker.

  Trying to quiet her heart, she paused in front of the hospital portico, looking up at the third-floor windows, one of which would be Becker’s. She tried to bear in mind that the man she was about to meet was a human being, no matter what he had done. Or the way he had done it.

  Once inside, she made her way to room 303, holding her satchel against her thigh and patting it, conscious of the nervous gesture. Inside were the documents outlining Becker’s appalling offenses, the papers that, once signed, could start him on the road to pardon. It would be difficult. The outcome was not assured, of course, especially for this man whose crimes had escaped punishment for a decade. She had been warned that Becker was sly and would try to position himself as a hero—a hero!—but she would be on her guard. He had evaded capture for so long, but now that he was in custody he must be made an example of. So the authorities said. But that was not her job, nor could her heart be in punishment. Given the recent war, the world was in need of peace and reconciliation. Even for Maximilian Becker.

  As Lena entered room 303, she found herself in a spacious ward. Four tall windows marched down one wall, and under the middle window, the only bed. A nurse sat at a desk just inside the door. After scrutinizing Lena’s identity card, she gave a staccato nod and Lena proceeded to the bed under the windows.

  Maximilian Becker was reading a paperback book. A fortyish, barrel-chested man with a comb-over to camouflage the balding. A little vanity, then. The worst offenders often had such pretensions, something she had noticed in her work for Reconciliation. It was almost as though the less imposing his looks, the more a man had to compensate with conceit and violence. She pulled a chair close to the bed.