by S. A. Tholin
Cassimer was free of the priming, but free will only made the hard calls harder.
"Tell him I'm on my way."
* * *
The Kalevala facility was utilitarian, its concrete walls as modern as they were ugly, but the courtyard revealed the site's ancient roots. Black and white mosaic stretched across the grounds in an abstract impression of a forest. A cold place, lonely and dark. Nothing like Velloa itself, or any world Cassimer had visited, and yet he could imagine it so clearly. Moss under his feet, pale and brittle. The low call of nocturnal birds, a flutter of winter-white wings, the squeal of prey caught by talons. The silence of snow, so complete that his own breath would sound as loud as a storm.
It was life on Earth in some northern clime, and though Cassimer had never visited such a forest, he understood perfectly what the artist had aimed to evoke. Perhaps human memories had biological elements, passed down the generations as genetic history, his body able to recognise what his mind did not. Cassimer's ancestors had arrived to Kalix onboard the arc ship Illumination nearly three hundred years previously. The husband had been a mechanic, the wife a mathematician; their professions, names and ages all that had been recorded. Kalix was the only home he could claim, and that had never bothered him before. He was Primaterre, and that was all that mattered. But now he wondered. Now he searched the maps of Earth and watched old movies curious as to where he would have fit into it all.
He'd brought it up to Joy, half-expecting her to tell him that it didn't matter, but she'd considered his questions carefully. Her first instinct had indeed been to say it doesn't matter, because, of course, it didn't. The nations of Earth were dead and gone, and he so many generations removed from its soil.
But her name was Somerset and it's silly, I know, but I used to fantasise about it as a child. Finn would tell me stories about the moorlands and the rolling hills, and how the air glittered with rain, though I'm sure he made half of it up. But while we grew up in Kirkclair, I think some of Somerset did stay with us. Fragments of colours and scents, strips of the cultural fabric. And I won't lie – I am glad to have those things – but Constant, you've spent too much time in the past as it is. You don't need to reach back to find connection. Roots can be fine things, but they are only starting points. To find who you are, you must look ahead. Don't be afraid of the horizon.
He wasn't, not anymore, because now the horizon glowed with the copper promise of sunrise. A future, but between him and it stood a man whose face was inked with crimson feathers.
"Speak." Cassimer stood at a broken window overlooking the courtyard. A sea breeze swept in, bullet casings tinkling as they rolled over mosaic tiles. Glass shards fell from the window frame, sizzling as they struck his pauldrons. It was a new day on Velloa, the rusty glow of its sun visible over the residential complex's roof, and it was a bitter day.
"You're not helping the Primaterre's reputation of being high and mighty much by standing up there," Kivik shouted over the wind. "How about you come down here? A momentary truce – you have my word."
His word. Laughable. The flight crew had been forced to kneel in the courtyard. Baltimore's dark hair was matted with blood. Their flight suits were wet, and they shivered with cold. The navigator's hands and face were blistered with burns, her hair blackened and frizzy where fire had touched it.
"No." Had to keep it simple. Firm, but not provocative – the flight crew's futures were also at stake. "Talk, or I leave."
"Leaving is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Look, Velloa's a miserable little world, and we've been here for days. We don't want to stay here any longer, the Kalevalans definitely don't want to, and no doubt you're aching to return to your Protectorate, too. I know how you Primaterre get antsy in exo-space, always looking over your shoulders, scouring yourselves for signs of impurity. We used to laugh at that, but we don't laugh anymore." Kivik took off his helmet, shaking out shoulder-length hair. Jet-black and sleek, barring a single thin braid interwoven with red lichen. "Now we know you were right. The demons are out there, and they are coming for you. Velloa's sunrises cast long shadows, Primo. Do they reach for you? Do they dance for you?"
"Seems you're the one doing the dancing. You reject Primaterre rule, yet you're happy to kneel at another master's feet. You even wear his corruption as a sign of your submission."
"The Bright-Winged One is not our master," Kivik said, but his hand went to the braid in his hair, fingertips running over lichen. A frown curled his feather-grazed lips. "It's our ally and friend."
"Skald is no one's ally; no one's friend but his own."
"You speak as though you know it." Kivik's smile was sharp and vulpine. "You're Cassimer, aren't you? The spirit told us the Primaterre were coming. It told us to expect a small team, led by you. The hellfire that scorched Hypatia. The darkness that swallowed Matisse. The man who finally killed Andrew Scarsdale. I guess even Primos do a good deed every now and then."
There was no point in talking to one who would clothe himself in corruption. Leo Kivik was an obstacle to the future, that was all, and the temptation to tell Daneborg to take the shot – his Ratatosk rifle's sight lined up perfectly with Kivik's forehead – was almost overwhelming. But cutting off the head of the snake would do them no good. Kivik wanted something, and Kivik had so far kept his men in check. Kill him, and chances were RebEarth would charge the facility. Kill him, and chances were reinforcements would arrive from the ships in orbit.
When Kivik understood that Cassimer meant to remain silent, he sighed.
"Yeah, I can tell what you're thinking. Hypocrite. Who am I to call you a murderer or Scarsdale a piece of shit? He was, and you are, but hell, so am I. And like you, I've spilled my fair share of blood. Enough to know that there comes a time when you choke on it. A time when you look your enemy in the eye and you know you should kill him, but your trigger finger is just so god-damned bone-weary. There's got to be a better way, you get to thinking, and now, normally, I'd recommend shoving that thought right out of your head before it gets you killed – see, the fucker on the other end of the gun isn't going to be worrying about morality or his soul – but sometimes, there is a better way. Today, we can talk. Today, we can negotiate."
Cassimer would not negotiate with filth like Kivik. Stalling for time, however, was not against his principles.
"Go on," he said.
"Well, we obviously have your flight crew here. I assume you'd like them back. Even monsters care about their own kind. I sent fifteen men into that laboratory and not a one of them returned. It makes me god-damned sick to know I sent them to their deaths. It makes me want to call down an airstrike to wipe their killers from existence, as if that might make up for my failure as their captain. In the end, every loss is mine to bear. I know that, and you know that, and I think you'll want to keep this lot alive."
"In return for?"
"The primer data, of course. You're here to retrieve it; we're here to retrieve it, and the great thing about data is that it can be shared. We can all leave Velloa as winners, Cassimer."
No master, Kivik claimed, but he spoke like one who served at another's behest, interested only in completing the job with which he'd been tasked. Cassimer was a soldier, and to him the bigger picture mattered more than a single mission.
"No can do, Kivik."
The RebEarth captain drew his combat knife. He threaded his fingers through the kneeling navigator's charred hair and put the knife's edge to her burned cheek. Blood pearled on the matte blade. The navigator shivered and muttered something under her breath. Inaudible, but Cassimer felt sure it had been Primaterre protects us all.
In exo-space, Cassimer represented the Primaterre in all things, and he wasn't sure he could live up to the mantra. The ghost of Albany whispered that he couldn't; the memory of Finn Somerset's blood and brain matter between his fingers confirmed it.
But he'd do what he could. He'd try.
"Hurt her again, and we'll burn the laboratory to the ground. Every scra
p of primer data and research, destroyed."
"Empty threats, Commander. You want that data too."
"Want it. Don't need it. Keeping it out of RebEarth hands is an acceptable result."
"At the cost of your own lives?"
"Our lives are in service to the Primaterre. So too will our deaths be."
"God-damned lunatics." Kivik shook his head. Brittle lichen fell from his braid, dusting the navigator's shoulders. Cassimer couldn't remember her name – Steadfast? – and had never spoken to her, but six missions in three months had shown her to be competent and pleasant. He clenched his fist, yearning to wipe the lichen from her. It would be whispering, he was sure of it. It wouldn't have enough time to make its words stick, but that made it no less a violation.
"So what's your plan, then, Primo?"
"We possess the data. We're keeping the data. If you're so sick of this planet, I suggest you leave."
Kivik let go of the navigator and waved over a few of his men. A whispered conversation took place, turning somewhat heated as angry glares were shot Cassimer's way.
The navigator leaned forward, blood dripping onto the courtyard. Her flight suit clung to her thin and shivering frame as she coughed. Smoke-inhalation had hurt her worse than the flames, worse than the blade. Her basic medical augments would keep her alive for a while, but not for a siege.
Baltimore, glancing nervously over his shoulder, shuffled closer to the navigator. He put one arm around her shoulder to steady her, his other hand brushing hair from her face. She relaxed against him. He whispered something in her ear, and in spite of the blood and the burns and the courtyard full of RebEarthers, she smiled. Whether they knew it or not, she and Baltimore were more than navigator and captain; subordinate and superior.
"All right then, Commander. Have it your way." Kivik turned from his men. They scattered in different directions, each with purpose in their step. "But how about a deal? We won't kill the hostages and you won't destroy the data; not even when we come in to get it. Winner takes all, yes?"
An acceptable proposal for the time being. If RebEarth did breach, Cassimer would have no choice but to sacrifice. He'd have to...
Down in the courtyard, the navigator straightened her back. A thin chain fell out from under her collar. A heart-shaped charm dangled from it, warmly gold against her grey flight suit. Baltimore closed his fingers around it, held it for a moment, and then tucked it back inside her collar, out of sight and to regulation.
If RebEarth did breach, Cassimer would have no choice. Whatever it took to keep his people alive. Whatever it took to reach the horizon.
"It's a deal. Winner takes all."
"Good," said Kivik and drove his combat knife deep into Baltimore's shoulder.
When the screams died down and RebEarth men had dragged Baltimore into the darkness of the residential complex, Kivik looked up and smiled. Cassimer denied the flurry of requests from various team members to take the shot, got him in my sights and forced his own hand to loosen its grip around his Morrigan.
"Just a reminder, Commander, that while you sit in there, your flight crew will suffer. Oh, we won't kill them and we won't hurt them so bad that they'll use their kill switches, but because of your unwillingness to negotiate, they won't have a nice time of it. When this is all done – when you are dead – they will still be alive, because I do keep my promises. They'll be alive, in RebEarth hands, and they'll be cursing your name."
Baltimore's blood was a smear of crimson across the tiled courtyard. A red path through a ghostly forest. As the Velloa sunrise glinted off Kivik's armour, the embossed vines writhing like flames, Cassimer knew only one thing for certain.
He and Kivik would walk down that red path together, and only one of them would find a future at its end.
16.
CASSIMER
Bullets whined in through the windows. Velloa's sun had risen to a late afternoon autumn glow, and the broken glass that littered the floor twinkled gold. Cassimer crouched at a window, his Hyrrokkin's barrel close to his visor. Papers fluttered across the room as the sea breeze picked up in strength. The soft sound, like a flock of birds alighting, was punctuated by a new burst of gunfire.
Fist-sized chunks of wall imploded in bursts as an anti-materiel rifle unloaded. A shard of concrete cut across Tallinn's visor, leaving an ugly gash.
"Building's a better shot than they are," she joked, but her voice was tight with tension. The laboratory was too large to be held by seven against a hundred for long. She and Cassimer had taken up posts inside a fourth storey corner office, the north side hers to keep clear, the east his. Elsewhere, Hopewell and Rearcross controlled the south and the west, while Kiruna and Daneborg remained on the roof.
"Keep your head down, Captain. Don't waste APF power." Cassimer edged forwards, raising his Hyrrokkin over the window sill. The bullet holes indicated an elevated trajectory. Somewhere on the residential complex's roof, RebEarth had a sniper. He took a deep breath and let clarity guide his vision.
The world was ember-filled smoke and screaming bullets, but through the scope of the Hyrrokkin, it looked as clear as ice. Time slowed as he took another breath, the oncoming enemy fire seeming to match the measured pace of his heartbeat. Information scrolled on his HUD, turning chaos into orderly facts and figures, but it was instinct, not data, that caught the flicker of movement on the residential complex's roof.
"Tracking a target, Kiruna. Provide covering fire."
Air conditioning units and water cisterns offered plenty of cover on the flat roof. The RebEarther was well-hidden, his thermal signature masked by the cistern he lay prone behind. But for the twitch of his foot, he might have gone unnoticed for another volley.
The tip of a combat boot was all Cassimer could see, and it was all he needed to see.
A squeeze of the Hyrrokkin's trigger, and blue lightning spat across the courtyard. Water spewed from the pierced cistern, flooding the roof and cascading down the facade.
"Target down," he said, certain even before the Hyrrokkin's spent round fed back data. Death had come instantly to the RebEarther. A shame, because Kivik hadn't lied about caring for his men. Unlike Andrew Scarsdale, who'd treated subordinates as tools to be used and discarded, the Shipwrecker did seem to have their best interests in mind. Though the gunfire had been more or less unrelenting, no RebEarthers had strayed too far out of cover, nor made attempts to breach. Excluding Cassimer's kill, they'd suffered only three casualties.
Kivik was careful, cunning, and worse, hadn't been spotted in hours.
"The haemorrhaging should've stopped by now. Even if RebEarth didn't render any medical assistance, Baltimore's med-augments should be good enough to manage that. The pain, too, for a while yet. I'm just worried that his lung might have collapsed."
It wasn't the first time Tallinn had brought up Baltimore, not talking so much as monologuing. A coping mechanism, perhaps. Once Cassimer had understood that she wasn't looking for his input, he'd been happy to let her continue.
"And all those burns suffered by the crew – the longer treatment is delayed, the harder it is to get recon strips to integrate. The nerve damage will be severe. Stars... it's unbearable to just sit in here, unable to do anything. It must be nice to be a doctor in a hospital, or really any place where your patients aren't separated from you by a small army."
"Hospitals wouldn't stay nice very long without Bastion's protection."
"True enough, Commander. I–" A burst of bullets interrupted her. She rolled away from her window perch, finding cover behind a desk. Her visor lights were on, and through the haze of mortar dust, her eyes were bright green. She hugged her rifle close, bracing as her APF flared and sparked.
The cacophony was cut short by rapid fire from above – Daneborg come to keep RebEarth at bay – and slowly, the office settled. A fine film of dust coated Tallinn's armour. A tipped-over bottle dripped yoghurt over the edge of a desk, staining the yellow carpet.
Less than a week ago, this off
ice had been a workspace. A place for people who brought yoghurt for lunch and pinned family photos to their cubicles. A crude drawing of a house decorated the wall opposite Cassimer. Four stick-like figures, two small and two larger, stood outside the house, underneath two bushy-rayed suns.
In the quiet moments of the siege, Cassimer had looked at that drawing. As an exercise, he'd told himself, a puzzle to keep his mind occupied. A planet with two suns and grass that grew wild and ruddy (or perhaps the child had simply lacked a green crayon). He'd run through the list of Kalevala worlds, but though he could remember all six, he didn't know much about them. Not nearly enough to know if any of them had red houses with orange roofs.
But he did know that the children on those worlds wouldn't be smiling so much anymore. Certainly not as wide as these two little stick figures, whose red smiles stretched beyond the borders of their round faces.
He also knew that he and his team were the best hope those children had. He couldn't promise that the Primaterre would keep their end of the bargain with the Kalevala, but he could try to bring the people in the basement home safe. He could try to keep alive a parent whose child drew them as tall and wide-shouldered as a god.
He could try to bring them all home, to the Kalevala, the Primaterre and to Joy.
And maybe one day, his home could be a house drawn in crayon on crinkled paper.
* * *
Night fell, and all the lights went out at once. An emergency exit sign cast a green hue across the courtyard until somebody shot it and it went out in a shower of sparks. RebEarth withdrew into the shadows, their coughing and soft whispers carried on Velloa's night winds.
