by S. A. Tholin
"I'm so glad you're awake. I'm... I'm so glad I'm not alone."
"What are you talking about, Primo?" came a jeering male voice. "The rest of us not good enough company for you? Real hurtful to hear, because you've been good company for me. Well, a good view, at any rate."
"Shut the fuck up," Tallinn snapped, her voice cracking slightly. "Apologies, Commander."
"Unnecessary." He couldn't stand, not yet, so he crawled to the bars. There were more cells than his and Tallinn's. Two dozen, maybe, lining a long corridor. Three guards sat at one end, none of them particularly interested in their prisoners, all of them wearing red-and-black armour. "Which one?"
Tallinn nodded towards a cell three doors from his. "But all of them, really. It's... it's not been great."
All of them, but Three Doors Down had managed to make the top of the list. The guards first. A decent enough handgun on one of them, and their armour should fit Tallinn, just about. After that, they'd make a quick stop Three Doors Down.
"How long was I out for?"
"This time, or in total?"
"This time?"
"You came to when they first took us onboard this ship, about ten days ago. They were hauling us in here, and you killed one of them... broke his neck, just like that. They didn't like that. They..." She turned her face, coughing. "Let's just say I'm not surprised you don't remember."
That explained the bruising on his chest and abdomen. Whenever he moved, something in his stomach twisted painfully.
"You should try to stay still. I've done what I can with your med-augments, but you were pretty badly injured. I had to triage to stretch your resources. Even so, the antibiotics are all gone. This place... the filth... I couldn't let the laceration on your thigh become infected. There's all sorts of resistant bacteria floating around in here. Streptococcus, enterococci, you name it. See that guard? Got a strain of resistant syphilis so bad I can tell from here. If he's got something as primitive as that, who knows what else he's carrying? Who knows what we might catch? Who knows... oh, stars, if only they'd let us wash properly. If only they'd..." Her voice choked with tears, and when Three Doors Down yelled that he had something she could catch if she wanted, she pressed a hand to her swollen mouth.
"Tallinn." He tested one of the titanium bars. It bowed slightly as he tugged at it. "Tallinn, look at me."
But she had drawn her knees up, hiding her face behind a curtain of damp brown hair.
"Katy. Look at me. Listen to my voice." The bar bowed a little more. Enough that he could – if it weren't for the force field – fit a thigh between the bars, instead of just his wrist. Whatever was wrong with his insides protested sharply, but Tallinn was looking up now, and the glimpse of green eyes was enough motivation to start working on the next bar.
"I am your sword of truth and your shield of clarity," he said, and it no longer mattered that this was brainwashing. All that mattered was Tallinn.
Except – and this thought made him cease all efforts for a second – that wasn't true. Joy mattered, and he'd had a choice between her and Tallinn. If he'd kept running, he would have been on that shuttle back to Scathach. He would have made it back to Joy, and he could have had all those things he wanted, and could have given her all the things she wanted.
But he had chosen to go back for Tallinn, and they were going to die here, he could see that; no amount of broken titanium bars would change that fact. Tallinn had got herself caught and Tallinn had forced him to choose darkness over starlight, and when he thought of it like that, it was actually her fault, wasn't it, all her fault and she–
No. No. He smothered that thought, burying it deeper than he'd known possible. Not her fault, never her fault, and when he told her Primaterre protects us all and her face smoothed into a smile as she repeated the words, he knew that he'd make the same choice all over again.
"'Primaterre protects us all'." A man moved up to the bars of the cell next to Tallinn's. He had been afforded the luxury of a phoenix-emblazoned flight suit. Ember feathers framed his wry smile. His hair was still long and black, but no longer intertwined with lichen. "I liked you better unconscious, Cassimer. You're less of a bore when your lips aren't moving."
"Kivik."
"You recognise me, then. Did you know it was me on Hereward, too? I saw your team twice. Didn't know they were yours, of course; all you Primo soldiers look alike in those suits of yours. But I saw your team and I left you alone because the enemy of my enemy is someone I can kill later, and all that. But you couldn't let me go, could you? Had to chase me halfway across the city and destroy my ship. Yeah. Thanks for that. Really appreciate it." Kivik swore, rubbing his arms. "Seeing you behind bars should be a happy day, but it's hard to celebrate when I'm in the same god-damned boat."
"Hopewell wrecked his ship," Tallinn said. "I mean, I can't be sure, but the way he's described it going down... yeah, it was her."
"Hopewell." Kivik smiled thinly. "I'll remember the name."
"You do that. She likes RebEarthers to know who killed them."
"I'm not dead yet."
"Aren't you?" Tallinn let out a long half-sigh, half-sob, and leaned her head back against the wall.
For once, Cassimer agreed with Kivik – not dead yet.
"Do you know where we are?" he asked the RebEarther.
"I know all sorts of things," Kivik sneered. "But I've got nothing to say to you."
Whatever. Kivik had filled Velloa's silence with his words. He'd talk, Cassimer was certain of it, but before he had a chance to press the man for answers, the door at the end of the corridor opened.
A woman entered. Black armour hugged her every curve, shimmering an opalescent green under the ceiling lights, ravens embossed on each of her pauldrons. Substandard materials, too inflexible to have any real shock absorption. For her cuirass to look as sleek as it did, its reactive plates had been shaved down and interlocked in a design that was as elegant as it was weak.
A thick fringe of black hair shaded her eyes, and her long braids were spattered red with lichen. A phoenix tattoo spread its wings across her throat, the left side red-feathered, the right side black. The rifle slung over her shoulder bore the inscription THOUGHT.
Cassimer's primer alerted him to a facial match in its database, but he didn't need to know that she went by the name Memory Black, or the crimes she had committed. All he needed to know was that she was a fool who wore beauty as a shield and corruption as adornment. Dead eyes, hollow soul, as empty as the void.
"Bitch," Kivik muttered, spitting on the floor. A more succinct way of putting it, Cassimer supposed.
Memory had not come alone. A man followed her, and he was strong and tall, the single scar across his nose only enhancing his good looks. Memory whispered something in his ear. He smiled and held out his palm. With a sigh of pleasure, she licked it clean of the lichen he held. When she opened her eyes again, they were bright and hard.
Flanked by the guards, Memory walked down the cells inspecting each and every prisoner – but the man was interested in only one.
"Hello, soldier." The vessel smiled at Cassimer, but the thing that lived inside of it was entirely without humour. It was a cold glimmer in stolen eyes, a hint of bitterness on another's voice. "Stand for me."
He didn't move.
"Stand for me, or Captain Black will gut your woman subordinate."
The titanium bar creaked in his grip. He wanted to break it, tear it from its moorings, and drive it into the leering thing's teeth. Instead he used it to pull himself upright. Water dripped from his arms, running down his torso and legs.
The demon smirked, staring at him from inside the darkness where its roots grew. The water felt like the touch of eager hands. Behind Tallinn, the shadows seemed to move. Cassimer could hear their soft laughter, the echoes of screams from so long ago.
He stood, nothing but titanium and energy separating him from what might as well be a demon, and he saw in its eyes that it knew, that it was doing this on purpose, th
at it wanted him to lose himself to the panic.
"This one." Memory pointed to Three Doors Down. A guard deactivated the force field and swiped a key card to unlock the door. The man pleaded, and then he screamed, and kept screaming as they dragged him out of the cell and down the corridor.
Skald ran his fingers along the force field, his fingertips drawing blue sparks, tracing the length and shape of Cassimer's body. Every limb, every muscle, lingering and leering. Cassimer had no stims, no sedatives, no shields for this; no armour to protect him at all.
When Skald finally left, following the fading cries of Three Doors Down, Cassimer fell to his knees. He touched his forehead to the water, clutched his sides in icy panic, and tried to breathe, tried to focus, tried to remember that demons weren't real, but what good was that when there were things that might as well be demons?
"She comes every day," Tallinn whispered. "Comes every day and takes someone away. That's why I've not activated our anaesthetic med-augments. I think... I think we'll be wanting them soon."
* * *
Seventy-six hours passed, and Skald did not return. Memory Black did, however, and as Tallinn had said, each time she took a prisoner. Wherever they went, they never returned. Wherever they went, it was someplace worse than the cold and stinking cells.
Tallinn spent most of the time silver-eyed, staring into a wall but seeing something else. Their comms were down – there had to be jammers somewhere – but their primer databases were still available, and he understood her urge to dive deep into herself. Her body was held captive, but her mind could be among memories of friends and loved ones. Her mind could be home, and he was happy for her to stay there.
But he had to remain in the moment. He had to endure. He had to try to breathe without Joy, because if he went to his memories of her, he would stay there and lose any chance of ever seeing her again. He had to perceive. He had to plan. He had to find a way to break the situation down into manageable puzzle pieces.
"Do you remember what you said to me on Tuonela, Commander?" Tallinn blinked the silver from her eyes and sat holding the bars of her cell. "It seems so long ago now... but you told me that history is a path to understanding. I gave it some thought, even read a few books about my family's ancestral homeland. To be honest, I found it tedious. So much impure conflict, so many pointless struggles fuelled by greed and vanity, so many names of people who haven't mattered in centuries and didn't even matter when they were alive. They just thought they did, because they had the right blood or title or the most wealth to their name. With people like that, it's easy to see how the demons gained foothold on Earth."
He nodded, because what else could he do?
"But there was one thing I read... did you know that combat medics used to be considered non-combatants? They swore oaths never to do harm, and in turn, their enemies did not harm them. There was one battle I read about... six thousand troops dead on the defending side, but the medics were left alive. Afterwards, the enemy didn't just allow them to treat their wounded – they actually sent their own medics to assist. Can you imagine that? If we followed those conventions, I'd be able to treat you and all the other prisoners here. Even the guards. And I know that they're RebEarth and I know that they're impure filth, but..." She smiled weakly. "But I think I would like that. Maybe my real enemy is infection and rot and disease, wherever it may appear."
"If we did establish such conventions, do you think men and women like our captors would obey them?" Cassimer shook his head. "An unarmed medic would be nothing but a soft target. Even in the past, I doubt treaties were always followed. The battlefield soon sees rules forgotten, Tallinn, and brutal enemies require brutal tactics."
"You're right, of course. But..." She sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. "But somebody has to start. If you want things to change, to get better... somebody has to be willing to lead the way. And why not the Primaterre? If we are kind, perhaps the universe will follow."
* * *
The woman called Memory came for Tallinn next. The medic didn't scream or cry, but she looked to Cassimer, briefly reaching for him, and he reached for her, pressing his fingertips against the force field until his skin burned.
"I won't tell them anything, Commander, I swear it, no matter what they do. Please, Commander... please don't kill switch me. I don't..." She did sob then, a harsh and ragged sound. "I don't want to die."
"I won't, Tallinn. I swear I won't."
He didn't, but forty-five minutes later, she did.
41.
JOY
"...reassigned to Ilminster's banner? Are they serious?"
Hopewell's voice echoed throughout the halls of Scathach Station. Joy had heard her the moment she'd stepped off the elevator and had felt such a pang of longing to be with friends again, but now that she stood at the doorway to the banneretcy common room, she couldn't face going in there. She needed another moment in the shadows to collect herself, because if she was not a hundred percent focused, she didn't know how she was going to take another breath.
"...going to tell Vysoke-Myto to shove his orders right up his arse. I've been under Commander Cassimer's banner since day one! If they think I'm going to accept this, they're out of their fucking minds."
"It's how the banneretcy works, Hopewell," said a man whose densely-muscled arms threatened to split the seams on his shirt. He reclined on a sofa, one bandaged leg propped up on a table. His knee was encased in a plastic brace. "When my old commander was killed in action, his men were shuffled into the banners of others. They'll appoint a new commander eventually, who'll have his pick of men. Our placement with Ilminster could be temporary."
"I don't give a shit how long it lasts! It's not happening, period. I'm not going to Ilminster, Lucklaw's not going to Hildr Station – none of us are going anywhere unless it's to go get the commander!"
"Could you take it somewhere else?" Another banneret man blinked silver from his eyes to glare at Hopewell. "Some of us are trying to catch our breath and maybe enjoy five minutes of downtime before it's back to the tunnels."
"How about you take it somewhere else, Wedlake? Somewhere that isn't the banneretcy. Get loyal or get the fuck out."
"Hey, none of us are happy about the situation, Hopewell – but I'm not the one who quit on the commander. I'm not the one who–"
The scuffle didn't last long, other banneret men intervening to shove Wedlake and Hopewell apart, but there was so much anger, fear and grief; so many other fires waiting for a spark – and not just in the common room, but throughout the station.
Commander Cassimer had been reported missing in action, but the report hadn't yet been made official. As far as anyone should be concerned, he was as alive and well as the poster version decorating the walls of Scathach. But the station was too small for such secrets, especially when the secrets were kept by people as loud as Hopewell.
When Finn had died, Joy had been alone in her grief. A terrible feeling – and yet, arriving on Scathach, she'd initially been upset to see her new sorrow shared. These people didn't know Constant, so how dare they grieve for him? He had never been theirs. He was hers and hers alone, and so should the heartache be.
Except that wasn't true. He was Hopewell's too, and Lucklaw's, and all of Scathach Banneret Company's. Not their Constant, but he was their Cassimer – and perhaps being around people who might understand was better than the shadows. Perhaps focus wasn't as important as connection.
She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold into a world that she had only briefly touched. Hopewell stopped arguing with the man in the knee brace, looked for a moment as though she wanted to run as far away as possible, and then she straightened her jacket collar and smoothed her hair.
"Somerset." Cool, professional. A very convincing act that lasted for nearly five seconds. Joy could see the tears threatening to spill over, the blood where Hopewell chewed her lip. To save the lieutenant or to save herself, she gave Hopewell a hug. The banneret men had enough
tact to avert their eyes, and Hopewell enough composure to pretend she was the comforter and not the comforted.
* * *
"If I could do it all over again. If I could turn back time. If I could gut that piece of shit..." Hopewell trailed off. "You've got to know, Joy, I am so sorry. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't do anything other than relive it over and over again and I keep having this stupid idea that maybe if I just wish hard enough, or if I see a shooting star..."
Lucklaw had come out of his quarters not long after Joy arrived, quietly taking a seat on the sofa next to her and placing a tray of sandwiches and tea on the table. A sweet gesture, and one that seemed taught, as though this was the right thing to do in the situation. Etiquette, rescuing him from flailing like Hopewell was. He hadn't spoken much, only muttering a no problem when she'd thanked him for helping her, but now he peered at Hopewell through his fingers.
"Wishing is pointless, and so is going on about it. Nobody blames you."
"Didn't you hear Wedlake just now?"
The other banneret men had left the room, but the Cato drifter kept glancing at Joy. His habitat cube was open, being cleaned by station crew. The drifter was shackled, quite secure, Hopewell had promised, but Joy still rather wished he wouldn't look.
"Wedlake only said that because you pissed him off, and he said it because he knew it'd hit you where it hurts. Trust me." Lucklaw grimaced. "I know how bullies think."
"He's right," Joy said, although she found it hard to concentrate on the conversation. Four windows stared down on the common room. Four windows for four commanders, all dark but one, which shimmered with faint fluorescent light – the kind of light one might substitute for sunshine in order to grow orchids. "You have nothing to apologise for."
"Don't I? You know the commander better than anyone. Can you honestly say that he would've made the same decision?" Hopewell shook her head, her mouth tightly pursed. "He would never have left any of us behind."
