by S. A. Tholin
"Memory." Skald put a hand on her shoulder. "Tell your crew to stand down. No harm must come to the little sister. Let me speak to her."
The little sister. The RebEarthers with bright wings embossed on their armour echoed the words. Their whispers reminded her of the drifters on Cato, but these people were far worse. Skald might be singing to them, but he hadn't imposed himself on them. They followed him freely, devoting themselves to the falsest of gods, and now they were looking at her as though she was some kind of idol. While Bastion's posters might make her feel uncomfortable, this made her feel downright dirty.
"Little sister," said a man whose dyed blue hair was a relief in amongst all the red. He sneered, spitting on the floor. "A Primo, nothing more. Kill the bitch and be done with it."
Oh, thank God for that. The blue-haired man might be rude, but at least he had a bit of common sense. Her database identified him as Waters, a former associate of Andrew Scarsdale's. Was he a Cato survivor too?
Memory scowled and waved her hand at her people. They lowered their weapons, but she drew hers, giving Joy her a long, cold glare.
"Hi Joy." Skald slid into a mockery of Finn's voice, mimicking the easy gait of her brother as he approached the doorway. "Didn't I tell you to stay put?"
"The cargo hold force fields dropped when the power was cut. If I'd stayed, I'd be dead."
His mouth twitched slightly. "In that case, I'm glad you're such a disobedient little sister."
"I'm not your sister, you murdering bastard. I–"
Memory fired a single shot. The bullet shattered against the threshold, hot fragments biting at Joy's prismatic suit. She stumbled backwards, as deep into cover behind the door frame as possible, and activated her Morrigan's limited active protection field. The faint crackle of electricity made her skin tingle.
"Address the Bright-Winged One with respect, Primo."
"Memory," Skald said sharply. The RebEarth woman lowered her weapon. He shook his head and whispered to Joy: "She only hurts you because she's jealous. Because she knows she can never be like you. That's what bullies do, Joy; hurt others because they are hurting."
"Don't." These were Finn's words; words she had forgotten but now remembered so clearly. She'd been five years old, and the other children in the apartment complex playground hadn't let her use the swings. Then the biggest girl there had pushed her into the sandbox and rubbed her face in grit. It had been the last time those kids had ever picked on her, Finn had made sure of that. Her brother, her hero, and hearing his words in the mouth of this monster made her sick.
"Don't? Don't what? Don't keep you safe?" He stood in the doorway, so close that she could see the steady beat of his pulse in his neck, just below where she had once stabbed another of his vessels. She stared at it, mesmerised, wondering if she could do the same thing again. "This isn't a safe place for you. These people hate the sun on your chest far too much. You must leave, little sister, and don't tell your slave-mind allies about this place. By the time they breach, RebEarth reinforcements will be here."
"What do you care?"
"I don't, but I know you do. You always cared so much, little sister; too much." For a moment, his Finn-mask slipped, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I long to touch that part of you, unravelling the threads to explore the patterns. Delicate. Intricate. A song that will last aeons."
"I'd kill switch myself before I let that happen."
"Yes." He sighed. "I believe you. But things change, little sister. What is impossible today may be possible tomorrow."
"Enough of this!" The coughing woman raised her gun. "Captain Black – Bright-Winged One – we need that antidote."
"Yeah," agreed a man whose pale face was shiny with sweat. "Let's hear what the Primo wants to trade for it."
"Yes," said Skald, giving her his best Finn-smile. "Let's hear it, little sister. What is it you want?"
"You know what I want. Tell me where he is."
"Ask me the other question. The one that comes first. The one that weighs on your heart."
"Is he alive?"
"Ah, yes. There we are. I can hear your song, little sister. Not so clear as when you were with me in the place of truth, but it's still delightful. Silver sorrow and verdigris fear, with familiar notes of gold and copper." He spoke the words with a kind of amazement. "It's what makes you so special, so different. Your song is unique, but its melody harmonises with one I already collected. When I listen to you, I hear the brother too, and the part of me that is him responds. Wants you, belongs with you, is a little bit of you. I love it. I love you, little sister."
"Your love is unwanted. Your love is sick."
"Sicker than the soldier's? I think not, little sister. I took him to the place of truth–"
"You bastard!" She sobbed, forcing herself not to pull the trigger on this disgusting violator.
"I took him to the place of truth," Skald continued, unperturbed, "and I saw more truth than I bargained for. I meant to take him, little sister, to make him part of me, but his song would fester and blacken. Broken creatures are not meant for eternity. They are best left forgotten."
"That's not true," muttered the blue-haired man. "The Mother Spirit welcomes all her children; even Primo abominations."
"Shut your mouth, Waters." Memory glared at him. "I think the Bright-Winged One knows better than dumpster-licking filth like you."
"Markham gave him that name; not the sages. It's a big universe. For all we know, he could be an alien, or hell, a failed Primo experiment. If he's not of Earth, he's not our ally. You want to keep your freak boyfriend onboard, fine – but I draw the line at taking orders from him."
Memory snarled, looking very much like she wanted to shoot Waters on the spot – but some of her crew were mumbling in agreement with him. Too many for a captain to ignore.
"See what I mean, little sister?" Skald frowned, positioning himself between her and the room. "What you want isn't here. Go while you can."
"I don't believe you. Open the door at the back, show me what's in there."
Skald nodded at Memory, who nodded at one of her crewmen. He opened the door, and there was nothing in there but for some electrical equipment. Signal jammers, her Tower database informed her.
"He isn't here," Memory said. "He is in his cell onboard the ship. A waste, really. Primo prisoners are hard to come by; banneret men even more so. One of them didn't want to play. The other, I never got the chance to try. Still, a towerman will do nicely as a consolation prize. Our reinforcements are nine minutes out, but for you, I'll make them feel like ninety."
"Memory–" Skald began, but the captain barged past him, gun raised.
Joy ran into the shower room, her Morrigan's APF diverting fire, bullets arcing around her. The door frame provided little cover, and the airlock to the decontamination chamber was a good ten metres away. Couldn't make that run, not like this.
And it was weird, she should be afraid, but instead she felt calm. Clarity, even. The signal jammers in the backroom had to be why she didn't have comms. If she could take them out, she could call for reinforcements. Hopewell would come; Polmak would come.
Something hit the floor near her feet, rolling into the showers. GRENADE, her HUD informed her in great big caps, and she had a second to wonder what the hell she was supposed to do with that information, and then–
–a flash of white light blinded her. Her visual augments adjusted to mitigate the effect, but the air crackled with electricity that weakened her limbs. Her knees buckled, all her effort focused on keeping her grip on the Morrigan. Her ears rang, but her aural augments recovered quickly, and she could hear the approaching footsteps.
She looked up just in time to see Memory's fist, just in time to instinctively shrink back. Feather-tattooed knuckles scraped her cheek, finding flesh but not bone. She raised her Morrigan, but Memory was on her now. An elbow to her throat, a hard shove against the wall. Their bodies pressed against each other, black armour grinding into prismatic suit. Joy's he
art was pounding, but Memory was so calm she barely seemed to have a heart at all.
"A little more pressure, and I crush your trachea. It's how I like to kill Primos, especially the ones who have kill switches. It's very satisfying to watch them crawl around on the floor, clutching at their throats. They could end it any time they like, but they hardly ever do. That's what makes it so good, you see. They cling to hope – and then they die, finally understanding that they are not special. Just meat in the end." Memory smiled, wide and slow, and twisted the Morrigan from Joy. It fell to the floor with the dull, heavy sound of a thing designed to kill. With her free hand, Memory picked it up.
The constellation of Libra glimmered as she put the Morrigan to Joy's cheek. Tiny stars, placed there by a man who'd intended for the gun to keep her safe. Designed to kill, but made with love, and she couldn't allow herself die to Constant's gift.
"Let her go, Memory. You know I want her for myself," Skald said, and he couldn't have chosen a poorer way to put it. The black-haired woman's eyes flashed, and the Morrigan bored deeper into Joy's cheek.
"You want what's in here. You want the mind. The body is ours to play with. Waters; bring me a knife. Let's see what Primo tech she's got in her eyes. Swan; get up here and help me strip her shiny shell."
"No." Skald stood in the doorway, blocking their path. "Not now, Memory. This isn't the time. You must let her go back to the Primaterre."
"Must? This is my station. I decide what I must do."
"Kivik's station," somebody muttered, and again, some of the crowd seemed to agree.
Kivik. The name matched an infamous RebEarther in Joy's Tower database. Wanted for all sorts of unpleasantness and listed as the leader of a fleet called the Victual Brothers. The database had him down as involved in several Tower operations, sometimes as a target, other times as an asset – once as part of an old op of Hammersmith's, codenamed Amalthea. Kivik couldn't have been too helpful, though, because he was red-flagged, which mean that as far as Tower was concerned, he should be killed on sight.
But the important part was that with a history like his, he would mean something to these people. Something bad to Memory, who scowled at the mention of his name, but her crew didn't seem to agree.
"If the Bright-Winged One wants the little sister to leave unscathed, we must obey." A woman in the back spoke up. A pair of white wings glittered on her cuirass, and she wore a red bandanna as a veil.
"I obey no one. Not anymore," Memory snapped. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her pupils wide. Fragmented lichen was stuck between her teeth.
"That's right," Skald murmured. "You're more than captain, Memory. You are my bride, and your crown will be made of stars. I know you'll make the right decision. I know you'll let Joy go."
But Joy knew that Memory couldn't. The captain was trapped trying to please two parties – Skald and crew – and only compromise could satisfy them both. Except, of course, compromise was also a sure-fire way to satisfy exactly nobody. And these RebEarthers, how different they were from the Primaterre. Less than two dozen in the lab, and yet there were at least three factions, fracturing into more by the second. Waters, who believed but not in Skald. The coughing woman, who only wanted the antidote. Skald's zealots and Memory's dark girls.
They all wore the phoenix emblem, but they weren't united by it.
"Andrew Scarsdale would be ashamed to see you," Joy said. "You think he bled and died on Cato so that RebEarth could roll over and play nice with Primos at a human houseplant's request?"
"Shut up," Memory hissed, but Memory wasn't going to shoot; Memory wanted her crown of stars.
"Kill the Primo." Waters raised his gun, but the woman in the red veil stepped in front of him, her own weapon trained at his face.
"Let the Primo go," she said, and more bright-winged followers joined her.
Memory's girls drew their weapons. "We do what Captain Black says."
"Fuck Captain Black," shouted someone in the back. "Free Kivik!"
"Memory," Skald warned. "Get your people in check, now."
But Memory wasn't going to do that either. Memory wasn't going to do anything ever again, and Memory was never going to get her crown of stars.
Because yes, Constant was broken. He saw demons in the shadows and daydreams in the sunlight, and he'd run background checks on her Basic Training squad. He'd customised a gun for her, and he'd written a two-hundred-page manual to go with it. And maybe it had taken her a little longer than it should have, but she had read the entire thing, every single page, and she had understood that it wasn't really about proper gun maintenance or auxiliary functions at all. She had read between the lines – but she had also read the actual lines.
"Chapter 56: Anti-Theft Countermeasures," she whispered, gently prying the Morrigan from Memory's stiff fingers. "Multiple functions available, depending on the type of ammunition block loaded. This block makes rounds coated with nano-borers designed to consume tissue. They can also be activated remotely, these tiny semi-organic bots, marching right out of the block and in through the pores of an unauthorised user. They slip into the bloodstream and attack your nervous system, and then they begin to eat. That's why you can't move."
"Cure," Memory managed through contorting lips.
"I'm really sorry, but real Primaterre weapons don't have antidotes." Joy shoved the dying captain aside, stumbled to her feet and threw the painkiller bottle into the room.
"Kill the Primo!" Waters shouted. The veiled woman responded by opening fire. Another man picked up the pill bottle, wrenching its cap off, and the coughing woman lunged at him. The pills spilled across the room. More shots were fired, Waters' supporters avenging his death, bright-winged followers defending the veiled woman, and Memory's girls collected antidote pills for themselves and shot anyone who got in their way.
Skald swore. He bent over Memory's body, pulling her sidearm from its holster.
"Go. I'll hold them off. But as I must die for you, do me this favour: if you see your soldier again, tell him that everything that comes next is his fault." He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice when he spoke of Constant.
Constant, who may be dead already. Constant, whose last days had been spent in the place of truth, drowning in the waters that had taken her brother. Constant, who had made the weapon in her hand.
She wanted to take the shot. She wanted to kill this monster, this inhuman thing, this murderer and violator. It was what Constant would've done – but what was the point? This vessel was one of many. Its death would serve no purpose, would solve no problem. A bullet would kill the flesh but not the neural network. To reach that, she'd need something like... something like the nano-borers, capable of travelling upstream to eat through moonbeam roots. Something like a blight.
She ran. Feet pounding, heart pounding, thoughts pounding; this new idea burning in her mind. Constant had been hunting vessels all this time, but what if the Primaterre had sent a soldier to do a botanist's job?
When the gunfire died down, she could hear the angry shouts of pursuers. They were catching up, but Room 36B had given her a keen eye for space station architecture. Corridors that seemed featureless at first glance were not – this one had the broken light switch, the next one had a tacky spill on the floor, and two more turns and she'd be at the airlock. She wasn't lost, and if Basic Training had taught her anything, it was how to run.
The interior airlock was shut, its wheel huge and old and squealing with rust. The lock opened as the first RebEarth pursuer rounded the corner – one of Memory's girls.
Joy slipped inside, pulled the lock shut and ran for the exterior one. Its wheel was even tougher and her frostbitten hands so clumsy, and behind her, the RebEarther turned the interior lock's screeching wheel faster than Joy could.
Shit. She ran back, grabbing hold of the door as it began to open, her feet sliding across the floor as the RebEarther pulled. Black armour flashed in the growing gap, arms belonging to more than one person reaching for her. One caught her
wrist, yanked hard, and she fell to her knees, losing her grip on the wheel, her wounded palms burning as the airlock door swung open.
She fired at the first RebEarther. Hit her square in the chest, sending her backwards into the station. But the next RebEarther was faster than Joy. She saw his finger on the trigger, heard the gun going off, and then a bullet striking metal, and that was ridiculous, he was less than two metres away, there was no way he could've missed–
–and then she felt the warm crackle of electricity on her skin.
The RebEarther tried to fire again, but the gun was wrenched from his hand. Constant, bloody, dirty and bruised, hauled the RebEarther inside the lock and crushed his skull against the bulkhead. Grey-armoured banneret men stormed in around him, firing into the corridor ahead, advancing past Joy into darkness. The protective bubble of their combined APF vanished with them, but that was okay. Everything was okay.
Constant had stayed. His dark eyes regarded her blankly, coolly, and he stepped past her like a stranger to put a bullet in the head of a still-breathing RebEarther. He stood over the body for a moment, looking as though he was doing nothing at all, but she knew that a thousand things were going on inside his head, that he saw more than what was in front of him. He was with Polmak and Clemency, with Hopewell and Captain Baltimore, with any RebEarther carrying unsecured equipment. He was everywhere.
And then he knelt by her side and touched her face as though to make sure she was real. No longer everywhere – just here; just with her. She spoke his name and he drew her close, held her tight. She leaned into him and felt that this had to be how the universe had begun, that this kind of connection birthed worlds.
"And here I was coming to save you," she whispered, trying to smile, tasting the salt of her own tears on his skin.
"You did," he said, and then nothing more. Only silence – but she could read between the lines.
49.
