Lonely Castles

by S. A. Tholin

  There was no station-wide announcement to herald Endymion, no siren and no signal. Just a quiet hissing as gas was released from the ceiling, and a notification sent to every banneret commander and high-ranking officer. Cassimer dismissed his, while over the team channel, Polmak cheered.

  Amager went limp and he eased the man onto the floor.

  "It's done. The medics will be able to restore the station in a matter of hours."

  Joy nodded distractedly, staring at Amager's prone body. Thinking. Hesitating. Maybe even afraid.

  "He'll be fine," Cassimer said, and she nodded again.

  After a moment of silence, she looked up at him, blinking silver from her eyes.

  "Constant, there's something I need you to do for me. I can't tell you why, not yet, and it's going to sound really wrong, but–"

  "Consider it done."

  * * *

  He carried Amager to the med-wing where Rhys, gas mask strapped to his face, waited outside a vault. The med-wing manager lay slumped at his feet.

  "About time," Rhys groused. "Sooner or later, somebody's going to wonder where this guy is."

  "Sorry." Joy gingerly navigated between the bodies of unconscious medical staff on the floor. She pointed to the vault's lock. "Here, please, Constant."

  He obliged quietly, saying nothing even when the vault opened and he could see the primers within. He watched Joy and Rhys work the machinery, and he watched milky primer be dispensed into a vial, and he watched Joy take it. When they sealed the vault again, he watched her and Rhys smile at each other, their shared exhilaration a familiar sensation.

  It was the exhilaration of a mission satisfactorily completed.

  It was Joy's mission, and that was all he needed to know.

  53.

  JOY

  "I had to watch the entire thing." Elsinore stood on scaffolding, corpse pale in the plasma moat's light. Yellow Xanthe was a wound on the star-spattered view behind him. "Fox Chapel. Wideawake went there a couple of weeks before the incident."

  Incident. A fine euphemism for murder. Joy set down the bucket she was carrying with a thud. Sapporo, the analyst who Hammersmith had roused, gave her a concerned look.

  Need me to take him to his quarters?

  No, she texted to Sapporo. The analyst never spoke – spend too much time connected, and voices came to sound too loud, he had apologetically told her when they first met – but he was a good chaperone. A towerman through and through, and likely as untrustworthy as the rest, but so far he hadn't disappointed. He also liked her coffee quite a bit, and appreciation, no matter how small, never went amiss.

  In the weeks since returning from Scathach, Joy had spent most of her time alone. It would have stayed that way if it weren't for the cracks running across one of the core chamber's floor-to-ceiling viewports. It needed fixing, and it needed all hands on deck, and even though she wasn't sure about being around Elsinore, she was quite sure about not wanting a hull breach. So here she was, five metres above the floor on a quivering scaffold platform, slathering layers of ALL-PURPOSE REPAIR GEL (CLEAR) on the window and crossing her fingers that its manufacturer hadn't been kidding about the all-purpose part.

  "Wideawake's good at his job. No, better than good. In the past few months, he's gone from being a Kalevalan banker to a Heptarchy speech writer to a Primaterre health and safety inspector, and it's like he doesn't even need to stop to take a breath. He went into Fox Chapel's facility, smiled and shook hands and knocked over the first domino of their destruction. Smooth as hell. Even got the CFO's personal number, "in case you'd like to continue your inspections elsewhere"." Elsinore scoffed. "I was with him remotely, infecting systems and deploying mind-worms. But the thing is, he didn't stick around for the aftermath. I was in their surveillance systems, their sensors, their heads. It was necessary, you see, to capture and trace the trigger signal to its point of origin. Necessary. What a horrible word."

  The plasma moat lit up, washing the room azure blue. Silver flames leapt between the arcing pylons high above and outside, and Joy's stomach turned with by-now familiar nausea. The Cascade was completing a fold.

  The shuttle that appeared could've been either one of Room 36B's two shuttles, the Imago and the Instar. No way of telling if it was Hammersmith, Wideawake or Lutzen's fabled Black Niners. Some flavour of unpleasant, either way.

  "I've seen demonic outbreaks before, of course, but it's not the same when it's happening in real time. The things the mind-worms fed back to me... a triggered mind is a bloody nightmare."

  "You don't need to tell me," Joy said, and Elsinore all but shrank at the sound of her voice. "Skald triggered my h-chip on Cato. I know exactly what it feels like to be 'possessed'. I know exactly what you and Wideawake did to those people."

  "That's not in any of the reports."

  "Couldn't very well be, could it?"

  "I suppose not. But the banneret team should've killed you. Even if they did know the truth at that point, I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd shot you on the spot. How are you even alive?"

  "Trust," she said. Rhys's trust in her; Constant's trust in him; the team's trust in each other.

  "We're low on that around here."

  "Yeah." Which was why Room 36B had spent decades unsuccessfully fighting an invisible enemy, and why they would continue to do so. A war couldn't be won without trust, because untrustworthy allies would simply become the next enemy. "Almost as low as we are on repair gel," she said, tipping her near-empty bucket towards him.

  A smile flickered on Elsinore's face, but it vanished in a wave of misery. His shoulders slouched. "There's more in the utility room on Level Three. I'll go get it."

  * * *

  Elsinore left, Sapporo his shadow.

  Being alone in a Cascade core chamber on the verge of implosion wasn't the best thing in the world, but at least the work seemed important. After Scathach, Hammersmith had sent her a bunch of files on Heptarchy citizens, tasking her with trawling through their online activity and collating data on their habits. If it was at all important, it certainly had no bearing on the actual mission at hand.

  The analysts were working on the primer sample she had provided. There was nothing she could do to speed their work along, and there was nothing anyone could do until their work was completed, but it felt like it was taking forever.

  The reports from Scathach Station didn't help matters. The 'demonic outbreak' wasn't public information, and even within Bastion, it was a safely-guarded secret.

  "It would be counterintuitive for this information to spread to other stations," the Bastion colonel who'd handled her debriefing had said, passing her a slew of NDAs to sign. "Or to Tower."

  She didn't disagree, but even from hundreds of light-years away, it was evident that secrets were as bad for morale as fear. 5,362 personnel had been on Scathach, slightly more than half falling under Skald's control. Ninety-six dead. Some from self-harm, a few from bad falls when Endymion Protocol was initiated, but most had died to fellow Primaterre. Worse, to fellow Bastion men – and while the corrupted tended to have few memories of the event, the ones who'd been forced to defend themselves remembered everything.

  They were frightened and guilt-ridden and forbidden from speaking so much as a word about what had happened. Station Chief Amager had suggested handing out blanket pardons, but Bastion Command had point blank refused: "A pardon implies wrong-doing.". Joy understood their perspective – they had their men's backs – but the thing was, their men felt like they had done wrong, that they had done the worst thing imaginable, and the lack of punishment, or even disapproval, left them struggling.

  Not even banneret men were immune to the guilt. Sergeant Daneborg, one of Cassimer's men, had taken it especially badly. Two partners lost in a matter of months, one of them permanently, and three Scathach deaths on his conscience had seen him sent straight to the station psychiatrist's office – and he had not returned. Might not return for weeks, months, or ever. Hopewell had been distr
aught, had wanted to see him herself – "I bet I can do a better job cheering him up than that hack of a shrink" – but Daneborg had already been shipped off to recover elsewhere.

  Joy had been on the next shuttle to depart. She hadn't wanted to, but she couldn't risk losing or tainting the raw primer. It had felt so wrong to leave Constant in a departures lounge acrid with the smell of bleach. Some of the sofas still had stains on their upholstery, stubborn stains that refused to disappear no matter how hard the station crew scrubbed. Pink foam on grey upholstery, buckets full of dark water – these were the things she remembered most, no matter how hard she tried to recall the kisses goodbye, the promises made.

  Oh, except for this one thing: "I'll be back as soon as I can."

  Not a lie – she would keep that promise – but she had made it expecting soon to mean within the week, or to be more precise: before you leave.

  But Hammersmith had ordered her to stay in 36B until he returned from other business. Days had turned into weeks, and then one morning, she'd woken up to a message that read: Cleared for duty. Her (many) replies had gone unread, which meant only one thing: Constant was no longer on Scathach. Three weeks later, he still hadn't returned, and there was no telling when

  if, a horrible voice in the back of her mind whispered, and she squashed that like a bug, squashed it hard, because there was no such word, only

  when he would be back.

  "Somerset." Hammersmith's voice didn't echo in the cavernous core chamber. Too dour, too heavy; perfectly right for the yellow mists of Xanthe.

  "Welcome back," she said, although she wasn't sure she meant it. She set down the bucket and climbed down. The viewport had lasted six hundred years, so hopefully it'd manage another couple of minutes.

  "Thanks," he said, not entirely managing to convince her that he meant it. He eyed the viewport, frowning. "Might have to shut the blast shields permanently. It'd be a shame."

  "Yeah, wouldn't want to miss out on the wonderful view. 36B just wouldn't be dismal enough without Xanthe glowering at us all day long."

  "It's a reminder."

  "You think any of us need reminding?"

  He scowled, kicking out a chair from the table. When he sat, his left hand clutched at his ribs momentarily. A fresh injury, perhaps, and it struck Joy that she really had no idea who this man was, or what he did when she wasn't looking. To be honest, even when she was looking. All she could know for sure was that he worked hard, seemingly ceaselessly, and maybe that – if nothing else – made him deserving of a genuine welcoming.

  "Coffee?" she asked.

  "Don't care for it."

  Of course not. "Tea?"

  "If you think you can charm your way back into my good graces, think again."

  "I'll take that as a yes. Sugar? Milk?"

  "Yes; no."

  * * *

  "Good job acquiring the primer. Quick thinking, turning disaster into success." He turned his empty mug round and round, tea remnants swirling in the bottom. "We'll be ready to move soon. Feels strange even saying it, after all this time. Let's hope this time is the charm for the Hesperia."

  Superstition was impure, but Joy supposed she couldn't hold it against Hammersmith. She couldn't stop looking at the tea remnants, wondering if fate could be foretold in leaves even if they'd been pulverised and bagged. Even more superstitiously, she wasn't too comfortable talking about the Hesperia or their impending mission to Earth – especially not without any wood in knocking range.

  "Are you familiar with a RebEarther named Leo Kivik?" she asked instead. If she wanted to get to know Hammersmith, the direct approach wouldn't work. She'd have to skim the edges, like she'd done with Waldorf.

  "The Shipwrecker. Sure. Sworn enemy of Rampart, occasional tool of Tower. Dedicated to the RebEarth cause, but his definition of the cause is a little looser than most others'. A useful man, but always on the verge of outliving his usefulness. He likes it that way, I think; thrives on the razor-thin line between friend and foe."

  "You've met him?"

  "No."

  "But you've worked with him."

  "Not as far as he's aware." Hammersmith smirked, scratching the rim of the cup with his fingernail. "Bastion men take pride in ridding the galaxy of RebEarth. Towermen take a less simplistic view. Certainly, there is satisfaction in killing an enemy, but it doesn't compare to the satisfaction of manipulating the enemy into acting on your behalf. Still, in the case of Kivik, a bullet wouldn't go amiss. Tell Cassimer to pull the trigger the next time he's got a bead on the Shipwrecker."

  "Even though he helped you with Operation Amalthea?"

  "Amalthea." Hammersmith grimaced. "The Lucklaw boy told you about his encounter with Captain Osten, I take it?"

  She nodded, though Lucklaw had told her no such thing – much in the same way that Cassimer hadn't mentioned encountering Kivik. Banneretcy business wasn't her business. Tower business, on the other hand, she was happy to poke her nose into. Non-specifics, neutral expression – anything to make Hammersmith think she already knew what Amalthea was. That was the only way she'd get anything out of him.

  "Kivik was only tangentially involved in ops logistics. He was meant to provide transport – and failed to do so when the op got too hot. Can't blame him. He only did exactly what you can expect of RebEarth filth. The blame is all mine – but don't worry, Somerset. I learn from my mistakes."

  "Mistakes like giving me the mandate to run an op with a banneret team?" She held her breath. The brief and remote dressing-down he'd given her earlier couldn't possibly be enough. No doubt he'd been stewing in his disappointment.

  "The nature of Room 36 doesn't allow for micromanagement. I expect my field operatives to act independently. So long as they stay within the parameters of the mission, they may use their judgment as they see fit. Emotional attachments aside, I am aware that you believe Cassimer would be a useful recruit to our cause."

  "We're going into unknown hostile territory. Is there any man more qualified for such work? You know what he's capable of."

  "Which is exactly why I fear him. Still, Elsinore collected the surveillance footage from Scathach before tidying up. Thanks to you roping Cassimer into helping you steal the raw primer, we now have incontrovertible evidence of the two of you committing a capital crime together. With that leverage, we may be able to control him."

  "I told you we don't need leverage!"

  "Better safe than sorry. Like I said, I learn from my mistakes." Hammersmith stood, wincing as he stretched his ribcage. "You did good on Scathach, Somerset. Maybe a little too good. Have you seen the footage of you and Cassimer climbing the central column? Or of you fighting to keep a dying banneret man alive? Bastion Command has, and they're none too pleased about you being wasted 'in some cobwebbed corner of Tower'. I've denied all transfer requests so far, but eventually, they'll stop requesting and begin demanding."

  "Maybe I should transfer," she said, thinking of Scathach and how Lieutenant Rearcross had smiled when he called her Earthborn. If her presence increased morale, then they could call her anything they liked. Anything to help Scathach heal.

  "No." Hammersmith smiled thinly. "You're too valuable to let go."

  "Until the mission's over, you mean?"

  "Sure," he said, and she had never trusted him less.

  54.

  CASSIMER

  He waded through underwater groves of slippery sawgrass, the marsh bed thick with sediment that sucked at his boots like quicksand. Faint sunlight filtered through the murky water.

  Silver flashed to his right. A fish, darting past. The rangers would be pleased to hear of it. Hereward's marshlands were native to the planet, their flora and fauna a unique treasure that RebEarth had squandered, destroying the land with urban sprawl, pollution and over-fishing. Hereward was not Earth, therefore not part of the Mother Spirit's domain and no concern of theirs.

  He broke the surface of the water a few metres from a sandbank. Pine forests burned to the east; a city to t
he south. Echoes of heavy artillery rolled down a distant mountain range. Cataphracts, and his heart couldn't help but long for the simple battles fought in Helreginn armour. No shades of grey were visible through a cataphract suit's visor; only black and white.

  But as he turned to count his team in and caught a glimpse of a trout's rainbow scales behind Lucklaw, his regrets faded. Better to see than to be blind; better to feel than to be numb.

  "Our ride's here." He nodded towards an Epona parked up about a kilometre away. Its optical camouflage was active, rendering it near-invisible among swaying bulrush. Its engines began to rumble, stirring wading birds from their nests.

  "Good." Hopewell climbed up the sandbank and shook water off her armour. "You all know I'm up for anything, so I don't say this lightly – but I could seriously use a vacation. And if that's not possible, then anything that doesn't involve a sewer or a swamp. Feels like we just clawed our way out of nature's own toilet bowl. Smells like it too."

  "Keep your visor shut. This sector isn't secured yet," Cassimer said, although he liked how a cattail seed had settled on Hopewell's cheek, and how the sun lit her skin. He wanted to feel these things too – but security was paramount.

  Rhys was last to make it out of the marsh, the look on his face suggesting that he'd rather have picked anything else for his first mission back on the team. That made a full count: Rhys, Lucklaw, Hopewell, Rearcross, Wedlake, Quick, and the two new recon men, Skye and Keszthely. It was hard getting used to new faces, and Cassimer kept catching himself looking around for Daneborg or Valletta. A good thing, he supposed, that they were not so easily replaced.

  "Commander." The Epona pulled up, and a Bastion operations officer jumped out, proffering a tablet. "Confirmations, if you please."

  Cassimer connected to the officer's tablet, transferring all DNA data collected by bullets, knives and the team's sensors.

  "Hmm, very good," the officer said, as a list of names scrolled past. "And the installation? Was it as Tower intel indicated?"