Burning Eagle

by Navin Weeraratne

  “What are we doing about it?”

  “Sun Tzu is staying with his plan. The skeleton force is staying to fight the wolf packs, while they’re throwing everything else at the gas giant.”

  “I heard we’re outnumbered five ships to one.”

  “That’s the official number. The word on the street is that it’s fifty to one.”

  “That’s crazy. How can they have so many ships?”

  “Let’s hope someone asks them. Still, how about this port though? It blows! I thought there’d be a lot more excitement, you know? More action. Admiral Tzu and his people are great with the press conferences, but I need some new visuals you know? Something sexy.”

  “The warships coming in through the hedron are pretty sexy.”

  “Done to death now, they even got live cam feeds. I need something new, I need explosions. You think explosions wouldn’t be hard to get in a war, right? We’re already losing views to kitten videos.”

  “Don’t feel so bad. Kitten videos are like the color black. They’re always in.”

  “Yeah, but war is pretty in too. We’re doing a segment on army fashion soon. I’m so going nuts here waiting for a good embed.”

  Farida replaced the lens cap and slung her camera.

  “GEN is pretty high up the food chain. Couldn’t you get any embedded assignment you like?”

  “The asteroid belt ones are just too hot. I get killed out here; I’m in line for reprinting behind like three bajillion marines. GEN was only issued three press passes, my co-worker Chuck Landry, you may have head of him?”

  “Oh yeah,” she lied.

  “He’s already dead.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Really. Dumbass got run over by a truck. The whole war will be over by the time he gets back here.”

  “Way to blow the chance of a life time, I guess.”

  “I know, right? And you know what? The poor bastard’s corpse shitted itself on camera. On camera, would you believe it? It wasn’t Live, but who the hell doesn’t get his sphincter treated? Seriously, shitting yourself when you die? Seriously.”

  “I think the idea with death is that it was never meant to be about embarrassing pictures you have to untag yourself from afterwards.”

  The broadcast journalist stared.

  “Wait - are you – you’re not baseline are you?”

  The shooter smiled again.

  “Oh – my – God! That’s so amazing! Girlfriend, I have to do a feature story on you sometime. How cool is that! A baseline war photographer! Are you – are you fully baseline? Like, no implants? No genetic upgrades? Acne? The Plague? Oh my God, can you get the Plague and shit?”

  “I’m fully baseline. I’ve never got the Plague, I try and keep healthy, but I catch colds.”

  “Amazing. That you can do the work you do, without any implants or gene upgrades - that makes your work so much more impressive.”

  “Thanks! I get that all the time.”

  “Compliments?”

  “Condes – compliments. You really shouldn’t, there’s people miles better than me.”

  “But it’s so quaint! The last time I saw someone with a cold, I was doing a story on indigenous peoples in a jungle. They ate food they caught themselves. They didn’t even have bandwidth. But this is about you, not me – tell me, how did you end up being a baseline in this day and age?”

  “It was my parents. I was born on a farm back on Earth. They didn’t have any implants or genetic mods, and didn’t see why I needed them either. They just raised me to be the best that I could and left the choice up to me. Once I became more aware of things, I decided I didn’t like what Transhumanist technology did to people.”

  “Did to people as in?”

  “Improving yourself used to be something that was hard. It took time, discipline, and sometimes it even took talent. Once you go Transhuman, nothing is ever hard again. Need a skill? Download it. Want a great body? Add to cart. Want to get over someone? Delete file.”

  “I hear you Farida, but these are all still wonderful things. What’s so bad about life getting easier? I mean, really, who wants to suffer?”

  “You’re absolutely right Samantha – they are wonderful things. They do make things easy. And that is exactly why they’re worrying.”

  “Worrying? Really?”

  “Really. Being Transhuman changes how people deal with the world. We only grow when things are hard for us. There’s no reason to figure out what you’re doing wrong with your life, when you can band aid your way through it. That’s also why I won’t accept a rebirth plan.”

  “Farida, hard is one thing. I get that you want things to be a little hard, and I understand what you’re saying. But dead isn’t hard – it’s dead. How can you get better and grow – when you’re dead?”

  “Because the point isn’t to die. It’s to try really hard to not get killed. We grow when we’re tested –staying alive is the ultimate test. If I have a rebirth policy, then what I do no longer matters – if I fail, I come back. How can I grow against adversity, if I know I can’t lose?”

  “Alright, so, you totally made a logical argument I can dig, against human upgrading and stuff. Against rebirth though – meh. All I heard was aesthetics.”

  The photographer paused. This time, the broadcast journalist smiled.

  “I suppose. But here, look at this,” she showed her the picture she had taken.“Look at them. See how nervous they are? They’ve probably smoked more in the past two days than they have in the past year. See how the second guy doesn’t have his own pack? He probably only just started smoking, after working with this other guy. The cigarettes are solace. They’re trying to find comfort, they’re supporting each other. This is brotherhood in arms taking form, right before your eyes.”

  “That’s really cool, and I mean that, but how does that relate?”

  “Because as much as they know they’re backed up and will get reprinted if anything goes wrong, people can’t get away from the fear of dying – it’s just too deep coded into us. I think shooting this war will be the high point of my career. Have you even heard a single shot fired?”

  “I have not.”

  “Neither have I – and yet I’m already getting great shots of people wrestling against adversity. And just imagine - it wasn’t that long ago when these soldiers really would have been risking everything to be here.”

  “I could never do that. I don’t have the guts.”

  “Oh I think you do Samantha. So do all these soldiers. That’s what makes them beautiful.”

  “And on that note, now that we’re calling war beautiful, would you agree then that your opposition to rebirth is aesthetic – well, is aesthetic?”

  “Yes. You were going to say ‘aesthetic bullshit’ weren’t you?”

  “No,” Embarrassment.

  “It’s alright, my husband says worse. He’s out here too.”

  “He’s here? Nice! Is he a blogger too?”

  “Jahandar is with the 42nd Power Suit Infantry Division. They’re fighting in the asteroid belt.”

  “Oh wow! You must be so proud of him. Is he worried about you doing this assignment?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m happy to have that fight with him, but I don’t want him to be distracted. I’ll tell him when it ends.”

  “Husband and wife! Oh my God, Girlfriend, you are so the feature story I need right now. Can we do an interview?”

  “Not right now, sorry,” she checked her camera straps and turned to leave. “My embed is about to leave.”

  “Your embed?”

  But she was gone.

  Sergeant Carreras thanked the God he no longer needed to believe in. He was going to war, at last.

  “Everyone take your nausea pills. I don’t want to hear any upchucking.”

  Helmets nodded and gloved thumbs upped. Two rows of soldiers, crash-taped into their seats like well-treated toddlers. Rail rifles stowed by their sides, throw-drones strapped to their l
egs. The Firebird transport was built to carry whole platoons. They’d survive any atmosphere and land steady in most gravities. Pair them with forward-towed hedrons, and nowhere was safe from the Droptroopers.

  A big white grin peeled open under a visor.

  “What are you grinning about Morgan?”

  “Sir, I thought they were going to pass us up for more power armor jockeys.”

  “We’re Droptroopers, asshole. No one passes us up.”

  “Yes Sir!”

  “Damn right.”

  Truth was Carreras had wondered himself if they’d get passed up. This wasn’t a fight for light infantry. This wasn’t even a fight for power armor marines.

  The air cracked with sonic booms. He looked out the viewport at trans-planetary bombers that were already gone. This was a nuke fight, and they were boots on the ground.

  About fucking time.

  The Earth powers had always blocked moves towards a standing, Union, military. National navies, colony patrols, even independent contractors were fine. But even a Hedron-hopping coast guard was too threatening to Beijing and Washington.

  Then Paradiso, happened.

  The Interstellar Union Navy was now the largest fleet in (human) space. Earth and colonial auxiliaries doubled its size. The UMC was a rushed clone of the USMC, but the Union Droptroopers were an all-new service.

  He’d done customs inspections. He’d done hostage rescue. He’d done Von Neumann rapid response. This was the first time he’d done war. It was a big one. It was the big one, what they had all been training for. And there was nowhere else in the Universe he’d rather have been.

  He got in his seat and pulled the crash-tape over. It turned grey and hardened, keeping him safer than a hundred airbags. The hatch on the transport began closing.

  “What the hell?”

  She jumped in just as the hatch clamped shut, commando rolling on the deck. She passed the startled men, and taped into the first open seat.

  Opposite Carreras.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Engines roared, the Firebird jerked into the air. Through the viewports, the ground disappeared. Carreras began feeling for the tape-release.

  “I wouldn’t do that, it’s about to get bumpy. You can’t detain me for another twenty minutes at least, and then where would you put me? I may as well stay right here where you can see me.”

  “What the hell are you doing on this dropship? Lady, you realize we’re going into a fight?”

  “I know, that’s why I’m here.” She pulled out a camera, leaned forward, and snapped his incredulity. “This is my embed.”

  “Your embed? I wasn’t told we were taking on a reporter!”

  “That’s because you’re the first to know. I’m not here to take pictures of smoking buildings and marching POWs. See that guy there?” she pointed at the ever-grinning Morgan. “I’m going to get his face, when he bags his first alien. And that chick over there who needs to start shaving? I’m getting her when she throws a chaff grenade to throw off a micro missile. And you,” she jabbed the word, “I’m going to get you putting pressure on a man’s wound and saving his life.”

  She tilted her camera in her lap suddenly and shot the staring marines. She never took her eyes off Carreras.

  “Lady, I got no one here who can babysit you.”

  “I don’t want babysitting; I can take care of myself. Pretend I’m not even there, I won’t get in the way.”

  “That’s for the lieutenant to decide.”

  “There’s really nothing he can do about it. You’re stuck with me, and the best thing you can do is ignore me and go about your business.” Click! “Which is exactly what I want.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “You’re the one going into battle against an enemy we know next to nothing about, and I’m the one who’s crazy?”

  “This is my job.”

  “And this is mine.”

  “You got stones.”

  “Nah, I just really need to be here. My husband’s in the 42nd Power Suit Infantry Division.”

  “The 42nd? They were the first in. Is he even alive?”

  “Probably not, but I have to try and find him all the same.”

  “If he’s not dead, he’ll be pretty busy.”

  “Good. Then he won’t notice when I’m taking pictures of his finest moments.”

  Havelock IV

  A dark hallway. Flickering lights ran along the ceiling at intervals, cold and selfish.

  “Follow me Sir,” the fat black-uniformed guard walked down the hallway. His ring of iron keys jingled with each booted step. We passed numbered doors inset with panes of one-way glass.

  “Here you go. A, A, Twenty Three,” he stopped at a door with a metal folding chair beside it. “The VIP prisoner.”

  “That she is.”

  “People are visit her daily. Take the chair, there’s nothing to sit on inside.”

  “Thanks. Can you make sure we’re not disturbed?”

  He nodded. “Just holler when you need me.”

  Fingers whitened around the key, the door unlocked. I stepped inside.

  The cell had no windows, just a single gloomy light with no switch. It was a block five paces square. From the ceiling, a single, rusted vent, torrented cold air. A mattress in one corner, a bucket and a sink in the other.

  The Storyteller sat on the mattress, her arms around her knees. She was thinner, paler, bags under her eyes. She wore grey, formless pyjamas. Her fingers and bare feet were bloodless with cold.

  I put the stool down and sat in front of her. I opened a little brown bag I had and pulled something out and offered it.

  She smiled the thinnest of smiles and slitted her eyes.

  “Agent, did you think I would sell out the Resistance for your apple?”

  I shrugged and put it down on the mattress in front of her.

  “I know they’re only feeding you once a day.”

  “Not today they didn’t. I’ve had nothing.”

  “I know. Did you sleep well?”

  “Not with the way the light gets really bright just when I’m falling asleep. Or when the guard bangs on my door. I’m sure you already know that.”

  “You really should eat the apple.”

  She took it and bit into it, hungrily.

  “Shouldn’t you have waited till I gave you something for it?”

  “If you were younger, yes. But you’re too frail for that sort of thing.”

  “Too frail? My, I don’t know if I should feel insulted or feel cared for.”

  “Do you know how long you’ve been in this cell?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Six days.”

  “Six days? I thought it was longer.”

  “That’s because you can’t judge the passage of time in here.”

  “They took my watch. I’m marking time by how often the guard comes in to change my bucket.”

  “You could do with a proper meal and a good night’s rest.”

  “I could do with a pedicure and a hair appointment, but that’s not happening either.”

  “You must be bored.”

  “Bored? Not at all. All these young men and women coming in to see me all the time and ask me questions, I honestly have no time to be bored.”

  I reached into the bag and pulled out one more item. Her eyes locked and tracked like a missile guidance system.

  “Here.”

  She took the hardbound book in both hands and stroked its cover, reading the gold lettering again and again as if to make sure.

  “Caesar’s commentaries on the conquest of Gaul,” she opened it and flicked through the yellowed pages. She smiled like an aunt at a newborn niece. She held the artifact to her face, closed her eyes, and inhaled.

  “I thought you might want something to read.”

  She looked up at me. The same look a girl makes when you’ve done something nice and she doubts your motives.

  “The Alliance has a
n archive of these, sequestered and banned human artifacts that it is keeping safe. They’ll be released once the insurgency is over. A lot of them are books.”

  “How many books do they have?”

  “Tens of thousands.”

  Her face lit up. I guessed this was more than the insurgents had. It was all a lie of course, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “Angelica, a lot of people are going to die if we don’t find those antimatter factories.”

  “I don’t know about any antimatter factories.”

  “Really? Two days ago you said that you did. In my business, we call that a slip up.”

  “They put words in my mouth.”

  “That’s not what it sounds like in the transcript. We know you know, so there’s no point in denying it.”

  “I don’t know anything!” she snarled.

  “Well, I do know that you are a caring person Angelica, that you are not some imbalanced mass murderer. I know you care about human life, even the lives of people working against the insurgency. You even care about my life.”

  Daggers flew out of her eyes and stabbed me.

  “Maybe not my life. But I know you don’t support the wholesale murder of hundreds of thousands. And I know that if we give you long enough you’ll act on your conscience and prevent this disaster from happening. But I don’t know if we have that kind of time Angelica, and that’s why we’re doing this.”

  She looked away and stared at the wall.

  “All you have to do is give me a name, and we can start saving lives.”

  A frown formed on her face.

  “Angelica, where are these factories?”

  “Why ever would I tell you?”

  “Because I know you think books are priceless. And because you won’t let me order them burned.”

  She got to her feet, her fists balled.

  “You wouldn’t, you wouldn’t dare!”

  “I know where the wound is. Are you surprised I’m pressing a knife into it now?”

  I picked the book off the mattress and held it up.

  “This is the only copy of this book in the fleet. Tell me where a bomb factory is, or it gets thrown into space. You decide.”