The Colonists (The Movement Trilogy)

by Jason Gurley

  THE COLONISTS

  BOOK 2 OF THE MOVEMENT TRILOGY

  JASON GURLEY

  The Colonists

  Jason Gurley

  Copyright © 2013 Jason Gurley

  www.jasongurley.com

  Cover art copyright © Greg Martin

  www.artofgregmartin.com

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Also by Jason Gurley

  The Movement Trilogy

  Book 1: The Settlers

  Book 2: The Colonists

  Other Novels

  The Man Who Ended the World

  For Mom and Dad

  Who always read my books,

  even the icky parts

  CONTENTS

  DARKNESS

  ANSEL

  TASNEEM

  THE BLACK

  AMATERASU

  HATSUYE

  NOOR

  MIRS

  THE MACHINE

  EVELYN

  VARIEN

  ISHY

  CATRINE

  DAVID

  ASIEL

  Dear Reader

  The Movement Trilogy

  About the Author

  DARKNESS

  Earth's time had come and gone. Man had bloomed across its surface like a virus, expanding outward in surges and pulses, claiming its valleys and plains, swarming over its shorelines and mountains. And when Earth had stumbled beneath man's heavy footsteps, man had gathered his things and taken to the stars, high above the skies of his homeworld.

  A time of peace had followed. Men of all nations had linked their arms to form a bridge, and history had crawled up their backs and carried them with it. For nearly two centuries, man stood side by side, accomplishing great feats of science and technology never anticipated. They constructed beautiful space stations and named them for legendary astronomers and moons and constellations and gods. They discovered cures for terrible diseases, and almost cured death itself.

  Survival inspires the greatest innovations.

  The Citadel, man's most awesome achievement, brought about a dark, poisonous age. The privileged men and women were called Onyx, and lived by the sweat of the Machine class, the hardworking men and women who lived belowdecks, in the dark and grime.

  The Machiners scattered throughout the solar system, carving out small homes for themselves on the surfaces of broken moons, in orbit around gaseous planets. But no matter how far they ran, they served the Citadel, and the Citadel provided sustenance.

  For three hundred years, the darkness held true.

  Few knew the light.

  ANSEL

  Blue Planet

  Like a great beast emerging from a black sea, the blue planet rises over the moon's horizon.

  It reminds him of Earth which was.

  If he could have chosen a perfect destination, he might have chosen Triton, with this view.

  He could even tolerate the Nebulae.

  For a view like this, a man could live with almost anything.

  Neptune's hazy blue form was nothing like Earth, and yet, if Ansel squinted and looked just past it, his mind would trick him. It worked every time, at least until his eyes grew curious, and turned to stare at the planet directly.

  Neptune was no Earth. Neptune was more beautiful.

  Gone, the structure of land masses. Gone, the ice caps. Forgotten, the towering mountains. Absent, the thin white wakes of boats on the great blue seas.

  Instead, a vaporous orb, periwinkle blue, its skies the texture of crushed chalk.

  If you listened, you could almost hear it churning, like the dull, distant roar of a waterfall.

  But it was silent, as space tends to be.

  • • •

  Up early, you.

  At the sound of this gruff voice, not altogether unexpected, Ansel turns from the viewing deck.

  And you as well, he says.

  Grant rubs his big, dark eyes. Slept like hell last night, he says. Kept dreaming of a she-demon. She had teeth for eyes, and -- well, she had teeth everywhere. Slept like hell, you know.

  Sorry to hear it, Ansel says.

  Grant waves a hand in dismissal, and starts working on a pot of coffee.

  Always can tell I'm gonna find you here, he says. Right here, at that glass. Like the blue has a hold on you.

  I like it here.

  Rest of the crew thinks you've got a fixation, you know. I had a great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, all kinds of years ago, lived on Earth, worked the fishing boats in Newfoundland. Liked to say that the sea got its gray claws into a man, wouldn't let go. Liked to say it marked a man when it met him. That it would take him one day. It's like that with you and the planet.

  Ansel shrugs. I don't mind.

  They want to know why you're here, actually. Grant pours a cup of coffee and sits at the long mess table. I'd like to know myself, if you want the truth. You're not our newest addition, you know, but you're the most shut-up-tight one.

  Ansel says, That coffee is shit.

  Ah, I know, Grant says. But you do with what you've got, you know.

  Yes, Ansel says. Yes, I know.

  Want one?

  Ansel turns from the glass. Yeah, alright.

  Crystals?

  Black, Ansel says.

  Man after my great-great-great-great -- ah, whatever the fuck. Man after my grandpa's own heart.

  Tell me something, Ansel says, sitting down. How do you know what your ten-times-removed grandpa was saying about the ocean back on the homeworld?

  Grant smiles. I'm a bullshitter, or couldn't you tell.

  You might say I had a feeling.

  I got a feeling about you, too, Mr. Agusti. I got myself a feeling you're up to something. Would that be a right thing to say?

  Ansel peers at Grant over his cup of coffee. Captain Karkinnen, he says, that would be a right thing to say about every human being you know.

  Grant furrows his brow, then nods in agreement. A right thing to say.

  These days, Ansel says.

  These days, Grant concurs. These god-be-fucking days.

  • • •

  The Nebulae, like most satellite stations, was never quite finished. The crew quarters are full of exposed wiring and thermal plating and chunks of insulation. The restroom facilities do not have doors, but since the crew is one hundred percent male, few grumblings arise. The mess hall and bridge are the only segments of the station that resemble a finished product, and they are quite nice, with smooth-as-satin floors and transparent hull walls and faint, glowing illumination that seems almost sourceless.

  Ansel has had occasion to bunk on many such stations during his seven-year tour, and the Nebulae is no better or worse than the rest.

  Perhaps better in one way.

  Ansel's quarters are private. He knows that the other men distrust him for this. Captain Karkinnen is the only other crewman with his own quarters. The rest of the men bunk together, six to a room, four rooms in all. It's a large crew for such a small station, and that there are no women is of no surprise to Ansel. This far out in the system, far from the eyes of the Council, women turn into victims, and then into corpses, and then vanish.

  Ansel is aboard the Nebulae on behalf of one such woman.

  One very, very important woman.

  Engineers

  In the morning, Ansel wakes to the clatter of footsteps in the corridor. He lifts the mask from his eyes, and adjusts to the dim light. His compartment is very small, an
d he stretches out his arm to find the wall beside his bunk. He dresses in the dark, and carefully fits his prosthetic hand into its socket. He can feel the tiny motors in each finger whirr as the hand boots up.

  There are voices outside now. Ansel goes to the door and listens.

  Is that all of them?

  Captain Karkinnen's voice.

  Sir, we're missing two men.

  Ansel doesn't recognize this voice, but this is no surprise. The men all sound the same to him. Admittedly, this is a problem. He is, after all, searching for one man among this thicket of engineers and machinists.

  Which two? Karkinnen asks.

  The second man sounds almost embarrassed. Well, sir -- it's --

  Out with it, the captain says.

  It's Hawthorne and Lacey, sir.

  Fuck. Of course it is. They'll be in the second engine compartment, then. Go retrieve them. Tell them to get their naked asses outside.

  Sir, I -- I don't want to interrupt --

  Cover your goddamn eyes, then, Karkinnen says. Then tell them to get their asses outside.

  Yes, sir.

  Ansel listens to the captain storm away, and the sounds in the hallway disappear.

  He leans on the door so that it won't squeak, and slides it open. The corridor is indeed empty, and then it isn't.

  An engineer in a T-shirt comes dashing by, then stops when he sees Ansel's open door.

  Hey, Ansel says. What's your name?

  Jonah, the engineer says.

  Joba, what's going on?

  It's Jonah.

  Sorry. Jonah. Ansel flicks his eyes in the direction of the airlocks. What's going on out there?

  Well, you probably slept through it, Jonah says with obvious distaste. But we got hit.

  Hit. By what?

  By whatever the hell's floating around out there, Jonah says. I gotta go, so --

  Has this happened before? Getting hit?

  Happens maybe once or twice a year, Jonah says. I --

  Asteroid, you think?

  Well, it probably wasn't a bird, Jonah says.

  Snarky, Ansel says. Good for you.

  Jonah sets his jaw and walks off, shaking his head.

  The hallway is empty again.

  Ansel steps out of his room and slides the door shut. He walks silently around the corner, into the bunk wing. The four rooms are spaced evenly apart, two on each side of the hall. None of them have doors.

  Ansel peeks inside each room.

  Empty, all of them.

  Time to get to work.

  • • •

  The view is ruined, cluttered with feet and arms and tools.

  Sorry about that, Grant says. You heard what happened by now, I take it.

  Ansel nods. Rumor is we were shot by space pirates.

  Grant chuckles and shakes his big red beard. Just the usual asteroid patter, nothing more.

  Anything serious?

  Some pits and dings, a few panels cracked, some knocked loose. Maybe a bit more. The boys are still crawling the hull.

  Ansel tilts his head and looks out at the side of the ship. The engineers are bundled up in their exterior suits, boxy glass helmets, tools clinging to their arms and chests for easy access.

  Do they all go out? he asks.

  They do, Grant says.

  Huh, Ansel says.

  You're thinking that's pretty stupid, Grant says. It's alright. I get it.

  No, not at all.

  A better captain might hold a couple men back, just in case something terrible happens.

  It's space, Ansel says. Only terrible things ever happen.

  They'll be fine, though. They'll fix her up, and come back in from the cold just fine.

  A sudden banging sound echoes through the ship. Ansel doesn't flinch.

  Found a loose one, I reckon, Grant says. Want some coffee?

  No, Ansel says. How long are they outside?

  Been out a couple hours, Grant answers. Be out probably six more. Then they'll sleep, eat, and go out again.

  So the ship's empty right now.

  Empty except for us two buzzards.

  Ansel nods thoughtfully.

  What's on your mind, Mr. Agusti? the captain asks.

  Ansel rests his hands on the table. Seems like a good time to talk.

  Talk, Grant repeats. What's there to talk about?

  Let's talk about why I'm here.

  Grant leans back in his chair and folds his arms. That's an interesting topic, considering I don't have any expertise in it.

  I do, though.

  Alright. Why are you here?

  Ansel gets up and walks around the table. He takes a seat beside Grant Karkinnen, and leans in close.

  I want to talk about Evelyn Jans, he says.

  • • •

  The men eat dinner like wild animals, then drag themselves out of the mess hall and to their bunks. Captain Karkinnen had been wrong. They hadn't spent just six more hours on the hull. Seventeen hours they'd been outside. The sounds of their ragged snores crawl through the ship.

  At four a.m., Ansel sits in the dark of his room, an old screenview on his lap. He's wearing a skullcap with a wire attached to it. He plugs the wire into the tablet, and waits.

  Eventually a picture jerks into view. It's fragmented, and it freezes often, but he can make out the craggy, bespectacled face of Mirs Korski. The timestamp in the corner reads 0432 : FEB 22 2586.

  Outside, Ansel hears footsteps pass his door.

  On the screen, a transcription of Korski's words appear.

  It's been some time, the transcription reads. Your reports have been tiresome and repetitive.

  Ansel thinks, It's true, and for that I apologize. But I have news.

  A transcription of Ansel's own words appear: BLUE FORD HAT LOGIC FLIES HACK NEWS.

  Shit, Ansel says.

  He traces the wire to the skullcap's input. The jack is loose. He presses it into the side of the cap firmly.

  Your last message is unclear, Korski's transcription reads.

  Ansel thinks, I'm sorry. There was a Sense malfunction. I have to transmit in secret. Is this more clear?

  Ansel's words appear correctly on the screen this time.

  A long moment passes, and then Korski says, Better. Report.

  I have news to report.

  Each message takes six seconds to travel between the Nebulae and Citadel Meili, the enormous space station orbiting Earth.

  Don't make me ask what it is, Korski says. I have things to do right now.

  Ansel thinks, Evelyn was on the Nebulae, a satellite-class station.

  Was?

  She was here a long time ago.

  Six seconds.

  Where did she go?

  She never left. That's my news.

  Six seconds.

  Stop toying with me. What happened to her?

  It's a bit of a story.

  Six seconds.

  Let's hear it.

  I thought you had things to do.

  Six seconds.

  They can wait.

  Seven Years

  I was captain for all of six weeks when she arrived, Grant says. Captain before me -- Seamus Belwether, he was called -- up and died at mess one morning. We had a doctor on the station back then, who said Belly's brain popped.

  Aneurysm? Ansel asks.

  Sure, and a big one, too. Old man just got this blank look on his face, then pitched sideways out of his chair. Hit the corner of the table on the way over, so there was a bit of blood to confuse everyone about what had happened.

  Were you the first officer?

  Naw, Grant says. Maybe just the most levelheaded on a ship of tightly-wound fools. Belly didn't do much captaining, to be fair. He had rank from the first System War, that's why he took command here. I'm not sure he ever wanted it.

  He was in the war, Ansel says.

  He was, for all three weeks of it, Grant says. Belly had one good leg and one that wasn't. Not too different from your
hand, there, except where you've got a hand, Belly just had a metal stick.

  You noticed, Ansel says.

  I've got an eye for things. And a good ear. I heard the little motors first time you shook my hand. How'd you lose yours?

  Ansel flexes his left hand. I was in the war, too. Working the munitions dock on one of the freighters. Wasn't anything exciting. One of the weapons crates broke free of the line, trapped my hand against a wall. Flattened it like a slice of bread.

  Sorry piece of luck, Grant says. I hear the new prosthetics have brains. Yours isn't one of those, is it?

  No, mine's just little gears and cogs, Ansel lies.

  Funny thing, you'd think, for the captain of a satellite station to be wary of tech, right? But I am, Grant says. I've seen it do some bad things. Turns friends into enemies. Unravels the best of plans.

  Grant slugs his coffee and gets to his feet. You're sure you don't want any, he says.

  I'm sure.

  Alright, well, if you change your mind, you know where it's at, the captain says, and laughs.

  You said something before, Ansel says. You called the war the first System War.

  Caught that, did you.

  You know something I don't? Ansel asks.

  I wouldn't say that, Grant says. But you're a fool if you think one was enough.

  You think another one is coming, then.

  I think several more are coming, most likely. Council isn't looked upon so kindly, you know that. Especially not by people as far out as we are. Once you get past Mars, you feel the law a little less... tangibly. Easier to go your own way when you see a Council representative once every fifty years instead of once or twice a month.

  Ansel nods. You know, I think I'll have some coffee after all.

  Suit yourself.

  He finds a cup and pours. You were talking about becoming captain, he says.

  Right, Grant says.

  You said Belwether wasn't really interested in running the ship.

  Not really. He was getting up there. Would've been happiest, I think, if he could've put a hammock right there in front of that window, stare all day at the blue, same as you do.

  Were you different? Ansel asks.