by Jason Gurley
Have you been sleeping?
Not enough, Murray admits. I can't sleep. I'm tired of waiting. I want to do something.
Not yet, Hatsuye says.
It would make a big enough statement on its own if we just did it now, Murray says. Pull the pin and jump ship.
That isn't enough, Hatsuye says.
If it means I don't have to sit in this compartment any more, I say we do it now.
It isn't enough, Hatsuye repeats.
You're not the one --
It isn't enough. Do you know what this facility is for?
It's a mining station. A processing hub. I'm not ignorant, Hatsuye.
Linset, Hatsuye hisses. Jesus Christ, Murray.
Calm down. God.
Hatsuye takes the bowl of carrot stew out of Murray's hands.
Hey, Murray says.
Hatsuye puts the bowl down on a shelf, then turns quickly and shoves Murray down onto the bed.
Hey! Murray says. What are you --
But Hatsuye leaps onto the bed and straddles Murray's chest, pinning his arms with her knees.
Get off, Murray says, struggling. Get off of me! You're crazy, you --
Do you know what happens if someone hears you call me by that name? Hatsuye asks, her face so close to Murray's that his eyes blur. Do you know? Can you tell me?
Murray struggles, and Hatsuye presses his arms tighter to the bed.
Answer me, Hatsuye says.
Get off of me! Murray says.
Answer me.
Murray fights back, and then abruptly stops, sagging beneath Hatsuye's grip.
I don't know, he says. Whatever.
No, Hatsuye says. Not whatever. Never whatever. There's no whatever in this life, Murray.
Stop calling me --
No, Hatsuye says. You are Murray. You're Murray Handler. You live and breathe Murray Handler until I tell you it's safe not to be. Do you understand that? Do you get it? It isn't safe. It's never safe.
Fine, Murray grunts. Get off.
Hatsuye leans even closer, then presses her mouth to Murray's bandaged ear.
Do you know what happens if I'm found out? she asks. Do you know?
Murray turns his head from her, straining.
Stop fucking fighting me, Hatsuye snaps.
She pushes Murray hard, using him as leverage to hop off of the bed. Murray doesn't get up. He rubs at his arms, breathing hard.
What the --
Hatsuye paces around the small compartment. I've been found out before, she says.
I know that, we've talked --
No, she says. Listen to me. Before, when they caught me, they took pieces of me.
Murray sits up a little. I thought those were accidents. From the bombs.
This was, Hatsuye says, holding up her right hand. People blow their hands off all the time. Have you ever heard of someone blowing off an arm or a leg and living? It doesn't happen, Murray. You bleed out pretty fast, and let's not forget all of the shrapnel that's embedded everywhere else.
Then what happened to your --
Hatsuye pulls her jacket off, then the shirt beneath. Her body is ticked with scars. One breast is misshapen, a scoop of it torn away in a blast long ago. Curling red lines map her abdomen. Her skin is patchy from a dozen grafts.
As Murray watches, Hatsuye pulls a small lever in the shoulder of her prosthetic left arm. The arm separates from her body, and Hatsuye removes it. She puts it down on the bed, and Murray, without meaning to, scoots slightly away from it. When he looks up again, Hatsuye has turned to show him her left shoulder.
Does that look like blast damage to you? she asks him.
The skin is bumpy, but it has healed in an almost level plane.
Murray shakes his head. What happened?
Surgical saw, Hatsuye says. No anesthetics. Nothing to bite on. They buzzed my arm off like a tree branch, Murray, and then they flat-ironed the wound. Do you want me to show you my leg, too?
Murray nearly flinches. Same thing?
Bigger saw, Hatsuye answers.
Murray says, Hatsuye, I'm --
Linset, Hatsuye says. I'm Linset. Forget that other name. It's gone. It doesn't exist.
I --
And let me explain to you, Murray, what happens if we get caught here, Hatsuye says. If they catch us, this time they'll take my remaining arm and leg, and they'll probably gut the nerves so that my body rejects the prosthetics from now on. That's if they decide to let me live. This time, they probably won't. Do you know what happens to you?
Murray swallows. What?
They'll kill you in front of me, Hatsuye says. Because what they love more than killing insurgents is breaking them, and if they killed you in front of me, Murray, I would break, I would break in an instant, because I've been strong all my life, and there are some things that strength can't protect you from.
Murray is quiet.
But, Hatsuye continues. None of that will happen. Do you know why?
Murray shakes his head.
Because that arm beside you, and this leg I'm standing on, are the finest bombs I've ever built, Hatsuye says. If they catch us, it'll be the last thing they do. Do you understand?
Hatsuye can't see Murray's face through the bandages, but his eyes are hesitant, worried. She grips Murray's shoulders and levels her face with his.
Tell me you understand, she says.
Murray slowly nods his head.
We won't let that happen, right? Hatsuye asks.
Another nod.
So, she says. What's my name?
Murray starts to speak, then clears his throat.
Linset, he says.
And you are?
Murray, he says.
Hatsuye nods curtly. Good, she says. Very good.
• • •
Murray is asleep. Hatsuye dries her hair, and studies her battered body in the mirror. It occurs to her sometimes to wonder why Murray stays with her. She has a temper, and she's controlling, and she doesn't tolerate dissent. She wears her past hard, every scar a tattoo that she memorizes daily. She's a woman in pieces, and most of the edges are ragged and sharp.
When he hair is dry, she pulls a brush through it bitterly. She doesn't care for her hair now. It's longer than she likes it, and it has shape and volume, two things that she's done without for a decade.
But Linset has nice hair. Linset wears the simplest makeup, despite holding a job that geysers steam into her face every afternoon, that gnaws at her fingernails, that prunes her skin for hours. Linset has a quiet, almost innocent dignity about her, and Hatsuye wears it like a too-small suit of clothes.
When Hatsuye emerges from the bathroom, Murray stirs.
You're leaving, he says.
Yes, Hatsuye says.
So early. Your shift is hours away.
Recon, Hatsuye says. There's a lot to do.
Murray reaches out and takes Hatsuye's hand in his own gauze-wrapped one.
I'm sorry for yesterday, he says. I'm impatient, and a pain in the ass.
It's your first time, Hatsuye says. It's understandable.
I can't imagine you've ever been like that, though.
No, Hatsuye says.
Murray laughs. When this is through, can we take a couple of days off? I want to walk outside somewhere. Hold your hand. Not through bandages, either. Just take some time.
When this is through, if we aren't dead, we'll have to lay low, Hatsuye says. We'll have nothing but time.
Murray nods. I love you. Linset.
Hatsuye holds Murray's hand to her cheek.
I'm going, she says. Sleep.
Station Three
There isn't much to life on the mining station. Aside from the mess hall, there are few recreational zones on the ship. Hatsuye takes the grav-well to the lowest level of the station, and spends an hour in the fitness lounge. Few others use the lounge. Life on a mining station is a series of punishing days sewn together like a heavy blanket.
As she lifts
, she is joined by a young man with white hair. He nods at her, then asks, Mind if I put something on?
He points at the wave system.
Hatsuye shrugs. Okay by me.
The young man frequency-hops until something cuts through the pale static. It's a woman's voice, talking.
Hatsuye looks up.
The young man says, Next, and the system bounces farther down the band.
Wait, Hatsuye says. Go back?
It's just propaganda bullshit, the man says.
Please? Hatsuye asks.
Back, the young man says.
When the static furls back to reveal the woman's patient voice, Hatsuye says, Who is this? I've heard it a few times, but I didn't know how to tell who it was. I can't tell what she's talking about.
The young man grabs a couple of weights. Like I said, he repeats. Propaganda shit.
Hatsuye listens for a moment.
The woman's voice is unique. Motherly, almost, with a slight edge to her tone.
So much has been taken from us, the woman says, that it's hard to remember what things were like before. Before the Council. Before the Citadel. We're made to work so hard that we forget to remember. But I remember. I never forget. I remember what freedom was like. I remember how it felt when it was stolen away.
Who is she? Hatsuye asks.
The young man grunts in between repetitions. I forget her name, he says. Something unusual.
Is she always on here?
Most of the time, he says. The message loops. I don't listen to her. Crazy old kook has been reading these messages for years. It's annoying.
The great myths of my childhood were replete with stories of entire nations forced into bondage, the woman says. Those nations relied on their gods for strength and courage, and only then were they able to rise up. Well, my fellow spacemen, we live among the stars now. And the space between the stars is great and empty, and there are no gods here. No mighty spirits wait in the wings to inspire us to action.
Huh, Hatsuye says. Crazy.
Crazy, right? the young man says, sweating profusely.
Completely crazy, Hatsuye says.
But she likes what she hears.
• • •
The mining station doesn't have a name. It's one of three stations that orbit Deimos, the last constructed, and so usually referred to as number three. It occupies the highest orbit around the moon, and is substantially larger than stations one and two. The core drills are repaired and dispensed from station three. The largest contingent of miners live on station three.
Station three is otherwise unremarkable.
Except to Hatsuye.
The mining stations are launched from the industrial sector of Olympus, the sprawling, triumphant capital city of Mars. Olympus is the Council's most important inner-system property, practically an extension of Citadel Meili itself. The four councilmen travel to Olympus now and then. Two of their families live in Olympus, in the city's most protected region, next to Athena, the artificial river that winds through the city like a ribbon. One heir lives in that region.
Station three orbits Deimos.
Deimos orbits Mars.
And sometimes, Deimos casts its porous shadow over Olympus itself.
But only now and then.
Not now.
But then.
Soon.
• • •
Murray is asleep again when Hatsuye returns.
She thinks of waking him, but she is tired, and her hands are grimy, and she slips into the bathroom instead. She scrubs at her fingernails, but the black won't come off. Her skin is several shades darker these days. The soot is so fine that it gets in deep and doesn't come out. She's sure it is poisoning her. How could it not be?
Hatsuye pulls the cap from her head, and her dark hair tumbles out. It doesn't bounce like it once did. Even under the cap, her hair has become clogged with the black stuff. She runs her fingers through her hair, and then inspects her hand. Streaks of black on her fingers, her palm.
When the day comes, she decides to shave it all off.
If she could pull her skin off, too, she would.
Hatsuye feels a vibration in her neck, and sits down on the counter. She rolls up her sleeve and exposes the wrist of her prosthetic arm. She presses her wrist, and a segment of the prosthetic extrudes and swivels to reveal a small screenview.
There's a message from below.
• • •
Murray, Hatsuye whispers.
Murray turns over.
Murray, Hatsuye says, a little louder.
What, Murray mumbles.
Read this, Hatsuye says.
She holds out the screenview.
Early, Murray mumbles.
No, it's late, Hatsuye says. You've been sleeping so long it's messed with your internal clock. Wake up. This is important.
Murray groans.
Read it, Hatsuye says again.
Murray sits up, bandages creaking. What's this, he says.
It's from the surface team, Hatsuye says.
Murray pulls at the bandages around his eyes. Damn things, he says.
You can take them off soon, Hatsuye says.
Yeah?
Read it.
Ahead of schedule, Murray reads. No need to wait for second window. First will do.
Hatsuye is beaming.
Murray says, Wait. Second window is what, eight months away?
Not exactly, but close.
First window is --
First window is tomorrow night, Hatsuye says. Tomorrow night, Murray.
Murray seems to hold his breath. So these bandages --
You don't have to wear them for the rest of the year, Hatsuye says. Maybe that ruse wouldn't have worked anyway, but who cares now. You can take them off tomorrow.
Murray exhales. Thank Christ, he says. I have so many little itches.
You know what this means, Hatsuye says. You do, right?
It means it's time to work, Murray says.
They finished their part much more quickly than I anticipated.
How did they --
I don't know. They just did. Don't question it.
Wait, Murray says. What if that message isn't legitimate?
Hatsuye turns on the bedside light. It's legitimate.
But how do you know?
I know.
I don't know, Linset, Murray says. It seems questionable. That's a lot of work to get done in four weeks.
Maybe they found an opportunity we didn't consider, Hatsuye says.
Or maybe they were caught, and someone is fucking with you, Murray says.
No, Hatsuye says.
It's possible.
It's not. It's legitimate.
You can't be certain, Murray says.
I'm goddamn certain, Hatsuye snaps. Do you want the bandages off or not?
Murray hesitates. I really do.
Then stop pushing, Hatsuye says. Tomorrow night, we move. Now read the last part.
Made a new friend, Murray reads. What does that mean?
I don't know. Keep reading.
Sending her to you, Murray continues. Arrival 1200 tomorrow.
A new friend, Hatsuye says.
Tomorrow is going to be complicated enough without a new person in the mix, Murray says. Who's this person?
You know as much as I do. I'm not happy about it either, but we don't have time to fight it.
New friend, Murray repeats. Probably a spy. I don't know. This doesn't sound right.
Hatsuye stands up. Tomorrow, she says.
Murray chews at a fingernail nervously. Tomorrow, he says. You're sure?
Hatsuye ignores this. We have a lot to do, she says. Get out of bed.
Fuse
Hatsuye stands in the starbridge and stares down at the moon below.
She wishes that she could apologize to it. Once, Deimos was beautiful. Now, like the doomsayer says, Deimos is a rotten tooth.
Tonight Deimos will be relieved of
its pain.
• • •
When Hatsuye returns to the compartment, it is 1900 hours and she is very tired. She has been awake since the wee hours, departing with the morning shift surge to trace the route under crowd cover. The service corridors will be empty tonight, so they'll stick to those as often as possible.
When she had been certain of the route and the timing, she went to work. She had quickly arranged for a shift swap, and spent the day scrubbing dishes in the black kitchen. Now she trudges home, her excitement for the night quashed by exhaustion.
She steps into the compartment and stops short. Murray is there, unwinding the bandages around his legs. He's sitting on the bed. There's a woman standing a few feet away, hands on her hips.
Right, Hatsuye remembers. The friend.
But she is cautious now, like Murray was last night. Suddenly Murray's concern seems practical, and Hatsuye regrets brushing him off the night before.
The stranger looks up, sees Hatsuye, and smiles.
I'm told your name is Linset, the stranger says.
Hatsuye nods. Linset, she says.
Linset and Murray, the stranger says. A perfectly delightful, ordinary couple. The Asian woman who works in the kitchen, and the mummy who stays in his tomb.
I'm no mummy, Murray says.
Of course, the stranger says. And Hatsuye here is no ordinary dishwasher. Nobody suspects the dishwasher.
Hatsuye snaps into gear. Until we leave, I am Linset. Listen, I don't know anything about you. The surface team vouched, but that doesn't carry any weight until I know you better. You're a risk -- I know you know that, so I won't belabor the point. But if you're coming with us tonight -- and if you're not, then you really have other things to do right now -- then until we are away, I am Linset, and he is Murray, and you are -- you are -- who are you?
The stranger smiles. Of course, you're nervous. I completely understand. I'm an unknown quantity, inserted into your careful plans at the last moment. You should be nervous. But there's no reason to be. We're working for the same cause. I'm a free agent now, but I hope after tonight I won't be any longer.
Your name, please, Hatsuye says.
Of course, the stranger says again.
She holds out her hand.
I'm Catrine Newsome, she says. It's a real pleasure.
• • •
Murray continues to unwind his bandages.
