by Rick Partlow
“Does everyone have to pull a mother away from her children because she’s been implanted with a tracker and can’t be taken to the one safe place hidden from the Tahni? Does everyone have to watch innocent civilians starve in open pens in the city square because you were part of the mission that destroyed the food sources to keep them from the enemy? I don’t remember hearing about that in the Marine recruiting videos.”
I felt a tightness in my chest even thinking about the living skeletons huddled together against the cold, dying slowly and painfully. I fell silent, unable to meet the Counselor’s eyes.
“You witnessed things that were hard to see,” Marks granted. “But my point is, why should you bear the guilt for them rather than the Tahni? It was their decision to turn civilians into pawns in their war. You merely had to play the hand you were dealt.”
“I know you’re right, sir,” I told him. “But saying it is one thing, feeling it’s a bit harder.”
“I suppose,” Marks said, steepling his fingers, “that the question you need to ask yourself is, if you were forced into the same situation again, what, if anything, would you do differently?”
I thought about that for a moment. It was actually a damned good question. After a moment, I looked over at him, nodding.
“I don’t guess there’s much else I could have done that wouldn’t have made things even worse.”
“Then the guilt isn’t yours to feel,” Marks assured me. He leaned forward, fingers interlinking. “I’m inclined to clear you for duty, Sergeant. Although I’m sure there are lingering psychological effects from what you’ve been through, I don’t believe there’s much to be gained from lying around staring at the inside of your own head and dwelling on it.”
“That seems very un-Counselor-like of you, sir,” I remarked, grinning slightly. Maybe I was wrong about this guy.
“Well, I am a military officer,” he reminded me. “And at this point, we need every good soldier on the line.”
“I’m not a soldier, sir,” I corrected him smartly. “I’m a Marine.”
“Apologies,” he said with a smile that seemed genuine. Then he stood and offered a hand. “Good luck, Sergeant.” I shook the hand, and he hesitated as he let it go. “One last thing: I know you’d rather not discuss your family, but I do have to tell you as a Counselor that eventually you’re going to have to make peace with them. Try to do it on your own terms.”
The transition from the air conditioning inside the lobby of the Fleet Medical Complex to the late morning humidity of Tartarus was as breathtakingly miserable as usual, and I was hoping the wait for a bus back to Marine HQ wouldn’t be long when I heard a chime from my ‘link.
There were two messages, both from Captain Yassa, both text only. The first told me that my skinsuit, armor and weapons were ready at the Battalion Armory. I shaped a silent whistle; that was impressively fast. She said they’d still had my measurements on file from my initial issue and apparently, I hadn’t changed enough since then to make a difference. Lack of a weight room and running track on Demeter had been made up for by a strictly rationed diet and lots of hiking in full battle rattle. I was directed to pick them up before Close of Business today.
The second message told me she’d just received a request for me to report to the DSI field office near the Fleet Headquarters complex for a quick debrief with the Department’s senior liaison to the Commonwealth military. I grunted quietly in disgust.
Shit, that’s gonna’ eat up the rest of the morning and probably through lunch. Fucking spooks.
I glanced around, then checked the map on my ‘link. The office was only about two kilometers away; it would probably be faster just to walk there than to wait for a bus, even if the busses were air conditioned. I messaged the Captain that I was heading to the DSI offices, then I tucked my ‘link back onto my belt and started walking.
Ugly, blocky, stark-white construction was pretty much universal for every military structure in Tartarus, and the only way one was different from another was size. Since Fleet HQ was the big dog here, their buildings were the biggest and most obnoxious. They stretched a full kilometer down the center of the city, arrayed on either side of a pair of flagpoles and a five-meter-wide Space Fleet seal set in the pavement of the sidewalk.
I passed more and more brass with every step, and my arm was beginning to ache from saluting by the time I cleared the area. I think the highest rank I saluted was an Admiral, a serious-looking, pinch-faced woman dragging a retinue of aids and toadies. They walked only far enough to enter a waiting limousine, resplendent in Fleet blue and flying flags on either side of the hood with three stars on each. Not too many senior officers walked anywhere in this city if they could help it.
By comparison with Fleet HQ, the DSI office was modest and yet fashionable. It had a core of buildfoam of course, but with a veneer of natural looking faux wood paneling and a sloped roof shingled in green. It was only three stories tall and looked almost inviting. The entrance was an old-fashioned, hinged double door painted a green that matched the shingles.
I caught a barely-audible click when I reached for the knob and it opened at my pull. I wondered if they read the ID transponder woven into the material of my name tag and unlocked the door just for me. Just inside the door was a vestibule that widened out into a small atrium where a circular couch basked in the glow from a tall, clear window looking out on the street. I looked around for anyone I could ask for directions, but there was no one in the vestibule or the atrium, and all the doors set in the hallways radiating off of it were closed and unlabeled.
“Sergeant Munroe.” The voice was coming over the ear bud from my ‘link. I looked around, as if I could tell where it was coming from, even though on a conscious level I knew it was probably automated. “You are scheduled for an appointment with Mr. Gregorian. Please take the elevator to the third floor, take a left and then proceed to the last office on your right.”
The elevator, I saw after a brief scan, was off to the left side of the atrium, in a long stretch between offices. It opened as I approached it, then closed with what seemed like a dangerous swiftness the microsecond I was clear of it. The inside was soft plastic in a soothing earth tone, unmarked and lacking any sort of manual control, but it began ascending almost before the door was fully closed.
No one, I was convinced, ever went anywhere by accident in this building.
I was deposited on the third floor, and I half expected the elevator to deploy a boot and kick me out if I didn’t exit quickly enough. The hall was tastefully decorated with plants at every window and actual, physical paintings, which seemed like quite the affectation for a government office.
Again, the halls were deserted, which I thought was very odd. Was no one working today? I tried to remember what day it was locally and finally had to check my ‘link. It wasn’t a holiday, not that the military ever took them. I shrugged and kept moving until I reached a large, ornately inlaid door at the end of the hall, on the right. No name, no number.
I looked for a buzzer and couldn’t find one; my hand was poised to knock when the door swung open without so much as a creek of hinges.
“Please come in, Sergeant,” the man who’d opened it said with a gesture.
He was tall and trim, with a face that was either engineered or sculpted into perfect symmetry, hair and goatee neatly stylish. His suit was the combination of perfect fit and unassuming elegance that had to have been grown in a nanite vat from measurements taken by a laser scan. Everything about him screamed “money,” which wasn’t what I would have expected from a DSI officer, even one this high on the food chain.
I stepped inside and he pushed the door shut. We were in an anteroom to the main office, and I saw more artwork, plus a desk that looked to usually be the station of a human receptionist, but whoever had that job wasn’t working today. The chair was empty, and I felt a curious, nagging buzz somewhere in my instinctive hind-brain.
“I’m Mateo Gregorian, Sergeant,” the
too-handsome man introduced himself, offering a hand. I shook it and found it dry and soft.
“Staff Sergeant Randall Munroe,” I returned, although he already knew who I was. I looked around the room again automatically; something about it made me uncomfortable. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gregorian?”
“Well, Sergeant,” he said smoothly, “Demeter was quite an important joint operation, so, of course, we received regular updates from the military on the progress of the events there.” He waved for me to follow him back towards his office, to another door, almost as ornate as the one in the hallway. “Agent Chang filed a full brief on your actions during the occupation and I have to say, I’m very impressed with what you managed to accomplish with no formal training in guerilla tactics or insurgency operations, not to mention limited resources.”
“I’m sorry about your Agent Kibaki,” I told him as he reached for the door handle. He hesitated and looked back to me.
“Yes, that was a tragic loss,” he acknowledged, with emotion in his voice that didn’t make it into his too-bright-to-be-natural green eyes. “But, as I said, your actions caught the attention of some very important people. One of them would like to speak with you.”
His office was as spacious as I would have imagined someone with his tastes and proclivities might have, with a huge desk of faux mahogany and a high-backed chair upholstered in what was probably vat-grown leather in front of a large, polarized window looking out on a courtyard with a fountain. There were shelves of what could have been wood with real, physical books on them. I hadn’t seen many of those in my life and it must have cost quite a bit to have them shipped here, unless he’d had them fab’ed just to look important.
All those details washed past me, noted but not dwelt on because my focus was elsewhere. Sitting in a very expensive, well-cushioned divan across from the window was my mother.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You know, Tyler,” Mom said, standing and walking over to me, “your face was engineered to be aesthetically perfect.” She ran a finger across my cheek and I flinched away from it. “And you went and fucked it up.”
I stared at her, eyes wide, disbelieving. I should have acted immediately, should have run for my life, but I was frozen in absolute shock. How in the hell had she found me here?
“Mr. Gregorian,” she said, her voice calm and businesslike, “give us the room for a moment.”
I didn’t even look back at him, but I heard the door close behind me. Mother was dressed impeccably, and not one bead of sweat dotted her perfectly sculpted face or marred the fit of her tailored one-piece fuchsia business suit. Her eyes were the cold blue of a glacier as she stood regarding me critically.
“I know it’s not entirely your fault, Tyler,” she said, finally. “I should never have allowed my grandfather to have such an influence on you at an early, impressionable age.” She paced over to the window and stared down at the garden and the fountain at its center. “It would have been satisfying to have him arrested for Mr. Konrad’s murder, but the old bastard still knows a trick or two. He’s been even harder to find than you.”
“How…” I managed to choke out, but couldn’t quite finish the sentence.
She turned and smiled at me in that patronizing, condescending way I’d always hated.
“Oh, Tyler,” she said, shaking her head, “that hack, back-room doctor in Vegas might have been able to alter your DNA signature temporarily with that retrovirus, but only long enough to get you enlisted. After a few months, it was back to normal. And when you had your medical examination on the Tarawa after they picked you up from Demeter, the DNA profile was flagged by the DSI.” She patted me on the shoulder and I fought to keep from flinching again.
“I have some very good friends in the DSI; Mr. Gregorian, for one.” She nodded behind me towards the door. “He’s going places after this war’s over.”
“Mother,” I said, forcing the words out of my mouth, forcing my brain to start working again, “did you order Konrad to kill Gramps?”
She sniffed, the expression on her face annoyed. “Konrad was a hammer. He saw every problem as a nail. I asked him to take care of the situation and he chose the solution that best suited his personality.”
“Then I don’t feel so bad about killing him,” I said, my voice sounding harsh in my own ears.
It had the desired effect: Mom stared at me, eyes widening for just a moment before she composed herself.
“So,” she said, finally, “that’s why you ran.” She closed her eyes, letting out a breath. “You know I would never have let you be arrested, Tyler…”
“I knew that,” I agreed, finally feeling as if I had some control back. “And I also knew you’d hold it over my head the rest of my life; use it to control me. That wasn’t the life I wanted to lead.”
She nodded slowly, a genuine smile spreading over her face. “I am impressed, son. I’d always thought you were too soft, too malleable. You let your great-grandfather mold your dreams, let Anna make your plans for you, never really showed initiative. This,” she motioned towards my utility fatigues, “as batshit insane as it is, at least shows you have balls, if not brains.” She shrugged. “Hopefully, the psychological deprogramming can get rid of the brainwashing from Cesar without losing that independent streak.”
“That’s not who I am anymore,” I said.
“Not currently,” she agreed sweetly. “But I’m sure the facial resculpt will be nearly as easy as the psych probe.”
“Why the hell can’t you just leave me here?” I demanded, feeling a red haze of anger that I remembered well from arguments with her. “For God’s sake, wouldn’t it be easier to just start over with a new kid instead of trying to make me into something I’m not going to be?”
“You know too much you don’t even know you know,” she said cryptically. “I have the choice of taking you back and setting you straight…or killing you.” I searched her face for any sign she was bluffing, but there was none. She cocked her head to the side, contemplatively. “I may not be the best mother in the Commonwealth, Tyler, but I’d rather not have my own son killed. I intend to live a very long life, and that’s not something I wish to have on my conscience the whole time.”
“You don’t have a fucking conscience,” I told her flatly. “And I’m not going back with you. I’d rather rot in a cell than be your puppet.”
“Oh, my sweet boy,” she said, in a tone that would have been called fond from anyone else. “I apologize if I’ve given you the idea that you have a choice.”
The door opened behind me as if on cue; and who knows, maybe it was. I looked around and saw four armored individuals squeezing through the opening to cut me off from any avenue of escape. Each of them carried a wicked-looking stun baton rather than a gun, so I guessed Mom was telling the truth about not wanting to kill me. My eyes flickered to the office window, but I rejected it immediately; there was no way it wasn’t shatter-proof trans-plas.
“These ladies and gentlemen,” Mother said, “will escort you to our courier at the spaceport. I will join you there after I take care of some technicalities here in town, and then we will have several days in Transition Space to discuss your future. If you give them any trouble, son, they can and will make things very painful for you.” The cold smile turned into something that might have been a snarl. “And as much pain as you’ve caused me these last two years, I almost hope you do.”
I didn’t say anything else to her and I didn’t resist as they pulled me backwards through the doorway. It wouldn’t have done any good inside this building, which struck me as a very closely monitored and very secure facility. If I was going to make a move, it would have to be somewhere else. Patience was a lesson I’d learned on Demeter, because I sure as hell wouldn’t have had it two years ago.
I went along passively, letting my shoulders relax, trying not to give any indication whatsoever that I was going to be trouble. Mom probably knew I would be, but these people were likely Corporate Security
Force muscle, like Konrad had been. Ex-military, former DSI, people who’d been around the block and wouldn’t expect much from a kid like me. I knew that because they hadn’t bothered to put me in a neural restraint, or patted me down for weapons.
We took the elevator down, and again, saw no one. I understood now that Mother had planned it that way. The fewer witnesses to this, the better. I looked at the CSF mercenary guards out of the corners of my eye as we rode the lift. Their helmet visors were dark and unreadable, but their body language was still visible for anyone who cared to look. Now that they were out of the view of my Mother, their stun batons were held low, the fingers of their off-hands loose and relaxed. Only the one holding a hand loosely on my shoulder seemed to be actually looking at me.
They tensed up slightly when we exited the building, probably because that seemed like the most obvious time to them that I might make a break for it. Which was why I didn’t. There was a hopper parked next to the curb, its ducted fans still spun up as it waited there with the canopy hatches propped open, getting odd looks from passers-by. Its bulbous plastic body was flat black, with no markings and I wondered if it was Corporate Council or DSI. Though, apparently, there wasn’t much difference anymore. That they were using a hopper at all said a lot about the pull my Mom had; generally, no aircraft of any kind were allowed in the interior streets of the base.
The one with his hand on my shoulder pushed me down and forward into the back row of seats, then slid in beside me while another of the guards entered through the door on the opposite side and the other two took the row just behind the pilot. The hatches swung downward, and the ducted-fan helicopter leaped into the air before they had a chance to seal. No one had bothered to strap in except the pilot, and they didn’t tell me to, either. That was probably an affectation of ex-intelligence and ex-special ops types, because it was a one-way ticket to a non-judicial punishment in the Marines.
The guy to the left of me reached up with his free hand and slid his visor up, revealing a weathered face with dark eyes and skin tanned brown by exposure to many different stars. He grinned at me, shaking his head slightly inside his helmet.
