Blue Sky Tomorrows

by L. J. Hachmeister

  Kara’s face, her infectious smile, flashed through his mind.

  “…just hold out, my love…”

  I can’t—

  “…for blue sky tomorrows.”

  Light. Blinding, white. Light that couldn’t have come from the overhead streetlamp. His attacker released him, the dogs whimpered, withdrew. As shouts and gunfire cracked overhead, two of the dogs scattered, back into the dark recesses of the fallen buildings.

  Voices, from somewhere nearby, rose over his ragged breaths.

  “No way he’s still alive.”

  “He’s street rub. ‘Course he’ll survive. Goddich savages.”

  “You alive, kid?”

  The question, spoken in Common with a southern accent, didn’t make sense. Cam lay on the ground, chest heaving, blood obscuring his vision.

  I don’t know.

  The light bobbed up and down as footsteps crunched down on the broken asphalt. Someone knelt down close to him, nudged him on the side. Without thinking, he flung out his fist, but a gloved hand caught it.

  “Still got some fight left in you, huh?”

  A strong arm lifted him to his feet, held him up until he wiped the blood from his eyes and steadied himself on his one good foot.

  Several soldiers and an officer wearing blue and black uniforms stared at him, guns pressed to their chest. Their faces, hardened and grizzled by a merciless war, gave no hint of compassion.

  The Dominion Core!

  No, not quite. These men wore the uniforms, but they looked patched together, poorly fit.

  Then it dawned on him as the officer handed him a rusted multi-phase gun.

  These are loyalists; the militant sect of the CCWF, out patrolling the streets. The ones that fought for their freedom by any means possible.

  Any means.

  (Father—)

  “Finish the job, kid.”

  Cam didn’t understand. Not until the officer pointed at the dog he blinded twitching and writhing on the ground.

  The gun felt heavy and awkward in his hand, the rusted grip grating against his palm. He’d never fired a gun, though he’d had many pointed at him on house raids or family detainments.

  “Go on. Before him or his friends come back and finish you.”

  The thought of another mauling chilled him. Everything—his arms, legs, his face—throbbed and screamed, and when he imagined what he looked like now, mangled and forever scarred, the tension spread out across chest, ratcheting his anger.

  But as he raised the gun, the dog somehow got his feet underneath himself and stumbled forward. Cam sucked in a breath and held it.

  The man wearing the officer’s uniform, chewing on the end of an unlit cigarette, bent down and whispered in his ear. “Kill the enemy before he’s got a chance to kill you.”

  The gun shook in his grip, but the weight felt good, terrible, ready to inflict the damage he couldn’t do with his bare hands. Still, the dog—alone and injured, separated from its pack—no longer threatened him. It whimpered and whined, shaking its head, unable to navigate in the new darkness.

  “Show us you’re a soldier,” the officer said coolly, “and we’ll take you back with us.”

  Cam tightened his grip. A warm bed, food and shelter—survival.

  It attacked me, he justified to himself, grinding his teeth together and taking aim.

  Kara, unwanted in the moment, popped in his mind. He didn’t want to remember any of her lessons right then, her benevolence and empathy, or imagine what she’d do in that situation.

  (“It’s going to be okay, sweet boy.”)

  No, to save Kara would take something more than what he was. He couldn’t be merciful, not when the same pack of dogs could come back for him later. The whispering man was right. Kill the enemy before he’s got a chance to kill you.

  Cam shot once. Then, after the shock of the kick wore off, he shot a second, third, and fourth time, until he was hitting the trigger, and no more rounds came out.

  The thought echoed up from somewhere inside him: (It’s not going to be okay. Not for me.)

  As the soldiers muttered amongst themselves, the man with the unlit cigarette stood tall, analyzing his shots. Cam hit the dog only once out of the four times, but right in the head. Not much of the dog’s skull remained but a sizzling hole.

  “You taking the Dominion entrance exam?” the man asked, looking him up and down.

  Cam, still holding the gun in his hand, stared at the dead dog, wondering if its companions knew.

  “You hear me, boy?”

  “He’s just a rub, Sarge.”

  “Nah. Not rubbish. This one’s a fighter. Boy—you’d kill a leech just the same?”

  Cam accidentally put weight on his mangled foot and fell over, eliciting a round of laughter from the soldiers.

  “What you say, boy?” the man said, grabbing him by the collar and pushing his scarred forehead against his own. “You want to go kill them leech bastards and win this war?”

  Cam, swallowing the lump of semi-coagulated blood in his mouth, tasted something new, something terrible; something that would allow him to become what he couldn’t otherwise, what would help him save his sister.

  Baring his bloodied teeth, he answered in a voice he didn’t recognize. “I’ll kill them all.”

  Chapter 3

  Fever set his mind ablaze. At some point, after the soldiers lifted him into the truck bed and drove him away, Cam remembered looking down at his mauled arm, not believing the green and yellow pus already oozing from the bite marks. I don’t want to lose my arm.

  The thought came and went as he fought to keep his eyes open, shivering in the exposed back of the truck, as the soldiers drove him somewhere deep underground, into a maze of dugout shelters and subbasements. Hugging his injured arm close to his chest, trying to will the toxins out of his body, someone lifted him off the truck bed, and gruff voices discussed his fate.

  “He’s goin’ lose that arm. Maybe that foot, too.”

  Chuckling, followed by the sound of someone spitting. “Chakking dogs. I’d rather get shot than bit.”

  “Last kid didn’t make it more than three hours.”

  “You sayin’ we shouldn’t bother?”

  Silence. Then, an answer that sounded flat and uninterested. “Nothing we can do about it.”

  Kara appeared at some point, standing behind the woman in a dirty surgical mask that tended to his wounds under a bright dome light. As much as he tried to speak, to call out to his sister, the words burned up in the back of his mouth, consumed by the flames of sickness.

  Please, Kara—don’t leave.

  “I’ve done what I can,” the woman said, removing her dirty surgical mask and bloodied rubber gloves. She stood next to the whispering man. Both regarded him with grave expressions. “But with his human genetics, and his injuries, he’ll make a good martyr at best, Sarge.”

  “Ah, but a boy dying for a cause will make great headlines. That’ll get the Sovereign’s attention.”

  “He’s dead one way or the other.”

  No, Kara—wait—

  “Well, then use the derms on him. Make him cute, adorable; whatever will grab hearts.”

  “We’re almost out.”

  “Then, just on his face.”

  No—please—Kara—

  His body, scorched from the inside out, provided an uninhabitable residence, and he sought his only means of escape.

  Sleep, dreams of yesterday, gave him comfort. He remembered his father’s baritone laughter and his mother’s embrace; the giggling fits of the twins, Kara dancing around the house, showing off her latest moves. Happy times, before the war—before the skies turned black, and all he loved was taken away.

  When the flames died down, he woke up in his underwear on a cot, drenched in sweat. The room, carved from the ground, smelled like damp mud and wood. Medical posters adorned the wall, warning of potential diseases and infections on Cerka in bright orange letters. In contrast, someone had st
acked up biohazard-labeled boxes and empty medicine vials against the opposite wall. Cam remembered the room in some vague recollection, knowing that he had been placed here as a last resort.

  If I don’t wake up, I’m dead. If I wake up, I’m dead.

  Cam looked down at the limbs that had been mauled. Ugly lumps of grafted, mismatching flesh and zig-zagging sutures marred his arm. The grafted flesh looked older, dotted with black hair, as if it had come off of a middle-aged man. Before, he might have been squicked out. Now, as he flexed and extended his fingers, feeling their stiffness and the numbness along the palm, he didn’t care. He didn’t lose his arm.

  Or my foot, he thought, rotating the swollen ankle. It felt just as strange and numb, but it didn’t hurt, and seemed to function well enough.

  With shaking hands, he brought up his fingers to his face. No lumps, no sutures, no loss of sensation. Even the bites on his skull had been repaired. “Make him cute, adorable; whatever will grab hearts.”

  Anger percolated through relief.

  I’m not dead. I’m not dying. Not yet.

  Standing on his good leg first, Cam tested his opposite foot on the ground, slowly adding pressure until it bore half of his weight. Pins and needles prickled the bottom of his heel, as if it had fallen asleep. Deciding it was good enough, Cam limped around the room searching for his boots, sweater, and pants amongst the piles of medical junk, instead finding a storage locker with a cache of old clothing: A woman’s floral blouse, a red scarf with brother in old Cerkan stitched on the end, pairs of stained pants, a faded hoodie, and a beat-up pair of sneakers. Perhaps artifacts of others that had come before him, or a lost and found. Either way, he didn’t hesitate, pulling on the pants, sneakers, and hoodie, ignoring the unusual body odors still clinging to their fabric, or the dark stains that stiffened areas of the cloth.

  Wrapping the scarf around his face, he tried the only door to the room. A simple three-button lock kept the door closed. Kara taught him how to crack a lock before he could spell his name. Two minutes later, he picked about the keypad and panel, and crossed the wires. The door mechanism clicked, and the lock released.

  Too easy.

  He pushed it open, eliciting a loud creak, making him cringe.

  He stuck his head out into an empty hallway. Overhead lights illuminated several other doors and a larger, open, lit chamber at the end. Hammering, electric saws, and the sound of men shouting at each other floated down to him. It smelled like tar vats, burning plastic and freshly-stamped iron; like the old mechanical factory his father worked at. Squinting, he made out the large wheels of a land rover, and the jagged face of a weaponized crawler. Modern war vehicles, not the antiquated vessels he’d seen at demonstrations months earlier.

  This must be the CCWF base.

  His father talked very little about his involvement in the group, only that the Dominion loyalists had acquired weapons and machines outside their planetary government to fight back against the USC. Cam just never expected them to be so well armed.

  At the other end of the hall, Cam spotted stairs to a steel-plated door, and movement behind a barred window. Hoping that the stairs lead back up to the surface, he slunk down the hall, using the wall as balance.

  Crouching below the window, he listened for movement, voices.

  Are those… kids?

  Without thinking, Cam popped his head up to reconcile the laughter, the sound of excited chatter. Dozens of kids ranging from his younger sisters’ age to late teens crowded inside a windowless place about the size and look of his old classroom. Holo-desks, arranged in five long rows, filled up the entire room. Most of the younger kids played games on the desks, giggling as animated creatures pranced across projected landscapes. The older kids flipped through military simulations or pulled up lewd material, teasing the quieter ones that had faded to the back of the room.

  Cam didn’t understand it at first. Not until one of the bigger kids slapped a boy with dark hair and overalls.

  Colin.

  “You dumb assino. You’ll never get into the Core,” the bigger kid laughed.

  This is the secret Dominion Academy entrance exam testing site!

  A few others joined in, mocking him, pointing at Colin’s disheveled appearance, his dirty clothes. Not that their clothes looked much cleaner.

  Cam almost didn’t recognize him. His neighbor looked gaunt, on the verge of starvation. That didn’t shock him as much as the deadness to Colin’s expression, the light that vanished from his eyes. As if all the world had abandoned him.

  Cam swallowed the lump building in his throat. I have to find my sister.

  Yes, Kara. How could he find her, especially with the CCWF planning to use him as a martyr for their cause? He had to get out of the city, off of Cerka—out to the stars. But even then, how could he fight the USC on his own? He’d need a fleet.

  The most powerful fleet in the galaxy.

  Chewing on his thumbnail, he thought through his options, his stomach twisting and turning as he counted the kids and the desks.

  Fifty and fifty. No chance to just sneak in.

  A gray-haired adult in a fresh-pressed Dominion Core uniform entered the room through the door on the opposite side of the room. Cam bit down hard on his thumb as the man started writing on the interface board at the front of the room.

  Only one way.

  His stomach tightened, nausea clenching his throat.

  (No tomorrows.)

  Cam tested the door: locked and bolted, but from his side, as if to prevent the kids from getting in his area. As quietly as he could, he opened it up and slipped inside, angling himself to the back of the room. Most of the other kids were too distracted by their games and sims to pay him any attention, allowing him to walk over to the corner where Colin had taken refuge away from his tormentors.

  Pulling down his scarf from his face, Cam whispered: “Colin.”

  “Cam!” The boy flung his arms around him, pulling him in close. Cam stiffened and pulled away.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Sorry,” Colin said, blushing.

  “Follow me.”

  Without giving Colin a chance to ask questions, he slipped back to the door, waiting for Colin to exit before leading him to the room where he woke up.

  “What’s going on?” Colin asked, “why are you here? Are you taking the test too or something? I thought it was all full up.”

  “Did you sign in already?” Cam asked.

  Colin shook his head. “No. They haven’t assigned us a test yet,” he said, scanning the room full of junk and medical equipment. “It’s just starting.”

  The next moment happened in dreamlike separation. Cam saw himself unraveling the scarf as Colin turned away from him, and flinging it around the boy’s neck. Twisting it tight, he yanked back, until Colin fell to the ground, his face turning red as he fought the noose around his neck.

  “Don’t fight it,” Cam said as Colin clawed at his hands and arms, leaving red streaks on his newly-grafted tissue. “Don’t fight it!” he repeated as Colin kicked the ground.

  I don’t want to—

  “Finish the job, kid.”

  Cam lifted up as Colin jerked to the right. He heard a snap.

  “No…No—no—no!” he cried, releasing the tension on the scarf and easing the gray-faced boy to the ground.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this!

  He was just supposed to go to sleep. Not—

  Tears stung his eyes as he felt Colin’s face. Still warm, no indication that—

  (What have I done?)

  Colin, the kind boy who only tried to help him. “Why did you fight it?” he whispered, clenching his shaking hands.

  I’m so stupid. I didn’t mean it; I’m so, so sorry.

  (I’m a—)

  He stopped himself.

  Kara. Think of Kara.

  He knew better. He had to be stronger, braver.

  For her, he thought, turning over the cot to make it look like an
accident. No tomorrows.

  “No tomorrows,” he repeated to himself. He took a handful of his hair in his hand and yanked hard enough to elicit a grunt. (I can’t be weak.)

  Running back down the hall, he snuck into the classroom just as the adult finished marking the interface board and turned.

  “Find your seats and sign into your desks.”

  A few kids threw him a strange look, but none of them really cared enough to say anything or bring attention to the new kid sliding into the desk at the far back of the class.

  With shaking hands, Cam typed in his name. CAMZEN FERROS, age 10.

  His hand hovered over the delete key. Colin Feller. It should read, Colin Feller, age 10.

  He chided himself. NO TOMORROWS.

  “Testing will be by age only,” the Core proctor announced as the words ENTRANCE EXAM popped up on Cam’s screen. “No special consideration will be made for your species or education level.”

  The proctor changed the tone of his voice, as if he were reciting a line from a movie, exaggerating his emphasis: “The hour of battle is upon us. Will you take up arms against evil and injustice? Will you defend your family, your people, against the Dissembler threat? Do you have the courage to raise your right hand and take the military oath to become the heroes and the leaders of this galaxy?”

  Dissemblers. Cam remembered the propaganda against the subspecies of telepaths. They were the reason for the Dominion’s call to register and restrain all persons with psionic abilities, why the Cerkan government had decided to imprison its telepathic population. He remembered his father’s words: “Those bastards will rip you apart with their mind! Burn them all!”

  “Good luck, candidates,” the proctor said as test questions populated on his desk. “Only the best and brightest will be selected for the Dominion Academy.”

  Cam stared at the first question, reading it over and over before his mind finally steadied enough for him to comprehend it.

  “You and a civilian are trapped in a building. There is only one meal ration left. If you eat a full meal ration, you will survive long enough for a rescue. If you split the ration, you may not. Do you: