by S. A. Tholin
Piece by piece, the sealed armour came apart, its colour changing from dark ash to factory pale grey, as he placed each segment into his armour crate.
Underneath, he wore a skin-tight jumpsuit. Primaterre grey in colour, just like the armour. The ballistic and fire-retardant material had a texture of honeycombs, arranged in a tight weave. It reminded him of the chainmail medieval knights had worn - a Bastion design choice that was almost certainly intentional.
He unzipped its front and hesitated. His skin prickled with unease as he regarded the glossy black walls. Anyone could be watching him in that darkness. Anything could be watching him from the reflection of his own eyes.
Paranoia, he told himself, and washed his face in the water from a canteen to remind himself of purity.
Perceive the moment.
Cold; about seven degrees centigrade. Clear; droplets splashing on the floor. Calm; the beat of his heart.
Be aware.
Awareness of the world and all its flaws and glories was simple. Awareness of the self was much more difficult. When he looked within, all he saw was...
...something much like the surface of Cato. Ash-covered ruin. Ripples in the dust where fear burrowed.
The only light was the Primaterre Protectorate, which he would serve until the darkness found him. He would be the Primaterre's sword and shield until the worming fear rose up to swallow him.
He seized on that thought and undressed quickly. Fatigues from his duffel bag; fresh underwear and socks. By the time he rejoined the other soldiers, he felt nearly human again. But still the dust was inside of him, a layer of ash so thick he could almost taste it.
Maybe Hopewell could sense his mood, because she rolled over in her bunk and held up her tablet to him. Its screen was covered in pictures of a pastel blue house framed by palm fronds and blooming hibiscus. Waves, silvery with sunshine, lapped a beach.
"Check it out, Commander. I put my deposit down just before we left Scathach Station."
Cassimer gave an approving nod. He didn't know her well, but he did know that Hopewell was nothing like him. It was impossible to imagine dark thoughts going through her head. Goal-oriented and compliant were among the positive words he'd used in his last assessment of her - impatient and unobservant of doctrine among the negative. Still, she was a good soldier. "Congratulations, Lieutenant."
"Looks too close to the water to me," said Florey. "Damp, tsunamis, hordes of tourists... I'm telling you, Hopey, you just blew your life savings on a property nightmare."
"Sounds like somebody is looking to have his standing beach party invitation rescinded." Hopewell stuck her tongue out at Florey. "You're just jealous that this time next year, when you're stuck on yet another mission on some forsaken dustbowl, I'll be on terminal leave to sip drinks on the terrace of my beach house. However will you manage without me?"
"It'll be tough, but I'm sure I'll find something new to irritate me. A gnat, or maybe a pebble in my boot."
"You don't intend to re-enlist?" Cassimer asked Hopewell.
"I've done ten years and that's long enough for me. I'm no lifer, and I'm not interested in going career. The politics and the ass-kissing would do my head in. You know what I mean, Commander. People ask me why you're in the banneretcy when you've obviously got the merits to climb the ladder right off the battlefield, and I tell them to mind their own business - but I always assumed your reasons were the same as mine."
"More or less," he conceded, uncomfortable to hear that his career was a topic of conversation. Stories and gossip were one thing, but this seemed more of an intrusion into his personal business.
Hopewell's assumption wasn't entirely off-target, but it was the distance between Bastion Command and the battlefield that bothered him the most. It was the same principle that kept him from using anti-recoil augments - killing shouldn't be as easy as pressing a button. There should be feedback, physical discomfort, visual confirmation. He didn't want to fight a war from the safety of a frigate in orbit; he wanted to feel the ground under his boots, see through his visor the smoke, and feel the kick of his rifle against his shoulder.
Pain for pain. Blood for blood. That was the path to purity.
"Besides," Hopewell said, "I've earned enough merits to make a nice life, so why push my luck?"
An accusing scoff came from Abergavenny's bunk. "Merit chaser."
Merit chasers came in two basic flavours. Those like Hopewell, who joined up to earn as many merits as it took to live what they deemed a comfortable civilian life, and those like Lucklaw, for whom military merits were rungs on the political career ladder - and lifers like Abergavenny resented them all for their mercenary attitudes.
"Duty and honour shouldn't take a backseat to personal profit," Abergavenny said.
Cassimer agreed in principle, but reserved judgment. He'd seen lifers burn out and he'd seen merit chasers earn out - and decide to stay on anyway. Whatever a soldier chose, it was their choice, as it should be.
From a commander's point of view, however, soldiers like Hopewell could be problematic. So close to their goal, they often became reluctant to throw themselves into combat. And soldiers like Lucklaw always seemed to weigh their actions against possible future reward: will this look good when I run for senator?
"Wow," Hopewell said, rolling her eyes at Abergavenny. "Another name off the guest list! Pretty soon it'll just be me and you, Copenhagen."
"Ah, you'll be back." Copenhagen stood in the storage doorway, wiping grease from her hands. "No offence, Innocent, but I've a real hard time picturing you as a civilian. I mean, what are you going to do? Get a job? Start a family? Don't see it."
"I'll have you know I'm great with kids. I've had plenty of practice with Florey's. He even named his latest after me. I'd be honoured, but after a dozen I suspect he and the missus were just running out of ideas."
"Eleven," corrected Florey, and Copenhagen shook her head.
"You Earth Provides types are plain crazy. Eleven kids just because you can?"
"Eleven children provided by life and love. Not crazy; pure."
"Whatever you say. I'm just glad I'm not your wife."
"As am I," replied Florey, and both he and Copenhagen laughed.
"Kids wouldn't be so bad," Hopewell said, sitting cross-legged on her bunk. "Just imagine the bedtime stories I could tell about Mommy's amazing space adventures."
"Like that one time Mommy sat inside a plastic cube for twelve hours straight? Thrilling stuff," Florey said, feigning a yawn.
"Hey, it's all in the telling. Listen: a ship has gone missing on its way from the toy factory. Thousands of teddy bears are stranded on a deserted planet, and Mommy has to rescue them. It's going to get scary, so she's enlisted the help of a beautiful pink mermaid -"
Copenhagen curtsied.
"- who's really good with computers. Uncle Floz is there too, of course, and Mommy's boss, the boldest knight in all the galaxy, and... eh, some other jerks."
"Nice language," Florey said. "Kid's going to grow up just like Mommy, that's for sure."
Florey and Hopewell had been matched as a firing team based on their statistics, performance and psychiatric evaluations, but Cassimer doubted anyone could've predicted just how well the two worked together. The decorated veteran and the unabashed merit chaser - so little in common, and yet somehow even their quiet moments weren't quiet. They spoke a silent language Cassimer didn't understand, connecting on a deep and invisible level.
It amazed him. Not just their friendship, but the easy companionship between the other soldiers. Even as his head filled with music selected from his playlist, he could see them all talking away. What was there to say? He tried to imagine himself making conversation. Silencing the music and turning to Copenhagen and - what?
Well. Perhaps it was better that way. He was their commander after all, and the boldest knight in all the galaxy wasn't someone expected to be much of a conversationalist.
6. Cassimer
Twenty-three adul
t civilians. Two vehicles in a garage, a third outside. No visible security.
From his position on a ridge, roughly a kilometre out from a small settlement, Cassimer couldn't see the vehicles, but the rest of Hopewell's report corresponded to what he saw down on the plains.
The settlement lay at the edge of a field of dark glass boulders. A dense forest of fulgurite surrounded it on two sides, acting as a natural defence. Tents of frayed tarpaulin flapped in the wind - hardly sturdy enough to withstand a storm. A nomadic lifestyle, then, moving with the weather. How exactly, Cassimer wasn't sure. The settlement was a two-hour drive from the habitat in the Eponas, but by foot it might as well be two years. Cato's terrain came only in two flavours: inaccessible or treacherous. Deadly, either way.
Runnels of dust hissed down his visor. He and Lucklaw had crawled up the ridge and buried themselves in the fine powder. Environmental camouflage was always to be taken advantage of, in spite of their armour's decent stealth capabilities.
Through the scope of his high-powered Hyrrokkin rifle, Cassimer watched the settlers go about their dismal lives. Grim-faced and unwashed, fingers gnarled with cold, their clothes little more than rags. Not scavengers, but subsistence farmers. Pale-leafed crops grew inside a greenhouse fashioned from old windows. A pen of rusted oil drums and electrical wiring contained three goats. Their bodies were thin but their bellies bloated, their ash-clumped coats sporting bald patches. A woman in threadbare coveralls was milking one goat, collecting the milk in an old gasoline can.
Much as he'd expected. It seemed unlikely there'd be any useful equipment here, but it was the only settlement within a day's drive. Their vehicles were the best bet, despite looking old enough to once have commuted around the streets of Stairhaven.
The settlers were armed, but their weapons were low-tech and some looked like they'd be more dangerous to the triggerman than the target. There was, however, a chance that they were in communication with other groups that might be better armed and more hostile.
And, of course, there was the threat of possession. A miserable place like this was a beacon for the corruption, every inhabitant a tempting target. This primitive village could turn into a killing zone in an instant.
The thought made him sick, but fear - no matter how deep it wormed in the ash - couldn't stand in the way of duty.
Lucklaw and I will make the approach. Hopewell, Florey, circle round to the south and secure the vehicles.
The team acknowledged the quiet order, and Cassimer slung his Hyrrokkin over his shoulder.
"Stay low," he told Lucklaw. "Don't want to give them a chance to think about defences."
The descent proved difficult. The fine dust concealed reefs of volcanic rock and patches of smooth glass. Lucklaw lost his footing more than once, and when he finally fell - skidding down the slope - Cassimer caught him by the arm and pulled him upright.
The corporal mumbled an awkward apology, turning a deep red behind his visor.
Stars; the kid was blushing like a schoolboy. Too young for banneret work, too young for planets like Cato.
"Commander, do you copy?" Copenhagen's voice, in a burst of static, interrupted his thoughts. The shuttle had dropped her off on a plateau high in the mountains, where she was busy setting up her comms array, accompanied by Abergavenny and two of Albany's engineers.
He stopped, halfway down the ridge. "I read you."
"The western drone just went dark."
"A storm?" He turned to the west. Miles and miles of ashen plain stretched towards a knife-sharp horizon.
"I managed to pull the last few minutes of footage. Sharing it now."
Images on his visor showed a landscape so bleak it almost seemed to be in black-and-white. Desert plains mostly, but for a distant wall of fulgurite. No sign of bad weather, and he was about to suggest a technical malfunction, when a splash of colour flashed by. He paused the footage and rewound.
"Should've known. No matter the planet, the bloody parasites never leave my toys alone."
The drone had caught two locals on camera, the splash of colour their blue pick-up truck. Scrap metal and junk filled the back of the truck. Scavengers, and on a world like Cato, a brand new Primaterre drone zooming past would have been irresistible prey. The scrap alone had value, and the tech inside would be coveted by every worthless pirate and RebEarther in the galaxy.
Cassimer switched channels. "Albany, do you read?"
"What do you want, Commander?"
Snippy, but at least she wasn't cursing.
"Local scavengers snagged one of our drones about five hundred klicks from the base."
"I see," came the smug response. "Transmit the coordinates. We'll take care of your little problem."
No, he wanted to reply - you are my little problem.
◆◆◆
The scrawny goats bleated a chorus of greetings. A bloody butcher's block hinted at the fate of a fourth.
The settlement was arranged in a crescent-shape centred on a well. Cassimer made for the largest of the buildings, a barnlike structure constructed out of wooden pallets and tarp.
There was movement on all sides. Hunched and grey-faced locals scuttling around or peering from cracks in their shelters. He wasn't without sympathy for their hard lot, but couldn't forget that they were threats, each starving settler a ready receptacle for the reaching darkness.
"Remain calm." He left his Morrigan holstered as he spoke. "We're here to speak with your leader. We thank you for your cooperation."
A few beats passed as settlers whispered and glanced at one another. Eventually, a man stepped from the doorway of the makeshift greenhouse. Middle-aged, filthy and dressed in rags - though rags of a slightly better quality, complete with ratty straw hat. In his arms, he carried a basket.
"Halt." Cassimer held up his hand and the man froze. "Put down the basket and step aside."
The man obeyed. Lucklaw approached the basket and tilted it with his foot to show Cassimer the contents. Shards of glass, cleared from the soil of the greenhouse.
All right.
Cassimer increased the transparency of his visor, seeking eye contact with the man. Intimidation had done its part; connection was the next step.
"I'm Banneret Commander Cassimer, here on behalf of the Primaterre Protectorate."
The Primaterre logo burned brightly on the cuirass of his armour, and the settler couldn't have failed to notice it. But in his experience, actually speaking the name made all the difference. It carried weight and an authority difficult to ignore.
Indeed, the settler seemed to crumble underneath it, twitching in terrified silence.
"Identify yourself," Cassimer prompted.
"Natham, sir. This is my farm."
Farm. Three emaciated goats and a small greenhouse's worth of crops? Cassimer had seen entire planets devoted to farming, where cereal fields stretched from horizon to golden horizon; planets where the only dust storms were those kicked up by the hooves of roaming cattle. Farming was a pure purpose, and the settler had cause to be proud, but what a waste of merit their lives were on Cato.
It was sad, and the sadness became even more palpable inside Natham's home. Though the biggest of the buildings, it was no less a hovel. Blue-veined fungus darkened the corners, and every surface was covered in dust and brittle fragments of lichen. A carefully laminated calendar, over a century out of date, was pinned above the moth-eaten hammocks that served as beds. It showed a discoloured view of a beach - not so different from the one occupying Hopewell's dreams.
A thin woman cowered in the back, behind a stained and mouldering sofa. She whimpered when Cassimer tried to speak to her, and he decided to leave her alone.
"Damn storm caught us off-guard the other day," Natham grumbled as he righted a chair and brushed dust from its seat. "Three months we had that greenhouse, and we'd got real good at taking it down right quick. But when the choice is between a greenhouse and your life, what can you do? Please, sit." He proffered the chair.
"Thanks, but I'll stand." The chair was old and rickety, incapable of supporting his weight. All he'd do was add another broken object to the settlers' collection of junk. "Speaking of the storms, where do you shelter?"
"Ah, you know, nooks and crannies." The farmer smiled so wide his parched lips cracked. "Cato's got a lot of those, if you know where to look."
Cassimer let the evasive answer slide.
"Can't be an easy life."
"You got that right. Cato, she's a trickster. Never know what the weather's going to be like or what's hiding 'neath the dust. Lots of that. Dust. And hiding." He smiled again. "Can I offer you a drink? Tea? We make it ourselves."
Protocol was to never accept food or drink from non-citizens, and besides, Cassimer had seen the crops. Wilting dust-caked leaves flopping from pale tubers. Not appetising in the least, not even compared to ration bars.
"Or something stronger?" The farmer produced a grimy bottle from a cupboard. A transparent liquid sloshed within hairline-fractured glass. "Brew it strong, we do."
Most of his men drank when off-duty. Some of them (Rhys) might even have accepted the farmer's dubious offering. Cassimer did not. As far as he was concerned, inebriation was akin to opening a door to demons. He knew the standard counter-argument (heard it in his mind in Albany's high-pitched voice: If drinking causes possession, why isn't every bar, pub and - let's face it - city after five o'clock, a bloodbath?), but couldn't accept it as proof. Perhaps the demons weren't interested in every drunken fool. Perhaps the demons sought out particular targets, hunting them across the void of space, waiting for their guard to drop.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the ozone tang of his helmet's interior.
"Something wrong?" the farmer asked. His hollow-eyed woman had slipped from the shadows to set a pot of tea and two cracked mugs on the table. Her bare arms shivered with cold and fear.
Cassimer ignored both the question and the tea.
"Do you have any comms equipment? Or computers of any kind?"
