by S. A. Tholin
On the bench, Feehan dropped his cigarette and then he dropped to the floor, screaming as he clutched his knee. The leg below was gone.
The camera panned quickly to the left. Bleak daylight flared across the screen, the fourth man a blurred shadow; dead before he'd even raised his gun.
Then darkness filled the screen and for a few seconds there was no movement, no sound other than more gunfire - not the decisive explosions of Cassimer's gun, but a high-pitched whine of bullets - and Joy thought that he'd fallen, that they were seeing the floor and he wasn't moving because he couldn't -
- and then a shaft of light cut across the screen, illuminating faded turquoise wall tiles. Cassimer had taken cover inside the ticket office, but now chunks of mortar showered the screen, and Cassimer was moving again. Fast, but staying low, bits of the wall erupting behind him as bullets punched through brick and tile.
Silence. Stillness.
The tablet was dark, but for a faint mist of dust motes. A ragged breath came over the channel, followed by low groaning. Cassimer's voice, wordless, cracked with pain, and the camera shook as the metal giant's footsteps grew louder.
"He needs your help." She barely resisted the urge to grab the medic's arm and shake him into action. It was too late, and they were too far away, but they had to do something.
Rhys shook his head and pointed to the top left corner of the screen.
BT/BP/HR/RR - Cassimer's vital signs, all well within normal range (which in itself was abnormal - nobody in his situation should reasonably be so calm).
"Is he pretending to be injured?" She hadn't expected such theatrical improvisation from the buttoned-up commander.
"Aren't the cuffs enough? You want to end up gagged, too?" Lucklaw snapped at her over his shoulder. "Final warning - be quiet."
The armoured RebEarther smashed through the door, shrugging off beams and debris. His shadow fell over Cassimer, and the tablet briefly turned black -
- then white, in a flash of bright light, the audio channel screeching with high-pitched static.
"Nice." Lucklaw watched with casual interest, as though it were a training video rather than his commander's life-and-death battle, and Joy wanted very badly to smack him upside the head. "But why a flash grenade instead of a real explosive?"
"Cramped space. The commander isn't looking to have to have more reconstructive surgery done. Plus, trick is remembering your target is the man inside the armour. A grenade - incendiary or concussive - wouldn't even scratch an Ereshkigal suit, but a flash mine will scramble the senses of the target. Especially a target dumb enough to ruin his visor with cosmetic mods."
Cassimer was on his feet again. Leaping over mounds of rubble. Slamming into the RebEarth soldier, driving him backwards. A gun went off a dozen times or more, searing muzzle flashes illuminating the screen. Cassimer's black gun, pressed to the RebEarther's chin.
The camera shuddered as the RebEarther retaliated. Cassimer stumbled backwards as something struck him hard. A sharp breath came over the channel - not pretend, but very real. Warnings popped up next to his vital signs.
The RebEarther grabbed him - picked him up - and threw him clean through the bullet-riddled wall.
But Cassimer was fast, faster than Joy could've believed, and he was on the RebEarther again in seconds, too close for the man's mounted cannons. The RebEarther raised his assault rifle and bullets blazed across the screen. Then the gun was wrenched from him, and there was a loud crunch as it broke underneath Cassimer's boot.
The distance had been closed, and the gunfight had become a fistfight.
Madness, Joy thought, as she watched the station tremble and crumble around the two men.
The screen glared crimson with warnings as Cassimer took a blow that sent him staggering to the floor. The RebEarther didn't let up, kept raining blows on the commander, keeping him down.
Cassimer's breathing was laboured, and his vital signs indicated significant internal haemorrhaging. The RebEarther raised his boot, aiming to stomp the commander's face.
Cassimer rolled to the side, grabbing the RebEarther's leg and an electrical charge coursed from his armour into his attacker's. A garbled noise came over the audio - not quite a scream, as though the man's vocal chords weren't capable of forming the sound. He stumbled, driven backwards by Cassimer's shoulder, heavy boots ploughing furrows in the floor.
Then he toppled, falling off the edge of the platform and onto the tracks. Metal groaned as he tried to stand. Lights flooded the tunnel, and the RebEarther glanced to his left and held his hands out, palms first, as the train began to move.
It smashed into him, not very fast, but heavy and relentless enough to pin him to the tracks. It ground into his armour, dragging him under. Armour plates and carbon fibre splintered and cracked, and now the man did scream.
The train stopped, its lights dying down. Cassimer jumped onto the tracks, moving towards the RebEarther, gun raised. His hands didn't even tremble.
The armoured suit was surprisingly intact, a starburst crack in its cuirass the only visible damage. The man inside was not so fortunate. Much of him had been pushed through the starburst, human anatomy compressed and forced out through the only opening available. Like a burst tube of toothpaste, Joy thought and the ground underneath her feet suddenly felt very shaky.
"That's the downside to a suit like that. Keeps you alive longer than you wish it would." Rhys sniffed, pinching his nose. "Poor bastard."
"I'd wager he had it coming. That and more," Lucklaw said.
Cassimer leaned in close, and Joy could see the tip of a blade as he inserted it into the Ereshkigal suit's visor. Though dark grey at first, the blade soon grew incandescent with heat. The visor began to give way around the point, bubbling, then melting, and the blade slowly sank deeper.
Rhys switched off the audio. "Don't think we need to hear this."
But they did hear it, the long scream in the distance echoing and bouncing off tiled tunnel walls until it reached them as a spine-raking screech. Joy could hardly breathe, didn't know where to turn. This wasn't right. This wasn't where she was supposed to be. She'd been meant for the sweetgrass and clover of Gainsborough, for open skies where a Cascade glittered silver as ships folded between systems.
Not this tunnel. Not these people. Not this world, this universe that had shifted and changed into cruelty and darkness as she had slept.
And from behind, she could swear she heard whispers.
"Rhys." She did tug at his arm then. "There's something in the tunnel behind us."
"There's nothing on the sensors." The medic sounded distracted, and on Joy's tablet, the screen had changed to show scrolling text and the anatomical diagram of a man. From little over three kilometres away, the medic was instructing the commander's suit on how to best apply treatment.
Amazing, she thought, this new world is as amazing as it's terrible.
"My sensors aren't showing anything either, but..." Lucklaw glanced over his shoulder, straining to see past the pauldrons of his armour. "I have to agree with the civilian. I think we're being watched."
If even Lucklaw felt it, and so badly that he was happy to agree with her, then something was definitely wrong.
Rhys sighed. "All right, children. Grab the gear and let's move up."
22. Joy
Gaius Feehan had enough life left in him to make the most awful noises. The closer they got, the tighter the feeling in Joy's chest. She felt dizzy, almost floating, as though her consciousness wanted to let go and escape. Biting her tongue hard, she fought the oncoming blackness, forcing the dark spots from her vision, because if she fainted now...
If she fell in this tunnel, she couldn't be sure that she wouldn't be abandoned. The Primaterre soldiers had a mission and even though Cassimer had called her essential, she knew that she was only there to make things easier. In the end, the Ever Onward would give up its secrets with or without her help.
Rhys and Lucklaw, ahead of her by a good thirty feet, c
limbed onto the platform and disappeared from view. Whispers rushed like a wind in the tunnel behind her, softly wrapping themselves around her.
She sobbed with fear and reached for the platform with trembling hands. Her fingers closed around the metal edge but it was so high up. She pressed her numb cheek against the wall and closed her eyes to avoid looking at the blood that was dripping onto the tracks.
When I open my eyes, Cassimer will be there to help me up. He'll do it; he'll be there, he cares at least enough for that.
But she opened her eyes to disappointment, and instead of a helping hand, it was the sound of scraping metal in the tunnel that gave her the boost she needed.
She crawled onto the platform in a most undignified manner.
"Watch where you're going," Lucklaw groused as she bumped into him. Then, a little kinder: "I've got the tunnel covered. Anything that comes out of there gets its head blown off."
Small comfort. She stumbled away from him, away from the tunnel.
Dark and ugly streaks of blood led from the bench. In desperation, the wounded Feehan had dragged himself towards the exit. He hadn't even made it halfway, and now Rhys knelt at his side, applying a tourniquet to the stump below his knee.
"I'm Commander Cassimer." The commander loomed over Feehan, who stared up at him with feather-framed eyes.
"Bullshit." Feehan spat blood, aiming for Cassimer but instead dribbling all over himself.
Cassimer said nothing but dropped to the floor the severed head of the RebEarther who'd worn the Ereshkigal suit.
Feehan made a strange croaking noise at the gruesome business card.
"I'm told there's a bounty on my head. I suppose it means people have heard of me. Suppose that means you've heard of me."
Feehan didn't respond.
"This is Captain Rhys." Cassimer indicated the medic. "Have you heard of him?"
Feehan spat again. "Just another Primo bastard."
"Rhys is going to ask you a few questions. While he does - and while you can still think straight - I want you to consider the fact that you've never heard of Rhys. Consider what he's doing to you, and the experience with which he's doing it. Then consider that nobody ever thought him remarkable enough to tell tales about. Think about that, and then think about how if you don't answer Rhys's questions, I will ask you some of my own. I doubt you'll want that."
Rhys had begun to whistle an off-key tune, turning from Feehan to his med kit. He lifted the top compartment out and pulled metallic objects from the bottom of the kit. His visor was streaked with Feehan's dark spittle. The sight of the glistening saliva, and how calmly Cassimer spoke to Feehan - no different to how he'd first addressed her - made Joy's throat constrict.
She activated her med-bracelet and hurried towards the stairs. Pale daylight illuminated numerous dusty grey footprints on the steps. Lots of people had come this way recently, more than the handful Cassimer had killed, and maybe they were all waiting outside the station, but Joy didn't care. She had to get out of there. Feehan's silence hadn't lasted long; the screaming was starting again and -
- a blast of cold took her breath away. The air outside the train station crackled with static, and the horizon was a band of blue electricity.
A terrain vehicle stood parked close by, dust smattering against it with every gust of wind. It wasn't as impressive as the Primaterre Ponies, but neither was it a local junker. These men, these RebEarthers, hadn't come to Cato empty-handed. They had to have a ship; a ship capable of carrying men and cargo. A way out, a faint hope - though it wouldn't come easy, wouldn't come cheap.
She wrenched the vehicle's door open - realising the danger a split second too late.
Empty.
Lucky. Finn's voice, as dry as the dust, drifted through her mind. But you'll run out of luck sooner or later. Focus, Joy.
"I'm trying," she whispered, but her head was spinning with visions of violence and she heaved herself into the vehicle and closed the door. Inside protective metal walls, cut off from the world outside, she immediately felt a bit better.
She could've done without the smell, though. Smoked-in upholstery, a rotting chicken wing wedged underneath the driver's seat, a mouldy half-eaten potato ground into the floor, and a couple of plastic waste buckets that weren't sealed nearly tight enough.
At least the heating was on, and she slid into the driver's seat to warm herself. A chain of beads was wrapped around the steering wheel, but whether it was an item of religious importance, mere decoration or had some practical purpose, she couldn't be sure.
"West side, report."
The voice blared into her ear, and she panicked briefly, before seeing the green light on the vehicle's radio. Rhys was right; the RebEarthers were travelling in a pack. The connection was good enough that they had to be close by; a day out at most.
You know where they are.
Yes. The Ever Onward. There was nothing else out here of value, nothing else to warrant the interest of off-worlders. But how could they know about it? And what were they doing to it?
"Digger hit a patch of glass, ten foot thick. Going to need explosives to get in this way."
"Got a crate coming in from Nexus; sent Lockwood and the boys to pick it up. Should be back soon."
"You better know what you're doing. The ship's fragile; a blast could take her systems out of commission once and for all."
That voice, all wry acidity and tight Applegarthian vowels, was unmistakable. "Duncan," she whispered, reaching for the radio even though she knew she couldn't use it. "Oh, Duncan, what are you doing here? It was supposed to be a secret."
Was this the project he'd mentioned? It was easy to picture men like the RebEarthers in the undercity - hiding out from their troubles with the law, perhaps. Duncan could've met them there, could've promised them the Ever Onward and all the tech she carried in return for a ride off-planet.
Exactly as she had told the Primaterre.
"We know what we're doing all right, but what about you? An hour you said it would take to hack the ship's systems. That was three hours ago."
"It's a very complex -"
"How about you get off the god-damned channel until you've finished your job?"
The door slid open and the vehicle listed sharply as Cassimer climbed inside. Joy pressed the mute button on the radio. She wasn't ready for him to find out about Duncan; not yet. All sympathisers must be purged, he'd said and she wasn't ready to deal with that. First, she had to find that focus Finn was always talking about.
Easier said than done in Cassimer's presence. The vehicle was smaller than the Pony and when he sat in the seat next to hers, he was so close she could feel the warmth generated by his suit. As close as they'd been on the train, only then she'd been able to look at him without thinking of severed heads.
He reached across her legs for the ignition and she instinctively shrank back. He paused to look at her, though his visor was down and dark and she couldn't even begin to imagine what the man was thinking.
"If I hadn't left Nexus, I might have met the RebEarthers instead of you," she said. "One choice made differently, and I could've been on that platform. You would've killed me without asking for so much as my name."
Cassimer pressed the ignition and the vehicle's engine rumbled until he, satisfied, switched it off. Another moment of silence - torturously long - and then he removed his helmet to run a hand through hair damp with sweat.
"Don't waste your time dwelling on what isn't," he said at last. "Killing RebEarthers is as inconsequential as harming you would be impossible. You're nothing like them, and you would never have gone anywhere with them willingly."
"Why not? You call them murderers, but I've been on Cato seven months now and I never saw anyone get killed until you arrived. I never saw anyone's head get cut off."
"I disabled his pain receptors first. The suit he wore - it's intrinsically linked to the wearer's nervous system. It was keeping him alive, Joy, and if the user is unable or unwilling to discon
nect, the only way to override the preservation protocol is to sever the spinal cord and remove the head. To wear an Ereshkigal suit is to accept a bad death."
Disabled his pain receptors. A very clinical way of saying "I drove a dagger into his brain". The necessity, if Cassimer could be trusted, hardly mitigated the horror.
"Didn't need to use his head as a negotiation tool, though, did you?"
"Need." He set his helmet on his lap and folded his hands on top of it. She remembered the hands inside the gauntlets; steady, tanned, strong. Made for building, for climbing, to hold another's. "A difficult concept, defined by the parameters of the greater good. Five hostiles on a train platform. Do I need to neutralise them alone, without backup? No, but if Lucklaw or Rhys are injured or worse, the mission suffers. The team suffers. Every decision I make, I must consider the far-reaching consequences. Any intel we acquire from Feehan could save lives, and so I must balance his suffering against the lives of my team. Against your life."
He paused briefly, jaw muscles hard and tense.
"So yes, I deem his interrogation necessary. But for his sake and ours, I'd see it done quickly. For that, he must be afraid, and he must be anticipating worse."
"By which you mean you."
"It won't come to that. He's already talking."
She didn't want to picture what was being done to Feehan, but she had seen what Rhys's healing hands could do and imagined his treatment of the commander's face in reverse - phoenix-inked skin peeled from flesh, flesh peeled from bone, teeth laid bare for extraction. Suddenly the vehicle felt more like a trap than a shelter, and breathing became impossible.
Four doses left in her med-bracelet. Not enough, not nearly enough.
Stay calm, Joy. Focus on your breathing.
But her lungs burned, and the taste of blood welled from her throat. She needed space, air - and she tried to stand, but Cassimer placed a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head.
"The outside is thick with dust. I could barely see your footprints on my way out here." He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a canteen. "Here."
