by S. A. Tholin
"Who are the sleepers?"
"You know who they are." He smiled, and she hated him for it.
"Tell me where to find them." Her fingers brushed the grip of her gun, but she wasn't sure which way to go with this man, whether threats would make him crack or clam up. Whether he was a Duncan or a Cassimer. "Are they at the silver fortress?"
His surprise at the name was as genuine as his revulsion. "The silver fortress. It takes and takes and never gives back. So many have been called there, and soon it'll call me too, I think. I took the power cell because I thought maybe this time it would work. This time the ship would come online and I'd be able to escape. A last chance has to work; it isn't fair if it doesn't." His voice became a whimper, and he tugged hard at his beard. "But the whispers say no, I must stay, and here I am. Here I am."
"Maybe I'm your last chance," Joy said. "Tell me where the sleepers are, and maybe..." She shrugged. A promise left open and vague; not quite a lie. Cassimer had once made her a similar promise. Had he felt the same shame she did?
"Cato is the grey plains and the burned cities, the mountains and the deep. And its heart is the silver fortress. An outsider can never find it. It is for Cato alone. But I can show you." He pressed a few keys on the console. "Come, see. Cato's secrets laid bare."
An image glowed on the screen. She stepped closer, craning her neck to see.
Wrong move, said Finn, and whether he was imaginary or not, he was still right, damn him, and she still too slow. Oh, she'd tried to be clever, tried to bait the man and fish for information, thinking that every little nibble would get her one step closer to what she wanted. A good plan. So good that Hal had done the exact same thing.
A sweaty fist closed around her neck and drove her face into the console. As he pulled her backwards, she caught a brief glimpse of the screen. Underneath a smear of her own blood, was the same logo she'd seen on the shower curtain, and the same cheery cliché:
When You've Seen Cato, You've Seen The Universe
Hal dropped her to the floor, and glass cracked as at least one of the sedative vials shattered. She reached for her gun -
- but Hal was faster. He sat down on her, forcing the air from her lungs, pinning her to the ground. He grabbed her wrist and twisted until something snapped. She cried out, and Hal put a hand over her mouth, pressing down hard, hushing her. Then he tore the gun, holster and all, from her thigh and tossed it across the room.
"This doesn't have to hurt. Just be a good girl."
Joy had always been a good girl. So good and so keen to not cause a fuss that there would've been a time when she'd have complied. But his weight on her and the taste of blood and grease in her mouth made something else snap. A painful snap; a good snap, switching her brain from civilised and polite to ancient and feral.
She bit his hand, sank her teeth into his flesh, and it was his turn to cry out in pain. He let go of her wrist, and she reached into her jacket pocket, cutting her hand on broken glass, and found the jet injector. She pressed its nozzle against Hal's side and -
- his fist struck her face. The back of her head hit the floor, and a darkness swelled around her.
The last thing she heard was a voice in her ear, clear even through the haze of pain and fading consciousness.
"We're in position, Somerset. Do you copy?"
◆◆◆
Somerset, do you copy?
Somerset, acknowledge.
Somerset, we are in position, requiring urgent assistance.
Somerset, disable the force field.
When she came to, it was to a glow of increasingly critical text messages - but none so critical as the very last one.
Joy? Please.
Two words, each worth a thousand. If the team were in position, they were less than a kilometre from her location.
"Cassimer," she said through swollen lips.
Hal sat cross-legged by the door, picking through her backpack. The gun and the jet injector were on the floor beside him. He looked up when she spoke, but said nothing.
And neither would Cassimer, because she wasn't equipped to use voice comms. Lucklaw had told her how to text type, had made her practice (pretend that you're typing on a keyboard), rolling his eyes at her clumsy attempts.
ih earu
Awful, but at least they'd know she was alive. At least they'd know she hadn't abandoned them to the storm.
"Somerset." Cassimer's voice cracked with relief. A few beats of silence followed before he continued, composed and professional, no trace of sentiment: "We're in position. Storm's coming. You need to disable the force field without delay."
Shit. This was going to be difficult. She tried to sit and found that she could. Hal had done nothing to restrain her. There was pain, of course, but that was good; that helped distract from the strain of typing her thoughts.
cant enemy at position
Blood dripped from her nose onto the floor, and she tried to convince herself that it was no cause for concern.
new position go sw 2 k ish look for blue shuttle under crane enter there undercity first left second right stairs to hotel
"Confirm - new entry point roughly two kilometres southwest of our location?"
y
Her thoughts were interrupted by clattering metal. Hal had emptied the contents of her backpack on the floor. The force field disruptor lay partially obscured underneath rags, but of course the magpie immediately spotted it; the shiniest object of them all.
Fine - she had her own shiny to collect. The toolbox lay on its side, lid open and contents spilled across the floor. The snow globe keychain sparkled under the fluorescent lights.
She crawled over to it, one eye on Hal, sure that he would turn around any second, sure that he would pick up her gun and learn how to use it real fast. Then the snow globe was within reach and her trembling fingers closed around it, and the cool plastic against her skin felt as sweet as victory.
"What are you doing?"
She tucked the key into the sleeve of her suit. The floor vibrated with Hal's approaching footsteps, scattered screws and washers hopping like jumping beans. A screwdriver rolled in a lazy semi-circle, and she reached for it.
And screamed as a boot ground into the back of her hand.
"Told you to be a good girl, didn't I?" Another boot found its way in under her ribs and rolled her over. Hal towered above her. "It didn't have to hurt. But now it will."
His boot struck her ribs twice, and when she could breathe again, her lungs throbbed. She coughed, and blood spattered the floor. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe if she held her breath long enough the pain would fade. Or maybe all of Rhys's good work had been undone, and now the old and familiar slow death had returned.
Hal pointed to the bloodied floor. "That's your own doing. Your own fault. You understand?"
She nodded, drawing her knees to her chest to protect herself, but Hal turned his attention back to the contents of her backpack.
"Somerset, I'm seeing signs of physical distress. Are you in need of medical assistance?"
Over the comms, Rhys's voice sounded so hoarse she could practically smell the cigarette smoke. The idea of the medic huddled outside the force field, smoking a cigarette even as lightning turned the ground around him to glass, made her smile.
no, she replied, because what good would saying yes do? Instead, she added: encountered hostile please advise
"Joy," Cassimer said, over what her HUD informed her was a private channel. "I'll talk you through it. How many hostiles?"
one
"Armed? Describe the hostile. Describe the surroundings."
Having to confess that Hal had no gun but her own made her flush with shame. With every added detail the hopelessness of the situation became so clear that she awaited Cassimer's response with dread. A doleful you're screwed or a cheery well, it was nice knowing you, or worst of all: you let us down - all seemed appropriate.
"Sounds like you see the pieces with clarity. Now lay them out in a way that makes sense to y
ou. Remember who you are. Be aware. Perceive, without and within. Approach the situation with purity."
what, she wanted to message back, maybe in capital letters and why not a few interrobangs too, because while Cassimer's response was better than expected, it really wasn't much better. At least not in the sense-making department. Advice would've been good. Hand-holding would've been welcome. Mantra-spewing, not so much.
"You're not alone. I'll be with you every step of the way."
Okay, better, but still not very helpful. Hal had picked up the force field disruptor and was turning it over and over. He had a thoughtful look on his face; the kind of look a man got when he wanted to pick something apart to see how it was made.
"I'd come for you if I could, but -"
The transmission cut out and she thought the thunderstorm had kicked up too much interference, but then Cassimer spoke again.
"I'll come for you if you need me to. Just say the word."
"Oh, you big lovely idiot." She couldn't help but mutter the words under her breath. Yes, come to me, she wanted to say. Kick down the door and burst in guns blazing and save me from this horror. Yes, she wanted him to be her knight in reactive-plated armour, but she knew that's what he wanted, too.
He'd done the same thing after their kiss. Hadn't said anything, then, but he had held onto her, in his eyes a plea for her to command him to stay. He'd wanted to ignore his own deadline, be late for his own briefing, to disobey the rules and regulations he lived and breathed by - but he couldn't bring himself to do it, instead leaving the decision to her.
Well, that wasn't happening. Remember who you are, he'd said, and she was many things. A good girl. A junior botanist. A recruit. But she certainly was no tempting siren seeking to lead men astray.
no stick to plan
If this paladin of hers wanted to fall - and he did, she thought, very much - he'd have to take the leap himself.
◆◆◆
"Do you know the story of the Mary Celeste?" She sat on the floor, hands in her lap, looking as much the well-behaved captive as she could.
When Cassimer had taken on the RebEarthers at the train station, she'd seen a reckless improviser, reacting to violence with violence at lightning speed. But that wasn't true at all. He was a man who turned facts into weapons, who deconstructed a situation into its building blocks so that he may rebuild it to suit his purposes. The train had been one building block, the confined space of the ticket office another. The leg shot on Feehan certainly intentional, cold and measured even in the heat of battle. But while Cassimer had training and experience, all she had was... well, this.
Hal laughed. "You want to tell me a story? I'm going to give you to the RebEarth, little magpie. Stories can't save you."
So he'd heard of magpies but not of Scheherazade. The people of Cato knew survival, violence, thievery and pointless fighting, but most of them had never read a book, and few had any real education. Duncan had used that to his advantage, impressing the locals with both know-how and technical jargon, and perhaps she could do the same.
"The Mary Celeste was a ship, back when ships travelled the seas, and the sky was but a dream. They didn't have Cascades or even engines back then - the Mary Celeste was made of wood, with spans of canvas sails to catch the wind, and her crew charted their course by maps hand-drawn on paper. The sea was as big to them as space is to us, and in some ways, far more dangerous. Can you imagine it? Nothing but water as far as the eye can see, and on the horizon, a storm brews. They were brave, our ancestors."
Hal wasn't looking at her, but he'd stopped picking at the disruptor, and she knew he was listening. History and ships, each subject catnip to this man.
"The Mary Celeste had made many such journeys, but it was her last that would make her a legend. She never reached her destination, which in itself wasn't so uncommon - plenty of ships were lost to weather and piracy. But six months later, she was spotted adrift by another ship, and when they investigated, they found that the Mary Celeste's crew of seven, plus the captain and his family, had vanished without trace. The ship was seaworthy and fully provisioned; there were no signs of struggle and no reason for the crew to have abandoned ship. Legend has it that there were plates of half-finished food on the table; glasses still containing wine."
"So?" Hal shrugged. "People disappear all the time."
"Not on Mars, they don't, nor on Earth or any other world I know. The Mary Celeste is famous because it's shocking when people vanish. Do you understand that? Cato isn't normal." She sniffled, wiping blood from her nose. "There are dozens of theories concerning the fate of the ship's crew. There's one in particular that claims that their stores of grain had become tainted by a fungus called ergot, and when they ate of it, it poisoned their minds and drove them mad."
"Bad food gives you the shits. It doesn't turn you crazy."
"Actually, it can. Ergot contains alkaloids which, when ingested, have a serious effect on a human's nervous tissue. It can make people hallucinate... make them think they're seeing and hearing things that aren't really there."
She paused to give him a chance to catch on. Hal set down the disruptor and wiped his hands on his knees, over and over. With every anxious twitch of his mouth, his beard rasped against his belly.
"There's a phenomenon, called collective obsessional behaviour, that sees a group of people experience the same delusion. One recorded case in medieval Europe started with a single woman dancing in the streets. When others saw her, some of them couldn't help but join her. They danced and danced until they were in their hundreds. They couldn't explain themselves, nor could they stop, and some of them danced until they dropped dead. A psychotropic substance like ergot could've made their minds susceptible to suggestion, and when they saw others dancing - an activity that their minds would have been socially primed to read as communal - they were unable to resist. Perhaps the Mary Celeste's crew all suffered the same delusional manifestation. It would've been enough for one crew-member to see a monster or hear the song of mermaids - once he told the others, whose minds were certainly primed by tall stories and superstition, they would've shared in his hallucination, the madness leaping from person to person like an infection. And whatever it was they saw or heard, it made them jump overboard to their deaths."
Lots of big words. That was key, she thought, remembering how Duncan had dazzled the force field maintenance crew (before promptly rubbing them the wrong way with his condescending attitude). If she gave Hal enough (borderline) science and truth, maybe he wouldn't see the lie when it came.
"You think the whispers aren't real," he finally said, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He'd had to go there himself, had to take the first step towards believing.
"Lichen is a composite organism, made up of one part algae or bacteria, one part fungus. Fungus like ergot, for instance, or one of countless other psychotropic fungi. The whispers are real - but there's no whisperer. It's just a bad case of poisoning."
"No." He shook his head. "No, that's not true."
"I can't hear the whispers, remember?" She stood, slowly, and removed her jacket. Her ragged sweater next, even though undressing felt like peeling off layers of defence.
The Primaterre jumpsuit wasn't a perfect fit. It had belonged to their pilot, Hopewell had told her; a woman named Albany who'd been ("a total bitch", according to the lieutenant) six inches taller and a few inches wider than Joy. The grey honeycomb material was oddly dry to the touch. Mostly stab-proof, Rhys had called it, adding that avoiding getting stabbed was always a good idea, regardless.
"Where did you get that?"
"It was a gift," she said.
"A pretty gift for the pretty girl with the pretty hair. It's the way of the world, I suppose."
"You know this symbol?" She tapped the white Primaterre sun on her shoulder. He nodded. "Then you know the people who gave me this gift. You know what they're capable of, and you know that they wouldn't come to Cato unprepared. They have medicine to counteract the lich
en's poison and make the whispers go away. They gave me this suit, and they gave me the medicine. They're good people, you see, nothing like what RebEarth would have you believe. The injector there -" she pointed to it, trying her very best to keep both her finger and face straight. "- it's loaded with a dose of the medicine."
He looked at it, then her, one bushy eyebrow arched high enough to nearly graze his hairline.
"I had two more doses." She plucked the vials from the jacket pocket. One was shattered, the sharp pieces of glass wet and jangling in her palm. Silvery, glittery noises to attract the magpie. "One for Voirrey, one for Duncan and one for my brother when I find him. That's all I want, you see, to find my brother and leave. If you let me go, you can have the dose in the injector. Voirrey's dose - she's with RebEarth now, anyway."
He picked up the injector, turned it over in his hands, and she hoped to God that he'd never heard of somamine before because it was right there on the label.
"You take a dose first," he said, giving her a sly look.
"I can't. I need this last one for my brother. The Primaterre generosity only goes so far. We're not citizens, and even if I do find Finn... even if I do get us away from Cato, he'll still hear the whispers. The poison will still be in his bloodstream. He'll go as mad as a drifter."
"Not my problem," said Hal, but she thought it was. The silver ring around his finger that he kept spinning. The way his eyes kept flicking upwards. Pieces to work with; hints of something she understood very well.
"Please," she said, closing her hand around the remaining vial. "If you've ever loved anyone, please understand that I can't leave my brother to such a fate. He needs this."
"Give it to me."
"No," she said, shaking her head to stop herself from smiling.
Hal picked up her gun. Two long strides, and he was in her face, muzzle pressed to her cheek. "Give it to me." Oily fingers pried at her closed fist.
"Why?" she asked and let him have the vial. Innocent, ignorant - a girl who knew nothing, who couldn't possibly put together a puzzle. The tears helped sell the act, she thought, although they were as genuine as they were wet. "I need it for my brother."
