by S. A. Tholin
"Morse code, Commander," Lucklaw said. "A kind of code that was used on..."
"Earth. I know."
After the purification and subsequent canonization of Earth, there'd been a surge in terra-historical fiction and film. Scathach Station was enough, but it was also very lonely. Cassimer had watched enough movies to know what Morse code was. Earth's geography was etched in his memory, each curving coastline and jagged nuclear scar a familiar shape. He knew how the light had streamed through linden trees to dapple the boulevards of Paris, could trace the bulging lines of the River Thames as it meandered across submerged London, could hear the hum of the aurora borealis over the polar site where the first arc ship had been constructed.
All these things he knew, pointless trivia of a world long since gone, and all these things he reached for when the ash rose too high.
"Can you decipher it?"
"Me? No, Commander. Ships do still use it to communicate, though the on-board systems translate it automatically for the pilots. My suit can do the same thing. Should I -"
"The code, Lucklaw. What does it mean?"
"It's three letters repeated. S-O-S. Apparently, an obsolete -"
"Distress signal."
Aimed directly at the base. Didn't matter if it was a trap - whoever it was had to be dealt with, one way or another.
◆◆◆
The Epona wound its way through the lightning glass forest. Dust and fine particles of fulgurite matted the windows, only to be purged by the vehicle's automatic systems in a never-ending cycle.
Cassimer drove, while Rhys kept an eye on the geographical data to make sure they didn't hit one of the plains' many sinkholes. Up ahead, the concrete crescent of a half-buried culvert rose from the base of a dune. Its position, slightly elevated above the fulgurite forest, provided both shelter and a perfect line of sight to the redbrick bank. Another hole in the net, and Cassimer made a note of its position.
The signalling had ceased, but a faint light moved within the darkness of the culvert.
"One heat signal. Nothing else on my sensors." Rhys leaned forward, squinting at the windscreen. "What do you think, Commander?"
Cassimer switched on the Epona's floodlights. Stark incandescence washed over the landscape, spilling into the culvert. A lone figure stood there, pale face framed by dark copper.
Joy, he thought, and wasn't sure if he meant her name.
"That the girl who brought Lucklaw's components?" Rhys cocked his head, observing with interest. "Looks to be in bad shape, a cracked rib or two at the least. Not so bad she couldn't have made it to the rendezvous, mind. Have a care, commander. Locals can be tricky little bastards. Sometimes it's wise to ignore a siren's call."
◆◆◆
The wind battered his back with shards of glass as he approached the culvert.
"Commander Cassimer?" Joy's face was bruised, one eye ringed with fading yellow. Her respirator was nowhere to be seen, and the matte-grey of her environment suit peeked through tears in her sweater. The curve of her hip continued uninterrupted where her gun and holster had previously broken up the soft shape.
He nodded in confirmation. Sensors indicated that the tunnel beyond her was clear for at least two-hundred metres. Not far enough for comfort, especially when twisted glass obscured all other angles of attack. "Explain the distress signal."
"I went to Natham's farm like you asked. The settlers are..." A wracking cough interrupted her, and she turned, covering her face until it was over. Her dark lashes glittered with tears. "Sorry. Look, long story short - they hate you and everything you stand for."
"Doesn't look like they much care for you either."
Yellow bruises - he hadn't seen those in years, not since before medical officers and on-suit meds had been there to make contusions disappear as soon as they appeared. Memories stirred in the back of his mind; of slipping on ice and scraping his knees, of warm milk with honey and brightly-coloured adhesive plasters. Bruises had bloomed around those plasters, he seemed to recall, blue turning green turning yellow and then vanishing, as if nothing had ever happened.
But it had happened. He shifted, uncomfortable with the memories. Time had made them feel like those of a stranger's.
"Different kind of hate," Joy said, self-consciously touching her face. "Personal. Designed to bend, not to break."
"And did you bend?"
"Breaking seems much more likely. If they find out I've helped you, I will have no place to go. I've endured the inhospitality of Cato, but its hostility - I don't think I can survive it."
"That's why you signalled," he said, understanding at last. "You're afraid of being seen talking to us."
"Rivka did this over some perceived slight and a few paltry possessions. I don't care to find out what she'd do if she knew about this. About us."
About us. There was no definition of 'us' that included both him and Joy. Citizen and non-citizen. Soldier and civilian. Deceiver and deceived. The gulf between them was the deep and dark void of space. Joy, as distant as the stars.
"If you're concerned for your safety, why come here at all?"
"Because I deliver on my promises. Before I do, though..." She swayed slightly, catching hold of the side of the culvert to steady herself. "I need guarantees. A promise. Your word."
Or a convincing lie. A glint of cold fear in honey-brown warmth told him she would be receptive even to an unconvincing one.
"There are no guarantees, Joy, but if it were up to me, I would see you safely back to your home and family. I give you my word on that. Do you think the locals would wish you as well?"
Quietly, she shook her head.
◆◆◆
None of Joy's news was unexpected, except the fact that the settlers were planning an attack without the most basic intel on their enemy. Either the settlers were incompetent enough that such preparation hadn't even occurred to them, which likely meant they'd give up and forget about it once faced with the reality of combat, or they were blinded by hate.
Or it was possible the Primaterre intelligence on Cato was more lacking than they'd already discovered. Perhaps the planet was home to enough people that their leaders could afford to waste bodies to probe Scathach Banneret Company's defences. Cassimer had seen that miserable tactic only once before; wave after wave of woefully under-equipped fighters attacking his company's position until finally the resistance was ready to mount the real assault.
His commander at the time had figured out what was happening as soon as the initial wave lay dead. Hunker down, he'd ordered, hunker down and feign weakness: need to keep our cards close to the chest.
A wise tactic. The resistance had met their end against an unexpected wall of steel and fire, and many merits had been earned that day. But while his old commander had achieved victory through deception, Cassimer didn't have the luxury of bluffing. Five men, two vehicles, one base. The numbers were not on their side.
"Everything all right, Commander?" Rhys's voice came over the comms channel like a smattering of gravel. Less a question and more a polite reminder that Rhys was getting bored. Nobody liked waiting.
"Coming back now."
"Wait," Joy said. "I understand that you can't promise anything, I do - but could you please return my backpack? "
The ragged old thing she'd brought the components in? Hopewell had tossed that down an elevator shaft after the bag had begun to moulder and stink. It'd been beyond them at the time why Joy had chosen to include dead spiders wrapped in cloth in the delivery; Hopewell had joked that it must be a local custom.
But now it made sense. The components had been meant for them, but not the rucksack, the spider carcasses or any of the other junk stuffed into its various compartments. No, not junk - canteens and batteries. Junk to them, but to her, essential survival gear. They'd taken it all without even considering her needs. Had he even thanked her?
"A backpack can be arranged. It'll cost you an answer, though."
Her eyes lit up with a smile. "I ca
n afford an answer or two. Fair warning though, if it's about sports or geography, you're in for disappointment."
"It's a more personal matter."
"Intriguing," she said, and now the smile extended to her lips, and she cocked her head and regarded him with a kind of interest he wasn't...
No. He was imagining it. She knew nothing of him, save for the fact he had misled her once and used her twice. She hadn't even seen his face. It was the planet, was all. Dreary dust and subsiding stims, making him see what wasn't there. Making him want what he couldn't have. Once he was back on Scathach, golden copper would fade to dusty sepia.
"Where did you learn Morse code?" he asked, setting aside the unbalancing thoughts.
"Oh, nowhere, to be honest. That's the only signal I know. You see it in old movies, you know, the really old ones. A cruise ship hits an iceberg. A man and his dog are stranded on an asteroid. School children on a deserted island start killing each other under the evil influence of an alien artefact. Those kinds of films always have the main characters send an SOS somehow."
Pebbles arranged on a beach in neat letters until the waves swallowed them. A mining laser flaring desperately into space. Yes, he knew the movies she was talking about; found himself wondering what she had made of them. Had she liked Void Voyager? Few people did, but it was a guilty pleasure of his. Had she cried when the dog died at the end? He thought so.
"My brother taught me the sequence. Be prepared, that's his motto."
"A sensible man." A brother. An interest in old film. Friends called Voirrey and Duncan. Pieces of the puzzle that was Joy.
Tears welled up to wobble at the base of her eyelashes, and another puzzle piece fell into place. The brother was a sensitive topic. Dead? Perhaps, though she had referred to him in the present tense.
"We disposed of your backpack, but there are spare ones back at base." Not much, he knew, but he had little else with which to stop her tears. "I think you'll find them superior replacements."
"Thanks," she said, shaming him with how easily she spoke the word. "I really appreciate it. Though, isn't this usually the part of our conversation where you ask another favour?"
"We can discuss that back at base."
She gave him a wide-eyed, sceptical look. "What happened to the whole restricted area thing?"
"You'll be our temporary guest." She wanted to take the offer, he could tell, but apprehension had her biting her lip. "I'm needed back at base. Come with me if you want. If not, a backpack will be delivered to this location."
Mist swirled around his greaves as he walked back to the Epona. The wind had picked up, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Nights here were bitter, unkind to body and soul. Joy should come with him; should spare herself at least one night at the mercy of Cato. But she had a sensible brother, and a sensible brother was likely to have told his sister not to get into cars with strangers.
His offer was more than generous. Not without precedent - locals were at times assets, and mission conditions often required a stay on base - but unusual. He'd gone above and beyond, and wouldn't humiliate himself by attempting to persuade her.
The vehicle's door wheezed open. He entered, stooping low, and turned, saw dust and disappointment, and made to close the door. Then in a whirl of mist and fine glass, she was there, and his hand changed course to close around hers.
◆◆◆
Cassimer's intention had been to blindfold Joy. Bringing her to the base was a risk, however slight, and it was best she saw as little of their operations as possible.
Joy made the point moot, because before the vehicle was even halfway back to base, still weaving through shadowy lightning glass, she was fast asleep.
"What do you think, Rhys?" Cassimer, back in the driver's seat, glanced at the medical officer. Rhys had swivelled his seat around, his unspoken mission to keep an eye on their guest.
"Pretty enough, if you like redheads."
"Not asking for an assessment of her looks." Cassimer's jaw tensed with irritation. Rhys's habit of not keeping personal comments to himself was grating. Besides, the man clearly had no taste. Not in women, not in regulation-bending tattoos and not in cigarettes. The brand currently dangling from his lips was more paper and tar than tobacco, a cheap and nasty throwback to unhealthier times.
"Of course not. You want to know what I think about you inviting her back to base."
"I was asking for your opinion as a medical officer." You know, your actual job. But voicing that particular thought wouldn't be constructive. Not team-building.
"A couple of cracked ribs like I thought. Mostly healed. I'd say she got a good kicking about a week ago. She'll be fine - the silicosis is her biggest problem."
"Silicosis?"
"Miner's asthma. Breathe in enough dust and it inflames the lungs, scarring them permanently. I imagine it's a leading cause of death on Cato. Still, she's lucky. Most settlers probably don't have a medical bracelet to mitigate the symptoms."
"You recognise the bracelet?" Cassimer remembered the display and the bold seven upon it. Seven doses remaining? No wonder she was desperate to leave Cato.
"I know the type. Old school, but in use where Primaterre tech isn't readily available. Plenty of century-old bracelets still in circulation. I've seen the logo on hers before - a mark of quality."
"So nothing out of the ordinary?"
"She's probably exactly what she claims to be - a little lost castaway. Sure, she could be an outlaw or she could be RebEarth, but a RebEarther falling asleep inside a banneret Poney? Don't care how tired she is, that would take some serious ice in her veins."
"Agreed." Cassimer paused for a moment. They'd reached the edge of the glass forest, and the vehicle shuddered as the terrain shifted from hardened crust to shifting dust. Illuminated by the headlights, the ground sparkled with reflected light.
Static, he thought, it looks like static. Whatever Cato once was, now it's only static. Dead and empty.
"You all right, Commander?"
"Yes," he replied, realising the moment of silence had stretched into minutes. "Concentrating on driving. Anyway, what is your opinion on inviting her back to base?" Maybe talking was good. Maybe talking would drive the static from his mind.
"My opinion in general is that compassion is a virtue. Glad to see you're still capable of it, considering the amount of stims you're on."
"That'll be all, Captain." The static grew wilder, buzzing inside his head, scratching his skull.
"I know you don't want to hear it, Commander, but I'm still the team medical officer, and it's my professional opinion that you should follow the lead of Sleeping Beauty here. Don't forget, I have access to your medical files - including the psychological assessments. You have trouble sleeping - fine, I have meds for that. There's no shame in it. If you caught a bullet, you wouldn't hesitate in requesting medical aid, so why not do the same now?"
Cassimer could feel his heart racing, could feel his chest heaving with panicked breaths, and hated that Rhys would know all of those things too. Every twitch of his body was shared to the medical officer's HUD; every strain and every flaring emotion.
Leave me alone, he wanted to say, just leave me alone. No more prodding, no more poking. Bad enough that people thought they knew what had happened to him - what he had done - onboard the Hecate. Thought they could watch a movie made by hacks who had never even met him, never even spoken to him, and know who he was.
No. Cool nausea pooled at the bottom of his throat. His stories were his own, his problems were his own.
The headlights caught a glimpse of turquoise-stained copper. The toppled cupola shone a warm welcome, his beacon through the static.
14. Joy
A bed. A real bed.
Joy buried her face in the pillow, breathing in the clinical scent of citrus and chemicals. She'd been awake for awhile, but pretended to sleep, wanting the sensation to last as long as possible. Forever, preferably.
A grey blanket cocooned her in warmt
h and it was just the best, so good she became convinced that a few nights in a real bed would be enough to chase Cato from her mind.
A bed. A blanket. A pillow. A... handcuff? She opened her eyes a crack and found that why yes, she was indeed handcuffed.
I'm such an idiot. Her temples throbbed with regret. She'd hitched a ride with a stranger back to his house and what happened to girls who did that? They ended up cuffed to a bed for starters, that's what.
The black manacle was perfectly moulded around her left wrist. No way of slipping out of it and - she turned her wrist, the dark chain links clanking against the bed - the manacle was smooth, with no obvious lock to pick. Not that she knew how to do that - for all of Finn's lessons in being prepared, apparently he'd never thought she'd find herself in a situation quite like this. Apparently he'd thought better of her.
Big mistake.
The bed took up one side of a dark cubicle. The walls were bare and glossy, like glass or hard plastic. Soft light emanated from a smooth ceiling where she could see no lamps or fittings. At the foot of the bed, she could just about glimpse a crate, and in one corner of the cubicle a couple of duffel bags were stacked on top of black cases. Gun cases.
Everything had a sense of elegant functionality, the sort of look Finn's fiancée had lived for. Clean lines and a monochrome colour scheme - even the bed, while basic, had a certain appeal in the cool curves of the metal frame. Yes, Miana would have loved this place, would probably have been happy to spend more than Joy made in a month to buy one of the gun cases. Joy could picture it as a dramatic centre piece on the marble dining table in Miana's apartment, could hear Miana wittering on about the juxtaposition of the unexpected and whatnot.
Only, Miana wasn't wittering on about anything. The sleek-haired heiress slept in her chamber still, and yes, Miana was annoying sometimes, but she could put a smile on Finn's face like nobody else, and Joy loved her for that.
