by Trevor Wyatt
The drops form the exact same pattern as when I’d shudder outside the bulkhead to Engineering. I stare down at them, wondering how that could be.
Strange radiation sluices through me, the outpourings of the star energizing a nebula not many light-years distant. Perseus’ atmosphere shielded the planet from the radiation, but out here in space—wait, what? Space? Yes, I am in space! Floating all but naked in space, and my nanites laboring to keep me alive, staving off cellular damage, trying to get oxygen to my organs, reducing my core temperature to slow my metabolism.
How long has it been? How many hours have I drifted helplessly out here, alternately lit and shadowed as my motionless body slowly rotated into and out of Perseus’ light? I’m dead now, or soon will be.
It is, I decide, peaceful. I no longer feel the cold. Like a mummy, I’ll be preserved here in space, desiccated, lifeless, drifting forever between the stars, a message to future space voyagers that my species existed once upon a time. They’ll wonder who I am, what I had been doing, how I had come to be floating sans protective headpiece here in the vacuum. Was I a criminal, tossed out the airlock? Was I a hero? Was I a careless idiot?
Shapes loom all around me. The gods of the galaxy, coming to harvest my soul. I never believed in them...never believed in a soul. Now all I know is the silence of space, a faint slug-slug-slug from my faltering heart, the brittle feel of the outer layers of my skin as they freeze and flake off.
All right, if this is it...if this is how I am to die...it ‘s okay. I can live with that. I would have chuckled at the feeble joke had I been able to. But the vast shapes around me loom closer, almost comfortingly, and I want them to gather me in and take me away to whatever unknown Valhalla awaited me. Even oblivion would be fine.
Everything slips away, and I’m dead.
Noises. Sounds, annoying sounds: rhythmic, a repetitive one-note beep beep beep worming its way into my awareness.
Go away, let me sleep. I’m dead, I don’t need this shit. Let a poor dead girl sleep, would you?
There’s a light out there. I swim toward it, slowly aware that there’s a tube down my throat.
Beep beep beep.
The tube is withdrawn. Surely they don’t mean for me to be conscious during the process? Thanks for nothing, nanites. You brought me back too soon.
Beep beep beep.
You can stop that now, please.
I open my eyes.
Mistake.
Harsh fluorescent illumination picks highlights off the fairings of any number of weapons pointed at me by a cadre of military-grade robots, all nicely polished gleaming steel with red and white carapaces. Numbers stenciled on them. Standard issue security iron.
Jeez, who did they think I was?
Someone steps out from behind one of the bots.
“No, don’t try to talk,” says Jeryl Montgomery. “Just relax.”
Seeing my eyes flick around, he says, “You’re in the TUS Seeker’s sick bay.”
He takes a seat on a plastic chair to one side. I am, I understand, lying in bed, hooked up to machines.
Guarded by military-grade security bots.
Beep beep beep.
“Nice work out there,” he says conversationally.
“You almost bit it, though...I’m sure you know that. You were out there for just over two minutes. A few seconds longer, and we wouldn’t have been able to save you.”
He smiles.
“As it was you were kind of a mess, Grayson. The docs don’t think there’s any serious tissue damage, but you’ve had a boatload of alveoli implanted into your lungs. That took a while, so they intubated you and kept you in an induced coma while they cleaned you up. Oh, and you lost a lot of skin. You’ll have full-body dandruff for a while, they tell me.”
He crosses his legs.
“So you’re under arrest.”
He tilts his head at the robots.
“Be a good girl—don’t give these things a reason to get tough with you. You’re in no shape to argue with them.”
I figure he’s right about that. I’m on the mend, but I won’t be running any races for a while...
I frown. I’d let the team down. We’d lost the regional.
Beep beep beep.
I try to access my nanites’ diagnostics to get a full run-down on my condition. I blink twice to get to the retinal menu.
A shock: nothing happened. I blink twice again. Still nothing.
They’re gone. My nanites are gone.
Montgomery watches me. He obviously understands what I’m trying to do, because he says, “Oh yeah. They had your little friends deactivated. You’re offline, Anika. You’re just too much of a threat with the enhancements.”
Beep beep beep.
This is going to take a while to integrate. I relax back into the pillow.
“I feel like hell,” I croak. “Under arrest?”
He nods.
“Crimes against the state,” he says. “I’m sorry. They think you’re a traitor. They intend to schlep you back to New Washington for trial, Anika. I’m sorry. They want to hang you out to dry.”
Then he smiles. “On the plus side, you saved my life—which they seem to regard as a good thing, I don’t know why—and delivered a fully integrated, working teleportation unit, not to mention a Tyreesian ship. And you have in addition embarrassed the hell out of the Tyreesians and made the Tyreesian delegation look like the festering deck-splat that they are. So there are points in your favor.”
“Good to hear,” I say. My raspy voice makes my attempt at sarcasm ineffectual, but Montgomery catches it. He reaches out and put a hand on my arm.
“I’ll do all I can for you,” he says. Leaning closer, he murmurs, “We’re not going to blow your cover. We can’t. But the Union is out for blood. They want a scapegoat for all the carnage at the summit, and you’re it.”
“That’s not fair,” I manage.
He leans back in his chair and sighs.
“You’ve worked for the government long enough to know that that word doesn’t exist in the official lexicon.”
True enough. I nod slowly. I glance at the security iron across the room. Without my nanites, I’m not going to get past those bots.
His pocket tablet beeps. He takes it out, reads the notice, and frowns.
“I have to go,” he said. “You’ve kicked up a lot of mud, Anika. I’ve got meetings all day about it.” He stands, brushes off his jacket, and steps past the security iron.
“I’ll try to look in on you later,” he says. “Take care.”
“Thanks.”
After he’s gone, I find myself exhausted by his visit and the brief conversation. They aren’t going to let me come in from the cold. Well, that’s no real surprise. It’s a risk we have to take as agents. There’s cover, and there’s cover.
Most of the Union pols will think I’m a traitor. It makes sense for them to be allowed to think that...if I’m caught and go down, they’ll think they’ve done some good. They can go home feeling proud of themselves, and brag to their constituents about what good little boys and girls they are. They’ll put on a nice show trial, convict me, and lock me up somewhere.
I’ll get time off for good behavior, no doubt; Jeryl’s people, who have to be in the know, probably won’t let me rot in jail very long...just long enough for the rumpus to die down. Then I’ll be paroled, and maybe given a new ID and sent off to live on some little planet somewhere out of harm’s way.
It makes me sick. I’m too tired to think about it. I cast a glance at the robots, who stand implacably. I won’t even be able to go to the bathroom without getting permission from the doctors, and even then, one of the bots would follow me in.
It’s too depressing.
I turn over and go to sleep.
Terran Union New Report
TASH AVERY: Good evening, I’m Tash Avery. Welcome to the Solar Broadcasting System’s News Hour for Thursday, February 12, 2207. Tonight, Neo-Traditionalists win big in Max
ia sector elections, promising big gains for investors. Allegations of meddling by agents of the Tyreesian meddling linger despite the resounding Unionist win.
We’ll talk with two Union officials about the election. Then, how thriving genetically modified wildlife could be a boon to tourism on Titan. In exonews, the Galactic Council pushes for economic intergrations, and the Drupadi roll out the red carpet for the Tyreesian delegation. All that and more, on tonight’s SBS News Hour.
AVERY: And now for the analysis of Ngano and L’blanc. That is Baldwin Ngano of the Solar Times, and syndicated columnist Harry Leblanc. Gentlemen, welcome back.
BALDWIN NGANO: Thank you, Tash.
HARRY L’BLANC: Thanks. Good to be here.
AVERY: So let’s talk about the Maxia Sector elections, Baldwin. Undercover work by Armada Intelligence seems to implicate the Tyreesians in a scheme to influence the election outcome.
NGANO: Well, it’s no secret that they wanted Sheila Simmons to be the winner. But I don’t think anyone expected they’d have the capability to hack into the Consolidated Party’s data network. But now it looks like...they did. It’s going to cause problems for them in the Council.
AVERY: (chuckles) That’s an understatement. Harry?
L’BLANC: It’s certainly given some context to other conflicts we’ve seen them involved in, for sure. But on the one hand—well, look, Tash. Whoever was going to win was going to be presiding over a ruined economy, with half of their population enduring a lowered standard of living after the war. You can see the economic justification for colluding with the Tyreesians. Simmons is known to be fairly outspoken on the subject of the Tyreesians. She’s said any number of times that we ought to bring them more closely under the Union’s auspices so that we can more quickly rebuild.
AVERY: But Terran Union officials don’t want that, do they?
NGANO: No. Nor do a lot of people on Earth and the colonies. We’re seeing a wave of dissent and unrest following the disclosures. And you can’t blame people for that. But you know the saying; ‘Tyreesian politics.’ Their own campaigns at home are so riddled with maneuvers and tricks and twists that it shouldn’t be a surprise that once they tried to tamper with the Maxia Sector election, the results would be almost unreal.
L’BLANC: That’s right, and it underscores, I think, Simmons’ naiveté. We simply can’t trust the Tyreesian Collective. We’ve seen them tampering in the Ascensionist issue on Sonali Prime, to cite only the latest example. I’m sure that next we’ll find they’ve been colluding with the Outer Colonies.
N’GANO: I don’t know about that, but I think it is clear that they’ve been working behind the scenes on Lomagon, fomenting dissent among the Kurta.
L’BLANC: You’re talking about the increased tensions in Kurta space?
N’GANO: I absolutely am, and if the Union doesn’t take steps to prevent it, it’s going to blow up into civil war. I believe we’ll see the Seyshallian Nation involved next.
AVERY: Harry, how likely do you think that the Tyreesian have been looking to manipulate the Kurta?
L’BLANC: Um, not very? (chuckles) The Kurta are a matriarchy, and we know very well how females are treated among the Tyreesians. The Kurta won’t allow themselves to be influenced by males of any species. I know the Collective has a lot of money to throw around, but if they think that’s going to help them, well...(chuckles again)
AVERY: They used human females to bomb the Lomagonian embassy on Irivani Prime.
L’BLANC: That was a one-off. They got lucky. It won’t happen again. I think we should make it clear the conflict between two interstellar empires is at its heart stupid and inglorious, a war that shows us humans, at least, as petty and spiteful.
N’GANO: And that whole thing on Perseus; that mess even roped in a Union intelligence operative.
AVERY: You’re talking about Anika Grayson.
N’GANO: I am, indeed.
AVERY: We’ll get to that in a minute, Harry. First, I want to ask you gentlemen about the disturbing allegations of sexual misconduct by the...
AVERY: Harry, Anika Grayson was sentenced this week to life in the penal colony on Kalselux. Some people are saying that’s overly harsh. Kaselux is just barely capable of supporting human life, with a frigid mean temperature and nearly three times the gravitational pull of Earth.
N’GANO: (scoffs) Not me. She’s a traitor. The name of ‘Anika Grayson’ is now as synonymous with treachery as Brutus from the Roman assassination of Julius Caesar or Benedict Arnold from the American Revolution. Or even Evan Chambers from the weaponized bubonic plague on San Diego. Even more so, I’d say, because she didn’t sell out her ruler or her country—she sold out her entire species.
L’BLANC: It’s hard to dispute the charges, but yeah—basically, exiling her on Kaselux is a death sentence. The prisoners there are forced to spend their entire lives inside sealed environment suits. They’ll never get out of them, because the things have been surgically melded to their flesh. Layers of skin, layers of metal, layers of organ tissue, layers of metal...they’ve become cyborgs.
I think it’s a lot of trouble and expense to go to just to punish someone when you could imprison them on Mars or even Venus and put them to work in a factory. So yes, I guess I do think Grayson’s punishment is a bit gratuitous.
AVERY: Even given that she allegedly returned some valuable information from her mission?
N’GANO: Tash, that’s hearsay, and I don’t know one legitimate source that confirms it. I think the only thing she did worth a damn was to rescue Jeryl Montgomery from the Tyreesians. Kudos to her for that, but she was working for the Tyreesians when she did it.
I don’t think she did it out of the goodness of her heart, but because she knew that if she didn’t we’d be looking at war again. And no one has the stomach for that now, not after what we had to live through with the Sonali not so long ago.
L’BLANC: Yeah I agree, but a lot depends on what other information comes out about that mission.
AVERY: You think there may be more disclosures, Harry?
L’BLANC: All I’m saying is, be on the lookout.
AVERY: Watch the skies, eh? Well, all right, we’re going to have to leave it there for now. Once again, you’ve been watching the commentary of Harry L’Blanc and Baldwin N’Gano, our regular Thursday commentators. Gentlemen, we’ll see you next week.
N’GANO: Thanks, Tash.
L’BLANC: Thank you.
Jeryl
Viewed from orbit, Kaselux looks like it wants to be left alone. From here, it’s a long way to anywhere.
I sit in the ship’s command center, listening to the murmur of conversation among my crew. None of them wanted this duty. Hell, I don’t want it—but for different reasons.
My nose itches and I rub it. There’s a fine sheen of perspiration on my upper lip, which the gesture removes.
“It’s better than she deserves,” says the navigator, a tall African. He glances at me out of the corner of one red eye. I grimace but say nothing.
Kaselux is just about the most extreme environment in which a human can survive.
The air she breathes will support combustion, so she will be able to cook whatever she manages to glean from the land, but that won’t be much. Cooking will be a waste of time anyway, because all she has to do is to stuff any organic matter she finds on Kaselux’s inhospitable surface into the intake unit of her biosuit, and the suit’s systems will break it down and rearrange its compounds into ones compatible with human life. About as tasty as being on an IV drip, but it will sustain her indefinitely.
The planet has never undergone the evolutionary spasms common to most life-bearing worlds. There’s aquatic life, but nothing much more advanced than the sort of jawless fish that are common in the Silurian period on Earth.
A few species of arthropod-like insects have crawled out of the water. The few plants that have made the transition from the sea to the land hugged the coastline, forming tall, sculpted columns and mounds�
��stromatolites—comprised of layer after layer of cyanobacteria. The free oxygen in the air is the result of some four billion years of stromatolite survival.
Kaselux’s system is old, and located past the Rim, in what can almost be called intergalactic space. A red dwarf lights its surface with a wan light. Stars are visible in the Mars-like planet’s thin air even during the day. It is one of the most depressing worlds I have ever seen.
Grayson will spend the rest of her life here encased in a biosuit that will keep her alive and report on her whereabouts as she wanders the desolate world.
I swivel my seat around and stand. It’s time. Without a word to any of my crew, I leave the command center and head down to the sickbay.
Anika, disavowed by the TAIOC, has been shamed as a traitor and terrorist. In view of her having saved my life, I’ve volunteered to transport her to Kaselux personally, piloting a special small cruiser with a crew of only three others.
I pause outside the sickbay. I sigh. Condemned to endless solitude and silence, never to feel another human touch for the rest of her life...never to taste food, make love, smell a flower, pet a cat...never to feel the air on her skin...because she no longer has skin, simply a network of plastic sensors with a few patches of tissue here and there.
I shudder. It’s beyond imagining.
And her fellow exiles? The lowest of the low, the most depraved and unrepentant criminals in the galaxy, all, like her, sealed into biosuits and cast into Purgatory. Perhaps a dozen others overall, scattered across the face of Kaselux, isolated one from the other by electronic surveillance and proximity webs that will prevent them from even seeing each other, let alone conversing and perhaps planning an escape attempt.
Not that escape is possible from this place—unless it’s an escape into madness.
I stare glumly at the biosuit that’s going to house her. It’s bulky, insectile, the matte finish of its robotic carapace reflecting only diffuse highlights from the overheads. Staring blue-lensed eyes gaze unseeingly upward, and the suit’s “mandibles” are open.
