Augment

by C R MacFarlane

  “Why don’t you go check on the engines, Kieran,” Rayne said at last.

  “Sorry,” muttered Gal.

  Kieran waved him off as he left, his half-full ration bowl still on the table.

  “Gal,” Rayne admonished, “I know you don’t like him, but he’s watching you all the time because he wants to learn from you — not because he has some spread agenda. He’s doing his time here like all the others. He’s already been reassigned — one last trip to get the new chief up to speed and then he’ll be out of here the next time we’re at Etar. Try to be civil until then, yeah?”

  “I know, I know.” He scrubbed his face with his hands.

  Rayne scooped up a spoon full of purple-orange stew, eating in silence.

  Gal took a hesitant poke at his rubbery-looking noodles.

  “Speaking of odd,” said Rayne, tapping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, “the colonists have asked to speak with you.”

  “Tell them no.”

  “I did — well, I told them I’d ask you but that you were busy. That wasn’t the strange part.”

  His heart started to crash around again, and he dropped his fork.

  “I thought they would be excited, but they looked … worried — I don’t know, it was strange. One of them told me her name was Minerva, and she asked to see you.”

  Gal collapsed into the back of his chair. He must have had too much to drink, but usually it worked the other way — he used the Jin-Jiu to chase away the memories. “Minerva?” It couldn’t be the same one.

  “Yeah. Do you know her?”

  “Absolutely not!” He pushed away from the table, chair crashing across the floor as he stood. “I can’t see them.”

  “Gal?” Rayne called out.

  His feet carried him to the door as fast as they could. The Poet, the colonists, and now Minerva. It had to be someone else, some different Minerva.

  He sprinted through the ship’s corridors, taking the most direct route to his quarters. He rounded a corner and stopped short.

  “Oh hello, Galiant.” The Poet’s terrifying blue-eyes bore into him from the far end of the corridor.

  Gal made an abrupt turn. “Not now, Poet!”

  He ran his hands through his hair. The Poet was watching him, the Speakers were tempting him. And yet Minerva — if it was the same Minerva, and of course it must be — had been one of his most trusted allies.

  Once, he had seen into the barren wastelands beyond the UEC compound walls at Selousa. He’d seen how the colonists had starved, their bodies growing weaker and weaker as they had run out of minerals. He’d watched them turn on each other, rip flesh from limb. Wasted frames and wasted minds.

  Maybe it would be better, maybe the conditions had improved. Maybe what happened to Aaron really had been an accident. Maybe there was some other woman called Minerva in the cargo hold. All of it simply an unfortunate coincidence.

  He leaned against the wall, panting. The hard black screen of a locking mechanism caught his eyes. The storage locker called to him.

  But the Poet would be watching Gal and he would be watching the colonists. It was too dangerous. Minerva was strong, smart. She’d have to make it on her own.

  And yet.

  As though Aaron stood in the corridor beside him, a voice whispered in Gal’s head, reminding him that he could not stand by and do nothing.

  The consequences of getting caught were dire, and his sensible mind played him an image of Rayne, reminding him of what he had to lose. It was too much, too risky.

  He walked away, but the voice stopped him, a ghost hand tugging his shoulder and turning him to stare at the locker once again. Heart thrumming, he knew he couldn’t leave them to die, no matter the consequence.

  THREE

  GAL SET A HESITANT FOOT at the edge of the upper cargo deck, peering over the railing. The lower half the cargo door laid open, forming a ramp. The hold filled with the muted sunlight and dry, dusty air of Selousa, casting a red-purple haze over the usually grey place.

  Rayne stood tapping at her data tablet by the open door, presumably overseeing the cargo transfer. She marked as each colonist passed by in a single file line, flanked on all sides by UEC soldiers.

  The cargo lift whirred, making the trip to the second level and descending again, loaded with cargo containers. Crewmen loaded the containers on hover-carts and floated them down the ramp.

  Gal bit his lip and started down the clanking metal stairs. His footsteps fell heavy under the weight of the container he carried in his arms. He gritted his teeth with each stomp, but Rayne — thankfully engrossed in conversation with one of the new crew — never turned to the noise.

  He descended to the second level, feet slipping on the slick surface of the rearrangeable plastic panels that made up the floor. The panels were set up in a standard half-deck configuration, and the stacks of cargo hid him from view of the deck below.

  Crewmen grunted, shuffling containers and calling out row numbers as they collected containers meant for the colonists. Gal clutched the container in his arms, pleased he had guessed right and his container was the same size as the ones they were loading.

  There was no way he could deliver the package to the colonists directly. Someone would see, and someone — maybe the soldiers at the base, maybe even Rayne — would take a look inside. Would they charge him with stealing or insubordination? It didn’t matter, it would all be blasphemy.

  He pressed himself against the stacks of containers, keeping out of view as he shut his eyes and breathed. He thought immediately of Rayne, and the shock-confusion-disappointment that would register on her face. He thought of the Poet’s terrifying blue eyes drilling into him. Then, he thought of Aaron. And he thought of Minerva and her cold corpse buried under wind and sand.

  He pushed himself upright, and slipped in to the loading area. “Here,” he said, thrusting his cargo container in the arms of a surprised crewman. “Don’t forget this one.”

  The crewman nearly dropped the container, his knees buckling. “Sir?”

  “What?” he snapped. It was all he could manage, the breath nearly knocked out of him

  “For the colonists?” The crewman frowned and stared at the box in his hands.

  Gal raised an impatient eyebrow to cover his thumping heart. “Yes. You left it over there.”

  The crewman shifted, struggling with the weight. “It’s heavier than the others.”

  Gal shrugged. “And?” He couldn’t help but wonder what — if anything — was in the other containers.

  “Just wondering what was in it, sir.”

  His legs nearly gave out, but Gal growled and pushed on. “At the Academy, did they teach you to question your superior officer?”

  The crewman paled. “No, sir.”

  “Or the Army? Your Gods?”

  Eyes wide, the crewman took the container and scrambled toward the lift.

  Gal retreated. Back in the safety of the stacks, he took a deep breath, and another. His hands shook and he pressed them into the stacks to steady himself.

  The cargo lift whirred as it made another descent.

  He scrambled for the stairs. The container might be the right design, but it didn’t have an ID tag, and Rayne would surely notice that.

  His hands slid along the worn railings as he leapt down the stairs. He had to make it to Rayne before the container.

  “Gal?” She glanced up and down, scanning his entire body.

  He passed a hand through his hair casually, wiping away beads of sweat. He forced himself to shuffle towards her. “Hi.”

  “How are you feeling?” Her data tablet tilted down, and she graced him with a smile. “I saw quite a lot of injury reports coming from the medical bay. Nothing too serious, I hope.”

  He placed himself on her far side, leaning against the frame of the cargo hatch. “All minor. I didn’t want to bother you, I know you have your hands full our first trip out.”

  She turned towards him, and Gal relaxed, nearly mel
ting into her warm, brown eyes. “Same as you didn’t want to bother me about the malfunction in the weapons locker?”

  “I could handle it. You always say I should be doing more. It is my ship after all.”

  “I’m your senior tactician. You wrote off half a dozen laz-rifles.”

  “Nothing you could have done. Freak malfunction.”

  “Maybe not, but I would have liked to assess them. If nothing else, it would make my report easier.”

  He glanced at the floor. “Sorry. Trust me when I say there was nothing you could have done. One of the battery cells imploded and set off a chain reaction. When I got there, the whole locker was smoking and they had melted together into a big gob of plastic.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard of that happening.”

  Gal shook his head, eyes still riveted to the floor. “Me neither. I was concerned the whole mess would explode, so I got rid of the them as fast as possible. It’s all in the report. I had to visit the med bay a few times for the burns on my arms.”

  “Oh, Gal.” She reached out, grabbing his forearm.

  His heart leapt into his throat, both from the unexpected touch, and the knowing that if she lifted the fabric, she would see pale, healthy, entirely unburned skin.

  The hover-cart saved him. “Oh look.” He stepped back, pulling his arm from her grip.

  The data tablet snapped back into Rayne’s hands as she took stock.

  Gal found it difficult to breathe.

  “What do you have there, Jameson?”

  “B-thirty-six through B-forty one.”

  She tapped on her tablet. A frown slid over her eyes.

  “Uh, Rayne.” He tugged on her coveralls. “I need to talk to you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Give me a minute.”

  “It’s urgent,” said Gal.

  She sighed. Then miraculously waved her hand. “Thank you, crewman. Bring it down with the others.”

  The hover-cart slipped by and down the ramp, sliding easily across the black tarmac dusted with red. The crewman unloaded it with the others in a pile next to the group of colonists who were flanked on all sides by tacticians from the UEC base.

  Did no one else think it odd that they carried heavy weapons, capable of killing a man with one well-placed shot, just to ensure the civilian colonists did not interfere with Central Army business?

  “So, what is it?”

  “Huh?”

  Rayne stared at him intently. “You said you had something urgent.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  His eyes roamed across the hazy tarmac, following the tall grey wall that surrounded the landing zone on all sides. One heavy door led to the base itself: grey walkways and grey buildings with grey rooms and grey furniture.

  The other door, the one to which the colonists were being led, opened to the barren landscape beyond the walls.

  He hoped Minerva would understand. That she would somehow see the container and understand that the rations and medical supplies and weapons were all he could do.

  And he hoped it would be enough. Little-h hope.

  * * *

  Halud DeGazo stepped off the open cargo ramp, leaving the UECAS Ishash’tor behind. A chill ran through him despite the warm and sticky air. He paused at the fortress gate separating the UEC base from the landing tarmac to consider the weight of it. He had visited several bases over the years, but none like this one. None with such an important secret.

  Officially, he came to observe the colonists, report on conditions and talk about hardships — Poet Laureate type work. It had taken years of careful cultivation to reach his position. And when he suggested the report to Hap Lansford, First Speaker of the United Earth Central Army, there had been no hesitation.

  But it wasn’t the Speakers he was loyal to, and he hadn’t come to Selousa on government business.

  Years of looking, months of planning, and suddenly all the pieces had fallen into place. The only part still uncertain was the captain himself. Halud’s efforts to become friendly with the man had failed miserably, and while Halud had his suspicions, he had no way to know if Gal was truly the man he thought. After all, the rebel had been in hiding so long, most of his followers assumed he was dead.

  Halud found an empty bench in the courtyard. Several of the freightship’s crew wandered the small green space around him, marvelling at the automatic water and UV lights. The Central Army always made grass grow, even in the most desolate of places.

  He touched his five fingers to his chest, bringing the tips together in one place directly over his heart: Faith, Knowledge, Prudence, Strength, and Fortitude. He would need all five of the Gods. He prayed, touching his fingers to his forehead and tossing the prayer to the stars, where hopefully the Gods would hear it and smile favourably upon them.

  He repeated the whole process again, just for good measure.

  Six weeks before, he had made contact with someone on Selousa. Someone sympathetic, someone who had also lost a friend. By necessity, he didn’t know the contact’s name or even what he looked like. But the contact had told Halud to come, that everything would be set, and so he had trusted.

  A small, flashing light caught his attention. He looked down at the newstablet attached to the end of his bench, and dragged his finger across to open it.

  The new newsbloid had been uploaded. Selousa sat too far out of the way for most ships, including the messengers, so the news was never current. The newsbloid had been sent three weeks ago from Etar onboard the freightship, brand new here in the Deep Black.

  On the front page, a poem he had written sat next to a picture of the First Speaker, Hap Lansford. Halud read an article on the terra-forming of a half dozen new planets. And an article about gene splicing in lilies to make them more adaptable to new conditions.

  Then in fine print, at the very bottom of the sixth page, buried beneath an advertisement for rejuvenation ozone therapy: Far side. C-5. Don’t be followed.

  He blinked twice to be sure his nervous imagination wasn’t playing tricks. His knees nearly gave way as he stood, but he could do this. For her.

  Picking his way through the compound, he pretended to examine it, run his hand across the grey walls, make notes in his tablet. With one last check, Halud slipped unseen behind the far wall of the compound.

  The door marked C-5 hung open a fraction of an inch.

  He pushed it open, wincing at the hollow creak, and entered a standard, dull-grey hallway.

  All the UEC compounds had the same layout — it made it easier for soldiers to transfer back and forth — so he walked until he came to a door he did not recognize, an extra door. It too had been left slightly ajar, and he slipped through.

  A UEC soldier stood in the shadow. His uniform hung partly undone and his voice echoed darkly, “Master Poet.”

  Halud shivered. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “I am.”

  The soldier raised a single eyebrow.

  “It isn’t right what they’ve done to her. We both know that.”

  “You weren’t followed?”

  “No.”

  “Good. This would be hard to forgive, even for someone like yourself, Master Poet.” The soldier’s voice cut into him, shooting down his spine like ice. “You want to continue?”

  Halud nodded. “Thank you for helping.”

  The soldier turned and descended a dark staircase. Halud followed. Light from the hallway faded, leaving him groping in the dark. They passed through a heavy door, the soldier bypassing its handprint scanner with a keycard.

  The door shut behind them, the echo shuddering down the spit-shined black metal corridor they had entered. Halud flinched with each clack-clack their shoes made on the floor. “Will there be guards?” Certainly they would hear if they continued like this.

  “I’ve taken care of them,” the soldier answered.

  Another heavy door opened. The walls turned from black to clinical white. Disinfectant burned his nos
e and eyes. But it wasn’t clean. The smell covered something dirtier, darker.

  “What is your purpose here, Mister DeGazo?” the soldier asked.

  For the first time, Halud caught a clear look at his face: beady eyes in a heavy brow. “What?”

  “I have to be clear of your intent, Poet. Did anyone send you?”

  He stepped back. “What? No. I’m here for my sister.”

  “You’ve come entirely of your own volition?”

  “Yes, of course. You know that. Why are you asking all these questions?”

  The soldier nodded, his narrow mouth turning up sharply. Halud heard the click of a recording device as the soldier’s hand flashed a signal.

  A set up.

  Soldiers sprung from the ceiling. Sharp clatters and shuffling sounded from the intersecting hallway. The soldier he thought was his ally pulled out a laz-gun, and the others piled onto him.

  But if it was a set up, why send him all this way?

  She was here. She had to be.

  He pushed forward with all his strength, even as the soldiers pinned him down.

  He screamed her name: “Sarrin! Sarrin!”

  * * *

  Sarrin woke with a start, her mind already racing. A dull, unplaceable sound reached her ears, even through the permaglass.

  The monitoring station in front of her cell sat unmanned, completely.

  Her mind screamed a single thought: something is very wrong. She had to get out. Now.

  Three possible escape routes: the ceiling, the door, the floor. Floor would be fastest.

  She had seen these types of cell constructions before, knew the seemingly solid chamber would be bolted on all sides to titanium I-beams, knew there was always a weak seal in the corner. The other corners were clearly visible; it had to be under the cot.

  Throwing the flat mattress to the floor, she drove her thin fingers in the minute space between the solid cot and the wall. Her teeth gritted, and the metal bed bent under the force, letting her slide her hand through, grab and pull. Its metal fasteners bent like hinges, and the cot ripped back, revealing the corner seal.

  A muffled shout came from the main room.