by Joel Dane
She doesn’t answer.
I shake her, a little too roughly. “What kind of person?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Fucking heroes. We’re as good as any Class A sharemonkey born with a certificate in his fist. We’re better. But you’ve got to break this addiction. Stem is a gun at your temple.”
Her breath rasps. “I’m not addicted.”
“You’re doing a good impression.”
“I’m not a stemhead.”
“Stemheads lie. You’re lying to me right now.”
“I’m—I’m not.”
I rub my face. “I don’t even want to know how you get the stuff.”
“It’s . . .” Her smile trembles. “Complicated.”
“Not really,” I say.
Stemheads lie and steal. That’s what they do. They betray friends, and they never change. Not me. I can change. I have changed, which is why I won’t betray friends, not again. I can’t inform on her, so I walk away. Part of me watches my lens, waiting for a blur or twitch when Ting’s loop stops. I don’t see a thing. She’s some kind of nightingale who lulls electrons to sleep with her song.
I’m half-asleep in my bunk before I realize that I think of Ting as a friend.
* * *
• • •
I wake in the night with my eyes burning and snot pouring from my nose. A syrupy taste is thick in my throat and my lungs strain for breath.
Aerosolized attack.
Panic hits me like a fist. My heart pounds, and I can’t see through my weeping eyes. The world is a blur of breathless pain.
I hear a gasp and a shout, then sound the alarm via my lens and roll from my bunk.
I hit the ground too hard.
I stagger to my locker and slather active-gel on my face. The panic subsides and my eyes clear beneath the ointment. The gel thickens in my nostrils and filters the air. Protocol is to arm yourself and engage a full threat assessment before helping others, so I ignore my terrified squadmates and arm my Ambo with dummy ammo.
I set my lens to broad spectrum and spot three canisters deploying gas inside the room. Ambo systems go live around me, appearing as active squadmates.
“Rana, disarm the canister in the corner!” I shout over the panicked din, running toward the vending unit. “Shakrabarti, take the one at the door. M’bari, active-gel everyone and what the fuck is going on?”
M’bari always knows the score; he just gets it, for every value of “it.” So he’s on active-gel in a flash, dispensing doses and calling, “The test, this is the test, expect contact with Bay!”
I reach for the canister beneath the vending unit to stop more gas from deploying, and a shock hits my chest and knocks me on my ass. I’m stunned and gasping, both arms tingling and staring at the wall.
“Proximity denial,” Rana says, her voice so level that she sounds bored.
“Deploy countermeasures!” Pico shouts. “Werz, take the vend unit!”
I’m still stunned when they bag the final canister. Gazi kneels beside me with her medkit. “Deep breaths, Kaytu.”
“I’m fine,” I gasp. “Just a shock unit.”
“You’re not fine till I say you’re fine,” she says, and scans my brain. “Yeah, okay. You’re fine.”
“The exercise begins at the tone,” an automated voice announces. “Group Aleph will attempt to occupy Group Bay’s barracks. Group Bay will attempt to occupy Group Aleph’s barracks. The team with the greatest number of infiltrated soldiers wins. Return all weapons to lockers. The use of gear is forbidden. You have six minutes. Your lenses and active-gel are deactivating . . . now.”
A tone sounds and the gel runs off my face like water. The stinging returns, but not as bad—though my lungs can’t quite fill.
I slot my Ambo into my locker and hear Pico gasping, “Form on Rana! Form on Rana!”
Pico is the barracks chief this week, which is a good thing because he’s the only one of us with big enough bones to relinquish command in an emergency. He doesn’t give a shit. He’s got nothing to prove, and we all know that Rana was born for command.
“Calil-Du, Kaytu, Pico!” Rana immediately shouts. “Get in the corridor, guard the door!”
Calil-Du and Pico are number two and three at hand-to-hand combat. Basdaq is number one, which is hardly fair considering how he looks, and I’m number seven. So Rana’s putting two of her best fighters plus me into the corridor that runs between Bay’s barracks and ours, and keeping her best man back.
At least in theory. There’s a reason I’m only number seven, and I suspect Rana knows it.
I stagger across the barracks with Calil-Du and Pico, blinking and gasping from the gas. Calil-Du is first into the corridor, then Pico. I slip into place behind him and wipe my eyes.
Clouds of aerosol billow in the hallway.
My vision is smeared and blurry as I peer at the doors lining the walls. Red indicator lights shine above all of them—locked—except one that glows green: twenty yards away, the entrance to the Bay barracks.
It’s unguarded, for the moment. Beside me, Calil-Du spits on the floor, then wipes her broad face with her palm. Her bald head shines in the ceiling lights, leaving streaks in my distorted vision. I’m almost blind from tears, but I see a thousand gym hours in her broad shoulders and thick thighs. She’s brutal and blunt and unclever, but there is zero chance of her nerve breaking, and suddenly that matters more than anything.
“You’re my kind of woman,” I wheeze at her.
“I don’t fuck anyone who can’t take me in a fight,” she snarls, as the barracks door slams closed behind us. “What the gehenna is Rana doing?”
Pico wipes snot from his face. “She’s locking us out, prez.”
“Without giving us orders?”
“Do damage,” Rana calls from behind the door.
Calil-Du grunts again, Pico growls a laugh—and the Bay door bangs open.
Seven or eight Bay recruits stagger along the corridor toward us through the gloom, coughing and rubbing their eyes. The lights dim, and my field of vision ends four feet in front of me. I’m half-blind and can’t stop blinking, which turns the world into a kaleidoscope blur.
“The hallway’s narrow.” I gasp for breath. “And we’re blind. Pico. Stay behind me till I fall, then plug the gap. C’mon, Cali. You and me.”
“You’re rated seven,” she snaps.
“That’s your lucky number.”
I edge forward, one hand brushing the wall, then close my eyes against the stinging. My nostrils hurt and I’m breathing an acid fog.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale and I’m back in Vila Vela, a length of pipe in my hand and blood rushing to my head. Exhale and I’m in the refugee camp, rabid with drugs and rage, exploding into rival turf with Ionesca howling at my side.
I open my eyes and see a blur of Bay recruits lurching toward us through the haze. Coughing and spitting, slow and unsteady. They look drunk—we all look drunk. The best Bay fighter is in front, a guy named Ojedonn who’s the size of a sanitation drone. He thunders forward, arms groping, his fighters staggering behind him.
“He’s mine,” Calil-Du says, an edge of excitement in her voice.
When Ojedonn spots us, he wheezes, “Enact!”
Calil-Du launches blindly forward and meets him with a meaty thud. She’s tough, but he’s twice her size.
He drives her backward. A punch, a block. Pivot, strike. They’re fighting like in the dojo, like they’re strong and sharp, with plenty of padding and plenty of space. This is a different fight, though. This is weak and blind, cramped and stupid.
This is my element.
A snarling face appears through the chaos and I lower my chin and burst forward. The dome of my head breaks the Bay’s cheekbone. A raw-throated scream sounds and I
stagger sideways from the impact. A punch rips my earlobe from my head before I straighten and kick Ojedonn in the knee from behind. Something pops, and he roars in agony and I hear the bark of Cali’s laughter.
I crack a gas-blurred Bay’s nose with my palm, and then a fist or elbow connects with my back. Pain bursts, and I drop to the floor and scream, “Pico!”
Calil-Du shoves a howling, one-legged Ojedonn backward into his people. The shouting gets louder and Pico takes a fist from the guy who punched me. Blood spews from Pico’s mouth, and he shifts and hits the guy with a jab-cross-jab that’s got to feel like a sledgehammer.
I’m on my hands and knees. Tears stream from my eyes and knees clip my head. Bare feet stomp around me as I crawl into the thick of the Bays.
They can’t see any better than I can, but they’re secure in the belief that the fight is at the front of their line . . . until I break Elfano’s ankle. Her shriek distracts the woman facing Calil-Du, and Cali works her face like a speedball. A hatchet-faced gen grabs Cali’s wrist and twists. They disappear into the strobing madness, and I drop another Bay as I catch a snapshot of Pico flailing madly, a blind tornado of fists. He’s gasping and coughing, his eyes closed, blood staining his teeth.
Ojedonn somehow slides himself upward on the wall and stumbles into Pico from behind. I punch a Bay fighter in the balls, then break his nose when he buckles. When I punch a second Bay in the balls, she doesn’t buckle.
She knees me in the face.
There’s a shock of pain and I flop to the ground. The Bay wraps her arm around my neck, so I bite through the flesh of her thumb.
My teeth close on bone and the tone sounds, ending the exercise. Everything stops for a moment, and then another Bay kicks me in the face. An instant before I black out, I realize that I’m laughing. Because gutterdamn, I haven’t had that much fun in years.
CHAPTER 26
Kaytu, Maseo
Two days later, I’m in the infirmary, watching the post-exercise briefing on my reprimand-laden lens.
Three TLs sit at the head of a conference table, while projections of their Admin TLs line one side. Rana and a few Bay recruits stand against the wall. Pico sits alone at the table, curious and amused. He doesn’t look even slightly concerned. Something’s wrong with that boy.
“Barracks Chief Pik-Cao,” the Bay TL says. “Explain your strategy.”
“I passed command to Recruit Rana,” Pico says, through the bandages on his face.
“Why?”
“Fighting in a corridor, securing a room? That’s a job for the Flensers or marines.” Pico flashes his offhand smile. “I’m Army in my heart.”
The Bay TL is not amused. “Recruit Rana,” he says. “Approach the table.”
She moves to stand beside Pico. “Yes, Training Liaison.”
“Explain your strategy.”
“Given the time frame, Training Liaison,” Rana tells him, her atonal voice in bored mode, like she’s reading a report, “neither group could feasibly reach and occupy the other group’s barracks. Hence, I determined to protect the majority of my team members while inflicting the maximum damage on the other team.”
“That was not the mission objective.”
“When a primary mission objective is deemed impossible, Training Liaison, a secondary objective may be determined at the commander’s discretion.”
“Two of your people are still in the infirmary,” the Bay TL says.
“As are eight of theirs,” Rana tells him. “And two more were released only—”
“Including one who needs facial reconstruction.”
I cringe a little. Apparently head-butting wasn’t within the bounds of the exercise.
“Yes, Training Liaison,” Rana says. “Ten members of Bay Group sustained injuries, and all of them were scared, amped, and suffering the effects of the aerosol while my group was in position, covered in dampened cloths, acclimating to the gas, and ready to deploy.”
There’s silence for what feels like a long time.
“Recruits Pik-Cao and Calil-Du are your top-ranked hand-to-hand fighters?” the Bay TL finally asks.
“They are two of our three highest-ranked, Training Liaison. Recruit Basdaq is ranked number one.”
“Calil-Du is three? That’s high for a woman.”
“Yes, Training Liaison.”
“Why did you include Kaytu? He’s ranked seventh.”
“He’s our best fighter.”
The Bay TL lenses for information again, probably double-checking my scores. I’m seventh in the official ranking now, but Pico (second), Rana (ninth), Jagzenka (tenth), and I sparred unofficially a few times after class. You don’t survive the worst insurrection in decades without learning a few tricks. You don’t forget them in a refugee camp, either.
“You knew your squadmates would lose the fight in the corridor,” the Bay TL tells Rana.
“I did, Training Liaison.”
“Yet you abandoned them to a superior force.”
“I did, Training Liaison.”
The Bay TL inputs information into a projection. “In a real battle, you’d sentence a quarter of your troops to death?”
“To achieve an important secondary objective?” Rana asks. “I’d sacrifice more than that, Training Liaison.”
Our group score drops. Rana is subjected to a performance review, and I’m subjected to a psych eval—and reprimanded.
Kaytu, Maseo
Because biting, apparently, is frowned upon even more than head-butting. I’d almost severed that Bay’s thumb, and broken a few too many bones. It’s another long-term reprimand, but the first is almost expired. Still, two of them at once is way too close to being forcibly discharged.
The psychurgeon quizzes me about my history, and I give her the version that doesn’t mention my sayti. She monitors my participation in a MYRAGE simulation and finds my responses “curious.” Still, she clears me to return to training after medical approval, and I’m sent back to the infirmary.
M’bari is waiting for me. When I ask what he thinks, he says, “They’re using these reviews as warnings. You’re cleared; Rana is cleared. They’re yanking our chains a little and establishing a precedent for the next time you break someone’s face.”
“I guess I should apologize for that.”
“You already did,” he tells me. “I sent notes in your name, along with a few gifts.”
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“A favor.”
I shift in the treatment chair. “What do you want?”
“I want you to owe me a favor,” he says.
“That’s your currency,” I say.
M’bari grins. “More precious than love.”
“You’re a sneaky eku.”
“I’m not the only one.” He gazes at a medical device. “I’m pretty sure that Rana, when she sent the three of you out alone, she broke the training sequence.”
“What does that mean?”
“Think about it. The test doesn’t make any sense. They set up a conflict that neither side could win. Why?”
“No idea.”
“What did they want? They wanted us to stumble into the corridor, half-blind and half-breathing. Right?”
“Sure.”
“We’d throw a few feeble punches before both teams got taken down. By the gas or some other force, I don’t know. See, they’ve encouraged us to compete with Bay, but now they need us to cooperate. They wanted both teams to suffer together, so we’d bond together. They wanted to unite us by stomping us flat, but Rana kept us on our feet.”
“You’ve got a twisty mind,” I tell him. “The training isn’t that smart.”
“Maybe,” he says.
“I like the idea that Rana fucked them, though.”
“She’s a force to be reckoned wit
h,” he says.
He’s not the only one who’s impressed with Rana. From that day forward, Calil-Du worships her. Everyone in Aleph shows Rana more respect—except Pico, who laughs at her—but Calil-Du reveres her.
And, uh, she visits me in the infirmary a few hours after M’bari leaves. Calil-Du does. She stands beside my bunk with her bald head gleaming and says, “You couldn’t take me in a fair fight.”
“Maybe not every time,” I tell her.
“But you don’t fight fair.”
“No,” I agree.
She drops her fatigues. The medifilm crisscrossing her naked body almost looks like lingerie as she prowls toward the bed. She’s strong and unself-conscious, with a predator’s taste for brutality, and when we’re done, we both need new bandages.
What can I say? I like a big girl with a bad attitude.
CHAPTER 27
For the first time, Group Aleph gets a pass to the MYRAGE arcade. TL doesn’t tell us why. Jagzenka asks M’bari, but he’s distracted, heading off on business of his own. He just says, “The obvious reasons,” before taking an elevator to the engineering floors.
“What’s he talking about?” Jag asks me.
I shrug. “No idea. I’m not fluent in Institutional.”
When we reach the arcade, half of us immediately slot into the stim-rigs. Rana finds a module about military politics, Shakrabarti joins a fashion show, and eager, clean-cut Voorhivey—after a longing glance at the sex channels—jumps into a military training game, blasting oncoming waves of remorts. Ridehorse and Pico and Jagzenka wrap themselves in a series of sports events, and I settle into my rig, pull a standard interface, and try contacting Ionesca again.
“Any luck?” Ting asks, somehow projecting herself into my interface.
“I’m locked out of real-time talk, but it’ll let me leave a message.”
“Ooh! That’s better than last time you tried.”
I give her a meaningful look. “A private message.”
