Cry Pilot

by Joel Dane

  “You’re always wrong,” she says, and drops her fatigues.

  She stands there naked in the low light, and for the first time in my adult life I feel the breath of the divine on my neck. My Sayti taught me religion, but I’ve never felt awe before. And faced with this vision of perfection, I feel the gutter roach’s perverse urge for desecration. I want to reach into the sky and pull the heavens down into the mud. I want to lay my dirty hands on Rana’s unspoiled self.

  She sees the hunger in my face. She presses against me and—

  Her father appears on my lens. Colonel Executive Rana-Cain, with his silvery dreadlocks and hard eyes. Official seals flash and a TRADE SECRET/CONFINT filter locks me out of my lens menu.

  “Shit,” I say.

  “You will not publicly acknowledge my presence,” CE Rana-Cain says into my ear. “You will respond to the following location.” He vanishes, and a message appears, as if from the JST divisional office, telling me to report to the psych department.

  “Orders?” Rana asks. “Now? We’re on personal!”

  My hand strokes the small of her back, warm and smooth and strong. Her skin is satin over the alloy of her muscle. The curve of her ass is an inch below my pinky, and I realize in the gap between two heartbeats that I’ll never forget her scent.

  “You once told me how space feels,” I say, hearing her words in my mind: Impossible and perfect. So far above me, but also feels like home.

  She doesn’t speak, but her eyes tell me that she remembers what she said, and she knows what I mean.

  “Plus,” I say, “you’ve got a great rack.”

  She punches me in the shoulder. “How long do they want you?”

  “They don’t say. It’s the psych department.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Immediately,” I tell her. “Before I beg again.”

  My lens directs me into a narrow-lift. Machinery hums, bringing me to the psych department on 12-LT. I follow a lens-path along the pastel corridors, trying not to panic.

  Did CE Rana-Cain summon me to warn me away from his daughter? Impossible. So is my psych eval biting me in the ass? No; if this is a psych eval, there’s no reason for Rana-Cain to show his face.

  Do they know about Sayti? Do they know about the betrayal, the ambush, the war crimes? They can’t . . . but then why did CE Rana-Cain appear at all? Our lives only overlap in a single place: Rana.

  All I know is that he wants to keep Rana away from lampreys. How does sending me here help him protect his daughter?

  No idea. My lens stops me at a mural that looks like it was designed to be psychologically soothing by a committee where nobody agreed. I wait until a door unseals, then step inside. The entrance film tingles around me.

  An elegant woman sits behind a desk in a perfumed cubby. There’s ambient lighting and tasteful projections, and an engineered cactus hangs from a hoop. The woman looks about seventy, and she makes seventy look tough. An incense bead glints on her old-fashioned nose ring.

  A second chair extrudes from the wall, and she says, “Have a seat, Recruit Kaytu.”

  “Yes, san,” I say, even though she’s not wearing a braid.

  “CE Rana-Cain brought you to my attention.”

  “Likewise,” I tell her.

  Her lenses flash. “He’s been paying close attention to your platoon, for obvious reasons. He forwarded me your file.”

  “Yes, san.”

  “He didn’t expect you to last a week in basic. CAV volunteers rarely do. However, you not only thrived, you ensured Recruit Ting’s success.”

  “She earned her boots.”

  “Did she?”

  “She’s good with coms.”

  “Is that all you know about Ting?”

  I inspect the woman’s wrinkled face. There’s a predatory stillness in her that makes me edgy. “She talks too much.”

  “What else do you know?”

  My wariness sharpens into fear, but I try to keep myself relaxed. “Her singing voice is nothing special.”

  “Recruit Kaytu, are you aware of anything that disqualifies Recruit Ting for continued service?”

  “Sure,” I say. “She’s a gutter roach, just like me.”

  “Breaking regulations, perhaps? Narcotic dependence? Criminal activity?”

  “She’s no worse than the rest of us.”

  “That is not what I asked.”

  “She’s an asset to the platoon,” I say. “Is that what you’re asking?”

  The woman folds her narrow hands on the desk. “Is she an addict?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “She is not addicted to stem?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “You’ve never seen her administer stem?”

  My heart is quiet as I say, “No.”

  A screen flickers to life between us, showing video of a cramped medical bay. The teenaged volunteer Loa sleeps in one bunk while I sit across from him and watch Ting push stem into the back of her neck.

  “Not since we joined up,” I add, and halfway expect the woman to show me video of the vector plasma station, the second time I caught Ting stemming.

  She doesn’t. She just says, “You lie well.”

  “Yes, san,” I say.

  “But for no good reason. That’s a mistake. When you lie, Mar Kaytu, always lie with a plan. With a goal. Otherwise, you’re merely a little boy putting his hand in the bread bowl.”

  I keep my mouth shut. What’s happening here? How is CE Rana-Cain involved? Who is this woman?

  “You may call me the Djembe,” she says, as if she read my mind.

  “The Djembe?”

  “It’s a title, not a name. I’m with DOPLAR.”

  “Is that a title, too?”

  “It’s the Department of Procedural, Logistical, and Analytic Research. Your background is unique, Mar Kaytu, and your psychological evaluation indicates a certain moral flexibility.”

  That’s rich, coming from a nameless woman who works for a nothing-sounding department of a Cherzo-5 corporation. Then the ground opens beneath me: what does she mean by my unique background? Just my refugee status and cry pilot past? What if she knows about my sayti? What if she knows what I did?

  “You’re good with languages,” she continues, into my frozen silence. “You know how to listen and you know how to wait. You’ll break the rules, but you’ll grovel if you have to. And you won’t stand out in a Freehold block.”

  “I look like what I am.”

  “Not at the moment,” she says, dryly. “At the moment you look like a soldier.”

  That surprises a laugh from me. A nervous laugh, but a laugh. She can’t know about Sayti. When I ran errands back in Vila Vela, I used false identification. Nothing sophisticated, just enough to fool a street check. One of my IDs carried the name Maseo; I enjoyed the thought of turning my real name into a pseudonym. The surname was different, of course, as was all the background data. Sayti died before arranging a better identity for me, so I used that ID when the aid workers settled me into the refugee camp. At the time, I thought I was just using the name to hide from the corpos. Now I wonder if I was also hiding from myself. Like I wasn’t the same person who’d betrayed Tokomak Squad in that dead-end plaza.

  I adopted Kaytu to muddy the waters, but nobody questioned a street kid anyway—why bother?—and soon my false name became true. There’s a decade of tears behind Maseo Kaytu, ten years of wrestling with a wrong I can’t right, a debt I can’t pay. That’s who I am now: Maseo Kaytu. But if the Djembe looks too closely, she’ll see that my name is a hollow thing.

  Then she’ll wonder why.

  “You understand the gutters,” she continues. “That’s rarer than you’d expect, for a soldier. In short, there’s a chance that you are trainable.”

  �
��I’m already getting trained.”

  “As an asset of DOPLAR.”

  “Department of Procedural Analysis.” I cock my head. “A spy?”

  “An agent.”

  I look at her cool, wrinkled face. She wants me to betray people for the corpo. I watch projections flicker over her shoulder, water features and diagrams of classical contract art. A tiny, twisted part of me is proud. Or pleased, at least, that the JST values my particular skills.

  Most of me is sickened, though. Is this all I am? A manipulator, a traitor?

  I’m not here to develop the worst parts of me. I’m here to redeem them. So I shake my head. “You want me to spy in the gutter floors of some Freehold? There’s nothing there worth your time.”

  “Too many Freeholds are integrated with patriot and nationalist management structures, Mar Kaytu. Or you might establish cells in the military if another corporation buys your contract.”

  “Spy on another corpo? Why? You all work together.”

  “Mm,” she says. “There is one question that looms large.”

  “I’ve got one, too.”

  “Then please.” She gestures. “After you.”

  “What the fuck is this?”

  Her wrinkled lips rise into a slight smile. “CE Rana-Cain needed a favor. A small matter of personnel reallocation. He offered you in payment.”

  “That’s nice of him.”

  “I assure you, Mar Kaytu, that my favors do not come cheap. If you were not valuable, you would not be here.”

  “He gets a favor. You get me. What do I get?”

  My lens flashes with an update:

  Kaytu, Maseo

  My stomach sours. If she gives me three reprimands, I’m out of here. I’m finished, I’m gone. Except of course the Djembe doesn’t want me gone.

  “You get to stay in the service,” she says. “Your life is here now. Not in the Freehold, not in the refugee camp. Not in Vila Vela. This is your life.”

  “I’m a soldier, not a spy.”

  “You’re a tool.” A thread of smoke coils from her incense bead. “And despite your moral flexibility, you pay your debts. That’s a good combination for us.”

  I rub my face. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to first accept the idea of working for me.” Two of the reprimands vanish from my lens. “And then to embrace it. Finish your training, Mar Kaytu, and keep this conversation to yourself.”

  “I’m deploying against lampreys in two weeks. There’s a new remort, worse than cataphracts. You can’t take me off Javelin.”

  “Perhaps not . . .” The cubby darkens around her. “Not while you’re still useful.”

  “Then I’ll stay useful.”

  Her voice speaks from the shadows. “I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 30

  When I leave the cubby, the film seals behind me with a flowing finality.

  I gaze at the soothing mural, but I’m not soothed. Maybe the corpos use agents in the Freeholds, against patriots and insurgents. That makes sense. Maybe nobody fits into the gutter better than a roach. That makes sense too, but transferring me out of the lamprey program after months of training does not make sense. It’s a waste. It’s worse than a waste.

  I’m not asking for much. I’ll fight for them if they tell me, and I’ll die for them if there’s no other choice. Just let me fight on a battlefield instead of an ambush. Let me fight clean for once, instead of dirty.

  Except when I enlisted, I agreed to serve. My choices are simple: decruit or obey.

  And CE Rana-Cain? He pinpointed me because he’s been monitoring Rana’s platoon. He realized my background is useful and served me to the Djembe on a platter. For a favor. What kind of favor?

  I don’t know, and I can’t ask Rana or M’bari. I can’t do anything, so on my way back to the barracks, I try to regain the mood. There’s still plenty of night left and Rana is waiting for me, with all her hard edges and soft promise.

  She’s not, though. When I return, the party is over and we’re on lockdown.

  Apparently Pico and Jag snuck into 4944’s barracks and painted their boots bright blue like slippers. Then Werz and Gazi hacked an announcement that sent them racing to the latrine, where cameras caught them gaping at a big Welcome Home Slippers sign.

  Drugged giggles sound in our darkened barracks; Werz and Gazi are snuggled together under a blanket like kids. The sick twist in my stomach dissolves and I feel a rush of affection for them. Yin and Yang. Little idiots. It’s like Ting is contagious.

  I’m disappointed about lockdown but I tell myself it’s okay: Rana and I will have another chance. And the next time, we won’t hesitate to seize it.

  Sleep comes slowly, and doesn’t last long.

  A few hours after midnight, the barracks lights turn on and my lens chases me from my bunk. TL and Admin trot into the barracks, followed by an autocart. Without thinking, without hesitating, we form up: it doesn’t take twelve seconds this time. It doesn’t take six.

  “Check your displays,” TL says, her face roped by her scars.

  Kaytu, Maseo

  chance of completion: 100%

  5323 rating: AAA

  “A hundred percent!” Ting squeals. “I’m at a hundred percent!”

  “You’re all at a hundred,” TL says. “You graduate Phase Two as of right now. Welcome to Anvil Month.”

  Voorhivey beams and Cali whoops. Ojedonn hugs Ridehorse, and Shakrabarti hugs Pico, and Rana shoots me a concerned look that I can’t decipher.

  M’bari clears his throat and pings a request to speak.

  TL raises a hand to forestall him. “I know—you thought you had two more weeks of Phase Two together.”

  “And lamprey training,” Ting says.

  “As of now,” Admin says, ignoring her, “we’re operating on an accelerated schedule.”

  “You are warriors,” TL tells us. “And you will see war.”

  “Sooner,” Admin adds, “than anyone expected.”

  TL splits the platoon, shifting the managerial-track recruits like Gazi and Werz and the officer cadets like Rana and Ojedonn to one side. To my surprise, she doesn’t move Basdaq into that group. Less surprising is Rana’s thunderous expression.

  “You are the future of this service,” TL tells the elite group. “The next time I see you, I will call you san and obey your orders. I only ask one thing. Earn my salute the same way you earned your boots.”

  “TL!” they shout.

  Well, most of them. I’ve never seen Rana this angry. Her lips are thin, her jaw clenched.

  “The rest of you are the present,” TL says, turning to the larger group. “There’s been an attack on a shareholder enclave in Los Anod. No warning, not a whisper. The enclave emitted a pulse that should’ve knocked any remorts into the Industrial Age, but the local Garda is taking losses as we speak.”

  “A lamprey attacked Los Anod?” Pico asks.

  “There’s been no official identification of the hostiles,” TL says, with a tone in her voice that says yes. “We’re reinforcing with combat units from this base, that’s all we know.”

  “Officially,” M’bari says.

  “Officially,” TL agrees.

  Shakrabarti’s handsome brow furrows. “We’re only being separated for this action, though, right? I mean, we’re all coming back, right? After Los Anod?”

  “No. This is the end of your training together. Find each other in MYRAGE if you can. You have ninety seconds to say good-bye.”

  “No-o-o.” Cali sounds like a wounded animal, gazing at Rana with forlorn bafflement. “You can’t. We’re not ready.”

  “Ready or not,” Admin says. “You’re deploying into immediate combat.”

  “Why us?” M’bari asks.

  “Proximity,” TL tells him. “We’re
on Los Anod’s doorstep. They’re sending every Javelin group from this base. As support staff, handling perimeters and supplies.”

  “Like Gabrielle,” Ridehorse says.

  “Sixty seconds to say good-bye,” TL says. “Don’t waste it.”

  Gazi and Werz wrap Ridehorse and Shakrabarti in a tearful group hug. Jagzenka takes one of Ojedonn’s hands in both of hers. Voorhivey babbles farewells. Tingting sniffles while I stand poleaxed in the chaos, staring at Rana. Cali is beside me, equally bereft.

  Cali was right. We’re the same, she and I: dumb brutes with big dreams.

  Rana clasps Cali on the shoulder. “One day, we’ll serve together.”

  “San,” Cali says, and wraps her in a bear hug.

  Rana watches me over Cali’s burly shoulder and mouths, My father did this.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I tell her, pretending my heart isn’t breaking. “You belong in the Flensers.”

  A flash of emotion crosses her face. She doesn’t want to say good-bye. Then her mask returns, glossy and unfeeling—and she leads her stunned group away.

  There’s a forlorn moment before two autocarts whirl from the wall. They check validations and issue armor skins and aux units. We’re traveling light and we’ve drilled this a thousand times: we’re strapped within two minutes, and trotting into the elevator within three.

  As we head to the hangar, Pico opens a group link. “How much of this is bullshit?”

  “Military minimum,” Ridehorse says. “Fifty percent.”

  “It makes sense to me,” Elfano says. “Los Anod is only a couple hundred miles away, so of course they’ll reinforce with the closest Javelin trainees.”

  “Why split off the officer-track recruits?” Voorhivey asks.

  Because Rana’s father wanted to save her life, to protect her from lampreys. If he only transferred Rana, people would’ve noticed, so he arranged with the Djembe to move all the management-track recruits.

  “They’re too valuable to risk,” I say.

  “Yeah, but—” Pico pauses as we queue for armaments. “Something smells wrong.”

  “I don’t smell it,” Jagzenka says.

  Basdaq flashes his agreement with Jag. “This is what we signed up for.”