Deep Breath Hold Tight: Stories About the End of Everything

by Gurley, Jason

Let's hear it.

  I thought you had things to do.

  Six seconds.

  They can wait.

  SEVEN YEARS

  I was captain for all of six weeks when she arrived, Grant says. Captain before me — Seamus Belwether, he was called — up and died at mess one morning. We had a doctor on the station back then, who said Belly's brain popped.

  Aneurysm? Ansel asks.

  Sure, and a big one, too. Old man just got this blank look on his face, then pitched sideways out of his chair. Hit the corner of the table on the way over, so there was a bit of blood to confuse everyone about what had happened.

  Were you the first officer?

  Naw, Grant says. Maybe just the most levelheaded on a ship of tightly-wound fools. Belly didn't do much captaining, to be fair. He had rank from the first System War, that's why he took command here. I'm not sure he ever wanted it.

  He was in the war, Ansel says.

  He was, for all three weeks of it, Grant says. Belly had one good leg and one that wasn't. Not too different from your hand, there, except where you've got a hand, Belly just had a metal stick.

  You noticed, Ansel says.

  I've got an eye for things. And a good ear. I heard the little motors first time you shook my hand. How'd you lose yours?

  Ansel flexes his left hand. I was in the war, too. Working the munitions dock on one of the freighters. Wasn't anything exciting. One of the weapons crates broke free of the line, trapped my hand against a wall. Flattened it like a slice of bread.

  Sorry piece of luck, Grant says. I hear the new prosthetics have brains. Yours isn't one of those, is it?

  No, mine's just little gears and cogs, Ansel lies.

  Funny thing, you'd think, for the captain of a satellite station to be wary of tech, right? But I am, Grant says. I've seen it do some bad things. Turns friends into enemies. Unravels the best of plans.

  Grant slugs his coffee and gets to his feet. You're sure you don't want any, he says.

  I'm sure.

  Alright, well, if you change your mind, you know where it's at, the captain says, and laughs.

  You said something before, Ansel says. You called the war the first System War.

  Caught that, did you.

  You know something I don't? Ansel asks.

  I wouldn't say that, Grant says. But you're a fool if you think one was enough.

  You think another one is coming, then.

  I think several more are coming, most likely. Council isn't looked upon so kindly, you know that. Especially not by people as far out as we are. Once you get past Mars, you feel the law a little less... tangibly. Easier to go your own way when you see a Council representative once every fifty years instead of once or twice a month.

  Ansel nods. You know, I think I'll have some coffee after all.

  Suit yourself.

  He finds a cup and pours. You were talking about becoming captain, he says.

  Right, Grant says.

  You said Belwether wasn't really interested in running the ship.

  Not really. He was getting up there. Would've been happiest, I think, if he could've put a hammock right there in front of that window, stare all day at the blue, same as you do.

  Were you different? Ansel asks.

  You mean, did I want the job?

  Sure.

  I never really thought about it. This isn't a military vessel. It's a satellite station. We're here to work the moon. We send teams down, we scoop up some shit, we put it in boxes and we send it to the center, and a few months later we get paid. There's no real command to be had here. Someone just has to decide what to do if things go wrong.

  Ansel sips his coffee. So who decided that would be you?

  We took a vote, Grant says. Seemed like the democratic thing to do.

  Democratic, Ansel repeats.

  Haven't heard that word in awhile, I'd wager, Grant says.

  No, not much.

  Where are you from, Mr. Agusti?

  You ask like a man who already has an idea.

  Yes, Grant says. I had to hazard a guess, I'd say you're from the center.

  You're not far off.

  Not Mars, and not Earth. I've got a funny feeling you're Meili stock.

  Ansel says, What gives you that idea?

  Gut, I guess. You keep to yourself, you don't spread no ideas around. And you're asking about Evelyn, so I'm going to come right out and say it. I think you're Meili proper, sent to find her. Sound about right?

  Ansel shrugs. You know where she is?

  Grant finishes his coffee. I know where she's not.

  And where's that?

  The captain pushes back from the table, cup in hand.

  She's not here.

  The men crawl on the hull like spiders, hammering panels back into place, ripping out the punctured ones. The sound is insidious, as if they are trying to chew their way into the ship.

  You get used to it, the captain says. More coffee?

  I won't finish the one I've got, Ansel says.

  Shit, isn't it.

  Yeah, Ansel says.

  You get used to that, too. The captain takes his seat again. Tell me, though. You plan on being around long enough to get used to it?

  That's up to you, Ansel says. Tell me where she is.

  Grant nods thoughtfully. Well, Mr. Agusti, she's in one of two places.

  And where might those be?

  She's either down there —

  The captain points out the window at Triton's horizon.

  — or she's out there.

  He points at the inky black space beyond.

  Ansel says, So she's dead.

  Oh, yes, Grant says. She's most certainly dead.

  Tell me how.

  You remember what I said about the law, and how short its reach feels out here? Grant asks.

  You just said it, Ansel says. So — yes.

  How many ships have you been on this deep in the black? Nebulae can't be the only one.

  Nine, Ansel says.

  And of those nine, were the crews uniformly male?

  Yeah, Ansel says. They were.

  You ever wonder why?

  I've heard stories, Ansel says. Tell me yours.

  Women this far out, they aren't women any more, Grant says. They're things. I don't condone it — don't get me wrong. I've got two daughters of my own, and they're safely on Luna. But this is what happens out here.

  So she was raped, and then someone covered it up, Ansel says.

  That about covers it, Grant says. I wish I had a more interesting story for you, but I don't.

  Tell me how it happened.

  You want names?

  I do, Ansel says. I want the name of every man who touched her, and the name of every man who didn't do anything to stop it.

  So basically the crew list, Grant says.

  If they all were involved, then yes.

  Who are the names for?

  Tell me how it happened first.

  Grant frowns. I didn't see it happen. But I was there when she was jettisoned.

  She was raped?

  Yes.

  By one man?

  By all of them, probably. You know how men are this far —

  One time? Multiple times?

  Grant shakes his head. Maybe you've never been on a ship where it happened before. But they — she was a kept woman, Mr. Agusti. In fact, your quarters? That's where she was kept. And she had visitors all day, all night, over and over. There are usually twenty or more men on this ship. The line doesn't ever die down.

  And you knew about this.

  I won't lie to you, Grant says.

  Good. Don't.

  I knew.

  And did you —

  Never.

  Not once?

  I would never treat a woman that way.

  But you allowed others to.

  Grant pushes his coffee aside. Who exactly are you working for, Mr. Agusti?

  I wouldn't ask a question if you did
n't really want the answer.

  I'm asking.

  You really don't want the answer, Ansel says.

  Council? It's the Council. You're an operative.

  Ansel leans forward in his chair. Captain, he says. Do you know who Evelyn Jans was?

  Grant says, Just the usual, I figured. Woman who wants to do the same work the men do. Doesn't take into consideration the risks. Wants to be a miner, wants to be an engineer, wants to see the black.

  Evelyn was all of those things, Ansel says.

  I could tell. She was —

  But she was also heir to Council seat four.

  Grant's eyes widen.

  You didn't know, then.

  Grant stutters. I — I didn't —

  I believe you. You agree we have a problem now.

  I don't — I want — this is — it was seven years ago. There hasn't been a woman on-board since. Nobody's done anything wrong since —

  Captain Karkinnen, Ansel says gently. Your men violated and then murdered Council royalty. It really doesn't matter if you knew who she was or not. The Council sent me to find out what happened to her, and now I have. Do you know what will happen now?

  I don't know, says the captain.

  What happens now is I'm going to file my report, Ansel says. And I'm going to wait for further instruction.

  Ansel stands up. He slides his coffee cup down the table towards the captain.

  And Captain, he says. I promise you, the Council's reach is more than long enough.

  Korski says, So she is dead.

  Yes, sir. I believe that she is.

  Six seconds.

  And you saw no body?

  She was pitched out of an airlock nearly seven years ago. Her body is somewhere on the dead moon below, unless it escaped orbit. Then she could be anywhere.

  The seconds pass by, and Ansel waits for Korski's response.

  Ansel doesn't trust the man. Korski was born to fugitives, and when his parents were hunted down, he was adopted by an operative named Josef Korski. Mirs was only six years old when his parents were killed. Josef taught him the truth: that if Mirs's parents had been loyal to their Council, they would not have died. Over the years, his memories of his parents faded, and his loyalty to Josef and the Grand Council grew.

  The boy had been raised to become an assassin like his father.

  Mirs is nearly ninety now, and the Onyx laws run in his blood. He commands the largest contingent of operatives in Citadel history. There are fifteen hundred of them, each slipping silently into the black, disguising themselves as rebels, and puncturing uprisings from within. Under his command, the operatives have put down nearly one thousand micro-rebellions, most before they have even gestated.

  They have killed thousands.

  Ansel has no hesitation about this. He has killed dozens of people himself.

  He just doesn't trust Korski to come to his aid when he needs it.

  And the footsteps that pass his door in the night make him think this time he's going to need it.

  Have you confirmed her death with ship's records? Korski asks.

  I have an airlock release log from that year, Ansel thinks. But this is a rudimentary station. There are no visual recordings. There are no personnel logs. She is not even on record as having been here.

  Six seconds.

  But you believe she was, and that she was killed. Why?

  I have a confession from the station's captain, sir. It's not direct evidence, but I believe the man.

  Six seconds.

  You will stake your honor on this? Evelyn Jans is dead?

  I genuinely believe she is.

  Six seconds.

  If she is dead, steps will be taken. But if you are wrong, and she is alive, people will die without justification.

  Sir, out here, everybody is a rebel. If they are not guilty of one crime, they are on the verge of far greater ones.

  Six seconds.

  Six seconds.

  Twenty seconds.

  Korski's image jerks and freezes, and his final message appears:

  Bring honor to the Council.

  EVELYN

  For the hundredth time, Ansel calls up his mission summary on the old screenview.

  A large photograph, the most recent image of Evelyn, appears on the tablet. Beside it is a projection of her appearance now.

  She's pale, with red hair cut short. Ansel would not describe her as traditionally beautiful. Her features are slightly masculine, her stare hard and confident. He idly traces his finger on the screen, rotating her image. Evelyn has narrow, strong shoulders. A long neck, not graceful, but severe.

  When she left Meili, Evelyn Jans was nineteen years old. She would be twenty-nine now, nearly thirty. The projection can be skewed to reflect the effects of a gentle existence or a punishing one. Ansel switches between the two, watching Evelyn's face morph from almost genteel to rigid, her expression shift from a half-smile to a thin grimace.

  He knew her, though only by association. At the annual operative's ball, when the Council would greet and celebrate the dark arts of Ansel and his fellow assassins, he had seen Evelyn dancing. She was out of place in her red gown, he had thought, with her hair up in curls beneath a veil. She seemed like anything but a Council heir. He'd watched her bypass the champagne and sneak a pull of whiskey with the servers, and he'd liked her immensely for that.

  When she disappeared, he volunteered, as did a hundred other operatives.

  Korski had selected him from the group.

  For your particular dedication to violence as a means to an end, Korski had said. Miss Jans is of great importance to her father. Finding her would bring you great recognition and reward, and would give me increased leverage to expand our ranks. You'll have the resources you need. You will not have a home, however, if you fail.

  Neither Korski nor Ansel himself had expected the search to take this long.

  You know why I'm here, then, Ansel said.

  Lukasic had gestured at a seat. I know a little, yes.

  Evelyn Jans. She's missing.

  Lukasic's expression changed. I knew you were searching for someone. I did not know it was a Council heir.

  First heir to seat four. You know that Councilman Jans is the oldest ranking member. His term will expire in a decade. It's very important that Evelyn is safely returned to the Citadel so she can continue to study for her eventual role.

  Of course, Lukasic had said. And you're sure she was here?

  I don't know if she is here, or if she's moved on. Why do you say was?

  I just assumed —

  I won't remind you about operative guidelines, Representative. I'm sure you know them well.

  Lukasic nodded. Yes.

  Please, Ansel said, relaxing in his chair. Tell me what you know. Let's start with why you've already lied to me.

  From Skyresh, Evelyn's trail had meandered, almost as if she was trying to lose a tail. In a sense, Ansel thought, maybe she had been. He had wrung a confession out of Representative Lukasic — Evelyn had not only landed first on Skyresh, but had left with a woman. A lover, Lukasic had theorized, but he hadn't known her name.

  Ansel had discovered the woman's identity, but not until Io. By then, he had tracked Evelyn from Skyresh to Olympus, the Citadel's capital city on Mars. Evelyn had lingered there for six months, then disappeared again. It took Ansel nearly two years to pick up her trail again.

  She'd turned up on Ceres-11, a mining station tethered to the asteroid belt's dwarf planet of the same name. He couldn't figure it out at first. Ceres-11 was a roughneck station, with several thousand miners aboard. There were no amenities. Miners worked seven-year shifts, then broke for three years, then returned. In those seven years, they made enough money to support their distant families for a decade. Three years usually wasn't enough time for them to return home, then make it back to Ceres-11 in time for the next shift, so there was extremely high turnover. Most miners didn't return.

  The ones that did nee
ded something to do to kill the time. They were making incredible amounts of money, with nothing to spend it on. The hard work, twelve hours every day, created conditions ripe for dissension. Ceres-11 was believed to be the origin point of a revolutionary movement that had led to the System War in 2570.

  Ansel started to put it together. Evelyn wasn't pleasure-cruising. Her trek through the system was loopy, but she was gradually moving outward, farther from the Citadel and its greatest ring of influence.

  Evelyn was looking for a rebellion.

  It was only a theory, but he had confirmed it when he tracked her to Promantha, a fringe colony that orbited the Galilean moon Io. Ansel traveled there, but he didn't have to. Promantha was the birthplace of the Ivory movement. The Citadel monitored the colony closely, but quietly. There were rumors that there were at least seven operatives on Promantha.

  Ansel wouldn't know them when he saw them. Deep-cover operatives identity-shifted before they went to work. Their fingerprints, their voice frequencies, their facial structure, even the color of their eyes were altered.

  But he knew that they would know him.

  Promantha was the second colony in Io's orbit. The remnants of the first, Epimetheus, still circled the moon, a debris-field reminder of man's lack of foresight. Io's volcanoes are tempestuous and powerful, with plumes that dramatically arced into orbit. Epimetheus had been a victim of such a plume, and had been ripped to pieces. Two thousand people died.

  There are still desiccated bodies in the debris field, forty years after the tragedy.

  Ansel had hitched a ride on a medical freighter that was bound for Jupiter, where it would live forever, serving the orbital colonies that revolved around the planet and its moons. The freighter dispatched smaller ships to each of the colonies to establish contact and determine the state of its inhabitants. Ansel rode along with the crew traveling to Promantha.

  The colony was a marvel of homegrown engineering, a collection of salvaged hulls and smaller stations that had been fused into one great, lumbering organism. It wasn't lovely to look upon, but it was intelligently stitched together.