by M. ORENDA
“Think I’m starting to feel that kick,” he says.
“From my girl vodka, you mean.”
“Yes, from that.”
She laughs, and so does he, like it’s some other universe, and they’re not assaulter and smuggler, opposite worlds closed together in the same tiny space.
He floats the vodka bottle between his hands and taps it lightly to send it her way. It rotates top over bottom, so slow it makes a short distance seem vast.
She meets his gaze. “If you’re feeling it, you’re already gone.”
“I’m feeling it.”
“Grapefruit.”
“Grapefruit.” He grins, crossing his big arms over his chest, hard muscle painted with tattoos, ornate armbands, and nightmarish bones, talons and curving ornamentation that have no description, the stars and stripes of the old republic… all scrolling together in a vision of ink, skin and imagination.
“Girl vodka and girl smugglers,” he says, slanting her a look, like she’s full trouble, and he knows it, which is the most honest thing he’s shown so far.
“You’re safe from me,” she quips back, taking pleasure in stealing the exact words he told to her, not but a few moments ago. “No profit riding on disturbing you, Colonel, only on getting you and your team to Red Filter on the low.”
“Jared.”
“What?”
“My first name is Jared.”
“Oh,” she says, softer than she intends.
“And your first name is…?”
“Captain.”
He smiles again, patient. “C’mon. What are you afraid of?”
Maybe it’s that last bit of provocation, or maybe it’s because she’s drunk. Or maybe it’s because she’s just plain stupid, but surrender comes easier than it should. “Petra.”
“Petra.”
And, just like that, it’s personal, her name spoken in his way, a direct line from him to her, with no comforting walls of ranks between them… which is—she realizes too damn late—exactly what she was afraid of.
SHADOW ROAD
TRANSPORT VESSEL WC2077 SPARROW
FLIGHT DAY 10/27
MARS DATE: DAY 8, MONTH 9/24, YEAR 2,225.
The girl’s in and out, awake but murmuring nonsense, her small body trembling, hair and skin damp, trying to sweat the narcotics out of her system. One prick of the needle and she goes quiet, instantly more comfortable, those harsh accusations of grief dulling in her dark eyes.
Logan gets the worst of it, and bears it because he’s got that gift, the medic who guards the strong when they’re at their weakest, who will grab onto a hand and squeeze, who will repeat assurances well beyond the point they’re needed, or crawl through lines of fire just to reach someone who might still be breathing. It’s his particular duty, his calling, and so he does it.
He talks to her, cares for her.
He also does a lot more.
Like many Assaulters, he’s adept at acquiring knowledge he shouldn’t have, technical expertise that goes above and beyond. He’s been running blood tests for days, analyzing digital data from readers, feeding it into his med computer, muttering over obscure references while others sleep.
So now he looks… uncertain.
He shakes his head, too tired and searching for words. “Her blood work is… I don’t even know how to describe it. She’s infected with something. She’s infected with an unknown strain of bacteria, and it’s all through her, everywhere, in the cells, like lateral gene transfer stuff.”
Wyatt groans. “Lateral what?”
Logan looks at Voss, searching for understanding. “There are two ways to pass DNA. There’s vertical transfer, which is parent to child. And there’s lateral transfer, which is between individuals, mostly in single celled organisms.”
Voss frowns. “So she’s sick?”
“Not exactly.” Logan points to his analyzer, a blurry image of blobs swimming in its tiny blue screen. “Her cells aren’t like our cells to begin with. Her blood wouldn’t be compatible with any of our blood types. And this isn’t an accident or a natural mutation. I think that part is pretty obvious, given recent events. She’s a genetically altered being. My guess is that she’s been engineered to host this bacteria, and it’s sharing its DNA with her. She’s only part human, gents. That’s what makes her special. That’s her gift.”
“What the fuck?” Wyatt’s pissed.
Voss feels it too, though he won’t voice it. The betrayal stings. He liked believing that the kids he rescued were all naturally gifted. It was a good story, a glint of hope in the ruins, something worth the lives of the men who’d sacrificed for it. Learning that they’re part of a human experiment doesn’t square the same way, doesn’t make sense to him as a warrior, but it also doesn’t alter the situation.
All of their lives are in danger, including Niri’s, and he has no context for this new information, no way to judge whether it’s part of a responsible plan to rebuild Earth, or not. He doesn’t have that background, or that expertise, so he’s got to go with what he’s been told. He’s got to keep everyone alive.
For Logan, however, it’s more difficult. It’s caretaker-to-patient. It’s personal. He shuts the cover of his analyzer and stares at Voss, just stares, a flicker of something raw in his eyes.
“We don’t get to know the big picture,” Voss reminds him. “We don’t sign up for that. We sign up to do what others can’t. We stand between those who want to destroy, and those who need our protection. The guys running the show… they could be geniuses, or they could be complete assholes, but there isn’t anything else. There isn’t some other Earth, or some other Mars. This is what we’ve got. And whatever this girl is, or isn’t… she’s a citizen, which means the NRM is legally bound to take of her, and we took an oath to protect her.”
“Protect her from what?” Logan asks, and the implication is clear.
“From all those who seek to destroy her,” Voss says. “We didn’t have their motive before, but now it seems like we might. She’s part human, part something else. Maybe that means she’s got a better immune system. Maybe it means she hears things we can’t hear, or can go into places we can’t go. We don’t know what the advantages to this are. Med science is rarely what it looks like. They break bones, put people in comas, grow extra organs in labs. They follow macabre procedures to save lives. We don’t know what this is. All we know is that this girl represents a new form of technology and people have been killing over that since the beginning of time. Someone out there considers her as a threat.”
“Agreed,” Wyatt says, making it clear.
“Roger that.” Gojo casts his vote.
Logan says nothing.
“They’ll take care of her in Red Filter,” Voss tells him. “They take of their own, you’ll see. Citizens don’t suffer. This girl is important to them, and she would be dead right now if we hadn’t pulled her out of the sewer. And she’ll die if we fuck up now. Every member of this team, and every person on this ship, might die if we fuck up. So… for her protection, and ours, we keep to the mission.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid says, that sobering reality sinking in.
“Need you to assist Gojo for a few hours,” Voss adds. “He’s fixed some of the ship’s com software, but now we need a bug on the flight deck, and he may need help with that. Need to be able to observe the pilot and the control screens at all times. Is that understood?”
The medic hesitates.
“Wyatt and I will watch Niri,” Voss tells him.
“Yes, sir,” Logan replies.
Gojo grins, happy to be on task. “C’mon, boy. I’ll show you how to squeeze a sensitive device into a tight space without raising alarm.”
The kid says nothing, just nods and gravitates away from the girl, accustomed now to movement in zero G. It looks like acceptance. It could be something else, but Voss is unwilling to delve any deeper.
Wyatt slants him a look. “Well, wish I hadn’t heard all that shit.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah.”
“New technology… ”
Voss nods, regarding the girl in silence. Niri floats before him, frail, vulnerable, flesh and blood, the same being who grabbed hold of his armor after he took her from her parents. To say that she’s only part human is a misstatement, in his mind. She’s a human with different blood, different attributes, different abilities… maybe. But a human all the same.
I hear terrible things.
He grimaces. What does that mean?
Wyatt sighs. “Bottom line… we don’t know what we’re dealing with here. You gotta convince the Captain to bypass Midstation.”
“It’s their routine. It’ll raise alarms if they deviate.”
“Opens up all kinds of risk.”
“So we plan for it.”
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt replies without enthusiasm, moving on. “And how, may I ask, are current relations with the Captain?”
“She’s avoiding me, I think.”
“Operation Deploy Charm is a failure?”
“Tries to slip away whenever I see her.”
“Not really a bad sign,” Wyatt says. “Women with authority don’t like to be around men who make them nervous. Captains aren’t supposed to be nervous.”
“Still doesn’t help much.”
“She’d rather be invulnerable.”
Voss winces. “Way off the mark.”
“Really?”
“Hot head, drinks too much, says exactly what’s on her mind.”
“Another problem child.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you do have your share,” Wyatt says. “At least we haven’t had to drug her, although with your charm being what it is these days… ”
Voss nods, thinking the same thing. “Might be just a matter of time.”
As magnitudes of mistakes go, it wasn’t so bad, only it feels bad because he’s always around somewhere… always there to look at. It wasn’t awkward at first, but now it is… because of that moment, because of her and the vodka, and the serious talk, and the spilling of a dozen truths what should not be said—particularly to Assaulters—like it was nothing.
Petra… he hasn’t said her name since, but no real need to, since she can still hear it, in exactly the way he said it, clear as crystal, in close remembering at any minute of the day… along with all the things which passed her lips. Might have gotten too close to what was criminal because all other doors were closed.
Why? Why say it? Damn fool. Stupid—
“What’s the matter with you?” Clara’s staring up from the pilot’s console like she can hear the train wreck from where she’s sitting. “Not even pretending to read the reports I give you anymore, and the crew’s down in the hold doing whatever they please, and no one to give orders to make ‘em do any different, and you’re up here, staring at bulkheads like they got something to say. You can’t go crazy, Petra, because we both know you already was. Impossible to go from crazy to crazy, so let’s have it. Tell your pilot where you are.”
“I’m here,” Petra mumbles. “Busy with other ship matters.”
“Will you at least look at me when you’re lying?”
Petra cuts her gaze across the flight deck. The older woman peering back at her, eyes bright in the muted glow of the screens, expression highlighted in electric blue, deep creases framing her mouth, brow furrowed with worry. Wisps of violet hair float at her temples.
“I… ” Petra looks toward the shields. “Men make for tough cargo.”
“That Assaulter giving you trouble?”
“Not so much giving it.”
“Ahh,” Clara says, one eyebrow rising. “Just causing it.”
“Told him some things.”
“What?”
“My name.”
“And?”
“And other things, plainly not meant for him… personal things.”
Clara makes a frustrated noise under her breath. “’Ere we go.”
“Go?”
“Clearly established, wild thing—more than once—that you’re just fine with employing a man, directing a man wisely on a crew, hating a man, even killing a man, but liking one too much is damn near impossible.”
“Didn’t say I like him.”
“Only you like talking to him… about personal things.”
“I was drinking, and he got in the way.”
“Just crashed in, nothing you did to invite him?”
Petra frowns.
“You know that’s actually the normal way of things, don’t you?” Clara returns her gaze to the screens. “Choosing a man you like and talking to him… telling him your name… ”
“Didn’t know you were set to be amused.”
“No, I’m not. I know… ” Clara looks up again, hesitating, choosing words like it’s all coming from guilt and awkwardness now. “Few of your personal things got triggers attached.”
“Oh, is that what gets said?”
“No one says it. No one has to. Everyone knows you walked out of Red Plain with blood t’ween your teeth and rumors flying which you say nothing about, and none of us got the guts to question. All I know is what murder is in your heart got there for a reason, wild thing, and the years of living with it got you worn thin, drawing on anger because it’s the power you know. It’s a poison too though. And whether it’s vodka, or big sky, or that one moment where truth comes easy… what comes to the surface is what needs to be let go. And so what if you let a little slip? You don’t think an Assaulter, who’s surely got plenty of anger and untold reasons of his own, would understand that?”
Understand? Petra hisses through her teeth.
What Assaulters understand, and what horrors they see, have got different context. They’re the powerful, dropping from the sky in full armor, with such weapons as can blow up entire city blocks, gnashing teeth and taking on whatever monsters rear up in front of them.
The anger they’ve got, the anger of the strong, of the righteous, of the team and the purpose, is different from the anger she’s got… the anger of criminals, always alone when that monster’s at the door, and usually the one who brought it bearing down in the first place, fear turned to rage of the type unexplainable, of things done which defy understanding.
“If t’were me… ” Clara shrugs. “I’d go on the offensive. Go talk to him, try and find out something personal which makes the two of you even, or at least find out what secrets he’s holding close but got some obligation to tell… like why the temperature in his cabin rises over what would be expected from just him and three other men, why the air gets used up faster.”
Petra blinks. “What?”
“Life support for the Assaulter cabin is draining more than it should.”
“Meaning what?”
Clara shrugs. “A helmsman with a less suspicious mind might conclude that the calculations for Assaulters are a bit off, as they’re a bit bigger than what anyone figures for, but a nosey woman like me might think they’ve got something else alive in there… or someone, a small person. Math would square.”
“What?” Petra stares, disbelief set to unbalance her temper. “Ten days into flight and you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”
“It is mentioned, a few times, in those reports you don’t bother to read,” Clara says, smug, looking at her console like the cat that’s finally got the bird. “That’s how I know you don’t read ‘em.”
“I’m gonna go kick his ass.”
“They’re a team, wild one.”
“Meaning all their asses.”
“Oh, good. Go pick a fight with a group of professional fighters.” Clara rolls her eyes and leans back from the console, seeming to mock the idea with her entire body. “That’s going to turn out well, isn’t it?”
“He’s gonna explain this.”
“Maybe, if you’re smart… If, on the other hand, you jet down that tube, bang on his cabin and attack him—the big man who holds an auth key—he’s going to stuff you inside a storage crate, and me
with you, and you know I don’t like small spaces, so I will hold you fully responsible for us sitting nose-to-ass for the remainder of this flight, Captain.”
It bears consideration.
“More subtle approach, maybe,” Petra mutters.
“He likes you,” Clara says, and stresses it, as if it isn’t the very last thing she wants to hear. “Why don’t you start with that?”
It only takes the press of an intercom button, a few curt words, to summon an Assaulter to one’s cabin. It takes a hard bit of something else to open the hatch once he’s there, invite him into an area that’s personal and private, and watch him glance over rows of tethered crates which barely give room for a hammock, a spray tube which barely gives room for a human, a wall of white cabinets and computer screens… all of it seeming to interest him far more than it should.
He moves past her and latches one hand around crate cord, filling up what space he does, his gaze settling on her after a moment.
He’s in a crew flight suit now, all whites and greys, high collar and sleeve pockets, no tattoos visible, no sidearm strapped to his thigh… just that strange weight to him, the kind of calm which has no name or proper description, something that speaks to a colder familiarity with violence and emergency, but no particular anger, or simply no need for it at the moment.
She shuts the hatch.
“Captain,” he says, proper and measured, a sign of respect.
“Colonel,” she gives the same.
Subtle… be subtle… be smart... subtle and smart…
“What the hell are you hiding in your cabin?” she snaps, before she can soften or control it, and then the rest just comes spilling out like it was always going to. “Life support’s getting drained faster than what four men can do, temperature’s too high. You care to explain that?”
To his credit, he doesn’t attempt to appear confused, doesn’t make her repeat the question, or talk around it in endless circles. He doesn’t pretend at all… just holds her gaze like she’s got no understanding of what she’s just done, brought true danger down on both of them.
