by M. ORENDA
“Fair, for changing sides, putting myself at risk for a planet that has never acknowledged me and now wants to lock me away.”
It’s true, and he knows it. Still, it takes him a moment.
He touches her again, slipping his fingers along the nape of her neck, as if committing it to memory. “I’ll get you what you want.”
The words are resigned. This is a risk he didn’t want to take, with an outcome he can’t predict, and he disapproves. Part of her does too. Maybe it would have been good at Fort Liberty, with him… ruin everything she’s done, but walk away better for it, richer in the possibility of this… whatever this is.
It feels good, but it also feels wrong.
He’s not the only one accustomed to distance.
He shifts, disengaging from her, rising from the bunk and reaching for his tech suit. “You’ll need to communicate with me using a secure application, which Gojo will give you before I leave. Your messages will be sub-routed through existing networks, with encryption that refreshes its protocol every thirty nanoseconds. You will be talking to me and only to me. You will give me a situation report every eight hours, and before and after all contact with potential leads. And you’ll wear a disguised locator. I want to know where you are… always.”
“That’s restrictive.”
“You want to play this game? We do it my way.”
She nods, thinking maybe yes, maybe no. “Understood.”
“Better be.”
He’s dressed already, so she lifts her own suit from the bunk and forces her feet through the pant legs. It zips up fine, fits the same, though it’s not exactly the same Petra on the inside, a bit sore from his good work, tiny breasts rubbed pink from the brush of a silver beard.
“Transport ship is coming,” he says, back to being Voss. “I’ll be needed. You stay in here until we’re gone. You have a way to leave the station?”
“We have a good track in the station bay.”
“Wait until night, then go.”
She nods, holds his gaze. “And that’s that?”
“No,” he says, letting all meanings of the word stand.
He waits a minute, as if there might be something else to say.
Only there isn’t.
So he moves past her, opening the hatch to glare at the NRM guard on the other side. “Find me First Sergeant Wyatt.”
“Here, sir,” the other Assaulter appears from down the corridor, grinning. “That was a long talk.”
“ETA on the transport?”
“Any minute now,” Wyatt replies. “We’re packing up the evidence.”
“Get everyone out of the station.”
“Yes, sir.”
The NRM guard glances at Petra. “So I should put her in a suit and then… handcuffs?”
“She escaped,” Voss says. “All of them did, except for the girl.”
The guard’s mouth drops open, his eyes darting from Petra to Voss. “What? But…she’s right there.”
Wyatt erupts. “Are you fucking deaf, skinny? Didn’t you hear what the Colonel just said?”
“Yes… I… ”
“YES, FIRST SERGEANT!”
“Yes, First Sergeant!” The guard straightens, eyes forward, staring into the empty space over the Assaulter’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen anyone run that fast, sir! She took off and slipped through a hatch, sir!”
“With your weapon,” Voss adds.
The guard swallows, cheeks flushed with color. “With my weapon, sir!”
Wyatt grins. “Fuck, skinny! That blows! Get your suit on.”
The guard places his gun down on the floor grate and leaves.
Voss watches him go, then turns to Wyatt, lowering his voice. “I need Gojo to equip her with a comm her before we leave.”
“Really?” Wyatt grants her an amused look. “Outstanding.”
“Enough,” Voss says.
“Moving out, sir,” He nods, winks at Petra. “Ma’am.”
And then they go.
Petra stands in the hatchway, watching Voss disappear down the corridor, catching one last look from him as he turns the corner. Not hard to read it either. You wanted this… now don’t fuck up and die.
She nods, dropping her gaze to the assault gun he’s left her.
“Well,” she murmurs, fighting a smile. “Look what trouble we’re in now.”
REFLECTIONS
FORT LIBERTY
MARS DATE: DAY 13, MONTH 10/24, YEAR 2,225
President Wexler considers the crystal glass on his desk, purses his lips in thought. He’s dressed in a black and white tuxedo, fashion that harkens back to the old glamour of Earth in ways that Voss doesn’t find significant.
The office is silent, the glitter of city lights panoramic through its windows, Fort Liberty glowing under clear night skies and dense trails of stars.
“That’s a hell of a deal,” Wexler says finally. “And it’s a risk.”
“We need intel. Petra will get that for us.”
“She already knows too much.”
“It’s a risk she’s taking as well.”
Wexler sighs. “You know she’s…unpredictable.”
Especially when she points a gun at you. “I’m aware of that.”
“And you trust her?”
“To act in her own interests, yes.”
“To act in our interests?”
“As long as they’re the same.”
Wexler groans. “This is a critical point in the program. Niri must get through her introductory period here without any disturbance whatsoever.”
Voss watches the man, expecting the frustration, but reading fear too. A sheen of sweat, a restless gaze… scared shitless of something. “Sir.”
“I’ll bring you in,” Wexler promises. “I’ll show you. As my Security Chief, you’re authorized to observe some aspects of the program, know the broad strokes, but Jared… I have to know this thing with Petra—this intel gathering—is going to work. I need to know who sent those ships.”
“I need Petra in my network.”
“Then you have her,” Wexler says, looking as if he regrets it already. “I’ll forward you the contract. Everything she wants.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” Wexler replies. “You’re the one who has to control her, and who knows if you can, or not.”
True, Voss thinks.
“That said, I’m extremely pleased with your work thus far.” Wexler adds, anxious to get back to whichever official state function he was attending before Voss requested a moment of his time. “You have a great future here and its time we started introducing you and your team. There’s a lot of interest among the chairmen, and among the higher circles.”
Voss nods. “Sir.”
The elite know everything. And what they don’t know, they find out.
“So get yourself a tuxedo.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wexler rises from his seat, offers his hand. “Good evening, Jared.”
Voss stands, accepting that weak grip. “Good evening, sir.”
The president leaves.
Voss watches him go, then frowns, looks out the window.
Lights burn under clear shielding, the halls of a thriving corporate world, too ordered, too fragile. Being introduced to these people means nothing beyond the opportunity to collect intel.
Protect them… fine. Talk to them… tedious.
The interest they have in him is not reciprocal. They have no memory of his wars, or the people who fought them. They’ve never stood on Earth, never seen that sky, never trudged through that poverty, or faced that cruelty.
To Voss, they carry nothing with them. They sort records. They count profits. They sleep through the night.
Get yourself a tuxedo.
He grimaces, thinking a noose would fit better.
The holo com in his pocket buzzes and he fishes it out, looking at the screen. A message appears in luminous text. Got where I’m going. If you wa
nt to know where that is, you can fucking track it.
He grants her a tired smile. “Goodnight, Petra.”
M. Orenda
M. ORENDA spent years programming before traveling abroad and getting lost, penning stories, writing on trains, buses and in between adventures.
