by Hugo Huesca
21
Chapter Twenty-One
Delagarza
It was amazing what modern technology could do to heal bullet wounds to the stomach. At any other point in history, the rest of Delagarza’s life would’ve been spent eating through a straw.
Delagarza had been asleep for the first part of the doctor’s work. From what Cooke had told him, the man cheerfully washed his thoracic cavity to remove all traces of acid and waste.
“He used this blue gel pack along with three packs of blood,” Cooke had recalled, “and said it’d stop you from bleeding out.”
“Blue blood? Guess I’m now royalty,” Delagarza flashed him a weak smile.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works, Delagarza.”
“That’s Prince Delagarza to you.” The two of them snickered. It almost felt like the old times. Delagarza felt like he had been away for a long time.
After the black-market surgeon finished the emergency part of his job, a parade of restorative treatments followed, all coming from Delagarza’s own pocket, as Charleton cheerfully told him.
Mother-cells injections, followed by tailor-made viruses that directed Delagarza’s body to regenerate the damaged sub-systems, expensive stim juice to heal back the acid-damaged organs, even a nanobot injection to re-connect Delagarza’s nerves. Those were the ones that Delagarza recognized because they were public knowledge. The rest of them involved tools and procedures Delagarza had never heard of before.
During the surgeon’s last visit, he asked Delagarza if he wanted the scars removed. It was the first choice Delagarza had any control over.
“Leave them,” he decided, “the ladies will love them.”
Charleton, standing against a corner of the room, rolled her eyes.
He winked at her and flashed her a grin. She looked down and rolled her eyes again, with a tiny smile insinuating itself onto her lips. Delagarza had never felt more alive.
That’s the synthetic endorphins you’re chock full of, Daneel Hirsen’s voice—his own voice—reminded him.
Shut up, you. I was shot. I deserve some rest.
Hirsen didn’t share Delagarza’s opinion. Every minute that Delagarza spent in bed, he was assailed by a subtle unease, an itch in the back of his mind that told him he should be back on his feet and moving.
Hirsen could complain all he wanted. For the first two months, Delagarza was simply unable to leave the bed. His wounds wouldn’t allow it. He got very acquainted with that part of Charleton’s apartment, but little else.
His strength, though, slowly came back. The surgeon had mentioned he was amazed by Delagarza’s ability to recover from the massive injury so easily.
“It’s almost super-natural,” the man said, the feigned disinterest marked in his eyes.
Delagarza knew the surgeon had studied Delagarza’s biological makeup. Whatever he had found there, he knew Hirsen’s body wasn’t fully human. Well, the enforcer’s money was enough to pay for the surgeon’s silence as well as his skills.
By the third month, Delagarza was up and making small trips to the outside world, walks that pleased the part of him that was Daneel Hirsen, and allowed Delagarza to shake off the acidic smell a body got when spending too much time under a cheap air-recycling unit. He was careful during those walks, making sure no one followed him or paid him any undue attention. No one ever did. The enforcers had moved on to bigger and juicier targets.
Charleton waited for him after he returned from one of his walks.
“We need to talk, Sam,” she told him.
“Nothing good ever came from saying that,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her.
“I’ve waited until you recovered, you know,” she told him. “It happened faster than I expected, but you seem almost back to normal by now. You need to tell me what the hell happened to you.”
Delagarza shrugged, while at the same time, Hirsen spewed a bunch of angry warnings in the back of his mind. “I told you and Cooke, I was mugged.”
“Like fuck you were,” Charleton said. The worry in her eyes was replaced by hardness. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Those bullets weren’t plastic, Sam, the surgeon said they came from a military-issued pistol. I’m taking a huge risk for you, man, because I know you and we were tight, once. But if security—or worse—are on your ass, you need to tell me. Have you been running with the gangers?”
“I’m too old for that shit,” said Delagarza. He tried hard not to smile—that would’ve only pissed her off more.
“That has never stopped a man chasing after a piece of tail,” said Charleton. “I know you’re too comfortable with that ganger girl.”
Jamilia Charleton, are you jealous? He dismissed the idea fast. That was his pride speaking. She was worried, and she was trying to make sense of the situation with incomplete information.
“Jamilia, trust me, gangers are not my type,” he said, and he meant it.
Charleton sighed and plopped down on one of her seats. She played with the plastic plants that decorated her coffee table. “Then what, by Reiner, is going on, Sam?”
You can’t tell her, Hirsen warned. It will put her in danger.
When Cooke had found him, bleeding out and so weak he could barely talk, he had almost brought him to a hospital. Delagarza’s pleading had managed to convince him he needed help elsewhere, and no one could know about it. So Cooke brought him to Charleton. She had coordinated with the surgeon, given Delagarza a place to rest and recover, and she hadn’t asked a single question during those months.
A long time ago, she had been his lover. For far longer, they’d been working partners. Both had to count for something.
She had trusted him when he had been at his weakest and in very suspicious circumstances. That counted. He owed her his life.
Know what? Delagarza told Hirsen. How about you shut up and let me decide for myself? If you want to make all the calls, stop being a coward and hiding in the back of your own mind.
Before his subconscious could do something to change his mind, Delagarza said:
“Isabella Reiner is alive and hiding in Dione. The enforcers are after her, and I was trying to find her when they shot me.”
It was strange, feeling an entire personality throw a temper tantrum inside his own head.
Charleton was so surprised that she didn’t throw him out of the apartment on the spot. She didn’t believe a word of it at first, but Delagarza had the Shota-M’s data still with him, and he showed the holos to her. Charleton knew far more than he did about reading complex travel logs, and after hours of stunned reading, she closed the holos and said:
“These people…Newgen…hid her in space for thirty years?”
“Seems that way,” Delagarza said. “Her mother, too, but the data implies she died during transit. Doesn’t say it outright, but—”
“Yeah, I noticed.” She passed a hand through her hair. “Shit, Sam, this is insane. What are you doing involved in this shit? Let the EIF handle it, it’s no surprise you got shot. I’m amazed the enforcers didn’t bother making sure you were dead.”
“I’m a lowly ‘ware cracker,” said Delagarza. He hadn’t mentioned Daneel Hirsen to her. “Why should they care? They think they got Isabella.”
“And you’re sure they won’t figure out they executed the wrong person?”
“Eventually,” he said. “But in the meantime, it buys the EIF time to get here.”
“I don’t like it,” she said, “it’s too big for you. This belongs in history books. It’s in the past. It’s over, Sam. People are trying to make a living and it’s hard enough as it is. If a civil war gets underway…”
Delagarza sat next to her. He could see the fear lurking behind her hardened exterior. He put a hand over hers, trying to tell her it was all going to be alright even if he didn’t believe it himself.
She deserves better, he reminded himself. She deserved the truth.
“I get it, Jamilia. But whether we like it or not, this is happening. Ev
en if the enforcers find the real Isabella and kill her, do you really think they’ll manage to keep it a secret? She hid this long and people still found out. And people will find out about this, sooner or later. A year down the road, a decade down the road, it’s all the same. The Edge will know.”
And fire will follow.
Charleton squeezed Delagarza’s hand, but she was looking elsewhere, lost in thought.
“So, war is coming no matter what we do?”
“Can’t you feel it?” Delagarza said. “It’s in the air. It’s been brewing since that Earther spaceship parked in Jagal and made half of Tal-Kader’s leadership its bitches.”
Since then, crime was on the rise. Startowns like Taiga sprang into existence across the spaceports of half the Edge, a dozen pirate organizations scoured the Backwater Systems, hell, half of those were sponsored by the Systems themselves. Young kids roaming the streets, orphans of unnamed wars and skirmishes against Earth and the EIF. Those kids grew up to become gangers, or mercenaries, or they fell in the hands of evil corporation that used them for their experiments.
Yes, something was brewing in the Edge. And when news of Isabella Reiner reached the courier ships, all hell would break loose.
It would make survival a tall order for the little guy, for people like Delagarza, and Cooke, and Charleton. The ones who only tried to survive day to day.
Their only hope was ensuring that, when war came, it focused on someone who could take it. Tal-Kader.
Delagarza had to get Isabella to the EIF.
“You’re going to fight,” said Charleton. “I can see it in your eyes. I’ve known people, men, who had the same glint you have now, Samuel. They’d grow tired of Alwinter’s cold, of watching people freeze to death while others grew fat and complacent. They’d say less, every time, until they said nothing at all. Then, they’d just leave. Join the EIF, or the Defense Fleet, or become pirates. None of them has ever returned. I think they’re all dead.”
“Trust me, I can take care of myself,” Delagarza said. He flashed her a grin. It felt nice to have someone that worried for him. It was an egotistical thought, to feel happy because of that. But Delagarza was an egotistical man, he had made his peace with that.
It was nice to know she’d feel sad when he left, because it meant he had been real. Not merely the hallucination of some genetic abomination trained by an extinct corporation.
“Stay,” Charleton offered, “with me. Let’s give it another try, alright? We forget about all this, we lie low, we leave the planet if we must. I’ve connections. I could arrange it.”
It wasn’t a real offer, Delagarza knew. Only a moment’s weakness by a woman who had grown to see her share of war and lose her share of loved ones to senseless slaughter.
The Charleton he knew was a fighter, and she was Alwinter pure and through. She’d never leave.
He caressed her cheek, softly, like he wasn’t sure his hand was real bone and meat. He felt the warmth of her skin pouring into his own, a tiny marvel of thermodynamics, a trivial transfer of heat that could make all the difference for the right people, at the right time.
“Sure,” he told her. “I’ll stay with you. Whatever you want.”
Charleton laughed and swatted his hand away, in a playful manner. “Liar,” she said. “You were always a terrible liar, Samuel Delagarza.”
Delagarza laughed, too, because Daneel Hirsen considered himself the perfect liar.
Seems like all of Newgen’s experiments still can’t fool a woman like her.
Hirsen said nothing, he wasn’t at his usual spot at the edge of his subconscious. Good. Delagarza and Charleton were alone.
“I don’t have to leave today, you know,” he told her.
She cleaned some wetness away from her eye. The moment of weakness had passed, she was back to her old self. But she was thinking about his offer. She cleaned her finger on the tablecloth. Had they been outside, the half-formed tear would’ve turned to ice by then.
At some point of their conversation, they’d gotten awfully close to each other. Thermodynamics at work again.
The citizens of Alwinter knew that transfer of heat was the real meaning of life. They learned it since birth, from the very instant their lives were tied to their reg-suits and their life-support machines. Always watching out for the next blizzard, keeping an eye on their battery pack readouts, spending a fortune in maintenance.
Keep the fire going, just another day. Worry about the next one later. Don’t let the hearth burn out. Huddle together during the long night, hope to whatever God is watching you’ll wake up the next morning. Cross your fingers the life-support won’t shut down, that the air-recycling won’t fail.
All matter runs out of heat, eventually. The history of the universe can be summarized by saying, ‘A lot of things ran hot for a while, but eventually, they cooled off.’
Charleton grasped the back of Delagarza’s neck and pushed him to her. They kissed, clumsily at first, while their bodies slowly remembered each other's touch.
The kiss grew hungrier. Hands groped and fought against reg-suits that kept their heat apart. Charleton pulled away, just an inch.
“What’s that you used to say?”
“Alwinter’s nights are best spent with someone to help keep your sheets warm.”
“My sheets have been awfully cold, lately. Will you help me, Sam?”
“Anything the lady wishes,” he said. “What kind of gentleman would I be otherwise?”
They retreated to her bedroom, laughing like teenagers. The bedroom’s heating system could keep them warm and nice without their reg-suits, which fell to the floor, instantly forgotten.
Keep the fire going. Life’s all about thermodynamics.
Systems Alliance destroyer Vortex reached Elus Star System that same night. The light of its arrival reached Outlander while Charleton and Delagarza slept, along with a message from the vessel. The message carried detailed instructions for the enforcers stationed in Outlander, and a public transmission to be sent to the population of Dione.
The Vortex would take five days to reach the planet, but the people became aware the very morning that Delagarza awoke with Charleton next to him and noticed the blinking light of his wristband warning him of a public message waiting for his attention.
“Denizens of planet Dione,” said a man dressed like a captain but with the demeanor of a corporate drone, “this is Captain Riley Erickson of the Vortex. Your planet has been found guilty of harboring terrorist organizations planning to destabilize the Edge and its people. My ship is here for your protection. To purge the planet’s infestation, Dione and its colony will be put under martial law, according to the procedures indicated in the Systems Alliance Constitution, Law IX-two, sub-heading three. More information will follow shortly. Contact your local enforcement unit if you have any doubts or have information regarding the terrorists and their whereabouts. Remember, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. By the grace of the Gods and the heroes of our independence, this is Captain Erickson. End transmission.”
The next message came from a man who made Delagarza’s blood run cold. Strauze’s shark-like smile had the fiendish edge of a predator whose prey is being stolen right under his nose. He explained the martial laws protocols in a practiced monotone.
Charleton shifted in her sleep. Delagarza closed the message and looked at the window. It was freezing outside. Life-support must have failed again. How many people had died in their sleep, this time?
It was the least of Dione’s problems.
That week, the enforcers and the security personnel of Alwinter deposed the colonial government and gave direct control to Erickson and the Vortex. Gangers and the organized crime were hunted as one, their ancient food chain suddenly broken by the arrival of a new alpha predator.
A curfew was imposed. Whoever was found past the time limit was shot on the spot. Delagarza could see broken bodies littering the streets, waiting for the clean-up services. Frozen bl
ood marred the snow in the machines’ wake.
Two weeks after Vortex’s arrival, Kayoko’s resistance group became a rebellion. The body count grew.
War had come to Alwinter.
22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Clarke
The command exchange between Clarke and Alicante lacked the gravitas it would’ve had in an official military like the Defense Fleet or Earth’s. In fact, Alicante dropped the news minutes after Pascari had made his decision clear.
Standing at the foot of the conference table, Clarke had an excellent view of how poorly Pascari’s decision was received.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the white-haired officer stood up, treating the room to a belly that threatened to burst out of his uniform. “Pascari, you’d remove a commander who has led us for years without issue, in exchange for a civilian? You pretend we go to war like this, by ourselves! This is insurrection, pure and simple!”
“Watch your mouth, Rehman,” said Alicante, who despite his clear disapproval, at least wasn’t openly rebelling against Pascari. “Pascari’s right, he’s the Committee representative, he’s within his right to select a new commander. Joseph Clarke comes with the best recommendations. He saved the Beowulf. Thanks to him, the news about Isabella Reiner reached us.”
“He’s a civilian!” Rehman repeated, like a magic mantra that would bend the universe to his will.
Clarke bit off his retort about Rehman’s not being much different from a civilian himself.
Instead, he stepped next to Alicante and addressed the room:
“Pascari’s decision was as much a surprise to myself as it was to you. I am not taking this lightly. If I thought I couldn’t lead you to a victory in Dione, I’d have refused command. But I believe Task Force Sierra can take the planet, and I believe I can help you do so. Yes, I may be a civilian now, but that wasn’t always the case. I spent a decade as an officer of the Defense Fleet and fought my own share of battles. I have the experience, and I know how the Fleet fights.”
