Astral Fall

by Jessica Mae Stover

  “I have orders from Gen—”

  “Is the rise currently engaged in battle?” he asked.

  “Negative. We’re on standby with no significant action to report.”

  “Then following protocol, we’ll greet the deputy of the deck first.”

  She raised her eyebrows. As the general’s deputy, she would normally outrank Crave. Under current mission orders, their rankings could be interpreted to be even, but that change wasn’t explicit. It looked like she was about to remind them about the chain of command, and deny Crave’s informal order.

  Instead, her heart rate calmed, and she exhaled, as if relieved. “This way.”

  RIDRAIN ONE

  UNITED NATIVITY PLANETS

  COSMIC TOP SECRET

  TERRESTRIAL RESTRICTED

  MEDIA SPECIALIST: BRIAR

  OUTSIDE DEPT CLEARED: NO

  PHYS MEDIA CLEARED: YES

  EXT. RIDRAIN - STANDARD OP CAPTURE - EVENING 0956a

  Sunstarlight skims surface mists, grazes endless silver swells…

  Quiet, CALM SEA.

  The water recedes. We reach for the surf, but it ebbs farther and farther away from our gloved, outstretched fingers…

  Our orientation flips, time speeds—a flood of realizations breaks the illusion: THE SWELLS AREN’T WAVES, THEY’RE UNDULATING CLOUDS, clouds blanketing the sky, blanket stopping short of the distant mountaintops; the gap between filled with furious gold light as the sunstar claws the ridge, sinks into night—The ceiling of whitecap clouds recedes up, up—

  FALLING—

  Through the mist, past the gold cut, across the mountain line—THE DARK LANDSCAPE RUSHES UP TO MEET US—

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Crave winced one eye open, then the other. Hardhood intact, skull shielded. Good. Exterior beeping. Unknown. Something’s wrong—Move.

  Solid rock scanned on his IF, filling his view. It’s a mountain. His concentration lagged. Ridrain. I’m at the foot of the mountain. I’ve hit the deck. Except what was evident from a basic visual scan, his IF data was unavailable.

  “Location check: all unit.”

  Silence.

  “Repeat. Location check: all unit.”

  Silence.

  “Ridrain One, Crave on the deck in need of medical, over.”

  Silence.

  “Ridrain One, rescan. Crave on the deck in need of medical, over.”

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Rescan. Ridrain, do you read me? Hailing any agent for an emergency read. Over.” His hood’s IF wasn’t connecting. “Rescan for Charis. Charis, are you receiving, over.”

  Silence.

  Chatter’s black. Chatter’s fucking black.

  He couldn’t feel below his collar, so he couldn’t maneuver his fingers to pulse his suit’s mechs and balance his levels. He felt the rush of fear only in his neck and head, which unnerved him.

  Adrenaline spike. Focus. On the planet less than an hour, and I hit deck of the Red Theater. I’m wearing an SI. Only basic emergency chems. Limited protection.

  “Hash input elixa alpha, Crave, shift mechs to aural mechs. Activate loop emergency signal.” Crave’s hood didn’t acknowledge. He tried again to shift the command mechs, making sure to enunciate, still with no results.

  I can’t move. My IF is nonresponsive. Without vocal command, I can’t perform tasks. Emotional response. Focus. Medical status: Unknown.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Exterior beeping: Unknown. Exact location: Unknown.

  He’d woken on his left side and shoulder, facing the mountain. He looked for orientation cues. Something dark clung to the air in patches, like scattered clouds of ashen mist or swarms of insects, but he couldn’t pulse to scan it.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  The wall of rock moved, incrementally sliding past him vertically upward a few meters, then stopped. He blinked, his vision hazy. It’s not the mountain, it’s me. I’m moving. I’m being moved. I’m still above ground level. Something’s lowering me. What do I have to work with? Some neck mobility. Moving will risk exacerbating injuries—if any.

  “Crave to unit, request signal feedback, any channel.”

  Silence.

  “Unit be advised: Crave on the deck, unknown position. In need of medical intervention. Experiencing hardhood damage. Cannot read scans or loop chatter. Repeat, scans and chatter are black. Potential, unknown presence nearby, so I’m going to move myself despite injury. Over.”

  Crave turned his head right, then left, again, jerked his head back and forth, swung his neck hard to the right. It was slow going, but he was able to tip from his left shoulder backward onto his back. The sky flooded his view, its steel blue waves moving slow and silent above. He was lowered a few meters, smoothly and controlled—

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  It was as though something suddenly yanked whatever he lay on out from under him. He dropped the last six meters fast, landing flat on his back with a bang—

  Beeeeep.

  Barren land edged Crave’s peripheral in grey dust and stone. Now I’ve hit the deck. He coughed, gasped for the air forced from his lungs when his body dropped to the ground. His head ached, it hurt to think, and he couldn’t scan himself to understand why. As if in harmony with his disjointed thoughts, the single visual scan still functioning on his hardhood went black. He couldn’t pulse his mask transparent. He was blind.

  “Crave to unit, request signal feedback, any channel.”

  With a bright flash his innerface burst back into action, relit in more detail, registering topsoil elements, including multiple FE symbols. The sight of them made his throat burn with stress, even though it meant more of his hardhood functions were available. Iron. As I entered the rise balcony, I must have pulsed to scan the in-range landscape. Iron might just be what’s present in the soil. It doesn’t have to mean my blood.

  Elements, pictos, and percentages spun across his IF, most too fast to read, and he couldn’t slow them down or bring them back. He re-executed the command to shift to aural control, since he could speak but he couldn’t move his fingers to pulse his gloves. The hood ignored his verbal commands and instead replayed audio from his SOC logs, then froze, and then changed only the left half of his mask to transparent.

  This SI suit is bullshit, but it’s my hood, too. Trepid hoods aren’t supposed to go unresponsive as long as the body’s alive. I only have what’s in my head—can’t access any intel on my IF. That thick, ashy mist is loose soil, floats in patches. Well-known peculiarity of the planet… the cause… don’t remember… unknown… should have skimmed my culture cards. The floating soil looks like—it looks like—no—hanging moss—water over smothered stone—a creek, cool, dripping, scanning—large amounts of sillic acid—sulfur and soft moss in patterns on the sides of the ravine—nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, copper, boron, zinc, hanging from trees—friendly elements in an alien place—pulse, target hairs upstream—signal transfer from Charis—target thrown forward, swift shot—fabric swirling, what was it wearing—what leaks out of human when it bleeds—that’s what the first morthean asked—scan kill, dead in the water—retrieve—retrace steps, extraction plan—footfalls muffled by carbon and oxygen, xylem and phloem—No, you aren’t on Transmorthea! Hanging moss—cellulose-knit vines of forest moss—BOOM! Red frame—proximity mines! IRON! IRON! IRON! Right rear, scan—Yviss gone—bloodied air—screaming—Charis is screaming—gastrocnemius damage, severe—fractured hardhood lodged in her trepid suit—serpent head biting its tail half through her calf—blinking body map—plasma and oxygen—scanning myoglobin in the air—scanning collagen and enzymes on the vines—scanning shreds of Yviss, screams of Charis—You aren’t on Transmorthea!

  His worst experiences surged over him, dragged him into the past, reforged his reality. I lost Yviss—No, you aren’t on Transmorthea! Crave pressed his eyes shut, struggling to surface in the present. His jaw clenched.

  “RIDRAIN ONE, OVER!”

  Silence. Even the beep
s were gone.

  The Red Theater is laced with mines. Exterior beeping could be mines, heavy craft, anything. Soil—hanging moss—IRON! Red Theater—Not supposed to be here. Something is wrong. I always control my flashbacks. I’m not on Transmorthea. I’m in the Red Theater. Hellstory. Kill zone. Gear nonresponsive, mind disoriented. Fight!

  Loose soil drifted over him, concealing him in a patch of darkness.

  Two-kilometer drop from the base to the deck, the bloodiest no-man’s-land in the known universe laced with proximity mines and fuck knows what else! Chatter’s black. Extreme damage likely. How much time do I have before the wounds that paralyzed me…

  Crave unclenched his jaw, breathed deep. He could hear himself inhale and exhale, but he couldn’t feel his chest move.

  Relax. Focus. Unit won’t stop searching without a visual confirmation of a body. My body. SOP. Think about what you have to work with, not about what you don’t. They are coming for me. They will find me. They will not stop until they have me home. Leo won’t stop. Full crew, full resources at his disposal. Easy goal: stay alive. Let them do the work on this one.

  He lay, his eyes closed, his head spinning, waiting patiently for his unit to extract him. The corner of his lower left eyelid twitched.

  Wheck, at his hold-stop—Skregs at rear—let’s go, let’s go!—Charis losing consciousness—Char, stay awake!—moss clinging—scanning ankle tangled—scanning extraction point—1.2 km, 4.9 minutes, get there—get to Zii, get home—

  The images wouldn’t stop coming.

  Charis! Open your eyes!—neutralize pursuit—hold position until extraction—THAT IS A COMMAND!—OPEN YOUR EYES AND PERFORM!—Charis obeyed. Charis snipered through the fear and pain. But Charis wasn’t paralyzed. No, I’m not on Transmorthea. I’m in the Red Theater.

  “I am a Nova. I will rise. And when I get back to duty, my enemies will be neutralized and my objectives will be fulfilled.”

  Crave opened his eyes, it was confusion, then a wonder—Endless grey swells—the sky—it was close. Crave cringed—“Shit!” I’m falling! No—I hit the deck. I was falling. There was talon fire. I’m on the ground. Can’t feel it, but it’s there.

  His head hurt, a level-eight pain with steady pressure from within. He could hear his blood rushing in his head in faint, accelerating thumps, as if his heart was in his ears. The sky is right in front of me. If I could move, I could reach out and touch it. Shit, potential brain injury.

  Angles and reflections—the sky morphed, changed to… a black hardhood, wings streaming up the side.

  My hood. Mine. I’m looking in a mirror. A mirror hanging in front of me in the air.

  Crave relaxed and the illusion was broken. Someone’s here, leaning over me… wearing a refractive Crystal mask. Serious gear. Nativity gear. Possible hostile.

  The exquisite angles of the mask held the sky; now they held him.

  Evaluate: The C-mask’s too large, body’s too small—A kid. A kid in an adult’s hardhood techmask. A grand techmask. Higher grade than everything but trepid. A kid couldn’t survive in the Red Theater. Hallucination?

  The kid in the C-mask moved back to the edge of Crave’s peripheral vision.

  It’s going to attract attention. We’re going to be shot. He looked up the mountain face… Ridrain’s rise balcony jutted out somewhere far above, but he couldn’t see or scan it. There was no air traffic. Focus. They’re coming. Make it easy for them to help you.

  “Do you feel pain?”

  Crave’s vision blurred. He blinked.

  “Do you feel pain?” the kid repeated. Its voice had a defined, musical quality.

  Might not be its true voice. Could be a vocal effect of the C-mask. Top-grade chatter system.

  “No,” Crave rasped, his throat dry and voice flat-sounding in contrast.

  The kid nodded, crouched on its heels, and wrapped its hands around its knees.

  It heard me. External chatter must be active. Or it’s somehow intercepting chatter. Did it hear me attempt to hail the base? It’s positioned far enough away to exceed my reach. It doesn’t yet know that I can’t move. Strategize.

  In addition to the C-mask, the kid had a scythe suit, brand bands, and tools. Most of its gear was high-grade, and none of it matched. Scavenger. Possibilities: Native Lucian human, morthean Lucian ally. Either way, ENEMY.

  “The first soldier threatened me, then attempted to grab me.”

  If I ask the kid for an assist or tell it that I can’t move, it won’t wait. It will act on my vulnerability, scavenge me, maybe kill me to expedite. Make it your ally. Maintain control of the situation.

  “The first?”

  The kid nodded.

  Nodding. Human gestures. Mortheans don’t nod. They don’t talk, either. Or live on Lucyview. It’s human. Socialized. Nativity socialized. Which planet? General accent. Like me. That could be the C-mask. Or perhaps learned from deployed personnel. Or media. It must be Lucian, if it’s here.

  “So although you’re paralyzed”—the kid spread its hands—“safe distance.”

  It knows! Assessment: Defensive. Gain its trust, gain control of the situation.

  “Are we below the redline?” Crave asked.

  It pointed to the horizon. “You can always confirm that by looking at the—”

  “I don’t trust my faculties.”

  “Because your hardhood isn’t full-function?”

  How does it know?

  “We are below the redline. Since this planet does not require one.”

  Crave cringed inwardly. In his haze, he’d trapped himself into forfeiting an intel point. Make an obvious or neutral statement. Then surprise it.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Of course not. But that does not matter.”

  “It does, since I want to remove my hood.”

  The scavenger paused.

  No one removes their gear by choice in the field. Come on, kid, now you remove your hood first to prove you’re not lying about the redline. Then remove mine so that I can humanize myself to you.

  His IF intermittently spun unrequested data across his view. He concentrated on looking beyond it with his left eye where the mask was transparent to see the scavenger and scene on the deck, but it made him dizzy. If the breathing mechs on the SI fail like its other systems, I could suffocate in here. But if it lied about the redline, I might not have long before I can’t breathe without my hood. No, there is no redline on Lucyview. I knew that. Mind—unclear.

  A palm-size rock traversed the horizon line up and then down as the kid caught it with its right hand, tossing and catching it over and over as though weighing it. In a quick, smooth motion it wound its arm back and threw the rock at his face. Crave felt the impulse to move, but couldn’t, and the rock splintered against his hardhood.

  Testing me to see if I could catch it. If I were faking my condition, would have been smarter than that.

  The kid rose, came close, and pulsed the three exterior safety latches on Crave’s hood in combination without instruction.

  Fucking scavenger.

  Little fingers in gloves that were too large for them pried under his hood, tickling his jawline. It removed his hood with both hands and checked its movement, pausing with the hood held in midair as though Crave’s face wasn’t what it expected.

  “Thanks, kid,” he said. Build rapport. Crave thought of Thwip’s easy grin and duplicated the effect on his own face. “How did you know I’ve lost some feeling?”

  It set his hood aside and perched on his chest, making it harder for him to breathe. The stiffness of the suit’s endoframe made the weight bearable. He could feel the texture of its gloves against his neck and hear it rooting for his auttie yank. A quick pull released his suit sculpt, rendering the SI’s external layer slack and yielding.

  Shit. How much time do I have before it kills me?

  He chuckled. “Haven’t had a frisk like that in a while, kid.”

  The sleeve of his suit flew upward into vie
w, followed by its connected gloved hands as the kid unceremoniously peeled off his exogear, stripping him. His other sleeve flew upward, tossed aside, and he glimpsed a streak of color.

  Red. Fe. Blood on the inside of my SI. I’ve had treatments. I have time.

  Crave lay with his suit split open around him, helpless as it rummaged through his interior kit. He clenched his jaw and focused on the rhythm of his breathing, steadied his thoughts, let go of his anger, and fixed his face to look unconcerned and amused.

  “Can’t imagine I’ve anything better than what you’ve got.”

  It shrugged.

  Shrugging. Confirmed human. Right-handed. What the hell is a human kid doing in the hottest war theater in the KU? This thing is either deadly or… I’m injured. Might be… dying.

  His body shuddered, swayed the scavenger slightly on its perch. Crave blinked, his vision fuzzy. What if the kid isn’t real. I’m dying. Flashbacks. Hallucinating. Something is wrong. Need more data.

  “I know you’re paralyzed because I saw you do an astral fall.”

  Answering my questions. Good.

  “I’m not familiar.”

  The kid pulled an unopened case marked CULTURE CARDS from Crave’s interior gear and, holding it with its left hand, patted it twice as someone might do while affectionately acknowledging a personal, trusty object. There was a small click of release as it pulsed the sealed case, opening it for the first time. The front of the first card reflected in the C-mask, a printing of a blue-green planet as seen at a distance from space. It turned the card and held it in front of Crave so that he could read the headline caption: LUCYVIEW IS ONE OF FEW NON-NATIVITY PLANETS THAT DOES NOT REQUIRE A REDLINE.

  So it didn’t lie about the redline. I knew that. Lucyview never needed one. Why does it want me to trust it? I fell. I’m in an SI.

  Crave still felt nervous and dim, but his head hurt less.

  There should be more pain. Suit has some basic chems—maybe it’s managing the pain. Maybe the kid’s not here. I’m dying. Hallucinating. I’m in an SI. It probably thinks I’m a deckee. Create personal value. Negotiate.

  “When a soldier falls—”