For old times. Times he would never have back again. No woman in her right mind would give her heart to a tin man. Danica had proved that, hitting the starway not long after he’d left Med Lake. Maybe he would always have to remind himself whom he’d loved, and who had loved him once, by voting for their likenesses in these virtual elections. To help promote the traits that had excited him once, and excited him still, if only through the blink of an eye.
He leaped to his feet and flung the headset onto the console. Any distraction would do right now, even Lineker’s alarmist briefings. A griping sensation, without the pain, spliced his hip and stomach when he twisted to leave the booth. Li and Van Hummel shook their heads at him from the consoles opposite, both gesturing to the amber-red light pulsing around the walls of the propaganda office.
“Don’t you take anything seriously, Trillion?” Li asked.
“Yes. Lunchtime.”
“Good God, man—what if we’re at war? This is an amber-red alert.”
He yawned, flipped Li the bird, then did the same for Van Hummel, whose fuming red face seemed to steam as he pointed a long finger at Gus.
“Your turn’s coming, Trillion.” The lanky graphic designer, another suck-bait career goon who loved this propaganda shit with a passion, and who hated with a vengeance Gus’s liberal leanings, flapped a laminated sheet of paper at him. “It’s another emergency recruitment push, and given how you nearly blew it for us last time around, I wouldn’t give a comet piss for your chances of keeping that desk.”
“Yeah? Let ’em try.” On his way out, Gus hooked his good arm over the last booth partition, stood on his tiptoes and peered over at his two flustered colleagues. All the other booths were empty. “You guys want anything from the vending machine—coffee, chips, Lineker-flavored candy assholes?”
They both spouted variations on “Eat shit, Trillion” as he fed the tattoo on the top of his hand into the scanner for the Sigma wing door. A pleasant waft of warm air greeted him as the door whooshed open. Down the plushly decorated hallway, the fifth office on the left was Lineker’s. Gus knocked and limped in, omitting his salute, instead flicking his eyebrows up in flippant recognition of the shaven-headed captain.
Lineker’s guest, a middle-aged woman with the sly, slippery air of a naughty Snow White, smirked at him as he approached. Familiar somehow. Again not in looks but in her demeanor, the way she wore her light blue uniform—stripes and decorations up the wazoo—with a certain discomfort, as though she’d be happier playing cards at the mess table in her slacks and bare feet, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. It was his father’s uniform—Outer Colonies Space Corps. She gazed at him with a piercing recognition.
“Corporal Trillion, you astonish me.” She studied him inch by inch, at which he rolled his eyes. No need to guess what was coming next. “Doppelganger doesn’t do it credit. You are him, except for the darker hair, down to the last arrogant, supercilious inch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were projecting his likeness holographically, like those bloody omnipods.”
“Nothing that fancy, ma’am. A simple case of Humpty Dumpty, only they figured out a way to put me back together again…as my old man.”
“I don’t quite follow.” She glanced at Lineker.
“Oh, Trillion’s a special case. He’s—”
“Always glad to meet a friend of my father’s.” Gus saluted her. “Tell me, Commander…”
“Hawkes. But back then I was Herapeth, call sign Hera.”
“Tell me, Hera—” Gus glimpsed Lineker’s wince of disgust at the informality, “—what was it like to fly in Condor Fifth Wing Squadron?” He vaguely recognized her name from the list of pilots whose various incapacities had grounded them during the famous Battle of Perihelion—a battle only two lone pilots had survived. His father, Flight Lieutenant Max Trillion, had not been one of them.
“The single greatest honor of my career.” Though she gave away no hint of emotion—a conditioned command trait—his mind filled in the blanks, reaching back to the days before Perihelion, when as a boy he’d heard pilots from other squadrons speak the name Condor Fifth Wing with a combination of jealousy and reverence. They still did, but now it was tinged with nostalgia; the squadron no longer existed. Back then the pride had been real. The awe personal. His family name. His father. Defender of the colonies, first into the fray, last into the bay. The squadron had been so heavily outnumbered at Perihelion, one deep-space radar operator described it as “a handful of sparks in a plague of flies.”
He shuddered through a sharp memory that seemed to slice through flesh and titanium with equal bittersweetness. Regret. A familiar spy that never appeared in the same guise twice. Mum? She’d worn a short denim skirt, black tights and the top third of a ripped-on-purpose floral summer dress that always reminded him of the smell of fresh pulp.
Mum. It had been early autumn on planet Rurapenti, their temporary home, when she’d held him close to her in the swirl of leaves caused by airborne migrating trees, those sheath-clothed roots upturned and spread to catch the prevailing wind. On their way to warmer climes. Unlike Dad, whose squadron had just left space dock on its latest mission—its last mission—from Rurapenti orbit. The ringlets of yellow flame from the engines dwindled to the size of distant leaves floating in the lull between breezes. Then they were no bigger than stars.
Now gone forever.
Perihelion.
“Trillion was cleared for a pioneering facial reconstruction surgery,” Lineker cut in, grinding his stress ball in his fist, visibly annoyed by the fraternization Gus was enjoying with their superior. “His father’s digital profile, taken years before for a scrapped cybernetic program, was luckily on hand. Impressive, isn’t it. Amazing what our boys can do. And our girls, of course.”
Gus minutely shook his head. The bald bastard would never have dreamed of complimenting him like that if it didn’t in some way feather the bird on his sparsely decorated uniform. Asshole had only ever flown one recon mission past 100z and into Sheiker space, but it had earned him a promotion to Sigma and several citations. Plus a cushy desk job, many light-years from harm’s way. Hearing him try to impress Hera was like listening to a penguin regale an eagle with tales of flying.
“Indeed. Now, the reason we’ve called you in, Trillion, is your specific propaganda expertise, namely—” she fingered her flat-desk digi-screen, scrolling through his file, “—your rather, um, shall we say, unique networking solutions to a given problem. I’m looking in particular at the Edelstein case. The spin you put on that—sweet Jesus, I doubt anyone else in the entire colonies would’ve thought of Vodka and tampons.”
Lineker’s grim frown sharpened to a full-on scowl. He’d torn strips off Gus for that little stunt last year, in spite of the fact it had saved a prominent Rear Admiral from taking a public inquest royally up the rear. A stitch in time, Gus had said in his defense. About time they stitched up your impertinent mouth, Lineker had screamed, coffee all over the wall, desk upturned and spitting out digital gobbledygook to the floor. Just another Monday morning in the IPR 65z Office.
Shaping a better tomorrow.
Yeah, as long as you don’t get shaped first.
“A capital piece of work, Trillion.” Hera roved her forefinger down his digital employment record. “You obviously have the mind and the talent for PR, yet you’ve insisted on playing the stubborn hemorrhoid in this department for a while now. Flagged for gross insubordination five times but never charged, countless missed deadlines, incited fisticuffs in the office on two separate occasions, once with a visiting VIP, the other with a squadron leader’s wife.” She pulled her face. “You had a punch-up with someone’s wife?”
“Try mistress. And she’d already gotten a friend of mine canned for sexual harassment. Woman was dangerous—a pathological liar, and she used her liaison with that squadron leader to for
ce junior officers into her bed. If they didn’t obey, she had them up on misconduct charges. Tell me, wouldn’t you want to slap the bitch?”
After clearing her throat, Hera appeared to wrestle a smile into neutrality, as though she knew the woman in question but didn’t want to let on. “Then we have your shockingly unpredictable yield ratings—some of your projects actually have a negative propaganda score, which means they had an adverse effect on their intended target. You’re certain which side you’re on?”
Lineker stopped rubbing his chin long enough to beam across at her. “I’ve been asking him that same thing ever since I started here.”
“Speaking of choosing sides, have you decided if you’ve got a dick yet, Lineker?” Screw it. I’m sick of this shit job anyway. Let ’em squeeze me out—they’d best be ready for the stink. “Ma’am, a negative score around here is something to be proud of—it means I’m not shoveling shit onto the public. You get so used to spinning lies, the truth starts to feel icky. So thank you, here’s looking at you, and fuck you.” He flipped Lineker the bird and almost burst out laughing at the thought of being free from the uptight prick’s authority. “Go on, throw the book at me, suck-baits, I dare you. I’m begging you.”
Hera immediately stayed Lineker’s volcanic leap to his feet. “I see.” Oddly amused and unoffended, the commander slung her arms behind her head and pouted wistfully. “Before you go, Trillion, you might be interested to learn why your office is empty today. Tell me, has that ever happened before?”
He had to admit it hadn’t. “So what?”
“So you’re not curious to know why ISPA would send their entire IPR department out on field assignments?” Hera’s brilliant, striking hazel gaze bored through his resolve with a single somber moment of focus.
Yes, he did want to know that, and why she wasn’t taking his implied threat of legal retaliation seriously. Hell, it had been his trump card all along, ever since his Kappa rating had guaranteed him a desk job after leaving Med Lake. He’d decided during those endless, aimless months of recuperation that he’d be untouchable from then on—if not physically, then professionally. He’d live out the rest of his life on his own terms, woe betide anyone who tried to stop him. But this…her high rank…unrankled by his gross insubordination like this… “Go on.”
“Even you must be aware we’re at amber-red alert.”
Patronizing, infuriating woman.
“Ma’am, we’re at amber-red alert every time the Fleet Admiral doesn’t quite reach his commode in time. You want to impress me? Go ahead.”
“Well, there’s been a devastating series of Sheiker raids along the 100z border. Eight colonies. Initial estimates have three hundred and seventy thousand dead. Over four billion credits stolen. Eight major industrial facilities now in the hands of the Sheikers. You know what that means?”
A pinprick to the crusted shell of his apathy. Somewhere out there, too far for even the highest-powered ocular device to see without a score of warp-relay telescopes, stubborn colonists he couldn’t care less about had died for a cause he didn’t believe in on a day he couldn’t wait to be over. So what if the Sheikers—enemies of his blood—were responsible. He’d done his bit. Given more than the whole IPR and certainly fucking Lineker ever had. It wasn’t as if he could just suit up and fly a Stymphalian bird into a full-on dogfight with those lawless bastards. No, all he could do now was spread lies and spin and disinformation for the cause. He coaxed, coerced, manipulated his own side into fighting his fight for him. What honor was there in that?
The amber-red kind. Amber, a girl’s name. Red for goddamn cybarrassment.
He stood up straight, winced when his artificial hipbone locked into place. “It means you’re getting desperate for fresh meat. The regular recruitment pushes aren’t working. No one wants to give up their right to make unlimited wealth in order to join a stodgy old military hierarchy with a clip ceiling equal to that of a tool-pusher’s wages in civvy land. It means you need IPR to get creative in a hurry before recruitment numbers stoop so low you’ll be swearing people in using a goddamn abacus. It means the upcoming congressional vote on military conscription is DOA. And it means you guys have proved yourselves incapable of dealing with the Sheiker threat.” He flicked a speck of fluff off his shirtsleeve near the shoulder. There was a barely audible ping as his fingernail tapped the metal seam beneath. “Anything else I can do to answer your condescending question?”
“Yes, do good work this week, Trillion. Inspire us all. Keep your job.” Hera removed her thumb drive from the flat-desk, blanking the screen, then tapped the thimble-like gizmo onto her wristwatch. “Anything less and, reconstructed or not, consider yourself washed out of ISPA. We’ve had enough of your shit. It’s only out of respect for what you and your father sacrificed that we’re giving you this last chance, and because we know what you can do when you apply yourself. This is your probation. Yield us worlds or you’re on your own from now on. No benefits, no medical. Dishonorably discharged. You might think lawyers are your ticket to a golden nest egg, but think again. You forget this is IPR. We can spin you any way, where and how we please, and back it up with evidence.
“So again, do good work this week. Inspire us all. Keep your job. You’ve been assigned to the Galtera system—the bridge builders there have almost completed work on their latest moon-joining enterprise. Millions of workers will soon be temporarily unemployed. See what you can do to organize a recruitment push with their regional ISPA stations.”
She appeared to be rising to her feet when instead she pushed herself back from the desk to reveal her chair was in fact a wheelchair—black, state-of-the-art, neural guided. Hera had no legs, not even the stumps of her thighs. Her torso rested on a kind of cushioned gimbal, and was supported by a black Kevlar spiral pyramid, the segments of which creaked like leather when she tilted in any direction. She switched the wheelchair on from its armrest and neuraled it around the desk toward him.
Gus swallowed as she saluted him, her striking hazel gaze deep inside him again, then he quickly saluted back. “Just so you know, ma’am, my omnipod remote was switched on this whole time. I recorded this entire conversation,” he lied, to see what she’d say—how grave the situation in ISPA really was.
“Oh, us too, Trillion. Us too, I’m sure.” To his astonishment, she reached up and caressed his face as she rolled past. “Amazing what they can do these days. Truly amazing.”
* * *
Backstabbing sons of bitches. So they think they can twist me back into line, do they?
Gus fed a soft wedge of syntho-veg to the baby roly-poly in its incubator tank. The office’s alien mascot, an orphan from the mining collapse on Ferrer Four, resembled a squashed snake that could roll like a wheel, and it still had to spend about eighteen months in the low-temp tank before it could begin training as a courier. He then tossed a wedge apiece to Li and Van Hummel. “A going-away present for you sad sacks.”
“Ah, kiss it, Trillion,” replied Li.
Van Hummel stood and threw a small object back at Gus. “And here’s yours, suck-bait.” A quad-core flash drive. “Do us a favor—don’t bring us back a souvenir.”
It had to be his assignment itinerary—Galtera or bust. Christ, he’d been so close to throwing his job and his Kappa citizenship back in Lineker’s grim chops, this close to having to lawyer up and take on the entire military establishment, admittedly with a little help from the union hotshots. Hundreds of personnel had tried and fried ISPA for unlawful courts-martial these past few years, so now would be his optimal chance to bleed the bastards dry. Yet Hera’s threat—not even the threat itself but the almost flippant matter-of-factness with which she’d delivered it—had stopped him in his tracks.
For now.
She’d offered him this last shot to prove his worth to the cause, a cause he cared nothing for. But she’d known Dad, flown alongside him, and
her affection for the old man’s memory had spread like sparkling tonic water all over the face he wore. The face of two Trillions. In some warped and canny way, she’d tasked him to live up to her high opinion of the old man, to prove that he still had some Trillion in him after all, more than just a skin-deep likeness.
Corny logic, perhaps, but if he’d learned one thing from his time in IPR it was that the most effective propaganda aimed for the heart. Self-esteem, fear, guilt, jingoistic pride, children in peril—hit them where it hurts, only don’t make it seem like you’re hitting them. Let the Barnum effect do the rest.
It felt strange for a professional propagandist to be propagandized by his own side, but it was sure as hell working. By the time he spied his omnipod thrumming and flashing blue on top of his console, Gus had already made up his mind. He was going to do something on Galtera they wouldn’t forget in a hurry, something IPR would write books about when he was done, something with a goddamn nuclear yield rating.
Hell yes. If I’m going out, I’m going out with a bang.
He packed his omnipod into his rucksack, fed the little roly-poly once more and limped out of the office for the last time, as whether by promotion or court-martial, he’d never have to sit at a Kappa-case desk again. He made straight for the Starwarp john. Maybe he’d find the inspiration he was looking for in there.
Shit, it was as good a place as any.
The line to the stones snaked round the entire restroom, blocking the zap stations, where those who’d finished taking a leak placed their hands for an instant cleanse and blood health check. Shoving matches erupted here and there, but they were quick, and any insults traded were not voiced above a whisper, yet Gus could almost chew the tension. Only himself and one other man wore their green-and-gold IPR uniforms—the rest had changed into their undercover civilian clothes and were taking this last chance to relieve themselves before they began their long, lonely, perhaps dangerous journeys into far-flung field propaganda. Maybe they’d received similar threats from Hera and her colleagues. Careers on the line. Yield X number of new recruits or else. Several men he’d personally worked alongside over the past few years barely acknowledged him on their way out, their expressions bleak and withdrawn.
Pyro Canyon Page 2
