Pyro Canyon

by Robert Appleton

  Wow, Dad beat up Cardie and Brink?

  Brink pressed his thumb to the digital image conveyer bisecting his trophy cabinet. A group photo, taken on Altimere—they were posing on one of the famous lighthouse rings in the giant alien dish—projected out into the room a few feet, holographically, enlarging as it did. Brink pointed out Gus’s father on the back row, arm in arm with two Condor comrades. The old man was grinning like he used to whenever he stepped through the door after arriving home on leave.

  You are your father’s son.

  Cardie and Brink were both crouched in the front row, center, thrusting their helmets in the air. Strange, Gus had never seen this image, or any featuring Dad with his entire squadron before. Had Mum destroyed them after Perihelion? Probably. But the surge of pride he felt now might have done him good back then, when he’d had nothing but subjective memories to struggle with. Seeing the old man in his elite military element was a beautiful thing—even if it took Gus a few tries to separate himself from the face in the photo.

  A surreal separation, but one that gladdened him.

  You have adapted.

  “Would you mind if I made a copy of this, sir? It’s new to me.”

  “Sure, why not. Remind me before you leave, and I’ll hook you up.”

  “Much obliged. It means a lot.”

  Brink tromped past them to where the alcoholic drinks revolver, piped up to several large, flaky metal bottles in the corner—he clearly had an impressive supply—lay on the arm of a tatty sofa. “Get you anything?” A few unwashed cups stood on the sink.

  “No, thank you. I’d as soon lick it up off the floor.” L.B. sheepishly glanced around the cabin and put a hand to her mouth, knowing she’d gone too far.

  Gus cringed.

  “I know I said speak your mind, but Jesus, lady.” Brink poured himself a glass of something copper-colored, then supped it in front of her. He looked at Gus. “I like her, Trillion. You were right to bring her along. Or was it her that brought you?” He drank the glass empty, then gave an ahh of satisfaction.

  “Actually, we’re in this together,” Gus replied.

  “Oh? Sixty-five zees of together is quite a commitment. So what brings you all the way to Mars, against orders?” He might look and smell like a janitor, but Brink had lost none of his sharpness. “Please, sit down.”

  They did. But how to walk a line between the frankness he insisted on and the subtlety required to broach the subject of his necessary reenlistment. Barani’s report sent hours before Gus’s landing had given a conflicting impression. Brink liked to reminisce about his Condor days and his flights with Cardie, didn’t mind signing autographs for the children who visited his ride, even played flight simulator games with the park’s resident kids, but he never talked about Perihelion, nor about Cardie during or after that time, not even when asked directly. Very odd, seeing as it was the most triumphant moment of their careers. He ought to be bursting with pride, like he was for his earlier Condor days, but something, something classified and unimaginable had happened during the engagement. It had not only muted the two greatest fliers in the galaxy, it had made them turn their backs on each other and their whole way of life.

  What the hell really happened at Perihelion?

  * * *

  “So let me get this straight. ISPA’s circling the wagons ready for a full-on invasion, completely out of ideas, and the best you can come up with is to drag me and you-know-who back into the suck? Tell me, exactly how many IQ points in the red are you two bozos?”

  So much for the direct approach.

  Brink kept his unrelenting gaze on Gus while supping from his unwashed glass. He’d listened attentively enough, even egged them on with eager hmms and nods as they’d spitballed the ways in which their plan could feasibly galvanize the colonies. Appeal to the older generations first. Hire L.B.’s best filmmaker colleague to shoot a rousing quasi-documentary reel, showing Cardie and Brink reuniting on Altimere, in the very hangar they returned to after Perihelion. Make it natural. Show the fear. The anxiety. The moxie it takes to face an enemy force no one knows anything about. Show the effect the legendary fliers’ presence has on the younger pilots, the old-guard commanders, the mechanics, the chefs, the wives and husbands of those putting their lives on the line to protect all the colonies.

  Most of all, make it iconic. Noble. Desperate. A pure call to arms even those parents and grandparents who’d seen action would not attempt to dissuade their offspring from answering. Once it was transmitted across the galaxy, the ships and training simulators and bunks and base supplies would have to all be in place ready to support a vast new force of men and women of all ages. With each fresh influx of recruits, a thousand holo-messages and spacegrams would be sent home, seen in turn by peers and colleagues, forwarded to their peers and colleagues, broadcast on local, system-wide, then sector-wide news channels, and of course over the podnet itself, the galaxy’s foremost communications network, on which the IPR propaganda machine would go to work like never before, whipping up a supernova of public support.

  Yes, a supernova—brief, brilliant, massive. Necessarily so, for the moment the film went out, the Sheikers and Finaglers would have to mobilize quickly if they wanted to deliver a crippling blow. A short window in which to act, for both sides.

  “Put yourself in our position, Mr. Brinkman.” The V in L.B.’s brow signaled prickly words ahead. Words that absolutely had to hit their targets…or else.

  Gus sucked in a breath, remembered not to bite his lip. The two of them had to be resolute.

  “Conscription has been outlawed,” she went on, crossing her legs. “ISPA’s moves are severely limited in terms of recruitment. That’s why IPR is the busiest department in the whole organization right now. And you know they can’t push the panic button unless they have a reasonably safe bet in terms of the number of people signing up for service. You, sir, are our safest bet. You and Congresswoman Acton. Without you, we’re all—”

  “Wow, wow, wow.” Brink halted her with his palm. “Hold it right there, sweetheart. That’s how many gambits fresh from the manual you’ve tried? I can see you’re going through every trick in the book, Lyssa, Gus, but you’re just too late, I’m afraid. We’re ghosts, you-know-who and me, just ghosts who’ve stuck around too long. You’ve got some funny ideas about who we are and what we are, and it seems to me everyone would rather forget Perihelion, not jump into the fray because of it.”

  “You’re wrong, sir. Dead wrong. And you’re holding something back.”

  The former ace tossed his empty cup at the sink, missed. It clattered around on the drainage board. “Either way, I folded my wings eons ago. I’m no more a flier now than I am a classy host. Perihelion’s buried. Leave it there and forget it.”

  L.B. leaned toward him, squinting. “That’s the third time you’ve said that. I think the question is, why are you so desperate to forget Perihelion?”

  “Hmm. Time’s up, Little Miss Headshrinker.” He answered an alert on his wrist e-band, then sprang up with surprising agility.

  “Not until you tell us the real reason you’re sitting by to watch the galaxy burn.”

  Christ almighty, L.B. She had the bit between her raker teeth tonight, and Gus had seen her hound leads and potential sources like this until she’d had to fend off physical attacks from them. Good thing she knew how to take care of herself.

  Brink glared at her, then snickered. He looked at Gus. “I knew I liked her. Tell you what—if you can sit quiet and pretend like you’re here for an investment opportunity, you know, a piece of my ride, then we can talk some more later. Can’t promise I’ll pour my heart out or anything, but you’ve come a long way, and it’s a helluva thing you’ve stumbled across there, guys. I never said I won’t help. Just that I’ll never get behind the stick or put on a fucking uniform again.” The heavy aluminum shutters squeake
d as he pried them open a fraction to peer through. “Son of a bitch. He’s brought backup.”

  “Who has?”

  “Rinkebourg.”

  “The Park Manager?”

  “Uh-huh. Looks like he’s brought someone from Health and Safety. Asshole.”

  Gus quickly silenced his ringing omnipod—Lineker would be tearing his hair out by now—and decided to block all incoming communications from IPR for the time being. He’d already switched off his personnel tracker, so they couldn’t pinpoint his position. They can’t help me anyway. Not yet.

  Rinkebourg was a squat fellow with long, curly silver hair and chubby red cheeks. His multicolored suit almost guaranteed he’d have a loud personality to go with it, and sure enough, he didn’t stop talking, or rather blustering irritatingly, for minutes on end. Park business mostly, updating Brink on the latest administrative and personnel happenings. Then he turned to his colleague, an oily-looking young representative from the Inner Colonies Dome Entertainment and Parks Service, specialists in the safety of low-g or artificial-g attractions. “May I introduce Dr. Rosenman from IDEPS. He has a concern about Gemini Sparks he wants to share with you, and I think you should listen carefully, Brinkman.”

  Brink clasped his hands behind his head and sank into his armchair. “What’s on your mind, fella?”

  “Very well. I’ll get right to it, then.” The slick young dandy slid his hand into a pocket pouch attached to his belt, and retrieved an i-marble. After closing his fist around the device for a few seconds, he let it breathe on his flat open palm. Fluorescent digital text fanned out in midair above it, arcing right to left in a pinkish-red beam. “It’s come to our attention that you allow children to enter here after-hours, Mr. Brinkman. The Gemini Sparks is a Grade-4 safety hazard for anyone unlicensed, and yet you have repeatedly given minors free access to it, to wander about unaccompanied and even to climb on its scaffolding.”

  Brink yawned. “That’s right. Thursday is hot-dog night. We kick back up top and let our feet dangle.”

  “Against every safety regulation we have.”

  “Hot dogs are lethal, yeah. That chili sauce—wowee.”

  Gus might have found the whole thing amusing had he not been distracted by Rosenman. Nothing conclusive, just…odd little gestures like fingering his unopened pocket pouch and leaving misted prints on the metal, unfaltering blinks and breaths, almost robotic in their rhythm, a laser-focused gaze, aimed exclusively at Brink. Add those to his immaculate appearance and the timing of this visit—each on its own wouldn’t make Gus think twice, but his experience with Sigma Level protection duty had taught him what to watch out for, who to watch out for in a room full of people. Intuition, perhaps the one thing his resurrection had not diminished.

  Rosenman just wasn’t right, here, now, as an IDEPS rep. Something else had brought him.

  But what can I do? He’s obviously got the proper credentials, and his information isn’t wrong. Maybe it’s just the ritolin talking.

  “Not good enough, Mr. Brinkman. Not nearly good enough. I’m afraid we’re going to have to give you an official reprimand. Any further infraction and we will not hesitate in revoking your license. Is that understood?”

  Brink chewed on a wedge of old gum he plucked from the sideboard.

  “Brinkman?” Rinkebourg’s fat red cheeks looked ready to explode. “You’ll either comply right now or you’re finished here. Get me? Guests or no guests—” he turned to Gus and L.B., “—I can’t have the IDEPS threatening us with sanctions. Not for some burn-out playing uncle to a bunch of urchins. This is my park, not yours. I don’t give a goddamn who you used to be. In here you either toe the line or you’re gone. Now what’s it to be?”

  “Burger and fries, ketchup dip, and a side order of fuck you,” Gus imagined Brink might have said in his heyday as Fifth Condor Squadron Leader. Instead, Brink merely grunted, then muttered, “Awright, I’ll keep the young ’uns away.”

  “At all times, except when they’re official paying customers and properly supervised,” Rinkebourg added.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled.” Rosenman held the i-marble text in front of Brink. “Run your splayed fingers slowly and horizontally through the beam, so I can record your print signature, then we’re done. Your warning will be on record. It can’t be expunged until five years have lapsed, after which time you and Mr. Rinkebourg may apply for a clean slate.”

  L.B. lunged forward and caught Brink’s hand inches from the red beam. “Don’t touch it!” Her yell made everyone jump. She pressed her full weight against him, wheeling his armchair back against the sideboard. “No one touch that beam! Something’s wrong here.”

  “She’s right.” Gus backed away from the IDEPS man, whose darting gaze now seemed to have a cutting edge. “Who are you really, Rosenman?”

  “What do you mean, who am I? Who the hell are you?” At his side, twitchy fingers pressed the lip of his pocket pouch.

  “Take your hand away from that, whatever it is,” Gus barked.

  The man obeyed, then cast Rinkebourg a solicitous look, perhaps trying to regain a comrade and even the odds in the room. “This will all go in my report.”

  L.B.’s frightened glare blazed vivid red. “Shut up and don’t move.”

  Brink eased to his feet from under her protective guard. “You mind telling me what the—”

  “Get him to hold that beam up to his own chin. I’m betting he daren’t.” She seemed adamant, but Gus had to trust her on that one—an i-marble was a fairly standard nanotech and holographic device, unless—

  “What’s this all about?” A disgusting amount of sweat began to leak from Rinkebourg’s temples.

  “He’s an imposter. An assassin.” L.B. slowly re-draped her cloak over herself, covering every inch of exposed skin, not leaving eye contact with the accused for a moment.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Three reasons. One, IDEPS officials are taught to be as discreet as possible—they wouldn’t dare share such sensitive information in front of strangers. Two, mandatory warnings are no longer expunged after five years. That was changed this last fall to ten years. I did a story on someone who challenged it and lost. And three, the official warning is always read back in full to the recipient before he’s made to sign. This person is not from IDEPS. But he’s strangely eager for you to put your skin inside his beam, Mr. Brinkman.”

  “Well, what do you have to say about that, Rosenman? This raker clearly knows IDEPS procedure better than you.” Brink stood tall. “We’re waiting.”

  “She’s demented. Why else would I be here?”

  “Prove her wrong, then. Stick your chin into that beam.” Brink dragged a stool in front of the sideboard, then climbed on it to retrieve a dusty collapsible pulse pistol from the top of his cupboard. Old tech, still good for centuries. He clicked it into lethal shape and aimed it squarely at Rosenman’s head. “Do it now or it’s the quickest ride in the park for you, pal. No refunds.”

  The i-marble trembled in the man’s palm, the sides of its arched text slivering in and out of legibility. His smooth, expressionless face appeared alien now, even though it hadn’t altered since he’d entered. He didn’t move the beam toward himself. Instead, in a lightning motion he reached into his other pocket pouch.

  Gus lunged forward to catch the man’s hand but ducked midswipe. A loud thwump filled the shack, followed by a shower of brains and blood and bits of skull.

  Brink’s aim was as deadly as ever. But his pistol smoked as though it had misfired. Strange.

  The only scream came from Rinkebourg, who cowered, with only his big ass protruding, behind the sofa. Brink held his nose as he checked under the dead assassin’s collar for the inevitable identifying mark.

  Yes, there it was. A Sheiker’s insignia tattooed low on
the back of his neck. Simple, cheap. But expensive for the man also known as Rosenman. And perhaps for all Sheikers everywhere, for they’d tried and failed to eliminate the colonies’ greatest living hero.

  They’d brought the war to him.

  “Now do you see what’s in store for us all if we don’t act soon?” L.B. stood, shivering, fists on hips, as rivulets of blood pooled about her dainty white boots. “You have to help us, Brink.”

  “Not now. Not ever.” He helped Rinkebourg up and comforted his sobs. “If war comes here, I’ll be ready. If the rest of you are smart, you won’t go hunting it out. Trust me, you won’t like what you find. And anyway, just so you know, I wasn’t even at Perihelion. Neither was you-know-who. So drop it, okay?”

  As the inconsolable park manager clawed at him, trying desperately to get free, the scrabbling exposed a tattoo high up on Brink’s arm. It was the Condor emblem once again. Below it, the same motto Gus had seen on Cardie’s arm: I Got This Tan From Pyro Canyon.

  Somehow, somewhere in that lay the secret to Cardie and Brink. He was sure of it. But between that and Perihelion, he and L.B. were all at sea again. Flotsam and jetsam…in a sea with no end…