Pyro Canyon

by Robert Appleton

  What he needed was a friendly port.

  After having failed to recruit both aces, only one port could help him now.

  Chapter Seven

  “Don’t get mad at me, either of you, but here it is—I’ve just quit IPR. My transfer to Vike Academy got the green light.” Barani’s skin turned a dusky color as he squared up to Gus. Not aggressively but with gentle poise and confidence. It took Gus’s breath away, how much the lad reminded him of himself before the accident—stout, decisive, unafraid. But why now? Why so suddenly?

  “I should have seen this coming, with you spending time alone with Brink like that.” Even though they were a few feet apart, Barani seemed small across the bedroom, getting smaller, out of reach. But also bigger. Brighter and solitary like the stars through the window.

  Gus looked at L.B. She sighed and nodded solemnly.

  The boy they knew was gone.

  “It wasn’t just that,” Barani said. “Brink only confirmed what I’ve been thinking for a while now—all this sneaking around, manipulating people into joining up is okay if you can’t fight yourself, but for me, right now, it’s not enough. I need to be doing more, like you did when you were my age, like your father did, like Brink did. If we’re as undermanned as you say, Vike Academy is going to need every sharp mind they can get. And I think I’m sharp enough.”

  “You’re the sharpest I’ve ever met.” Gus laid a hand on Barani’s shoulder, and when the lad clung to it, as if he never wanted to let it go, both men’s lips began to quiver. “I’d try to talk you out of it, but I’d be a hypocrite.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said L.B., tears leaking from her big mournful eyes. “Vike Academy is close to ninety zee. That’s too close to the Sheikers for my liking.” She shuddered. “Far too close. Why not try one of the Inner Colony combat schools?”

  “Nah, it needs to be Vike.”

  Regrettably, he’d already made up his mind and that was that. If only he’d given them more notice, more time to prepare for this goodbye. Training for Vicarious Remote Combat required years of full-time commitment. It was a cutting-edge military fighting program for exceptionally agile minds. Similar to remote drone control, the operators sat in virtual reality simulators while the unmanned physical fighter craft obeyed their every command, up to several light-years away depending on the strength of the warp-gate relay signals.

  What distinguished Vike from other remote fighting was the cooperation between operators. If one fighter craft was in trouble during a battle, several operators could leave their own craft for a few moments and virtually jump in to the endangered fighter, controlling one of its extra deflectors or gun turrets, or helping to reroute damaged circuits, bolstering its chances of survival. The speed and versatility with which they vicariously hopped between craft, sometimes operating on several fighters at once in the fiercest engagements, required extraordinary mental discipline far beyond Gus’s capabilities.

  Barani, however, was born for it.

  “How long is the training?” L.B. asked.

  “A two-year cadetship, starts in two days. Then they post you to one of the Vike hubs, could be anywhere.”

  “So this is it, then. My God. Just like that.”

  They stood in silence. Gus came up with a dozen pearls of wisdom to impart, but none of them were bright enough to speak out loud. They were empty, dumb clichés. He hugged Barani instead, then watched the dusky hue in his skin turn a healthy, natural pink. Like a boy’s after a vigorous sports session.

  “I’ll message you when I get there.” Barani held a stoic smile throughout L.B.’s generous squeeze. On his way out, he saluted Gus.

  Then, just like that, he was gone.

  * * *

  Several years had passed since Gus had last visited ISPA’s Outer Colonies Command Hub, one of the most spectacularly situated military bases anywhere in existence, and he cursed the thick cloud cover for ruining the view on his approach. It was L.B.’s first time, and he’d talked up the magnificence of Altimere throughout the journey to 80z. Damn shame—all they could see was the tip of the lighthouse through the white-gray cloud, its diffuse green light revolving like a shoal of luminous emerald fish.

  Thousands of feet below it, alien architecture and nature had conspired to create a miracle of the cosmos—a lake inside a deep-space receptor dish the size of a small country. The alien structure defied human physics in that it had stood for millions of years without the slightest sign of wear or erosion. After abandoning it, the extraterrestrial builders must have plugged the dish’s drainage system, as rainwater had collected in the giant bowl over millennia, forming the Altimere, a lake several miles deep at its center and constantly spilling in waterfalls from the rim. The weight of water contained in the dish would collapse any manmade attempt to hold it a thousand times over, but this alien dish had developed no cracks, seams or even discoloration. Whatever the material was, it didn’t belong on any fossil record known to man.

  But ISPA had built its military hub across several of the massive radial spines just above water level. Good for defense, as they’d also erected a neutrino shield over the lake, which meant they were completely sealed in, in the event of an attack, and good for coordination in that they’d learned how to use the lighthouse as a powerful transmitter and receiver. All in all, a formidable command center.

  “What are the quarters like here?” L.B. started dolling herself up using her pocket mirror and makeup kit.

  “Pretty good, but you remember what I said about arrivals?”

  She grimaced. “The swim, right?”

  Gus felt her groan as she snapped her mirror shut. It had always struck him as a pretty daft rule too. Put simply, any visitor who passed the medical on arrival had two options: stay in the airport complex, using the cozy hotel and tourist amenities there, or swim to the base itself.

  If you didn’t swim, you didn’t get an Altimere pass.

  Granted, it was really for the military personnel returning from leave, to prove they were still in a fit state to recommence their duties—at least it had started that way—but tradition now had it that every medically fit person had to make the half-mile swim. Generals and politicians and cooks and tool-pushers alike, men and women donned swimsuits and swam side by side across the channel. The only other stipulation was that you had to swim in pairs, both for safety and a symbolic gesture for the team ethos promoted on Altimere.

  No one swims alone.

  If he wanted, Gus, as a handicapped vet, could take the cable car across, but he opted instead to swim alongside L.B.

  The elderly doctor scanning his medical declaration shrugged, then coughed up phlegm into a spittoon. A pack of cigarettes peeked from his coat pocket. “Not many take a dip who don’t have to. You got something to prove…Trillion, is it?”

  “You could say that.” But only to myself.

  “Be a good chap now and take the sky lift.” The man’s raspy drawl hit another cough. “We’ll only end up fishing you out if one of your joints seize up. There’s no shame in playing it safe, son.”

  “I can breathe. I can make the stroke. What more is there?”

  “You can also sink.”

  “Care to bet on that?”

  “Nope. I only gamble with my life—” he patted the cigarette packet, “—no one else’s. Take it easy, then, Trillion.”

  “Thanks.” Gus was surprised to be shaking the doctor’s hand, a man he’d only known for a minute or so.

  “They said you were nothing like your old man, except in the face.” The doc looked him over from head to toe. “They were wrong.”

  Gus smiled politely, gave a quick nod, then took a swimsuit from the rack on the way out. His size. Not his color—bright yellow.

  Gentle rainfall peppered the water outside. L.B. was already waiting for him on the rubber strip
at the edge of the wharf, dipping her toes into the cool lake. Clouds hung low over the channel, while lights from the hub base across blazed like schoolrooms during winter outdoor games.

  “Oh, come on. Let’s get this over with.” She wrapped her arms around her stunning petite figure, demonstrating the cold. “And do try to keep up.” She winked.

  A few more pairs of swimmers slid silently into the water from the neighboring wharf. Dozens more dotted across the lake in the distance suddenly reminded Gus of the strict, almost fanatical sense of discipline, the sheer weight of tradition that ruled over Altimere these days. Had it been like this in Dad’s day, before Perihelion? Fifth Condor Squadron, at least by reputation, had always struck him as more of a fast-and-loose group, extremely well trained but given to flying by the seats of their pants. But could such a squadron ever function in a place like this—a regimented meat locker? Would such a squadron ever be allowed to function?

  Maybe he’d misjudged them all along. Dad, Fifth Condor, Cardie and Brink. Maybe he’d bought the hype because a part of him needed to and the rest of the galaxy knew it was all propaganda anyway. They’d no more clamor to sign up to follow Cardie and Brink than they would a bear in a clown suit. He was wasting his time, and L.B., well, she was desperate because her parents lived on Rama Core, in the firing line of a Sheiker invasion.

  “Get your fat gut in here, Trillion.” She was already in the water, splashing at him. He jerked away, remembering the spray of blood and bits of skull from Rosenman’s demise.

  If Brink is important enough to assassinate, he’s got to be our man. And somewhere across the channel, in the maze of hearsay and military records, was the information they needed to solve the riddle of Perihelion. Of Pyro Canyon. Of Cardie and Brink. Of Dad’s sacrifice.

  He limped quickly to the edge and fell in, swallowing too much water up his nose. L.B. laughed as he coughed, his sinuses burning. Then he swung his cybernetic arm over for a powerful first stroke, finding his rhythm in no time. As part of his rehabilitation at Med Lake, he’d swum twice a day for months, covering miles at a time. This was nothing. He caught and passed her before he had to draw his next breath.

  “Hey, no fair,” she yelled. “You didn’t tell me you were part boat.”

  * * *

  The jittery Altimere base personnel paid them little mind on their first day. Apart from one junior press attaché who showed them to their guest quarters—L.B. had no ISPA credentials, so rather than split up, Gus chose to stay in a civilian room next to hers—hardly a soul spoke to them. Anxiety was as thick as vapor in the tall, multi-tiered corridors, with vast quantities of freight and supplies couriered over the higher, secure levels. The civilian sectors were dead during the day, and despite applying on the cyber bulletin board for an interview with one of the pilots based at Altimere—hell, any pilot would do—L.B. received no responses.

  “Okay, if they won’t come to me…” She removed her cloak, rolled it up and carried it under her arm. Her figure-hugging suit, made up of what appeared to be reflective lime-green bandages, would not fail to catch anyone’s eye.

  “I think I know what you have in mind.”

  “You go do your Kappa thing,” she said. “I’ll catch myself an older flier or two, see what I can find out about this Pyro Canyon. If Cardie and Brink both had tattoos, maybe some of these guys do as well.”

  “Worth a try. But don’t tell ’em who you are. They’ll clam up like corks in a shrinker.”

  She crooked an eyebrow at him. “Honey, what do I look like?”

  “Um, something from the fridge.”

  “You’re hilarious. Okay, dig deep, now, Trillion. While they’re distracted, be creative—somebody somewhere knows what happened out there all those years ago, why Cardie and Brink weren’t where they were supposed to be. But be careful. If any of this comes out without a way to spin it to our advantage, not only is it going to lose us our two aces, it’s going to demoralize the colonies even further.”

  “Agreed.”

  He left her for the Archives wing, an underwater data library divided into sections by security clearance. His Kappa rating and IPR pass gave him access to any ISPA personnel profile and mission statistics that weren’t classified top secret. Though Squadron Leaders Acton and Brinkman had been rated Omega at the time of Perihelion, the highest grade in the hierarchy, he was able to bring up their information without trouble.

  Acton, Jane J. — Call Sign “Cardie” (Origin = the self-knitted cardigan she wears under her jumpsuit for every flight)

  Born: 29.09.2201

  Birthplace: Octavia J-6

  Retired: 01.11.2232

  Rank at time of retirement: Squadron Leader, Condor Fifth Wing

  Missions Flown: 571 (289 Combat Missions)

  Confirmed Enemy Kills: 1,009

  Last Mission: Hephaestus A, Perihelion, 12.03.2232

  He touched the screen over the latter, bringing up:

  CLASSIFIED CLASSIFIED CLASSIFIED CLASSIFIED

  Omega Level Clearance Required

  Input Password: ____________

  “Shit.”

  Pretty much what he’d expected, though. Still, to have classified the entire Perihelion entry, hiding even a basic overview of the battle, its outcome and importance for ISPA, was frustrating.

  Okay, time to get creative.

  He switched programs to one of IPR’s most valuable cyber tools, the personnel tracker—a database for the current real-time locations of all ISPA servicemen and women from Earth to 100z. He keyed in Commander Hawkes, call sign “Hera” and flicked the screen a mock salute when her location came up as Altimere Hub, East Wing, Hangar 14. A trek to the far side of the base, then, and no guarantee of any kind of cooperation, but she’d revealed pride for both her Condor history and her association with Max Trillion. If anyone could tell him what really happened at Perihelion, or even what Pyro Canyon meant, it had to be Hera. Hell, she was the only other Condor vet he knew.

  But the screen refreshed automatically. It now read Commander Hawkes, call sign “Hera” leaving Altimere, en route to unspecified location.

  He puffed his cheeks, shut his eyes, then thumped the screen with his organic fist. For Christ’s sake, all I’m trying to do is help.

  But despite his best efforts, he was not helping. Maybe he’d be better off recruiting tool-pushers from Galtera after all. At least there he wouldn’t be chasing his own tail. Here he was chasing the impossible, trying to solve the unsolvable, on a diet of smog meds and quixotic hope.

  Once more, he felt alone in the universe.

  Back in the communal bar lounge, L.B. was busy entertaining a young hotshot pilot—okay, a rookie alternate, as evident from the unfilled outline of the wings on his epaulettes. While other base personnel hustled by on their way to the landing strips, this junior flier paid them no mind. He was obviously enraptured by L.B.’s flirty raker routine. Not that she’d tell him her profession—hell, maybe it wouldn’t make any difference if she did—the guy was practically pawing her around the table.

  Gus’s hands clenched into involuntary fists as he watched from across the lounge. His cybernetic hand left five dents in the metal door frame.

  His omnipod flashed, buzzed on his belt, so he affixed the headset and listened. “I don’t need to tell you how lonely it gets out here, on call twenty-four/seven, protecting the colonies, with no one waiting for when I touch down after. It’d mean a lot to me if I had—”

  “Wow, wow, not so fast, fella. Sweep a girl off her feet, why don’t you, but maybe we shouldn’t hit orbit just yet. I mean, you don’t even have your full wings, right?” L.B. had the guy right where she wanted him, and she’d tuned Gus into the conversation in case her pilot spilled something he shouldn’t. Her raker claws were sharpened and poised for the kill.

  “Three more 95z miss
ions, then I’ll be official Alpha grade. It’s nothing. My instructor says I could go all the way if I get my break—a real combat assignment.”

  “I don’t doubt it. One of the female pilots in here earlier mentioned you. Sarapuk, was it?” L.B. had done her homework, plucked a name from the man’s training class, perhaps while he’d left to visit the john.

  “Oh, her? Yeah, but she’s already hooked up with someone from Eighth Wing.”

  “Sounded impressed by your flying, though.”

  “Uh-huh.” Moron.

  “She also mentioned something I’d never heard of. It sounded pretty exciting. Pyro Canyon? Is that part of your training?”

  “No. Well, not anymore. It’s somewhere the old-timers used to go to practice low-level flying, quick descents, low-visibility maneuvers, you know, stuff like that. They’re pretty tight-lipped about it, but it’s kind of like Altimere’s urban legend—the juniors get to know about it, then when they graduate, they pass it on to the next class, and so on. I think all the senior wing commanders took a shot at Pyro Canyon back in the day, before it was declared off-limits. None of ’em hold any records, though. They never got close to Cardie and Brink.”

  “Wow, yeah, I bet. And now I’ve got goose bumps. You’re really a pilot who flies where they flew! That’s so hot.”

  And so corny. Dignity, L.B., dignity.

  “Uh-huh.” More bold pawing, which she didn’t rebuff, instead giggled at. “You fancy taking this back to your room? I could fill you in on…all sorts of—”

  “Easy up, you were doing well enough without the warp jump, sweetie.”

  The man raked his fingers violently through his disheveled hair. “Jesus, what more does a guy have to do?”

  Um, try getting some class, sleaze-heaver.

  “Aw, I thought we were having fun there, Acting Flight Crewman Arlinjay. I tell you what—you carry on where you left off about this Pyro Canyon, and I’ll try not to imagine what I’d do to you if we were alone in the cockpit, breaking all sorts of records ourselves.”