by Jamie Sawyer
“Leave the kids to it,” Daryl said. “There’s something that I want to show you all. I think you might appreciate the view.”
He activated the blast-shutters protecting the bridge view-ports. They slowly lifted and I could see outside – could connect with the cosmos again.
For once, I saw something more interesting than space.
There it was: Alliance Forward Operating Base Liberty Point.
I’d read about it in books, seen tri-D films – who hadn’t? – but those things really didn’t do the place justice. This close, the Point had a frightening scale to it. It was breathtaking. It was a space station without equal. A series of enormous rings arranged around a long and thin central stub, housing millions of military personnel. Flags of all the Alliance signatories stencilled along the outer hull – the United Americas, the European Confederacy, the Indo-Asian Combine, the Pan-African Union. Greeting messages printed in Standard, in Spanish, even in Chino. It flickered with a thousand tiny warning lights.
“Ain’t she just beautiful?” Sheldon said. “Got an ass like a proper Venusian.”
“Shut up, Sheldon,” Lucina said. “You’re ruining what my husband is clearly intending to be a beautiful moment.”
“I just can’t wait to get me some. I’m highly sexed, is all.”
“As ever, let us thank our navigator for getting us here in one piece,” Daryl called from the back of the bridge room. “Sailing this close to the Quarantine Zone isn’t an easy thing to do –”
Lucina rolled her eyes dramatically. “I hope that this isn’t going to turn into another opportunity for my husband to tell us about his military service, and how he – one time – thought that he saw a Krell…”
“I saw one!” Daryl blurted. “I really did!”
“Let’s get on with this,” Lucina said. “You got comms on the Point yet, Nathaniel? This close, I expected to see a docking beacon.”
“Aye, ma’am,” Nate said. “There’s no beacon, but comms are online. We have a channel to Space Control.”
“That’ll have to do,” Daryl said. He fumbled with the mike attached to his headset and asked, “FOB Liberty Point?”
“Identify,” came back a voice.
“This is Edison commercial tug, registration X-81572.”
“Transporting?”
“Closed material cargo containers. Military contract, De Hann Transport Company. I’m broadcasting our identification codes now.”
There was an unpleasant fluctuation of static, then a formal male voice answered, “We read. Apologies for the … comms trouble… Technical diff… this … end. We’ll have an escort … Follow her in…”
Daryl covered the microphone. “Can you get this cleared up, Nate?”
Nate shook his head. “That’s the best that I can do, Captain.”
Daryl nodded glumly. “I thought that the military would have better comms tech than this.” Back into his mouthpiece: “Affirmative. Which one?”
The Edison jostled with other traffic in the space lanes around the station, and there were numerous military and civilian ships out there. The base had become more than just a military outpost: it had become a centre of commerce for the region. That idea had always sat uneasily with me, because beyond the station I could make out the garish light of the Maelstrom…
“Getting… poor signal… Await local orders…” the Point responded.
“Just follow that damned escort and bring us in,” Lucina said. Although there was really no differentiating between the bland grey warships that drifted through near-space, Lucina indiscriminately pointed to one of them.
“Yes, miss,” Daryl said, smiling to himself.
CHAPTER THREE
TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES
Once the Edison had commenced the docking procedure, I left the bridge and went to my cabin.
It was a tiny two-by-two without a view-port. I’d plastered the inside with pictures of the Arc – the terraformed interiors of Greatburg, the view from Main Dome out into deep-space, a tri-D of my grandmama taken not long before she died.
I checked my hair in the mirror over my bunk. My heart sank as I looked at myself.
Portrait of Taniya Coetzer: waif-like figure which had grown uncomfortably into womanhood. Complexion of a regular spacer. Brunette hair that I never knew what to do with, worn just over my shoulder, the sort of hair that no matter how many times I washed it always seemed to look greasy. I dragged a lock over my ears. My best feature was probably my eyes – my grandmama always told me that they looked like chestnuts, whatever those were.
This is no way to meet her, I thought. I should’ve planned this part in more detail. I’ve still got the tattoos. I pulled on my crew jacket – a big, shapeless coat with the De Hann Transport logo embroidered on the back. At least the long sleeves hid the tattoos. Except for the one on my face; nothing anyone could do about that. It sat on my cheekbone: a constant reminder of where I’d come from, what I’d done.
The Arcology is light-years from the Quarantine Zone – the QZ, as I’d heard it called – and getting a transport job direct from the Zeta Ret to the Point would’ve been nigh on impossible. Instead, since I’d earned my qualification – just about the only damned thing of any worth that had come out of my four-year stretch in the Penitentiary – I’d taken haulage contracts. The work was good, honest and decent, but it paid shit. My existence was hand to mouth. I went from one job to the next, knowing that every time I got into the hypersleep capsules, I was one step nearer. I’d begged, borrowed and sometimes stolen until I finally got a proper long-distance contract.
Until I’d finally reached Liberty Point.
“Last call for disembarking passengers,” Daryl said over the PA. He ended the announcement with a rattly cough. “That means you, Taniya.”
I grabbed my stuff and hauled ass to the airlock.
The rest of the crew were waiting there, eager to disembark.
“Finally…” Lucina said.
The airlock cycled open. I walked down the crew access ramp with Nate. He hung his arm around my shoulders.
“You looking forward to, you know, seeing her?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“How long has it been?”
“Since I left the Pen? Two years. Since I last saw her? Nearly six. Objective, of course.”
“I hope that it works out for you. I really do.”
I sighed. He knew that I was meeting up with her, but not why. The rest of the crew knew that I’d spent time in the Pen – that tattoo on my left cheek, if you looked closely enough, even had my admittance and release dates printed for the universe at large – but the story was still mine.
The taste of blood in my throat. The glass fragments biting into my forearm. So cold. No stars. No stars—
“Will you get a load of this?” Daryl said, waving his hands at the docking bay.
Even the Point’s docking facilities were impressive. The bay in which we’d parked could take maybe a hundred ships. Almost that many had been nestled into docking clamps. The variety of vessels was really something. I saw almost every type of starfaring ship used by the Alliance – from sleek corporate-class transports, to outdated sun-jumpers, through to ugly snub-nosed freighters like the Edison.
A squad of soldiers approached. They were all business; wearing camouflage fatigues that made my eyes go blurry if I focused on them, with heavy body-armour and rifles slung over their chests.
Daryl nodded at the squad leader, appointing himself as the crew spokesman. “Morning, sergeant, sir. I’m Captain Daryl Boeta of the Edison.”
He gave a salute that even I could tell was embarrassingly bad. The squad leader looked unimpressed and waved at his unit; they deployed around us and began their security checks. I’d been through this more than enough times before, but every time it brought back sharp memories – daily security checks in the Pen, guards with unkind faces just waiting for you to breach the regs – and I felt my legs go weak. It
probably showed; the young-faced soldier responsible for scanning me with a handheld unit paused and gave me a diluted smile.
“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” he said. “Just standard operating procedure.”
“Sure. Of course.”
The sergeant jabbed a finger at his data-slate. “You people got papers?”
“Would we be here if we didn’t?” Daryl joked. Again the Army man looked unimpressed. Daryl quickly added, “Will these do?”
The sergeant took the printed plastic import documents from Daryl and looked them over. “Running foodstuffs from Barnard’s Star?”
“Yes. We parked the cargo containers on the way in. Your escort gave us directions.”
“Good, good. Fine. Anything to declare? Weapons, contraband? Better to tell us now…”
One of the scanners chimed and I jumped. Nate caught my arm with his strong hands. I felt my breath catch in my chest.
“You okay?” he asked me.
“I’m fine. I’m good.”
The soldiers began bickering among themselves, looking down at the scanner. I caught the word ERROR on the small screen.
“I’ve got a pin in my hip,” Daryl said. “A proper old-fashioned job. Likely set your scanners off.”
“Sorry about this, people,” the sergeant said. “We’re experiencing some technical difficulties across the Point today. Gremlins in the system.”
“It’s probably the Krell,” the young-faced soldier said. “That’s why it’s happening, ma’am. They’re invading again.”
The Krell. They were almost a myth to Core-folk like me. Reports of activity with the Krell were so rare these days that most decent-minded starfarers had concluded that they’d disappeared. Coming out here – on the border of the Quarantine Zone – reminded me that they were still a very real threat.
“Can you imagine it?” the soldier said.
I swallowed. “No.”
“Will you leave it out?” the sergeant said, turning to his team. “You’ll give these peeps nightmares.”
The squad burst into laughter at the shared joke of which we’d been the butt. I wanted to be angry with them, but would rather be a fool than have the threat of Krell over my head.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” said the sergeant. “Science Division will likely have comms back up and running before you know it. Nothing to do with the Krell.”
“Good, good,” Daryl said.
“Y’all got standard passes to the Civilian District.” The sergeant’s eyes glimmered. “It’ll be more than enough. Get some bed and board.”
“Have a little fun,” another trooper added.
“Is it as good as they say?” Sheldon asked of the officer, competing with Daryl for his attention.
The sergeant laughed. “Better, if you got the credits.”
“I’ve had some military experience myself,” Daryl started towards the officer. “Back before the War—”
The sergeant nodded in a disinterested sort of way. “Okay. Papers check out. We’ll get someone to go over the shipment and confirm contents in the next forty-eight hours.”
“All right,” Daryl said, falling in step beside the man. “Feels good to be back among proper soldiers—”
“See immigration on the way in,” the soldier said without looking up from his slate. “Show barcodes for the security drones. There’s a guide map available for your wrist-comps.”
Daryl nodded along profusely. “Thanks, sir. Thanks for your time.”
The soldiers broke away from us and moved on to the next landing spar.
“Oh, Daryl,” said Lucina. “Will you please stop being so damned obsequious towards the military? No one cares that you were in the Army.”
Everyone laughed except for Daryl.
“I was building up a rapport,” he preened. “It’s common among us military men. We have a shared experience.”
“Gaia save us all,” Lucina said. “I do hope that he won’t be like this the whole stay.”
We started off towards the main entrance to the Point’s Civilian District.
“Remember where we’re parked,” Sheldon said, pointing up at the battered sign on the docking bay wall. “Civilian Docking, Bay Thirteen. Third in from the left.”
There were plenty more squabbling soldiers shouting to each other about malfunctions and error messages at the immigration desk.
The Point’s Civilian District had a reputation, and it was everything I’d expected it to be.
Neither Gaia nor Christo, nor Buddha nor Allah, were home here: every available square metre of the space was given over to the God of Commerce. There was noise and light everywhere. Bars, clubs and taverns dominated the strip.
“Where do we even begin?” Sheldon said. He rubbed his hands together.
Billboard-sized view-screens broadcast the many pleasures that awaited new arrivals. A huge variety of virtual reality experiences. Simulated and real narcotics. Gambling halls. Floor shows. Strip clubs. The list went on and on, becoming almost numbing.
I paused in front of a huge holo-projection of a figure in an armoured suit: a scar-faced man lifting a battle-rifle. He stood on a pile of dead but unidentifiable bodies – a mix of humans in black armour and stylised aliens. A handful of equally heroically-posed figures accompanied him, weapons drawn, faces contorted in hostile expressions. The words THE LAZARUS LEGION – JOIN THE ALLIANCE ARMY TODAY AND JOIN THE LEGEND scrolled across the projection.
“Will you get a load of that guy?” Sheldon said. “He looks like a regular asshole. So angry…”
The intention had probably been to create a classic piece of Alliance propaganda, but the effect was vaguely comical. I laughed at the tri-D as we passed by.
“I’m sure that he has his reasons,” Lucina said.
There were still banners and decorations displayed above the main concourse proclaiming HAPPY ALLIANCE DAY. I’d forgotten that we’d missed it – the day never meant much to me, and the Arcology doesn’t really celebrate it as such – but it looked as though it had been quite a celebration on the Point. That figured; there were lots of Americans out here.
But not just Americans. The concourse was rammed with people, and every disparate strand of humanity was present – from squat, dusky-skinned Venusians to long-limbed Centaurians. My own background on the Arc suddenly felt sheltered and uninteresting.
Takeaway joints sold every conceivable type of food. I smelled the rich odour of bento noodles, frying clone-meats and sizzling Centaurian insect-bites.
“Maybe even Tan can find something from home,” Sheldon said.
He meant the comment glibly, but I did wonder whether there might be some Afrikaans cuisine available. Before our arrival, I’d doubted that; now, standing amid the roil and tussle of the District, it seemed almost certain.
“Man could get lost in a place like this…” Nate whispered.
“Or get killed,” Lucina said. She looked decidedly bored by her surroundings. “We’ve got forty-eight hours to fill before our departure.”
“Exactly,” Sheldon said. “So let’s not waste it talking.”
“You’re still representatives of the De Hann Transport Company,” Daryl said, puffing up his chest in self-importance. “Try to remember that. Don’t let me down.”
Lucina rolled her eyes. “What a loyal company man. But I suppose that my husband has a point.”
This place was irrelevant to me. Every uniform that I passed stoked my anxiety, made me more on edge. I hadn’t travelled light-years across space to get drunk and blow it. I checked my wrist-comp. The chronometer had automatically synched to the Point’s local cycle. It was almost time. My mouth was dry, my heart beating just a little faster in my chest.
“I should get going,” I said, lifting my shoulders in determination. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you later. Keep your communicators on.” I said that to the group at large, but looked at Nate. “I’ll find you.”
Nate grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Good l
uck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thanks, Nate. I appreciate it.”
Before the rest of the crew could ask questions or argue, I turned and disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE MEET
The pain as I pulled the glass free. Wet, warm blood. I wished that it had been mine; wanted it to be mine. Cold eyes staring back at me. Accusing me.
As I walked, I considered that I could bump into her at any moment. I scanned the faces in the crowd around me; thought about what I’d say if I saw her.
The District wasn’t very well demarked. Rather than a clear, security-approved checkpoint between the Civilian District and the rest of the Point, the character of the corridors seemed to gradually shift. Less commerciality, more practicality. There were security cameras poised over the corridors. My natural inclination was to hide from those. I had to remind myself that this wasn’t the Pen any more, and that I had every right to be here. Even so, I expected to hear tell-tale whirring as the device tracked me but they didn’t seem to be working. Instead, the cameras were dull-eyed, hanging slack from their moorings.
“Something that I can help you with, miss?” a robot asked me as I lingered at a junction.
It was an old security-issue model, fitted with chunky wheels and manipulator claws. A vid-screen set into its torso displayed a variety of facial expressions as though caught in a loop.
“I’m looking for the visitors’ centre. For military personnel.”
The droid paused for a long while. The face continued to fluctuate from happy, to sad, then back again. I thought about just walking away, but it finally answered.
“Local communications are offline at this time. Please consult me later for further information.”
