by Tammy Salyer
That’s gone.
* * *
“I didn’t anticipate our paths crossing again so soon, Vitruzzi, Strahan…” Medina’s eyes take in the room, lingering for a moment on those of us who’d served under her. “Everyone. And under these circumstances. It’s only been what? Six months?”
Our initial shock drains out of the moment, and the four of us find a suitable place to sit, stand, or seethe. She displays a calm and appropriate smile that seems to imply, We are all friends here. There’s nothing but water under the bridge between us, and continues. “I suppose the good news is that the war is truly and unequivocally over. And we are at a new frontier in human history.”
Dramatic, but also the truth.
“What are you doing here, Medina? What’s this all about?” Karl says from his seat near the foyer’s deserted central desk. Desto is parked behind him, leaning against the counter, and I stay close to him just in case. He has returned to normal—or as close to it as he’s likely to get with Quantum in the room and still drawing breath.
“That’s a question I’m about to answer, Tech Sergeant,” Medina says, “if you’ll let me.”
“I’m not a soldier. You can stop calling me sergeant,” Karl cuts in.
Her eyes hold his steadily for a breath before she continues, but none of us need to have it spelled out: something bigger than a straightforward exchange of resources is about to go down. Medina is obviously the person pulling strings in the colony. Whitmore had faded into the background the minute she’d entered the foyer, and Van Heusen is looking to her, not the former dock supervisor, for orders. What we’d all originally assumed was a citizen settlement is nothing but a land base for Medina and anyone still serving with her. Which changes things. How, though, remains to be seen.
“Let me just give you the highlights. Shortly after your group de…camped”—I’m sure she was about to say deserted—“the volume of fighting engagements, as you probably know, began to diminish, fewer and fewer Admin and Corps Loyalists stayed that way, and those of us controlling the larger forces began disarmament talks. In these last six months, we’ve achieved a peace of sorts. We don’t have the system-wide organization to celebrate this victory with the proper gravitas, but we can all finally draw a breath unburdened by continued destruction. And now we have to look to rebuilding.”
Her posture isn’t exactly guarded, but still as stiff as ever. Thinking back, I realize I’d never even seen the woman sit down anywhere but at the command bench or let her shoulders drop or wear anything but her uniform. Along with this awareness, the memory of something Vitruzzi had said to Medina back on the Celestial just three months into the war surfaces. “We can continue to fight our brothers and sisters who fell on the wrong side of the rift, or we can begin the process of laying down our arms, laying down our differences, and picking up the pieces together. Rebuild. If we don’t, no matter who survives, we’ve all lost this war.”
So Medina is finally seeing the wisdom in peace over force—at least that’s what she seems to be saying, but right now, I feel like I’m choking on the message instead of swallowing it.
Vitruzzi speaks up, voicing what I’m sure we’re all thinking: “Understood, Commander, but I don’t remember ever voting to put you in charge.”
Medina’s response is quick and final. “Democracy died when János Rajcik dropped a terra-shattering bomb on Obal 10.”
Vitruzzi flinches.
Karl responds sharply, “Then let’s restore it.”
Medina shifts her gaze toward the wall, as if searching for an argument that will put an end to this off-topic, at least to her, debate. “Serg—Strahan,” she starts, looking up again, “if it were as simple as a quick show of hands, we’d all be happier. But since it isn’t that simple, and won’t ever be that simple, we need to start talking about what is, not what was. Hmm?”
The condescension packed into her last statement could only be missed by a deaf person, but it has her desired effect. Our attention cements to her.
“Good,” Medina continues. “The crew of the Celestial and I have been hard at work throughout the system helping to find and secure everything we need to create and sustain a viable new home. A safe and ideal place to begin a new centralized government, or at least, centralized within limits. With the remaining human population widely scattered and badly organized, Whitmore and I have agreed to make Bogotan that location. We’ve been working together for these last few months, and we have one hundred percent agreement about what steps to take to get this quadrant of the system back on its feet. I’m sure you’ve worked out for yourselves that we see the seed sequencer and the soil amendment compound as necessary assets for the fastest and most efficient means to feed a new and growing population.”
“What kind of population do you mean, Medina? We have refugees on KL that were turned away from Bogotan because of minor handicaps,” Vitruzzi says, her voice finding that old edge. “Doesn’t your ‘efficient’ system have room for people like that? Or is it just for those who are willing and able to march to your fife?”
Whew! I’ve been known to be abrupt and stubborn, but I think she just won the award for being the most deliberately antagonizing non-cit this side of the war. It’s clear now that Vitruzzi hasn’t forgotten Medina’s actions that led us to leaving the Celestial in the first place, or forgiven her for them. The medical station on Broon; the way Medina had ordered its annihilation instead of trying to help the injured. The doctor in Vitruzzi couldn’t let that slide if her life depended on it.
And given Medina’s presence here, it probably does.
Medina’s hard shell doesn’t crack, but she’s no longer giving Vitruzzi even a fragment of her attention. “We need people like you to help us achieve what we’re hoping to achieve. More importantly, we need your cooperation.” She lets that sink in, then goes on, dropping the commander’s voice and sounding like a regular, needs-driven, hope-filled person. It’s a tone as bizarre coming from her as an opera singer’s voice coming from Desto would be. “Erikson, Desto, Strahan…Vitruzzi, it’s not about fighting to win. We’re all fighting to survive at this point, and none of us can do it alone. Your colony on Keum Libre, while noteworthy for lasting even this long, isn’t going to last forever. You don’t have the human resources, nor even the means to enforce any kind of security, to support the colony indefinitely. You must see that. Bogotan has factories, textiles, metals. Munitions. But what we need now is people.
“We need to get together on this. If we couldn’t do it during wartime, I pray to any potential powers that may be that we can do it while we have some peace.”
She’s sounding eerily like Whitmore had when trying to convince me to help sway my crew to his point of view earlier. The two of them are as thick as thieves. Another brief memory surfaces, something Medina had said as soon as the main Corps posts on Obal 8 and Obal 3 had fallen. Some of the Celestial’s crewmembers had started advocating for an armistice, but Medina, the unyielding military tactician, had commanded the fight to continue until all regions of resistance were broken—or as she’d put it, “burned in the refuse pile of dogma and antihuman apostasy.” She might have been in the uniform of a Corps officer, but her true core seems to be made of an almost Straussian idealism. I can see from my crew’s expressions that they know it, too.
She goes on: “What I propose is that we all join in one colony and bring the rest of your settlers on Keum Libre to Bogotan. And yes, before you ask the question, I do mean everyone, even the disabled and sick.”
She finally winds down, giving us a second to absorb her proposal.
“Maybe we’re happy where we are,” Karl says after a few ticks of the clock.
Medina reacts, but not in words. Her body instantly transforms from friendly and collaborative to her default rigid military decorum—stance aloof, back rigid, and eyes as unreadable and glassy as an artificially generated human avatar.
“Why should we agree to relocate to Bogotan?” Karl continues, not in the least
deterred by her visible frustration. “What’s in it for us?”
“Let me make it easy for all of you to understand.” She deliberately unzips her Corps-issued officer’s jacket and pushes the material back, revealing the tactical vest, holster, and pistol beneath. “I let your crew leave the Celestial because I didn’t think you had a chance in hell of surviving on your own. I considered it to be cutting dead weight. Now I can see I was wrong, but that doesn’t matter. And believe me, I’m not going to make the same mistake again.
“The Admin was an experiment that failed. If the war is going to mean anything more than the destruction of hundreds of years of civilization and progress, we cannot fail like that again. Bogotan is where we’re restarting; it has to succeed. And to succeed, we—and that means all people—have to be unified.”
“With you in charge,” Desto states and flashes the kind of smile at Medina that a large predator shows its prey just before sinking its incisors into its throat.
“Order can only be achieved through the rule of law, with someone to facilitate. Do you think it’s possible to keep peace between hundreds of divergent groups of scavengers when they’re all competing for the same last resources without unification, without shared goals? Do you have any idea what people have become, what’s going on in this system?”
My eyes flick back to Van Heusen, catching his stare of unconcealed contempt for the four of us. I do know what’s going on in this system, and looking at the sadistic guard, I can guess what would be going on in Bogotan if people like Whitmore, who at least seems reasonable, ever lose the initiative.
Medina’s next words hit like an ambush. “I am not going to let everything fall apart, regardless of the resistance—whether from your colony or any other. I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop or gets in the way of what we’re trying to build.” She unsheathes the pistol, and Van Heusen and Steward copy the action. “Make your choice now. We have a lot of work to do.”
* * *
For a second, I think I must have misunderstood her. But the Bhishma 10.3 mike-mike in her hand acts as a bullhorn until her words finally, irrevocably, sink in, and the skin hardens like ice over my entire body.
“Medina, could I have a word with you?”
It’s Whitmore speaking, and the sound of his voice gives the rage whipping into a frenzy inside me somewhere to focus. My head swivels jerkily toward him, as if on a broken servo. He’d lied to me, bald-faced and so convincingly. I’d bought every word, and performed like a perfect puppet for him. I’d trusted him enough to convince Vitruzzi and Karl to do the same, and we’d called Brady, asked him to bring the compound and deliver it like an early Christmas present directly to Medina, putting the whole colony in jeopardy. Now we can’t even get back in touch with them to warn them. How stupid could I be?
Medina ignores Whitmore’s quiet request, her cool gaze riveted to us, waiting for someone to make a hero move so she can sic her dogs Steward and Van Heusen on us. He tries again, “Commander Medina. I need to speak with you now.”
“It can wait, Whitmore.” She never looks at him. Addressing us again, she continues, “I know it’s a lot to take in, but I need you to understand your options, and what specifically is at stake. Do you?”
“Fuck this,” Desto says, stepping toward our former commanding officer.
“Wait, Desto,” Karl warns. “Nothing can go wrong right now that won’t be made worse by you doing something stupid.”
Clenching his fists, Desto assumes a pose of quiet, simmering deadliness.
I’m about to open my mouth and say something, though I’m not sure what it will be besides categorically offensive and probably suicidal, when Vitruzzi says, “Let me guess, Medina. Anyone who isn’t an asset is expendable. That’s what you told me, right?”
“Not anymore, Doctor. Anyone who isn’t an asset is a liability. And we no longer have the luxury of allowing liabilities.”
Vitruzzi doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll cooperate.”
Medina is too smart to believe our subservience will come that cheaply, but she relaxes the finger cradling her pistol’s trigger. “Of course,” she goes on, “it would never come to that. I don’t want to turn our new social order into a dictatorship or even an oligarchy any more than anyone else. I had no doubt you’d see the reason and inevitability of our two separate colonies joining together. We have to remember, I know you’ll also agree, that the next few decades aren’t about us, they are about creating and protecting our future. I’ll let Jim fill you in on our plans.” She dips her chin at the former dock controller, then motions to Steward, and the two of them exit. Quantum, who’s said nothing this whole time, disappears with them.
My mouth is as dry as the engine housing of an overheated skiff as I say, “Vitruzzi, you can’t seriously be willing to go along with this.”
“Do you have an alternative proposal, Aly? One that doesn’t get everybody on KL killed?”
My eyes jerk away from her, knowing she’s right, but my rage isn’t going anywhere. I turn it back on Whitmore.
“You double-dealing bastard. You knew about this, didn’t you?”
His face is unreadable, but that blinking tic of his eye is going full throttle. “I-I…” he starts, but quickly stops himself. One hand goes to the side of his face and rubs near his twitching eye, trying to force it to calm down, but the effect is just the opposite. Abruptly, he turns to Zabriskie. “Jono, escort them back to their quarters. I need to talk to Medina.”
Zabriskie nods and opens his mouth, but Van Heusen cuts in and gives the order. “You heard the man. Everyone back outside. And don’t do anything I’d love to make you regret.”
TWENTY-TWO
Night has spread its blanket over the city by the time we leave. The walk back is a little over ten minutes long, and I mentally prepare myself for the biting cold before heading outdoors. It’s easy enough. My inner supernova of fury at Whitmore and Medina keeps me warm. As the others pace ahead, I find myself in step beside Zabriskie, whose stare is no warmer than the weather.
“Help me understand this, Zabriskie. How can a whole postwar settlement think massacring others is the solution to a new system of the worlds?” The cold breeze pulls most of the fire from my words, and I hear the underlying confusion and fear that are hiding in them. I hadn’t even known they were there.
For a few seconds, it seems like he’s going to ignore me. But then: “You fought in the war, right?”
I nod. Almost everyone fought in some capacity or another.
“Then you must get it. People are scared. There’s no such thing as situation normal anymore. You find your tribe and you watch each other’s backs. Sometimes that means others…well. More than a few of us here have learned the hard way that nothing can be counted on now.” His jaw goes taut for a second, as if he’s clamping it closed on something he doesn’t want to say, but then he continues. “Not even people you thought were allies.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but his face has reverted back to brick-wall blankness. After another few steps, I blurt, “You realize that there’s four of us and two of you, right? We can escape anytime we want.”
“And you realize we’re not the only ones watching you while we enjoy this leisurely stroll, right?”
We’re passing an alley, and the wind screams down it with a freight train’s whistle as he speaks. But I hear him. Loud and clear. Plenty of rooftops and high windows make our trip down the street a sniper’s wet dream. Changing the subject, I ask, “So what’s your story? Are you from Bogotan? Were you in the Corps before?”
“No, I was a citizen. Worked here with Whitmore in the shipping yard.”
“You have a family?”
He doesn’t answer that question. Which leads me to wonder, what exactly had happened to Bogotan during the war? The image of the damaged landing-field berm comes to mind. What had they been fighting against? “Was Bogotan Admin-friendly during…?” He knows during what.
“We were just trying to keep
from getting wiped off the map.”
“Is that why you tried to disable access to the city from the landing field?”
He looks at me sharply, not expecting my insight into their tactics. After hesitating for a second, he answers, “We thought we were under attack, so we took action to try and protect ourselves.” He goes silent, again with the tight jaw, before saying, “Turns out things aren’t as discrete as good-guys–bad-guys anymore.”
I’m still pondering what he means by that when we reach the high school. As we step up to the front doors, they push open and two guards exit. The second one sports a swollen-shut eye and the start of what will be a bruise on his temple that would make a prizefighter wince.
“Asshole,” he mumbles as he passes Desto and makes for a land trans parked on the street.
“Zabriskie, make sure they’re locked in tight. Don’t want them doing more of this, do you?” Van Heusen asks with a nod of his head toward the battered guard.
“Who’s on watch tonight?” Zabriskie asks.
“I am. Back in a couple of hours to relieve you.” Van Heusen’s steel-blue eyes fall on me and he gives me a wink. “And you too, dollface.”
Before he gets to the first riser on the stairs, Karl tackles him gut level like a rhino. Van Heusen had no idea it was coming, and his breath exits his body in one heavy expulsion. They fall sideways on the building’s stoop almost at Vitruzzi’s feet, Karl on top of Van Heusen, slamming his right fist into the man’s nose and breaking it. The crunch is amplified by the crispness of the air, the wind having ceased to blow for a minute.
“Hey!” Zabriskie yells.
Karl jumps off the downed security guard just as Desto is about to intervene. He spits on the concrete as he glowers over Van Heusen, every muscle in his body daring the man to retaliate.
Van Heusen sits up and grasps his nose between his palms. Two streams of blood cascade down around his mouth, giving him a clown-faced sneer, and his squinting eyes seek out Karl’s face, landing there and digging in like a pit bull’s teeth. Zabriskie has his hand on the butt of his pistol but hasn’t drawn it. For the first time, his face shows something besides neutral detachment as his lips tighten, and he glances around the group quickly, taking it all in.
