Tales from the Edge: Escalation: A Maelstrom's Edge Collection

by Stephen Gaskell

  The concertina partition across my alcove is locked with a simple combination padlock, supplied by the management – a wholly inadequate piece of security. On my return, I spin the combination to open the lock. When I pull the handle, the door moves freely. The wire I put under the handle is still there, but the additional contact-lock I secreted inside the frame doesn't disengage, because someone's already disabled it.

  I freeze, and listen. Nothing.

  I give the corridor a casual glance both ways – empty, unless there's someone lurking in one of the other alcoves – then open the door.

  The place has been turned over. I take a deep breath, pausing again, not that there's anywhere to hide in ambush in this tiny space. Then I exhale, step inside, and pull the partition shut behind me. As I check the various hiding places, my hands have a slight tremor in them.

  The needler is still stashed inside the heating pipe under the bed – glad I checked and found it not only didn't work but had a hole in the back. I had the stunner on me. Every other weapon and piece of tech is gone; even my chem-kit.

  Did my security fail me? I've been in the field a while, and I can't exactly test defences set to work on anyone except me.

  That's not the real question of course. The real questions are who, and why, and do they know what they've got.

  *

  'Oh, you again. I didn't expect to see you back.'

  I nearly didn't come back. I nearly went to the airlock, called my Suit, and flew back to my ship. Depending on who broke into my room, the robbery might be common knowledge. Or I might be being followed even now, though I'd hope to spot all but the most skilful tail. The fact that, without my touch, everything those bastards stole will dissolve to slag within fifty hours isn't much consolation. If they know what they've got, they might know I'm Artarian.

  But despite all that, I can't let it go, can't give you back your future only to let some lucky but dumb Broken thief scare me off. I have to finish this, one way or another.

  So, I smile at the goat-woman. 'Yes, sorry about last time. I couldn't wait any longer. But I do need to speak to, um, what was the pregnant lady's name, Emala isn't it?'

  'That's right.' She's cautious, which is understandable.

  'She normally visits about now, doesn't she?'

  'Yes, most days.'

  'I'll just, uh, wait a ways up here.' I've had a lot of practice at loitering unsuspiciously.

  'Shall I tell her you want to speak to her?'

  'No need, I'm not in any hurry this time. Do your business with her first.'

  Emala turns up, gets her milk and is just enduring some small talk from goat-woman when I saunter up with a smile. She's surprised when I ask if I can speak to her: just surprised. Not worried, not afraid. You haven't told her about my visit. Didn't think you would.

  As we move off from goat-woman I pre-empt Emala's questions by saying how impressed I was with yesterday's demonstration. She accepts the compliment graciously, then asks where I'm from.

  'Katra's Liberty. These days.' I mutter, like there's something bad there. Then I turn to her, doing my best to look up from under my brows, even though I'm taller than her. 'But I've been around. Can I … I need to show you something.'

  'What sort of something?' Still not hostile, though with an edge of suspicion.

  'Easier if I show you.' I make a turn, away from the market corridor.

  'And why do I need to see whatever this is?'

  I grimace. 'It's … relevant to the School. Only, I didn't want to show the men. I've …' I shrug. 'I'd just rather deal with another woman.'

  She nods, like she gets that. The Broken do, in a way my people wouldn't. That's what living in fear does for you.

  We take another turn. I'm not enjoying how easy it is to deceive this woman, and that's partly why I say, 'It's about Zefim, actually. You and he, are you, um, is the baby his?'

  'Yes, but we're, well, we're no longer…'

  'Sorry. None of my business.'

  'No, it's okay. We're pretty much over.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that.' Part of me is, because I know how she feels. And a small part of me is glad, even though I hate myself for it. I wonder if you gave her the same line you gave me, about all things having their time, and it being wrong to prolong what has come to a natural end.

  'No matter. We're still friends, and I'll keep doing tech work for the School because I care about what Zefim's trying to do. I know he'll look after the little one as far as he can.' Her hand goes to her belly, and I remember her comment to goat-woman when I first saw her, about how all she wanted was a healthy child. 'So, what's this about Zefim?'

  'I found something.'

  'Something as in?'

  'Like I said, you need to see.'

  We're near the outer corridors now. I resist the temptation to ask more about her and her recently-ex-lover.

  She follows me into a small room I found earlier. Probably a storage cupboard once, not much use now due to its size and lack of door, plus the overwhelming smell of mildew. I'm hoping the open doorway will put her at ease. 'Just a moment,' I say, 'I'll find it.'

  I brought what remain of my possessions here earlier, spreading them about like I was camped out. The thieves took only equipment, leaving my trade goods and backpack. I pretend to rummage in the pack now, though I had the stunner in its wrist-sheath all along.

  When I straighten the weapon is hidden in my hand and I'm smiling, but she's combat trained, and she susses what's about to happen. As I raise my hand, she steps up and slaps at it. The stunner goes flying, bouncing hard off the wall.

  For a moment we stand toe-to-toe. Both equally shocked, for different reasons. Then we go for the small oval object on the floor between us. She kicks at it – bending down's an issue for her – and though I duck under her foot, she's fast and her aim's good. It's gone out the door.

  We eye each other up. She's nearer the door than me, and I made the first move. In her position, I'd consider running. But she doesn't. She comes at me. I can tell, by the way she moves and holds her hands, that she's used to fighting with knives. The room's just big enough to let her come to me, for me to step aside, bring her round (I'd be removing the knife around now), and twist in behind her, my arm across her throat.

  She tenses, immobilised. She probably knows that in tak-bey, the choke is often a killing move.

  Not this time. I squeeze her neck in the right place, just hard enough, and she passes out. I lower her to the floor gently, wary of her swollen belly.

  *

  You're not coming. It wasn't your people who robbed me after all. Or it was but you don't care about this woman even though she's carrying your child. Or, it's more mundane than that: the errand boy I gave the sealed note to didn't deliver it.

  If you don't come, I'm left with two choices. Leave without you, or go to you, meeting on your territory, your terms. Neither appeals.

  A sound outside. Emala's eyes follow me; without drugs to knock her out I was reduced to binding her hands with my remaining set of restraints and sticking an impromptu gag in her mouth. Since she regained consciousness an hour ago she's been staring up at me from the floor. I told her I don't plan to kill her, but I'm not sure she believes me.

  You step through the door. My hand comes up – you can't see what weapon I have, but you know I have one – and you freeze.

  If you've ignored my conditions, and brought company, or weaponry, then I'm screwed. But I know you. You're alone. You take a step into the room. It's mighty crowded in here now.

  'Please let her go,' you say.

  Again that contradictory stab of sympathy/jealousy. I ignore it. 'I'm planning to, now I've got your attention. You need to come back with me, Anshal.'

  I'd like to see Emala's reaction to your real name, but I can't see her from here.

  'My question still stands, Hanori: Why?'

  'Because this was only ever a temporary exile! You were born to be a Champion for your House. It's
time to reclaim your destiny.'

  You look past me for a moment, to Emala. 'Yes, I was born to it. And you had to work for it, so of course you value the status you gained – rightly so. But you're living proof that we don't have to follow the path set for us.'

  'You're refusing to come home?'

  'This is my home now.'

  'Then you're in dereliction of your duty and a traitor to your race.' I press the stud on the stunner.

  Nothing happens. Damn thing must have got busted when it hit the wall, or maybe Emala's kick did for it. Useless now, either way.

  Your eyes flick to my hand, back to my face. You know I just tried to shoot you. As you open your mouth I reach back and draw my needler. You shut your mouth.

  We stare at each other.

  I'm down to one weapon now, and it's designed to kill.

  'I wanted to explain,' you say, 'because I owed you that much. I wanted to explain and then send you on your way. Ideally I'd have liked to do it without involving anyone else. I did as you asked, and came alone, and unarmed. But you won't get off this ship unless I let you.'

  I know you don't just mean the meathead guarding the airlock corridor – who, frankly, I'll happily shoot if he gives me any trouble. Your people are out there, and they've got your back. Which means my only option is to swap my current hostage for you. But we're evenly matched. I might have the gun, but if I try to take you hostage you're as likely to end up with it as me.

  Or I could just shoot you.

  You broke my heart, Anshal. Three months before the shit hit the fan in the Senate, you turned round and told me you didn't love me any more. By the time everything came to a head you'd stopped speaking to me in private. There was a period, at least a year after you were exiled, when I chose to believe that you saw it all coming, and dumped me to ease the pain. But that was self-delusion. You keep to your own code, and damn how much that hurts anyone else. And you are a traitor. You were spared death by your betters so you could return once the trouble was over. I'd be within my rights to shoot you dead and run for the lock. I might even make it.

  Your gaze is steady. Sometimes I still love you. Sometimes I still hate you. My finger, on the trigger, feels huge. I should let it complete the motion, carry out my intention—

  Something barrels into me from the side, then a fist hits me hard across the back of the head, just as the floor rushes up to meet me.

  *

  I wake to beeping.

  I'm in my Combat Suit. We're retreating, because it was a trap, heavy weapons in place, EMP pulses, the works; all of which we only found out after we'd wiped out the civilian settlement. We were set up.

  No, that's a memory; I was dreaming. I am in my suit, and it's beeping at me, but I'm not on Miramon. I'm outside an airlock. My scoutship's lock.

  What's going on? I haven't dreamt of Miramon for years; something must have stirred up the past—

  It comes rushing back. The Broken. You. Being blindsided.

  I look around, which sets off a nasty headache. There's another suit behind me, on a tether. Did you change your mind?

  When I turn back I see, through the HUD, that my hands are tracing familiar motions. My Suit is manually opening the outer door. I didn't initiate that. I'm not in full control of my Suit. That's a court martial offence.

  I tongue/blink for an emergency reset. Nothing. That's not right. So much isn't right, and it's hard to think straight enough to sort it out.

  What do I know?

  Well, after your ex whacked me over the head you must have called your Suit – after all no one ever removed your implant. You called your Suit, got me into mine, and sent me back to my ship, on autopilot and with your empty suit in tow: the final gesture of rejection.

  I should have control of my Suit by now. I try for a reset again, as the airlock door opens in front of me. Nope. Still can't override the Suit's actions. Your programming skills must have come on to keep it locked into a preset now I'm conscious.

  My suit steps into the airlock, and gravity kicks in.

  At some point I will regain control. When I do, there won't be anything stopping me from turning around, blasting my way back into the Broken ship and dragging you out, whether you want to come or not.

  The airlock's crowded with two Suits in. There's a light on the chestplate of yours, showing it's active. That's odd.

  I itch to go back and fetch you.

  But you could have killed me, back there. And I could have killed you.

  If I do go back, one thing's for sure: more people will die.

  The inner door opens. My HUD flashes. Finally I've got full control!

  I walk into the small cabin; your Suit, slaved to mine, follows me in. The door shuts and I command my Suit helmet open. Stale, familiar air rushes in.

  I turn to your Suit, standing in front of the airlock. My face reflects in the faceplate. I look like shit but my head's beginning to clear.

  There's someone in there. That's what the light means.

  I draw my spare needler, in its holster by the lock. Then I open a com channel to the other Suit. I hear breathing. Female breathing.

  I order the faceplate on your Suit to retract.

  Pale and defiant, Emala stares back at me. 'Sorry I hit you,' she says.

  I nod, which hurts. 'I'd have done the same.' If I'm going to go back for you I'll have to get this crazy woman out of your Suit first. What is she doing in it anyway? Unless—

  'Did you hack these Suits?'

  She holds my gaze. 'I'm good with tech.'

  And she let me regain control – of both Suits. She really is crazy. 'Do you have any idea what you're dealing with here?'

  'Lorican Combat Suits, yes. Zefim gave me initial access, though he wasn't happy about it.' She smiles, above the suppressed fear in her eyes. 'The rest was all me. I'm actually very good with tech.'

  I can't argue with that. 'When did he tell you?'

  'What he was? He never did. I guessed soon after we met, but he wouldn't talk about the past. I confronted him after he came to see you. He said he wished you'd never come for him. He's found his place here.'

  Everyone appears to agree on that point, except me. 'But he let you go.'

  'I choose my own path.' Her gaze drops; although she's immobilised by the Suit, I know what she's looking at. 'I've lost two babies. I want this one to live.'

  'Enough to risk yourself; enough to leave everything you've known behind and put yourself in my power?'

  'Yes.'

  Not crazy: desperate. 'Did you rob me?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'Partly to disarm you. Partly to test myself. See if I really was as good as I think by going up against serious tech. And I am.'

  Desperate, but self-assured and seriously talented. 'You know where I'm going?'

  She nods. 'I know the Artarian Remnant takes in talented outsiders.'

  'You planned this?'

  She shakes her head. 'I made the plan up on the fly. But you came to get someone, and now you won't go home empty-handed.'

  If I go back for you now, I may well have to kill her. 'You're unbelievable.'

  'It's not about me.' Her gaze drops again; I feel like I've been released from a tether. 'It's about her.'

  'I thought you didn't know if it was a boy or a girl?'

  'I'm hoping for a girl.'

  There are no certainties; tech wiz though she is, the Fleet may not take her. But she knows that.

  The only way I'll see you again is if I fly back to the Broken ship and blast my way in, destroying your world, and this woman, in the process.

  Despite duty, despite my torn heart, I can't do that.

  You're gone from my life, damn you. Enjoy the rest of yours.

  My Suit is asking whether I should release the slaved Suit. I tell it yes.

  To Emala I say, 'Any idea what you're going to call your daughter?'

  THE SPACES BETWEEN US

  ★

  by JEFF CARLSON
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  Gabe's always loved his adopted homeworld, Blue. The planet is cold, near inhospitable, the wildlife deadly, and the original settlers suspicious of outsiders. But life here has a stark beauty. It's why he stayed, why he started a family. Now a rapid advance of the Edge threatens everything he cherishes. Question is, how far should he go to save everything he loves?

  OVER BREAKFAST, Gabe Cienfuegos learned that his family was going to die. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and glanced at the screen, thinking his buddy Christian had finally agreed to his price.

  He felt the colour drain from his face. "Oh. Fuck."

  "Gabe, language." His wife Brook swatted his leg. She was too late. Chomping on cereal and fruit, their six-year-old twins brightly echoed the word.

  "Fuck! Fuck!" Mike and Van giggled like idiots.

  "That's enough," Brook told them, but she laughed. Her hazel eyes were tolerant and merry. Then she noticed Gabe's stricken face. "What is it?"

  Gabe stood up and walked toward the door, caught himself, hurried back and kissed her. He was 31, tall and brown. She was 28, trim and sandy-haired. "Gabe?" she asked as he hugged the twins. Mike shrieked and squirmed, twisting free. Van grabbed his arm and held on.

  He felt intensely aware of their home -- its windowless concrete walls and low ceiling, the toy boats and toy snakes on the floor, dirty dishes, dirty laundry, all the mess of young children -- and the sound of the wind outside.

  Lying on the counter, Brook's phone buzzed, too. Mounted on the wall, their sat radio blinked with incoming messages.

  The alert had gone to Franchise personnel, which Gabe was not, but he had friends inside the administration. So did other people. Word was spreading fast. Gabe imagined families were embracing -- or shouting -- or arming themselves -- across the entire planet.