Dire Steps

by Henry V. O'Neil

  “Hear that?” Horace asked, his voice giddy. “He’s gone. The fool didn’t realize he became superfluous the moment he married my sister.”

  Emma almost didn’t hear him. She recognized Reena Corlipso, and knew she’d married Chairman Mortas a few days earlier, but none of that seemed to matter. Reena was explaining that her husband had gone missing while visiting the war zone just after their wedding, and that something had gone wrong with the Step. It was hard to focus on the words, or to care very much about them, because Emma knew that the end of her torment on this terrible planet was about to end.

  “Good old Olech thought he had the best spy network in the galaxy, but I had the one thing I needed—­the man programming his little journey.” Horace’s excitement was growing, and he stepped closer to the monitor. “Not sure why he disappeared on the very first leg, but Woomer got rid of him and that’s all that matters.”

  “We hold out every hope that my husband will be found safe and sound somewhere, and the search goes on,” Reena continued. “I want you all to know that the functions of state and the prosecution of the war are in good hands, and that I have reluctantly accepted the request from our Senate to temporarily stand in for my husband.”

  “Very good, dear. Use that ‘my husband’ phrase as much as possible. Just like I told you.” Horace looked at Emma, wearing an idiotic expression that she recognized as overpowering pride. She’d seen it many times, and it was often accompanied by the revelation of secrets that made no sense to her. “She’s not really my sister, did you know that? Her mother was a lot like you, a household server, but with red hair. I wasn’t married yet, and so my parents raised her—­after silencing her mother, of course.”

  “It is my fervent wish that I hold this position for a very short time, but I promise you the same honor and integrity that my husband brought to this office. I would have mentioned his courage as well, but there is no way I could ever measure up to the bravery of that man. He chose to travel to the war zone even though the trip was perilous, and all because he so valued the efforts of the men and women shouldering the burden in humanity’s fight for survival.”

  Reena stopped speaking for a moment, appearing to fight off an attack of tears, and Horace wrapped an arm around Emma’s bare shoulders. He pulled her close, aggravating the bruises, and pressed his lips against her ear. “Listen closely. I gave her these lines.”

  Regaining her composure, Reena fixed the audience with an expression of resolve. “I know you all join me in the sorrow and concern I feel for my missing husband, but I promise that I will not fail him—­or you. I am Reena Corlipso of Celestia, and I am Reena Mortas of Earth, but most importantly I am simply Reena, of the race human, and I ask you to go forward with me as we continue the work so nobly begun by my husband. Thank you.”

  “Draw my bath,” Horace released his hold, giving Emma a hard slap on the buttocks. His eyes turned toward the balcony, where he frequently accepted the admiring cries of the ­people in the square below. There was a price to pay for living as a citizen of Celestia, and loud supplication was a big part of it. A large crowd was gathered out there, watching Reena’s address on enormous public screens, overjoyed at having one of their own ascend to such power.

  Emma watched him walk toward the balcony as if in a trance, riding the high of having his secret daughter take the place of a man he’d privately hated. She hoped he’d still be in its grip when he settled into the tub, and so she moved quickly into the bathing room. After a quick look over her shoulder, Emma knelt to make sure the knife was still hidden under the mat where she would kneel as she washed Horace’s back. The blade was a polished wafer of hard Celestian stone, given to her by the man who had promised to take her family away from this hellish place. He’d been an operative for someone who hated Horace, and came and went so silently that she’d nicknamed him the Misty Man.

  Emma had just turned on the water when she heard the transparent balcony doors activating, and a quick glance showed that Horace had decided to go outside. The doors slid shut behind him, and he walked to a console on the vine-­covered terrace. His finger punched in a series of commands, and Emma knew that the screens in the teeming square below were changing over to a different feed. Cameras focused on the verandah would give the Celestian citizenry a view of their overlord all across the planet, and even then heads were turning to look up at him.

  Outside, the crowd roared, and she guessed that Horace had waved at them or merely smiled.

  Horace had his back to her, certain that the doors had locked behind him. Certain that she was too stupid to have learned the code that would open them, that would let her out there in front of the cameras and seal the doors once she’d passed through. She typed in the numbers.

  The audience was ecstatic, fully aware that Celestia had finally surpassed Earth to take its rightful place at the head of the alliance. Arms were raised, rows of ­people swayed, and the cries of approval were like a series of waves crashing against the shore. Horace didn’t hear the doors open, but a lull allowed him to detect the sound of the bolts sliding back into place. He turned in surprise, seeing Emma. Seeing the knife in her hand.

  She touched the edge of the blade to her forearm. Blood rose up from the thin cut, and red drops fell on the balcony floor.

  “How did you get out here?” he demanded, his voice low because microphones all over the balustrade would broadcast his words to the ­people below.

  “I wanted to share this with you,” she said sweetly, sounding like a child. Walking toward him, red drops falling, the knife swinging lazily. “This is your big moment, master.”

  Fear rose with the awareness of his frail clothing and the fact that he was alone. Recovering his wits, Horace summoned the tone that promised errant servers a strict punishment if they failed to obey. “Put that knife down and go back inside.”

  The girl giggled, and the crowd suddenly became aware of her on the screens. Not seeing her arm or what she carried, only taking in her beauty, they mistook this for part of the show. A gorgeous server girl, appearing with Horace on the balcony at this perfect moment, suggested they were about to witness a physical celebration that would become legend. A roar of approval and exhortation reached up toward them as Emma got within range.

  “Haven’t I been good to you?” Horace blurted, his eyes dashing around the empty pavilion.

  “Oh yes, master. Very good.” Emma showed him her teeth. “Let me be good to you now.”

  She was much younger, and much faster. He dodged the first rush, but she caught his robe with her free hand, and his bare feet went out from under him. His arms flailed blindly when she dropped down with him, the bloody arm wrapping around his neck. Then she’d released him, and he was scrambling to his feet, amazed that she had missed, marveling at the amount of red the cut on her arm had left on him.

  Down in the square, the crowd screamed as one. Horace, his robe pulled almost off, staggered back toward the windows while a tide of blood flowed down his front. His eyes opened wide as the realization struck him, and he grabbed at the wound even as his brain began to shut down. He fell back and hit the doors, hard, and then the palace security men were pounding on the barrier while Emma walked away, slowly heading for the spot where he’d been standing.

  The howls down below stopped in an instant, an absurd silence descending on the horror-­stricken faces. Emma, her dress splashed with crimson, held up the dripping knife at them. Her ghoulish visage was broadcast on the enormous screens and all over the planet.

  “I’m not yours! I was never yours!” she shrieked, and then the doors were opening, and she turned just in time to receive the volley that tossed her over the railing, tumbling her through the air toward the crush down below.

  “Not good.” Hugh Leeger breathed out the words while watching the delayed feed from Fortuna Aeternam. Emma tumbled slowly as she fell, and the crowd rippled while trying to get out o
f her way. “Not good at all.”

  The operative—­the one Emma had nicknamed the Misty Man—­stood next to Leeger in his office in Unity Plaza. “Reports from my network say it’s utter chaos there. The crowd in the square went crazy and grabbed every slave in sight. They ripped them to pieces with their bare hands.”

  “Did she not understand she was supposed to do this privately?”

  “These things are hard to manage. As you know.”

  “Is it spreading?”

  “Worse. The broadcast went out all over the planet, and there was an uprising anyplace with a significant concentration of slaves. They’ve seized control in several of the mining areas, and the slave neighborhoods in the cities have risen up as well. Celestian authorities have shut down all incoming communications, especially the Bounce. I need to get back there right away, to protect my network.”

  “We took you out of there so you couldn’t be connected to Horace’s killing. You’re not going back, even when order has been restored.”

  “And what if it isn’t?”

  “Then the whole war effort is in jeopardy.” Leeger stood, straightening his tunic. “I need to go brief Chairwoman Mortas.”

  Seated behind Olech’s desk and still dressed in the same outfit from her earlier address, Reena watched the memorial for her late husband on the Bounce. A somber Hugh Leeger stood with her. On the screen, a teenaged Olech Mortas in a dress HDF uniform smiled at them.

  The image shifted to a famous photo, Olech after weeks of combat, wearing muddy fatigues and no helmet. Though only a private, he’d been directing the defense of a hill that had been the target of numerous Sim counterattacks. His face was haggard, and he appeared to be scanning the terrain in front of his position for the enemy.

  “What’s the latest news from Celestia?” Reena asked, her eyes on the monitor.

  “Security forces have regained control of Fortuna Aeternam, but only after shooting anyone who was still in the streets. The uprisings are gaining strength, especially in the mining zones. Every Force unit held in reserve for defense of the settled worlds has received your orders to prepare for movement to Celestia. We’re receiving a lot of vague reports from the Celestian authorities, and much of it’s contradictory. They’re screaming for help while insisting they have things under control.”

  “Your man’s network is still sending information?”

  “Yes, but a few of them have stopped transmitting. I’m assuming they had to flee the unrest.”

  More pictures of Olech moved across the display. The badly wounded boy in a bed in some warship’s sick bay. The too-­thin veteran, lifting weights as part of his recuperation. A strikingly handsome young man, walking across a university campus, assisted by a pretty girl who would become Lydia Mortas.

  “What’s the reaction on the other planets?”

  “The Bounce is working overtime, but the only thing anyone knows for sure is that Horace was attacked by a slave girl. Luckily he collapsed below the cameras’ sightlines, so we’re already spreading a story that he was only wounded. The official line is as you directed; Celestia has declared a state of emergency that has grounded all spacecraft and suspended all communications.”

  “That won’t hold up for long. Especially when they order their commanders in the war zone to send their troops home.” Reena laughed with bitterness. “Too bad we couldn’t keep the Step suspended.”

  “We’re pushing the news of the latest war-­zone victories into the feed even now.”

  Leeger changed the Bounce channel from the memorial to the latest military news. A series of clips appeared, showing billowing smoke and charging human infantrymen. “Command botched a number of good opportunities, so most of the Sim ships raiding our outposts managed to get away. The sudden reinstitution of the Step did catch the enemy off guard, and so their troops were abandoned on two of the planets that were under attack. They weren’t large elements, and Force units quickly mopped them up. We’re exaggerating the size of the enemy formations a bit.”

  “Understood.”

  “Of course we’re exploiting the stories involving Jan and Ayliss. The Bounce directors were beside themselves when they heard what had happened on Verdur and Quad Seven, especially the fact that the Mortas siblings had fought off their opponents while the Step was still suspended.”

  The continuous news loop came back to Quad Seven, and Leeger stopped talking.

  “Under the direction of the newly appointed colonial minister, Ayliss Mortas, discharged veterans successfully defended their new home of FC–7777 against a Sim raiding fleet that had taken advantage of the Step’s unavailability.”

  McRaney’s ruined ship appeared before them, broken in half and still smoldering. The camera panned away carefully, not showing the abandoned Zone Quest mining operation and instead focusing on the entrance to the tunnel system. Weary men and women, many of them wearing bandages, were removing fallen rocks from the tunnel mouth while newly arrived medical teams were treating the wounded out in the open.

  “Showing the same kind of battlefield leadership as her father, Ayliss Mortas personally commanded the defense of the underground colony the veterans had dug out of nearly solid rock. Despite ferocious casualties, the outnumbered colonists soundly defeated the Sim invaders and drove them off before the Step was reinstituted.”

  A flatbed mover slowly came down the road, passing close to the film crew. An almost unrecognizable Ayliss was kneeling in the back, holding a scarred Scorpion rifle in one hand and the upraised palm of a wounded man in the other. Her blond hair was almost completely cut off, and it looked as if it had been dipped in tar. Her torso armor was covered in brown dust, and the visible side of her face was streaked with what looked like sweat and ash.

  The mover stopped and two men riding with her, also covered in dust, hopped off before gently pulling the stretcher down. The man on the litter was large, and he gritted his teeth as they carried him toward the field station. Ayliss strode along next to him, never releasing his hand.

  “Minister Mortas, how are you feeling?” called a voice near the camera.

  Ayliss turned to face him, as if noticing the crew for the first time. The black camouflage paint had morphed into a gray paste, but for the first time the audience could see the right side of her face. Dried blood covered her cheek, and numerous small wounds were evident. The volume cut out as the group passed, but Ayliss’s lips moved in an unmistakable dismissal.

  “Was that Blocker on the stretcher?” Reena asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did Ayliss say what I think she said?”

  “I believe she told the reporter to get the fuck away from her.”

  “Nice to see we were able to teach her a little diplomacy.”

  The scene changed, flipping to a flat hilltop ringed by lush foliage. Shuttles were landing and taking off, and dirty infantrymen were breaking down supplies and cleaning weapons.

  “On Verdur, Lieutenant Jander Mortas and a company from the famous Orphan Brigade were likewise engaged by the Sims. An ecological monitoring facility was under attack by a Sim force estimated to number in the thousands, and Lieutenant Mortas’s company force-­marched through miles of dense jungle before assaulting straight up the side of the hill where the station is located. The Orphans destroyed the Sim attackers, and are now enjoying a well-­deserved break.”

  The view swung from the landing zone to the pristine white of the Victory Provisions building. Armored Orphans stood guard at the open blast doors, and Emile Dassa could be seen just inside, speaking to Jander. His hand was on Mortas’s armor, and they’d both removed their helmets and goggles. Dassa clapped him once on the shoulder, then disappeared into the darkness. Standing there alone for a moment, Mortas fastened his helmet’s chin strap before hanging the headgear on one of his canteens. Dangling his goggles in one hand and holding his rifle in the other, he walked
out into the sunlight as if unaware anyone else was near.

  This film crew had the sense not to engage its subject in conversation, but it slowly zoomed in on Mortas’s face as he looked at a segment of defensive wire that had been taken down. The ground beyond it looked like a logging trail, and several of Almighty’s vehicles were visible at different points along the shattered slope. Work parties were gathering the broken bodies of the Sims who had rushed up that incline with no thought to their own safety the night before. Mortas stared at the scene for several moments.

  Notches cut into his cheeks where the goggles had rested for days, and a spray of dried soil covered much of his face. His dark hair was matted and pressed down onto his scalp, and he gazed out over the devastation as if seeing it for the first time and not understanding any of it at all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is the result of a great many collaborations on a wide range of subjects. I want to extend special thanks to my editor at Harper Voyager, Kelly O’Connor, for her insightful and instructive editing of Dire Steps. Additionally, I’d like to acknowledge the marvelous work of the Harper Voyager artists who designed the book’s excellent cover.

  I also want to thank my West Point classmates Michael McGurk, Meg Roosma, and Ginni Guiton for reading earlier versions of Dire Steps. Their invaluable observations helped this novel realize its true potential.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  HENRY V. O’NEIL is the pen name used by award-­winning mystery novelist Vincent H. O’Neil for his science-­fiction work. A graduate of West Point, he served in the U.S. Army Infantry with the Tenth Mountain Division at Fort Drum, New York and the First Battalion (Airborne) of the 508th Infantry in Panama. He has also worked as a risk manager, a marketing copywriter, and an apprentice librarian.