by Sean Danker
“We’re coming in.” Bjorn guided the fighter into the bay and set it down. Without a battle in the middle, it took only a matter of seconds to fly between the Lydia and Perdita in an Everwing.
“We’re on the bridge,” Ibuki said.
“On our way.” Bjorn opened the canopy, and Mao climbed down. He followed stiffly, and she saw the new wound on his thigh.
“Again?”
“What’s one more? Wouldn’t you rather have a drink here with us than just sit over there by yourself?” Bjorn stepped gingerly away from the fighter.
“A drink, huh?” Mao’s eyes never left his face. “I might have something.”
“Good, because I don’t. And our combiners don’t do ethanol.”
“You tried?” She didn’t sound upset.
The commander’s cabin was adjacent to the stairs leading to the bridge. Mao palmed the lock, and the hatch slid open. Bjorn leaned against the bulkhead as she went inside. He’d never seen her cabin before. It was the same size as the quarters occupied by the rest of the crew, though there was a desk with a console, and only a single bunk.
It was a mess.
“Was it like this before we were boarded?”
“What if it was?” Mao asked, opening the cabinet and rummaging inside. “I’m not a hypocrite. I never inspected any of your quarters even once.” Bjorn just smiled.
She emerged with a bottle in hand, giving him a flat look.
“I can’t believe you’re still walking around like that,” she said, brushing past his bloodstained EV.
“It’s the blood of my enemies. The Empress is into that.”
“It’s your blood, idiot.”
Bjorn blinked. “Harsh, but fair.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Not much.”
Master Sergeant Golding, Major Morel, Lieutenant Ibuki, and Diana were all waiting for them.
“You can pour those out,” Mao said, glancing at the cups in their hands. It looked as if they were drinking Evagardian Ale, sans ethanol, from the combiner. It was a little sad.
Diana came to Bjorn, immediately pulling his arm around her shoulders and helping him to his console. Apart from the pure-white skin and bloodred eyes, she looked all right. So did the others.
“Am I back in charge, or is Bjorn still calling the shots?” Mao asked dryly.
“That was temporary, ma’am.”
Mao got the top off the bottle. The others poured out their ale, and Mao distributed the spirits, whatever they were. Bjorn couldn’t read the label. It looked fancy, though.
Mao tossed the empty bottle aside, and gazed down at the amber liquid in her cup; then she turned to look out the viewport. Nothing was moving out there. Perdita loomed against the stars.
Jets of coolant sprouting all over the station indicated that the overload was coming soon.
“Cheers,” the commander said absently.
Diana took a sip, and immediately spat it out.
“Gross,” Ibuki said, scowling at his cup and wiping his mouth. Bjorn took a taste and shuddered.
“Everyone’s a critic.” Mao took a drink, and Bjorn saw her grimace.
“What is this?” Golding asked.
“I don’t know,” Mao said, looking at the bottle on the deck. “Admiral Hassan gave it to me when I took command. We probably aren’t supposed to actually drink it.”
“It’s foul,” Golding said, making a face. “Probably older than I am.”
“That’s good, right?” Bjorn asked.
Golding just shrugged and took another drink. “This is probably what Everwing fuel tastes like.”
Diana tossed back her drink in a single gulp. She crushed her cup in her hand and dropped it. Bjorn was the only one watching. These cups weren’t exactly indestructible, but they weren’t something you crumpled in your bare hand either.
Diana seemed to have noticed as well. She was gazing down at her fingers sadly.
“All’s well that ends well,” Bjorn told her, and she looked at him gratefully.
Mao was standing at the main viewport, looking out. Diana was perched on the arm of Bjorn’s chair, and Ibuki was leaning on the console, next to Sergeant Golding.
One moment Perdita was there, and the next there was only white.
EPILOGUE
THE colonel considered Bjorn’s face on the feed, and the profile alongside it, most of which was redacted. He touched and swiped, but they weren’t the practiced motions of someone who sat at a console all day. This was a duty he wasn’t used to performing.
In fact, Bjorn was losing patience with him. He crossed his legs and resisted the urge to tap a finger impatiently. That wouldn’t be as rude as opening his holo and browsing headlines, but it would still be too much. He wasn’t a civilian yet; he had to remember that.
It was a nice office. Not especially spacious by planetside standards, but still larger than the Lydia’s bridge. Bjorn’s eyes lingered on the glass case behind the colonel’s desk, which housed a battle-scarred suit of combat armor. It was the only decoration in the office. No coins, no ribbons, no awards. Just his family and his armor. The colonel looked up, and though he wasn’t exactly unfriendly, in his face there was a wariness that Bjorn didn’t care for. Where was this distrust coming from? Was it because of what had happened prior to his involvement with the Everwing program? Was it because of what he and Diana had done? Or was it because he wasn’t fighting this discharge?
Serving the Empress was the only truly Evagardian thing to do, after all. So anyone who didn’t want to do it was by definition a parasite. That was what it was on the colonel’s face. Not wariness: judgment.
He wanted Bjorn to fight. Or at least show some distress at no longer being able to wear the uniform.
Only the top one percent of Evagardians were able to qualify for military service. They had to fight just to earn the privilege to fight. After going through that, not many wanted to walk away.
Bjorn changed his mind and opened his holo. The colonel went on working, stubbornly pretending not to notice while he checked the news from Demenis.
There was plenty of coverage of pirates and war crimes perpetrated by unscrupulous private military contractors rumored to be in the employ of the Commonwealth. Battles in newly annexed space between loathsome criminals and heroic Evagardian special forces, who could not be identified for obvious reasons.
Nothing about a biohazard.
“Bjorn,” the colonel said.
Bjorn killed his holo and straightened up.
“Acknowledge that you received this,” the colonel said, and sent him a file. Bjorn accepted it. It was his final conduct resource, essentially a list of things he couldn’t do. He’d already sat through briefings explaining that as a civilian with classified knowledge he couldn’t speak to the media or talk to anyone. Most of it was things he didn’t need to be told. Common sense.
There would be no dramas about the Lydia Bennet and her crew. Bjorn would never be portrayed by a famous Evagardian actor, though perhaps there would be dramas produced in Free Trade space in which the Evagardians would be portrayed as bloodthirsty villains. Which, given how things had played out in Demenis, would have some foundation in truth.
Bjorn acknowledged that he had the list. What hadn’t been explicitly stated was that he was probably now on quite a few security watch lists, thanks to what he knew. Bjorn would have to be careful about how he spent his time, at least for a while. If he so much as showed his face anywhere near a New Unity function, he’d probably just disappear mysteriously.
But he had no interest in New Unity. Bjorn wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t disloyal. Never had been.
Imperial Security would watch him anyway.
The colonel signed off on the last of his briefings, and on his discharge.
“It’s done,”
he said.
“I’m good to go?”
The colonel nodded. It was customary for him to offer a handshake, a salute, or some words of congratulations. Or even thanks.
But the colonel didn’t say anything at all. He just leaned back in his chair and killed the hologram of Bjorn’s file.
There weren’t many people in the corridors. This wasn’t a military facility; it was the regional Imperial Security headquarters. A hundred stories of offices full of investigators, agents, and analysts.
On the feeds lining the walls, messages played warning everyone to be wary of extremist activity and to protect sensitive information, but without sound. It was getting late; normal working hours had ended two hours earlier. Bjorn’s outprocessing had gone long because of all the extra briefings. He wondered if the Service would pay him for those two hours.
He stepped into a lift, which overlooked the front atrium of the building. It stretched away above and below, calling Perdita to mind and reminding Bjorn that he’d probably never be able to take a lift again without thinking of Cophony.
The front of the atrium was all smart carbon, and he could see the city beyond. The night cycle had begun, and it was darkening outside. The atmospheric shield had a slightly greenish tint, but the clouds displayed on it were streaked with pink light. The stars beyond were unnaturally bright, magnified by the shield.
On some worlds, the stars would be left alone. They would be considered beautiful enough. Here, they were augmented.
Galactics had it wrong. Imperials were not all alike.
As Bjorn descended, he could see lights flashing in the park overlooked by the IS building. Something was going on out there. He saw the glow of the spaceport, and the running lights of launching spacecraft. Fliers moved among the buildings, and over the city there was a dark shape that could only be a stratoplatform. As Bjorn watched, several lights flew away from it, but not very quickly. Perhaps there was a function going on up there. A gala above the city, maybe.
The lift reached the ground floor and opened into the vast lobby. The floor underneath his feet was a feed set to display the Imperial Security emblem, which morphed gracefully into the Evagardian seal.
There was a recruiting office for the Service. Behind Bjorn, many of the floors exposed to the atrium were at least partially dark. The recruiting office was bright and welcoming, and it would be through the night. It would never close.
Bjorn looked through the front as he passed, seeing a woman in crisp dress whites shaking the hand of a girl still wearing her school graduation uniform. She’d made the cut. She had the aptitudes, and her future was stretching out in front of her.
When Bjorn had graduated from his compulsory education, he hadn’t been scouted. He’d had to walk into an office such as this, and ask to be tested. His test scores in school hadn’t been good enough, but he’d believed he could do better.
That was six years ago. He scratched his head and left the building, going out onto the steps. The warm air washed over him, and so did the sounds of the city. An Evagardian city was never loud—sound dampeners made sure of that—except right now it was. Bjorn paused, gazing past the steps, past the fountain, past the street. A wide walkway led into the park, and there were crowds gathered, and tents and pavilions. Something festive was definitely going on.
He put his hands in his pockets and started down the steps, but there was a short figure waiting. Bjorn only paused in surprise for a moment.
“How’d you find me?” he asked Mao as he reached the bottom step.
“I have to have accountability of my people,” she replied. She had on a white dress to her knees. There were little embroidered wings on the short sleeves, and her hat was just a tiny bit oversized. Bjorn understood that was considered fashionable, but it just made her look smaller.
Mao obviously didn’t care; she was wearing flats.
“I’m a civilian,” Bjorn pointed out.
“You weren’t five minutes ago.”
That was fair enough.
“You didn’t even appeal it? You just took the deal?” she asked.
He nodded.
She raised an eyebrow. “Just turning your back on the Empress?”
“What’s she done for me lately?”
“Besides jumping her brand-new, unarmed flagship into a combat zone to save your life?”
“Yeah,” he said, face straight. “Besides that.”
“Well, the Julian did manage to pick up my EC with Nelson and Lucas in it,” Mao said, and that sobered him.
“Really?”
Mao nodded, turning a little pink. “I’m pretty proud of that. They both made it.”
“I didn’t even know you had the option to fake that,” Bjorn said, annoyed. “I thought you killed Lucas for real.”
“Well, we try not to do it. It’s not good for you.” Mao sighed. “It’ll be a while before he’s on his feet. But he’s alive.” She planted her hands on her hips and bounced on her toes a little. “How do you like me now?”
“I thought it was a little weird you were going that far for just his body.” Bjorn rubbed his chin. “But if you’ve got all the access, what about Rada and the general?”
“Grigori’s got brain damage, and she’s having some memory issues, but she’s okay otherwise. They should be able to get her more or less back to the way she was,” Mao said, expression turning serious. “That’ll be a medical discharge, but she’s on track to get her bloodline elevated. The general made it, but they’re not going to try to save her body. She’s going full artificial.”
Bjorn winced. “That’s rough.”
“Not for her. She’s thrilled. She’s going back to active duty. She’s going to see this war through. Not as an Everwing pilot, but still.”
“Really?”
“Bjorn, she’s been retired for twenty years. She’s sick of her family. She wants to fight. Don’t you get that?”
He returned her gaze. “No,” he said.
Mao laughed. “Aren’t you going to ask about Kladinova?”
“I figured we weren’t supposed to talk about her,” he said, glancing back at IS headquarters. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. You probably aren’t even supposed to talk to me about everybody else.”
“We’re not talking about the details,” Mao said, waving a hand. “And I’m still active duty. I have clearance. You can talk to me. They’re discharging her.”
Of course they were, but Bjorn was surprised that was all they were doing.
“And?”
“And she’ll never get near the controls of anything again, but she’s going to teach flight theory or something. She got off easy,” Mao said, seeing the look on his face. “You both did. I just wanted you to know she’s not locked away in a lab somewhere.”
Bjorn nodded. It was good news. News he’d wanted badly, but hadn’t been able to get. He hadn’t even seen Mao since their rescue by the Julian three days ago.
“They’ll still study her,” he said.
Mao nodded.
“Did you know?” Bjorn asked. “That our people would hear your call for help? That they’d pass it on?”
Mao smiled. “That’s your problem, Bjorn. No trust.”
“I trust you.”
“What did you get?”
Bjorn showed her the little silver pin he’d been awarded. It was the same award for valor that was already on his dress whites.
“I guess you could say I actually earned this one,” he said.
“You earned the other one too,” Mao told him firmly. “It takes courage to—” she began, but he cut her off.
“Let’s not talk about that.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re still in it.”
“I’m going to command the next Everwing mission,” Mao said.
Bjorn sigh
ed. “When?”
“Immediately. I get a whole forty hours to get to know my crew this time,” she said, and sighed. “I report tomorrow at zero nine.”
Bjorn moved closer. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.”
“I know.”
He looked past her, across the road. “What’s going on over there?”
Mao turned to join him in looking. “I think it’s a cultural festival.”
“Whose culture?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at him. “Let’s check it out.”
Bjorn hesitated, but only for a moment.
“All right,” he said.
Mao took his arm, and together they went to the bridge that spanned the flatway. As they crested the rise in the middle, music began to play in the park, and there was loud cheering. The cheering suited Bjorn’s mood. For the first time in a long time, he could breathe. He looked down at Mao, but the light brightened, and he looked up.
A glowing shape was rising from the park ahead. Something golden—hair. Then shoulders, covered by a flowing red cape. Arms in billowy white sleeves. A face with delicate features and heavy cosmetics, particularly around the eyes, and with stars and lightning painted on one cheek.
The eyes twinkled like the stars.
The music rose along with the figure ahead as Bjorn and Mao stepped off the bridge and halted to gaze up at the towering hologram.
“We’re at war with the Commonwealth,” Bjorn said tiredly. “And there’s a two-hundred-meter Ganraen prince dancing in midtown Rothgard.”
Mao waved her free hand dismissively, eyes shining. “Prince Dalton’s been speaking out against the war since the beginning. He’s not our enemy. I love this song.”
Bjorn liked it too, but he wasn’t about to say so. He might have let go of the uniform, but he still had a little imperial pride.
“You don’t think it’s a little much?” he asked dryly. “Being a prince and a famous singer?”
“He makes it work.”
“But is this really the time to celebrate Ganraen culture?”
“After New Sochi we have to show that we’re open-minded,” Mao said, squeezing his arm. “We have to show that we can look outside ourselves. That we aren’t what they say we are.”
