Bitter Angels

by C. L. Anderson

  I made sure my handset was switched off and gathered up my coat and gloves and slung my pack over my shoulder. Setting my jaw, I joined the river of my fellow passengers spilling out into the antique sandstone-and-marble hall.

  I don’t have eye or ear implants, so I had nothing to shield my senses from the riot. The onslaught of noise and color threatened to drag me under. A hundred billboards flashed images too fast for me to take in. Dozens of different songs blared in my ears. Artificial breezes wafted the scents of food and perfume at me, alternately making me salivate and tightening my stomach from the unpalatable combinations. The whole place seemed to be a hangout for the hyperchic, the exotic, and the truly bizarre, as paid actors and models tried to compete with the billboards for my attention.

  I gulped air and found that, as thick as the artificial miasma was, I could still breathe. It took a moment, but I was able to narrow my focus down to the real and scan the crowds that waited for the disembarking passengers. No one came forward to meet me. Of course not. I had deliberately not told anyone when I was coming.

  I strode across the main terminal, automatically adopting my “not a tourist” walk: eyes straight ahead, shoulders square, put on your coat as you walk, don’t let the people or the ads catch your attention, and for the love of all that is sacred, don’t let an ad-bot catch up with you.

  In the express elevator, I endured two giggly, much-enhanced and tattooed actors talking enthusiastically about the new game they’d been playing the night before. It seemed to involve death, zombies, acrobatics, and a lot of VR sex.

  I had to stop myself from sprinting down the walkway toward the Dearborn Zone El train. I crossed out of the confines of Union Station accompanied by a fanfare of “come back soon” and “you’ve still got time to take advantage…” messages from various motion-sensitive billboards, and instantly relaxed.

  At least until I saw Vijay Kochinski on the bench.

  He was already in the act of taking off his glasses and tucking them into his jacket pocket as I threaded my way across the half-full platform. I stopped directly in front of him as he stood up.

  “Hello, Terese.” He said it with that extra weight people give an inadequate greeting that comes after a long absence.

  “Hello, Vijay.”

  Vijay had been Optimized as a child. Some parents will do everything they can afford—and a few things they can’t—to give their child an advantage, materially or genetically. It has long been known that people automatically respond more favorably to tall men, and to handsome men, and to men with blue eyes (which I’ve never understood, but there it is). So Vijay had been inspected, injected, and worked over until he had all that, and a bit more.

  Like a lot of other Optimized children, Vijay had nearly killed himself with drugs and dangerous stunts, which degenerated into actual disfiguration gestures. Years of individual therapy and opto-support groups, combined with some remod surgery to take down the hyperhandsomeness, had straightened him out. But he’d kept the height. Liked the view, he said.

  “Took your time,” he remarked at last. He looked me up and down, taking in what had stayed the same and how much had changed. Vijay had let himself age, but not like I had. After I had the kids, I let myself go, happily and comfortably. I now was as round in the hip and midriff as I’d always been in the bosom and had streaks of grey in my curling black hair. Vijay’s sleek green thermal jacket was tailored enough to show he was still in very good shape. His hair was salt-and-pepper, but still full and shining. His face was lined, and had that weathered quality that spoke of real sun and wind rather than cosmetic treatment.

  “Yeah.” I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. I couldn’t help glancing around me. Our fellow travelers were paying about as much attention as city dwellers ever do to strangers’ conversations, that is to say, none.

  “How pissed is Misao?” I asked.

  Vijay shook his head, very slowly, his lips pursed. “Not at all. This should worry you.”

  It did. A lot. I looked away and bit my lip.

  The El was crowded. It always is. I grabbed a strap and swayed shoulder to shoulder with Vijay and a mix of sleep-deprived commuters, ebullient college students, bright-eyed tourists, and a hyperactive business wonk. But at least the smells of humanity were as natural as they ever get, and if anyone was trying to sell me something, they had to be quiet about it or the spy cameras would ban them from public transport for six months.

  I could have sprung for a private car. I don’t know why I was determined not to. Perhaps to prove I could handle crowds and the unexpected. There had been a time when I couldn’t, but I was over that. I was a new woman. My own woman with my own good life. I had survived something no one else had. I could take whatever came on my own terms.

  The El snaked through the landscape of sparkling towers, stark white light, and storm-grey sky. Drone-planes and seagulls skimmed past us. At last, we slowed and stopped, and the carefully designed, accentless, genderless, and inoffensive voice said, “Daley Tower, Number Four.”

  It took several seconds before I could make myself step out onto the platform. In the end, it was Vijay’s patient and sympathetic look that stiffened my nerves. The doors whooshed right behind me and the train slipped soundlessly away, its breeze ruffling the curls on the back of my scalp.

  Don’t stop. Don’t think about it. Just walk. I brushed past Vijay and let him fall into step behind me.

  The entrance to the Special Forces HQ in Chicago is a pair of glass doors with plain metal handles that take your palm prints when you pull on them. The only permanent decoration is the message painted in black on the transparent surface.

  UNITED WORLD GOVERNMENT FOR EARTH

  DEPARTMENT OF PEACE AND SECURITY MAINTENANCE

  SPECIAL FORCES DIVISION

  CHICAGO BRANCH

  The handle was cold beneath my now-identified palm. I hadn’t been around in such a long time that the door monitor felt the need to flash the small print for me:

  By entering these premises you have forfeited the rights of privacy and anonymity granted under UWG Common Cause Covenant 21:38:06. Personal background search and retrieval may be initiated at any time by any UWG-DPSM-SFD-CB employee or official designate, living or automated. Any word or action committed on the premises may be recorded and used in any official or legal proceedings initiated by or against the entrant.

  “And you have a nice day,” I muttered as I walked through the door. Behind me, Vijay snickered quietly. The door did not answer.

  I don’t know why I was surprised to see they’d redecorated the lobby. Somehow, you expect places you’ve left to freeze, like your memories of them have. It’s egotistical, but no one really wants to believe the world goes on without them.

  Reception was still a huge, curving wooden desk with the Chicago skyline carved in bas-relief on its face, but the carpets were now an antique Persian pattern instead of institutional beige. They’d put in groves of miniature orange and rose trees under full-spectrum lights. The chairs and sofas had embroidered cushions in wooden frames instead of overstuffed leather.

  One of them was taken up by another familiar form.

  “Siri.” Surprise froze me in place for a moment.

  “Field Commander.” Siri Baijahn’s voice was sour and her arms were folded. She was thinner than when I’d last seen her. She’d changed her hair to a glossy copper color but still wore it in the straight, short cut I remembered. Her skin was darker, either from dye or sun exposure, I couldn’t tell yet. When not on assignment, Siri went in for brilliant-colored clothes, her answer to the dictum that we needed to keep ourselves within local norms when we were in the field. Today, she wore an orange-and-gold-thread wraparound top with flowing sleeves, bright red slacks, and boots that reminded me a lot of the ones Jo had been wearing. Must be the latest thing.

  “Welcome back,” she said, and the bitterness in her voice was corrosive.

  “I’m not back,” I told her, told them, tried to t
ell myself. “I’m just going to hear Misao out.”

  She looked me up and down with eyes as acid bright as her tone had been. “Then why bother? You could have done that much on your set.”

  “I don’t have the proper clearance anymore.”

  The way she turned her back on me said what she thought of this excuse. Siri had been furious when I decided to leave. Even knowing everything that had happened to me, I strongly suspected she still saw what I did as some kind of dereliction of duty. She had been Bianca’s protégé for two decades by the time I left and had swallowed all of Bianca’s lessons about service.

  I looked up at Vijay, hoping for help, but he had closed himself off. He had to work with Siri, I reasoned.

  “So why’d you come out to meet me?” I asked Siri. “Vijay could have walked me back.”

  That stopped her. She turned. “Because it’s important and you’ve always been the best under pressure.” She said it without rancor and without jealousy. “Because I was hoping for a minute to see my friend before you turned back into my ex-commander.”

  We locked gazes, each one waiting to see if the other would shift, back down, or be embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Yeah. Me too.” Some of the acid bled away, but none of the wariness did. “Come on,” she said. “The Little Big’s waiting.”

  I handed off my coat and small pack for reception to inspect and keep, then followed Siri inside. Like the lobby, the halls had more colors than I remembered. They were peaceful, contrasting patterns with lots of jewel tones to offset the bone whites and greys that made up the frames and the trims. The screens on the walls alternated news-feeds with landscapes and music. There were more of them than I remembered, too, and they kept catching at my peripheral vision.

  The people I passed, however, were exactly as I remembered: Serious, soberly dressed, and traditionally styled, they were absorbed in their own thoughts or conversations. If anyone glanced at me, it was fleeting. I was just another visitor to the office. Except for Vijay, Siri, and Misao, there might not be anybody left who remembered my face. The average life span might be three hundred years in these modern times, but the average career of a Guardian was less than a tenth of that.

  Now that Siri was with us, the silence was much less comfortable. My back started to ache from the tension that seized my shoulders.

  Vijay tried to break through with some light gossip. “You still with David?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Siri palmed us through an inner door and shot Vijay a scathing glance as we walked past, as if she couldn’t believe he’d bring up such a subject. Vijay just raised his eyebrows at her. She shrugged irritably.

  Families are not the only ones who can communicate without speaking.

  “And David’s still a Van Helsing?”

  I put on an offended air. “Immortality Infractions Investigator, if you please.”

  This apparently confused Vijay. His forehead bunched up. “I.I.I. is better than Van Helsing?”

  “Shut up, Vijay.”

  He chuckled. “Welcome home, Terese.”

  Misao had a garden office. At the moment, he had the shields up to keep in the heat and keep out the wind of the Chicago winter. The effect was that of walking into a peaceful, well-tended courtyard, with a large desk and several comfortable chairs in the middle. The branches of winter-naked maples made charcoal sketches against the grey-stone walls. Evergreens spread dark canopies for the scarlet-berried hollies. Even under the leaden sky, it looked festive.

  As Vijay pushed open the door, Misao glanced up from his active desktop and touched the OFF command with a short, blunt finger. The desk went dark before I was two steps into his office space and my ex-commander stood up to acknowledge me.

  Guardian Marshal-Steward Misao Smith had most emphatically not been optimized. He looked up to every one of his team, except me. This had earned him the nickname of “Little Big,” of which he was perfectly aware. He still had the smooth, round face that belonged to a man on the threshold of his fifth decade and the fireplug build of someone who had kept himself fit all his life. His ruthlessly slicked-back hair was solid black and the awareness behind his green eyes still knife-sharp.

  “Thank you, Agent Kochinski, Coordinator Baijahn.” Misao sat back in his leather chair. Vijay nodded and looked to Siri. The look she shot back toward him was almost a challenge. But they had been dismissed, and they walked out, letting the door swing shut.

  Misao, unperturbed and perfectly patient, looked me up and down just like Vijay had.

  In an instant, I realized how futile my little attempt to discomfort my former chief by making him wait was. I grew smaller as I settled into the visitor’s chair, my defenses slipping from me like the flimsy constructs they were. Trying to reacquaint myself with my own backbone, I silently told Misao to go to hell in every language I knew.

  This changed nothing. I hadn’t said a word, and I had already blinked.

  “How are you, Field Commander Drajeske?” Misao inquired as he reclaimed his own chair.

  I matched his cool gaze and pulled out my best office manners. “Fine, thank you, Marshal-Steward Smith. And yourself?”

  One finger on his right hand twitched. “I am terrible,” he said. “And I expect to be worse in the very near future.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, Marshal-Steward.”

  Formality makes a kind of lacquer for the soul. It is beautifully slick and impossible to see through. Lacquer is also watertight. Nothing gets out, and nothing gets in.

  I couldn’t let anything else get in. It had been too easy to fall into the old talk with Vijay.

  “Perhaps you would like to know why I have requested you share this very bad time with me.”

  I didn’t answer him. Overhead, the clouds shifted. Shadows rippled over the stones ringing the holly beds.

  “You’re here because Bianca Fayette asked for you to replace her.”

  My lacquer shattered. I stared at Misao, and I knew my face had gone white. Misao, on the other hand, did not move.

  It’s one of the many unusual traditions in the Guardians. You can, if you want, name your own replacement. It’s not official, and it’s fairly easily overridden, but it can carry some weight. My replacement, Caesar, got my job on my say-so.

  “She died in the field. Her body was recovered on Moon-four in the Erasmus System. Her Companion’s record indicates that her last instructions included making sure that you personally came to Moonfour to take up the mission.”

  This was why he hadn’t been impatient or angry. He knew that however I’d come in—whether red-hot or ice-cold—this would undo me.

  I remembered the cell where I lay on harsh stone in that unending nightmare darkness. I remembered the beam of white light. I squinted in bewildered pain to see the neat, square hole getting bigger and bigger where the wall was methodically dismantled. I remembered how I shrank away from the silhouette that catapulted toward me, how I couldn’t comprehend it could bring anything but more pain.

  “Easy, Terese. Easy. It’s me. I got you…”

  Easy, Terese.

  I licked my lips and I hated Misao with everything I had. But that flame burned itself out in a couple of heartbeats.

  Easy, Terese.

  “What…what was she doing in Erasmus?” Moonfour, that was the one called Dazzle. Once it had been a pleasure palace the size of Mars. Now it was the crumbling and violence-prone home for a jumbled and repressed population without options.

  Misao’s mouth straightened into a hard, thin line for a moment before he answered. “She was completing a grand tour with Captain Baijahn. Our ambassador in the system, Philippe Diego y Bern”—he paused, and I nodded, acknowledging I knew the man—“asked her to stay behind to help with what he felt was soon going to become a major refugee situation.”

  That wasn’t too surprising. The situation on Erasmus had stabilized for the moment (as far as I knew), but for a lot of the
people there, life was eked out on the barest margins.

  “How…how did Bianca die?”

  “It seems she found her own way out.”

  Tremors traveled up my right hand, little butterfly wings brushing against my bones.

  “She was…captured?” Harsh, cold stone, the stink of my own blood, the hole, the black, silent hole brimming over with pain…

  “Abducted at the very least.”

  “How?” I asked hoarsely. “Who did it?”

  Anger flickered across Misao’s tightly controlled features. “We don’t know.”

  “But you retrieved her Companion…” The Companion should contain a complete record of her doings, whom she’d met with, where she’d gone. Everything since her last download.

  “The Companion was damaged.” Misao’s words made me go cold. “Her body had been left to rot, Terese. We got back bones and putrefied flesh, and not a lot of that because the rats had been at it for at least a week.”

  Leaving no witness to the reasons that drove her to take her own life. No one to bring her justice or redemption. There wasn’t enough anger in the world to adequately answer this.

  I looked into Misao’s tired, grieving face.

  “Can I talk to it?”

  “Are you coming back?”

  I couldn’t answer. The words dried up in my mind. His question blocked off my thoughts. I had to clear my throat, shift my weight before I could jar some syllables into place. Misao, of course, missed none of that.

  “Misao, you cannot possibly want me for this, for whatever it is. I’ve been gone thirty years!” I was pleading now, and I hated it, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Bianca was watching me. I could feel her, right at my back. Get me out of this, Misao. Please. Tell her I can’t do this.

  “I don’t want you,” he said flatly. “But I have very little choice right now. If the current data is correct, we are probably one year away from the Erasmans launching a war on the Solar System, and the Guardians are stretched so thin across so many hot spots we are in danger of disintegrating. If I have to bring back every discharged officer who still has a pulse to prevent that, I will.”