Bitter Angels

by C. L. Anderson

  I dropped my gaze from the window to the screen lying across my lap. I brought up the view of the habitat where this message of welcome had originated, and followed as one of the pilots zoomed our scope in on the gently spinning series of tin cans and golden sails to show its missile ports open, ready, and pivoting toward us.

  “Countermeasures,” said Siri. “I do love the old-fashioned rhythms of diaspora dialects.”

  “Not to mention their old-fashioned notions about hospitality,” I replied.

  Of course I had every confidence in our pilots, but I still had to work to keep from clutching my couch arms as the long strings of identification codes were reeled off for the five fleet ships. After all, what better justification for a war than to accuse a bunch of Solaris ships of smuggling or some other sovereignty violation, then blowing them out of the black sky? It was cost effective, and could have a positive propaganda effect with allied systems.

  “There are days I hate having an imagination.” I loosened my hands for the twentieth time.

  “You too, huh?” muttered Siri.

  We grinned at each other, and with a jolt, I realized I was excited. I had thought I’d never get to do this again. For years I had looked toward a future without any missions, without any chance to use my skills, to protect my home and all the people of two dozen worlds who carried peace as their birthright. And no matter what else I’d worked at, I had felt bereft.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw David standing hunched and alone in the rooftop garden. I saw the strangled anger in Jo’s eyes, and guilt threatened. It raged and it stamped, but I beat it back.

  Let me enjoy this, I told it. Just this once, if never again, let me feel that it is good to be on the job.

  “Miranda I, you are confirmed,” said the voice of Erasmus Flight Control. “You may begin your docking orbit with Erasmus Habitat 2, staying within designated coordinates and parameters.”

  I started unhooking my webbing and looked across at Siri. “Time to dress for dinner.”

  Long-term exposure to microgravity is not good for human physiology, even if you are willing to shoot yourself full of physioactives to keep your heart and bones in condition. All the “little worlds” find ways to deal with the problem. The most common method is to adapt the clothing. Shirts, trousers, and shoes can easily be made heavier, and you can make use of local stones and metals to do it. Erasmus had elevated this necessary adaptation not only to an art form, but to a status marker, which we needed to match if we were to be taken seriously.

  While the pilots guided us into docking orbit with Erasmus Habitat 2, we donned our field-dress uniforms. These are not the sleek uniforms we wear when we’re on public parade. Field dress recognizes the possibility of sudden violence and involves black body armor that is specially reinforced and weighted for the environment. The shining boots are thick-soled, hard-toed, and square-heeled. The armor is softened by a neatly tailored blue dress tunic with a flaring hem that is weighted on the inside and stiffened with gold-and-white braid on the outside. There is also, of course, the venerable tradition of the “fruit salad,” on the chest, showing honors earned and tests passed. We even had our peaked blue-and-white hats on our heads, since docking bays are designated “outdoors” for protocol purposes.

  Then there was the gun. Not a lethal armament, but an armament nonetheless, slung across my back with a wide white strap. We all carried one. Just in case.

  Most of the diaspora populations have heard that Guardians cannot kill. We don’t keep that a secret. But outsiders have a tough time reconciling “cannot kill” with a group of overtly armed people. It makes them wonder if that whole not-killing thing might just be a rumor, or if we are a branch with some kind of special license. This means the smart ones hold off from any violence, at least for a while, and only the stupid ones rush in.

  I can tell you from experience, it’s a lot easier to deal with the stupid ones.

  The half dozen of us “official” Guardians assembled in the main dining hall. I surveyed my tiny contingent. We should have had three or four times as many operatives for this mission, but the personnel simply was not there. They were out in Freedom and Ganges Heart and Dragon’s End and a dozen other diaspora worlds. I had to threaten to resign my commission again to Misao and four others above him to make sure we even had our own doctor. Gwin wore gleaming white gloves on her hands and stood head and shoulders above the rest of us. I wondered if she’d chosen that build.

  The docking clamps clanked as they sealed and whirred as they pulled us in. The ship ran through its cycle of signals and announcements. I used the time to line up my five subordinates for inspection. I tweaked Siri’s hem and brushed some dust off her shoulder. She muttered something under her breath I could have written her up for.

  Once they all passed muster, we fell in: our short double lines straight, our shoulders square, our heads up, standing at the ready, waiting for the doors to open.

  We let the civilians exit ahead of us. This is standard operating procedure. After all, what’s the point of getting all dressed up if you’re not going to make an entrance?

  Even though we were only six, we made an impressive noise as we marched down the ramp into the cavernous white docking bay. Our civilians, the thirty that were already down on the deck bay, stood up a little straighter, proud of the show. Several people lounging by the gates also straightened at the sight of us.

  As I led my people past the civilians, I glimpsed Vijay far in the back of the crowd of aid workers. If it hadn’t been for his height, I wouldn’t have known him. His skin had been dyed a mellow brown and his shaved scalp gleamed in the flickering lights. The real change, though, was his face. They’d scarred him. Angry white slashes crisscrossed his cheeks under his eyes. His nose was a squashed lump. Erratic, snarled lines decorated his forehead and throat, as if someone had given a toddler a knife instead of a crayon and let him draw on Vijay’s skin.

  The resulting impression was of an optimized kid who’d gone way far down into the anger and the self-mutilation that came with it. He caught me looking at him and for a moment his eyes, undamaged and dark, narrowed. We both glanced away and I focused on the little committee that stepped up to welcome us.

  There were four of them—two Solarans and two Erasmans. The Erasmans stared. The Solarans grinned.

  I recognized Liang Chen from the videos and messages we’d passed back and forth. His dark hair was combed back into a long ponytail and his trousers, shirt, and boots had clearly seen hard use.

  “Welcome to Erasmus, Field Commander Drajeske.” He held out both callused hands to me and I took them, but he didn’t hold on for a second longer than was necessary. “Let me introduce you to Commander Favor Barclay of the Erasmus Security.”

  Local protocol called for me to bow at this point. “Commander Barclay.”

  Unlike Liang, the Erasmans had dressed to impress. Their black-and-scarlet uniforms with gleaming gold braid stood out against the white walls that were being polished by stumpy cleaning drones. Most dramatic, though, was the full-length black cape that hung over one shoulder, only partly concealing the compact gun holstered at his hip, a gun that was probably a lot more lethal than the weapon I had slung over my back.

  Barclay responded with a polite bow of his own. “Field Commander Drajeske. This is Captain Amerand Jireu.” Barclay gestured to the man behind him, who stepped forward smartly. “He will be your main escort and contact while you are with us.”

  I bowed and he bowed. Captain Amerand Jireu was tall and lean, with that particular kind of wiriness that belongs to a strong man who has seldom known the full gravity humans evolved under.

  “I hope I won’t be taking up too much of your time, Captain.”

  “Not at all, Commander. It’s part of my job.”

  “And you know Orry Batumbe.” Liang was gesturing toward the second Solaran and I turned my gaze back where it belonged.

  We clasped hands. “Good to see you, Orry.”

&nbs
p; “Good to see you too, Field Commander.” He was wrinkling and graying and was maybe fifteen pounds thinner than when I’d known him during a stint on New Atlantis, but his eyes were bright and clear, if a little harder than they had been.

  “This is my second, Field Coordinator Siri Baijahn,” I said to the little welcoming committee. Siri bowed smoothly, her expression politely neutral, but her gaze flickered over the men in front of her, storing the details for later. Details, for instance, of the six people standing behind the welcome committee, all of them Erasmans, wearing high-collared black coats with hems so long they brushed the backs of their black boots.

  All of them carried data pads. None of them was introduced.

  These, then, were some of the Erasman Clerks, who were almost as famous as their heavily armed Flight Control, and at least as dangerous.

  Liang turned to the Erasman commander. “Well, in the interests of not taking up too much time, I’ll stay here and supervise the unloading.”

  “Very good,” said Barclay briskly. “We’ve three Clerks to assist you.” So what are the other three going to be doing? I wondered. “We have, of course, received your cargo and crew manifests, but we’ll need to double-check them.” Barclay gave a shrug that said, Bureaucrats, what can you do?

  He turned to me. “Captain Jireu will be piloting you to Moonthree after you’ve been through your screening.”

  “Screening?” This was a twist.

  “A routine security screen,” said Barclay blandly. “Surely you were informed?”

  No, we had not been informed, and I was sure he knew that. However, if I said anything, I was equally sure his eyebrows would lift and he’d say “I’m shocked.” We’d wrangle, and I’d end up doing as they said anyway, because otherwise we wouldn’t go anywhere.

  “We received a large number of security protocols…” I said lamely. When all else fails, be willing to look like a fool. Maybe they will underestimate you later about something really important. “This one may have gotten skipped. My apologies.” I put on a sheepish air and said to Captain Jireu, “If you’ll just show us where to go…?”

  Captain Jireu bowed again but kept his face lifted. I noticed his skin was the color of golden sand, which made his deep-set eyes look especially dark. His thick, tightly curled hair was cinnamon brown and cut close to his scalp.

  Handsome.

  I told myself this person was too young for me to be having that thought, but that didn’t make me feel any better. Then I thought about the light-years’ worth of silence stretching between me and David and felt even worse.

  Orry was watching me closely and I wondered what he was seeing. Probably too much. Orry was a romantic and a sensualist, given to believing everybody chased parts and parcels as much as he did.

  Fortunately, this was neither the place nor the time for Orry to indulge himself, and he peeled off with Liang and the rest of our team to head back for the docked ships.

  “Follow me, please,” said Jireu. I motioned to Siri, who was the only other member of the team authorized to go to Moonthree. We were not allowed to bring our own ships any farther than the habitats, at least until they’d been thoroughly inspected and the licenses were issued for our personnel and their transport. I had a bet on with Siri that those licenses would not appear in less than two weeks.

  There was a very practical reason Jasper and Felice Erasmus had set up their empire among moons and stations. It made controlling the movement of people, cargo, and information that much easier.

  Behind us, the busy sounds of organization and unloading echoed off the white walls. Liang was already getting into it with Barclay and the Clerks, and Orry was trying to smooth things over. Oh, this was going to be a long day.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Siri glance at one of the cleaning drones and glance again. She caught my gaze and blinked rapidly, resetting her cameras. She nudged the drone with the toe of her boot. It beeped a warning and drifted away, but not too far.

  Ah. More minders. But for us or the Erasmans? I eyed Captain Jireu, but he faced rigidly ahead.

  Captain Jireu led us through a battered air lock into a second, smaller, curved white room, just as gleaming and sterile as the first one. All that blank whiteness began to prick the back of my mind. What came through here that needed quarantine?

  What do they expect to come through here that might need quarantine?

  An active desk and a scanning arch had been set up in the middle of the subchamber. The desk, a block of polished metal and blanked-out screens, was occupied by a thin, pale woman in traditional medical whites. She looked like she could have been made for this unsettling white space.

  “Dr. Emiliya Varus will be doing the scans for you and your people,” said Captain Jireu.

  I bowed to Dr. Varus. She had hard lines to her face. Her bones showed sharp and close under her skin and her keen eyes sat too deep in her skull. Whatever this woman had been through in her life, it had left nothing soft or easy in her.

  “For the record, we are Field Commander Terese Drajeske and Captain Siri Baijahn,” I said briskly. “You should be in receipt of our biological records and signatures. A complete list of all inorganic modifications was provided with the approval order for our arrival.” I spoke clearly, for the benefit of all present and remote listeners.

  “While I’m sure that’s true,” said Dr. Varus, “we need to verify that information for security purposes.”

  “The last thing I want is for anyone to feel insecure.” I flashed my best diplomatic smile.

  Dr. Varus frowned more deeply toward Amerand Jireu.

  “I’m sorry,” I said at once. “That was uncalled for, and of course we understand about the scan. We’re frequently suspected of being walking transmitters or weaponized.”

  Jireu looked pointedly at the gun butt visible over my shoulder. “And are you?”

  It was a refreshingly direct question, and I gave him a small smile. “Not this week.”

  His mouth twitched. “So, what are you this week?”

  “This week, I’m just trying to help.” Siri stuck her tongue in her cheek and looked away, her camera-eyes tracking the cleaning drone on the floor, and the one on the walls.

  “This week,” Captain Jireu repeated, but I just turned toward Dr. Varus.

  “What’s the procedure?”

  “Under this archway, please.” Varus’s gaze slid to Captain Jireu again. I wondered if the two knew each other, or if she somehow trusted him less than she trusted us. There was something about this she didn’t trust. She moved sharply, discreetly, like she wasn’t sure of distances or angles.

  I unstrapped my weapon and handed it to Siri. Jireu frowned again but made no move to ask for custody of my weapon. It had been preregistered and cleared with Erasmus Security. Bianca’s death had accomplished one thing for us: The Erasman authorities were ready to allow us a certain amount of self-defense.

  The “archway” Dr. Varus directed me toward was smooth and—unsurprisingly—white, but its display screens and input panels glowed in a whole rainbow of colors. I walked into the cabinet like a magician’s assistant and the door clicked shut behind. I closed my eyes and focused on the infinite space inside myself. I made myself breathe deeply while around me the machine hummed and shined its lights and vibrated under my feet.

  The door will open again. It’s almost done. The door will open.

  “We’ve got no direct information on Hospital,” Siri had told me back during the initial briefings.

  “They’ve restricted the hospital?”

  “For security reasons, they say.” Siri had leaned hard on the last two words. “To prevent the ‘agitation’ that passed between Dazzle, Market, and Oblivion from claiming the one place that still brings money into the system.”

  “How? What have they got that anybody finds it’s worth the expense of having their people shipped in there?”

  Siri had rolled her eyes at me. “It’s more a case of what they don’t hav
e.”

  “Ah.”

  Most countries, most worlds—the worlds of the Pax Solaris included—impose strict regulations on medical procedures. There are things their doctors can be arrested for doing, or are not trained to do. This led to a black market in providing doctors trained above or beyond local regulation. Moontwo, Hospital, evidently was one place you went to undergo procedures your home system might have interdicted.

  This memory did nothing to calm me down as I stood there in the white scanner cabinet. I was clenching my fists and gritting my teeth by the time the door did open.

  The first thing I noticed when I stepped out into the open bay again was that Dr. Varus did not look pleased. She stared at the numbers that flashed on the screen along with the colorful outline sketch of my body and murmured questions for the bulky set clipped over her ear. I waited.

  “You’ve got some serious scar tissue behind your right ear.”

  They couldn’t get everything out. No one wants to mess around near the brain more than necessary. “Yes.”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  None of your business. “I was on assignment in a city that had a lot less forbearance than you do. I was imprisoned and tortured.”

  I was expecting some sign of pity, or perhaps respect. I got neither. Dr. Varus’s face creased with distaste as she scanned the numbers and telltales on my profile. “You have had extensive work done recently.”

  “All of which is detailed in the authorizations you were sent,” I answered, my patience evaporating. “As was my scar tissue.”

  She turned back to her desk, unfolded another screen, and typed in some more entries, using the ancient keypad. “That is correct,” she said finally. “Next, please.”

  Siri sighed, handed the weapons over to me, and took her turn in the white cabinet. I felt my palms begin to sweat in my gloves, but I couldn’t understand why.

  “What for?” asked Captain Jireu abruptly.

  “I beg your pardon?” I tore my gaze away from the white cabinet.