by Dan Moren
Eli stared at him as though waiting for the punchline of a joke. “You need a pilot?”
“Yes.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment, then Eli threw back his head and laughed. “Boy, did you ever kidnap the wrong person.”
“Jesus, I’m asking you a favor,” his brother said, heat creeping into his voice. “I’m sorry I forced you to come with me, and I’m sorry I threatened you. And really, if you want, you can leave right now. Just walk out that door.” He gestured toward it. “I won’t try to stop you, I promise.”
Eli frowned, sitting up in the bed. “Eamon, really. What the hell is this all about?”
His brother looked away, staring at his knees. “I guess you could say that when it comes down to it, it’s really all about Meghann.”
A lump threatened to rise in Eli’s throat. “Meghann?” I think you should come home. Please. Come home. “What do you mean?”
“What happened to her,” said, Eamon, his eyes blurry and unfocused, “was all because the Illyricans felt like they could just walk all over us. Our entire planet. I know—” he held up a hand, palm out, “—I know you don’t think this is your fight. But the whole reason I’m doing this is so that what happened to Meghann doesn’t happen to anybody else. Not on Caledonia, not on any other planet.”
Eli leaned forward. A face smiled at him in his mind—not even a face, just broad strokes: freckles, lively eyes, red hair. It looked nothing like the scared, helpless woman he’d seen rocking silently in her chair. It was everything that face wasn’t.
It was alive.
“Eamon, what exactly are you going to do?”
A smile—a jagged one that Eli didn’t entirely like—tugged at the corners of his brother’s mouth. “The Illyricans have been working on something big.”
Something immediately clicked in Eli’s mind. That superweapon project Fielding’s boss was worried about. So it is true.
“I—we,” continued Eamon, “are going to take it away from them.”
Eli swallowed. Even as teenagers, Eamon’s schemes had tended to revolve around pretty much one thing: doing as much damage to the Illyricans as possible. And though there might not be much love lost between Eli and the Imperium, these days he felt less inclined to cause people harm, no matter who they were.
“I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
“I know. Look, if everything goes according to plan, nobody should get hurt.” He smiled faintly, reaching out and grasping Eli’s shoulder. “Trust me. We’re going to do our sister proud.”
Eli’s throat had mysteriously seemed to close up, and he coughed into his hand. “Fine. For Meghann.”
Eamon’s expression turned surprised, as though he hadn’t expected his brother to agree. “Are you sure?”
“Not even a little bit,” said Eli honestly. “But like you said, we’re flesh and blood. And that should mean something.”
A smile—a real one—twitched at one corner of Eamon’s mouth. “Thanks, Lije. You won’t regret it. I’ll fill you in in the morning. Just get some sleep.” With that, his brother rose and disappeared into the bathroom.
Eli sighed and fell back onto the bed. Despite what Eamon said, he wagered there was a good chance he would regret this. He didn’t know whether his brother had been bluffing about letting him walk out of there but he wasn’t really sure he had anywhere else to go. The only other people he knew on Caledonia were Fielding and his crew, and he wasn’t even sure how to find them.
But, more importantly, in his mind he could still see the look on Eamon’s face when his brother had stepped in between him and Kelly—it was the same one Eli remembered seeing on their father’s face right before he’d made his point with his fists or a belt. After all these years, and everything he’d been through, he’d only found two things that scared him so much that he couldn’t think straight—one was getting back into a cockpit, an idea that always conjured images of ships exploding into fireballs, vaporized instantly amid truncated, static-mangled screams. The other was that look, which before today he hadn’t seen in almost ten years.
And, of the two, that one scared him more.
Eli was shaken awake far too early in the morning. For a few minutes he held out hope that he’d slept through the entire day only to be woken up the morning after.
“Wahtimeizzit?”
“It’s about 6:30,” said Eamon.
Eli blinked. “6:30? That’s not even a real thing.”
“Time to go to work, Lije.”
Work? Still sleep-addled, Eli wondered if he’d woken up in some alternate reality where he was holding down a steady job. He tried to push himself up, but pins and needles danced up and down his right arm; he’d fallen asleep on it. With effort, he tried to shake it awake. “Ow.”
“Here,” offered Eamon, tossing something at him. Eli didn’t move quite fast enough; it hit him in the face, shrouding him in darkness. Slowly pulling it off his head, he stared at the item which appeared to be made out of dark blue cloth.
“You’re dressing me, now?” he asked, sorting through the many sleeves that the garment seemed to possess. “I don’t really do jumpsuits.” He’d even managed to convince Colonel Antony to let him wear shirts and trousers on janitor duty, except for rare occasions.
“Clothes make the man,” said Eamon, and as Eli’s bleary vision cleared he realized that his brother was dressed in an identical get-up: a navy blue jumpsuit with an insignia sewn above the left breast in gold. He was clipping a plastic ID badge onto the right breast pocket.
Eli frowned. “Seriously? As I recall, the only job you held down for more than about three hours was working at the Raleigh City Country Club, and that was only because they let you drive that little cart around.”
“Five wonderful days,” said Eamon wistfully. “Now put it on.”
Sighing, Eli ditched his jacket and shirt. “Jesus, not even mom tried to dress us alike. Though I do remember wearing an awful lot of your hand-me-downs.”
Eamon grinned. “Even Meghann ended up with some of those, though she never complained.”
Eli shook his head as he pulled off his trousers and struggled into the jumpsuit. “She was so excited when mom finally bought her a dress. Wore it so much it had holes inside a month.” He zipped up the front. “There. How do I look?”
“Like a working stiff.”
“I’m about five years out of date on fashion. Is that ‘in’ now?”
“Some things never go out of style.” Eamon stepped forward and affixed to Eli’s chest a white plastic ID card similar to the one on his own suit. Eli flipped it up when Eamon had finished and raised an eyebrow. “That’s a picture of me.”
“Pulled from your Illyrican Navy file, I’m afraid. I had Gwennie run it up as a rush job overnight. Your hair was shorter then, but I don’t think anybody will care.”
“Oookay. What, have you got a day job on a work crew now?”
“Today only. It’s kind of a one-off.”
Eli sat back down on the bed, its springs squeaking in protest. “I seem to recall something about you filling me in on a few details. So, uh, you can start whenever you’re ready.”
Eamon had pulled out a comm unit and was apparently composing a small book on it, tapping away with both thumbs at remarkable speed. He flipped it closed and stowed it in one of the jumpsuit pockets. “All in good time. But first we’ve got to meet the others in about ten minutes.”
Others? Eli’s train of thought was derailed by his stomach audibly rumbling; he winced. It was still roiling with acid from the previous twenty-four hours, during which he hadn’t consumed anything more than a cup of bad coffee and whatever greasy, preservative-laden sandwich had been left in the one automatic food unit they’d found on their walk back.
“We can get some food along the way,” said Eamon, raising an eyebrow.
Eli grimaced. “Yeah, I’m not sure that’s necessary, to be honest. Last night’s ‘dinner’ is still kind of using that spac
e.” He got to his feet. “If we’re going, then let’s go.”
Light did little to increase the charm of their surroundings. The area looked grim in the early morning, full of dilapidated buildings, cavity-riddled concrete, and peeling paint. What windows there were had iron bars on them, and, at this time of morning, padlock-secured sliding aluminum shutters blocked off most of the storefronts.
“Nice neighborhood.” Eli squinted against the morning light. “Did you have to specify ‘sketchy’ in the search criteria?”
Eamon shrugged. “The Illyricans want to gentrify the entire damn city. I don’t mind a few eyesores in exchange for holding onto a genuine Caledonian neighborhood.”
Looking around, Eli wasn’t sure that a little bit of gentrification would be such a bad idea: a few flowers here, a nice tree or two there—what would be so wrong with that? But there seemed to be a peculiar sort of pride from the residents, a mix of “it was good enough for all the people before us” and “nobody spruces up my neighborhood but me.”
Eamon bought two cups of coffee from a small convenience store and handed one to Eli, who stared at it and tried not to think about what it would likely do to his already rebellious insides. He contented himself by pretending to take a sip. Eamon also handed him a muffin which, if anything, was greasier than the sandwich he’d had last night. What I wouldn’t give for a piece of fruit or a bowl of cereal.
Matters of sustenance addressed, the two made their way toward the city center. It was still early enough that the streets were only lightly trafficked; what few pedestrians there were looked to be on their way to work, and many of them carried identical coffee cups and muffins.
They turned a corner and found an entire squad of people dressed in the same navy blue jumpsuit, lined up on the side of the street like toy soldiers—if toy soldiers commuted by public transportation. But Eli started to feel antsy when he recognized a couple of them. One was Kelly, and even from a glance it was apparent that early rising had done nothing to improve his murderous disposition. His eyes went to Eli, narrowed, and then darted away; he made a poor show of covering his grimace with a sip of coffee.
The other was Gwen of the cheek-tingling backhand. She looked only marginally happier to see him than Kelly had. And I had such high hopes for us. The other faces didn’t ring any bells, but by now his brain had warmed up enough to deduce that the rest of this work crew was made up of people Eamon knew, which meant that at least some of them had been at the warehouse to watch Eli’s debut performance-art piece, “man tied to a chair.”
He grabbed Eamon’s arm while they were still approaching the bus stop, and his brother raised an eyebrow.
“What’s up?”
“Okay, Eamon. Enough. I told you I’d help, but I’m not going any further until you tell me what exactly you’re planning.”
“We’re just filling in for some friends.” Despite the attempt at innocence, Eli knew all too well the glint in Eamon’s eyes and the faint twitch of his lips that said his brother thought he was putting something over on the rest of the world.
“No offense, but altruism has never exactly been in your vocabulary. What’s the scheme? You said you needed a pilot. What for?”
“Just a short trip—nothing that should be a challenge for you. Look, you’ll be fine. Just relax and do what everyone else does.”
“Like a mindless sheep?”
“Like a soldier,” said Eamon, his expression hardening. “Which, as I recall, you were at some point.” He looked down at Eli’s grip on his arm.
Yeah, it never really took.
He released Eamon from his grasp and reluctantly trailed after his brother, who had joined the queue of the be-jumpsuited. All of them nodded at Eamon in turn, and Eli watched as they shook hands, exchanging pleasantries. Not much in the way of smiles, this crew. De Valera needs to do something about morale.
Eli fell in next to Gwen, who stood slightly off to one side. “And here I was going to offer to buy you breakfast,” he said, trying to look suitably chagrined.
The redhead gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t think we’re quite at that stage in our relationship.”
“Well, I usually don’t let women slap me around until at least the third date.”
Her cheeks flushed and she at least had the decency to let a hint of shame creep into her face. “If it hadn’t been me, Kelly would have been happy to find more convincing ways of making you talk.”
“I can imagine. Still, you’ll pardon me if I don’t fall to my knees gushing with thanks.”
“What do you want?” she said with an annoyed look.
“Oh, just making conversation. You come here often?”
The stare she gave him was out-and-out puzzlement, and her head shook slowly from side to side. “I don’t get it,” she muttered, almost to herself.
“What’s that?”
Her eyes focused on something behind him and Eli glanced over his shoulder to see Eamon talking to one of the others, a severe-looking woman whose short, dark hair was arranged in a style that would probably have been called a “pixie cut” on somebody who looked less threatening.
“You just don’t seem like brothers. He’s always so serious.”
“Well, he’s the oldest, you know,” said Eli, shrugging. “Always took the full weight of responsibility on his shoulders. So I had to be someone else.” He eyed his brother. “I don’t think he ever quite got over his disappointment.”
She gave him an odd look and seemed about to say something, but before she could a transpo bus rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the jumpsuit crowd, slowing to a stop with a slight squeal. It wasn’t a city bus, Eli noted with a frown, though it was close to the same size. The outside was black and unadorned with any sort of writing or logo and the windows were tinted.
A moment after it stopped, the door slid open and the group neatly lined up and filed on. Eli and Gwen were near the rear and followed suit, shuffling slowly as the crowd advanced.
Last chance, Eli thought to himself. Once he was on the bus, he was all in. He drew a deep breath and steeled himself, and when it came to his turn in line he climbed aboard.
Surprisingly, unlike most of the municipal transpo buses, this one wasn’t unmanned; there was actually a driver at the front, an older man with wrinkled jowls and sparse wisps of white hair. He gave Eli a gruff nod as he stepped on and mumbled something, to which Eli responded with an automatic “You too.”
It wasn’t until he’d passed the driver and the bus had kicked into gear—he’d been the last person on—that he realized that the man had wished him a Happy Emperor’s Birthday.
He swung into the seat next to Gwen. She looked a little exasperated that he’d done so, but didn’t object. Eli was about to resume his line of conversation when the intercom clicked on.
“Next stop, Westenfeldt Base,” the driver’s voice crackled. “Travel time today is about thirty minutes.”
Westenfeldt? Eli’s head turned to look past Gwen at the tinted window, and he felt his stomach writhe and wriggle as though it were a slug on which some young kid had upended a salt shaker. Westenfeldt was the region’s main Illyrican military base, just outside of Raleigh City; it also served as the departure point for all military space flight from the continent.
He wasn’t doing this for Eamon, he reminded himself. And it’s not about me, either. The idea of getting back in a cockpit was making his already-upset stomach do twirls.
It was for that little girl who’d never have a chance to grow up. Who might never have her own life, never be able to discover her own gifts, talents, and passions. He was doing this for her, even if she couldn’t remember who he was. Yes, in part because he hadn’t come home when she asked, because he hadn’t replied to that last message. But really, when it came right down to it, it was much simpler. It’s because I’m her big brother. My job was to look out for her—and I screwed that up. He sucked in another lungful of air and tried to calm his shaking hands.
<
br /> Time to make good.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Raleigh City Museum of Art was not as grand as its counterparts elsewhere in the galaxy, but most art enthusiasts would grudgingly admit it held a respectable collection.
More importantly, for Kovalic’s purposes, the museum also made for an excellent rendezvous point. It was centrally located, easily accessible by public transport, housed in a large building with many exits, bustling without being crowded, and—best of all—offered free admission.
He was staring at a picture by Titian, on loan from Earth’s National Gallery of Scotland, when he felt a presence beside him. A sidelong glance revealed Page, who, like him, was eyeing the painting with the detached interest of your average gallery-goer.
“You like art?” Kovalic nodded at the painting.
“Sometimes,” replied Page, frowning at the picture which depicted a hunter stumbling upon a bevy of comely maidens, at least one of whom was an ancient goddess who would soon make him regret his transgression. “This isn’t exactly my style but, objectively, I can appreciate its aesthetic qualities and see why some people would admire it.”
“And here I thought they’d never perfected a human-looking AI.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Let’s go find Two.”
Tracking down the sergeant wasn’t difficult—Kovalic knew he had a proclivity for statuary and, sure enough, they found him in the museum’s sculpture garden, which delivered significantly more on the promise of sculpture than on the promise of garden, given Raleigh City’s general lack of greenery. It was also only sparsely occupied at this time in the evening, presenting an excellent opportunity to walk and talk with little chance of being overheard. The sun had just disappeared over the horizon and the lights interspersed among the sculptures were just coming up, casting long and, no doubt, artfully arranged shadows.
Tapper was admiring a particularly fine piece of marblework when they came upon him. By the looks of it, it was also on loan from Earth, a thought that caused Kovalic to grimace. Despite their pretensions of culture, the Illyricans were no better than the vandals of any previous era of Earth history; they’d still pillaged the planet and claimed its greatest works of art as their own. Robbery, plain and simple.
