by E A Carter
'Yes ma'am.'
'Excellent.' She looks up, her eyes sharp, calculating. 'However, that is not, shall we say, the whole of it.'
Why am I not surprised. I wait while she finishes scrolling through a list, swiping left at various intervals.
'What do you know of the UFF's so-called Oracle?' she asks as she closes several tabs.
'According to Delta Force intel,' I answer, crisp, 'the Oracle is capable of predicting the location and severity of major natural disasters with uncanny accuracy, disasters the UFF have exploited for their own purposes against Global Command since 2075. The first known strike was made in the same year against the Yukon space dock in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Josiah.'
General de Pommier nods. 'Accuracy of strikes to disasters since then?'
'One hundred percent, ma'am.'
'One hundred percent,' she repeats, soft. 'Thousands have died because of her—and you were sleeping with her.'
Here it comes. The stiletto. She smiles, enigmatic. 'But I am French, and I am romantic, so I like this strange story, very much.' She taps the screen. It goes dark. A few steps and she is front of the desk. She leans back and rests against the desk's glass edge. 'You see, you are unique. There was a reason you survived the transition when the other fourteen did not: You wanted to come back. For her.' She smiles again. 'Love is a powerful thing, no?'
'Was,' I answer, cold, thinking of my dead men, sprawled beside me like broken dolls.
A flick of her eyebrow. 'Be careful Capitaine Maddox,' she says, quiet. 'Not everything is as it seems. We know from your memories Cassandra wanted you to take her away with her. We had microexpression specialists read her face. It appears she was telling the truth.'
I lunge at the scrap like one of the starving dogs I fed outside Nairobi. 'Ma'am?'
General de Pommier's avatar pushes herself free of the desk. She approaches me. I keep my eyes fixed on the middle distance.
'Cassandra was born with her ability,' she says. From the corner of my eye I catch her looking me over, examining me anew, dispassionate. I feel like a lab specimen. 'We were lucky she was born into one of the families in Alpha I, and not the exclusion zone. Her ability was discovered quite by accident in 2063, when she was nine.' de Pommier's avatar turns away and paces to the opposite side of the room. 'During a lesson about the history of China, Cassandra pointed to a place on the map and told the class when there was going to be a devastating flood there, right down to the time. The teacher took note of it. It happened precisely as she predicted. Naturally, we were informed.'
I'm hanging onto the general's every word. Nascent hope flares within me. Cassandra is one of our own. She only wanted to come home. I was an out for her. I knew there was more to this. I wonder why she never told me. It would have changed everything. If I had told Command, they would have—
'She was taken by us,' the general continues, cutting into my thoughts, 'her abilities researched and honed under a team of neuroscientists. She saved so many lives. In 2070, due to her predictions, Genesis I was launched. An ambitious project. It was clear we needed to leave Earth and begin again.'
'Mars,' I breathe, recalling Akron's words about running out of time.
'Yes. Mars.' She stops pacing and sighs, resigned. 'Everything went perfectly until Command rewarded Cassandra with a residence in Alpha VII in 2073. She had the misfortune of travelling with Command's then-Brigadier General. The plane was shot down by the UFF over the exclusion zone. There were no survivors. It was . . . a terrible loss, and a devastating blow to Genesis I.'
I open my mouth to ask the question preying on my mind—how her apparent loss could affect a Mars colonization project, but the general lifts her hand. I shut my mouth.
'There is something else,' she says, and a look of discomfort crosses her features. 'I was not in the position I am in today or this never would have happened, although I did what I could to protest what was being done to her—it is part of the reason I still cannot see eye to eye with our Prime Minister. It was he who ordered the tests.'
Tests. I wait, my chest tight.
'They injected her with psychotropic drugs, and subjected her to psychic trauma among other things.' She looks away, her profile taut. 'She was only a child,' the general whispers, 'taken from her parents, forced to live in a glass room, without any comfort or privacy. Everyday, they strapped her to a table and tortured her, all in a sick quest to turn her into a weapon.'
I feel ill. I desperately want to punch something. My hands curl into fists. 'And did they?' I ask, tight.
The avatar of de Pommier nods, terse. 'They did. Once they found the right combination of drugs, she became highly susceptible to suggestion. They only needed state a location, type of disaster - say a hurricane, category five, and within minutes, it occurred.' She shrugs, elegant. 'For three years, because of Cassandra, we kept the UFF on the back foot. For once we were not forced to fight on a hundred fronts. In the wake of his success, the Prime Minister passed a bill to end elections, ensuring he would hold absolute authority until his death. No one dared question it, not even me.'
I say nothing. A wall of black surrounds me. I always believed we were the good guys—now doubt plagues me. I think of the targets I have neutralised. How they begged for mercy. I blank it out. Not now.
'But in all these tests, they found something else—she could also create other things. Cloud cover, rain, lightning,' she pauses and catches my eye, 'perfect for terraforming a planet.'
And there it is. The real reason I am bringing her back, to finish what was begun in 2070.
'So her retrieval has nothing to do with Genesis II,' I say, the pieces falling together, neat, like I prefer them, even though the picture is ugly. 'Major Akron has been given incorrect intel.'
'It is unfortunate the Major was caught up in this.' The general's avatar sighs again. She rubs her slim fingers across her eyebrows. 'A difficult situation. But we must think of our survival. In circumstances such as these there is bound to be collateral damage.'
'I want him on my support team,' I say, desperate to buy him time. 'I need someone I can trust sitting at those screens when I go looking for her. Not those jacked-up technicians you have out there.'
'Those technicians are the cream of the Elite's intelligence forces,' she says, a hint of rebuke in her tone. 'He will be in the way.'
I hold her eyes, and my ground, stubborn.
'Genesis I's reactivation is above the Major's clearance,' she continues. 'If he becomes compromised there will be nothing I can do to protect him.'
'He won't find out.'
'Capitaine Maddox,' the avatar's eyes bore into mine, 'only one thousand people are destined for Mars. There are no exceptions. Imagine the riots we would face if people knew they were going to be left behind on a dying planet?'
'Like the ones in 2048 when we split society into haves and have-nothings?' I say without thinking. I catch her oblique look. 'Ma'am.' I duck my head, hoping she will let it slide. She does. She goes back to the desk and taps the screen. It flares back to life, dozens of blinking messages jockey for her attention.
'You may be surprised to know I am not on the list.' She glances up from the screen, its white light highlighting her smooth, even features. 'My skills will be of no use to a new human colony. So I will die here, too. However, I am determined to dispatch my duty with integrity and honour.'
A surge of respect hurtles through me. 'When do I leave?'
'As soon as you can be ready. Anything you need, it will be yours.'
'Ma'am.' I salute her and turn to leave.
'Ah, one more thing.'
I stop.
'You will go in alone. You have one chance. Do not fail me.' She looks back down to the screen, her fingers moving, swift over its interface. 'And do not deviate from the plan. We can shut you down just like this.' She snaps her fingers, the sound sharp and abrasive in the harsh, metal and glass-clad room. She looks up at me and tilts her head at the door. 'You are dism
issed.'
Her eyes dull and the droid stiffens. I think that could be me, next. It won't happen. I'll get Blue for them, but after that, we'll see.
THREE | CASSANDRA VALLIS
* * *
'Vallis,' a voice, male, shouts through the metal door. 'Get your ass out here.' A pounding, impatient, echoes around the toilet's metallic cubicle, making my ears ring. I hurry to button the fly of my 'new' jeans, a pair I found in near-perfect condition while out scrounging—the highlight of the last six miserable months of my life.
I turn to flush the toilet, then decide against it. It's only piss after all. Better to conserve water. I shove my shoulder against the rusting door. Its one-remaining hinge creaks, high-pitched, dry, and abrasive. Every time, it sets my teeth on edge.
'Took you long enough,' Carney snaps, sliding a metallic toothpick between his lips. He gives me a push, rough, towards an open door further down the concrete corridor. 'Come on,' he says, moving off, 'Zee is waiting. You know he hates that.'
'He'll live,' I mutter, but keep it under my breath. 'Unfortunately.'
I go in, and leave the scar-faced, whippet-thin Carney to stand guard outside. I wait for the door to close, my heart tight. It doesn't. I let out a slow exhale of relief, a tremor of hope shimmering through me. If Zandiki doesn't want me for fun, he must need me for actual UFF work. He comes out from the toilet cubicle—his own private one, with a real porcelain toilet graced with a proper seat, one of the few perks of UFF command—fastening his belt.
'Vallis,' he says without looking up. He's not ugly, at least not on the outside, but he's angry about almost everything, particularly my not mirroring his bloodthirsty lust for the UFF's cause.
'Got orders from the higher-ups,' he says, strapping a pair of pistols to his belt. 'Pack your shit. We got a proper live one from Command looking for some fun. You're back on the job at the bar. We leave in five.'
My heart slams into my throat. Hope cripples me. Zee's eyes are on me, calculating, narrow, suspicious. I look away.
'Seriously?' Zee scoffs. 'If anyone should know Maddox is dead, it should be you, the Oracle.' He makes a mocking woo-woo noise and twirls his finger in the air by his head, his way of letting me know how much store he sets in my abilities. He turns his back to me to open his battered locker. His hand goes in and a flak jacket slides out; he throws it over his shaven head, quick, expert. 'It's not him,' he taunts, still facing away from me as he pulls the jacket's side straps tight. 'He's dead as fuck cause you didn't do your job.' He turns, and eyes me, a flicker of jealousy hardening the blue ice of his irises. 'You're such a little traitor,' he says, tight. He steps towards me, his muscled bulk intimidating, solid. I lift my chin and hold my ground, even though I know he's going to win like he always does. 'He was our goddamned enemy,' he whispers. Zee's close enough for me to catch the faint tang of his body odour. I hold my breath. 'Forty of my best men were taken out because of that bastard's last stand.'
I say nothing, but inside, I'm dying, I miss Maddox so much. Even after six months it still hurts as bad as the moment Zee told me we'd lost him. Zee's hand whips up, quick as a snake and catches hold of the back of my head. He pulls me towards him and presses his lips against mine, hard and possessive. A punishing kiss. 'You're mine,' he says as he pulls back. His eyes move over my face, searching, for something, anything. I feel nothing except emptiness. A hint of longing shears through his rugged features. 'Why don't you just let me in?' he asks, quiet, a flicker of vulnerability piercing the hardness of his exterior. 'Am I so bad? I mean, I let you keep the cat didn't I?'
I nod, thinking of poor Miro, left behind in my grotty apartment, alone and lonely. Zee's idea of letting me keep the cat meant no one could shoot her, and I was allowed to go back and check on her every now and again, although I had to feed her from my paltry rations. Her halcyon days of actual cat food were long gone. Once, I had hoped those days would never end. But they did and the bad days came back, harder than ever. Zee made me bunk with him, taking me every night, 'reclaiming his territory' as he called it, his deep thrusts harsh with jealousy, leaving me aching and sore.
'You're not bad,' I say, soft, my insides tightening, sickened by the lie. The hard edges of Zee's jaw soften. Hope taints his eyes.
'I just—' I shrug. 'I think I just need time, ok?'
He scoffs again. 'Yeah,' he nods, defensive, his armour slamming back up around him, bitterness shrouding him, 'take all the time you want while you're fucking information out of the new guy. Just, you know, try not to enjoy yourself so much this time. You know I have to watch everything for security purposes. I fucking hate it.' He backs away and nods at the open door, jealousy clawing at him so hard I almost feel sorry for him.
'Get your shit,' he snaps, tossing a sealed bag of R7 capsules to me, straight from the lab, the doses within each perfect for decanting into drinks. 'And this time, try to remember who butters your bread—' he shoves a full magazine into one of his pistols and locks it into place, meaningful, menacing,'—or Miro will be my dinner.'
I want to spit in his face, but instead I nod and leave, meek and mild, the way he likes it, letting him think he's won. I walk past Carney. His lips twist into a leer around the metal toothpick.
'Been missing that latex one piece, Vallis,' he says low enough for Zee not to hear.
I ignore his remark and walk away, along the dingy, damp corridor of London's ruined Underground to my bunk, willing for something, anything, to happen so me and Miro won't still be here, stuck in this hellhole when the bitter end comes.
With all my soul I hate The Jackpot. The whole club is fake, run by the UFF for the sole purpose of getting intel from Global Command's horny soldiers. Though I hate to admit it, Zee's strategy is effective. Between the soldiers' desperate need to sleep with a human, and R7, the UFF gets far more intel through the girls than they ever got through the long, slow process of torture. Before The Jackpot was a thing, Zee used R7 in the interrogation rooms. The soldiers fought it, giving up almost nothing, one even managed to give completely false intel that wasted the UFF's time and made Zee look bad. It turns out being naked and inside a woman makes the soldiers talk. A lot. R7 only works if there is trust.
Zee has 'sniffers' out in every bar, casino, and club across the city, looking for them; whorehouses are sanctioned by Zee and only men loyal to him work the doors. Those guys are his best sniffers. Illegal whorehouses he burns to the ground, with the girls and doormen locked inside. Zee's world is ugly and violent. People fear him. Even Carney, a total psychopath, makes sure not to get on his bad side.
Thanks to his network, Zee knows everything that happens in this vast, stinking cesspool of a city; more gangster than soldier, everyone fears Zee. He only fears the ones he calls the higher-ups—if he didn't there is no way he would have me in here opening my legs for other men. But orders are orders, and even he has to obey someone. So his sniffers work night and day to funnel GC soldiers to the club, pretending to be their friends, pretending not to know who they really are, offering them opiates and the best girls. They bring them all here—soldiers ready and willing to pay anything to sleep with a real woman—where we are ready and waiting with our fake Absinthe, R7, and meagre, empty bodies.
Everyone working in the club is either a soldier or vetted volunteer working for extra rations. The DJ is a sniper; the doormen, too. How many GC soldiers have I seduced since the higher-ups decided to repurpose me as a whore in between the times I had to go in and tell them about the next hurricane? Twenty-five? Thirty? Maddox was the last one. The best one. The one I loved. The one who loved me. My heart clenches, raw. The last time I walked in here, Maddox was still alive. Tears burn my eyes. I blink them back and nod at the other girls getting ready in the grimy changing room.
'Hey Vallis,' Sarz greets me with a faint smile. 'Been missing you. Heard about the DF Cap, shit luck, that.' She pulls off a ratty jumper and stands bare-breasted facing me. Ugly purple bruises pepper her torso. 'Damn, he was a good tipper. I at
e good those months.' She bends over to peel off her thin, faded jeans. I look her over, surreptitious, she's much thinner than the last time I was here. Every vertebrae of her spine sticks out, sharp. Once, while I drowsed in Maddox's arms, he stroked my face and told me he heard a rumour that in the world before ours, being thin was fashionable because everyone was fat. Only rich people and fashion models were skinny. I knew he was trying to make me feel better saying that stuff since I was so frail against his well-fed, muscled body. He was so protective of me. I always felt so safe with him. Fuck, I miss him. More tears. More blinking.
Sarz reaches into her locker and necks a couple of pills. She rolls her head and closes her eyes in anticipation of the buzz to come. She catches me looking at her as she pulls on her gear, a hot pink latex bikini that looks shit on her scrawny, bruised body. She needs food, not painkillers, but food has become scarcer lately since one of the main production units for the chemical shit we get rationed out to us was bombed by GC. I know my ration packet keeps getting smaller, and I'm considered important. I wonder if Sarz gets any rations at all.
'Fuck these hit fast,' Sarz says with a languid sigh. 'I swear they just keep making 'em better and better.' She shakes herself out with a shiver of pleasure and sits down to strap on her see-through PVC platform stilettos. There's always plenty of opiates around, and a liquor everyone calls Absinthe because it's green, but it's not real Absinthe. It's just chemicals, made to assault the brain the same way booze used to do, except there isn't any grain or potatoes or whatever it was they used to ferment to make liquor anymore so this is what gets peddled out night and day by the UFF to keep the population sedated and quiet while they get on with the business of fighting their pointless, unwinnable war.
A UFF soldier comes in and stands guard just inside the door, wearing a flak jacket, his gloved hand resting on the grip of the black AK-47 slung over his chest. I catch him watching me undress. His gaze flicks to one of the other girls. He knows better than to look too long, knows who I belong to. No one messes with Zee unless they want to risk being cast out into the wastes, where a slow, painful death is certain. I catch a glimpse of my gaunt reflection in one of the cracked wall mirrors still left intact. Death is certain here, too. It just creeps up, quiet, and painless, numbed by opiates.
