by Jamie Sawyer
“No.”
“Well maybe you should.”
“It was a body. Some kook. You remember what the cop told us.”
“It wasn’t a prank. That was a real soldier. No one thought anything of it. A Directorate trooper – a Chino soldier! In a uniform, of all things. You called the cops, but they didn’t even care. No one cared. Because none of it matters any more.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“You never do. That’s your problem, Conrad. You don’t think past the words. You take everything literally.”
“Explain it to me then.”
She let out a long sigh, from deep enough within that her slender body shook. “They knew what we’d found. They knew it wasn’t some lunatic in fancy dress. It was a real Directorate soldier, and no one gave a damn. You called the police – did the whole 911 thing! What did they do? They covered it up.”
I thought about that for a long moment.
“Because they already knew,” Carrie said. “Because they were already here. Because they’ve been here all along.”
Carrie shrugged at me, tilted her head to observe me. I tried to look like I understood her words, but the understanding was only skin deep. Perhaps it was my age; or perhaps I just didn’t want to understand.
“Maybe wearing a uniform,” she said, “carrying a gun, having a badge: all of those things are irrelevant now.”
Carrie clucked her tongue, disappointed with me. She rifled in her bag some more. Eyes darting to the cops again, she pushed something towards me – kept it covered with both of her gloved hands.
“No way, Carrie,” I said. Tried to back away into the crowd, kept my voice low. She knew that I never touched the stuff. “I don’t want anything from your stash—”
“It isn’t my stash, Con. It isn’t leftovers.”
It was an old wooden box. Looked in good condition; letters printed in gold leaf on the lid. Not much wider than Carrie’s handspan but a lot longer.
“Take it,” she insisted. “It was Jonathan’s.” She baulked, and I thought that she might even cry. “It was father’s.”
I took the box. When I wrapped my hands around it, I found that it was heavy.
“Maybe you can sell it, make some money from it. That’s all those things are good for.”
“Don’t go. Please.”
Carrie smiled. “I have to.”
“You’ll waste your life.”
“So will you.”
Someone called her name. Another young girl, a carbon copy of my sister: down to the kohl-stained eyelids and the plastic raincoat. A group of older youths were gathered at the foot of the terminal; mixed sex, but the same mould as Carrie. She gravitated towards them.
“Who was that?” a Carrie-copy asked, putting an arm around my sister’s shoulder.
“No one,” Carrie said.
“You sure? You look upset.”
“It was nobody,” she said, firmly this time.
I watched her go.
Soon her group was engulfed by the crowd and Carrie was gone.
I sat on a bench in the parking lot for several hours.
The Greyhounds came and went.
The police spinners changed shift.
Shuttles lifted off from the spaceport compound.
They were noisy and too far away for me to see much. I didn’t know the terminology then, but those were heavy-lift VTOLs. Civilian pattern: nothing military-grade. Each would leave the atmosphere, join up with a waiting starship in low orbit, or dock with Orion Station. A few might go straight to New Chicago, the UA Luna colony.
Once they lifted off, the shuttles quickly accelerated. Within seconds they became nothing more than twinkles of light. Artificial stars on the horizon: burning far more brightly than the real thing, given the light pollution from Michigan State.
Part of me hoped that immigration control had clocked Carrie’s documents. That her papers had been badly forged; that she had been detained as a meth-addict.
I waited, divided my time between watching the sky and the terminal entrance. But I knew, deep down, that one of those stars – leaving Earth for good, no matter what she said – was Carrie’s.
I pulled up the hood on my jacket. Hid my face deep inside. Like it was some armour from the rest of the world – a barrier between me and them.
The wooden box sat on my lap. I had almost forgotten it, but as night fell – and I began to think that maybe I should get back before the district curfew began – I inspected it. The box was old, machined well before my time, or even my father’s. I slowly flipped the metal clasp on the lid.
My father’s old revolver sat inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SECTION EIGHT
By the following morning, the Rift-storm had subsided. By the start of morning shift, Admiral Loeb had lifted the restriction on expeditions to the Artefact.
Although my head raged and I ached, I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Today, I decided, is the day that I rescue Elena. Elena was the priority; especially after what she had told me last night. I had to deal with Williams’ insubordination but that would keep. He was probably nothing more than an upstart: eager to take the prize of reaching the Hub, to walk away from this operation with his share of the glory.
I called for an early-morning meeting in the SOC.
The Legionnaires were ashen-faced, exhausted; the Warfighters were no better. They carried a body odour of stale alcohol: the sort of residue that couldn’t be washed out by shipboard shower units. Mason stared back at me across the tactical display, her face looking even greener than usual. Jenkins looked leaner than before. Kaminski stood beside her, a fraction too close to be less than lovers. Martinez fiddled with a cross around his neck, was mumbling something under his breath.
Professor Saul and Dr West milled around the edge of the room, readying the simulator-tanks for the day’s operation.
“Before we start,” I said, “let’s clear something up. We’re in this together, people. Last night was unacceptable.”
The Warfighters stood at one side of the SOC, the Legionnaires on the other. Neither looked particularly like making peace.
“There’s a chain of command for a reason,” I said, staring down both men. “Let’s try to avoid that sort of behaviour. Kaminski – you have something to say?”
“Yeah,” ’Ski said. “Apologies.”
Williams sucked his teeth; Kaminski gave a slight nod. The pair were never going to be friends and a temporary truce would have to do—
Williams’ lip, I noticed.
Last night it was completely uninjured; I remembered seeing that while he was inside the tank. Today, it was badly bruised; a single steri-strip over the split. It wasn’t a serious injury by any stretch but it was much worse than last night. It didn’t make sense.
How much of this is real?
Jenkins took the briefing that morning. We were going to drop to the same coordinates as the previous day; to approach the Artefact through previously explored corridors and chambers.
“I want all suit-feeds disabled,” I interjected.
There was silence in the SOC for a long moment.
“You know that it works, Williams,” I said.
I stared at Williams across the SOC, sought some recognition of what had happened aboard the Artefact. I’d expected him to want to speak with me privately; maybe explain himself. But he hadn’t even tried: he was just the same ineffectual Warfighter, slightly more sullen as a result of his loss of face.
He frowned. “Why? Because your dead wife told you so?”
The big Martian sniggered. I shot him a cold glare and he suddenly stopped.
“She wasn’t my wife,” I said. “And it’s because I survived for longer as a result of doing it.”
“Are you sure that you’re feeling up to this?” Martinez asked of me. “I mean, a lot has happened recently. Maybe, jefe, you should sit this one out…”
“Don’t ‘j
efe’ me, Martinez,” I growled. “I’m in charge out here. No one forget that.”
Martinez nodded.
“All right,” Jenkins cut in, taking the floor. “The major’s plan might work. Perhaps I should drop to your coordinates. Try to use the same airlock as you.”
I considered the idea. Elena might not show up if Jenkins was with me. But if Jenkins saw Elena – if she even picked her up on the bio-scanner – that would be some proper supporting evidence. Then the rest of the Legion would have to believe me, and I could mount a proper rescue operation. It had to be worth a shot.
“Let’s try that.”
Jenkins looked relieved by the decision, nodding profusely. “Everyone else has their orders. We move in one hour.”
The Warfighters and the Legionnaires filed out of the SOC, ready to conduct final mission prep before the drop. I lingered back for a while, watching Saul and Dr West work.
“Anything that I can help with, Major?” Dr West asked me.
“No. I just wanted to apologise for leaving the SOC in such a state.”
Dr West looked bemused. “What state? I don’t understand.”
I grimaced. “Look, I don’t want this to be an issue with the Buzzard. I know I broke his restriction on off-ship expeditions. I made transition last night. Dropped to the Artefact.”
Dr West’s expression remained unchanged. She wasn’t the type to mess with me; wasn’t a joker like Williams or Kaminski. Saul stopped working, looked over in our direction.
“That’s not possible,” Dr West said.
I filled the hour before we were scheduled to make transition with a hundred checks. Had Dr West and Saul working feverishly, to do something – anything – to confirm what I had done in the SOC the previous night.
“The SOC was in perfect condition this morning,” Dr West explained. “There was no mess at all.”
“I opened my simulator-tank door early. Before the tank had finished purging. There was amniotic all over the floor!”
Dr West shook her head. “No. I was on the first shift this morning. I’ve been here since oh-four-hundred hours. That just didn’t happen.”
I paced the SOC, raging. Had I really imagined it all?
“Check the surveillance footage for the whole Medical deck.”
Saul did as ordered. Called up grainy tri-D vid-feeds for the entire deck, even the SOC itself. Nothing. No one had come into, or left, the SOC during the entire period.
“I’m sorry, Major,” Saul said, detecting my frustration and responding to it. “But there’s no way into this centre without being caught by the cameras.”
“Then check the transition logs. They’ll show that Williams and I have made four transitions, and everyone else has made three.”
Saul rapidly keyed the relevant command. Data scrolled down the viewer-screen above us, showing the performance statistics for the Legionnaires and Warfighters.
Everyone showed as having made three transitions.
Even Williams’ record demonstrated the same stats.
I stared at the screens. “Someone has corrupted the data. Just like Elena told me: we’ve been compromised.”
Saul swallowed, looked sideways at Dr West. Neither of them believed me – about Elena or the unrecorded drop to the Artefact. The transition data was held on the Colossus’ mainframe computer. It was highly encrypted and very difficult to tamper with.
Maybe it was all in your head, that taunting voice suggested. And perhaps you’ve finally gone Section Eight; just like your grandfather.
“The drop-bay launch data doesn’t show a drop either,” Saul said. He was talking fast, reading directly from the insides of his glasses. He repeated: “I’m sorry, Major.”
I stood in front of my tank. Checked the holo-patch on the chest pocket of my fatigue; the device that recorded the number of transitions I’d made. The only statistic that mattered between operators. It should show 228, if last night really happened…
The number “227” flashed on the display.
By now, the drop held no surprises.
My capsule began to break up and I felt the by-now-familiar shift as my combat-suit thrusters fired, slowing my descent to the Artefact’s hull.
Jenkins cut in on the private channel. “I’m coming in on your six.”
I landed on the Artefact, mag-locks activating. An airlock sat ahead of me. Instead of going inside immediately I watched as Jenkins’ capsule broke up. She made a smooth landing beside me. I couldn’t remember having passed command over to her, but it seemed that she’d taken over for today’s expedition. Her mouth moved soundlessly behind her face-plate – issuing orders, talking over the squad channel, conversations that I wasn’t privy to.
She fell in step behind me, peered into the airlock and nodded in my direction.
“You want to take point?” she asked.
I crouched and scanned the inside of the lock with my suit-lamps. It looked the same as every other time we’d made the drop: dark, empty.
“Do you believe me, Jenkins?”
I heard her sigh over the comm. “Sure. Course I do.”
“You don’t sound very convincing.”
“Let’s just get inside, run some scanner sweeps. If your tactic of switching off the suit-feeds works, that should buy us some more time.”
“It’s not my tactic. It’s Elena’s.”
“All right. If…” – Jenkins paused; as though saying her name would in some way endorse the truth of what I’d seen – “…Elena’s tactic works.”
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
“Whoever said I was protecting you?”
“I know what I saw.”
I pushed off, activated my thruster pack to move into the outer lock. Jenkins glided alongside me.
The Shard Artefact opened for us.
“All suit-feeds terminated,” Jenkins ordered.
I methodically cancelled my video-and audio-feeds, and disconnected my communicator. The transponders that indicated the position of each of the simulants disappeared from my HUD. No one knew where anyone else was any more; and we were completely cut off from the outside world.
“Copy that,” Williams said. “Command suits you, Jenkins.”
“I’m not in charge, sir,” Jenkins replied.
Inside, the sense of isolation was greater than ever before. I was glad of Jenkins’ presence; glad that I wasn’t completely alone in here. How had Elena managed it? I asked myself.
I popped my helmet. The only suit-system left activated was my bio-scanner, displayed directly onto my wrist-comp. I kept that under review – vigilant for the bio-sign. I noticed that Jenkins copied me; as though she was replicating an experiment, trying to achieve the same results as me.
“She might not appear if you’re with me,” I said.
“How will she know?”
“She just will.”
Jenkins clipped her helmet to her belt. “How did she know to approach you, Harris? I’m not saying that I doubt you. Just that – well, it seems a little far-fetched, is all.”
“What, like you and Kaminski?”
Jenkins fell into a sullen silence. I didn’t feel like coaxing her into further conversation.
I tried to take the same route through the Artefact as I had the previous night. The structure around me had started that reverberant humming; that noise that went beyond a noise. It was a pervasive reminder that we were in Shard territory.
“Where are we going?” Jenkins asked.
I answered as I moved. “Just follow me and be my witness.”
I desperately wanted to tell Jenkins about what I’d done, and about finding Williams aboard the Artefact. But I couldn’t do that, because she would never believe me. So I was searching for proof. There had been Krell bodies in the tunnel: something that no one else had so far reported. Even better, we would find Williams’ self-executed simulant in here.
“Elena wants me to activate the Artefact,” I said.
“
That so?” Jenkins replied.
“And I know how. It wants the Key.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea—”
“She wants me to bring the Key into the Hub of the Artefact. Bring it to what is left of the Shard.”
Jenkins stopped behind me. She gave a loud sigh. “Give it up. This is ridiculous. You want her back so desperately that you’re willing to risk everything. I get that. It’s a natural human reaction. But this quest to bring her back? It’s getting old.”
A plasma rifle sounded in the distance. I thought that I smelled the scent of smoke in the air. I turned back to look at Jenkins, caught her in the arc of my shoulder-lamps. I was several metres away from her now, and she was barely visible in the dark. It would be so easy for the Reaper to appear, to take her before I’d even noticed.
“I have to save her,” I said. “With or without your help.”
“Then maybe it’ll be without. Maybe it’ll be without the Legion. This operation is getting to everyone. Have you seen Mason’s bio-statistics? Martinez hasn’t slept since we got here—”
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I froze, filtered out whatever else Jenkins had to say. My bio-scanner lit with a single return: at the periphery of my equipment’s operating radius.
“I’m getting a signal!” I yelled.
By my reckoning, I was only a junction or so away from where Williams had discovered the Krell massacre – exactly where I’d last seen Elena. Her bio-sign danced, moving off my scanner completely. I started to give chase. Heard Jenkins moving off as well – still a way behind me. Just round the next corner; the Krell bodies will prove everything—
“I…I don’t see anything!” Jenkins shouted.
“Your scanner is still out of range,” I barked back at her.
“Stop, Harris! There’s nothing—”
Her voice was cut off by an emergency tone over the comm. I kept running but I jammed my ear-bead back into place, angered by the interruption.
Got to keep moving!
