That Distant Dream

by Laurel Beckley

  Sorem shook her head. “It won’t work. We’ve tried everything to win the hearts of the people. They poisoned our stores and their own people. What lives in the city is nothing more than rats and ambitious little men scrambling over each other for favor from the IASS. And people who want the IASS gone.”

  Melin knew she should mention what else had happened in the marketplace, the way the Saturans had treated her, had bowed to her and the old woman and her strange fascination. The Saturans knew something about her—or thought they did—and she had no idea what it could be. She should tell Sorem and Dar’Tan, but something held her back. She wasn’t their pawn, their spy, or their lab rat to be poked and prodded and paraded about. She was herself. And she would not let anyone use her ever again.

  “So, there is another agency,” Major Dar’Tan said. “As we’ve thought.”

  She nodded. “There is someone else or several someones. He mentioned them in passing but refused to bring them up more than to say we should all leave, or we’d regret it.”

  “Standard native blathering,” Elihu said, dismissing her concerns. “We’ve won this war. It’s only a matter of mopping up and making them submit.”

  Elihu might have been on Satura longer than her, but she knew what she had seen.

  There was no submission. There would be no submission.

  Melin held her tongue. She knew the IASS and how they operated. They would grind away until there was integration or there was nothing. Which made how the IASS had approached this planet so different from everything Melin was familiar with.

  If Zhoki and Hathan, the guards, and the people in the marketplace were any indication, the IASS had a long way to go before they could ever decide the war over.

  As the conversation drifted from pumping her for information to analyzing what that information—pithy as it was—meant, Melin sat back and tried to enjoy the remainder of the ride, but her fascination with the city had soured with the thought of Zhoki’s others.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I never signed for that,” the lance corporal protested. His kit was strewn about the countertops, and they were stuck on inventorying item number fourteen on his receipt: canteen, water, two (2).

  “Isn’t this your signature?” Melin asked, shoving the paper toward him. It was a month after her decidedly frustrating outing into the city, and after two weeks of hammering her with questions she couldn’t answer, Sorem had let her return to her regularly scheduled job. Which involved, unfortunately, checking out off-going personnel for the coming week’s outbound shuttle rotation. The shuttle would also bring new personnel, and the cycle would repeat. She hated paperwork and boots unable to maintain simple gear accountability and then arguing about it didn’t help her frustration.

  The lance corporal read over the receipt, eyebrows bunching together. “Well, yeah,” he muttered. “But I didn’t get two canteens!”

  Melin’s stylus tapped to the left of the line item. “Aren’t those your initials on the initial inventory right next to the item?”

  “I was told to sign and hurry up!” the lance corporal whined. He glared at her, obviously identifying her as the mistress of supply purgatory. “I wasn’t given a chance to read it over.”

  Melin sighed, wishing Trudi was here to deal with the check-outs. The woman liked to make herself scarce now she had someone else to handle the minutia of supply hell—which mostly involved dealing with the customers. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to read over everything before you sign?” she asked. This had to be the fifth version of this conversation she’d had today. Was she stuck in a time loop?

  “I didn’t have time!” he protested. “And I’m not paying for them.”

  “It’s fifteen credits for both,” Melin said. Visions of lunging over the counter and strangling him danced in her head. “That’s hardly a dent in your paycheck.”

  “I’m not paying for it,” he said. “You can’t make me. It’s a voluntary reimbursement, and I never got those issued in the first place.”

  Great, she had a space lawyer. “Your signature says otherwise,” Melin said, rifling through his file. The door into the office opened, but she didn’t look up. Hopefully it was the kid’s non-comm coming to see what the holdup was. Then again, perhaps it was better if it wasn’t.

  “Um, good morning, sir,” the lance corporal gulped.

  Melin continued to ignore the newcomer and pulled up the boot’s file, bringing out more paperwork. “I have your past two annual inventories. You signed both times stating that you had them.”

  There was a slight cough. She glanced over the lance corporal’s shoulder. Major Dar’Tan leaned against the wall by the door.

  She blinked, hoping he’d change into that non-comm. Her eyes opened.

  Still the major.

  He rolled his eyes and motioned her to finish up what she was doing.

  Fuck.

  “Okay, so I did sign for them. My roommate transferred three months ago,” the lance corporal admitted. “He took my disc player, and he probably took those too.”

  Oh good. The old roommate is a thief ploy. As if she hadn’t received the same line three times in as many hours.

  She leaned forward onto the counter. “Really?” she asked. “Do you have the theft report and investigation paperwork from the guard?” He looked at her blankly. “You want to try another excuse? Like, oh, maybe you had your bag unaccounted for on a shuttle ride and someone took your canteens? Or your room was broken into?” The lance corporal stared at her, and she gave him a thin smile. He gulped, clearly seeing murder in her eyes. “I’ve heard it all.”

  She reached into the drawer and pulled out three separate forms. Paper, of course, so the convenient excuse of tech being down wouldn’t prevent work from being done. Archaic times, these. “Fill these out, Lance Corporal, and bring them back by the end of the day. You won’t be able to check out of here until I stamp your sign-out sheet.” That was a lie, but he didn’t know that. Hopefully.

  The lance corporal stared at the forms. “These are for reimbursement! I told you I’m not responsible. My roommate stole them.”

  Melin tapped her pen on the counter. “Be that as it may.” She returned to her file. “I’ll let your sergeant know you didn’t properly secure your gear and refer you for disciplinary action.”

  He gaped. “You can’t do that.”

  “One way or another, your chain of command is going to be notified,” she informed him coolly. “You can either do it yourself, or I can do it for you.”

  He glowered. “What about this?” he gestured toward his inventory, which had been shoved into his pack. Flaps and ties and straps stuck out everywhere, making Melin’s eye twitch.

  “Until you bring me back either the entire compliment of equipment or missing gear statements for everything you lost, you hold onto it,” she told him. “Get out of my office.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” he snapped, throwing his gear into his bag. “I’m a lance corporal!”

  “And you’re getting on my nerves,” Dar’Tan said. The lance corporal jumped, clearly having forgotten about the brass lurking in the doorway.

  “Uh, yes sir,” he said, standing at attention. The bag dropped and equipment rolled out onto the floor.

  “Pick that up and get out of my sight,” the major said.

  “Uh, yes sir, of course sir!” the lance corporal stuttered. He gathered everything and ran toward the door.

  Melin cleared her throat before he reached the safety of the hallway. The lance corporal stopped and turned, shoulders slumping.

  “Forgetting something?” Melin pushed the paperwork toward him and arched an eyebrow. He scuttled toward her, face red, snatched the sheets from the counter, and made a hasty retreat out the door.

  “A frequent occurrence?” Dar’Tan asked, pushing off the wall.

  “Frequent enough,” she replied. “I don’t think they realize they should just roger up for losing it, pay up, and call it a day.
I don’t need to hear the excuses.”

  “And the excuses are similar?”

  She twirled her pen across the knuckles of her regrown hand, watching the muscles flex with fascination. “There’re about three that are pretty common—and haven’t changed since I was in.”

  “And I’m sure you never used any of those arguments.”

  “I had combat losses as justification.” She shared a sly smile with Dar’Tan. “My first sergeant was a big fan of daily junk-on-the-bunks when we were in garrison, however, so I feel their pain.” She leaned against the counter, tossing the pen before her. “I’m assuming this isn’t a cordial visit.”

  Two weeks of silence.

  Two weeks of being buried deep in paperwork and inventories while embassy security ran about chasing down rebels and quelling a restless city during a surprise flare-up of guerrilla activity.

  Two weeks had almost been enough to think the upstairs had forgotten about her.

  Almost.

  The embassy had been on lockdown for the past six days after an unsuccessful attempt to bomb the bridge, an act that made it unnervingly clear how unstable the situation was if the dissidents decided to do away with the IASS once and for all.

  In addition to preparing for the upcoming shuttle trip, Melin and Trudi had been swamped with embassy civilians rushing to the quartermaster’s office to check out whatever body protection was on hand.

  Whenever Melin ventured upstairs, it was like entering a strange version of a war zone. Civilians wore ill-fitting body protection over their clothing, helmets wobbling unstrapped over their heads. Tensions were high and tempers were short.

  The situation in the Yellow House was worse. Her housemates complained bitterly about the helmets ruining their hairdos, but never left the house with anything short of a bullet-proof vest, helmet, and facemask. The household détente had been obliterated after a particularly uncomfortable conversation where Accalia wanted to know the best way to defend herself without ruining her manicure—and if Melin would sleep in the living room to protect them from any invaders. It hadn’t helped matters when Melin rolled her eyes and told her housemate her best defense was to hide in a room and stay silent if that was possible.

  Melin spent each night in the quartermaster’s office, tossing and turning on the uncomfortable cot. Avoidance was better than confrontation.

  She continued to wear her normal clothing, figuring if the shit hit the fan, she’d prefer to move without being weighed down by bulky, ineffective body armor. She’d asked for a weapon but had been denied by embassy security. Trudi had given her a knife from storage, however, which Melin kept tucked into her boot out of sight.

  “The ambassador requests the use of your services.”

  “Am I an escort now?” Melin asked. She held up her left hand. “I doubt he’ll find me appealing.” The skin was close to normal even if the hand still felt like it didn’t belong to her. She’d been working on her grip more and more as the skin became less sensitive. Up to seven pull-ups and a partial handstand. Progress.

  Plus, the gym was nearly empty thanks to the heightened security.

  Dar’Tan’s mouth turned down. “He wants someone with immediate experience in guerrilla activities,” he said. One eyebrow quirked, indicating he thought this concept as ridiculous as she did.

  Melin’s faint amusement dropped away. “I’m retired,” she stated. “Besides, short of outright bombing them into oblivion, you’re not going to get any results. You know that. I know that. Your team knows that.”

  “True.” The major tapped the counter. “Nevertheless. The ambassador still wishes to talk to you.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “And I live and serve to his desires.”

  “Trudi’s on her lunch break.” That was a lie. Trudi was wherever she went when she didn’t want to deal with annoying customers. Melin wished she could go there right now.

  “I’ve already called her. You’re good.”

  “I don’t have anything current or useful. You know that,” Melin insisted. “If they want an old war hero, they’re going to be severely disappointed.”

  “Wonderful,” Dar’Tan said, with false cheer and heavy sarcasm. “I’ll see you in twenty. Make sure you wash up. You’ve got supply grime all over yourself.”

  Melin glowered at him and yelled for the next soldier in line to come through the door to begin his final inventory. This meeting would be far less painful than whatever was awaiting her upstairs.

  *

  “We’ve located positions of activity here, here, and here.” Sorem gestured to various points on the map of Veskie sprawled across the conference table in Sorem’s office. The city map was actual paper with a clear plastic overlay draped across with various updates on rebel activity. The locations were all spread out throughout the city and its outlying areas, indicating either the rebels were traveling a lot of distance each day or they were separate cells.

  Adding to the frustration was a lack of extra movement on the streets. The embassy had launched drones to scan the areas, and the scans had revealed no unusual movements during the day or night. Scans of the underground areas had revealed no new tunnels or excavations, or any signs of persons using those routes for travel.

  There was no indication what had sparked the spike in activity or what they wanted.

  All attacks were random, and only one—the unsuccessful bridge bombing—had been directly targeted against the IASS. No attacks had happened anywhere near the shuttle pad either. If she was going to oust foreign occupiers, the first thing she would have hit would have been their logistical chains.

  “How can you be sure that’s where the activity is?” Elihu asked. “We’ve sent troops in, but every single house has been empty. It’s like they know we’re coming.”

  Melin sat carefully in the corner, trying not to draw attention to herself.

  Somehow, she’d been invited into a meeting with all of the very important people in the embassy. The ambassador, Undersecretary Calderon, Dar’Tan, Elihu, Sorem and Ravi were there, along with several other people she didn’t recognize but who were clearly important. There were no assistants in the room—no sign of Izzie or Temir—not even during the breaks.

  This meeting wasn’t just classified, it was top secret.

  And she’d been stuck in her corner for two hours, completely ignored, trying to figure out the point of the meeting beyond the best way to destroy the rebellion. Funny that they were calling it a rebellion and not an insurgency. She tried to figure out why the hells she was here—no one had even acknowledged her presence when she’d slipped through the door.

  “Of course they know,” Sorem snapped. “It’s the natives we have at the embassy. We need to get rid of them or intern them for the duration.”

  Melin stiffened as the others nodded.

  There were only two or three Saturans remaining on the embassy—all thoroughly vetted after the supply stealing from several months before.

  The group unanimously decided those Saturans would be interned on the island until this recent uprising was quelled—Melin tried to cover her surprise it hadn’t happened already. Or that it was even being considered instead of dismissing the Saturans completely. She cringed, thinking over the implications of interning Saturans onto the island by way of sticking them in the brig or confining them to house arrest in a cottage. With the high alert they wouldn’t have been able to leave the island anyway, but being imprisoned would certainly not help the already fragile relationships.

  Melin stared at the map again, feeling lost. Something was happening. She knew it, but without more context she had no idea what it could be.

  Another map of the planet rested on the table, drawing her attention toward that blank nothingness above the northern mountain range called the Dragonbacks where no IASS person had ever been, not in five hundred years of onplanet presence. Never been and never been able to map. Nothing technological worked that far north. The IASS had sent some bombs that way a hundred years be
fore, and then for all accounts, they appeared to have forgotten about that part of the planet.

  The marketplace brawl hadn’t been the spark, but something else was happening. Some latest unrest years in the making. Another spark in the deep-seated anger of the Saturan people. Melin had the sinking feeling Elihu’s bold words about their next moves being mop-up operations were terribly wrong.

  The standard IASS rules of engagement weren’t going to work, and bombing everything into dust was out of the question.

  She hoped.

  “We’ll send out a half garrison during tech, bring in as many of the men we can find, and interrogate them with truth serum,” Dar’Tan said.

  Melin shook her head, bringing herself back into the conversation. They were going to do what?

  Dar’Tan pointed to the map. “Hit them at night. Tonight.”

  “And after that?” Sorem asked.

  “I plan on extending our outreach to the dukes,” Dar’Tan said. “Take some shuttles out and do a meet and greet. Remind them of our arrangement. Resign the treaties.”

  The ambassador raised an eyebrow. “And who will you be taking with you? The last language expert left seven months ago.”

  Melin frowned. Hadn’t the last language expert had been one of the headless bodies swinging from the bridge? That could have been a rumor though.