I shake my head, trying to silence it. The Conglomerate isn’t like Farwan, I tell myself. If I’d been here, I only would’ve died with them. No help in that. But maybe it would’ve been better for me. More than most, I know the pain of surviving.
There is an awful gravitas in standing at ceremony after ceremony, listening to a holy man intone words that are supposed be comforting but instead merely remind you that you’ve been left behind.
Not this time, I tell myself. You’ll find them.
In slow, stealthy movement, we complete our circuit of the perimeter. No bodies, but I recognize the stench of burned meat. It lingers in the air; people become ash in a white-hot instant. They rain down on us in the aftermath, clinging to our skin and hair, the dust of the ones we loved drifting in ladders of light. This is a wound too grave for weeping, a silence of the soul burned black as a night without stars.
.CLASSIFIED - TRANSMISSION.
.SUCCESS.
.FROM-EDUN_LEVITER.
.TO-SUNI_TARN.
.ENCRYPT-DESTRUCT-ENABLED.
From the tone of your last communiqué, I believe you have become anxious about my safety. That is . . . unusual for me. I am not accustomed to anyone noticing whether I disappear or run silent, as is sometimes necessary. Tarn, my work is, as they say, often best done in the dark.
At any rate, I am pleased to report success at last. It took nearly all my guile and expertise to interest the gray men in a mutually beneficial arrangement, as they had found much to occupy them since Farwan’s fall. They required convincing that it was not less complicated to hunt whomever they choose—with little or no authority to stop them. But at length, I reminded them that hunts sanctioned by an operational governing body carry no repercussions. They do miss that autonomy, and they are willing to talk terms with the Conglomerate. With judicious financial finagling, you can afford them.
Attached, please find the coordinates for a meeting that will permit the gray men to commence seek-and-destroy on those Morgut vessels that survived the carnage above Venice Minor, and the subsequent grimspace disaster.
For your other remarks, I respect a man who is capable of owning his moments of self-doubt. Mary knows, we’ve all had them, questioned our course, or whether we deserve the boons life has bestowed upon us. I think no one could have steered this ship better than you, not under the prevailing circumstances. You have stepped up to the mark during a difficult time, and you will be remembered for that courage, not for your imperfections. I will make sure of that myself.
Do you find the political life a difficult one? From my vantage, it seems so akin to living always in the public eye. Does that suit you? I would find it vexatious in the extreme, I believe.
And . . . thank you for caring.
Yours,
Edun
.ATTACHMENT-MEETING_COORDINATES-FOLLOWS.
.END-TRANSMISSION.
.COPY-ATTACHMENT.
.FILES-DOWNLOADED.
.ACTIVATE-WORM: Y/N?
.Y.
.TRANSMISSION-DESTROYED.
CHAPTER 2
“Where’s the Dauntless?” Hit asks.
The question gives me pause because I didn’t I notice it as we scouted the area. With the others, I saw enough fragments to identify the wreckage. So maybe they got away. I cling to that hope anyway. They might have been flying up to fight even as Hit and I raced down. Please, please let that be true.
“I’m not sure.”
“That might be a good thing.”
“Our ship won’t fly, but it has the only working comm in the area.” I name our biggest challenge as we head back to the tiny vessel.
“We could try hiking out of here in hope the rest of planet has fared better.”
As if in answer, the horizon lights up with the impact of more missiles—an awful red glow that burns like twin desert suns, deeper than Gehenna’s permanent sunset and far more sinister. They’re going to kill everyone on the surface. Complete extermination, as if we’re merely pests that prevent them taking possession. I suppose I should be grateful they aren’t eating us; maybe we’ve taught them at last we’re an enemy to be reckoned with, not mindless meat, but that elevation of status comes at a high cost. They’ll assume this area has been saturated sufficiently unless they learn otherwise, so we don’t have to worry about renewed bombardment here.
“They’re still bombing,” I say needlessly.
Even if they weren’t, I’m not up to a long walk just yet. The nanites haven’t had a chance to finish repairing all the damage I did during the long immersion in grimspace while I reprogrammed the beacons. So I merely shake my head. Hit seems to understand my limitations, as she drops the suggestion without argument.
“If I rest some, I can keep up with you later,” I add.
“That leaves the problem of food and water.”
Fortunately, we’re on a hospitable planet, not like Lachion or Ithiss-Tor. We can find fruit and freshwater nearby. The insects and hungry indigenous life will make survival a challenge, but it’s not insurmountable. The Morgut ships overhead, on the other hand, trouble me, but I’ve told our allies not to risk jump-travel, which means Venice Minor won’t be seeing Conglomerate reinforcements—and maybe that’s for the best. In wartime, they talk of acceptable loss; from my training, I know that commanders are prepared to lose up to 33 percent of their troops, and when the representatives present this as a victory, that’s how they’ll describe the people who died here; but right now, it doesn’t feel tolerable to me at all.
There hasn’t been time for my message to reach Tarn or for him to respond. Which means Hit and I must focus on finding shelter and staying alive until the Morgut finish the eradication of our species here. After that, I don’t know what the hell we’ll do—steal a ship, maybe. At least with my implants, I have the advantage of understanding Morgut speech and some of their technology. I might be able to explain to Hit how to fly one of their scout ships, assuming we aren’t caught and eaten first.
“It’s gonna be a rocky few days,” Hit says.
“I’m aware.”
“The jungle’s not secure with the fires still burning.” Her dark gaze roves around the rubble, looking for safe harbor.
We both know we can’t roam too far from the ship. At this point, stealing a Morgut scout vessel and rendezvousing with the rest of the Conglomerate fleet offers our best chance for survival. I can’t feel March, but this time, it’s because of the physical distance between us. That’s what I tell myself anyway. It doesn’t mean he’s dead. He’s probably on the Dauntless with Hon and Loras.
You better hope they don’t jump. If they do, you’ll lose everyone on board.
Icy terror crawls down my spine. Please, please let them be in orbit, fighting the good fight. If they are, maybe . . .
“Do you remember the Dauntless comm code?” I ask Hit.
Regret colors her expression as she shakes her head. Damn. I don’t either. If Rose were here, she could tell me, I have no doubt. She was a good comm officer, but we lost her even before we landed on Venice Minor. I remember Doc’s grief, and sorrow steals through me. War has no regard for love.
“Maybe we can find part of the Triumph’s ship’s computer and link it to ours,” she suggests. “It should have records of past communications.”
I hope her technical expertise surpasses mine because I can’t do that. But spending as much time with Dina as she does, it’s not surprising some of the knowledge has sunk in. For all I know, she helps the mechanic with repairs between the nuzzling and softly whispered words.
“Let’s look.”
The Triumph wreckage lies nearby, and we creep toward it in silence. Together, Hit and I sort through the metal and burnt components. I try not to think of Kai; he died long ago, yet he haunts me still. I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.
At length, she produces a chunk of the computer’s trailing wires, and says, “I think this is it.”
More explosions light that bloody glow in the distance. We’re too far from ground zero to hear the booms or feel the earth shake; the Morgut are moving off now, systematically destroying the defenseless resorts and private homes. I wonder if the civilians had any real warning, or if they went from relaxing massage to dying in abject terror. There are no RDIs—Residential Defense Installations—here, no ground resistance at all, apart from Hit and me. Right now that seems like an impossibly tall order; we’re not shock troops trained in terrestrial guerilla warfare.
“Do you feel like we saved the Conglomerate only to lose everything that matters?” I ask her quietly, as we pick a path toward the downed skiff.
“Only if Dina died here,” Hit answers. “If she did, then I’ll find a way to eradicate the Morgut. I will hunt them to extinction, then delete all their records, all their writings. They will pass unremembered.” Her coldness gives me chills.
But I feel more or less the same way; I’m just less articulate about it. “If I’ve lost March, then I’ll help you.”
She doesn’t answer as she drops down through the open door to the cockpit. I come in on the other side and squat on the ceiling, watching as she snips and entwines the wires. Sparks fill the air, simmering white-hot, then dying with a hiss as connection begins.
“Got it. Cycling through old logs now.”
Through crackles of static, I listen as Rose sends the calls through. Her voice echoes from beyond the grave, more memories I cannot shake. “You have Hon from the Dauntless requesting a connection.”
“Patch him through,” March says.
Mary, how it hurts to hear his voice, even blurred with electronic interference. It makes me feel as if he’s one of my ghosts, and I can’t give in to grief before I find the answers. Hit plays the log until she successfully extrapolates the comm code, a matter of some urgency, as there’s no telling how much longer this wreck will have sufficient power to send—or receive—messages. Hit cues me with the go-ahead, and I angle my head as best I can toward the comm array. The video’s not working, but as long as we have audio, it should suffice.
“Hit and I have returned to Venice Minor. We encountered no survivors. Our ship’s disabled, but we don’t see the Dauntless amid the wreckage so we hope you survived the initial bombing. If you’re still in direct comm range, we implore you not to jump as your navigator won’t be able to interpret the signals. At best, you’ll wind up far from your intended destination. At worst, you’ll be lost for good. Until we hear back, we’ll be waiting on the surface, so please advise with intel and our new orders.”
Unless they court-martial us for going AWOL. But it isn’t time for disciplinary action; we’re in the middle of a war, for Mary’s sake. Once the dust settles, then I’ll take my punishment, but I’m not letting them touch Hit. I’ll lie if I must.
After a nod from her indicating she has nothing to add, I say, “Send.”
A ping from the comm indicates it’s resolved the link, which indicates they’re up there, somewhere. Who’s on the Dauntless, we cannot know. Then from the damaged console comes an alarming beep, accelerating in speed. Even I know what that means. Frantic, I scramble out of the cockpit, cutting my palms on metal shards as I pull myself out. Hit grabs my hand and we sprint full out away from the skiff.
