I give her a few more seconds. “Got it together?”
Her eyes open slowly, but a little pink blooms in her cheeks. “I’m fine.”
We float silently for a while, taking in the fact that we may be the only survivors. Around five thousand troops dead. It’s almost unfathomable. Faces of friends begin to flicker through my mind, Webb, Holmes, Meeker…Tollhut. David and I had been on the
Hammer
for nearly six years and probably would have served our full time in service aboard it. Everything I’d known,
everyone
I’d known, everything I’d owned, now gone, completely obliterated in the fallout. Like it never existed.
Eventually, Soltznin says, “We have to get to the
Frontline
. Tell them what happened and send in a rescue party. Not everyone can be dead.”
Neither David nor I answer right away. He stops monitoring the ship’s systems and looks over at me, his pale green eyes serious. I stare back, not able to articulate exactly what I’m thinking in any useful way, except to shake my head. Tollhut’s eyes, the expression I’d seen on his face through the makeshift barrier, come to mind. That haunted, wild darkness in them. He’d known that once we started firing on our own, there would be no going back, no right side to be on. I repress a shiver as the memory of his face starts to merge with memories of the faces of the dead from Ohm Lumi. Maybe we’d already been on the wrong side. Maybe he’d known it.
“Aly,” David says quietly, “what did you mean when you said the
Hammer
was going to fire on the
Frontline
?”
“It’s why Tollhut lost it,” I tell him. “The
Frontline
is compromised. The insurgency, onboard revolts or whatever they are, we’ve all been hearing about—I guess the ship was overtaken. Smith told me that was the
Hammer
’s real mission, not to join them but to overtake and subdue them.” I quickly sketch out everything Smith had said and how it had led to Tollhut coming unhinged.
“What?” Soltznin says when I’m done. “No way. There’s no way the Corps would authorize the destruction of a fleet cruiser.” She frowns and her eyes crawl over my face, looking, I suppose, for confirmation or negation, something to tell her either I’m joking or I’m nuts.
“Look, Sergeant. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. Tollhut is,
was
, a heavy gunner on main ordinance. His company was directed to prepare for the assault. He went bonkers because he wasn’t going to open fire on another ship full of troops.”
“So he destroyed the
Hammer
instead? Do I look like an idiot?”
“I’ve known him for a long time,” I argue, getting defensive. “
Knew.
He probably didn’t want to destroy the ship. He most likely just meant to stop it.”
“Well, he pretty much fucking did.”
“Look.” David jumps in calmly. “It’s not easy for any of us to believe. But the point is, if we wait around for the
Frontline
, we’re putting ourselves in their hands. I think we might need to—”
Soltznin says, “Exactly. We’re soldiers. We belong with other soldiers.”
“You mean like Bernthal?” I say. “The private you just shot on the
Hammer
? He was a soldier. Or what about Tollhut? You’d have put a bullet in him too, if you’d had the chance. Help me out here. What exactly is your definition of
soldier
?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Aly. Cool it,” David says.
Soltznin’s gaze could melt steel, but I meet it without flinching.
“We go to the
Frontline
and we’re signing up for a war,” I continue, my voice dropping to a softer volume. “I for one am done fighting other people’s wars, Soltznin. I don’t want anyone else’s blood on my hands. If you feel differently, you’re free to do whatever you want—after we get to Dramma Sdutti.”
She doesn’t say anything more, and her eyes drop to the deck for a few seconds, as she thinks her options through. Sighing, she says, “The
Frontline
will find the survivors on its own, if there are any. And if this, I don’t know, soldier’s
rebellion
is real, we won’t have to sign up for it. It’ll find us. Let’s just get to Dramma Sdutti.”
In the fourteen hours it takes to reach the moon, a craggy-faced planetoid with hot, dry plains between deep canyons and ancient rock formations, and not much else, we go over every inch of the evac craft to assess what resources are available to us. Though I have doubts that Soltznin believes what I’d explained about the
Frontline
, no one mentions the fate of the
Hammer
again. It’s too raw, too close to home. We are adrift, leaderless and directionless. Thinking too much about the
Hammer
might lead to something worse: hopelessness.
First and foremost we need food and water, but extra weapons and ammo will give me, at least, more peace of mind. Lastly, nontrackable currency and something to wear besides the pattern-adjusting Corps combat uniforms could go a long way to helping us shed our military identities and blend in with the locals, but that’s asking too much from a Corps craft. Going underground requires being incognito, and until we decide our next step, that’s the only way we’re going to stay ahead of danger.
After a tease of a catnap I feel as refreshed as a used snot rag, but manage to rally somewhat after a half pot of instant coffee, hold the water. It’s an old trick that’s been around as long as coffee and soldiering have. Chew the caffeine-infused crystals and grit your teeth against the flavor. The hit to your adrenals is nearly instant, and it may make you feel like crawling out of your skin, but any residual fatigue or lack of awareness gets wiped out. The Spectras aren’t known for their welcoming populations and generally aren’t as well policed as the Admin-regulated Obal planets. If you’re walking around on a Spectra or one of their moons, you’re in charge of your own ass, and you’d better be ready to watch it.
The craft’s scanners show no Admin or Corps traffic in the vicinity as we sweep past the moon’s largest outpost, a non-citizen trader’s settlement called Iron Downs and our best chance for securing the things we need to blend and regroup. The three of us gather around the navigation holoprojection to decide where to land.
“I know it’s a hike, but we don’t want to get a craft like this too close to the city,” David says. “Let’s land in the shade of these rocks four klicks northeast. They’ll create enough interference to help us hide the ship from most long-distance radar, and with the cloak engaged, we’ll be basically invisible to anyone not knocking at the hatch.”
In agreement, I turn to the controls and put us on course. Addressing Soltznin, I start, “Tech Two—”
“Look,” she interrupts, “it’s probably best if we drop the military speak. Just call me Soltznin.”
I nod and give her a quick grin. “Right, Soltznin. You and I will go into the Downs, and David, you stay with the ship.” He opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it. Right now the ship is our lifeline and only asset. Neither of us wants to leave it in the hands of a stranger, even if that stranger had saved our lives. “The first thing we need to do is get some currency.”
“You planning to rob someone?” David asks, half joking.
“No, trade. This ship makes us a target, but I bet there are at least a dozen scalpers on this rock who would be willing to take it off our hands for a reasonable price.”
David and Soltznin both turn their eyes to me sharply. “Aly,” he says, “this is our transportation. Without it we’re stuck here.”
“Yeah, true. But do you have somewhere better to be?”
The question dangles in the air, not going away on its own. I see the full impact of what it means settling into the lines of their faces. Because I’m right; if we’re not rendezvousing with the nearest fleet cruiser, we are no longer soldiers. We are deserters.
Deserters.
The Political and Capital Administration of the Advanced Worlds is based on a bedrock principle, that all people are one of three things: citizen, soldier, or nothing, more commonly known as a non-citizen. But now we’re entering new territory, a territory that subverts those three basics, a territory of criminals, lowlifes, malefactors—and deserters. Occupants of this territory have two guarantees: no sympathy from the rest of society, and death.
“Aly…” Unsure what to add, David trails off.
But my focus is on Soltznin, who seems to be doing her best to absorb the impact of this revelation without giving her own thoughts about it away.
After a second, I continue, “So we’re all agreed.” I don’t make it a question and turn back to the console to begin the landing sequence. “Be ready. We’ll be down in a minute. David, will you take over? I want to get geared up.”
I feel his eyes linger on me for another moment, trying to understand what’s going on in my head, but then he gives up and takes the controls.
While checking the action on my AK-80 carbine and putting as much ammo as I can fit into my equipment vest, I outline the plan I’ve been pondering since we left. “Our VDUs are synced. Soltznin, if anyone questions us, we’re still playing soldier, at least until we can ditch these uniforms. Our story is that we’re here on routine patrol. We’ll check in with David every hour. If we miss a check-in…”
His eyebrows raise in a query, but there really isn’t an
if
. If we don’t check in, he either waits or starts searching. What happens then is well beyond the boundaries of any plan we could conceive of at this point.
“Aly,” he comments, “maybe it’s best if we all go. Getting split up could just make things harder.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but this ship is the only collateral we have. If someone isn’t here to guard it, we’re fucked.”
“We could be fucked either way.”
He lowers us into the patch of shadow beneath several spires of rust-red rock that rise a hundred meters or so from the ground. By the time the landing gear clunks down, Soltznin has her own equipment tight and right.
“Just guard it the best you can,” I say. “See you soon, brother.”
On our walk to
Iron Downs, I’m encouraged by the sight of a landing field with at least fifteen spacecraft docked on different tarmacs or simply on the earth, from transports to intra-planet hops. This is one of the most frequented non-citizen trading ports in the quadrant, and I’m sure we’ll be able to take our pick of hooligans willing to deal in contraband goods like the
Hammer
’s shuttle. The Obal planets’ laws are only applicable when someone, usually someone in a sharp suit and with a lot of armed backup, is here to enforce them. The non-cits of the Algol system make their own laws and are very, very inventive when it comes to enforcement.
“Soltznin, how much time have you spent planet-side since you’ve been in the Corps?”
“Maybe half my term.”
“Good, so you’re familiar with this type of trader’s post.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Erikson. I think our biggest concern will be making sure we don’t get grabbed by any slavers. Dramma Sdutti doesn’t have a reputation for tolerating the type, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t around. They’d be disguised as merchants or smugglers of trade goods, not necessarily out to buy hot Corps ships, so we shouldn’t have too much trouble avoiding them.”
She delivers the comments in a dry tone that I have a hard time reading. Maybe she doesn’t appreciate the implication that I’m questioning her judgment, but I relax a little anyway, knowing she’s not going to need her hand held. My six years of active combat duty have put me in the mix with locals, both citizen and non-citizen, enough times to have learned quickly how to judge friend or foe. But, more importantly, I’ve learned a little about the criminal enterprise side of things, so I’m confident—
enough
—that I can interpret the language, both verbal and non, used by the black marketers we need to find. Still, a faraway voice in my head is telling me I should have gone into spook ops and learned the arts of integration and lying instead of navigation and infantry when I’d had the chance. Unfortunately, subtlety has never been my strong trait.
The outpost is a small city, which by my estimate and based on the limited information found in the evac craft’s reference database has a fluctuating population averaging around five thousand inhabitants. Most of the buildings are constructed from the local stone, few rising more than two stories, and generally topped by domed roofs. An abundant aquifer of mineral-heavy water lies beneath it, providing the basis for the location, but the area doesn’t have any other appealing features that I can see. People come and go to pick up or drop off whatever’s profitable, but few put down roots. This transient lifestyle, more than anything else, will help us blend in as just another couple of here-today–gone-tomorrowers.
That is, once we get out of these uniforms.
Between what David, Soltznin, and I had in our pockets, we may have just enough currency to make that possible. As she and I step into the city proper, I experience the first real moment of relief since the
Hammer
’s explosion. Vendors, many hawking simple, cheap textiles and clothes, dot the main thoroughfare linking the northern and southern ends. Every available hint of shade provided by the squat buildings is occupied, and Soltznin and I identify a good option in short order.
As we approach the racks of pants, shirts, and jackets, a woman who I take to be the vendor rises from a chair perched against the building’s rough, sandy flank.
“I got papers for everything I’m selling,” she informs us, her glare of loathing as clear as the raised purple scar running from the side of her throat down the top of one breast and disappearing into the low-cut collar of her shirt.
For a moment, I consider using the angle of Corpsmembers tasked with confiscating nonregistered trade goods to get clothes from her for nothing. I’d willingly bet the price of a cosmetic surgeon who could remove her disfiguring scar that any papers she may have legitimizing her wares are as false as my story would be. But then I think better of it. Why lie? My loyalty to the Corps died on Ohm Lumi. Yet being a soldier still serves my purpose as cover, for now, and this is a smallish outpost. Word will get out soon that two Corpsmembers—two Corpsmembers with
no apparent backup
—are wandering around hassling people if we don’t employ risk avoidance every chance we get. Better to refrain from antagonizing the locals.
“We’re not here to check your papers,” I answer. “We want to trade.”
Her eyes, already deeply sunken inside a nest of loose wrinkles, seem to narrow. “I don’t deal in Admin bills.”
“How about these?” I pull off and open the carrying pack I’d brought, which is filled with the extra uniforms we’d found on the evac craft, then tilt it so she can get a good look inside. “Maybe you know a market that you could get a good price?”
Her eyes bounce from the uniforms to my face and back twice, gauging my intent. Then she reaches inside and feels the material, as if for authenticity. “What you want for them?”
Easier than I expected, and trading the uniforms could let us hold on to our currency for better uses. Dropping the bag, I leaf through the garments on her racks and quickly select items that will fit David and me. Soltznin does the same, never taking her right hand from the stock of her Bowker.
“These should do. And how about a couple extras in exchange for the uniforms we have on?”
The vendor quickly zips the pack and nudges it behind a heavily laden rack with her foot. “They’re yours. You want to trade up the
uniforms
”—she almost sneers the word—“you’re wearing, you can take them off over there.” Her chin lifts toward an alleyway just across the street.
Too
easy. Suspicion suddenly lays a rough hand on my heart and squeezes. “You know, I think we’ll just keep them, but I’ll have that bag back.”
Shrugging, she pulls a keycard from the pocket of her pants and waves it across the lock in the door of the building behind her. When she turns around to start collecting the extra uniforms to put inside, I let the AK strap drop from my shoulder and cradle the carbine in a fashion that assures anyone watching that taking aim and pulling the trigger will come as easily as drawing a breath. If they give me a reason.
“Second thought,” I say casually, “my friend and I could change in there.” I glance to the doorway, taking in as much of the gray interior beyond as I can.
“No, that’s—”
“I think, yes,” I cut in. Her quick protest tells me it’ll be safer inside there than in the alley. I’m not doing much to avoid antagonizing the locals, however.
This time she does sneer. “Fuckin’ Corps deserters. You scum may leave the Admin, but you’re still double-dealing cockroaches.”
“Hey, lady, we’re just modest girls who want to use your indoors to change clothes. No need to hurt our feelings.” I keep my tone dismissive, hiding the surprise and curiosity her statement evoked. Corps deserters? There have been others?
The vendor pulls the clothes free and flings them messily inside, her move a tacit consent. “I’ll stay out here and keep watch,” I tell Soltznin in a low voice. “You go first.”
She enters carefully with the clothes she’d picked draped over her shoulder, then returns in less than two minutes. “It’s clear. Just a squat, but she has a lot of uniforms in there.”
Nodding, I repeat the action and step back into the street feeling, for the first time in ten years, like anything but a soldier. Part of me wants to question the woman about where she’d gotten all those uniforms and what she knows about the apparently high volume of deserters coming through the outpost, but I can see she has had more than her fill of us. It’s time to move on.
At this time of year on this moon, there should only be a few hours of semidarkness to stand in for nightfall, but in the hour since we’d left David at the craft, the planet has shifted enough to make the light from our three suns resemble dusk, which I fully welcome. It takes the edge off the heat and cuts the glare from the overbright sky. It’ll be easier to see if someone is coming at us with less-than-friendly intentions if we’re not fighting the glare.
Checking in with David as we put distance between us and the vendor, I let him know we’re good so far. A couple hundred meters down, the street opens up into a wide circle. In the center is what appears to be a public water pump and well. Two boys, teenagers who look somewhere between thirteen and sixteen, stand at it, filling a tank cinched to the back of a four-wheeled sand quad.