Read The Year’s Best Military SF & Space Opera Online
Authors: David Afsharirad
The Year’s Best Military SF & Space Opera (29 page)
“Because three people tried to kill me tonight. I couldn’t figure out what secret was so important they’d be willing to kill to protect it. Everybody knew they were trading drugs for food, so that couldn’t be it. And meanwhile, I still couldn’t work out where they were putting the food they collected from the addicts. Until I finally realized: there was only one place on the drug dealers’ route at the end of the night that they could be leaving the food. The colony’s food dispensary. Where it came from in the first place. And that led me to you.”
“It’s a perfect system.” Misery displaces Hoffman’s last traces of sleepiness. “We hand out the same food rations, over and over.”
“That’s insane,” Sasha says, from the foot of Hoffman’s bed, where she’s standing. Hoffman startles, noticing the girl for the first time.
“We would have run out of food by now,” Becky Hoffman says to Luc. “We would all have starved.”
“Don’t explain to me,” Palm Strike snarls. “Explain to
her
.” He jerks a gloved hand in Sasha’s direction. “She’s one of your people. She was born here. This colony is all she’s ever known. You have to explain to her.”
“You’re too young to understand,” Hoffman pleads with Sasha. “We—I—had to make impossible choices. There wasn’t enough food. And it was a mercy. The people who use our drug don’t feel any hunger pains, and they don’t even notice their bodies shutting down. It gives people like you and Clarissa, good people, a chance to survive.”
Sasha stares at the colony’s leader, her mom’s boss, with tears streaming down her face. Luc has to remind himself she wanted to see this. “I don’t . . .” she gropes for an unaccustomed formality. “I don’t recognize your authority any longer.”
“I didn’t set up the drug operation,” Becky Hoffman says. She’s sweating, and inching her hand toward something under her pillow. A silent alarm? Her guards are already taken care of. “I found out about it. I told them they could work for me, or be executed. I turned it into a way to save the colony. This was the only way to ration the food that wouldn’t lead to riots.”
Becky Hoffman makes her move, pulling out a power-welder of the sort that you’d use to repair hull damage on a starship in flight. It’s the size and shape of a big fork, like you’d use on a pot roast. At close range, it would tear a hole in Palm Strike that even his healing mojo couldn’t begin to fix. He’s already on her, trying to pin her wrist, but she slips under his guard. She brings the power welder up and activates it, bringing it within a few centimeters of Palm Strike’s chest.
“Now,” he tells Sasha.
Sasha squeezes the remote she rigged up, and an explosion in the distance rattles the survival module so violently the emergency impact alarms go off, like a dozen electronic goats bleating. Hoffman’s grip loosens on the power-welder long enough for Palm Strike to knock it out of her grasp.
Palm Strike looks into Hoffman’s tear-soaked face and unleashes The Voice. “That was your drug lab. Next time, it’ll be your office. Your days of choosing who gets to live are over. You are going to help me fix this mess.” And then Palm Strike gestures for Sasha to go back out the window they came in. He takes the power-welder with him.
12.
LUC DIGS
until his arms are throbbing, and he’s waist deep in the hard, unyielding earth. Probably deep enough—he doesn’t want to hit one of those underground hot springs. Then he clambers back out, and tosses the helmet, safety vest, gloves and leggings into the hole. It’s not like burying the actual Palm Strike costume, but close enough. And if he needs safety gear later, he’ll know where some’s buried.
“Do you want to say some words?” Sasha asks. She’s hit a growth spurt, and her wrists and ankles are miles long. Even in the higher gravity, you get human beanpoles. Amazing.
“Don’t be stupid,” Luc grunts.
“We are gathered here today to remember Palm Strike,” Sasha intones.
“Cut it out,” Luc says. “Seriously.”
“He was a good man, even though we never knew who he really was. Some said he was a sea slug that oozed inside some old safety gear and pretended to be a man. But he fought for justice.”
Luc tunes out her terrible funeral oration, starts filling in the hole. He pauses just long enough to turn and look out at the farmland, where they’ve managed to transplant a handful of the “trees” from the other side of the geyser, and a few acres of sorghum are being planted. Too close together. You’ll want at least a couple feet between plants, or the mites will shred the roots. He’ll need to talk to McGregor about that. He’s almost done filling the hole, and Sasha is still nattering.
“—and he dedicated himself to helping people, unless they had really gross teeth or bad breath, in which case they were on their own.”
Luc slings the shovel over his shoulder, and wrestles with the temptation to tell her to shut the hell up for once. Instead, he just shrugs and says, “I knew this was a bad idea.”
The sun is going down. The parade of moons begins. Luc turns and walks back the way they came. Sasha doesn’t quit blabbing the whole way back to the colony, which is still filled with the susurration of a thousand people moaning in the grasp of drug withdrawal, like souls crawling out of hell. Part of Luc feels compassion at the sound, but another part of him finds the din weirdly comforting. It sounds like home.
BROOD
by Stephen Gaskell
Growing up on Mars, Lena had heard tales of the Slicers—augmented soldier, more machine than human, left over from the Fringe Wars. She’d thought them boogeymen made up by parents to frighten willful children into obedience. Now, she knew different.
LENA HAD TO HAND IT
to her brother. He didn’t shy away from the system’s most inhospitable places. She’d used to think he was testing her, testing to see how far she would go to forge a bond with him, but now, twenty-seven years after she’d become his little sister, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he did want to be alone, and she should just stop trying. She could certainly do without his so-called
charm
.
They’d lost contact with his research team hours ago. They’d swept past the same pitted plains, the same mountainous ridge of volcanoes, the same abandoned derricks, four times in their low-slung orbit. He’d known something was up, but all she’d got out of him was a dismissive “You can’t land yet” before the link had turned to white noise.
“I say we set down.” Nik Magyar, the Miura-Sagan Prize-winning journalist, spun head-over-heels, bored out of his mind.
Lena sighed.
She wasn’t cut out for chaperoning. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold him off. Corporate-sponsored gigs like this weren’t his usual bag. This was a man who was used to working alone, getting his own way—much like her brother, Artem.
“I said ‘I say we set down.’”
“I heard you. And
you
heard my brother. We’re not—”
“They might be in trouble.”
Possible, but unlikely. More likely a fried RF relay or EM interference had crippled the comms. She had to be careful. Obtaining the license for the experimental trial had taken the better part of a year of legal wrangling with the Astronautical Control Agency, the United Interplanetary Space Authority, the Biotech Ethics Committee, and the rest. It might never be granted again. Artem—not to mention the Genotech board—would be mighty pissed if rockstar writer Nik Magyar saw something he shouldn’t. They wanted a PR coup, not a PR disaster. “We wait.”
“Do you do
everything
he tells you?”
His question needled her. “I trust him.”
Nik shrugged.
If you say so.
Lena liked that even less. “I’ll tell you what. We’re not landing, but maybe we can take a closer look.”
Nik smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Ancient lava flows coated the crust in a glittering mineral of deep red hue. Sea-green gashes laced the ochre fields where shallow impacts had exposed the olivine mantle. In places, meadows of purple grass clung to the stone. It was a form of needlegrass geneered from archea microorganisms, and one of Artem’s greatest triumphs. It survived solely on solar energy and silicates, a marvel of resilience—and a steady source of food for the harvesters.
“There,” Lena whispered, spying one of the giant insects.
Nik studied the lone forager, rapt. “Surreal.”
“On Mars their size would cripple them.”
Nik shook his head, disbelieving. “How do they survive?”
“Mucus.”
“Mucus?”
“Their bodies are coated in the stuff. Traps enough air and warmth for them to survive outside for a time.”
Lena explained how after Vesta’s precious ores had been excavated, cleaned, and brought to the surface, a specialized flinger caste would toss it into space. Through reference to the star field—and this was another stroke of genius on her brother’s part—the flingers could be trained to send the ore through solar windows like the Kirkwood Gap, ensuring their capture at the Lagrange points or in Earth’s or Mars’ gravitational wells. From there, orbital mining scoops would collect the ores. “This is going to be revolutionary.”
Twenty years ago they’d lost their father in a drilling accident on Ceres. Extraction tech hadn’t fundamentally changed since the pre-space era, and Artem dreamed of dragging the industry into the rwenty-second century, breaking the corps’ monopoly of medieval practices.
“Now we definitely have to land,” Nik said.
Lena rattled the small aerosol can of pheromone. “You know, this stuff hasn’t been tested yet.”
The chemical had been manufactured in the Genotech labs from data transmitted back by the Vesta team. A fine spray over their suits would identify Lena and Nik as members of the insect colony, and allow them to wander unchallenged—that was the theory, anyhow.
“Nik,” Lena gasped. “Look.”
On the holo an entourage of smaller insects swarmed around one of the colossal flingers. Lena’s mouth went dry. The smaller insects weren’t cleaning the flinger as they should’ve been. They were
attacking
it. She watched on, couldn’t help herself as they slashed and tore at the behemoth, gouging its eyes, puncturing its carapace. It fought back, but its immense size hindered its attacks on its small, nimble foes. Straw-yellow ichor spilled from its wounds, marking the rocks.
“You okay?” Nik asked.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid for Artem, for the others.”
“Shit, you don’t think—”
“I don’t know!” Lena imagined the insects clashing in the dark, musty tunnels of the nest. It’d be no place for a person, pheromoned or not. Stupidly, she felt guilty too. She’d been angry when they’d last spoken, lived up to the childish image he had of her.
“Lena—”
“What?”
“Easy there. I was—”
“
Easy there?
My brother’s down there, not a fucking story!” She raked her hands into her hair, pulled hard. “I’m sorry.”
They stared at one another, the silence festering. Landing would be suicidal. Backup was weeks away. They were both about to speak, when the navigation holo blinked to life. A compact object tore into the heavens not twenty klicks away. Lena neuralled the holo, began instructing it for an object composition analysis.
“Don’t bother,” Nik said. “I’d recognize that trail signature anywhere.” He spun towards the vacsuit lockers. “That was a rescue flare.”
The survivor trekked across a crystal plain, gunmetal vacsuit contrasting with the prismatic red stone. He—Lena assumed it was a he from the survivor’s languid bearing—waved. His lack of urgency unnerved Lena. She tried hailing him on the close-range frequency, but only got static.
“Funny,” she said, speaking into her helmet’s mic, “radio’s off.”
Like Lena, Nik had put on his vacsuit. He stood by the entry hatch, impatient, eyes glued to a small holo that relayed a grainy feed of the survivor. “Maybe he can sign?”
Lena didn’t appreciate the joke. “I just want to know who it is.”
“So do I. And before they’re made into very modern art.”
They set down on a small plateau, not two hundred meters from the survivor. “Hold tight,” Lena said.
The hatch groaned open. Lena felt a chill enveloping her, the buzz of her thermal sleeve responding. She didn’t like the sensation, didn’t like the situation, either. “Off and on, Nik. No dallying.” She listened to herself inhale, exhale, the noises amplified by the helmet. “Nik? You get that?”
Nik hunkered down, staring out the hatch. “I got it,” he said, distractedly.
“And watch your step, you’ll be practically weightless.”
She wondered who it would be—maybe Carlson, or Petronis, or perhaps it was Miera, the short, tough Brazilian. She didn’t dare imagine that it was Artem—
“Get us out of here!” Nik’s footsteps thrummed through the starsloop’s metalloceramic skeleton. He jammed himself into the co-pilot’s seat. “Now!”
Lena blinked, confused. Survivors need rescuing.
Nik didn’t wait a second time, leaning across Lena and wrenching her command field into his lap. His fingers rippled through the light. The starsloop lurched upwards pressing Lena down hard.
“What is it?” she stuttered.
Nik ignored her, slammed his right hand forward. The starsloop responded likewise, plowing forward, engines screeching. Lena’s head cracked against the headrest with a dull thump. Pain bloomed. The external cam was still slaved on the survivor, and in a dozy slo-mo she watched the man begin to raise his arm.
Poor soul, she thought.
Except what she’d thought was a last desperate plea
wasn’t
. A pulse of earth-sky blue flashed across the vacuum, followed by a tremendous crash. They went into a terrifying spin, the whole craft churning and whining and shaking, while everything blurred. Nik shouted something, but his words were lost as his teeth chattered and the warning sirens blared. She tasted blood on her tongue.
The low gravity prolonged their descent into a long drawn-out affair, putting klicks between themselves and their attacker. Lena’s life didn’t so much flash as amble before her eyes.
Then, with a thunderous rumble, the ground reared up and swallowed them.
She woke dazed and bruised in darkness.
Down was sideways and up was somewhere else. Her arm felt sore, trapped. With a determined effort she cracked it free. She waved the other arm, carved out some space in front of her, and neuralled on her shoulder-mounted torch. Shockfoam, white and crispy like meringue, had saved her life. She kicked her legs, amazed they were still willing and able, broke the foam. Suit vitals on the inner arm indicated that its integrity had held, but comms, meds, and data were all shot. A red light on the sleeve blinked every few seconds; air supplies were low but not critical. She must’ve been out for the better part of an hour. No sign of fear. Perhaps she was still in shock. Whatever, at least she could think straight.
She breathed calmly, excavated Nik from his foam crypt. His body was doubled up, hanging. She pressed her helmet against his, her busted comms meaning he wouldn’t hear a peep without direct contact. “Nik! Wake up!”
He groaned, slowly came round.
“Check your vitals.”
He gazed at his arm then gave her a groggy thumbs up.
The starsloop had corkscrewed in the crash. Getting out was no picnic. After swinging and grappling and climbing, they stood on the starsloop hull surveying the carnage. Thank Sol we hadn’t closed the hatch before we were hit, Lena thought. The starsloop was deader than Mercury now, even the emergency hydraulics were busted good. Nik pointed to the rough track where it had skidded to rest.
S-‘s that way,
he mouthed.
“What?”
He loomed close, cracked their helmets together harder than he intended. “I said, the slicer’s that way.” His voice sounded hollow, distant.
The slicer? She’d get the story later. Right now they had to get inside, avoid asphyxiation. “Let’s head away from him.”
“Where’s the nest entrance?”
Good question. The vacsuits couldn’t help them, their data cores corrupt or broken. Lena scanned the dead horizon. Nothing. Nothing except the odd flutter of motion. Insects. And insects meant access—
The pheromone! “Do you have the aerosol?”
Nik cursed, then peered down into the dim interior of the starsloop. He clambered inside, moments later hoisting up a couple of compact harpoon guns and a couple pairs of Hi-Gain IR goggles. As Lena clutched the second gun her eyes wandered back in the direction of their arrival.
Something glinted in the sunlight, far off.
The slicer? She went horizontal, pressed herself against the starsloop shell, and motioned the danger to Nik. He hauled himself out, touched helmets. “If you can see him, he can see you. We go. Now.”
“Where’s the aerosol?”
“Lost.” He grabbed one of the guns, stuffed the goggles into a pouch on his vacsuit. “Come on.”
Lena picked up the other gun, clasped the barrel of the harpoon gun tight, glad to feel its heft. Then, crouching, they scampered down the curved belly of the starsloop and onto the asteroid. The stone was cold and hard. Dread assailed her. This was supposed to be a cakewalk—babysit a journo, collect some hard samples, go home.
She slapped her helmet as she ran.
Stop it.
Nik was a few paces ahead, his steps controlled but fast, as if he was running on the spot. The microgravity was a nightmare, and she tried to emulate his action, all the while keeping her eyes peeled for outcroppings or loose rocks. And then they needed to find an insect—
The whole ground shook. She nearly tumbled.
Nik turned, pointed into the sky. She twisted, watched a piece of debris pirouette between the stars and crash mere meters away. Burnt and mangled as it was, she still recognized it as the remains of the landing ramp. Beyond it the starsloop was a blackened smoldering thing.
Nik gestured with his head.
Come on.
She nodded, tried to ignore her hammering heart. She pointed at a dead insect ahead and to the right, not two hundred paces away. They moved fast, and not long after, wheezing hard, Lena pulled a hunting knife from her shin pocket. Hand shaking, she crouched down and began examining the underside of the insect’s head with the tip of the blade. A thin film coated its exoskeleton.
There.
The gland was easily visible beneath the insect’s leathery skin, a thick rope of a vessel. She beckoned Nik over, motioned for him to cup his hands. He did, and she sliced through the gland. Hot spurts of fluid pooled in his makeshift bowl, dripped between his fingers. He threw the liquid over himself and rubbed it into the folds of his vacsuit. Lena did likewise with the ebbing flow.