White-hot heat licks out of Engine 21A of the OGL Hershfelt. I see someone, dressed in the typical engineering worksuit, melted, their flesh sloughing off of bones turned to charcoal. Their scream is silenced before I can open my mouth to say anything to save them.
I don’t remember who they are. Nor can I attempt to recover their remains. There is nothing left of their identity but a heap of twisted bones and dust. I scream. I can’t control the spew of fear from my gullet, the high-pitched squeal tailing off from the throaty howl.
I can feel the ship rocking, moving from alignment to alignment. The gravity correction must have weakened, because I can sense the gyroscopic thrusters sputtering with every spasmodic gasp of the keel. The massive colony ship, pregnant with refugees and terraforming equipment, shudders into the gravity well of the moon of Callisto. The viewport shows the armada surrounding the ship, enforcers and escorts all flitting around her mass.
I wonder what her exterior looks like. What the mother I’ve been taking care of, shining to within an inch of her perfect function, looks like as she takes a death knell through the atmosphere.
I turn and clamber down the shaft, my hands gripping the holds ensconced in the wall. I connect a neural circuit and feel molecularized cocaine and adrenaline rocket through an otherwise perfectly balanced system. My testosterone injections flair, newly toned muscles flexing with potential energy. I have few thoughts going through my mind, the foremost among them being; Find D’Argeel.
Ratz looks at me cross-eyed, implants drilled into his head like paperweights from some angry, petty surgeon. Nonetheless, the bottles in his hand fly and arc in perfect parabolas, the liquid within them never touching the ground. That’s the only part of his body without any steel or gold or tungsten, his hands. Some bartenders in the city have fancy augs, magneto-tips on their fingers and ferrous mixing cups. Not Ratz. He left the city, left Carpendio, left it all behind like the glitzy wolfman he is. The drink lands in front of me, perfectly frothed, imported lime wedge traced along the rim, sprinkle of salt to offset the acidity of the beetroot rotgut he serves. Horsetail garnish to finish it off.
I sip my drink, twirling a steel knife in my still-fleshy fingers. It travels across my knuckles. I have nothing to do for the next few hours, unless—
There’s a tinkle on the device strapped to my belt, a small rectangle of silicon and circuitry. I take out the oblong device and flick it on, letting the bonetap in my ear canal connect to the broadcaster.
“Clicker, clicker, this is CUES broadcasting, do you read me?”
The sweet voice of a young woman fills my head, the accent bland and unobtrusive but still filled with the lilt of some ancient Irish ancestry. I lean back, looking at Ratz and waving my hand in a wobbly back and forth motion we’ve decided means “one for the road.”
“Answering and receiving, Bes.” My voice is deep, harmonious, the strings perfectly tuned to my desired frequency. “Whatcha got for me?”
I feel a small jolt in my frontal cortex as images pour in. A mental download of the face of a man in stark contrast to his surroundings; hawkish nose, defined chin, hairline like the ridge of a cratered canyon, augmented eyes and filtration for the lungs and chest, arms like a gorilla. The harvesting augments shine in the dim Sun’s light, so far away from us.
He’s drenched in blood, and the people (or former people) behind him are oozing sacks of organs, contorted into basker-shapes. It looks like they've been basket weaved together in some calamitous act of violence.
“Tough customer. Any location information?”
“General area, south of where you are now. Event just happened—if you get there quick the trail might still be there. BID number is ten-delta-thirty-five-jack.”
“Heard and received, HQ. Make sure you get some sleep tonight, Bes.”
“Oh, I’ll be dreamin’ of you all night, mister.”
I screech into the workshop, tungsten heels spitting up sparks on the smooth-steel surface. D’Argeel looks up from the twisted body of Imene, her oval face shorn in half by a fall chunk of steel from a burst pressure valve. I see tears in her eyes.
“Gee, we need to go. Now.”
Her ruby-red eyes widen at me, my chest heaving with the effort of running across half of the massive behemoth. I look at her hands and see them stained with blood. Her friend lies broken. He’s coughing up blood and moaning weakly. There’s a steel pipe sticking through his chest.
“We need to leave, Gee. I can’t fix a hole in his chest.”
The ship rocks again. I can hear echoes of screams down the tuberous hallways, sounds of metal crunching. I glance out of the single viewport in this dusty workshop, a single slice of the beautiful star-spew around us; fighters are engaging each other. The subtle gold of our ships flashing against the inky blackness, red tracers and lasers striking against the night.
It’s war. Of some kind.
“Dar, babe, we need to get the fuck out to the pod. Now.”
“I’m not leaving Fery!”
I straggle my way through the wreckage of the workshop, threading through the piles of scattered generators and machines midway through repair. My hands are coated in grease by the time I reach her, my hand on her shoulder. Fery’s eyes are glassy spheres, reflecting the yellow-white sodium lights dangling from the roof. D’Argeel is crying.
I pick her up, engaging the servos in my biceps in order to do so. I can feel her sobs against my shoulder. I shoulder my way through the workshop into the hallway, wondering if it means something that I've chosen the path of least emotional resistance. Sometimes I regret how much I've changed.
This isn’t one of those times. I kick apart the fallen scrap and scramble to the door. I look back and see the ships in the sky, gathered around the atmosphere of Callisto. I see their red emblems, skulls and pirate symbols.
I shudder.
The soil is soaked with a dark black stain, the ground cordoned off with bright yellow caution tape. I approach, implants whirring and buzzing as I examine the footprints still left.
Easy.
Two people, one tall, one short, possibly a child, most likely the victim. The images I received were imprints, probably extracted from a drunk who happened to be in the area. Echoes of echoes. Pictures of pictures. Eidetic memory stores them away, along with the other collections of nonsense and horror.
Here the image comes into clearer focus—struggle, argument, violence—the reflections of emotion and hatred. I just need to find that face, that imprinted body of flesh and tungsten.
The door to the tavern jumps open as I strong-arm it aside. The locals stare at me, farmers and brewers, makers. My eyes scan, looking for my target—he isn’t there, of course. I knew he wouldn’t be, but it never hurts to check. I announce my presence to those who aren’t already throwing dirty looks my way, voice ringing out in the silence.
“Y’all know who I’m here for. Point me to where he is, and I leave y’all alone. You know the deal.”
“I know you know somethin’. It was your bar.”
I see the back of the bar. Its composed entirely of glass and reflective surfaces. I can see myself in the overly polished expanse—four thick braids, tied together by a teal ribbon. I put my hand son the revolver on my hip.
“Like I said, coloboy. Tell me what and where and I’ll go.”
I don’t say that word if I can help it. But I know it works to get what I need.
The rescue pods are almost a kilometer away, through the warren of tunnels and chambers. The humidifier system must have been hit, because the air seems to be nearing one hundred percent humidity. I can feel drops of water dripping down my back, soaking into the cheap cloth jumpsuit. I can put Gee down, her shaky legs able to carry her again.
“Are you okay?”
She nods. I hope she isn’t lying. I take her hand and draw my pistol. Colony ships like this one, filled with metamorphic technology, are a draw for anyone with enough firepower to take them on and enough insanity to try and pull it off. There’s a good chance they boarded.
I look back and see Gee with her own pistol in her hands, the chipped varnish of her fingernails stark against the matte-black body of the slugthrower.
The corridors are dark. Some are stained with blood. All of them have the lights dimmed to an eerie low level, enough to see but not enough to discern details. We round a corner, and someone springs out at us. Gee reacts before I do, squeezing her trigger. The shot rings out with a debilitating harshness, blackpowder-blast in inky nothing. The being, person, screams in anguish before dropping to the floor. His innards make a wet splat on the floor, blood gushing. I stare at the corpse.
“Let me get in front, Dee. Please. I can’t have you killing anything more.”
I look at my hands, shaking. My finger barely wrapped around the trigger.
We keep going.
Sometimes a little push is all someone needs. I hear the telltale click of a slugthrower under the bar, pointed at my waist, and allow instinct to kick in. Enhanced tendons spring to life, bolting me over the bar and on top of the man, the shot spewing wild and shattering a plank in the wall. Quickdraw, the barrel of my gun meeting the roof of his mouth. My eyes narrow. I know the exact weight needed to shoot this weapon. How much pressure will cause his brain matter to dissipate in a mist.
“Mphunt!”
Quarter pound of pressure on the trigger. The hammer swings back, the keen of the charge loading up echoing in the quiet tinkle of broken glass.
“If anyone wants to point me in a direction I would greatly appreciate the favor.”
“South! South down the canyon valley, behind the Klatch. He has a farm there. Please.”
Some girl. A waiter in the corner.
The revolver finds its home in the holster, and I straighten up. I leap over the bar and stride out, my eyes daring anyone to make a move. I give the door an extra pump as I leave, the hinges letting their protest known.
I know exactly where I’m going.
We make it to the launch bay, our hands turning white on the pistols. Mine is still hot, refractor buzzing. I walk into the last living quarters I could think to check—blood.
We managed to clear out more than a few of the areas, helping a wide majority of our brethren evacuate the slowly failing ship.
I can hear D’Argeel vomit behind me. It’s enough to propel me into my own display—my stomach heaves, a tightening unneeded with bindings across my chest. The pain redoubles and I fall to the doorway, eyes tearing up.
Half of my squad is there, ripped apart. Their organs spasm with still pumping blood. I see a smudge move, something black and beetle-like in the mirage.
Instinct takes over. All I can see is the drawn rifle and the shimmering reflection of their visor and I pull.
Their innards burn into dust with the heat of the shot. He screams, drops the barbaric leadslinger rifle he had pinioned across his body. He joins the bodies of my squad.
I feel tears well up again. D’Argeel grabs me, shakes. Sobs escape me as she drags me away from the living quarters.
I follow.
———
Simple movements, reflexive changes in pressure and density. My body waves with the motions, feeling everything glide underneath my feet, the wind in my hair, a sour scent on the light breeze. I can smell the illegal distillery from here.
I arch through a particularly difficult series of movements, landing on my wheels in wet soil.
I hear the whir of a millstone, the mild pressure differential leading to enough wind to run a mill. Probably quarried by the last of the aquibots. My eyes scan, looking for any sign of life. I can tell this is someone’s habitat, the tiny pieces of live scattered about; the fresh handle on the purifier, the deep blue of the door, clothing scattered on a line.
I run my hand along the weapon on my left side. I designed it myself, inspired by the images of elden-days boiadeiros, their six-shooters glossy and shining in the desert sun of an ancient motherworld I might never see again. Six different lenses, each of varying strengths, rotating around the differentiation chamber. I can blast a hole as wide as my torso or pinpoint as fine as a fly or simply overwhelm with spastic energy waves. I cycle the chamber, low-intensity, enough to stun and hurt like a bitch. Glimmer of sparkle in the window of the shack, plate glass clouded by more dust.
I duck as the end of the barrel flits over the edge of the window.
My barrel shifts, flits like a bird in heavy winds. Fires. The zap of the beam echoes in the silence, quickly followed by a screech and the sound of rapid, hurried shuffling. Drops of adrenaline, diametol, and cocaine hit my system.
It’s on.
I leap and sprint, throwing my body through a window. Glass shatters, arcing in petulant glittering shards that reflect the man’s face, his scarred features, the glint of hatred in his eye, the gun in his hand.
My body is perpendicular to the ground, floating in space between cheap ceiling and floor. My wrist flicks, augs whirring and compensating. The barrel points to his chest. I fire. The concentrated beam hits his chest, scarring and burning the flesh. He shrieks again, trying to shamble away, his nervous system in shock. I land roughly, rolling to my feet. My left wrist screeches with the spring-loaded movement of the thin rope coiled inside my arm. I fling it out, whipping one end around the man before he can make it out the door. He falls, and my legs carry me atop the man.
He screams, he cries, he writhes. My augs are better than his, and I pin him down to the poorly ventilated wooden floor with ease. The rope wraps and shifts and tightens, and before he can utter another expletive I have him on the floor, secured.
“Pig! Oppressor!”
———
There’s only one pod left in the bay when we arrive, and I fall into it, fingers barely gripping the safety implements. D’Argeel is stonefaced, white oval face set in stone. The ship has been rocking back and forth, slowly waving us from side to side on the cosmic baby carriage of differential gravity waves.
I can hear her words echo in my mind. Something encouraging, something kind. I can see her lips shake, the tears well up in her eyes.
Names and places. Things we were going to do.
I don’t know if I can talk anymore and I reach out and I grab her, hold her close and feel her heartbeat against my screaming bruised chest. I cough and she unstraps the binder. My dry heaving is a lot less painful but it still comes in awful waves.
The pod door closes slowly, the systems being prepped and ready for launch calculating the distance to the surface.
I hear a clunk. An orb rolls in, bumpy and dark green. The door closes.
I can hear the timer count down.
The pod shoots out, flinging us into orbit.
I scream.
———
The ride to Judgment is long, hard, and annoying as hell. The quality of the roads are entirely dependent on the intelligence of the person running the sector. This means it ranges from excellent to trash. The wide, thick-tired shipping trucks, trundling along the lunar surface and throwing up clouds of dust, filled with grain and food and shipments to be exchanged for goods and services shipped in from the main colony. I weave between them when I can, my charge constantly trying to pull us over and knock us on our ass. He’s been loud the entire time, whinging and complaining, calling himself an innocent ad not a murderer. At least I know the system works, psychic emanations harvested from the cloud of consciousness.
The countryside a dim memory in the back of my mind, I pull into the huge gold-edged hangar slipping my security card to the guard on duty. His vision crosses over me deliriously, the debuterol in his system making his eyes look like saucers in the relative dimness of the hangar. He nods at my charge, wriggling the cord nigh-permanently embedded in his spinal cord.
“Good haul today?”
“As good as any other day.”
Pleasantries exchanged for the length of time it takes for the computer to bring up my new friends information, and the door rings open.
“Courtroom Three. Darren is in session.”
I nod, throttling forward. Justice here, for all the inconveniences of living on a moon, is spectacularly streamlined. I run across the huge expanse of hanger, riot ships sitting on their landing gear like huge metallic birds of prey, the open-winged symbol of Crow’s enforcers emblazoned on the side. The justice center is implanted in the remains of the original colony ship, the aesthetic hurriedly established in flashing gold lights and disturbingly accurate carvings of the human form melding into machine.
“Who have you bought here for judgment, brother?”
My eye twitches at the deep vibrato. The Brotherhood makes a habit of hiding in the rafters, probably to keep their skills in check. This one was slipped behind an extra bit of plating, right before the entryway to the courtroom. I can see the judge in his robes sitting at the head of the room, gavel in his lugubrious hands waiting patiently for his duty to be present.
“Murderer, it seems. Hopefully he pays out.”
“I wish for your continued financial positivity, brother.”
He bows, bald head descending a couple inches, and disappears into the shadows again. My charge murmurs something again, the binding around his mouth doing little to tamper his words. My fingers flex around the scruff of his neck, and I pull him to his feet. The judge stares at me, eyes filled with hatred for delaying what little job he does.
“I’m sorry.”
He spits at me. More than fair. I drag him into the room, his faded boot kicking at the buffed and polished steel slabs. He squirms as I put him in the restraining chair, placed in the middle of the bare room.
Darren sits in his place, bright-glittering gold fingers flexing and unflexing, the setting sun writing shadows on the wall with his figure.
“What did you bring me?”
“CUES broadcast bounty. Killer, gruesome one by the look of the imprints. They had already cleaned up the scene by the time I got there—locals to afraid to leave a memento mori in the center of town I suppose.”
“BID number?”
“Ten-delta-thirty-five-jack.”
His nimble fingers trace over the keyboard in front him, eyes still close in on my figure. I can tell he hates me, what I am, whatever that is to him. I return the stare.
The screen to his left buzzes to life, collated witness statements and neural imagery strung together into a coherent time line. Two women, both frail, malnourished, standing in the alley talking. Their faces are bright and young and full of hope, tanned by the never-ending lunar sunshine.
He looms, figure casting a shadow. What happens next is quick and visceral, interrupted by nothing more than the inter-cutting of the neural feeds. He approaches, eyes widened by some pharmaceutical the workers manufacture in derelict sheds.
They resist, or try to. His implants are fresh, gleaming, farm implements used for harvesting and moving material.
The screams echo and contort, the multiple sources sliding through the scene like molasses in heat. It’s enough to make me sick. Enough clear shots of his face are shown, that same arched eyebrow, that same forehead.
“Lies! It’s all godamn lies!”
I know what’s going to happen, but it still makes me flinch. His hands expand, open up to extend blades. Blood sprays. Organs fall out of slit stomachs, fluid seeping from open wounds. They scream. It’s a harsh, high, keening noise. It fills the pit of my stomach with an inexplicable dread. I pull out my pistol. The judge nods as the playback ends, mercifully cutting away from the twisted corpses.
“Conviction: double murder. Sentence: death.”
The smell of his brains boiling in his cranium makes my mouth water.
I’m back at the rock. I’m a few thousand credits richer, and can drink some more.
Or. I can do something else.
I pull the gun out again, the sickly sour smell of burnt fusion and magnesium lingering on the barrel as I place it in my mouth.
Karen, Imene…
A quarter pound of pressure on a two pound trigger. The stars sparkle in my eyes, my name somewhere among them. Their ashes float in geostationary orbit, their last request to be among the rings of the Mother Planet, her great gaseuosness embracing them.
Chromedome…
Three-quarter pounds. I remember when the landing ship crashed, when we were stuck in the dust and we all laughed because someone spilled their drink. When we first arrived and the mothership touched down, and we didn’t account for the pressure differentials caused by so much hot exhaust on an icy, lifeless moon.
D-A-L…
A pound. I remember the first time we kissed. It was like fireworks went off inside my chest, and her hand held mine and we stared at each other after we were done, drenched in sweat from the exhaust.
Selange…
And I remember how it felt to feel her hand in mine. When she helped me bury the revolvers. When she helped me step down and move away.
When she taught me how to dance.
When she taught me how to draw.
D’Argeel.
I see the sun, millions of miles away, scintillated through the rings of rock and ice chunks. I see the rainbows tossing in the sky, the twinkling night stars arrayed like jewels. I feel the metal in my skin dig and snag, the replacements for limbs lost and flesh seared away. Pieces of me dissolved in acrid, burning flame. Incinerated by a grenade. Dissolved in beautiful flame.
I think about drinking again.
I think about how she hated drinking.
I think about how I hope Ratz knows have to have a conversation about something other than beer for awhile.
I slot the pistol.
I start to walk home.