Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End (3 page)

Bukin punches him hard in the gut. The Gogol folds forward. I release my hold and Bukin pops up, steps in front of me, and in one swift movement, twists the Gogol’s neck. The motion makes a cracking noise. The Gogol relaxes for a moment, and then falls forward.

Bukin swings around and glances down at me on my knees.

“What the fuck is going on?” he shouts.

“I, I don’t know,” I choke out. I can’t believe he just killed the Gogol with his hands.

“Are there any more?” I ask.

“Negative,” he says, regaining some of his color.

Dazed, I take in the room.

“What’s that smell?”

Bukin sniffs the air. “Smoke! The place is lit.”

“But we’ve got to find Sgt. Henderson,” I say, whining a bit.

In the distance, between alarm rings, several thuds give us pause. There! Again! Together we head toward the noises, and in the far corner of the room we silently identify a hidden door. Each of us takes up position on either side, me as backup for Bukin, who signals he’s going to open it.
Fine by me
.

He counts down from three with his fingers. Three. Two. One. He steps on the ground in front, and runs his hands around the wall. A door panel appears, and he yanks down a lever. The door vanishes; the dim light pours into the room.

Nothing jumps out at us. Instead, we make out a figure, huddled on the ground, facing us.

Sgt. Henderson.

He looks up at us with the eyes of a child. Quickly we rush to disconnect his trodes (chain-like bindings that squeeze tighter if you struggle). My hands are shaking so bad, Bukin has to help me unlink Henderson’s legs after he’s unlinked his hands and taken out the gag.

“Are you able to walk?” I manage to ask Sgt. Henderson.

He nods.

“How about run?” counters Bukin, hauling Sgt. Henderson to his feet.

I’ve lost all sense of how much time has passed, but I know we’re in real trouble. I put my hand over my mouth and realize I’m bleeding from my chin. Must have happened when I took that fall.

Bukin props Sgt. Henderson up with one arm readying to leave when he asks, “What about the other guy?”

Bukin and I glance at each other.

“What other guy?” asks Bukin reluctantly.

I scan the room, numb, straining to see in the dark corners. The smoke’s dense. This place could blow. In the corner I make out a lifeless form, huddled in a ball.

“Bukin,” I yell, without thinking, and head toward the body. “Right here.”

“No way! We stick to the mission,” he shouts.

I stop about 10 feet from the lump. Uncertain, I turn back. Bukin and Henderson are well on their way to next room’s exit.

I hesitate before joining them, glancing back at the body.
That’s another human. Or, it looks like one
. It may not have intel, but it’s a life. Sweat drips into my burning eyes. Seconds are ticking by. ESE protocol. What is it? Rescue this person, too?

Is there enough time? My body’s trapped in mind’s hesitancy. Never mind getting to the rendezvous, this place is on fire.

You can’t leave someone behind
.

But helping someone is what cost you the test last time
.

I think I’ve made up my mind, when, after taking one step out of the room, I stop. King’s words come rushing back to me:
Do not go gently
. The poem’s message is to die fighting. He must have meant die trying.

I have to, at the very least, find out if this person is still alive. I dash quickly to the body, slide the rest of the way on my knees, and haul over a limp shoulder to check for signs of life.

The shock’s deafening.

It’s Daz.

Chapter 3

“Daz,” I cry out after the shock passes and I feel his breath on my cheek. I take in his bruised and bloody face, and cough on something acrid.

I’m choking on . . . smoke! My throat and chest are on fire. How long have I been sitting here holding him?

“Daz, wake up!” I croak, emerging from my reverie. He’s unconscious. There’s no time! I smack his cheeks. I pry open an eyelid. “Come on, come on, come on!” Wincing, I strain to look out the door. The smoke’s too thick, but I hear crackling.

“Wake up!” I scream into his face, shaking him violently.

Nothing.

Something crashes in the distance. The place is coming down.

Drag him out
. I stand up holding his arms, then rotate around to reverse out. At first he feels heavy, but I don’t doubt my will to get him out of here. Just as determination blisters in me, the drag diminishes and I almost fall backward from the slack.

Confused, I look down to see Daz disappearing right before my eyes. “No!” I scream, lunging forward to grab him before he vanishes completely. But I’m groping frantically at thin air. My hands come up empty.

I search for him, desperately.

But . . . there’s only a silent audience watching me on my knees reaching for . . . nothing.

That wasn’t really Daz.

How can this be?
Among the sea of faces, my eyes go back to one piece that doesn’t fit. The only person who’s standing. King. He’s glaring down at Lt. Lazarus, who’s staring straight ahead flatly. When King focuses on me, his violent expression softens.

Pity.

Metatabulous
.

A throat’s cleared.

The test. I failed. Again.

I just want a safe place.
I stare down at my empty hands and think how pitiful I must look, covered in gob, blood, and soot. I bend forward and hide my face.

Some time ago, I recall Lt. Lazarus announcing, “Class dismissed.”

Before Bukin left the stage, he said, “Hey, you did good. Don’t worry about it.”

I wondered if he was part of this whole set up but thought better of it. No one can fake that kind of fear and rage.

Before Lt. Lazarus left, he stood near me and said, “Cadet Winters, make sure you get that cut seamed.”

My cut? My cut?
What about the giant, gaping hole in my heart, you prick?
I wanted to scream.

It’s time for me to rise, to return to my pod, to pack up my things, to prepare for Academy expulsion orders. I just can’t believe that I fell into the trap. Command always preys on your greatest weakness in its assessments. They must know how worried I am about Daz, and they used it against me.
But why
? They usually save those kinds of mind games for third-year students. None of it makes sense.

When I finally lean back and stretch my aching back, there’s King.
Oh.
He’s waiting, sitting near to me in the stands.

If I look at him, I might cry. So I don’t. I stand up slowly and begin to make my way off the stage, toward the turbolift. I sense his presence behind me.

“I am sorry, Cassiel,” he says softly. “They had no right to do that,” he adds with a tone to his voice I’ve never heard before.

“Look.” I choke a bit. “I appreciate the support, but that’s just the way . . .” I stop. The gravity of the situation hits me.

How will I help Daz now? I don’t even know if he needs my help. Where will I go? Back to the dome? To do what?

I tell you, I sure could use Daz’s help right about now! A tsunami of anger, at him, rears up in me. How could he leave me alone, without a word? Quickly I redirect it where it belongs, at ESE. For putting Daz in a situation where he had to choose. Why on earth did I ever think I would find him just by being here? And how could I let everything that matters to me just slip out of my grasp?

“I’ll be fine,” I say quietly, as the turbolift arrives. I step in and continue to avoid eye contact even as the door appears before me shutting him out entirely. Pride beats out guilt. King’s so guarded with his emotions. I want him to think I’m strong, too. I just need to get to my pod so I can break down properly. In private.

No such luck.

Jordanna, the last person I want to be around after the exhausting, rigid, walk back, is sitting on her downcore cross-legged. I’m too spent to care about her. I head straight for my downcore and collapse into it, relishing the sensation as it molds to my body. I’m aching all over.

And thirsty.

Yup
, there
is
a container of water on my stand, and a Taza Mud. I push myself up, dehydration beating out exhaustion, grab the drink, and glare down my nose at Jordanna, as I gulp the whole thing.

She stares at my throat with a look of disgust. “You’re bleeding all over yourself.”

“Don’t care.” I flop back on the downcore.

“What, are you just going to give up now?” she asks me, with her usual disdain.

“Come again?”

“You’ve got to issue a challenge before the Tribunal right away!”

I’m touched, actually, that she cares. The Academy Tribunal manages cadet complaints. Then I check myself. She must have an ulterior motive. Of course. As my mentor, my failure reflects poorly on her.

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way. But fuck off . . . okay!” I shout the ‘okay’ part, spitting a bit. I try to center myself, focus on the glowing ceiling.

She’s silent, probably taken aback by this new side of me, but, alas, going nowhere. She starts her next sentence softly with “Cassiel,” which really surprises me because she never uses my first name. “You can’t let them get away with this.”

I exhale loudly, exhausted with her, with this place. “Get away with what, Jordanna?” I roll over so I can make direct eye contact. “Oh, please, Tribunal leaders, please overlook the fact that when faced with my greatest weakness, I failed to complete a mission?”

“No, that’s not what happened today,” she jumps in, unwrapping her legs and swinging them onto the floor. “Listen, you did well. You encountered problems, you overcame them. You should have seen yourself when you took out that Gogol’s windpipe. It was . . . impressive. You defended yourself, you assisted with the rescue, and you never let anyone down. Not once,” she says quickly, with absolute certainty.

“But I stopped for that other . . . prisoner,” I say, stumbling over the name.

“And that’s the point you should argue before the Tribunal. Bukin had Sgt. Henderson. He was going to be rescued. You made the right decision to stop and check that body. Heck, it could have been the ESE Commandant!”

“But it wasn’t,” I say softly, aching inside. “Tell me something, Jordanna. How long did I sit on the floor there with, with that, that replicam? One minute? Two minutes?”

Silence.

“I would have killed us both,” I add. “They never wanted me to pass.”

“That’s what’s so wrong,” she says, confusion marring her large, yet perky features. “You should never have been given a third-year test. You can fight it on those grounds alone. I mean . . .” She pauses. “I thought they wanted more women in ESE.”

Her indignant face hides her real fear. Maybe they don’t want women in ESE. Maybe that’s what this is about.

Unlikely though. They are tough on us, but no tougher than on the men. They actively recruit women.

“No, Jordanna. They want women. Just not weak women.” I roll over onto my other side, with my back to her, effectively ending the discussion. I close my eyes and welcome the darkness, shutting out everything.

Chapter 4

I wake up with a start.
Ew
. I’m slipping inside this disgusting combat skin from all the unevaporated sweat. Sitting up with mild discomfort, I note that I’m alone,
thank the stars
, and check my com-tab. I’ve been asleep for less than three hours. As I stand up, it occurs to me how sore my muscles will be tomorrow. Like an autotron, I strip out of the gear and head to the mist-on in the miniscule privy Jordanna and I share. Standing in the warm delicate mist, rubbing away the grime, it strikes me how surreal my life is. I’m wont to existentialism when I’m depressed or feeling sorry for myself.

How did I end up here anyway? Does any of it really matter?

I think of that stupid empty dome, waiting for me in Indy. How I won’t finish Prof Xeno’s anthro program after all.
And Daz, where is he?
I’ve got no one now.

Then I let it all out.

I always forget how good it feels to give in to the loneliness. After, I’m refreshed somehow. Like I’ve emptied my heartbreak stores and they’re ready for refueling.

I slowly brush my long, damp hair, already drying into waves from the de-mister. I clip the sides together in the back to keep it out of my face and leave the rest long. Who cares about ESE strict appearance standards now?

The steam has cleared and I examine my 3D reflection in the TriVirror
TM.33
. Bloodshot eyes. Pale skin, even paler than usual. I need to eat. My cheeks sport two red splotches, probably windburn. There’s a bump on my forehead and a trickle of blood down my chin. The damage doesn’t sit naturally on my face. Like it’s painted on. I clumsily apply seaming, and hope it holds.

I dress in standard issue pants, but pass on the uniform’s casual shirt, opting instead for one of the few civilian tops in my closet, a short-sleeve, scoop-neck cashmere-gyrex weave. The soft mauve suits my mood, and I need something comfy right about now.

Reluctantly I sit on the edge of my downcore, gulp down the now slightly congealed Taza Mud with a grimace, and check my com-tab for Missives. There it is: one from Command.

Came while I was sleeping, a half an hour after the test.

So soon?

It states that I’m supposed to meet with the Academy’s Director Colonel Riku Sato at eighteen hundred hours in the Hub (ESE’s Central Command zone, which also houses the Academy council) in alcove A-12. That’s 20 minutes from now.

I really don’t need to be asked to leave in person. I would be fine with a Missive. I can’t believe how badly they want get rid of me.

King.
I wonder how this reflects on him if, as I suspect, he’d vouched for me to be here. I cringe. Probably won’t see much of him anymore.

I know I should put up a fight. Maybe I will. I could at least demand to know what the fuck they’ve done with my brother.

Before I head to the Hub, I pop down the hall to one of the cadet feeding stations and poke around for something warm to eat. I find a few recently stocked items and grab the spaghetti and meatballs. Back, safe in my pod, I wolf the food down standing up, surveying my few belonging, including the first edition Charles Poris, a gift from Daz. My transport cases are in storage. I’ll need a couple more since I’ve added to my book collection over the past eight months.

In a way, this is a relief. All the pressure, gone. Just like that. I won’t go back to the dome, though. I’ll register at a StayAway in the city. I’ll get a job administrating for an exo-importer or exo-lawyer. Take one day at a time.

I check my face for spaghetti splatter in the mirror,
all clear
, and decide once and for all not to change into my full uniform (my way of flipping Command the bird) before I make my way to the Hub.

I’ve never been to the Hub before, and I wonder if it looks like it does in the fancy promotional material the Academy gives prospective students. The Hub is ESE’s think tank, where the senior people or priority project teams work. It’s buried within the center of the giant sausage, presumably so that it’s less easy to target in case of an alien attack. I know,
correction
, I assume, that there are several layers of security within the station to prevent sieges. The rest of Command’s housed on surrounding levels. Surrounding those levels are the living quarters and on the remaining outermost levels, the Academy training facilities.

The turbolift opens up to a long, narrow landing, and while the system searches to confirm my clearance, I take in the view. Officers are sitting or standing in groups around a dozen or more semi-circle workstations scattered within one round room. They hardly notice me as I move into the room after getting the go-ahead, following the directions on my com-tab to A-12. I notice that the Hub has better lighting than elsewhere on the station, and more comfortable seating.

“Hey, aren’t you Daz’s little sister?” asks an effusive female voice behind me.

Turning back, I recognize the speaker’s face from the mess (women are so outnumbered here it’s hard not to notice each other). She’s beautiful. Caramel skin. Hazel eyes. A few scattered black freckles dust really round cheeks. She’s slight but probably extremely strong (she’d have to be to become an officer). I eye the two stars she sports on each sleeve.

“I’m Lieutenant Daria Preston,” she says. “I’m a close friend of Daz,” she adds, awkwardly, leaning slightly against the edge of her workstation.

I look down at her outreached hand. I decide to shake it because I don’t know what else to do. “I’m . . . going to be late for a meeting,” I mumble, giving her an empty smile.

That was bitchy. Not like me. But I don’t care.

Before I can turn to head the way I was going, she adds rapidly, “We trained together. He’s an amazing pilot. They don’t come better than him.” I look closely at her. She’s hurting. Maybe she was more than just another one of his flings.

A sense of reality shifting around me, then, a vacant sense of omnipotence, finally, the familiar yet brand new visual reality settles in—all so smoothly, so effortlessly, there’s no time to hold on and examine what’s really happening because,
darnit
, it’s already happened.

A déjà vu turned . . . vision. Daria’s still standing before me, but she’s also sitting at her workstation with King and she’s working on what appears to be a mission report. The section header and the star date are in my line of vision. King’s leaning over the back of her chair,
um, a little too close if you ask me
, reviewing the contents carefully one last time. Daria’s eager to help.

King says to her, “Good. That’s perfect. You’re doing the right thing.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him, uncertain. He adds, “It’s what Daz wanted.”

Huh?
What did Daz want? Is that Daz’s mission report? Are they,
changing it
?

As soon as King leaves, Lt. Lazarus arrives. He stops Daria from closing the file and says, angrily, “Now you’ll do what I say.” Daria looks like she may wet herself.

Then it’s over.

But I don’t focus my eyes on reality just yet. This is beyond bizarre. What did Daz want? Why was Lt. Lazarus spying on them? And what the Pluto does this mean?

I blink a few times and focus on Daria, desperate to question her, knowing I can’t. I can just imagine the conversation: “I just mentally ESP’ed you fucking with Daz’s mission report. Nothing personal, but what gives?”

She appears uncomfortable at my momentary mental absence. “Sorry, I . . . I just failed first-year H2H,” I blurt out. “I’m a mess. And, uh, I have to go.”

I turn to leave but maybe I should at least try to investigate what it is I’m seeing.

Stopping mid-stride, I spin around and ask, “Maybe we could meet in Proxy after my meeting?”

She hesitates. She obviously thinks I’m nuts. I’m used to it. Because I miss things whenever I ‘déjà vu,’ people tend to think I ‘flake out’ a lot.

“Maybe we could talk about Daz?” I dangle Daz’s name like it’s a carrot.

She perks up.

“See you about twenty hundred hours?”

“Sure,” she says, her eyes darting left and right. “See you then.”

Quickly I glance down at my com-tab and head down a short quiet corridor after turning a corner, putting the memory of her and King and Lt. Lazarus out of my mind. Are she and King an item? No head space for that right now, though I recognize the feeling I just experienced: hope. This is the first tangible . . . thread I’ve had to find out what’s going on with Daz since I got here—just before I get sent home of course.

I pass a few doors, counting down the numbers. I reach a slightly longer stretch of wall without doors and then A-12.

All right
, I exhale,
let’s get this over with
.

I step in front of the door, and it vanishes. The room’s bigger than the average alcove on the station. It’s also formal, regal almost. On the wall facing me, above a long thin oval table, at which I’m surprised to see FIVE high-ranking officers seated, is the ESE symbol, Orion’s constellation, in gold sculpture.

Is this the Commandant’s office?

I focus on the one familiar face at the table; very round and stoic. It’s the Academy’s director Colonel Sato. He nods and beckons me to enter the room with a hand gesture. I step in, confused, scanning the other officers at the table, none of whom I recognize, except the gray-haired, stern-looking man. Yep, ESE Commandant Thomas Abernathy is here, sitting beside Sato. So I am being kicked out of the Academy, and by the Commandant himself.
Wow, must be a slow day in the galaxy
. This is above and beyond. Really.

On my side of the table, I’m surprised to see the backs of two familiar heads. King turns to face me, and his face is openly stormy.

I raise my eyebrows at him.
What’s going on here?
Then I look at Professor Xeno, who stares at me. His perfectly round, nearly all-white eyes lack human expression, making him impossible to read.

I sincerely hope the two of them are not here to defend me. That would be . . . extra humiliating. I reach the table and stand behind a chair, one removed from King and Professor Xeno. As politely as I can muster, wide-eyed with a strained smile, I ask the two of them, “What are you doing here?”

Then I glance across the table at Colonel Sato, attempting to make it clear by my facial expression that I did not ask them to be here.

But he’s taking in my fitted civilian top, my long hair. His brows knit in disapproval. Heat rushes to my face. When I glance at Commandant Abernathy, he is . . . not disapproving at all. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. He looks me up and down, lingering on my breasts and then my face. His expression is pleased. There’s no other way to describe it. I glance back at King, confused. He’s shooting daggers at the Commandant. Clearly he saw what I saw.
Oh, forget this
.

“Look,” I volley. “This really isn’t necessary.”

King tries to cut in, says my name, but I talk over him. “I have a pretty good idea where I stand, and I won’t be requiring an extensive formal review of my mistakes, which, frankly—” My voice has notched up two octaves.

“Cadet Cassiel Winters!” interrupts Colonel Sato.

I leave the sentence, dangling mid-air. Probably for the best.

“We ordered you here to discuss your status,” he says, in a calmer tone, still frowning. “Take a seat.”

I sit down in the chair, rigid, and, I realize, pretty resentful about the dressing down they seem determined to give me.

“Cadet Winters, are you aware of the Thell’eon species?” asks Commandant Abernathy.

Huh? Why are they asking me about that?

I look up from the hole I’m boring in the table. All the officers sport very serious expressions on their faces. They’re examining me like I’m a piece of weaponry. I glance at King, who’s so rigid, I half think he might pounce out of his chair.

Professor Xeno is mindful of me, but does not turn in his chair to make eye contact. Just the other day I asked him what he knew about the Thell’eon. He said we would save that lesson for another day.

Two weeks ago,
Com-Tab News
confirmed station-wide rumors that ESE had encountered a new alien species from the remote Deca-Halon galaxy called Thell’eon. The report also noted that while they had not yet been identified as a hostile threat, they were en route to our galaxy, and, thus, we had been put on orange alert. ESE wasn’t always such a tight militaristic operation. But notions of cavalier space travel were quashed when humans discovered one pretty unsettling reality about our universe: there aren’t a lot of Goldilocks planets (those that fall within a ‘just right’ zone in the sun’s orbit, not too hot, not too cold, to support life). Add to this the fact that every solar star is on its way to supernova (destroying surrounding planets), and you could have some pretty major competition for home worlds. But surely these Thell’eon don’t mean any harm?

“Thell’eons,” I respond hesitatingly to the waiting group. “Yes, well, just what was reported in
Com-Tab News
.” I’m beyond confused about what’s happening here.

“What you read in there is accurate,” says Commandant Abernathy. Now that his initial assessment of me is over, he’s watching me much more intently. Deep smile lines run down both sides of his nose, though I can’t imagine him smiling much. He has extraordinarily bushy, white eyebrows that never move, even when he talks. Something about him demands respect, even though he doesn’t deserve it (I’m resentful of his leering). Overall, I can see why he’s head of ESE.

He turns right, slightly, and addresses the muscular Admiral (I counted his sleeve stars) sitting next to him without taking his eyes off me. “Admiral O’Reilly, do you want to take it from here?”

Considering Adm. O’Reilly’s second only to the Commandant, he’s surprisingly young. Brown hair, mean eyes, and a huge mouth. I imagine what it must be like to kiss those slug-size lips, and shiver mentally with disgust.

“I’m Admiral Pat O’Reilly, Cadet Winters,” he says, looking at me sternly. “I’m head of SOSA. Do you know what SOSA is?”

I can’t stop watching those fat lips but I don’t miss his tone; he asks this like I’m 12. “Sure. My brother’s a member.”

What? They want proof I know?

“It’s the elite forces of ESE, sir,” I add. They’re still just staring at me.

“They are the best of the best, sir?” I propose. Surely they don’t want me to blurt out what everyone knows. SOSA (short for Special Ops Space Agency) is basically ESE’s spy arm, the unit responsible for identifying and managing alien threats to Earth. They train assassins, undercover operatives, fighters, scientific saboteurs, etc. Though they haven’t had much spying to do as far as I know. Most of the aliens we’ve encountered as we pursue Policy Outward have been benign, er, friendly. I hate ESE terminology. Anyway, SOSA are entrusted to do whatever they have to do to ensure human survival. (I wasn’t thrilled when Daz told me SOSA recruited him, but I consoled myself thinking that as a pilot he would be more of a conduit than a direct player in anything too dangerous. Naïve assumption No. 1).