FORT LIBERTY: VOLUME ONE (13 page)

“Hey, Col, we’re not pilots. She’s got a pilot flying her shuttle. I think she’s coming. This thing’s just heading straight for the closest port.”

“And flashing a grid beacon the entire way.”

“Yeah.”

Voss lets out a sharp breath, feeling like he’s been kicked in the gut. He glares through the flight shield. “So that thing out there can see us, but we can’t see anything but this… the space in front of our noses.”

Gojo taps Wyatt on the shoulder. “Let me try.”

They trade places and Gojo’s into it, screen menus, flight settings, things he knows better than to mess with… then it comes. Exterior views. Two of the screens fill with vid, black and white, the scene behind them. It’s nothing, a dense cloud, torn chunks of the
Sparrow
spinning in all directions, pieces of engine and fuselage glinting with harsh sunlight.

Voss hisses under his breath. “Where is she?”

“Something’s moving toward us,” Gojo says. “Moving fast, around the junk… there… ”

It appears from the debris, more shadow than light, a black vessel, maybe a fourth the size of Petra’s ship, but with six engines, a gun turret and a honeycomb of missile launching tubes under the hull. The striker.

It glides, projecting fans of laser targeting beams across large pieces of the
Sparrow
. Then it changes course, accelerating on a direct path toward them.

“Colonel,” Gojo says.

“Disengage the autopilot.”

“It needs a code.” Gojo curses. “Tubes are lighting up, incoming!”

And it’s over. Voss knows it, and it’s the worst, to be helpless when it happens, to have his team helpless, and knowing it’s coming, Death’s arms spread wide against the blackness of space.

He looks at Wyatt, the brother always at his side
.

And Wyatt, being Wyatt, holds his gaze.

“Fuck!” Gojo shouts. “Fuck!”

The dark vessel bucks in the vid screen, tilts.

At first, it looks like the missiles launching, but that’s not it.

“Wait up,” Gojo says.

He doesn’t have to say another word.

The striker’s getting chewed, rounds tearing up its side, shattering the flight shield and working all the way down, blasting off panels, blowing gas and chunks of fuselage into the darkness. Engines rip away, and the bullets keep coming, following the ship as it swings away, then breaks apart.

“Petra,” Voss says.

Her shuttle appears at the edge of the vid screen, a blunt craft with a gun protruding under the cockpit, seven barrels spinning, jets continuously firing to keep it steady. It slides around in front of the striker vessel, filling every piece of it with armor-piercing rounds until there’s nothing left but peppered debris and torn shielding… and then well beyond that point.

Wyatt laughs, a release of tension and a dizzying high. “Fuck yeah.”

Gojo unlocks his helmet and pulls it off, letting it tumble back in the shuttle. He sucks in a breath, shakes his head, forehead glossed with sweat. “Fucking psycho. She just used us to draw fire, you realize that?”

Voss does realize that.

“Yeah.” Wyatt grins. “What about that fucking charm, huh?”

The suit comm hisses, Petra’s voice coming through the collar. “Colonel, we’re changing your destination to the Mars Port Check Station. They have big guns and are aware of current events, and I have a friend there who’s standing ready to pick you up. We’ll run alongside until such time as you are in his territory. Comms will be off, as there’s nothing to say about nothing.”

“You have one of my people,” he reminds her.

“Might need an Assaulter, where I’m going. Not like I’m kidnapping a girl who can’t defend herself, right? Don’t worry though, we won’t drug him. We’ll feed him and return him to you just so, in due time.”

He groans, stifles the urge to knock his fist through a seat rest, then refocuses, knowing that he has—maybe—one more reply before she switches off.

He imagines her sitting in that seat, finger still on the trigger, eyes narrowed, unwilling to believe anything he says.

“You did well,” he says. “You did it right.”

A pause. She doesn’t reply, but she’s still listening.

“They’re going to come after you,” he says. “Prepare for that. Keep your head down until I can find you because I
will
find you, Petra.”

The comm clicks off.

Silence.

Wyatt slants him a look. “That went well.”

Voss unlocks his helmet and sets it loose. He scowls, his gaze set on the image of her craft in vid, its flight shield dark as it follows behind them.

“Women,” Wyatt says, removing his own helmet.

“We’ll find her.”

“Oh, immediately,” Wyatt replies. “But until then, we can enjoy the fact that it’s Logan in there with her instead of us, right?”

Gojo laughs.

“Wish I’d had a chance with that gun,” Wyatt says. “Could have been love.”

“You got to finger it a little,” Gojo offers.

“Did you see that thing shred?”

Wyatt’s skilled at this, bringing the team back. He does it with all of the younger guys, and Voss too when he gets too dark. Talk like everything’s normal and things become normal. Act as if you didn’t just almost get blown apart, and it’s all in the past, or at least until it comes up in your dreams. Joke as if your mission didn’t just go to hell, with one man now separated from the team, and you prove you’re still effective, ready to go.

Voss hears the banter but finds no peace in it. He draws a breath of ionized air, which tastes like a machine, and watches the ship behind them.

You know I’m going to find you.

And you may not like what happens when I do.

Alarms switch off. Clara’s modifying the course, piloting both vessels with quick adjustments, her attention divided between screens. The shuttle’s fallen deathly quiet after the zipper-like roar of the gun during fire, its ammunition belt streaming through rounds. The air still vibrates with all that power, its energy hot, the destruction still close, yearning for one more pull of the trigger.

Petra takes her hand off the stick and closes her eyes, shutting out the image of the striker’s cockpit coming apart, few torn masses thrown into the dark on vaporous sprays of blood, those who destroyed the
Sparrow
, and wanted to murder all aboard, now justly sent to the afterlife with nothing of what they came for.

She’s angry, though it feels like sickness, like dropping off a cliff.

You did well. You did it right.

For some reason, it helps. Her hands are shaking, whole body trembling and freezing like its cold, when it isn’t. Life support’s got the temperature warmer than it needs to be. The air’s fine. People are fine.

She drops her gaze from the flight shield, from the view of an evac shuttle—and a man—almost destroyed, and releases a harsh breath through her teeth.

“Well,” Clara says, recovering quicker, as pilots do. “Not the dumbest thing you ever did. All out in one piece, except for
Sparrow
, God rest her soul. Good ship. But there are others. And no more of those things that I saw. Just one striker, though one was enough, that’s certain.”

It’s babble. And it’s making her nauseous.

Clara pauses, adds. “And we still have an Assaulter on our hands.”

It sounds like a complaint, so Petra ignores it, unstrapping herself and sliding out of the seat. She turns away from the flight shield, from the sight of the other shuttle, and that big stretch of starry space it’s racing through, the kind of infinite view which makes the fastest ship look like it’s standing still, and will forever remain so.

She makes her way to the back, looking at the young Assaulter and finding him the same, rebellion in his gaze, its execution most likely held in check solely by Voss’s order. He’s thinner than the others, and thoughtful looking, and kind of pretty for a tough kid, circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, the shadow of a beard that barely grows, because he’s barely a man.

He’s holding onto the girl, who is still in the suit, and has passed out from screaming and fighting, and is now collapsed in his lap. There’s a protective look to the way he’s got her, like maybe she’s more than just a package, or maybe just all that’s left of his mission. Either way, it’s the right look to have, in Petra’s mind.

“Why’d you drug this girl?” she asks, the words breathy because she’s got the urge to puke, no part of this behind her.

“She tried to damage our launch vehicle,” kid answers. “And she attacked Voss with a knife.”

“All understandable.”

“We never hurt her. We never did anything to hurt her. We’re risking our lives to bring her to safety.”

“Safety? You think Mars is safe?”

His expression changes, like maybe he did right up until this moment.

Petra shakes her head, feeling drunk, reeling closer to that dark edge and not caring who knows. “Red Filter takes what it wants. It wanted you. It wants her. And so it takes… and us, animals too dumb to be trusted with the noble reasons, lose our ships, and maybe our lives, without ever knowing why. You think they care?”

“I think you should take a breath.”

“I told Voss… no place for heroes.”

“Ma’am, you just need to breathe.”

“You’re going to help her wake up. I don’t care if she tries to kill us all with her bare hands. I wanna talk to her.” Petra wipes her forehead and finds it wet, hair wet, skin covered in sweat. “And I’m not handing over anything. They owe me a ship, and they can go straight to hell for what damage they’ve caused.”

“Slow down.”

But it’s too late for that, because her stomach lurches. She has time to grab her helmet and then she’s drawn up and dry heaving into it, body purging nothing but fear, panic, shaking with the force of a seven barrel gun.

FORT LIBERTY

OPHIR CHASMA REGION

MARS DATE: DAY 10, MONTH 10/24, YEAR 2,225.

Voss waits. Minutes extend into hours, as he expected they would, and he passes the time in silence, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the president’s briefing room. The view is angled through cluster of shining towers, their heights overlooking a shielded city built in the protection of the Ophir Chasma, a buttery swath of the Valles Marineris Canyon.

The rocky horizon stretches out, vast in all its dimensions, peaked with jutting cliffs and ploughed with deep ravines and—at its widest—smooth, windswept hills and playas. Compared to Earth, it’s dull, colors drained to a permanent dusk, dirty yellows and muted pinks, olivine and black, a sky that swims in the pastel shades of brown.

A century of terraforming and the scenery hasn’t changed. Only the temperature, only a small rise in degrees, a few extra swirls in the satellite imagery, a few upticks in air pressure. The residents of Red Filter still live in filter, in canyons and lava tubes filled with airlocks, and vacuum floors, and greenhouses, all brightly powered with the Block 12’s limitless energy, and surrounded by air platforms, rail stations and track ways.

Clean. Organized. Automated.

Voss appreciates it for what it is. Frictionless. It thrives. It even expands without friction. There is no hunger, no illiteracy, no homelessness, no poverty. There are no menial jobs, or menial tasks, that aren’t delegated to dumb machines, or supervising AIs. Wealth is permitted. Ownership is permitted. Peaceful dissent is permitted. Art is unrestricted. The press is free to circulate whatever it wants, so most of its content is mundane.

There are lots of laws, but only three that matter. No citizen may physically, or financially, harm another. Every citizen must pursue, and eventually achieve, a doctorate level education in the subject of their choice. Every citizen of labor age must add to the wealth, cultural enrichment, or stability of society in some way, and offer an annual accounting of their contributions.

Break one of those rules, and you’re Earthbound, a factory worker in a suspension suit, a power plant tech button pusher, or a food distributor, protected by men like him. Or—in the worst criminal cases—simply cut loose in the wild and left to die.

Everyone accepts this. Everyone agrees to it. It’s the price of citizenship in the New Republic of Mars, as set forth by the founding Block 12 companies, who also happen to control fifty percent of the Planetary Congress by law, and who rotate their chairmen as nominees in the presidential elections every six years.

It’s civilization divided into shares, into profits and losses.

Three years into his NRM presidential term, Daniel Wexler has a briefing room like an imperial audience chamber. Polished marble floors, synthetic wooden tables and bookshelves meticulously crafted to look like antiques, oil paintings, leather sofas, a collection of violent looking sculptures cast in matte black.

Voss waits in the center of all this, sitting in full dress uniform, the medals and ribbons all copies of the ones he has been awarded over the years, but left behind in attack on Ticonderoga, everything freshly provided to him that morning along with an official summons.

He waits in the chair that was offered by a well-meaning assistant, leaves the glass of water untouched on the nearby table, and watches that frictionless world gliding through tubes below, all too aware that it wasn’t built for people like him.