The Lazarus War

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I scrambled away from the Krell attacker.

Dropped my torch –
shit, shit, shit
– and reached for the pistol with both hands. I had it! I aimed at the Krell, or at least in the xeno's direction, and pressed a finger down on the firing stud—

It suddenly occurred to me that the gun might not be loaded.

– the Krell was gone –

– the gun let out a loud beep and the ammo reader flashed red –

Lucina was still screaming, and the Krell cleared the lounge, was on top of her. Her head hit the floor with a loud
thump
; her scream abruptly muted.

“
No!
” Daryl roared. “Leave her alone!”

– I fumbled with the pistol, thought about grabbing the torch to better see where I was shooting the weapon –

“Work, bloody hell!” I yelled.

The pistol readout flickered green –

With an effortless leap, the Krell slammed into Daryl and sent him sprawling. It had its back to me now and I could see its tail whipping across the ground. It lifted a clawed foot over the captain's torso, ready to bring its huge weight down on his chest. I just knew if it did that, Daryl was dead. He'd be killed by the thing that he feared most, which seemed both unfair and ironic.

And me? I'd die alone, without redemption.

I fired –

The inside of a hypersleep capsule looks a lot like the inside of a car windscreen. It was the way that the condensation ran along the plastic. The curve of the canopy.

Those were my first lucid thoughts in almost nine months.

Reluctantly, I turned my head and saw that the other hypersleep capsules were open and empty. As usual, I was the last to get up. I was shivering cold and, like a petulant teenager, didn't want to get out of bed. The monitor that hung above my sleeper flashed with a message:

Yeah, that'd be me
, I thought.

I pulled my tired body out of the capsule. As I did so, I caught my own reflection in the interior of the sleeper canopy; saw the Pen ID printed below my left cheek.

Why did they print it there?
I asked myself.

“So everyone knows who you are,” I answered, testing out my own voice. It sounded too high-pitched and whiny. Nothing had changed. “Or what you are.”

I ran a finger over the faded gang tattoo on my forearm.

Next rotation, I promised myself, I'd be sure to get them removed.

I'd been saying that for a long while.

Contrary to popular belief, space isn't dark.

It isn't even remotely dark.

There is light everywhere in space. Starlight generated by suns near and far. Ripples of light from distant nebulae. The glow of nearby worlds and planetoids. No matter how small, no matter how negligible, all of those things generate light.

I'd grown up on the Zeta Reticuli Arcology – the Zeta Ret Arc, as it was known. The Arc was an insignificant deep-space colony, housing barely twenty million inhabitants, relevant as a footnote in the history of the Alliance only because it was the Republic of South Africa's first and last extrasolar settlement. It wasn't a nice place. It wasn't even a
decent
place. But to me, those domed cities were home.

On the Zeta Ret Arc, you grow up appreciating naked space. The burgs aren't always lit – there is often enforced downtime, to save energy and other resources – and I've never found a Zet who doesn't respect a good view of deep-space.

While I'm no believer, the Cosmic Church is a popular sect on the burgs. The robed clerics preach the ideology of “oneness” with all living creatures. Whatever the philosophical tag, I dig the intent: I get it.
You're never really alone in space. No matter how far, there is light out there, and you are one with it.
My grandmama was a paid-up member, and she'd drilled that into me since before I could talk Standard.

I stared out of the galley viewport for a long time. Watched the distant stars, the twinkle of lights out in space. No telling, at this distance, what those lights actually were: with the naked eye it was impossible to sort ships, planets, stars.

The
Edison
was a small commercial tug, and she wasn't made for crew comfort. When I'd first started serving on ships like this – only a few years ago – I'd found it almost disabling. The lack of personal space is always an issue for space travellers, but for a girl grown up on Zeta Ret, the closed spaces were a problem. It had taken some practice, some real dedication, to handle my claustrophobia.

That was why the galley was my favourite module aboard the
Edison
. Not because it was any bigger than the rest of the ship – it was actually one of the smaller chambers – but because, other than the bridge, it was the only place where you could see out into space. That, and there was often real, human company. It was a communal room; you could usually find someone else here. If there was one thing that I hated more than being penned up, it was being alone.

I sipped at my soured milk
amass
. The taste of home was anchoring: small things like the feel of the metal cup between my hands, the way that the bitter fluid filled my stomach. The warmth fended off a little of the cold that permeated the ship. The floor was absolutely freezing – even through my sneakers.

We'd only dropped out of quantum-space a couple of days ago, and I'd been awake for about an hour. The trip had taken nine months of real-time: the longest starship journey that I'd ever endured. “Endured” was the only description. I felt as though the universe was punishing me for breaking the natural laws of physics – for breaking the barriers between time and space – in the aches and pains that spread throughout my limbs.

I really hoped that all of this would be worth it.

“I don't know how you can drink that stuff.”

I roused from my thought loop and looked up. Sheldon Trivek – the ship's medical technician – sauntered into the galley. He lingered at the automated food dispenser.

“Morning, Sheldon,” I said. “It's an acquired taste.”

“I'll bet,” he said. “It still stinks.”

“Sleep well?”

“I would have slept better with some company.”

“That's not the way that hypersleep works.”

“So they tell me.” Sheldon pointed to the view-screen above the food dispenser. “You watching this? Can you believe it?”

The tri-D box was set to a low volume, the poor quality feed dancing with interference lines. The truth was that I hadn't been watching it, but now I thought that maybe I should. There was a certain urgency to the broadcast: a newscaster in a collarless suit talking directly to the camera.

“
Breaking news just in: President Andrew Francis has been assassinated during a motorcade procession through Mars Central Conurb. The report is coming in via military tightbeam from multiple sources.
”

The reporter looked like he was about to break. There were tears in his eyes and his face had gone rubbery-slack. I almost wished that I could share in his grief, but the news meant very little to me.

“So Francis finally got himself capped?” I said. “Doesn't surprise me.”

“Will you listen to the girl…” Sheldon said. “This is big news, darling.”

“Just turn it over.”

“Don't you care about the Alliance? Daryl won't be pleased.”

“
Francis becomes the sixth president of the United Americas to be assassinated during his term in office, and the second president of the Alliance.
”

“Daryl isn't here,” I said.

“
Early reports suggest that the Asiatic Directorate has claimed responsibility for the action. Director-General Zhang will be making an address later today. More information as we get it –
”

While the news would undoubtedly have an impact on Daryl, it was bullshit as far as I was concerned. The Republic wasn't even in the Alliance until after I was born, until after Francis' famous “if you're not with us, then you're against us” speech. We made the decision to join up with a gun-muzzle at our heads; the Arcology was nominally Alliance only because we didn't want to be Directorate.

“This shit is old anyway,” Sheldon said. “Yesterday's news.”

More like last year's. The broadcast had probably been sent from the Core before the
Edison
had even begun her journey.

Sheldon was objectively a few years older than me – at least, chronologically: given the dynamics of space travel, it's not always easy to guess the true age of a traveller – and he liked to think that we were friends. He would've liked it if we were more than friends, but that was never going to happen. He wore the same black jumpsuit as the rest of the crew – the suits were De Hann Transport regulation attire – and left it open to his chest. His blond-white hair was unwashed, receding halfway across his head. He'd once told me that he was Russian Federation but I doubted that. After the Directorate bombing of the 'Stans, there were so few Russians left, and Sheldon barely spoke with any accent at all. I suspected that Sheldon's backstory was designed to elicit sympathy or intrigue from members of the opposite sex. If that was the goal, it really didn't work.

“So, how's my girl this morning?” he said.

He smiled at me. His eyes never quite focused on my face, and I'd regularly find myself having an entire conversation with him looking at my chest.

“Good,” I said. Pulled the zipper of my own jumpsuit up a little higher, all the way to my neck.

Sheldon took a chair from beneath the table and sat next to me. He had a thing about personal space: always uncomfortably close. He noisily drank from his cup and pulled a face at the taste.

“This coffee is even worse than your soured milk. It's some bad shit. I've never served on a starship where the java tastes anything but. Maybe it's an unspoken law of space travel or something.”

“Maybe.”

“How is the ship holding up?”

I was the chief technical engineer on the
Edison
, responsible for the continued operation of the big ol' bucket of bolts. The title sounded much grander than the reality: I was also the
only
engineer on the ship, and the crew numbered five personnel.

“She's doing fine,” I said. Although I'd only been up for an hour, I'd already done my preliminary rounds: checked the functioning of our key engine systems, made sure that our navigation module was correctly calibrated. On a company freighter, automation was the order of the day and in truth I felt more like a caretaker than an engineer. “Nothing to report.”

Sheldon nodded enthusiastically. “Sounds good. You do the machines; I'll do the bodies.”

I sipped at my drink. “I'll let you know if there's a problem just now.”

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” came another voice.

It was Nathaniel Bartello, the ship's communications technician. Just his voice was enough to put me on edge – in a good way. I'd developed a liking for the Venusian drawl of late. As much as every woman I'd ever met disliked Sheldon, every woman I'd ever met loved Nathaniel. Nate and I were a lot closer than I would ever want to be with Sheldon.
Too close
, I thought to myself. He was, without a doubt, my favourite member of the crew.

Sheldon gave a sigh. “Taniya and I were just enjoying a romantic moment.”

“No,” I corrected, sitting bolt upright. “No, we definitely weren't.”

Nate smiled at me and joined us at the table. I felt my cheeks flush at his gaze; fought with that ridiculous itch to play with my hair. I'd long decided that spaceflight messes with the natural dynamics of human relationships. In real-time, the
Edison
's last layover had been nine months ago: for me, barely hours had passed. I held back the rush of emotion. Was he thinking about it like me? We'd spent a couple of nights together, nothing more than that. I liked him; he liked me. The question was whether it was going to be anything more than that. I was angry with myself for thinking that it might be.

“I take it that neither of you are watching this rubbish?” he said, referring to the viewer.

“Be my guest,” I said.

Nate switched the machine off. “Probably best that we keep that little nugget from Captain Boeta, eh?”

We all laughed. Captain Boeta – Daryl, as everyone else called him – was an Alliance poster boy. He'd be devastated to hear the news. Nate, despite his heritage, was about as pro-Alliance as me.

I was instantly more at ease with Nate around. Unlike the rest of us, he wore the jumpsuit well. It defined his muscular torso and strong arms. He seemed to have already shaken off the sleep, his brilliant blue eyes completely awake. An unusual trait among Venusians, Nate's eyes were a contrast to his tanned skin. He took a bowl of cereal substitute from the dispenser and sat with us.

“Any messages for me?” I asked him. “I tried to access the communications server, but I got an error.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, Tan. Nothing.”

I tried not to look disappointed, but probably didn't hide it very well.

“Local communications are patchy,” he added. “Were you expecting her to contact you?”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

“This your big family reunion?” Sheldon asked.

“Doesn't matter,” I said. “Let me know if there's any change.”

“Yeah.” Nate shrugged. The motion of his big shoulders was pleasant in the suit. “Maybe they're having technical problems. I'm sure it isn't anything serious.”

“Let's hope not.”

The discussion was interrupted by a chime over the
Edison
's general address system.

“This is the ship's captain speaking. Can I have some asses on seats in the bridge. You're all going to want to see this.”

That was Daryl Boeta, the
Edison
's captain. He sounded excited.

“Let's get to it then,” Nate said. He winked at me. “And don't forget: probably best not to tell Daryl about the president.”

“Not unless you want tears…” Sheldon said.

“On my honour as an Alliance citizen,” I said with a hand to my chest.

Nate laughed.

The three of us stood. I was careful to make sure that I was the last out of the room – Sheldon in front of me. From experience, I knew that to leave before he did would only lead to some comment about my ass.

We found Daryl and Lucina on the bridge, already strapped into their seats and patched into their consoles. On a ship as small as the
Edison
, there was no room for pomp or ceremony: Daryl was the pilot, captain and franchisee owner of the vessel. His wife was Lucina Singh, a Third Gen Indo-Asian with a hugely bad attitude, who acted as the ship's navigator. The pair had been under a marriage contract for maybe as long as they'd been running the
Edison
.