FORT LIBERTY: VOLUME ONE (7 page)

So in between burns, Petra drifts as the ship coasts the void. And it’s an art, touching no walls, just floating, with the occasional guiding of the squeeze bottle straw to the mouth, the gulp of sweet alcohol, a friendly burning sensation slipping all the way to the stomach.

There is no resistance. The heart beats. Arms and legs hang passively in eternity, thoughts slip away, fading into dreamland.

Images surface from the murk of half-sleep, old memories, incomplete and hollowed of emotion. Cold wind, blasts of iron sand tearing at the armored plate of an old Martian transport track, all 68 tons of her stuck in the rocks with a crumpled hull and emergency power for light and air, Petra’s own hand splayed desperate against the glass of chilled window.

See you on Mars, Petra
.

She frowns, opening her eyes to the cast of shadows spread across the ceiling… and the presence of something that shouldn’t be.

The realization takes a moment. She turns her head to see the Assaulter filling up the hatchway. He’s been watching—for how long there’s no telling—and it occurs to her that it’s reason enough to make him sorrier than he’s ever been, and order him out of quarters which are solely for the Captain’s use. Only she’s not in those quarters. She’s been drinking in the rec cabin, as it now becomes clear, and he’s got as much reason as anyone to be here.

She grimaces. “Voss.”

“Didn’t mean to… interrupt.”

“Interrupt what?”

He looks at her askance, like maybe he’s got special Assaulter senses that can pick up the presence of bad dreams and memories which got no mercy. And maybe he does. After all, Assaulters surely have their own share of ghosts, being instruments of war and dark purpose.

Sliding her fingertips along the ceiling, she pushes against it, drifting down into a more captain-like pose, upright, vodka bottle in hand. “Suppose I can offer you a drink, considering what freight you’re paying.”

“That’s vodka?”

“What’s banned in Red Filter, true enough. And smooth. One bottle from the hundreds we got chilled in the hold.”

“All destined to be sold to the highest bidder.”

“Unless we drink ‘em first.” She shrugs, unrepentant. “No news to you what kind of ship you boarded, and no particular concern either, considering what friends we have at all the checkpoints, all well paid to let us through. Been doing this for some time, after all. No… you got your way, headed for Mars on a vessel that no one cares about and nothing to do now but count the days, each one longer and slower than the last—literally—for those who do accelerator equations.”

“I think I will have a drink,” he says.

“Best remedy for shadow road contemplation.” She pushes the bottle off her fingers, sending it gently floating his way. “Not exactly the kind of watch you an’ your men were trained for. Not much excitement, unless something breaks that we can’t fix, which only ever happened twice.”

He catches the bottle, showing no hesitation before raising it to his mouth and sucking on the same straw she’s been nursing for the past half hour, which is a mark in his favor, to her mind. Also, he looks better, maybe for the warm swim of alcohol, or the softer light that lingers in the rec cabin, the comfort of a good ship and one clear wall to frame the stars with, a sight to make two strangers seem infinitely small, and a moment passing between them more meaningful that it should be.

“Never thought to lay eyes on an Assaulter,” she says.

“No reason for you to.”

“No… ’cept I might be a criminal.”

“Might be?” His mouth crooks, his eyes lit… amused. “A peddler of small vices and petty vanities.”

“Expensive vanities,” she corrects, out of pride.

“You’re safe from me. Not exactly our focus. I suspect most of your clients in Martian filter are untouchable anyway.”

“Could be,” she admits.

“Government suits, corporate executives.”

“They do like their vodka.”

“Girl vodka, by the taste.” He laughs, pausing to suck down another good swallow like it’s water, like the sting doesn’t register. “Flavored like… I don’t even know what.”

“Grapefruit.”

“What the hell is that?”

“An expensive vice.”

“And you get drunk from this?”

She frowns, realizing that Assaulters might not be accustomed to the luxuries their employers enjoy, and maybe it’s moonshine from jet fuel that he expected. “Best vodka is the stuff of legends, made with love, no hangovers. You won’t feel it kick in until you’re well and gone.”

“Hmm,” he says, maybe believing that, and maybe not.

“I guess they don’t let you indulge in the finer things much.” She sighs, looking out at the stars. “Best to keep a tight leash on those who protect the money, the supply lines, the factories and the stations, stand watch over the last remnants of the old civilization for the sake of the unfortunates still living there… and those who still keep the wheels turning from afar.”

“That’s… concise.”

“Never set foot on Earth, but always wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

“I… ”

He waits, watching her search for words. Of course, she’s drunk, and so finding those words is the hard part, but still, they discover a way to roll off her tongue, hazy, awkward, and more personal than Captain’s talk should ever be. “Must be like walking through no man’s land and seeing all the things which were once so great, and all the people who got left to suffer after the War of Last Nations turned it all to rubble. Know what they’re called in Red Filter? The Earthbound are called ‘the de-evolved’, those who can be nothing else but tyrants or wretches, and no help for it. Souls born there with brains, or talent, the NRM and the Block 12 will take as their own, as what belongs to them… like you. The rest they supply to, sell to, but leave behind because they’re the zombies, the mindless ones, that which would destroy civilization again, given half the chance.”

He doesn’t look away, just listens, with no particular sign of agreement.

“And you… ” She goes on, pushing further into unwise territory. “In Red Filter, Assaulters got the esteem saved for gods, heroes and super humans that defend order and justice, like the soldiers of the old republic, those who went into deserts and fought the monsters that wanted to kill everyone. Fair enough, though you seem like flesh and blood up close, tattoos, tight beard, and that knife.”

“You like the knife?” he asks, softly teasing.

Like? Like…
She tries to focus. “I… Do you know where you are? You’re in big sky. Assaulters don’t belong in big sky, or on Mars. No place for heroes here. Been from gutter to glitter, and back again, been all across Red Filter and the shadow road more times than I can count. Been in trouble that no one should be in… and never seen any heroes at work, only the greed that keeps the filters pure.”

His expression changes, not offended—as maybe he has the right to be—but focused solely on what bits are of interest to him, for reasons tactical or otherwise. “You want to tell me more about that trouble?”

“No.”

He nods, like he expected as much, and takes another sip of vodka, settling his gaze on the stars. “Okay, so you want to tell me how a woman from the protected environs of Red Filter becomes a smuggler in the first place? Unless, of course, that’s a secret too… ”

Petra frowns. It’s a question that deserves a good comeback, and no real consideration, though for some reason, the truth slips out first. “She might have made some mistakes.”

He smiles.

And she keeps talking. Like an idiot. “Might have gotten too close to what was criminal because all other doors were closed… might have gotten too close to the one smuggler what beat all smugglers, and picked up where he left off once he was killed, and no one else to argue. Original crew all dead.”

“The crew of this ship?”

“More to a crew than one ship.”

“So we’re talking about an organization?”

“Handful of talented individuals, more like, that work the buyers and sellers, a ship like this, plus a few transport tracks what run across red plain, between stations and grand capitals.”

“That’s… more extensive than I thought.”

“That’s vice in Red Filter.”

He looks at her, taking the statement more seriously than she thought he would, an Assaulter’s gaze seeing more than what she set out to show. Then, just as unexpectedly, he looks away, letting it go, or seeming to.

“Think I’m starting to feel that kick,” he says.

“From my girl vodka, you mean.”

“Yes, from that.”

She laughs, and so does he, like it’s some other universe, and they’re not assaulter and smuggler, opposite worlds closed together in the same tiny space.

He floats the vodka bottle between his hands and taps it lightly to send it her way. It rotates top over bottom, so slow it makes a short distance seem vast.

She meets his gaze. “If you’re feeling it, you’re already gone.”

“I’m feeling it.”

“Grapefruit.”

“Grapefruit.” He grins, crossing his big arms over his chest, hard muscle painted with tattoos, ornate armbands, and nightmarish bones, talons and curving ornamentation that have no description, the stars and stripes of the old republic… all scrolling together in a vision of ink, skin and imagination.

“Girl vodka and girl smugglers,” he says, slanting her a look, like she’s full trouble, and he knows it, which is the most honest thing he’s shown so far.

“You’re safe from me,” she quips back, taking pleasure in stealing the exact words he told to her, not but a few moments ago. “No profit riding on disturbing you, Colonel, only on getting you and your team to Red Filter on the low.”

“Jared.”

“What?”

“My first name is Jared.”

“Oh,” she says, softer than she intends.

“And your first name is…?”

“Captain.”

He smiles again, patient. “C’mon. What are you afraid of?”

Maybe it’s that last bit of provocation, or maybe it’s because she’s drunk. Or maybe it’s because she’s just plain stupid, but surrender comes easier than it should. “Petra.”

“Petra.”

And, just like that, it’s personal, her name spoken in his way, a direct line from him to her, with no comforting walls of ranks between them… which is—she realizes too damn late—exactly what she was afraid of.

TRANSPORT VESSEL WC2077
SPARROW

FLIGHT DAY 10/27

MARS DATE: DAY 8, MONTH 9/24, YEAR 2,225.

The girl’s in and out, awake but murmuring nonsense, her small body trembling, hair and skin damp, trying to sweat the narcotics out of her system. One prick of the needle and she goes quiet, instantly more comfortable, those harsh accusations of grief dulling in her dark eyes.

Logan gets the worst of it, and bears it because he’s got that gift, the medic who guards the strong when they’re at their weakest, who will grab onto a hand and squeeze, who will repeat assurances well beyond the point they’re needed, or crawl through lines of fire just to reach someone who
might
still be breathing. It’s his particular duty, his calling, and so he does it.

He talks to her, cares for her.

He also does a lot more.

Like many Assaulters, he’s adept at acquiring knowledge he shouldn’t have, technical expertise that goes above and beyond. He’s been running blood tests for days, analyzing digital data from readers, feeding it into his med computer, muttering over obscure references while others sleep.

So now he looks… uncertain.

He shakes his head, too tired and searching for words. “Her blood work is… I don’t even know how to describe it. She’s infected with something. She’s infected with an unknown strain of bacteria, and it’s all through her, everywhere, in the cells, like lateral gene transfer stuff.”

Wyatt groans. “Lateral what?”

Logan looks at Voss, searching for understanding. “There are two ways to pass DNA. There’s vertical transfer, which is parent to child. And there’s lateral transfer, which is between individuals, mostly in single celled organisms.”

Voss frowns. “So she’s sick?”

“Not exactly.” Logan points to his analyzer, a blurry image of blobs swimming in its tiny blue screen. “Her cells aren’t like our cells to begin with. Her blood wouldn’t be compatible with any of our blood types. And this isn’t an accident or a natural mutation. I think that part is pretty obvious, given recent events. She’s a genetically altered being. My guess is that she’s been engineered to host this bacteria, and it’s sharing its DNA with her. She’s only part human, gents. That’s what makes her special. That’s her
gift
.”

“What the fuck?” Wyatt’s pissed.

Voss feels it too, though he won’t voice it. The betrayal stings. He liked believing that the kids he rescued were all naturally gifted. It was a good story, a glint of hope in the ruins, something worth the lives of the men who’d sacrificed for it. Learning that they’re part of a human experiment doesn’t square the same way, doesn’t make sense to him as a warrior, but it also doesn’t alter the situation.

All of their lives are in danger, including Niri’s, and he has no context for this new information, no way to judge whether it’s part of a responsible plan to rebuild Earth, or not. He doesn’t have that background, or that expertise, so he’s got to go with what he’s been told. He’s got to keep everyone alive.

For Logan, however, it’s more difficult. It’s caretaker-to-patient. It’s personal. He shuts the cover of his analyzer and stares at Voss, just stares, a flicker of something raw in his eyes.

“We don’t get to know the big picture,” Voss reminds him. “We don’t sign up for that. We sign up to do what others can’t. We stand between those who want to destroy, and those who need our protection. The guys running the show… they could be geniuses, or they could be complete assholes, but there isn’t anything else. There isn’t some other Earth, or some other Mars. This is what we’ve got. And whatever this girl is, or isn’t… she’s a citizen, which means the NRM is legally bound to take of her, and we took an oath to protect her.”

“Protect her from what?” Logan asks, and the implication is clear.

“From all those who seek to destroy her,” Voss says. “We didn’t have their motive before, but now it seems like we might. She’s part human, part something else. Maybe that means she’s got a better immune system. Maybe it means she hears things we can’t hear, or can go into places we can’t go. We don’t know what the advantages to this are. Med science is rarely what it looks like. They break bones, put people in comas, grow extra organs in labs. They follow macabre procedures to save lives. We don’t know what this is. All we know is that this girl represents a new form of technology and people have been killing over that since the beginning of time. Someone out there considers her as a threat.”