Fort Liberty, Volume Two (4 page)

Voss stands at the edge of the loading zone, holding his helmet under his arm. The others begin moving equipment into the birds. Wyatt and his recruits are going in one ship, Logan and Gojo in another. Voss is going with Niri in the third skimmer, so he waits for her, his attention drawn to the sprawl of lights beyond the hangar opening.

Fort Liberty glows in the chill and dust of the Martian night, its shielded towers incandescent, its great halls and complexes clustered along a half-moon grid, spearheads of new development shimmering in the darkness.

Streams of silt cut through the wind, obscuring the view, or simply making it seem less solid, a faraway vision of peaceful civilization spread out for a man born into the loss of the Earthbound empire, all of it swept away long before he was born, the mirrored skyscrapers of Old Angeles nothing more than skeletal hulks lit by barrel fires.

The view should offer hope, but it doesn’t. It simply seems fragile, and duplicitous, the same corporate-founded society that watched the Earth burn from 249 million miles away, then promised to supply it for profit, rebuild it, save lives… but only if men like him ensure the job gets done.

Protect us on from the human monsters on Earth. Protect us from the human monsters in Red Filter. Protect us, even when we keep things from you, even when we lie to you.

He grimaces, dropping his gaze to check the holo comms unit on his wrist, noting that Petra still hasn’t checked in. Of course, it would happen now. She would choose this moment to go missing, right before a mission, when there’s exactly fuck zero he can do about it.

He runs through the tracking menu, searching for her location.

The device bounces back with no signal.

Location not available.

He curses under his breath, switching comm beads.

“Gojo,” he says, addressing the tech sergeant.

“Sir?”

“I lost Petra. Find her for me.”

“Roger that.”

Voss nods, accepting that it’s as good as he’s going to get for now.

Time’s up anyway, because he can see Niri’s entourage entering the hangar, all suited up in sparkling white, helmets locked.

She looks smaller than he remembers, her dark eyes large enough for him to see behind the clear shine of her visor, walking with her shoulders held back, chin up, as if she’s chosen to be a human experiment on her way to get analyzed, tested and ‘indoctrinated’… whatever that means.

In some ways, she has chosen this.

In other ways, she hasn’t.

She stops before him, pressing the palms of her hands together, and bowing in that Buddhist way of hers, a social remnant of her Earthbound origin, and one that gets encouraged by her Red Filter handlers.

He doesn’t respond, and she rises, her expression reflecting a kind of sentimental reunion, which mystifies him.

“Colonel,” she says. “I am ready.”

He nods, trying to ignore the gut warning that she’s not ready at all, because she’s still the same confused girl he pulled from a burning shanty, and despite all the hours of meditation, and the esoteric mantras they’ve drilled into her head, she probably has no idea what ‘indoctrination’ means either.

 

To a Deva, the purest of all beings in the Buddhist tradition, these objects are not objects. They are manifestations, sparkles of light dancing on the surface of the Vijñāna… the eyes of the soul gazing upon its own reflection.

The visible world is an illusion, and it hides clues to the future, as did the temple of her childhood in Bangalore, a ruined castle of scorched white stone with tattered flags and curling rooftops, its pillared entrance crumbling, and its bridges arching over trash filled moats.

What would the blind Ajahn think of her success? So far away… Would he be pleased with his pupil? Would he acknowledge the control and detachment she has shown since arriving on this planet? Perhaps he would only nod in wisdom, sitting cross-legged with his bright orange robes draped over his knees, his brown fingers hooked in a japa mala, stroking through strands of garnet beads, his skin rubbing the flesh of the Earth in prayer.

What do you hear now, child?

She hears the singing, and it is beautiful. Of course, it’s not really singing, not like a human voice. It’s something internal, something that is felt, but felt like music, and here it is so quiet, so soft, but in the past, on Earth… It always howled there, full of the violence and fear, stirred by the horror which was always present, or by that mournful, poisonous wind that billows though clothing, strokes through hair, and carries dreams away to nothing.

The voice of her Ajahn echoes from memory.

What does the singing tell you about us?

What does it tell you about our future?

Nothing yet. It is simply there. But the moment is coming. The doctors have told her it is coming, and she is ready. It is an honor, isn’t it? To be brought here, to this dry world of endless horizons, of muted reds, and dark volcanoes, vast canyons, and black nights made dense with stars.

Here, the song is lulling, filled with promise, with high notes, and loving hues, so much more dimension. There is no way to fight it, and no reason to. This is home to the non-human element in her blood, the origin of the DNA she shares with the bacterial organism found on this world. It is the missing piece of her body and soul.

Detach from your sense of self. You are not you. Observe the signs. You must not fear. You must falter. You are the hope of humanity.

Detach.

Dr. Williams is sitting beside her, and the woman is tense as usual, rubbing her gloved hands over her knees. She glances at the Colonel, her eyes narrowed behind the clear shield of her helmet, lips pressed to a flat white line.

She is curious… no… worried.

Colonel Voss doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is set on the device around his wrist. He sits motionless, his armored suit making him bulky in the tight space, his weapons slung, or holstered… ignored in a way that only a soldier could ignore them. The patterns on his helmet are barely visible, images of a battle unit, pale symbols layered over dull black curves.

To Dr. Williams, he is a stranger.

To Niri, he could never be.

He took her from Earth, from the battle that killed her parents. The Bounders came for her, and he fought like the Asura, the terrible Buddhist gods of war, who brandish both swords and axes in their many fists, their tongues lolling through animal teeth, eyes bright with bloodlust.

That is what she remembers, the Asura, the monster. And here, so far from his battlefields on Earth, the song still wafts from him like smoke, the ghost of violence, and purpose, though it no longer scares her. He promised that he would protect her, and he did. He assigned the medic, Logan, to care for her when she was helpless.

Where are you, Logan?

Not in this ship, though perhaps he is in one of the others.

The Assaulter medic recurs in her dreams, a touch of an unseen hand, a voice that reiterates how she will be fine, how he is there, so there is nothing to fear. Sometimes, she imagines him in the way he was during space flight, at her side, his expression concerned, haloed in the glow of overhead lighting.

Detach.

Center.

She presses her lips together, trying to let go of the memories, but they stubbornly persist, with a flourish of song, as if they are important, as if
he
is important. And perhaps he is.

Logan is the youngest Assaulter, clean shaven and unscarred, a trace of hazel in his eyes, a dull gold shine to his hair. Calm. Truthful. Wise. He acts like an illuminated being…more so than the doctors, or the politicians she has met. No polished smile, no insincere warmth, he does not speak to her as if she were a child. He listens. He sees, understands… He would not lie to her. He would protect her now, with no other motivation… just as he did before.

Observe the signs.

“Colonel,” she says, hearing her own voice echo through both the speaker and the open comm. “I do not see Logan here. Is he coming with us?”

He looks at her. “Logan?”

“Your medic.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know who he is. I’m confused why you would ask.”

“Is he in one of the other ships?”

“Yes.”

She nods, and draws a quick breath, breaking into a smile she hopes he can’t see. “I am glad. I’m glad that he is with us, for this… indoctrination.”

“Why?”

“He may be important.”

The colonel says nothing. His gold-tinted visor is staring straight at her, a smaller, blurrier version of her reflected in its shine.

The ramps close with a hiss of air, seals locking tight.

A shiver runs through the ship, and it rises silently in the hangar, the strobe of caution lights flashing in its small portal windows. The pilot is communicating with others, his voice barely audible from the cockpit.

The engines rotate with the whine and clank of pivoting metal parts, and the ship glides through the atmosphere shielding, prompting a bright sizzle of light to dance over its artificial skin. It banks slowly away from the towers of Fort Liberty and slips into darkness.

Dr. Williams tilts her head toward Niri, her penciled eyebrows peaked behind her clear visor. “Why would you ask about a medic, Niri? You won’t need one for the indoctrination process. Are you afraid that you will be ill?”

Niri looks away from her. “No.”

“Then…?”

“I trust him.”

“The medic?” Dr. Williams frowns. “Why?”

“He knows about me.”

“Knows? What could he know?”

“He took care of me, the entire way here from Earth.”

Dr. Williams glares at the colonel. “What is she referring to?”

“Logan took care of her,” the colonel echoes, calm, unimpressed.

“Was he alone with her?”

“Frequently.”

“And you thought that was wise?”

“What are you suggesting?”

The doctor flicks her gaze between Niri and the colonel. “She’s young, impressionable. It won’t help if she’s become… attached.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The girls in this program are trained to think in a very specific way. They adhere to a certain philosophy, thereby maintaining a disciplined awareness, strict emotional detachment. She has to keep this balance. But, of course, she’s still a young woman, and young women are prone to forming attachments. If there was some breach of conduct of the part of your medic---”

“There was no breach.”

“---or even something that constituted encouragement, something she might have misinterpreted as attraction---”

“
Misinterpreted
?” Voss says, irritated. “What exactly are you holding me responsible for?”

“You were briefed,” the doctor says. “You know she is only part human. She shares DNA with a non-human life form.”

“Bacteria. Yeah, I got that speech. Lateral gene transfer, humans and bacteria blissfully evolving together for millions of years on Earth, part of each other’s genetic history. So?”

“BIO227 is native to Mars. It’s not like Earthbound bacteria. Its behavior is complex, and she is the first human we’ve seen with one-hundred percent compatibility to the colony, the first human capable of communicating with another species, with alien life. Your team has the appropriate security clearances, so you can ask the director of the program, Dr. Neilson, to explain this all in detail when we arrive at the facility. I’m sure he’ll be able to frame it in a way that makes sense to… Assaulters. I can only tell you that---theoretically---we believe it will be harder for her to begin communicating with the colony, as she is designed to do, if she is attached to a specific person outside the program, a close friendship, or an attraction that provides an emotional disconnect from the process.”

“You make it sound as if she’s going to live a lab for the rest of her life.”

“She’s not like us.”

The colonel sways back, as if surprised. “That language could be used to justify anything.”

“She was designed to do this.”

“She’s just a girl.”

“She’s seventeen. At what age did you begin training to become an Assaulter? Even younger, I think. How many human attachments do you have? You have no wife, no family, no one but your team…isn’t that correct? This is the way things are. There are those who sacrifice, and those who are able to survive, and succeed based on those sacrifices.”

“My sacrifices are voluntary.”

“So are hers.”

“Then why bother with all the elaborate religious programming?”

Dr. Williams struggles to answer, as if too many thoughts are suddenly preventing the expression of just one. “It’s not elaborate. Buddhism is not… elaborate. And you don’t understand. We must communicate with the colony. Our future on this planet, and human destiny as a whole, depends on it. If our current theory is correct, Niri will allow us to expand our civilization, rebuild Earth in ways we never dreamed of.”