The Red Queen (4 page)

The Maester gave a low, croaking noise from his throat. “You’re of the Fleet Services?”

“Yes.”

“You must ask about such matters elsewhere. My job is to bring people peace, not war.”

“This isn’t about war. I’m trying to figure things out. And that might bring peace.”

The Maester’s expression turned a shade of somber. “My son, let us not debate about whether or not war brings eventual peace. I give truths and guidance. But I cannot give truths that are unearned.”

Zubren stiffened at those words. The way he said it. With the kind of guilt-inducing tone used when speaking to criminals. Zubren felt like he’d swallowed a brick.

Clenching back his rage, he pocketed the imprint and rose to leave.

* * *

There were no windows in the Sky Barge Tavern. The better not to see the Haze as the sun set. Zubren had frequented this bar during Basic. Just taking a stool soothed his nerves. But he’d thrown in several beers to be sure.

On the TV, a geologist was discussing a series of major earthquakes near the Southwestern fault line. Rumors indicated a new Crawler nest had caused the recent surge, as they had in the past. News blips running across the bottom of the screen stated that the Oras Union Congress had just met regarding fears of water reserves running out faster than predicted. Zubren recoiled at the possibility.

Three young field operators pulled up stools next to Zubren. They each had a variation of curly hair. As they called for Crawler cocktails, he tapped one on the shoulder.

“Hey, is it still raining out there?”

“Not anymore.”

Zubren leaned his neck from side to side, alleviating the aches from sitting slumped over for the past few hours, finished his beer, and turned away from the counter.

“Hey buddy,” the bartender, a former field operator in his mid-thirties, called.

“Yeah?” Zubren said.

The bartender set a full glass of beer in front of him. “Compliments of that gentleman over there,” he said, cocking his head to a lone uniformed man down the stretch. Recognizing him at once, Zubren glowered. This was wholly unexpected.

He grabbed the beer and marched over to the man. Even sitting, his unimpressive size was clear. He was the last person one would expect to start trouble in a bar. Several years had passed since they’d last seen each other, but the combination of his ever-smirking face, well-groomed goatee, and bald head were hard to forget.

“Is this your overdue attempt at a peace offering or did you tell the bartender to spit in it?” Zubren inquired sharply.

Agliese pulled a folded silk cloth out of his pocket and set it on the counter. “Hello to you too.”

He offered a hand, but Zubren didn’t take it. Agliese shrugged.

“Would you like to see it? I’ve kept it in good shape. Well, by my standards at least,” he japed.

Zubren glared, anger pervading his body.

A sick grin crossed Agliese’s face as he neatly laid out the silk cloth to reveal an old revolver. Splotches of rust coated the once-polished edges.

Running his finger along the grip, Agliese said, “I believe you said it was called a Fronch. No, a French Pinfire 9mm. That it would only gain value with age.”

“And that my father had left it for me before he died,” Zubren added quietly.

“Hey, you can’t bring that in here,” the bartender scowled.

“Oh, don’t worry, ammunition wasn’t part of the deal,” Agliese said, popping out the barrel to show him. “Why don’t you tell him, Zubren?”

Zubren’s hatred flared, but he found his lips forming words. “I had bet I could beat you at the combat sim game, best two out of three.”

“But you lost. Horribly, I might add,” Agliese said.

Zubren’s eyes narrowed. “And I had no problem paying, except you insisted I pay you immediately. I didn’t have my check yet, so I gave you my antique revolver.” The next words came off his tongue like flames. “You said I could buy it back once I had the money.”

Agliese gave a mock frown. “I’m sorry, but this pistol grew on me.”

Zubren thought back to the night they played each other in the combat sim. An unexpected spear of regret stabbed into him. He’d never really resolved it, had he? They’d spent the better part of Basic as enemies all because of that one incident. That one stupid challenge he had taken on.

“Well, as long as it’s not loaded then,” the bartender said.

Agliese watched him walk over to a pair of young airmen. “This place always takes me back.”

“Yeah, but you live at the CQ-4 estates. What are you doing here?”

Agliese dug into the bowl of peanuts next to the revolver. “I figured I would show you my antique and you’d show me yours.”

The Crawler imprint. Zubren's face screwed up in bitter understanding. “My antique?”

“Oh, but I guess it really isn’t yours. It’s Fleet Services property. I wonder what Lieutenant Maxforth would say if he found out you brought it here.”

Clenching his jaw, Zubren managed, “This is blackmail.”

“You don’t say.” Agliese folded his arms in satisfaction. His smirk was more obvious than ever. “Now ask me what I want.”

Zubren willed himself to leave before he lost it. But how could he let Agliese play him again? Hadn’t he learned anything? His body tensed up as fierceness filled his eyes. “What?”

“I want your antique gun collection,” Agliese said.

It happened so quickly. No time to try and stop himself.

His hand shot forward and caught hold of Agliese’s military uniform, rattling the medals on his chest. Agliese’s eyes barely emitted any sense of fear. He realized too late that this violation of conduct was exactly what Agliese wanted and released him.

Agliese curled his fingers through his goatee and tilted his head at a slight angle. “That’s two strikes against you now.” He munched on a handful of peanuts. “But to your credit, I appreciate your efforts in the Crawler War, so I’ll keep this a secret free of charge. You see, I wouldn’t want the truth to ruin your reputation.”

He reached out for the glass. “You go home and get yourself some rest. Think about what I said.” Agliese spoke with such utter control he must’ve planned this out.

Zubren relinquished the beer and took a step towards the door. He stumbled a few times, but not badly enough to warrant staying.

On the taxi ride back to his house, his anger faded and Agliese’s words sunk in.
I wouldn't want the truth to ruin your reputation.
He didn’t mean the bar incident. He meant the truth that Zubren was seeking out. The receptionist at Sector 20 must’ve reported his presence. Meaning Fleet Services had ordered Agliese to shadow him. Zubren stared out the window, hating everything in that moment. Fleet Services knew Agliese would find the right moment to incite a rule violation from him. A way to blackmail him as necessary. It was a warning. Next time they would do worse. So there couldn’t be a next time. He’d stop this search, he decided. For now.

* * *

There was no free fall. Instead, Zubren ascended closer to the edge of Oras’ atmosphere every second.

Even though his ankle propulsion systems were running at a less-than-optimal 97%, the flight was smooth. Like floating on the surface of a pool.

Sweat beaded on his brow nonetheless. The psychologist told him he was cleared for flight, but he still couldn’t shake off the apprehension from the East Alkebulan Drop.

The Model 11’s HUD was almost the same as the original’s, only more responsive and elaborate. He checked the navigational specs. The counter was decreasing from 5000 meters. Less than 5000 meters until contact with the first Crawler satellite.

A crackle of static. “You know what I hate about these things,” Elton said. “I can’t scratch my nose.”

“Yeah, why didn’t you think about that when you redesigned these suits?” chimed in Derith.

Zubren swiveled his head to see the two exosuits flying beside him, the words
Model 12
and
Model 13
gleaming gold on their helmets, and raised his middle finger. The motion brought the slightest brush of turbulence.

“Don’t let those two greenies get to you. They’re just jealous that you got your name in the history books as the first one to pilot an exosuit,” Gilm said. He was a hundred miles away, inside a secure bunker control room with other Fleet Services technicians and Lieutenant Maxforth. Just the same, he recognized Gilm had put as much into this suit as he did by piloting it.

“Roger that,” Zubren said, knowing Elton and Derith had heard.

He and Gilm had spent most of the last two months rigorously testing the exosuits. First in computer simulations, then in war games on the empty dunes of the Magdalenian Desert. Together with Elton and Derith, he’d shattered dummy tanks and unmanned aerial vehicles with only a sore back to complain about.

Then came the real missions. Fleet Services deployed Models 4 to 10 to Crawler hot spots on Oras. Zubren played support on those operations, coaching the pilots from a control room with the nerves of a father watching his own son step up to the proverbial baseball plate. The exosuit had lived up to their hopes and expectations. In just two days, Elton, Derith, and the other pilots cleared out every new Crawler nest on Oras. There were a few glitches, sure, but they'd resolved those easily enough with a little tinkering.

“Hey, heads up,” Elton said. His tone warned the time for trash talk was past.

Suddenly a green fog enshrouded them. Zubren felt his ears pop. A red arrow appeared at the top of his HUD, indicating the first Crawler satellite was within his combat radius. He felt his muscles tense up as the vague outline materialized in the spore cloud. It floated effortlessly in space, a hundred translucent blue tentacles hanging from a giant bulb. Red and blue light particles danced along the bulb’s rim as it rippled in and out, emitting microscopic spores.

The sensation of swallowing a bucket of ice came over Zubren.

“I see your heart rate has risen considerably,” Lieutenant Maxforth said, naming no one pilot in particular. “Remember, if you can take this thing down, you’ll make history.”

Make history.
Some said the Book of Makori contained the history of a hundred dead civilizations. Zubren steadied his breathing with that thought. Up until now, no missiles, no aircraft, nothing had penetrated the Crawler Haze. The spore clouds that surrounded Oras worked like constant EMPs, short-circuiting anything that Fleet Services had tried. But the exosuits used a special bio-metal, comprised of organic extract from Crawler corpses and nanobots that would filter in the spore molecules and dissolve them before they ruined the interior components.

A beeping drew Zubren’s attention back to the flashing red arrow. He looked to see a pack of locusts inbound. They were half the size of a fighter jet, but their tough hides offered a dozen times more protection.

“Enter defensive formation D,” Zubren said.

In response, Elton and Derith formed a triangle, each facing out. Their footing posed the only weak spot, but Gilm would inform them if any Crawlers attacked from that angle.

They killed their thrusters, floating in wait.

A visual scan estimated the number of locusts at four hundred. Easily within the capabilities of an exosuit.

“Elton, you get the locusts, Derith and I take down the satellite,” Zubren said.

“Roger.”

Their thrusters kicked up and they blasted forward.
When in doubt, fly faster
, Zubren reminded himself.

The jellyfish-like spore caster seemed to double in size as he drew closer. A single nuke would be enough to kill it, but the radiation could also fall back to Oras’ surface. So they’d stick with the Thermal Shield. He informed Derith and activated it via voice command. The words
THERMAL SHIELD ACTIVE
flashed on his screen. Pressing his arms against his body, he seared a path through the green spores. Soon the massive bulb and its dancing lights flooded his vision. He willed the exosuit to rush onward, to explode through the bulb with the force of an atom bomb. Then his visuals went black. All black.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears. A dead silence otherwise.

“Reboot cameras,” he shouted. Nothing happened. An icy dread split him down the middle.

“Suit check,” he said, wrenching an arm up towards his helmet. It was as though he’d been buried in sand. The suit barely gave. Even on stand-by mode the exosuit should’ve offered enhanced muscle strength through pressure points and a design that complemented the motions of the human body. Right now it was just a heap of metal cocooning around him.

The Crawlers had totally shut it off. Cursing, he realized just how lightheaded he felt. And then he went straight into panic mode. With the exosuit completely dead, it no longer afforded him a clean supply of oxygen. There was only the oxygen currently in his head piece. Barely enough for a few minutes. Even less the way he’d been breathing.

“Reboot system,” he said to no avail. Sweat trickled down his forehead and cheeks. He thought of what Elton said only minutes ago about wishing he could scratch his nose. He became aware of the temperature rising. All of his body heat amassed inside one skin-tight furnace. Time seemed irrelevant as the intimate fears of death swirled in his head. He felt like he was a raisin, shriveling up. Completely sealed inside, isolated from all other stimuli, his consciousness dwindled.

“Elaine. Asher,” he heard himself say.

* * *

Zubren’s eyes fluttered open. The windowless room was cast in a drab gray and a thick glass panel served as the wall in front of him. A fan hummed loudly from somewhere. As he rose up, a searing pain shot through his upper back. He winced and saw that he’d been sleeping on a metal bed panel. Way too sterile to be a hospital.

Slogging out a breath, he noticed the field operators behind the glass, typing in a code to enter. A moment later, a layer of it slid back and they entered. Their gas masks threw him off.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

One raised a hand. “Please relax, Mr. Hiels. You’ve been quarantined, but so far tests suggest you’re negative.”

“Quarantined? I was piloting the Model 11.”

The field operator held up a manila folder. “This should bring you up to speed. Now we’ll need to take your blood.”