When he went to retrieve his clothing, however, he discovered someone had taken it. In its place was a worn pair of jeans about his size and a bright pink T-shirt. The latter had cartoon kittens on it, along with the words KAWAII HAI! He stared at it for a moment, then turned it inside out and put it on. Sorry, cats. Not in the mood for cuteness today.
Rose was waiting for him outside the bath enclosure. “Your clothes are being cleaned,” she told him. She glanced at his bare forearms as she spoke, her gaze lingering briefly on his Sarkassan markings. To Terran eyes they were probably exotic. “You know, I read your article on the emotive power of air pressure, and it was amazing. The thought that something so subtle could influence human behavior . . . it’s hard to fathom.”
“We were programmed by evolution to respond to a particular planetary environment. Even here, in the outworlds, those instincts persist. A well-designed virt—” He stopped suddenly, and flushed. “I’m sorry, I’m lecturing you.”
“It’s okay.” She smiled. “You’re just trying to distract yourself. I get it. If you can focus on something that interests you, you don’t have to think about what’s out there.” She nodded toward the blockaded windows. “At least for a while.”
Suddenly a whooping cry sounded from one of the worktables. It was the man who’d been disassembling the cleaning bots. There were a dozen of them laid out on his table now, each with its own little mound of dust in front of it. “Yes!” he cried. “That’s it!”
They all gathered around the table to see what was happening. To Micah the dust mounds just looked like . . . well, dust mounds. But everyone else seemed excited about them.
“What did you find?” Jamal asked.
The dust man picked something out of one mound with a long pair of tweezers and held it up high, so that everyone could see. “It’s a seed. A fucking seed!”
“From where?” Serjit asked.
“Corridors B-54 and 55.” The man grinned. “Right where we thought the mors would show up.” He pointed toward the nearest dust pile with his tweezers. “There are a few bits of soil in there, too, and a fiber that I think may be organic. It’s possible a full scouting party passed through there.”
Serjit nodded tightly. “We’ve hit them hard lately. They’re likely not keen on traveling alone.” He straightened up and looked around the room, waiting until everyone’s attention was focused on him. “Okay, people. The mors took our bait. You all know what that means. You know how high the stakes are. Let’s give it . . .” he paused to consult his internal clock, “one hour. That should be enough time for everyone to gear up, and still get us to B-54 before they arrive.” His lips tightened. “Let’s end this thing!”
Suddenly everyone was moving quickly: fetching weapons, donning armor, throwing orders around in a lingo Micah didn’t recognize. It was clear they had drilled this prep many times, and Micah thought it best just to get out of their way. But as he tried to back into a quiet corner, a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Let’s talk,” Serjit said.
Micah nodded.
“I told you when you arrived you would be expected to do your part. Now’s a good time. We need all the hands we can get.”
Micah felt a sinking in his stomach. “For what, exactly?”
“Ambush. We’ve set up a trap for the mors, and it sounds like they’ve taken the bait.” He nodded back toward the table. “They shelter down in Bio, so whenever they come up here they track bits of organic matter with them. It leaves a trail for the cleaning bots to collect. So we know where they’ve been, and can guess where they’ll go next.”
“You want me to help you . . . kill people?”
Serjit’s eyes narrowed. “It’s that or be killed. The mors don’t leave us any other option.”
He tried to picture what it would be like to spill a man’s blood. Real blood. To know that as it flowed it was carrying away a man’s life, not just ruining his chance at a gaming championship. “I’m not a killer,” he muttered.
“None of us were killers when we got here. Survival’s a harsh motivator.”
Micah’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. Serjit looked into his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “All right. There are other things you can do. Help the wounded. Recover the fallen. Leave the killing to those of us who’ve had friends and family murdered by these cannibals. I assure you, we won’t have any trouble shedding their blood.” When Micah still didn’t respond Serjit’s expression darkened. “Or you can leave us, and go it alone.” He nodded back toward the door. “No one’s stopping you.”
Oh, he wanted to leave. He wanted more than anything else to get out of this crazy war zone, to get far, far away from both arrow-wielding bark-mutants and the people who wanted to slaughter them. But then he would be alone in this station, without allies or supplies, waiting for exos to find him. Or for the vines to get him. Or a man-sized monster with claws.
Sometimes choice is an illusion, he thought grimly. Does that make it easier or harder? “I’ll do what I can to help,” he said. “But I won’t kill people.”
“Good enough, then.” He nodded toward the racks. “Jamal will help you suit up. Tell him you’re running support.”
And then he headed off to the racks himself, to don insectoid armor and choose a weapon suitable for killing.
Holy shit, Micah thought. What have I got myself into?
What will our rhythmic milestones be, in this dark frontier? Bereft of solstice or season, harvest or tide, what events will we gather to celebrate? When our calendar is no more than a sequence of sterile numbers, and the orbiting of sun and moon have faded from memory, what excuses will we find to gather as a people, to reinforce the social bonds that are as necessary to human beings as food and water?
SOLAN GETTYSBURG
The Deep Space Paradox (Gueran Archives, Tiananmen Station)
HARMONY NODE
HARMONY STATION
THE CASINO was full, as it had been every night that week. Since it was an elegant place the customers were all dressed elegantly, velvet gowns and spidersilk suits flowing in ripples of color beneath crystal chandeliers as facets of reflected light danced about them.
Thirty-two chandeliers in all. One thousand and sixty-four crystals on each one. Thirty-six facets on each crystal.
“Sir.”
Guildmaster Kohl Dresden turned back from his vantage point on the balcony. His assistant was wearing a stylish tunic with twelve buttons down the front, and a hair clasp with thirteen rhinestones. There were three repeats of the geometric pattern on the carpet between them, and five sconces visible on the wall beside them. The flow of numbers was like background music inside his head: constant, soothing. “Yes?”