The amiable ship’s voice said, “Shuttle Corporate One. You are on approach to Ashanti. Request permission to take control of your navigational functions prior to docking.”
“Thank you, Ashanti. Corporate One prefers to maintain manual control. Please notify us if there is any deviation during our approach.” Ensign Juri Makarov replied.
“Roger that, Corporate One.”
Where she sat in the right-hand seat behind the pilot, Kalico Aguila smiled to herself. Word was that any able shuttle pilot would decline surrendering control. Docking was about a pilot’s only way to show off given the automation that was space travel.
Through the transparency, Kalico watched the A-7 shuttle drop down into Ashanti’s docking bay. Ensign Makarov eased them onto the grapples without so much as a quiver.
But then, Makarov had been flying almost constantly since Turalon’s arrival more than four years ago.
“We have docking,” Ashanti said through the com. “We have hard seal. Welcome aboard. Captain Galluzzi will meet you at the hatch.”
“Hard dock, hard seal,” Makarov confirmed from the pilot’s chair.
“Deal with it, you piece of shit,” Talina Perez muttered where she sat beside Kalico. The expression on the woman’s face was the one she adopted when she and the quetzal presence she called Demon were sparring over control of Talina’s limbic system.
“Quetzal’s don’t like flying?” Kalico asked.
“Hate it,” Talina told her, unbuckling. “Good news for us. Means that Whitey and his bunch aren’t going to have any desire to commandeer a shuttle, steal a starship, and invert symmetry in a desperate attempt to space back to Earth and invade it.”
Kalico stepped free of her seat, head cocked. “Too bad. I’d consider giving them Freelander if they ever wanted to give it a try. Might be worth it just to see them attend their first Board meeting. Ultimate predators finding themselves face to face with ultimate predators. Wonder who’d win?”
Tal grinned, glanced at Mark Talbot where he rose from the left seat. The man was dressed in full and battered combat armor, his helmet clipped to his belt. From the seat rack he retrieved his service rifle.
“You ready?” Tal asked, slinging her own rifle.
“Good to go, Tal.” Talbot stepped forward, the slight whine of his servos distinct in the shuttle’s silence as the turbines spun down.
Sheyela Smith had managed to cobble together a small powerpack that had allowed Talbot to salvage his worn-out armor. The system wasn’t military grade, but Talbot and the rest of the marines had their tech back online, at least for the time being. For the most part the remaining marines only wore armor during quetzal and mobber alerts. Today they would wear it to keep the so-called Irredenta in line. After all, there was no telling what kind of surprise the Unreconciled might have cooked up to “celebrate” their release, birth, or whatever.
Tal, dressed in coveralls, her knife and pistol on her utility belt, led the way.
Stepping into the cargo bay, it was to see it set up as a passenger cabin with rows of seats. Kalico gave it a preliminary inspection.
Corporal Abu Sassi and privates Dina Michegan and Katsuro Miso rose from their seats, all dressed in shining combat armor, their helmets clipped to their belts. The rows of seats looked oddly out of place given that the shuttle had been used for shipping cargo into orbit for the past few years instead of as a people hauler.
Kalico took a stance, calling, “All right, people. You’ve been briefed on the Irredenta. Your mission is to ensure that they are deposited at Tyson Station with the least amount of disruption. Your opinions about them, your reaction to them, is not part of this operation. You will ensure that they board this shuttle, that they are seated, and transported to Tyson without incident. Any last questions?”
Of course there weren’t. She, Galluzzi, Bogarten, and Abu Sassi had planned this down to the final resort, which was to gas the entire cabin if things started to get out of control. Separated from the command deck by the hatch—and with the marines in full combat armor with their breathing systems—the Irredenta could be rendered unconscious and harmless.
“Let’s do this,” Talbot muttered, leading the way to the hatch.
On the other side, Galluzzi waited; the man looked like he had an electrical short in his underwear given how he was bouncing on his feet. The way his right hand twitched reminded her of a spastic mouse.
“Good to see you, Supervisor,” he greeted. “Welcome aboard.”
“Got the corridors sealed?” Kalico asked, taking the captain’s salute.
“They’ve got one route to take. From their main hatch, right down here and into the shuttle.”
“All right.” She turned. “Mark, you and Abu Sassi have the enviable job of bringing up the rear to ensure that no one is left behind.”
“On it,” Abu Sassi said, giving her a salute. Then he and Talbot disappeared into the corridor.
“My people will sweep the entirety of Deck Three as soon as you’ve spaced, Supervisor.” Galluzzi was still fidgeting. “Don’t think they’d leave us a lethal going-away gift, but Batuhan comes across as the kind who might carry a grudge. Or at least might want to make a parting statement.”
“See to it.” She looked around. “I’d hate to have them compromise the ship. It’s the only reliable one we’ve got.”
Which was true. Freelander was a ghost ship, and Vixen, besides only being a survey ship, had a programming flaw that would take her fifty years into the future if she spaced for Solar System. At least Ashanti had made the transit to Donovan in the expected two-and-a-half-year time frame. It was the next seven and half years that hadn’t been anticipated. They’d just have to take on faith that she’d return home a lot closer than the navigational error that had left her so far from Capella.
That was the thing about life on Donovan. One always had to pick from bad choices.
“F.O. Turner reports all is ready,” Ashanti’s voice sounded from the speakers.
“Supervisor?” Galluzzi asked in a voice filled with tension.
“Proceed,” Kalico told him.
In his com, Galluzzi said, “You have the okay. Open the hatch.”
The captain gave her a salute. “Supervisor, I wish you good spacing. I’ll see you on the planet after we’ve secured the ship.”
He turned on his heel, stepping through a hatch, and sealing it behind him.
“I guess that’s our cue to lock ourselves in the command deck.” Talina turned. “So how about that, Demon? You’re about to ride down to the planet with a bunch of human cannibals. Given the way your kind treats their elders, that ought to have you feeling right at home.”
Kalico wondered what sort of retort the beast in Talina’s gut made to that.
At the command deck hatch, she followed Talina in and watched as Juri Makarov flipped the switch that sent the dogs clicking home to lock the door.
Retreating to her seat, Kalico accessed the holos that interfaced with Ashanti. In the image, First Officer Turner dissolved the last of the bonding agent on the Deck Three hatch and beat feet for the secure hatch that led up to Deck Two.
Abu Sassi moved into view; dressed in full armor, he tapped the panel control beside the sialon hatch. Through his helmet, Kalico could hear the whine as the latches retracted.
With a tug, Abu Sassi pulled the hatch open.
Talbot’s armored form stepped to the far side, rifle at the ready.
“Attention please,” Abu Sassi used his helmet speaker to project it into Deck Three’s dim recesses. “Your transportation is ready. Please proceed forward, down the companionway, and to the shuttle.”
The familiar drawings on the side of the hallway could be seen, the skeletons erotically posed. But beyond lay a dark haze.
Kalico waited; each beat of her heart measured her rising tension. Where the hell were the Unreconciled? They’d had ample notice that this was their relocation day.
Unless they were planning something else.
“Supervisor?” Galluzzi’s stressed voice asked through com. “Think we should send someone in?”
Talina muttered, “You don’t think they did us some big favor like committing mass suicide, do you?”
“We’re not that lucky.” Into com, Kalico said, “Sergeant, send a drone in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She watched as a recon drone detached from Abu Sassi’s shoulder; the little flying sensor whirred off down the hall. A separate monitor snapped on, showing the halls bathed in the green-and-shadow glow of IR and UV. The walls were all decorated with images, the effect spookily reminiscent of the scrawlings in Freelander.
And there were the people, reflected in visual spectrum and IR heat signatures. All lining up. Just as the drone fixed on them, the parade started forward. Kalico stared in disbelief. Where the hell were their clothes? Men, women, and children—they had only fabric wraps around their waists.
Batuhan was in the lead, followed by four young men who carried his ornately carved chair. Behind them were the four women with babes in arms, and following were three people borne on litters carried by men.
Kalico tried to get a better image of the people being carried. Looked like two women and a man, all three of them emaciated, looking half dead, but their hands were working spastically, their legs kicking and trembling.
Immediately to their rear were the rest of the people, dressed in the skimpy patchwork of clothing. Their hair long and unkempt, they shuffled forward in ranks.
“They’re going down dressed like that?” Talina wondered. “To Tyson Station? What do they think it is, a beach?”
As the people passed the hatch, a weird and eerie song burst from their lips. They locked step, walking in time to the rising and falling half-chant. Kalico tried to make out the slurred-sounding words, something about an ecstasy of everlasting life, eternal salvation, and being the living graves of the purified.
At the hatch, Abu Sassi had stepped back. As per orders, he and Talbot had taken positions to either side, standing at attention, rifles at port arms. The pose was to make them look more like an honor guard than a threat. But if the situation went sideways, they could both tap the gas grenades on their hips, use the stun guns on their belts. And if worse came to worst, fall back on the non-lethal rounds in their rifles.
Emerging into the full light of the corridor, Batuhan walked barefoot ahead of his chair. For the exodus he had at least draped his loins in a sheet. Like a king, he strode with back straight, head up, his weird spiky hairdo in a great fan sticking up from his head. The man’s skin was still covered with the splotchy white makeup, and the intricate scar patterns on his face and the eye carved on his forehead contrasted with the missing flesh of his nose.
The four young men bearing his chair—though less intricately scarred than Batuhan—had large sections of their bodies scarified; their half-glazed eyes flashed in every direction, taking in the marines. She could see them swallowing hard. One was almost shaking, looked to be on the verge of panic.
Why?
“Sergeant, keep that drone searching.” Kalico rubbed her chin. “Check for anything unusual in there. Any odd heat sources. I want the chem sensors to reconfigure for anything explosive.”
“Roger that.”
She wasn’t sure what to watch—the drone or the continuing procession of the Irredenta. The amount and patterning of the scarring, she realized, was different depending upon the person. Batuhan, in the lead, had the most and greatest intricacy. Then the four throne-bearers, then the four women. After that, the amount of scarring dropped, with fewer and fewer designs.
It’s a sign of rank.
To her surprise, most of the women were either carrying an infant, or showed some degree of pregnancy where they walked under shouldered burdens. Like the men, they, too, only had a wrap around their hips and went barefoot. And of the children—all of them clad only in breechcloths—none looked to be over the age of six.
The children walked with a bouncing excitement, eyes aglow with the adventure. All of them were skinny little specimens, with hollow guts and too-well-defined ribs. To Kalico’s disgust they’d all been scarified, but nothing like their parents. Their hair, with varying measures of effectiveness, had been done up in the fan. Looking closely, Kalico couldn’t tell the little boys from the girls.
On the lower screen the drone continued its search, whizzing in and out of rooms, rising and falling as it inspected discarded personal items, old bits of clothing, looked under beds and into gaping closets. The rooms were rife with trash and abandoned belongings. Why were they leaving so much behind? Most of the light panels were dark. Looked like what was left behind in the poorer parts of Earth when a slum was cleared.
Following along at the back of the exodus came young men in their twenties and teens, each bent under the weight of a crate, bundle, or duraplast container. Apparently, they were the porters for the few assembled belongings of the Irredenta.
The drone buzzed, getting her attention. It was in the women’s locker room, hovering over a pile of five skeletons. Most of the soft tissue had been half-heartedly stripped off, leaving the still-articulated bones looking red and ill-used. The skulls had been chopped open, the brains extracted.
“What do you make of that?” Talina asked.
“Reminds me of what mobbers do to a person, but they’re a lot more efficient when it comes to cleaning the bones.”
“You want to do anything about it?” Talina asked.
Kalico shook her head. “Not now. Maybe later, after they’re planetside and safely contained at Tyson. There’ll be plenty of time to ask questions then.”
At the companionway to the shuttle deck, people were filing down. The children, of course, had never encountered stairs. They were having a wonderful time, jumping down, step by step, giggles of laughter rising, smiles bending their scarified cheeks. Their bare feet slapped onto the treads.
“You know the eye carved in Batuhan’s forehead?” Talina asked.
“Yeah. That’s creep-freaked, isn’t it?”
“Just caught the light right. Got a good look,” Talina told her. “Those three on the litters, they’ve got the eyes carved in their foreheads, too. But it’s just them. Batuhan and the three on the litters.”
Kalico thought back to the interview she’d done with Batuhan. “You think they’re the Prophets?”
“Could be. Something’s not right about them. And look, there, that young woman.” Talina pointed. “See the way she’s walking? Like she’s got issues with coordination. And she’s not the only one.”
Tal was right. Something about the woman’s coordination was off. Intoxicated? No, this was different. Like impaired motor control. Might have been the result of a brain injury. Kalico kept seeing odd movements, loose steps, curious wobbles of the head. Or a rocking tremor of the hands.
The continued sing-song chanting—the words being distinctly and purposefully slurred—sent a shiver down Kalico’s spine. With a gesture, she muted the sound.
“We have a total count of seventy-seven,” the com informed.
In the transportee quarters, the drone was continuing its search, only to stop at a collection of shoes in one of the rooms. They’d been piled, maybe a meter high. A carefully built pyramid with the toes pointed outward.
“What’s that all about?” Talina wondered. “We told these people they needed shoes. And what are they doing? On top of being damn near buck-ass naked, every mother’s son and daughter of them is barefoot.”
“Sent them an entire checklist for how to dress, what to expect.”
“We dusted Tyson with slug poison, but that’s not one hundred percent effective. And stepping on the wrong invertebrate is going to get a lot of them bitten.” Talina made a face. “Thing is, it usually only takes once before the lesson is irrevocably learned.”
The last of the Irredenta were descending the companionway.
In the shuttle’s monitors, Batuhan strode imperiously past Dina Michegan where she stood before the hatch. His chair bearers had to fit the thing through the door and into the limited clearance between the first row of seats. At the hatch to the command deck, Miso snapped to attention, his helmeted head faced forward, but you could bet he was watching everything on the heads-up display inside his helmet.
Batuhan took the chair in the middle of the first row, his bare toes not more than a foot from Private Miso’s armored feet.
The chair bearers clambered around, bracing the “throne” awkwardly on the seats immediately behind Batuhan’s. People continued to file in; those bearing the litters carefully laid them on the deck where space could be found, thereby blocking the aisles.
As the rest tried to crowd in, bedlam ensued, with people trying to step around the three litters, scrambling over seat backs, and chattering.
But no one, Kalico noticed, crossed in front of Batuhan. The Mongolian tech sat motionless, back straight, head up, eyes forward as if he were a carved statue.
To Kalico’s relief, none of the Unreconciled tried the locked hatch. No one brandished anything that looked like a weapon. The sensors picked up nothing that indicated an explosive was hidden on any person or in the various containers, bundles, and baskets.
“Sergeant?” Kalico contacted Abu Sassi. “Looks like we’re about loaded. But before we seal the hatch, I need you to take a cargo net back and collect that pyramid of shoes.”
“Roger that.”
Talina gave off a weary sigh. “So far, so good.”
“Yeah,” Kalico was rubbing nervous fingers over the backs of her hands. “Why do I have a really bad feeling about this?”