The Burning Dark (4 page)

“What, there’s no record of it? That means Black Ops.”

Ah, shit
. Serra glanced at Carter and saw his face blush red. DeJohn gave a
Hey, don’t look at me
expression and stepped back.

“Charlie…,” Serra whispered. Carter looked at her, his eyes narrow.

Black Ops. DeJohn didn’t know—nobody aboard the
Coast City
did outside of the officers, and of them only a small, select group—about a small but important slice of Carter’s service history. Serra knew, of course; Carter had told her, even though it would mean court-martial and an unpleasant, violent end for the both of them if it ever got out.

Black Ops. It was not a topic to bring up, not around Carter. Serra mouthed “Charlie” to him, and he seemed to relax a little, his shoulders falling and the heat leaving his cheeks.

Serra turned and watched as the new arrival was met by the station’s temporary commander, the provost marshal. The marshal was supposed to be in charge of security, but with the commandant suddenly absent, he’d stepped in as the last officer of sufficient rank on board, all the other senior officers having left on the previous transport. Serra frowned.

“And you know this how, exactly, Corporal?” Carter asked.

DeJohn sniffed. “Didn’t you read the briefing?”

Carter grinned and turned around. “Wait, you can read?”

Serra laughed along with the other two. That was better. Good.

“Shame the commandant isn’t here to meet him, then,” she said.

Behind her, DeJohn sighed. “Not this again.”

“Look,” said Serra, turning. “It’s fucked up. How come the commandant isn’t here? Isn’t he supposed to stay on the station until the very end?”

DeJohn laughed. He was standing with his hands behind his back, his own row of marines forming a scraggly, disorganized group as they waited for their orders.

“You expecting this boat to sink, marine?”

Serra spun around and snapped to attention. The warrant officer in front of her held a computer pad in one hand, his attention apparently fixed on it as he tapped at the screen with his finger. Carter stood to attention too, but snuck a sideways glance at Serra, his lip curled in a smirk.

“Well, Psi-Sergeant Serra?” The warrant officer’s eyes didn’t leave his pad.

“No, sir,” said Serra. Damn, did she want to get off this boat.

Nobody said anything for a moment. The warrant officer continued to tap on his pad. Serra and Carter stood rigid. Serra could hear DeJohn breathing behind her.

Finally the warrant officer dropped the pad to his side. He took a step back and raised his voice to address the several ranks of marines still waiting in the hangar.

“Okay, there is still a problem with the transport manifest, so we can’t take everyone. Groups six to nine will embark on my order. Groups ten and up, you’re staying put.”

The sound of several dozen marines, all packed up and ready to go, sick to death of their current posting and sick to death of standing around in the hangar, murmuring their displeasure as they shuffled to collect their kits, filled the hangar. DeJohn sighed more dramatically than the rest.

“The fuck?” he said, and then added, “Sir.”

The warrant officer glanced over Serra’s shoulder at the marine. “Them is, as they say, marine, the breaks. Any problem, you’re free to take it up with Commandant Elbridge.”

“The commandant isn’t even on board this U-Star,” said DeJohn,
“Sir.”

“And life is hard and unfair, marine.”

Serra tried very hard not to smile. From the corner of her eye, she could see Carter having even more difficulty.

Over on the other side of the hangar, the new arrival and the provost marshal were heading out.

The warrant officer stepped closer to Serra and raised his computer pad again.

“Fleet regulation specifies that at least one psi-marine is to remain on any U-Star at all times. Lafferty drew the card and is on the way out, which leaves you on duty, Psi-Sergeant.”

At this, Carter and Serra exchanged a look. As much as she wanted to get off this godforsaken space station and out of this system with its fucking evil star and all the crap its fucked-up light was causing, she didn’t want to be away from Carter. She could see it in his eyes too. One day they’d leave the Fleet altogether, the both of them, get married, move out to a quiet colony, have kids. Carter was getting an itch, and Serra would follow him wherever he needed to go.

The warrant officer sniffed. “Problem, marine?”

Serra stood to attention, eyes-front. “No, sir.”

The warrant officer glanced at Carter, catching the tail end of his grin. He raised an eyebrow, then shook his head and began tapping on his pad again. Then he walked off without another word.

Serra relaxed. When she looked at Carter, she was grinning too.

A heavy hand clapped her on the shoulder, making her jump. DeJohn leaned between the two of them, his shaved scalp glistening in the hangar lights.

“Looks like time to have a party, girls and boys.”

“If by ‘party’ you mean make sure the demolition drones don’t take us apart when they go haywire,” said Carter, “then sure, let’s party.” He grabbed his kit and motioned to Serra. She nodded and picked hers up.

“Hey,” said DeJohn, stepping forward as his row of marines fell out. Carter turned but Serra made a point of keeping herself pointed toward the exit. If she was staying on board for the remainder of the station’s life, she would unpack her kit in Carter’s cabin. Being the sole occupant of the psi-marine berth was going to be a real drag, and there was no one left aboard who was likely to make a fuss about her and Carter breaking Fleet regulations by sharing quarters. DeJohn was right, in his own, stupid way. It was party time at the edge of Fleetspace.

“Hey,” said DeJohn again. Serra turned with a much-exaggerated display of boredom, but DeJohn didn’t notice. He waved them back over and dropped his voice.

“Look,” he said, “it’s just us. We got this whole damn boat to ourselves—”

“And two hundred other marines,” said Carter, folding his arms. DeJohn screwed his face up like he’d just bitten something very sour.

“Naw, I mean us. We’re a fireteam now, am I right? One marine, one marine-engineer, one psi-marine.”

Serra folded her arms too. “Your point?”

“Think we need to say hello to our so-called hero. Show him a thing or two, you know?”

DeJohn rubbed his fist into the palm of the other hand with relish. Carter stood still, not doing anything except sucking in his cheeks. Then he turned quickly and patted Serra’s shoulder for her to follow.

Out of DeJohn’s earshot, Serra asked her lover if he was okay, but he didn’t answer.

*   *   *

Ida shifted on the
couch. Looking up, he was blinded by the light that hung in the steel globe directly overhead. He turned his head to look at medic, a young Japanese woman who had introduced herself as Izanami.

Ida wasn’t sure this was entirely necessary—the only part of him that needed medical attention was his robot knee, and only as part of a routine check. He was on his way
out
of the Fleet, not a raw recruit whose psychopathic tendencies were to be identified and, if possible, developed. But psychotherapy was all part of standard Fleet procedure, and his training died hard.

Izanami sat perfectly still, hands clasped in her lap. She smiled, the white of her teeth matching the white of her medic’s tunic and skirt, contrasting a little—but not that much—with her pale skin. She was practically monochromatic.

Ida had been on board not quite two cycles, and so far Izanami was the only person other than the provost marshal who had spoken more than a few words to him. She’d turned up at his cabin, knocking politely on the door before appearing around the frame with a big, friendly smile. She introduced herself as a neurotherapist, but like most of the station’s crew, she was no longer on active duty, merely stuck on the
Coast City
until the final transport ship arrived. With a skeleton crew of just over two hundred—and a full complement of medical drones capable of dealing, at the extreme end of the spectrum, with ten thousand war-wounded—she was surplus to requirements.

Ida shifted on the fake leather couch. To hell with it. The couch was comfortable.

“So, tell me about yourself,” said Izanami.

Ida laughed. “Please don’t tell me they teach you that opening line at the academy?”

“Sorry,” said Izanami. She gestured to the room. “Old habits! I haven’t had much to do here. I’m clearly dying to psychoanalyze someone, and you seem to be a willing victim, Captain.”

Ida waved a hand, dismissing her apology. “I’m joking. But, let’s see.… I was born in Avebury, England, 2920, Anno Domini. But only by accident. My father worked for the Fleet, so we traveled around a lot and were only in the Britannic States for a couple of months when I decided to make an early appearance. He was from Idaho—well, what used to be Idaho, before the Fleet Confederacy reorganized the United States in …
whenever
. He still called it that, anyway.”

Izanami smiled, but there was something off about the expression, and Ida didn’t like it. It was years since he’d been on a Fleet shrink’s couch, and he thought perhaps he was straying from the point. He frowned and tried to find a better place from which to continue his personal history. He turned back to face the ceiling, closing his eyes against the dazzling light globe directly above. He cleared his throat.

“Well…”

For a second Ida thought he felt Izanami’s hand on his bare forearm. Her fingers were cold, almost painfully so, and he flinched, jerking his head up from the couch to look.

Izanami hadn’t moved, her fingers woven together on her lap. Her smile was somehow warmer now. Ida felt himself relax. He was jumpy; that was for sure. Maybe the whispers he’d heard around the place were worrying him more than he thought.

“So,” Izanami said, “who are you going home to, now you’re retired?”

Ida looked at Izanami, annoyed at the question. But, of course, she didn’t know. She sat still in her chair, clearly expecting an answer.

“Oh,” he began, then paused. “Not much time for family life in a job like mine. But … there was someone, though. Once.”

Ida stopped, and frowned. He hoped Izanami would move on.

“Tell me about her.”

No such luck. Ida coughed. “Ah, well, her name was Astrid. She had blond hair, and she … she died.” He raised himself up on one elbow. “Do we need to talk about this now?”

The room seemed colder. Izanami met Ida’s gaze, her face now expressionless. Her eyes seemed to catch a reflection from the steel lamp and flashed blue for a second.

“I have a husband,” she said.

Ida raised an eyebrow.

“He left me,” she continued. “Sometimes I think that is harder than death.”

Ida’s jaw worked as his brain tried to catch up with the conversation.

“I’m … ah…” Ida lay back on the couch. He squinted into the lamp; when he looked away he saw purple spots and streaking shadows until he blinked them gone.

“It’s okay,” said Izanami.

Ida glanced sideways at her and she was smiling again, and for a moment he was lost in her eyes. Then he saw that they actually
were
blue, a rare color indeed for a Japanese woman.

*   *   *

“You’re not serious?”

DeJohn’s face split into a wide grin. Serra looked across the canteen table at Carter, daring to hope he at least saw some sense, but he was smiling too. Except … there was something else, something behind the smile, behind his eyes. He was bored—hell, they were all bored—and he seemed content to let DeJohn take the lead on practically everything now. Carter was better than that; she knew it. If only he’d snap the hell out of it. If only DeJohn would just let it go.

“Hey, hey,” said DeJohn. He looked first over one shoulder, then the other, like he was worried someone else in the canteen would overhear them. That was bullshit too; DeJohn didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone else heard. But he still leaned in to the table and lowered his voice. All part of his stupid game.

“He’s an officer with a Fleet Medal, jackass,” Serra hissed at DeJohn. Her eyes remained on Carter’s face, though. His smile thinned a little.

“He ain’t no such goddamn thing, marine,” said DeJohn. “Some kind of hero, right? Bullshit. I checked. Bull
shit.
There’s no record of him or anything. Saved a planet? There’s no way we wouldn’t know about that. No
way
! Hell, save a planet? That doesn’t happen. That’s called winning. Which is something we sure as hell ain’t doing.”

“But if he was Black Ops, he wouldn’t have a record, would he,” said Carter quietly.

“Bah!” said DeJohn, sitting back in his chair. “You telling me Black Ops are saving planets now? A little difficult to keep something like that quiet. And you’re telling me they hand out Fleet Medals in Black Ops? Black Ops is called Black Ops for a reason. They do the nasty shit so we don’t have to. They don’t give out medals for that.”

Serra tried to catch Carter’s eye, but he was staring, unblinking, at DeJohn. She glanced down—she couldn’t help it—at the silver bar sewn into his tunic.

FOR SERVICES RENDERED

“You’re right,” said Carter. Serra blinked. There was a light in Carter’s eyes, a fire. His smile crept up at the corners. “He’s a goddamn liar.”

Serra slumped in her chair as DeJohn laughed.
Damn
.
It
. She’d try to talk him down, but later, not here.

“So,” said Carter, leaning in across the table, “what do you think we should do about it?”

Serra folded her arms and gazed into the air somewhere above the table as DeJohn told Carter exactly what he had in mind.

Idiots,
she thought.

*   *   *

This had to be
it, surely. Ida checked the computer pad in his hand, rotating the screen to view the station map from a different angle.

Left, Corridor Eleven, Omega Deck. Then left again, and then straight on. Service elevator to the next level, keep on going. Ida traced the route on the pad, his finger leaving a red trail on the station schematic. He tapped the “home” button and stroked the station locator icon on the pad’s main screen. The device bleated, then came back with an error. Ida looked around, but the plating had been taken off this section of corridor already, taking with it the level and corridor ident signs.