Read The Colonists (The Movement Trilogy) Online
Authors: Jason Gurley
The Colonists (The Movement Trilogy)
THE COLONISTS
BOOK 2 OF THE MOVEMENT TRILOGY
JASON GURLEY
The Colonists Jason Gurley Copyright www.jasongurley.com Cover art copyright www.artofgregmartin.com All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author. |
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The Movement Trilogy
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For Mom and Dad
Who always read my books,
even the icky parts
CONTENTS
DARKNESS
Earth's time had come and gone. Man had bloomed across its surface like a virus, expanding outward in surges and pulses, claiming its valleys and plains, swarming over its shorelines and mountains. And when Earth had stumbled beneath man's heavy footsteps, man had gathered his things and taken to the stars, high above the skies of his homeworld.
A time of peace had followed. Men of all nations had linked their arms to form a bridge, and history had crawled up their backs and carried them with it. For nearly two centuries, man stood side by side, accomplishing great feats of science and technology never anticipated. They constructed beautiful space stations and named them for legendary astronomers and moons and constellations and gods. They discovered cures for terrible diseases, and almost cured death itself.
Survival inspires the greatest innovations.
The Citadel, man's most awesome achievement, brought about a dark, poisonous age. The privileged men and women were called Onyx, and lived by the sweat of the Machine class, the hardworking men and women who lived belowdecks, in the dark and grime.
The Machiners scattered throughout the solar system, carving out small homes for themselves on the surfaces of broken moons, in orbit around gaseous planets. But no matter how far they ran, they served the Citadel, and the Citadel provided sustenance.
For three hundred years, the darkness held true.
Few knew the light.
ANSEL
Like a great beast emerging from a black sea, the blue planet rises over the moon's horizon.
It reminds him of Earth which was.
If he could have chosen a perfect destination, he might have chosen Triton, with this view.
He could even tolerate the
Nebulae
.
For a view like this, a man could live with almost anything.
Neptune's hazy blue form was nothing like Earth, and yet, if Ansel squinted and looked just past it, his mind would trick him. It worked every time, at least until his eyes grew curious, and turned to stare at the planet directly.
Neptune was no Earth. Neptune was more beautiful.
Gone, the structure of land masses. Gone, the ice caps. Forgotten, the towering mountains. Absent, the thin white wakes of boats on the great blue seas.
Instead, a vaporous orb, periwinkle blue, its skies the texture of crushed chalk.
If you listened, you could almost hear it churning, like the dull, distant roar of a waterfall.
But it was silent, as space tends to be.
•
•
•
Up early, you.
At the sound of this gruff voice, not altogether unexpected, Ansel turns from the viewing deck.
And you as well, he says.
Grant rubs his big, dark eyes. Slept like hell last night, he says. Kept dreaming of a she-demon. She had teeth for eyes, and -- well, she had teeth everywhere. Slept like hell, you know.
Sorry to hear it, Ansel says.
Grant waves a hand in dismissal, and starts working on a pot of coffee.
Always can tell I'm gonna find you here, he says. Right here, at that glass. Like the blue has a hold on you.
I like it here.
Rest of the crew thinks you've got a fixation, you know. I had a great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, all kinds of years ago, lived on Earth, worked the fishing boats in Newfoundland. Liked to say that the sea got its gray claws into a man, wouldn't let go. Liked to say it marked a man when it met him. That it would take him one day. It's like that with you and the planet.
Ansel shrugs. I don't mind.
They want to know why you're here, actually. Grant pours a cup of coffee and sits at the long mess table. I'd like to know myself, if you want the truth. You're not our newest addition, you know, but you're the most shut-up-tight one.
Ansel says, That coffee is shit.
Ah, I know, Grant says. But you do with what you've got, you know.
Yes, Ansel says. Yes, I know.
Want one?
Ansel turns from the glass. Yeah, alright.
Crystals?
Black, Ansel says.
Man after my great-great-great-great -- ah, whatever the fuck. Man after my grandpa's own heart.
Tell me something, Ansel says, sitting down. How do you know what your ten-times-removed grandpa was saying about the ocean back on the homeworld?
Grant smiles. I'm a bullshitter, or couldn't you tell.
You might say I had a feeling.
I got a feeling about you, too, Mr. Agusti. I got myself a feeling you're up to something. Would that be a right thing to say?
Ansel peers at Grant over his cup of coffee. Captain Karkinnen, he says, that would be a right thing to say about every human being you know.
Grant furrows his brow, then nods in agreement. A right thing to say.
These days, Ansel says.
These days, Grant concurs. These god-be-fucking days.
•
•
•
The
Nebulae
, like most satellite stations, was never quite finished. The crew quarters are full of exposed wiring and thermal plating and chunks of insulation. The restroom facilities do not have doors, but since the crew is one hundred percent male, few grumblings arise. The mess hall and bridge are the only segments of the station that resemble a finished product, and they are quite nice, with smooth-as-satin floors and transparent hull walls and faint, glowing illumination that seems almost sourceless.
Ansel has had occasion to bunk on many such stations during his seven-year tour, and the
Nebulae
is no better or worse than the rest.
Perhaps better in one way.
Ansel's quarters are private. He knows that the other men distrust him for this. Captain Karkinnen is the only other crewman with his own quarters. The rest of the men bunk together, six to a room, four rooms in all. It's a large crew for such a small station, and that there are no women is of no surprise to Ansel. This far out in the system, far from the eyes of the Council, women turn into victims, and then into corpses, and then vanish.
Ansel is aboard the
Nebulae
on behalf of one such woman.
One very, very important woman.
In the morning, Ansel wakes to the clatter of footsteps in the corridor. He lifts the mask from his eyes, and adjusts to the dim light. His compartment is very small, and he stretches out his arm to find the wall beside his bunk. He dresses in the dark, and carefully fits his prosthetic hand into its socket. He can feel the tiny motors in each finger whirr as the hand boots up.
There are voices outside now. Ansel goes to the door and listens.
Is that all of them?
Captain Karkinnen's voice.
Sir, we're missing two men.
Ansel doesn't recognize this voice, but this is no surprise. The men all sound the same to him. Admittedly, this is a problem. He is, after all, searching for one man among this thicket of engineers and machinists.
Which two? Karkinnen asks.
The second man sounds almost embarrassed. Well, sir -- it's --
Out with it, the captain says.
It's Hawthorne and Lacey, sir.
Fuck. Of course it is. They'll be in the second engine compartment, then. Go retrieve them. Tell them to get their naked asses outside.
Sir, I -- I don't want to interrupt --
Cover your goddamn eyes, then, Karkinnen says. Then tell them to get their asses outside.
Yes, sir.
Ansel listens to the captain storm away, and the sounds in the hallway disappear.
He leans on the door so that it won't squeak, and slides it open. The corridor is indeed empty, and then it isn't.
An engineer in a T-shirt comes dashing by, then stops when he sees Ansel's open door.
Hey, Ansel says. What's your name?
Jonah, the engineer says.
Joba, what's going on?
It's Jonah.
Sorry. Jonah. Ansel flicks his eyes in the direction of the airlocks. What's going on out there?
Well, you probably slept through it, Jonah says with obvious distaste. But we got hit.
Hit. By what?
By whatever the hell's floating around out there, Jonah says. I gotta go, so --
Has this happened before? Getting hit?
Happens maybe once or twice a year, Jonah says. I --
Asteroid, you think?
Well, it probably wasn't a bird, Jonah says.
Snarky, Ansel says. Good for you.
Jonah sets his jaw and walks off, shaking his head.
The hallway is empty again.
Ansel steps out of his room and slides the door shut. He walks silently around the corner, into the bunk wing. The four rooms are spaced evenly apart, two on each side of the hall. None of them have doors.
Ansel peeks inside each room.
Empty, all of them.
Time to get to work.
•
•
•
The view is ruined, cluttered with feet and arms and tools.
Sorry about that, Grant says. You heard what happened by now, I take it.
Ansel nods. Rumor is we were shot by space pirates.
Grant chuckles and shakes his big red beard. Just the usual asteroid patter, nothing more.
Anything serious?
Some pits and dings, a few panels cracked, some knocked loose. Maybe a bit more. The boys are still crawling the hull.
Ansel tilts his head and looks out at the side of the ship. The engineers are bundled up in their exterior suits, boxy glass helmets, tools clinging to their arms and chests for easy access.
Do they all go out? he asks.
They do, Grant says.
Huh, Ansel says.
You're thinking that's pretty stupid, Grant says. It's alright. I get it.
No, not at all.
A better captain might hold a couple men back, just in case something terrible happens.
It's space, Ansel says. Only terrible things ever happen.
They'll be fine, though. They'll fix her up, and come back in from the cold just fine.
A sudden banging sound echoes through the ship. Ansel doesn't flinch.
Found a loose one, I reckon, Grant says. Want some coffee?
No, Ansel says. How long are they outside?
Been out a couple hours, Grant answers. Be out probably six more. Then they'll sleep, eat, and go out again.
So the ship's empty right now.
Empty except for us two buzzards.
Ansel nods thoughtfully.
What's on your mind, Mr. Agusti? the captain asks.
Ansel rests his hands on the table. Seems like a good time to talk.
