Killing Titan

  I’m silent for a few seconds. “Walker Harris told you?”

  “I don’t know a Walker Harris,” Kumar says.

  That’s about to drag me through another line of questions, but Borden interrupts, “Was your experience informative? Real-seeming?”

  I look out at the pretty cloudscape. “No. Yes.”

  “Can you tell me who it was you thought was visiting?”

  My throat tightens. “Captain Daniella Coyle.”

  “Were you and Coyle close professionally or otherwise?”

  “We were in a bar fight at Hawthorne years back, some sister Skyrines and Coyle and my training buddies. She went Special Ops and we didn’t see her again until she arrived at the Drifter with her team. They carried bags full of spent matter charges.”

  “Enough to collapse the Drifter.”

  “Easily.”

  “She turned glass? Describe that again for me.”

  Reluctantly, hands clenching, I recount the last moments of Coyle’s transformation in the heart of the Drifter—the Church—in the looming presence of that crystalline pillar. The blooming spikes, the weird little lights chasing inside her like fireflies in a black night. “After that, the rest of us were in a hurry to get out.”

  “Understandable. Are you sure she was dead?”

  “I’m not sure about anything.”

  Borden’s expression stays cool and firm, but there’s something in the way she moves her eyes, looking away, then back—her first tell. Psych evaluations are standard for Skyrines. Trips to Mars and back are expensive and the brass does not want damaged goods fucking up an otherwise orderly drop.

  “I was in a transfer once where a Skyrine lost it after we entered orbit, in cleanup,” I say. “He came out of the Cosmoline screaming, then started crying like a baby. We weren’t told what the corpsmen did with him.”

  “I don’t think that’s at issue here,” Borden says.

  I shift in my seat. “Yeah, but what did they do with him? I’ve never bothered to ask, maybe I don’t want to know—”

  “Tell me what happened after you returned and were taken to Madigan. No diversions. Straight out.”

  This is it, then. It could all end right here. “And if I don’t pass your exam—Kumar sends me back to the shithouse?”

  “You’ve never experienced visions before? Contact with spirits, ghosts?”

  “Not out-and-out. Dreams, sure, but nothing real.”

  She doesn’t want to hear about dreams. “Tell me what happened when Captain Coyle visited you.”

  “It’s pretty fucked-up. Pardon me. Crazy.”

  “Let me be the judge.”

  Maybe Gurus are watching everybody on Earth, writing down our stats in dense little Guru charts, and holding back is silly. And so I lay it all out. “I think Coyle was trying to tell me something… pass along some sort of crucial information.”

  “You could see her?”

  “I could feel her.”

  “How?”

  “Well, a little protective voice woke me up in the middle of the night and said, ‘Captain Coyle is here.’ It seemed surprised.”

  “A protective voice… War sense? Battlefield angel?”

  “Whatever. Me and it are not used to having dead people show up in our head. My head.”

  “And then?”

  “I could feel her, sense it was her—or a dream of her, though she seemed pretty real. But when she tried to speak, there was just this word balloon filled with scribbles. Like those wind doodles all over Mars…” This makes my neck hair bristle. I look hard at Borden. “A few days later, I could actually understand what she was saying. A real pain in the ass. But what’s it to you? Why track something so crazy?”

  “Corporal Dan Johnson reports the same phenomenon.”

  This is the first time she’s mentioned DJ. “He’s alive?” I ask.

  “So I’ve been told,” Borden says.

  “He hears from Captain Coyle?” Coyle had told me she liked him better. Sometimes I have a hard time putting two and two together.

  Borden nods. “Nobody has answers, but it could be part of a pattern.”

  “Do my buddies dream of being bugs?”

  “Some of them, something similar,” Kumar says.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Wow,” Borden echoes dully. She looks out through the little port, angles her head to see better.

  “We’d all like more clarity,” I say.

  Borden nods. “Yup.”

  I’d section 8 myself if I was in charge. “Maybe we should ask the Gurus. Walker Harris told me the Gurus might allow such things in their metaphysics.”

  “As I said, I do not know a Walker Harris,” Kumar says.

  “He claimed to be Wait Staff,” I say.

  “Other than me, you were never visited by Wait Staff,” Kumar says.

  “Well, that’s what he called himself. And he pronounced me cured. Safe.”

  “Right before they finalized orders for your execution,” Borden says.

  A FEW MINUTES later, we arrive at a broad, tan stretch of long-gone prairie, sun high overhead, a few cotton-ball clouds pieced out along the horizon. The jet lands on a long runway and swings about to a small terminal. We exit from the rear. The Texas air hits us like a hammer after the cool inside the jet. Heat rises from the concrete in rippling waves.

  A few klicks to the north, alongside complexes of support hangars and fuel depots, lines of squat, blunt-nosed heavy lifters rise from concrete pads like the columns of a roofless temple.

  “One of those is our next ride,” Kumar says.

  We’re met by a small blue bus. “Apologies for the heat, folks,” the bus says; again, no driver. “Please climb in! It’s cool inside.” Not a human in view besides us. The entire spaceport seems to be automated, at least for this launch. Borden lets me go first up the step and into the bus’s air-conditioned interior. I settle into a seat, looking around with that feeling of extreme displacement I’ve had since leaving SBLM.…

  I hear a low murmur from outside. Kumar is conferring with Borden. I can’t hear what they’re saying. They look serious. I don’t care. I’m floating, in a way: a worrisome lightness.

  “Good for you, too, Bug?” I ask my inner crustacean.

  “Yep,” I answer for the sublimated presence. “Pillar of fire, then orbit, and after that—we’re going home, right?” I have no idea how true that’s going to be, and how soon. “In your opinion, Bug, am I fit for any sort of duty?”

  Kumar and Borden put their conversation on pause and join me on the bus.

  OH FOR COSMOLINE

  The compact passenger cabin of the Blue Origin lifter—accessed from a cherry-picker elevator carried on another truck—is trim and comfortable. Kumar peers in from the elevator door, observes as Borden and I are strapped in by our seats.… And then, a little awkwardly, he crawls behind us, barely avoiding my nose with his knee.

  “It’s been a few years since I’ve crossed the vac,” he confides.

  The cabin is too warm. Noises rattle up from the structure below—pops, clangs, something like a vat of gurgling, ricocheting ice cubes. All chemical. Hydrogen and liquid oxygen. Old-school, low pollution. As we’re lifted into space we’ll leave behind a plume of steam.

  A ride up on a Hawksbill is a sweet, high-g swoop from the skyport runway, then—froomb ! Spent matter boosters take us through eight g’s to orbit in a few minutes. Guru tech aplenty. But here—no spent matter, no re-ionizing shockwave and sound dampers—proudly, purely human. Early century twenty-one. We had heard about some civilian launch centers shying away from Guru advances but never quite understood why, and our briefings never touched on those matters—any more than we received detailed briefings on Muskies. Not our concern. If companies want to be wallflowers at the Guru orgy, they have that right; the Gurus do not complain, nor should anyone else. Survival of the fastest, right? Yet here are twenty or more Blue Origin lifters, capable of running themselves and apparently i
n fine condition. Making money. Surviving outside the orgy. I find that reassuring.

  The hatch seals. Lights flicker around a wide touch monitor. Another small, sweet voice instructs us. From side pouches on our armrests I extract goggles for an external 3-D view. Borden leaves hers in the pouch. Behind us, Kumar is goggled and smiling. He looks like a mad scientist.

  The elevator pulls away and the hatch swings in and seals. Cool air quickly fills the cabin. I wait for the noises below to settle into a musical routine. A couple of seconds later, the popping and gurgling stop. Almost immediately, we hear a thin whine—pumps, I assume—and then a low, bowel-loosening growl. The candle is lit! We’re enveloped by a ragged, powerful animal noise that ranges high and low, through bass and treble, into power.

  We’re pressed back, and in four smooth shoves, Texas dwindles beneath us until it’s barely visible through a hot blue and orange corona of chemical thrust. The sky turns black. Old-fashioned is kind of a sweet rush. I like it.

  But once the rockets cut out and thrust drops to zero, Borden decides to be violently ill. Kumar stretches forward, releases a convenient mask cup, and reaches around to press it over her face before she spatters.

  I’m doing okay. I feel superior, happy—for about five minutes. Then it’s my own dry heaves for the next hour. Borden starts up again midway through my torment. Humans don’t belong in zero-g. That’s why Skyrines soak in Cosmoline during the long haul upsun and back.

  DAY ONE

  Goggles tell the tale: Our lifter is entering orbit at about three hundred klicks. Minutes later, the lifter shudders and we hear another series of echoing rattles and clangs. The small sweet voice says we’ve hooked up with a transorbital booster. Borden is no longer sick, but she’s irritable. We don’t say much. A more gradual boost again presses us back. The weight feels good but doesn’t last. After twenty minutes we coast. We’ve reached escape velocity. My stomach is done twitching. Through the port, I glimpse that we’re pulling away from Earth. The motion is barely obvious.

  “What next?” I ask.

  “Six hours transit,” Kumar says.

  “Love these antiques,” I say.

  “You’ll soon feel more at home,” Kumar says.

  Borden closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “What’s our next ride?”

  Neither will go into details. Maybe they don’t know. Little tubes pop from the sides of the neck rests. I suck on mine. It supplies a sweet reddish liquid. No food. That’s fine. I’m not going to be hungry for a while. Borden’s eyelids flutter like she’s dreaming. Her skin is pale.

  “Problems?” I ask.

  “Nothing you want to hear about,” she says around an acid urp.

  “Try me.”

  “Too damned warm in here!”

  “Shall we crack a window?”

  She opens her eyes, stares about wildly, and fumbles for the belt clasp, but it refuses to open. This really pushes her buttons. Her hand clutches at the straps, then at her neck, and I get concerned. But she forces herself to relax. Takes another deep breath, this one squeaky.

  “Enjoy the moment,” I say, not trying to be cruel. “Try the little tube.”

  She fumbles the tube between her lips. Her cheeks dimple.

  I turn away with mixed emotions. “Five and a half hours,” I say. “Right?”

  “That’s all,” she says around the tube. She folds her arms and keeps sucking. That’s almost more than I can take. High cheekbones, deep dimples.

  “First time?” I ask.

  She pulls the tube out. A little red liquid sticks to her upper lip, like wine. “Obviously.”

  “Did you volunteer?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “The Gurus have been lying to us for thirteen years,” she says.

  “Gurus lie?” I tsk. Still, the confirmation isn’t pleasant.

  “About everything,” Borden says. “I’ve spent the last four years gathering evidence and convincing the right people. Now, I have to get up here and see for myself.”

  “Well, the Antags like to kill us,” I say. “That much is true.”

  “How many Antags have you killed, Master Sergeant?” Borden asks.

  “A few.”

  “Did it always make sense, the way this conflict has played out?”

  “No war makes sense. Not if I read history right.”

  “You’re invested. You’re well paid.”

  “Could be better.” I’m just yammering to keep her talking. She might spill facts I shouldn’t know.

  “They caught us in a velvet trap,” Borden says. “We fight and die for a cause, we’re paid in beads and trinkets, and we think it’s a fair trade.”

  “Then why blow up the Drifter?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. Maybe she’s already said too much.

  “Isn’t that the heart of the argument?” I say. “There’s something in the Drifter that neither Gurus nor Antags want us to find.”

  Another shake.

  “You must have some reason to stay so close to me. You’re not in love, and keeping me stupid won’t help, will it?”

  Her jaw muscles shape little ridges. I’m not making this easy for her.

  “So…?”

  “If I had all the facts, and proof of what I know—and if I could make it all make sense—I’d tell you. But what we’ve put together is crazier than a sack of spiders, and twice as unpleasant to pick apart.”

  “Spiders,” I say. “You have something against bugs?”

  This elicits a weak smile. Her jaw relaxes. “You never said you dreamed about being a spider.”

  “More like a big crab.”

  “Not quite so creepy,” she says. “You think you can see everything from the crustacean perspective?”

  “Not really,” I say. “All that is remarkably vague, for being so weird and important.”

  She’s settled now and focuses in. “The Drifter. The crystal pillar. The green powder. The silicon plague. Your dreams… Captain Coyle.”

  “Not just delusions?”

  “We don’t think so,” Borden says. “We’ve convinced the CNO.” Meaning the Chief of Naval Operations—a four-star admiral. “And we’re working on SecNav. Next up the line, SecDef—but he’s Wait Staff.”

  I look to Kumar. “Tougher nut?”

  “The toughest,” Kumar says. “To the positive, the top brass and governments of three signatory nations seem to agree with us, as well as your vice president.”

  “Not the President?”

  “He may be persuadable,” Kumar says, “if we can bring back proof. And cancel out the messages coming from the Secretary of Defense.”

  “Proof… from where? Mars?”

  Borden points up, around, shifting her shoulders. Then she slips on her goggles and motions for me to do the same. “Ready for something special?”

  I goggle up but can’t see much, so instinctively I strain against the belt as if to peer around a corner. The external cameras are still seeking. Then they find their targets. Below us, still only half visible, is a tight cluster of large, featureless cylinders. Tough to guess size from where we sit but the cluster looks about four hundred meters in length and half that across the beam. Larger, but not so different from the space frames they pack us into to go transvac. Above that, relative to where my butt is planted, rises the limb of the Earth, now slipping into night. I can make out southern India, Sri Lanka.

  The lifter’s voice tells us a passenger tub will arrive in the next few minutes to ferry us to our next ship, once the arrangements have been made. Boarding fees, tickets stamped, visas presented to the proper authorities?

  Usually Skyrines crowd into a sheep dip station to get sedated by the transit crew, after which we’re bagged and slipped into tubes. The tubes are then inserted into the rotating cylinders that make up the rotisseries. After we’re loaded, the rotisseries are arranged by number on their respective frames, and that determines how and when we disembark
and drop. Before that, we indulge in mostly blank sleep until we arrive. Warm sleep, some call it.

  Now we can see what’s on the other side of the cluster. It’s something new, to me at least, and by looks alone makes my body feel numb and my brain more than a little left out of the bigger picture.

  “What in hell is that?” I ask.

  Borden shakes her head.

  Kumar leans forward. “Some call it the Spook. Perhaps the prettiest of our new toys.”

  Spook—fine name, I hate it right off—is a triplet of very long white tubes almost obscured by longitudinal sheets of glowing, pearly film. The sheets are attached to the cylinders and each other by thousands of twinkling strands, like nothing so much as burning spider silk. Whether the sheets are made of matter or energy is not obvious. All together, Spook—if it is one ship—must be over seven hundred meters from stem to stern. The sheets ripple slowly, like a flowing skirt in a slow breeze.

  I’ve seen it before. But it wasn’t me. Coyle saw it. Rode on it. No words this time, but she shares a glimpse of a line of soccer balls where you sleep on the way out to…

  I desperately try to ignore her input. “How does it move?” I ask. “What pushes it?”

  “She is called Lady of Yue,” Kumar says. “I do not know what makes her go. She has been traveling back and forth to Saturn, carrying soldiers and machines, for over five years.”

  Carrying Coyle, apparently. That means Coyle made it to Titan. Why return to Mars? Why not cash out and retire a fucking hero? I wonder when the captain will deign to fully manifest and completely clue me in. “Is she our ride?” I ask, my voice barely a squeak. Coyle aside, it all scares the bloody hell out of me.

  “No,” Kumar says. “Not this time. Perhaps soon.” He gives his finger a twirl. We’re still rotating. A shadow passes over our little ship as something even larger, much larger, passes between us and the flare of the sun. We’re swinging into view of an object at least five times the size of the Spook, in any dimension—and vastly greater in volume, like a gigantic, silvery Rubik’s cube with the different faces separated and expanded. Between these faces twinkles more silken fire. This cubic monster is at least four thousand meters on a side.