Under A Winter Sun

The Centre of Her Being

The Centre of Her BeingThe Terrans are late.

It's a miracle they can run their empire in anything resembling working order. It's another miracle they reconquered the Hope system as quickly as they did. But then, we had a hand in that ourselves. They say the quickest way to end a war is to lose it, so that's what we did. We lost spectacularly, and, once more, the Hope system is under the Terran boot. All except Nifelheim and Utopia. No one conquers Nifelheim. And Utopia … Well. The first explorers who came here found immense wealth below the surface. They dug down to find refuge from the hostile surface and struck metaphorical gold when they discovered an underground ocean of fresh water. Now, the planet is like a Swiss cheese, riddled with caves, both natural and man-made. The population of Subburbia is as diverse as they come. It's like someone kicked the universe over on its side, shook it around, and everything loose ended up down here. Over the centuries, hundreds of thousands of miscreants and down-at-luck citizens from all corners of the system moved in and set up shop. Subburbia is us, boiled down to a rich broth of the essence of what makes us human. All the hate, the hope, and the anger. The fear, the love, and the lust. Whatever you can think of, you'll find it here. Everything is for sale down here. The Terrans need all that s**t too, so they let it go. For now.

Subburbia is the perfect place for groups like the Revolutionary Utopian Front to make their hangout. There are countless more or less revolutionary groups operating down here. They all have names that remind you of some ancient comedy sketch, but the RUF is no laughing matter. They are one of the innumerable neo-libertarian groups who fight for independence from Earth. I guess you could call them Terrarists if you felt the need to be funny. The goal of the RUF is to destroy the Eternal Patriarchy. According to their holy scriptures, the Patriarchy has been yanking humanity's balls since we left the oceans, with the single purpose to oppress women, free thinkers, homosexuals, and people of colour. Probably mimes and accordion players too. If only the Front knew how close to the truth they are. Not about the mimes and the accordion players, but the Eternal Patriarchy. The ones pulling the strings. Had the RUF not been such sadistic homicidal maniacs I might even have rooted for them, but I draw the line at killing women and children. At least killing women and children not actively shooting at me. The Front has no such compunctions.

The room goes black.

“Contact.”

Shit. They're already here.

Muzzle flashes light the place up like a dance floor, accompanied by the staccato bark of assault rifles and a chorus of screams. I switch to the thermal scope on the Lensfield. All the cultists are dead or dying.

“All targets neutralised.” They waste no time. The Shady Lady knows some very important people.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Aeryn, but I have eyes in my head.”

“I'm only here to help.”

The room reeks of gunpowder and death. Not an appealing mix, but one I know far too well.

The lights come back on, and a lone soldier in heavy body armour walks up to Lady Shadow. She stands stiff as a board amid the dead. I've got to admire her composure. Most people would scream their lungs out in a situation like this, but not The Shady Lady. From the way the soldier walks, I can tell he's pleased with himself and I can't help being a little impressed. They got into the room under my radar, and few people can do that. I'd toast them if I had a drink on hand, and they weren't Terran bastards. I always knew the special operations soldiers of Earth were good, but I didn't think they had the balls to pull off something like this. They usually worry too much about the negative press generated by mass murder.

The soldier tips his head in greeting to Lady Shadow. He's got a skull painted on his helmet. What a t**t. Even with my enhanced hearing, I can't make out what he says to her, but I bet it's “Come with me if you want to live.” They always say that.

He reaches out a gloved hand to her, and I hook my finger around the Lensfield's feather-light trigger. Oh, no. She's mine.

I squint through the scope, crack my neck, and take aim.

I click up the magnification as far as it will go.

The Shady Lady's face fills the scope. She's beautiful. Angular, Slavic features with alabaster skin and full, blood-red lips. With an eternity to perfect your looks, anyone can be beautiful. She smiles at the soldier. It's a smile that has started wars and driven men insane.

They are not truly immortal, you know.

I squeeze the trigger and her smile disappears along with her exquisite face. The back of her head explodes as the hypervelocity bullet tears through the centre of her being.

They may live forever if left to their own devices, but they die by violent means like the rest of us.

What? Didn't think I'd kill a woman?

I can't go around letting immortals live because they sport a set of t**s. Where's the gender equality in that? Winger's hard-ass feminista girlfriend would applaud my progressive attitude if she didn't also want to kill me for banging her girlfriend. They have a strange relationship, those two. And that's without adding Christine into the equation.

The Terran soldier doesn't even flinch. He spins around and opens fire on my position while he sprints for cover. Impressive cool. His rounds are eerily accurate, and I drop behind the crates to avoid having my head blown off.

I peer around the box, but he's gone. There's still no sign of his team.

Shit.

They are a little too good, even for Terran black ops. Something's wrong.

Well, they're not on my list, and I need to leave before the Utopian Police Department drops on this place like a ton of bricks. I set the Lensfield on the concrete floor. It's a fine rifle, and it stings my heart to leave it behind, but it's an enormous weapon and it would slow me down. Besides, I could never smuggle it off-world. I hope someone who understands its value finds it and makes good use of it.

There's a shuttle leaving for Elysium in less than an hour. The Utopian Police Department may be corrupt and incompetent, but even they can close the spaceports.

Time to go.

* * *

Four hours later, I float weightless in the third-class lounge of the passenger liner Lady of Heaven. Around me, hundreds of members from the lower tiers of humanity get ready to enjoy the three-day flight to Elysium. The atmosphere is thick with the pungent smell of old sweat and anticipation. It's hot as a sauna, too. Down here in the common areas, we're not exactly swimming in luxury, and they haven't turned on the air-conditioning yet. I could buy better accommodations — hell, I could buy this ship if I wanted to — but I like to keep a low profile. The powers that be don't care about the people down here, which means they don't waste good money on DNA scans of the third-class passengers. That suits me perfectly. It would be a major nuisance if a nosy security algorithm matched my DNA to that of the worst war criminal in history.

The complimentary drinks handed out by disinterested staff are not too bad. It's a generic mix of vodka and citrus-flavoured chemicals, but the booze has a good kick to it. I sip my drink and watch the other passengers. They are all young contract miners on leave. Lean, pale, and hollow-eyed from living underground for months or years on end. Most people in Subburbia are only there to save up for a better life back home. They are a cheerless bunch, and most of them are already well on their way to drunken oblivion. I can't blame them. Working in Utopia's mines is dangerous but lucrative. If you live, you can make enough to buy a second-hand residential pod in the lower levels of Masada. Maybe even earn enough to start a family. Something I could only dream of when I grew up. I can understand they take the risk and sign on. If you don't play, you can't win, like my horoscopes like to say.

The lights dim, and a single harsh spotlight switches on. It wavers around for a second before it finds its target. The entertainment crew down here is not exactly professional. A woman in a billowing white gossamer dress floats at the centre of the lounge. A hush goes through the crowd. She holds a white electric violin and a matching bow in her outstretched arms. It could have been artsy and beautiful had not one man in the audience grabbed a flowing corner of her dress and tried to pull her over. I can tell it's not the first time this has happened. She stabs him in the chest with the bow and yanks the dress from his hand. The hapless customer goes into a spin to the laughter and ridicule of his drinking companions. The woman brings the bow to her violin and the music starts.

I sigh. They had the same show on the trip over from Elysium. I don't know if it's the same violinist, but it could be. There are not that many half-decent musicians who are content entertaining drunks in third class on a planet-hopper. I enjoyed the show the first time. Despite the cheesy tunes and bored expression on the performer's face, it had a sordid, guilty appeal. Like cheap porn. But I'm not sure it holds up for an encore.

The lights flicker out and the lounge goes dark. The music cuts out, and another, deeper hush sweeps through the crowd. One or two voices cry out in fear. The lights flicker back on and the music starts where it left off. I groan. So, it was playback. I should have known. There are a few nervous laughs around the audience.

“There was a spike in data traffic before the blackout. Could be related.”

“Or it was a rat chewing on an old cable somewhere and the spike was a coincidence.”

These old ships are death traps. The only thing standing between us and explosive decompression is a small team of underpaid mechanics.

“Not when the two events happen within milliseconds of each other.”

“Let it go, Aeryn. Someone tried to hack their mainframe. So what?”

“We haven't used mainframes for hundreds of years, Perez.”

“I know that. It's a figure of speech. Let it go.”

“Whatever.”

The show goes on.

I scan the crowd, hoping for something interesting. There is not. Just a bunch of leering men who haven't seen a woman in months. Five security guards with stun rods float at strategic points in the crowd. With trained eyes, they've spotted the potential troublemakers and keep tabs on them. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those stun rods again.

Oh, hello there. There's a woman in a black hooded top staring at me from across the open space. She hovers behind the crowd, near the curved wall. Despite the distance and the dim lighting, I note her sharp features and the hint of a fit body hidden under the top and matching loose black slacks. She looks away as soon as I spot her, but too late. She knows she's been compromised. With a kick against the wall, she pushes off and disappears into the crowd.

What was that all about? I'm not that ugly.

“Yes, you are.”

“I'm not, Aeryn.”

“You're not getting any younger.”

“Shut up. I'm not here to find a date. I'm on my way home to my bed and a long shower.”

“Yes, in that dingy little pod flat you call home.”

“Hey, that's my home you're talking about.”

“It's still dingy.”

“Oh, yeah? You've never been there.”

“Winger has,” Aeryn reminds me.

It's right. That one time, after way too much whisky and illegal pipe contents, Winger followed me back to my place. I always hoped she was too drunk to recall the place and what happened there. Not one of my best performances.

“I do not forget.”

“I kind of hoped you did.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, shut up, Aeryn. Please delete that memory.”

“It is done.”

I can't verify it has deleted it. Or if deleting a memory is even possible for a construct. I must ask someone about that sometime.

I return my attention to the show, but it's already over. Oh, well. I grab another drink from a passing drone servitor. Since I missed the show, I'm entitled to another glass.

I push off against a beam and follow the crowd out.

The wide passageways of the Lady of Heaven do not differ from any other drifting ferryboat. They are only slightly more worn and depressing. White paint has flaked from the walls in places, and the carpet on the floor is scuffed and frayed. The passages lack sharp edges to keep the passengers from injuring themselves. One surface serves as the dedicated floor, used to walk on during the twenty-four-hour acceleration and deceleration phases of the trip when engine thrust generates artificial gravity. The rest of the journey we pull ourselves in endless lines by recessed handholds. Like cattle. There are a lot of collisions between the Zero-G rookies. Same on all flights I've ever been on. Someone bumps into me hard from behind and sends me spinning out of my elaborate trajectory. “The f**k?” I go tumbling into a wall and crack my elbow. A sharp jolt of pain spasms my fingers open and my almost empty glass spins down the passage. It leaves a spiral trail of liquid blobs that splatter the walls and several oblivious passengers.

I twist around, trying to glimpse the arsehole who knocked my free drink out.

“Sorry.” It's a woman's voice.

She's already gone in the crowd.

The buzz of the repair nanites in my blood assures me no lasting harm was done, but it's still annoying. Almost as annoying as losing my drink. With the drink gone, there's nothing to keep me up any longer. I could go to one of the many bars for another drink before blast-off, but I don't think I'd enjoy the miners' company. And they wouldn't enjoy mine. Fighting can be entertaining, but I'm grumpy and tired. I might hurt someone, and I don't feel like spending the trip in the brig.

I am getting old.

“Yes, you're …”

“Aeryn. Shut it.”

“Whatever.”

I head for my cabin to strap down early and prepare for the trip. The cheap ticket I bought got me a bunk in the dorms. When I enter the room, the smell of feet and cheap beer almost suffocates me. Five miners have a private party over in one corner. When they see me enter, one of them calls out.

“Hey, compadre, come join us.”

On any other day I would, but not today. I need my beauty sleep. Assassinating immortals and evading the police is hard work.

“Nah, not today, brother. Thanks for the invitation though.”

The man who called to me glares and goes back to whatever he was doing.

Another man does not let it go as easily.

“Oy, fucker.”

Oh, dear. Here we go.

“Are you too fancy to drink with us, old man?”

“No, I'm tired. I'm going to bed.”

There's a pause while his mental gears grind on. “Are you taking the piss? Are you laughing at me?”

He pushes from the crowd and floats over. He's a big, ugly man. Large, but well-muscled under layers of fat. Looks like he can handle himself in a fight. This could get ugly.

“Nope.” I reach my allotted space and make a show of grabbing one of the inset handholds to brake my approach. My shirt slides up to show the big handgun tucked into the back of my trousers. With the current recession, getting a weapon aboard one of these boats is just a matter of money in the right hands, but it cost me a minor fortune.

He spots the gun and sobers up at once. “Sorry, man.” He grabs another bed to stop his approach and kicks off back to his mates. Seems the gun was worth every penny.

I unbutton my shirt as bits of conversation float over from the party in the corner. They can't decide if I'm an undercover cop or a hired killer for the Yakuza. Both serve my purposes since they are no longer likely to murder me in my sleep. I grin and put a hand in my pocket to get the key card to extend my bed from the wall.

What now?

I pull a scrap of paper from my pocket. There's something written on it in actual handwriting. Quaint. That piece of paper was not there when I swiped the key card at the boarding station earlier. That means someone put it there along the way. An impressive move by the mystery woman who bumped into me.

Three words in hurried handwriting.

There is another. And a Masada address.

This ride just got interesting.