“That vulnerability,” Langsley says. “We may need that. It’ll be just the two of us. At no time will we be amongst people we can trust. I have vulnerabilities, I can be hurt.”

  I frown. “This is starting to sound more dangerous than I thought.”

  Langsley laughs. “Maybe I’m just overthinking it. I’ve been here awhile. Meeting people in person is not something I’m used to these days.” He points upwards. “There’s a bed made up for you on the third floor. We have a few hours. Get your head down while you can.”

  I glance in the direction of the room. “If that’s okay….”

  “Sure, totally okay. We’ll talk more later.”

  Chapter Two: Marcus

  Gunfire.

  I’m moving through the ruins of a city. It takes a moment for me to remember where I am. There were so many ruined cities back then.

  This is Melbourne, right at the beginning of the insurrection. The smell of burned flesh, the desperate screams as the conflict escalates. A pointless war over scraps.

  I’m here to find someone. Someone with wealthy friends who got caught up in all of this.

  There is shouting. People are above me in buildings that are on fire and in danger of collapse. I can’t save them, no matter how much I want to. Each dull thud of each individual jumping and falling from window ledges, desperate to escape their fate, is a hammer blow to my soul.

  Ahead, I see the target vehicle on its side. There are people around it, some sort of altercation. I move faster, sprinting now, dodging and jumping through the wreckage to reach the group in time.

  A woman turns towards me as I reach the scene. My rifle butt comes up and slams into her face, sending her spinning away. A man turns. I put the barrel of the weapon right against his chest.

  “Move.”

  He steps back.

  I can see into the car through the windshield. Three people are trapped. The two in the front seats are security, the one in the back is not.

  I clamber up onto the car. The crowd are gathering again. The woman I struck is shouting at them in a language I don’t understand. I point my gun in the air and do what hundreds of outnumbered soldiers must have done throughout the ages to survive. I open fire.

  People scream and run. Others are unmoved. I crouch down, keeping my weapon trained on them, and try the handle of the passenger door.

  It opens.

  Carefully, I shift across and let the door swing out, giving me access to the inside of the vehicle. The passenger is barely conscious. His face bloody and bruised. His eyes closed.

  “Mr Rocher?”

  He stirs at the name. Enough of a confirmation for me.

  I unclip the revolver at my belt, raise it in my left hand. Take aim and—

  * * *

  I’m awake. Back in the present. Melbourne was a memory from long ago. A lot has happened in my life since that day in the desert.

  I sit up, swing my legs around and shuffle forwards. My prosthetic leg has been plugged into a charger for the last few hours. I lean forwards, pull it out and connect it back into the socket that surgeons installed in my lower leg, just under the knee. The systems power up and align. Injured combat veterans talk about still feeling their missing limbs. That isn’t something I’ve experienced. Maybe the prosthetic has alleviated that. I get a sense of completeness when I wear it, like I’ve adjusted to including it as a physical part of me. The unit has connections that link up with my nervous system and muscles. The prosthetic will sense my movements and respond accordingly.

  I move across the room to the door. A quick change of clothes, a use of the washing facilities and I’m good to go.

  A small elevator takes me back to the ground floor. Langsley is there, watching two people load his bags into a small conveyor that will take us to the terminal. There’s no hint of the admiral about him today; he’s dressed like any other individual taking a business commute. He glances towards me as I approach. “Sleep well?” he asks.

  “I slept,” I reply. “There was some good, some bad. The memories fade, but they don’t go away.”

  “Yes, I have ghosts too,” Langsley says. “Anyway, I’m just about ready. You okay to leave?”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, and we’re back at the terminal.

  I grab Langsley’s bags out of the back of the conveyor and place them in a trolley. The vehicle eases away, leaving us together at the entrance.

  Langsley leads the way to the platform. I follow, pushing the trolley, staying alert, watching everyone that we pass. Old habits that I’m grateful for. They’ll come in useful when we reach Chang City, but here, there’s next to no-one around.

  We board quickly. The train is the same one that brought me here. It won’t leave until all of its passengers have arrived. Langsley settles into his seat, and I position myself across from him.

  “During my career, I had the chance to visit all sorts of places,” Langsley says. “The off-world settlements were always a place I wanted to retire to. The low gravity makes living on the Moon much easier for an old man.”

  I nod. “We’ll be in transit for two hours. The carriage is equipped with all the required facilities. You don’t need to move out of here for the duration.”

  “Time to talk and prepare,” Langsley says. He pulls out a portable screen. “Hopefully, nothing will change in the next few hours and tomorrow’s meeting will go as planned.”

  “Yeah.” I look around. The carriage is a little more crowded than before. I wonder what work brought people to Forestal. Each passenger moves into a seat, taking up a space away from others. We are the only two people sitting together.

  I take it all in, looking all around, measuring distance, identifying exits, until my attention returns to Langsley.

  He is looking at me.

  “Ask,” he says.

  “Sorry?”

  “We’re spending a couple of hours together. You want to know more about me and why we’re doing this, but you don’t want to cross any boundaries and offend me as your client. That won’t happen. I’ll let you know if I don’t want to answer anything.”

  “Good to know.” Being curious doesn’t sit well with me, but this is an opportunity to get answers. I decide to tread carefully all the same. “What did you do as an admiral?” I ask.

  “You probably saw a lot of it,” Langsley says. “Co-ordinated the colonial escort patrols for a number of years, oversaw recruitment of crews for the new generation of ships. After that, I stepped back and let someone else do the public-facing work. Fleet has a variety of requirements of its admirals.”

  “You worked in intelligence.”

  “I did, yes. The intelligence portfolio was mine for a number of years, until I retired.” Langsley clips his screen into a holder beside his seat and starts fiddling with the straps. “The keeper of secrets in the void, is a poetic way I’ve heard it described.”

  “You’ve read my file then?”

  “Yes. I took some time over it before I selected you for this. I know what you did for us.”

  I shift in my seat. “I was always following orders,” I say.

  “One of the reasons you’re here.” Langsley clips himself into his seat. I do the same. The train starts to move. “I believe you’ll do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done.”

  I frown. “Maybe I’ve changed? Or you have? Maybe these days I don’t follow orders without questioning them.” The dream comes back to me. I see the man in the car. “The Melbourne mission, that was you, right?”

  “Seventeen years ago, yes.”

  “That man. Why was I told to murder him?”

  Langsley flinches. The kindly expression is replaced by something harder, more like stone. “I gave the orders for your mission. I don’t regret them.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” The train’s rate of acceleration is biting now, pushing Langsley back and me forwards in our straps. “You chose me. You brought me here. You must have known this would come up.”

  “Yes, and I planned to answer you,” Langsley says. The hard mask slips and I remember he’s an old man. “I still do.”

  “Okay, take your time.”

  The acceleration eases. We’re at cruise velocity. I sit back and wait, letting the admiral gather himself. When he’s taken a breath or two, he reaches for the screen in the holder and taps on it, then turns it towards me.

  “This was the man you were ordered to kill,” he says.

  I see the picture and read the accompanying profile information. Henry Rocher. A former United States military officer who was sixty-five years old when he died in 2101 AD. “He was being escorted out of the city by private security,” I say. “People attacked the car, we had to drive them back and then I shot him in cold blood as he sat trapped in the back seat.”

  “And you never found out why.” Langsley holds his hand up. “That’s on me. We needed the whole situation to stay compartmentalised.”

  “Who was Henry Rocher?” I ask.

  “A pioneer,” Langsley replies. “A genetic anomaly who volunteered for a DNA screening program back in the 2070s while he was still a captain in the United States army. They found something in his biology, I don’t know the details, but it made him the perfect subject for further trials. He was designated as Candidate #1.”

  “Candidate #1 for what?”

  “Human cloning.” Langsley sighs. “He was recruited to a covert project that would break all international agreements on artificial human reproduction. We found out about it, and I authorised the mission to assassinate him.”

  “And I was the person you sent in?”

  “Yes, you were the person assigned. It needed to be someone who didn’t have an anomalous record, but who would do the job when asked. You were the choice. Shame we didn’t get to him in time.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes, by the time you did your work, scientists on the project had already extracted DNA, bone marrow, blood, brain matter, all of it. We didn’t find that out until later.” Langsley sighs and leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. “Henry signed a contract and broke the law, but no one deserves to die just for that. Unfortunately, his genetic profile meant we couldn’t allow him to live. Sooner or later, someone was going to grab him and start using him.”

  “That doesn’t sit right with me,” I say. “I killed a man who didn’t deserve it.”

  “War takes many forms,” Langsley says. “But it always comes down to killing individuals who don’t deserve it, not really. Military organisations have tried depersonalising the enemy, removing their names and all knowledge about them from their soldiers, creating written briefs that talk about targets, not people, achieving objectives, not murder, but that doesn’t change the situation when you look into the eyes of another and get a glimpse of the life they’ve led.”

  “That’s your justification,” I say. “How many ghosts hang around your bed at night?”

  Langsley smiles. “Plenty,” he says. “More than I can count.”

  “Did you ever pull the trigger?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t know how it really feels.” I stare at him. Langsley opens his eyes and returns the look without flinching.

  “In 2048, NASA launched the Avensis mission. It was their last hurrah, a chance to do something impressive and patriotic that might hold the country together. Deep space exploration with some interesting contingency plans. Only the first part was made public. They wanted more data on what was out there before they tried anything else, but the infrastructure was already being planned. Problem was, they found stuff.”

  “Surely that was a good thing?”

  “Not when the kind of stuff you find is dangerous. Better to find nothing or something you can talk about. The project became another nail in the coffin for the federal administration, but the funding was already allocated, and the classified construction plans approved. As the country fell apart, they kept building until the money ran out.”

  “Building, in space?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does this have to do with Rocher?”

  Langsley looks around, then leans forwards and lowers his voice. “The Avensis mission was to take humanity out into the far reaches of our solar system. Rocher provided a clone template. At some point, the technologies came together under a corporate faction who had ties to Fleet. They were looking for a different approach – building clone colonies, so the initial set-up costs would be cheaper than what we had to pay for all this.” He gestures around the carriage. “The money put into Mars broke the United States. Anyone looking to replicate the idea needed to find a way to bring the cost down.”

  “And that’s what you were trying to stop?”

  “Pretty much. It’s what we’re still trying to stop. These people haven’t given up.”

  “So, the meeting with the Chang City people—”

  “Is part of all this, yes.” Langsley sits back and taps on the screen. “We don’t know all the players, but we can see the game. The man you killed was wrapped up in all of it. Things have moved on now. We know there are off-world facilities being used to manufacture things. Consignments on the freighters are being redirected to supply these places. We need Chang City on-board to help us.”

  “You sound like you’re not retired.”

  “Do I? Well, then.” Langsley’s focus is now on his screen. He looks concerned, I’m guessing the news isn’t good. “China and its corporate partners have no interest in seeing another group gain an advantage on them. They made a good decision to settle here, despite the limitations of a dead piece of rock. I need to bring them into what we’re doing. I need to trust them, just like I’m trusting you.”

  * * *

  We’re moving quickly now, out across the Luna landscape, as dark as before with the occasional set of lights denoting an automated monitoring point, or a facility out here on the surface.

  Langsley has settled into his work. He’s reading from his screen, sending messages, reading, sending out more. As I spend time with him, the more I think retirement is like a coat he wears when he wants distance from all this. Right now, his appetite appears whetted. He looks ravenous for the intellectual challenge.

  Intellectual challenge, numbers, actions, narrative. That’s all it is to him. Real people mean something beyond all that.

  “Do you have any family?” I ask.

  Langsley looks up. “Yes. I’m a grandfather. My children and grandchildren are back on Earth.” He shrugs. “If by asking that, you think I’ve lost track of my humanity somewhere along the way, you’re wrong. I know what murder means, what gets taken away when I sanction the death of someone.”

  “But you’re okay with it.”

  “I’m never okay with it, but it has to be done.”

  I detach the straps from around me. The train has reached optimal velocity. The next hour or so will be a smooth ride . “I’m going to stretch my legs,” I say. “You need anything?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” Langsley waves his hand dismissively. “I’ve plenty to do.”

  I stand up and move into the aisle. The other passengers take no notice of me. I head down the carriage towards the next set of doors. Each compartment is airlocked, capable of surviving independently from the rest of the train. Access to the other compartments is not recommended and I’ve no intention of letting Langsley out of my sight. I just want a little time over here, a few metres away. Some time to think.

  I lean back against the airlock door and feel a shiver run through the train.

  Deceleration. Why? We’re not due to stop for another hour or more.

  Chapter Three: Marcus

  Why are we slowing down?

  The deceleration is increasing, pushing me into the airlock door. Admiral Langsley looks up, catches my eye. The straps in his chair have deployed; he’s being held in place for his own protection.

  They are also a trap, a confinement in plain sight.

  I’m moving away from the airlock, back towards the seats, fighting against the forces trying to push me back. I need to move quickly; this struggle will only get worse.

  The nearest chair is to my left. I want to get to where Langsley is, to be close to him and protect him as my contract stipulates, but the effort may be too much. I make a quick decision and slip into the seat. The safety restraints immediately sense my presence and deploy, grabbing my wrists, ankles and snaking around my waist. I relax and let them do their job.

  I’m facing away from direction of travel, so I’m pressed back into the seat. I can see Langsley, but I won’t be able to reach him until we’ve stopped. I need to keep him in view.

  The strap on my wrist is a little bit loose. That’s intentional. There is an emergency button that I can reach with my fingers if I should need to, but that’s pointless as the g’s mount, pushing me back into the seat. The train isn’t stopping as planned, it’s slowing down very fast, as if this is an emergency.

  I’m looking at Langsley. He’s pushed forwards into the restraints, his face red with the strain. I’m worried about his health. This kind of stress on the body and the organs is just the sort of thing older people cannot withstand.

  We must be pulling three g’s or more. This is the same strain you’d get being launched from Earth into orbit, the kind of situation that you avoid when you’ve retired. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why Langsley stayed up here rather than going back to Earth to be with his family.

 

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