Kwelengsen Dawn, page 11
"I'll order some food." He picked up the ancient telephone handset. "What do you want?"
Samara looked blank for a moment, then smiled slightly. "Anything except survival rations. How about steak? No, wait a minute—make it a surf'n'turf, with all the trimmings."
His mouth watered and he ordered two. When the meals arrived, the cabin was enveloped in a rich, meaty aroma that finally pushed away the awful oil and coal smell still clinging to them.
"That was heavenly," he said forty-five minutes later, leaning back in the chair.
"Don't let anyone hear you say that."
He scowled. "I thought I knew how bad things were in the Alliance, but it's different when you're faced with the reality. Hard to believe people put up with it."
"People and society are very malleable," Samara said. "Most can survive just about anything if they have to."
"I guess so."
Samara twisted the collar button on her dress. "It's not too late. You can still call this off."
"Why would I give up after all we've been through?"
She smiled, but it was a wistful expression. "I'm not sure you're ready for this. I know you want to get back to Kwelengsen and find your wife, but you're not tough enough—you don't have the killer instinct necessary. I don't think you ever will."
He took his time answering. "You forget, I've already been through a war. I don't need to prove what I'm capable of, to you or anyone else. And if you're worried about my instinct—I've killed people. Or did you miss that."
"When you had no choice. But you're talking about returning to an occupied world to search for someone who is probably dead. You'll be going up against a whole planet, single-handed. To have the slimmest chance, you'll need a soldier's determination. You haven't got that, you're too good a person." She hesitated. "That's an observation, not a criticism."
He wasn't a soldier in the same way she was and never would be. But he had to find Aurore or, at the very least, find out what had happened to her. She deserved more than being written off as a statistic in a political dispute. She'd changed his life in so many ways and made it infinitely better. There was no way he was giving up. If there had been any justice, the USP would have gone to war over what happened. But they were too busy trying to negotiate a diplomatic solution.
"She deserves better than to be sacrificed to political games—her and everyone else who was left behind. Apparently, I'm the only one who sees that."
"Would she want this?" Samara looked pensive. "For you to carry out a suicide mission in her memory?"
"You're assuming she and the others are dead."
"I hate to tell you this, but if the Corporates were holding them prisoner"—she locked eyes with him—"they'd have released that information. It would give them a stronger bargaining position."
"Maybe. Or perhaps they aren't holding them and don't want to admit that some of the planet's rightful citizens are still fighting."
Samara sighed. "I know you'd prefer to believe that. Living with grief is a lot harder than dying with it."
"Very profound, coming from a person who feels nothing."
She vanished into the washroom. Damn, he'd done it again. Whatever her feelings, she clearly had strong ones for some people, such as her comrades. Did he really know she didn't suffer from her loss? No one knew what happened inside someone else's mind, how they thought, or what emotional torment went on behind the visible facade.
There was a knock on the compartment door followed by a muffled voice. "Buraq security. Ticket check."
Logan's scalp itched with panic. Samara emerged, pulling her head covering on and arranging her dress to conceal every part of her. He waited until she sat, then opened the door. Outside were two men, one thin and weaselly in a serge ticket inspector's uniform, the other heavyset, dressed in a black suit with a bulky pistol strapped around his thick waist—which Samara had told him was the unofficial uniform of BOPA agents.
"Tickets. Documentation." The thin man sounded bored.
"Certainly."
Logan pulled the documents from his jacket as the two men stepped inside the room. Turning back, he smiled and handed the papers over. The inspector checked the ticket, handing the ID and travel authorization to the thickset man. He stamped the ticket, then tapped it with his finger.
"All the way to Isbanir Central," he said.
The BOPA agent's eyes narrowed. "Your business in Isbanir, citizen?"
"I've been assigned to help design new flood defenses."
All the information was on the travel authorization. He was probing, trying to find some crack.
The man peered at Logan with black, piggy eyes. "You're an engineer?"
Did they go through this with every traveler? It was paranoid, but maybe that was "normal" here. Certainly it was in line with the rest of their experiences.
"My cousin went to engineering school," the agent continued. "He dropped out after failing tests on Navier-Stokes equations for determining girder strengths."
"Navier-Stokes math can be difficult," Logan said. "But there must be some misunderstanding. They're used in calculating fluid motion, nothing to do with girders."
His hands grew uncomfortable as the man continued to stare at him. Had he said something wrong or out of place? He had a momentary vision of Samara jumping up and attacking them, then stuffing the corpses into the washroom. Had the BOPA agent detected something? Neither was carrying an obvious scanner, but it may have been hidden. Samara had the supposedly undetectable MemPlant, and they were both carrying guns, not to mention large amounts of gold and silver. All of which could be detected given the right equipment.
"Tip them. Ten dollars each." It was Samara's faint voice.
He pulled out some cash. He only had one ten-dollar bill so offered a twenty instead. The inspector reached for it, but the BOPA agent was faster and snatched it from Logan's grasp. A cruel smile appeared on his face as he glanced at his companion.
"Thank you for your assistance, sir." He gave a small bow, then left, the thin man skulking after him.
"I'm going to shoot the next person who looks at me," Logan muttered, forgetting the implant.
"No you won't." Samara pulled her head covering off. "Let's take a look at your hands."
"What was all that about Navier-Stokes?"
"He had an old-fashioned MemPlant. I caught sight of it when he came in." She peeled off the gloves and coverings. "He must have used it to dig up a test for you."
The train sped through the mottled green Virginia countryside, the flat landscape making the tree-covered scenery appear lush and untouched, but nearer the train, the damage was evident. Some areas had simply been cut down, but others showed evidence of disease—vast tracts of dead and rotting spruce and pine littering the landscape. As the sun set, the terrain became hillier, and the giant scar that had been Fort Bragg several decades earlier came into view. Now it was a vast crater surrounded by a bare wasteland of charred earth. A persistent remnant of the final bloody stages of the War of Separation between the states that formed the USP and the orthodox states that became part of the MusCat Alliance. It took a good thirty minutes for the sight to vanish behind them, and by that time the sun was almost completely set.
"Poor bastards," Logan said. "Imagine facing that level of destruction."
Samara had finished cleaning and re-dressing his hands. "At least it was quick."
He couldn't agree with her assessment. A forty-meter asteroid had been de-orbited, impacting directly on the base. It released the equivalent of two megatons of energy—leaving a crater over half a kilometer wide and eighty meters deep. Small by military standards, but enough to wipe out the target and largely obliterate the orthodox forces' ability and determination to continue fighting.
General Tubman, leader of the northern forces, had reasoned it was necessary to stop the war, and it had. But the entrenched bitterness it left killed any chance of reconciliation and drove the orthodox states directly into joining the Alliance. Perhaps, like Logan, Tubman felt there was no other way to get justice.
Exhausted from the journey, he climbed into bed. Samara did the same and turned off the lights, other than one in the washroom. She left the door open, so it provided a dim light throughout the main room.
After a few minutes of nothing but the hiss of the air outside and the faint rhythmic pulse of the induction engines, Samara spoke. "What's it like? Kwelengsen?"
"It's around eighty percent the size of Earth, with a comparably lower gravity. It has a shorter year and day, so shorter seasons. There's less surface water compared to its—"
"No, not the encyclopedia entry. I mean what's it like to live on. Is it a nice place?"
Logan tried to remember what it had been like before the Corporate forces had landed.
"It's beautiful. Most of it wild and unexplored. It makes me think of how Earth must have been before people came along and messed it up. The native life is odd, but generally harmless, and Earth species thrive there."
The memory warmed him. "The sky is a deep cobalt blue, and the sunsets are amazing, especially when the two suns line up. There are untamed rivers, unclimbed mountains, free roaming wildlife, and in summer, warm western winds carry the sweet scent from the canola fields through the capital.
"No free rides, though. People have to work to build something, but if they do, they can achieve their dreams. There's always a buzz in the air, not only from insects. A feeling of excitement, that the place is going somewhere. Everyone is there to build a new world and make it the best it can be. It's a new start. We have few rules, other than those necessary for amicable living. Anyone can be anything they want to be. After you've been there a few days, you come to realize that the people there are free." Logan hesitated, tears stinging his eyes in the darkness. "Or at least they used to be."
Ten
"Always make sure you know the cost before being asked to pay."
– Grandfather Twofeathers.
By mid-morning the following day, they were approaching North Charleston. From there, the Buraq line stayed closer to the coastal marshlands in order to connect the major population centers. The unstable ground made track maintenance harder and higher priced, which led to this section being the slowest part of the journey. Again, they ate in the cabin, to avoid further confrontations.
Samara spent the time reading her book, but threw it down in disgust after an hour. Logan gave it a try but bailed even quicker. It was supposedly a classic romance, but the female characters did nothing but sacrifice themselves to support the men in their lives. The males were uniformly stalwart and upright, living lives selflessly benefiting the community. It could have been labeled as "aspirational" but was closer to brainwashing propaganda.
"When was the last time you were here?" Logan poured a coffee from the breakfast tray he'd ordered. "In the Alliance, I mean."
"I can't say." Samara was staring through the window at the passing scenery.
"You still worry about keeping their secrets?"
She went quiet, the conversation apparently over, but then she spoke again.
"I mean I can't. When I left the service, they scrambled my long-term memory, targeting everything relating to my missions. I remember things. Fragments. Slivers of memory about places and people, but it's like walking around with a head full of nightmares. Nothing makes sense. So I might know I was in a certain place but not any real details. Sometimes a larger piece will pop up out of my subconscious, but when I try to follow the thoughts they fracture and vanish. The timeline of my past is completely messed up."
"Your own people did this? They sure know how to look after their own."
"It's strange, but it was done with the best intentions. Though I don't know what those are anymore."
"What about your contacts?"
"Memories of people are harder to disrupt." Samara shrugged. "Sometimes I know faces but don't remember why."
"But you know me and how we met?"
Samara rubbed her temples with her thumbs. "Most of it. That was one of my later missions. Scrambling is more effective on older memories—fresher ones tend to be more accurate."
Logan thought about it. Her admission brought up some serious issues. "If your plans are based on a garbled mess of memory, can we trust things will be the way you think?"
Her jaw clenched. "I made these plans a few days ago. That's not scrambled."
"Let's hope you're right." He didn't push the matter. They were already committed, and the only thing to do was hang on for the ride.
The journey was interrupted by a long stop at Jacksonville as the train was split. Part of it disconnected to continue south through the devastated wastelands of what was left of Florida to New Miami, while the larger part, including their car, was routed west to Baton Rouge and then Isbanir—once known as Houston.
While the train was being separated, they were forced to disembark temporarily. Logan tried to hide his nervousness by inspecting the MagLev set up. The guideways and levitation coils looked robust enough, but the Halbech-Shinkansen arrays were undersized. Despite that, it should have been a reliable system, though the rust scales and missing fasteners revealed poor maintenance practices—and did nothing to inspire confidence.
It was after lunch before everything was ready, and they climbed back on board. The air pressure changed as the doors sealed, and then they were on the move again, passing through a patchwork of green fields and clustered stands of trees, interspersed with wide patches of barren earth. Breathing a sigh of relief, Logan closed the cabin door. The constant worry over whether he did or said something to raise suspicions was wearing him down.
Samara checked the bags. "Someone's searched our luggage."
"What?"
"While they were separating the train."
Together they reviewed their belongings.
"We didn't leave anything in there that would cause problems, did we?" he said.
Samara shook her head. "Perhaps they check everyone when they have a chance."
It was possible, but dangerous to make that assumption. Although they were ticketed all the way to Isbanir, they planned to leave at Tallahassee, still about ninety minutes away. It couldn't come soon enough.
"Let's hope so, we don't—"
There was a knock at the door. "Security."
Another ticket check. Logan waited while Samara made herself acceptable, then opened the door. It was the bulky BOPA agent, but this time on his own and with a gun already in his hand. Logan stepped back from the door, allowing the agent to enter.
"Who are you?" he said, jabbing the pistol at Logan.
"I'll get my documents." Logan reached for his coat.
"Don't bother. Tell me who you are."
"Logan Cross. Engineer. I already told you."
"And this?" The agent held up the BOPA badge Logan had taken from the taxi driver. He'd unthinkingly left it in the pocket of one of his suits.
"I can explain." Logan backed away, his shoulders hitting the compartment wall behind him. "You see, I'm on an undercover assignment... for the department... following a suspect who boarded the train in Richmond."
"You're lying," the agent snarled. "What department? I would have been notified if there was another BOPA operation on my train. I have jurisdiction here."
"You didn't get the notification? Here, let me show you—"
Logan stepped forward as if to get something from their luggage. Then he lashed out, knocking the gun from the agent's grip, and slammed his fist into the man's gut, yelping at the impact to his still-fragile hands. The agent grunted and staggered but didn't go down.
Swinging again, he aimed for the agent's head, but the man stepped inside the punch and threw a pile-driver at Logan's jaw. Luckily, the agent was still off-balance, and the blow didn't fully connect. But it sent a flood of sparking pain through Logan's face, and he dropped. As he struggled back up, the agent kicked him in the stomach, lifting him off the ground momentarily and he gasped as the air rushed from his lungs.
Logan's vision darkened. There were several thuds, followed by a grunt, and finally, a larger thump. Then silence. Hands pulled at him and he groaned, rolling onto his back. Samara stood over him.
"You okay?"
He struggled to answer, managing only a pained gasp. Samara pulled him upright, then helped him onto one of the pull-down beds. When he looked up again, she was kneeling over the agent, a knife in her hand.
"Wait," he croaked.
"Quiet. I'm tying him up."
She was cutting the sheets from the bed into long strips. The agent's feet were already tied, and she was working on his arms. Logan struggled upright, coughing, each one a harsh bark sending painful shudders through his torso.
"That didn't work out too well."
"Good enough. You gave me time to act." Samara tied the agent's hands behind his back, looping the bindings down to hogtie him. "It's hard to move in these damn clothes."
When she finished, the agent was trussed like a turkey. Sure, the position would be incredibly uncomfortable when he came round, but better than being dead. Finally, Logan helped Samara bundle the agent into the washroom. After locking the door, she examined his wounds.
"I don't think anything is broken, but I'd like to check you on a medical scanner. You've taken a lot of abuse."
"This is one of my good days."
Samara's eyes glinted. "Life isn't dull around you. I'd forgotten how enjoyable being on a mission was. I should have done this sooner."
*
Tallahassee station was new, or had at least been built at the same time they'd put in the MagLev line. Logan had been ready to deliver some excuse about why they'd broken their journey, but there was no check as they walked out. The operators obviously relied on the train security to take care of fare dodgers.
The city itself was run-down, worse than any other part of the Alliance they'd seen. Industrial buildings surrounded the station, but they were boarded up and showed signs of several years of disuse. The skyline to the east was dominated by a couple of pale high-rise buildings, but beyond that it appeared relatively undeveloped. Half a dozen old-style telephone kiosks hunkered up against the outside wall of the station like a line of itinerants waiting for a handout.
