The Burning Dark (12 page)

King turned back, arms still folded, and the tight smile returned to his face. Ida didn’t like it. Whoever was coming must have been a big deal, the way the provost marshal walked slowly back toward him. It was just short of a swagger. “You’ve heard of Zia Hollywood?”

Ida frowned and then shrugged. “Can’t say that I have. She must be a hell of a VIP, name like that.”

King drew an index finger along the bottom edge of his mouth. “She’s a starminer.”

“Ah,” said Ida. That explained the name, then.

“You’ve been out in the black too long, Captain,” the marshal said. “She’s the most famous woman in Fleetspace. Hollywood and her crew will be stopping here to refuel on the way to that field of slowrock debris on the other side of Shadow.”

Ida nodded, but he didn’t care. He had no interest in the so-called celebrities of the Stellar Gold Rush. To have reached the top, she would be young, pretty, and 90 percent silicone, and she would spend her whole stay aboard the
Coast City
peeling frustrated space apes off her. Good luck to her. He’d register his cabin, wear his ID tag—turned on—and stay in his cabin for the duration of this special visit.

Apparently satisfied, the marshal stabbed the elevator button again to open the door and disappeared inside. Ida watched the indicator above the door begin to move again, King heading up the station’s main spire.

“Zia Hollywood,” said Ida quietly, shaking his head. He dropped himself into the comms chair, slammed the recording disk into one of the free slots in the console, and set to work.

11

The control room of
the
Coast City
’s solar observatory was circular, very similar to the main bridge far below but condensed, with only enough room for a half dozen personnel at most. The provost marshal was the only one in the room, but he knew he was not alone.

The screen in front of him showed a view of Shadow, the image filtered with software so only certain wavelengths were displayed at the operator’s request. King cycled the view through each in turn, and much as he expected, the image did not much change. The star was violet, light at the center and dark purple at the circumference, and stubbornly remained so no matter which wavelength he selected. The only change was in the corona, a shifting, diffuse halo that streaked off into space from the star’s surface. As the images changed, so the corona changed with it, shifting in shape and size.

It was a failing of the solar observatory systems. It had to be. Although the systems were fitted and customized as best as possible for this particular mission, observing Shadow was a difficult task. The light from the star degraded the sensors and cameras with surprising speed, resulting in a constant need for replacement and recalibration.

The light that will fuck you up.
King allowed himself a smile. It was a common refrain around the station. Nobody liked being out here, not within touching distance of a star so foreign, so
alien,
that it felt like it was alive, like it was watching. Maybe the
Coast City
wasn’t watching the star; maybe the star was watching the
Coast City.

King reached the end of the available filters, and he paused. He knew the truth, thanks to the book hidden in the desk, but he had to check for himself. Commandant Elbridge’s notes may have been written in some personal code, but the comms deck had translated it without any difficulty.

The final filter would show it. King held his breath. He wondered if Elbridge had known what he was doing. Then he turned the selector switch.

The view of Shadow changed, the colors reversing, the bruised black of space a brilliant violet white and the star itself now black.

And at the center of the star, the blackness swirled, spiraling inward, black moving on black moving on black, like darkness being pulled in on itself, tumbling into a whirlpool. Darkness falling into an abyss.

King stiffened. The lights in the solar observatory were on low, twilight normal. The observatory was mostly run on automatic, the systems gathering data and piping it back to Fleet Command via the lightspeed link, while researchers who had until recently been stationed on the
Coast City
did their work in more comfortable surroundings down in the hub.

In the reflection on the screen in front of him, in the depths of the black star, King saw her standing behind him. Her eyes were blue, and the hand on his shoulder was as cold as the hull on the dark side of the space station.

“I know what you want,” said King. He didn’t move, but his jaw clenched as the pain of the cold crept into his bones and made him ache from head to toe. He closed his eyes. “You cannot have him.
Will not
have him.”

When he opened his eyes, he was alone, and the observatory control room wasn’t as dark as he’d thought it was. On the screen before him was displayed the regular view of Shadow in the visible spectrum, the violet white star a featureless globe, a purple halo licking out around it.

King turned off the display. He walked backwards until he was up against the opposite wall. Then he sank to the floor and wept.

12

“Fuck, Sen, you’re a
stone cold killer. Remind me never to—”

DeJohn’s words were lost as the marine gunner next to him opened fire again with her heavy automatic rifle. Aboard a U-Star, all arms were switched from plasma pellets to soft ceramic shells so the hull wouldn’t get punctured should a firefight break out. The shells were safe to use but made a hell of a noise, which made the practice range a popular place during a tour. Marines liked to make a lot of noise, and today the range on the
Coast City
was nearly full, the marines left aboard the station taking advantage of their light duties to get some practice time in.

Serra watched Sen’s back as the gunner emptied her weapon at the target a hundred meters down her lane, reducing the somewhat dramatically drawn two-dimensional representation of a Spider groundcrawler to so much shredded fiberboard. Beside her, DeJohn had his hands clapped over his ears, the protectors hanging uselessly around his neck. He was laughing as he watched Sen practice. Heavy weaponry was her specialty, and leering at female troops was his.

A buzzer sounded and green lights lit above each firing point as the range commander called a halt. As the
Coast City
’s complement of marines was lower than normal, a roster had been drawn up; today the range commander was Corporal Ahuriri, and aside from punching the buzzer, Corporal Ahuriri didn’t really give a shit. Regulations were loose now there were so few marines left on board, which meant practice at the range was perhaps a little more fun than it should have been. DeJohn even had a plastic drink bottle filled with something that smelled far stronger than their standard electrolyte solution sitting on the shelf in his firing point. Serra wondered if she cared enough to report it, and wondered if sucking on engine juice while holding a live weapon made DeJohn more dangerous or less.

The light on the barrel of Sen’s rifle flicked to blue as she raised it, smoking, to the ceiling, balancing the stock on her hip and glancing sideways at DeJohn’s grinning face. Serra couldn’t resist grinning herself as Sen turned and, weapon safe, gave her a nod. DeJohn, meanwhile, started getting his own weapon ready on the shelf in front of him. He whooped as he checked his magazines.

“Some things a man never gets sick of,” he said. “Am I right or am I right?”

Serra took her position at Sen’s vacated station. The range of weaponry available to her as a psi-marine wasn’t as wide or as heavy as the gunner’s, just the standard light rifle and pistol. It was the latter that she was working on today; it had been a while since she’d used it. She positioned her feet carefully and then looked up, but DeJohn hadn’t been talking to her. On the other side of him, Carter stood at his own firing point, pistol in hand but barrel end resting on his shelf. He was staring at his target. He didn’t seem to be listening.

Serra frowned. Carter was acting like nothing had happened during the night, but he seemed distracted. She knew not to bother him, not after she’d seen the Fleet Medal in his hands. She wondered again about what had happened in his Black Ops tour. Being out on this derelict station probably wasn’t helping either, not with DeJohn hanging around, not with Cleveland aboard.

DeJohn didn’t seem to notice his friend’s snub. He whistled to himself and returned his attention to his weapon. He’d chosen the light rifle. When it was ready, he flicked the safety off and the barrel light went from blue to red. He glanced over his shoulder at Sen, who leaned back against the wall and did nothing except look him up and down with a smirk on her face before pointedly slipping her ear protectors on. DeJohn grinned.

“They say it’s not what you’ve got, it’s what you do with it, am I right?”

Serra rolled her eyes. “Oh please,” she said, and readjusted her footing before punching the button on her left. A new target slid into her lane fifty meters ahead.

The buzzer buzzed. The indicator lights turned red.

She fired six shots. Then DeJohn opened up with his rifle in the neighboring lane. Further down, a handful of other marines began firing as well, the combined sound of exploding ceramic ammunition pressing on Serra’s eardrums despite the protectors. She lowered her weapon, regarded her shots with some disdain, and stepped back.

Carter hadn’t moved. He was breathing quietly, his chest rising and falling beneath the tight olive T-shirt. Serra removed the clip from her pistol and walked over to him. She waited for the buzzer to sound again before speaking.

“You okay?”

Carter jumped at her voice, then closed his eyes and sighed. But when he opened them again they came with a grin. She smiled in return, and she felt a little better.

“Yeah, no problem,” he said. “Didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

Serra laughed. “No kidding.”

From behind her came a low chuckle from DeJohn. Serra turned and lifted an eyebrow. “You have a one-track mind, marine.”

“You’d better believe it,” he said, slamming another magazine into his rifle. He winked at Sen, who just shook her head. She was smiling too.

“Never see Captain Asswipe down here,” said DeJohn, punching his target button and raising his rifle sight to his eye. “Girl has probably never handled a gun in his life.”

Sen smirked and pushed herself off the wall. “Girl, huh?”

DeJohn snickered. Sen trailed a fingertip over his back. “And you’d show him a thing or two, wouldn’t you?”

DeJohn lowered his gun. “That I would, marine. That I would.”

Sen placed the back of one hand on her forehead and buckled at the knees. “Oh, Captain! My Captain!”

Then she burst out laughing, DeJohn and Serra too.

“Marines, ten-hut!”

There was a clatter of weaponry as the range came to attention, Serra, Carter, and Sen all standing tall. DeJohn stood relaxed, rifle hanging loosely by his side. With his other hand he grabbed his drink bottle and sucked noisily on the straw.

Captain Ida Cleveland stepped toward the insubordinate marine, computer pad under one arm. As he walked forward, his eyes flicked here and there, taking in the others in the firing range. He was frowning, the typical disappointed officer, but Serra could sense a lack of control. He wasn’t in charge here, and he knew it. DeJohn knew it too.

“Thirsty, marine?” asked Ida. DeJohn looked him in the eye and kept sucking on the straw for a good few seconds before setting the bottle back on his shelf.

“Thirsty work, being in the Fleet,” he said. Then he sniffed and raised his rifle. Pointing the barrel at the ceiling, he thumbed the safety off and manually reloaded the chamber.

Ida didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes from DeJohn’s. “That’s thirsty work, being in the Fleet,
sir
.”

“I don’t see no officer in here.” DeJohn nodded at Carter. “You see anyone, Charlie?”

Serra could almost feel Carter vibrating next to her. She glanced sideways and saw his lips flicker, his eyes staring straight ahead.

Nobody moved; nobody spoke. Ida took a step backwards, his footfall loud in the quiet firing range. Then he turned on his heel and offered the computer pad to Carter.

“You’re the demo leader on lambda section, marine. I need you to check and authorize the last drone run.”

DeJohn hissed and turned back around at his firing station. He began fiddling noisily with his weapon.

Serra turned her head, breaking her stance. Carter looked pale. He licked his lips.

Ida lifted the datapad higher, until it was practically under Carter’s nose. “Problem, marine?”

Carter exhaled, blowing the air out with puffed cheeks. He said “No, sir!” and grabbed the computer pad, thumbed the page down three times, then tapped his thick index finger across the screen. He held the pad out to Ida.

“Authorized, sir!”

Ida took the pad slowly, a slight smile on his face. He glanced down at the pad, nodded, then put it back under his arm. He looked around the firing range.

“Carry on,” he said, and marched out.

DeJohn turned around as the marines fell out.

“Fuck,” he said, then grabbed for his drink bottle. “Comes all the way down here, disturbing the peace, just for that? Like we haven’t got enough to do without him making all this extra work for us.”

Serra busied herself checking her pistol. “It’s hardly that much work.”

“Yeah. Well.
Prick
.” DeJohn rolled his shoulders and raised his rifle, aiming down his lane. “You don’t have to salute him, Charlie. He’s not a real captain.”

Carter’s station was quiet. DeJohn lowered his weapon and glanced at his friend. He shook his head.

“Fuck, clear your head, marine,” he said. “Ain’t no time for napping when there’s Spiders to shoot.” He raised his rifle and took aim, adjusting his grip and lowering his cheek to rest on the side of the gun. “Fucker needs to be taught a thing or two about how we work around here. Things would be different if the commandant was around.”