The Burning Dark (24 page)

You can’t fathom a woman’s mind; that’s what Milo said as he watched his wife read to Zia in bed, the light of the pad she held shining brightly on their faces in the dark. There wasn’t much use for reading when you’re out there in the inky black, sorting rocks by the teraton, he thought, but the kid liked it and the little lady liked it, and if they were happy, then Milo was happy. Maybe they should settle down for a while, and maybe Arb-Niner was a decent enough patch. He lay on the bed next to his wife and his child, squinting at the too-bright screen that showed something from one heck of a long time ago, all small and black and white and like something Zia might draw herself. He asked them what they were reading.
Bloom County
came the answer. His wife said Zia didn’t understand it, but Zia jumped up on the bed and said she liked the penguin, which tickled old Milo something. Later that night, he was sitting in the cockpit of his mighty new ship, watching lights on the panel flicker as the Spiderbaby’s legs convulsed reflexively underneath them, when his wife came by, gave him a kiss, and told him to fix the ship reg or he’d have to swim the rest of the way to Arb-Niner. She laughed and he laughed too, but there was a hardness in her eyes. Goddamn it if the woman wasn’t speaking the truth.

Milo Hollywood picked up his pad, called up the ship reg, remembered the penguin and the happiness on Zia’s face, and thought of a name.

And so the famous P-Prof
Herculanium Lady
vanished, and the legendary P-Prof
Bloom County
was born.

PART THREE

THE GHOSTS OF SUBSPACE

24

Whispers in the dark.

Zia Hollywood’s head jerked against the back of her command chair. She’d dropped off. It had been a long journey. Her three crew members, seated in front of her in the flight deck, each turned their heads around at the sudden leathery creak of her movement. She met their eyes, one by one, then nodded slightly. The crew turned back around.

Beep.

“
Bloom County,
this is
Coast City
. Welcome to the neighborhood, friend. Please transmit your preassigned clearance codes and security authorization. Channels are open.”

Across space, a pencil-thin beam punched the radiation-soaked vacuum, carrying vital data from the
Bloom County
to the shadowed hulk of the station. The light from Shadow, the technetium star a hundred million klicks away, sucked at the transmission, stripping energy and data from it, introducing a rhythmic pattern of interference that sounded like a heartbeat, if anyone had listened to the raw feed. The computer on the
Bloom County
noted the energy loss automatically and boosted the signal; Zia glanced at the comms display on the arm of her chair, noticing a data transfer failure of more than 80 percent.

Beep.

“
Bloom County,
you are cleared for approach. Set your docking computer to ready and we’ll guide you in. Enjoy the ride.”

The message ended, and the air pulsed with static for just a second.

Zia heard it, even if no one else did. The static was odd, tinged with something metallic, something … screeching. She knew about the star, of course. Maybe, without her realizing it, it had made her anxious, because she had heard the sound in her purple-tinged dream too.

She leaned back, and the chair creaked again, and a warning tone sounded as the docking computer went online.

Beep.

One of her crew, Dathan, ran a finger along a data readout and flicked the comms channel back on.

“
Coast City,
this is
Bloom County
. Systems report a second-class alert on board our destination. We’ve been trying to contact you on the lightspeed link for several cycles. Can you confirm the nature of your alert and advise if your port is open? Please acknowledge.”

Static swarmed. Zia leaned forward again, and somebody swore under his breath. The hub of the space station was an empty black void on the viewscreen ahead, a nothingness framed by the flickering violet light of the evil star beyond.

Beep.

“P-Prof
Bloom County,
this is the U-Star
Coast City
. Alert status negative. We have a minor technical issue due to the ongoing demolition of this platform, and increased solar activity is affecting the lightspeed link. Proceed as normal, no special instructions required.”

“
Bloom County
confirmed. See you on the other side.”

25

The ready room felt
huge without the desk.

They—whoever “they” were—had attacked the beating heart of the station, somehow making it to the ready room and turning it over, turning Commandant Elbridge’s expensive desk into so much expensive matchwood, at the same time as Ida’s and Serra’s squads had been confronted. “They” had got past guards, crew, Flyeyes at their posts, the works. The first anyone knew something was wrong was when the comms were filled with the roar of the ocean and the sound of destruction came from behind the ready room’s closed door. When that door was opened, the room was a mess, the desk shattered, the provost marshal insensible in a corner.

Ida knew something had happened, even before he stepped inside and saw the wreckage. The commandant himself had tried to warn him that something was happening, something to do with the ready room. Ida didn’t mention that to anyone. Not yet.

Whatever force, whoever the enemy was, they’d escaped, vanishing from the station with the eight marines led by Serra and Ida—they were the only two who were left behind. Worse than that, the station’s manifest now reported less than half the crew there had been before. Those left aboard the
Coast City
were in a state of shock, impotent, with nothing to do but put armed guards everywhere and pretend to their VIPs that nothing was wrong. Pretend that the security was normal and that shadows and the cold were just an artifact of the station’s half-demolished condition and that everyone was just tense because the end of the road was in sight, is all. And Ida pretended that the voice of the commandant hadn’t come through his comm, that the absent commander hadn’t tried to contact him, give a warning, as all hell broke loose.

Ida wasn’t even sure that had happened, not anymore. Just a cycle later and he and Serra were standing in the ready room, he with his arms folded and she staring at the picture on the wall, which had survived intact. Ida glanced at her: she looked empty, burnt out. He knew she was a psi-marine, the last left on board, and he wondered what she was feeling and seeing and hearing that nobody else was. Like him, perhaps. He thought about the commandant’s voice and about Astrid and paint flakes on the floor. Neither of which made him happy, not at all.

The ruins of the wooden desk had been removed. Now King had only a computer pad and a chair, and it looked as though he was making do with just that. There was hardly any point in refitting the room for the last months before the final sections of the
Coast City
were packed into their crates and rocketed on the long drag homeward.

Provost Marshal King stood square in the center of the room, arms folded, chin held high. Behind him, Ida heard the armor of the guard at the door crackle as he shifted on his feet. Red alert. Battle stations.

“So, what happens next?” asked Ida. Serra finally turned her head from the painting to look at him, but when Ida met her eye, her expression was still blank, like she was somewhere else entirely.

King’s nostrils flared, but he remained otherwise motionless. “Next, Captain?”

Ida tightened the loop of his folded arms. “Yes, next. We have personnel missing. We have firsthand proof of intrusion. We have to tackle this now.”

King shook his head. Then he held up his hand as Ida made to protest.

“Captain, I agree, but our VIPs have docked. We’ve put the station on alert and have armed guards covering as much of the hub as possible, but we’re spread thin. We need to hold out until our guests have left, and then maybe we can accelerate the demolition. We have barely enough personnel to maintain operations, let alone go chasing after ghosts.”

Ida found King’s choice of words interesting. He raised an eyebrow. “Ghosts?”

“Intruders, then,” said the marshal. “And with the lightspeed link down we can’t alert other stations or call for any help, either. We’re alone out here. We need to focus on internal security right now. We have a very valuable guest to look after. Her safety, and that of her crew, is paramount.”

Ida folded his arms. “Where’s Elbridge?”

King flinched, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “What?”

“The Commandant, Price Elbridge. Do you know where he is?”

King turned away and paced back to his chair. He reached down and ran his hand along the edge of the computer pad as though he were about to pick it up. Then he seemed to change his mind, and he straightened up.

Ida stepped forward. “I was expecting him to be here when I arrived, but apparently he left before the last transport, but somehow after the one before that.”

King’s shoulders sagged. When the marshal turned back to Ida, his face was gray and the skin around his eyes tight.

“The station has two shuttles,” said Ida. “One has been packed away and the other is still in use to patrol the system.”

“I—”

“So where is he? Where did he go?”

Ida and King regarded each other in silence in the ready room. King knew something. He was hiding something. Ida knew it. He had to tell him about the voice on the comms, about the absent commandant getting in touch, or at least trying to. And then—

“Marshal, our VIP has arrived.”

The Flyeye’s appearance at Ida’s shoulder broke the spell. Ida turned, suddenly angry, forcing himself to relax and to breathe, breathe, breathe.

Ida turned back to King. “Marshal, please.”

But it was too late. King nodded at the Flyeye and strode from the room, leaving Ida and Serra and the marine on the door.

Ida sighed, and tried to think of something to say to Serra when he noticed she was squinting, like she was in pain.

“You okay?”

Serra rubbed her temples, spat out “fine,” and turned on her heel. As she left, Izanami stepped out of the shadows on the other side of the room. Ida blinked. He’d had no idea she was there with them. In the dim light her eyes seemed to shine blue. Then she laughed.

“Sorry!” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” She looked at the marine stationed at the door.

“I’m hungry,” she said. She walked toward the door. “Come on, let’s eat.”

26

The woman on the
screen cast a lazy look around the bridge, eyes hidden behind large rectangular dark glasses, while her entourage laughed at something. Beside her, King smiled, but everyone else on the bridge was as stiff as a board, standing to attention during the official tour. Armed marines stood against practically every clear spot of wall, conspicuous in their green armor.

Ida took another bite of the protein stick and peered closer at the screen hanging above the table in his cabin. The official welcome was, despite the current situation, being done by the book, broadcast on the station-wide information channel like any other important bit of Fleet business.

“She’s pretty.”

Ida looked over his shoulder. Izanami had crept up behind him and was peering around his folded arms.

Zia Hollywood was not pretty. She was flat-out gorgeous. Deep auburn hair streaked with black, cut into a long, angled bob that framed a delicate face with a snub nose. She was wearing black overalls, the top half folded down at the waist and the arms tied around her middle in a big knot, revealing a black sleeveless singlet. There she was, clad in the practical work gear of a space miner and somehow she outshone the stars. Her left arm was heavily tattooed, geometric patterns and floral motifs slowly moving over her skin. Intelligent, mobile ink was expensive. Her moving tattoo had probably cost as much as the pile of antique kindling that had been the commandant’s desk.

Ida watched her on the screen as she glanced here and there, her eyes hidden behind what he could see now were square mining goggles. At the center of her entourage, she was silent and otherwise still. Her crew consisted only of three men. They were grimier than their boss, their overalls patched and marked, the bare biceps of one of them—a tall, thin man with an alarming scarlet Mohawk—matted with scar tissue. Ida had caught him being referred to as Dathan. He looked like he’d been handsome once, but his nose was angled strangely and the rest of his face was flat as a plate. He scowled at the camera and sniffed, the movement pulling his broken nose to one side. The other two were Ivanhoe—a very short, muscular older man, bald with a long graying beard—and an average-looking thirty-something with a huge, spherical Afro haircut who seemed to go by the name Fathead.

Ida shivered. Pulling himself away from the screen, he walked over to the environment controls near the door and poked at them. He didn’t expect much to happen. The lights were now stuck on twilight-normal around most of the hub, and—sudden failures aside—the whole station seemed to be getting steadily colder. He thought Izanami must have been terribly cold in her thin, short-sleeved white medical tunic, but the temperature didn’t seem to bother her.

The controls responded and warm air began to blow into the cabin. Satisfied for the moment, Ida turned back around.

“Where were you, anyway?” he asked. “Did you see anything when it happened?”
It
being the security breach.

“I locked myself in the med unit. Didn’t see anything.” She turned back to the screen and then she asked, “Why don’t you like her?”

“Who?”

“Zia Hollywood. You don’t like her, or her crew.”

“Says who?”

Izanami brushed her hair from her eyes. “You don’t like anyone, Abraham.”

Ida worked his mouth. She … Actually, she was right, and he knew it, but her tone was surprisingly hard. And she had called him Abraham.