The Colonists (The Movement Trilogy) (11 page)

No, Hatsuye says. You mustn't.
 

The person on the bed groans. I can't stand them. I want to rip them off.
 

They stay on. We don't know if the room is monitored.
 

Hatsuye, her companion says.
 

Linset. Get it together, Murray. Bandages stay on. We use the right names. If you give us up this early, so help me, I will --

Stop it, Murray says. I get it. Okay? I get it. But next time, you're wearing the goddamned disguise. And I'm going to soak it in pepper sauce before you put it on.

Agreed. I brought food.

Oh, good, Murray says, sitting up. What is it?
 

Carrot stew.

They don't serve anything else on this shitbox, do they? Carrot stew. Carrot stew. Every day, it's carrot stew.

Or beet salad.

Worse, Murray says. Fine. I'll eat it. I'm going to turn orange, though. When you take these bandages off and I'm a carrot, don't be surprised.

I'll visit the supply lounge tomorrow, Hatsuye says. See when they're expecting more food shipments.
 

Mars is orange because it's covered with carrots. Carrot planet. Let's blow it up and create a new asteroid belt made of carrot chunks.
 

Have you been sleeping?
 

Not enough, Murray admits. I can't sleep. I'm tired of waiting. I want to do something.
 

Not yet, Hatsuye says.
 

It would make a big enough statement on its own if we just did it now, Murray says. Pull the pin and jump ship.
 

That isn't enough, Hatsuye says.
 

If it means I don't have to sit in this compartment any more, I say we do it now.

It isn't enough, Hatsuye repeats.
 

You're not the one --

It isn't enough
. Do you know what this facility is for?
 

It's a mining station. A processing hub. I'm not ignorant, Hatsuye.
 

Linset
, Hatsuye hisses. Jesus Christ, Murray.
 

Calm down. God.
 

Hatsuye takes the bowl of carrot stew out of Murray's hands.

Hey, Murray says.
 

Hatsuye puts the bowl down on a shelf, then turns quickly and shoves Murray down onto the bed.
 

Hey! Murray says. What are you --

But Hatsuye leaps onto the bed and straddles Murray's chest, pinning his arms with her knees.
 

Get off, Murray says, struggling. Get off of me! You're crazy, you --

Do you know what happens if someone hears you call me by that name? Hatsuye asks, her face so close to Murray's that his eyes blur. Do you know? Can you tell me?
 

Murray struggles, and Hatsuye presses his arms tighter to the bed.
 

Answer me, Hatsuye says.

Get off of me! Murray says.
 

Answer me.
 

Murray fights back, and then abruptly stops, sagging beneath Hatsuye's grip.
 

I don't know, he says. Whatever.
 

No, Hatsuye says. Not whatever. Never
whatever.
There's no whatever in this life, Murray.
 

Stop calling me --

No
, Hatsuye says. You are Murray. You're Murray Handler. You live and breathe Murray Handler until I tell you it's safe not to be. Do you understand that? Do you get it? It isn't safe. It's
never safe
.
 

Fine, Murray grunts. Get off.
 

Hatsuye leans even closer, then presses her mouth to Murray's bandaged ear.
 

Do you know what happens if I'm found out? she asks. Do you know?
 

Murray turns his head from her, straining.
 

Stop fucking fighting me, Hatsuye snaps.
 

She pushes Murray hard, using him as leverage to hop off of the bed. Murray doesn't get up. He rubs at his arms, breathing hard.
 

What the --

Hatsuye paces around the small compartment. I've been found out before, she says.
 

I know that, we've talked --
 

No, she says. Listen to me. Before, when they caught me, they took pieces of me.
 

Murray sits up a little. I thought those were accidents. From the bombs.

This was, Hatsuye says, holding up her right hand. People blow their hands off all the time. Have you ever heard of someone blowing off an arm or a leg and living? It doesn't happen, Murray. You bleed out pretty fast, and let's not forget all of the shrapnel that's embedded everywhere else.
 

Then what happened to your --

Hatsuye pulls her jacket off, then the shirt beneath. Her body is ticked with scars. One breast is misshapen, a scoop of it torn away in a blast long ago. Curling red lines map her abdomen. Her skin is patchy from a dozen grafts.
 

As Murray watches, Hatsuye pulls a small lever in the shoulder of her prosthetic left arm. The arm separates from her body, and Hatsuye removes it. She puts it down on the bed, and Murray, without meaning to, scoots slightly away from it. When he looks up again, Hatsuye has turned to show him her left shoulder.
 

Does that look like blast damage to you? she asks him.

The skin is bumpy, but it has healed in an almost level plane.
 

Murray shakes his head. What happened?
 

Surgical saw, Hatsuye says. No anesthetics. Nothing to bite on. They buzzed my arm off like a tree branch, Murray, and then they flat-ironed the wound. Do you want me to show you my leg, too?
 

Murray nearly flinches. Same thing?
 

Bigger saw, Hatsuye answers.

Murray says, Hatsuye, I'm --

Linset, Hatsuye says. I'm Linset. Forget that other name. It's gone. It doesn't exist.
 

I --

And let me explain to you, Murray, what happens if we get caught here, Hatsuye says. If they catch us, this time they'll take my remaining arm and leg, and they'll probably gut the nerves so that my body rejects the prosthetics from now on. That's if they decide to let me live. This time, they probably won't. Do you know what happens to you?
 

Murray swallows. What?

They'll kill you in front of me, Hatsuye says. Because what they love more than killing insurgents is breaking them, and if they killed you in front of me, Murray, I would break, I would break in an instant, because I've been strong all my life, and there are some things that strength can't protect you from.
 

Murray is quiet.
 

But, Hatsuye continues. None of that will happen. Do you know why?
 

Murray shakes his head.

Because that arm beside you, and this leg I'm standing on, are the finest bombs I've ever built, Hatsuye says. If they catch us, it'll be the last thing they do. Do you understand?

Hatsuye can't see Murray's face through the bandages, but his eyes are hesitant, worried. She grips Murray's shoulders and levels her face with his.
 

Tell me you understand, she says.

Murray slowly nods his head.

We won't let that happen, right? Hatsuye asks.

Another nod.

So, she says. What's my name?
 

Murray starts to speak, then clears his throat.

Linset, he says.

And you are?

Murray, he says.
 

Hatsuye nods curtly. Good, she says. Very good.

•
 
•
 
•

Murray is asleep. Hatsuye dries her hair, and studies her battered body in the mirror. It occurs to her sometimes to wonder why Murray stays with her. She has a temper, and she's controlling, and she doesn't tolerate dissent. She wears her past hard, every scar a tattoo that she memorizes daily. She's a woman in pieces, and most of the edges are ragged and sharp.

When he hair is dry, she pulls a brush through it bitterly. She doesn't care for her hair now. It's longer than she likes it, and it has shape and volume, two things that she's done without for a decade.
 

But Linset has nice hair. Linset wears the simplest makeup, despite holding a job that geysers steam into her face every afternoon, that gnaws at her fingernails, that prunes her skin for hours. Linset has a quiet, almost innocent dignity about her, and Hatsuye wears it like a too-small suit of clothes.
 

When Hatsuye emerges from the bathroom, Murray stirs.

You're leaving, he says.
 

Yes, Hatsuye says.

So early. Your shift is hours away.

Recon, Hatsuye says. There's a lot to do.

Murray reaches out and takes Hatsuye's hand in his own gauze-wrapped one.

I'm sorry for yesterday, he says. I'm impatient, and a pain in the ass.

It's your first time, Hatsuye says. It's understandable.

I can't imagine you've ever been like that, though.

No, Hatsuye says.

Murray laughs. When this is through, can we take a couple of days off? I want to walk outside somewhere. Hold your hand. Not through bandages, either. Just take some time.

When this is through, if we aren't dead, we'll have to lay low, Hatsuye says. We'll have nothing but time.
 

Murray nods. I love you. Linset.

Hatsuye holds Murray's hand to her cheek.

I'm going, she says. Sleep.

There isn't much to life on the mining station. Aside from the mess hall, there are few recreational zones on the ship. Hatsuye takes the grav-well to the lowest level of the station, and spends an hour in the fitness lounge. Few others use the lounge. Life on a mining station is a series of punishing days sewn together like a heavy blanket.
 

As she lifts, she is joined by a young man with white hair. He nods at her, then asks, Mind if I put something on?

He points at the wave system.

Hatsuye shrugs. Okay by me.
 

The young man frequency-hops until something cuts through the pale static. It's a woman's voice, talking.
 

Hatsuye looks up.
 

The young man says, Next, and the system bounces farther down the band.

Wait, Hatsuye says. Go back?

It's just propaganda bullshit, the man says.
 

Please? Hatsuye asks.
 

Back, the young man says.

When the static furls back to reveal the woman's patient voice, Hatsuye says, Who is this? I've heard it a few times, but I didn't know how to tell who it was. I can't tell what she's talking about.

The young man grabs a couple of weights. Like I said, he repeats. Propaganda shit.
 

Hatsuye listens for a moment.

The woman's voice is unique. Motherly, almost, with a slight edge to her tone.
 

So much has been taken from us
, the woman says,
that it's hard to remember what things were like before. Before the Council. Before the Citadel. We're made to work so hard that we forget to remember. But I remember. I never forget. I remember what freedom was like. I remember how it felt when it was stolen away.

Who is she? Hatsuye asks.
 

The young man grunts in between repetitions. I forget her name, he says. Something unusual.
 

Is she always on here?
 

Most of the time, he says. The message loops. I don't listen to her. Crazy old kook has been reading these messages for years. It's annoying.

The great myths of my childhood were replete with stories of entire nations forced into bondage
, the woman says.
Those nations relied on their gods for strength and courage, and only then were they able to rise up. Well, my fellow spacemen, we live among the stars now. And the space between the stars is great and empty, and there are no gods here. No mighty spirits wait in the wings to inspire us to action.

Huh, Hatsuye says. Crazy.

Crazy, right? the young man says, sweating profusely.
 

Completely crazy, Hatsuye says.
 

But she likes what she hears.

•
 
•
 
•

The mining station doesn't have a name. It's one of three stations that orbit Deimos, the last constructed, and so usually referred to as number three. It occupies the highest orbit around the moon, and is substantially larger than stations one and two. The core drills are repaired and dispensed from station three. The largest contingent of miners live on station three.
 

Station three is otherwise unremarkable.
 

Except to Hatsuye.

The mining stations are launched from the industrial sector of Olympus, the sprawling, triumphant capital city of Mars. Olympus is the Council's most important inner-system property, practically an extension of Citadel Meili itself. The four councilmen travel to Olympus now and then. Two of their families live in Olympus, in the city's most protected region, next to Athena, the artificial river that winds through the city like a ribbon. One heir lives in that region.

Station three orbits Deimos.
 

Deimos orbits Mars.

And sometimes, Deimos casts its porous shadow over Olympus itself.

But only now and then.
 

Not now.
 

But then.

Soon.

•
 
•
 
•

Murray is asleep again when Hatsuye returns.
 

She thinks of waking him, but she is tired, and her hands are grimy, and she slips into the bathroom instead. She scrubs at her fingernails, but the black won't come off. Her skin is several shades darker these days. The soot is so fine that it gets in deep and doesn't come out. She's sure it is poisoning her. How could it not be?