The Colonists (The Movement Trilogy) (12 page)

Hatsuye pulls the cap from her head, and her dark hair tumbles out. It doesn't bounce like it once did. Even under the cap, her hair has become clogged with the black stuff. She runs her fingers through her hair, and then inspects her hand. Streaks of black on her fingers, her palm.
 

When the day comes, she decides to shave it all off.
 

If she could pull her skin off, too, she would.
 

Hatsuye feels a vibration in her neck, and sits down on the counter. She rolls up her sleeve and exposes the wrist of her prosthetic arm. She presses her wrist, and a segment of the prosthetic extrudes and swivels to reveal a small screenview.
 

There's a message from below.

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•
 
•

Murray, Hatsuye whispers.

Murray turns over.
 

Murray, Hatsuye says, a little louder.

What, Murray mumbles.

Read this, Hatsuye says.

She holds out the screenview.

Early, Murray mumbles.

No, it's late, Hatsuye says. You've been sleeping so long it's messed with your internal clock. Wake up. This is important.
 

Murray groans.
 

Read it, Hatsuye says again.

Murray sits up, bandages creaking. What's this, he says.

It's from the surface team, Hatsuye says.
 

Murray pulls at the bandages around his eyes. Damn things, he says.
 

You can take them off soon, Hatsuye says.
 

Yeah?
 

Read it.

Ahead of schedule, Murray reads. No need to wait for second window. First will do.

Hatsuye is beaming.

Murray says, Wait. Second window is what, eight months away?

Not exactly, but close.
 

First window is --

First window is tomorrow night, Hatsuye says.
Tomorrow night
, Murray.

Murray seems to hold his breath. So these bandages --

You don't have to wear them for the rest of the year, Hatsuye says. Maybe that ruse wouldn't have worked anyway, but who cares now. You can take them off tomorrow.

Murray exhales. Thank Christ, he says. I have so many little itches.

You know what this means, Hatsuye says. You do, right?

It means it's time to work, Murray says.
 

They finished their part much more quickly than I anticipated.
 

How did they --

I don't know. They just did. Don't question it.

Wait, Murray says. What if that message isn't legitimate?
 

Hatsuye turns on the bedside light. It's legitimate.

But how do you know?
 

I know.

I don't know, Linset, Murray says. It seems questionable. That's a lot of work to get done in four weeks.
 

Maybe they found an opportunity we didn't consider, Hatsuye says.

Or maybe they were caught, and someone is fucking with you, Murray says.

No, Hatsuye says.

It's possible.
 

It's not. It's legitimate.

You can't be certain, Murray says.

I'm goddamn certain, Hatsuye snaps. Do you want the bandages off or not?
 

Murray hesitates. I really do.

Then stop pushing, Hatsuye says. Tomorrow night, we move. Now read the last part.

Made a new friend, Murray reads. What does that mean?

I don't know. Keep reading.

Sending her to you, Murray continues. Arrival 1200 tomorrow.

A new friend, Hatsuye says.

Tomorrow is going to be complicated enough without a new person in the mix, Murray says. Who's this person?

You know as much as I do. I'm not happy about it either, but we don't have time to fight it.

New friend, Murray repeats. Probably a spy. I don't know. This doesn't sound right.

Hatsuye stands up. Tomorrow, she says.
 

Murray chews at a fingernail nervously. Tomorrow, he says. You're sure?

Hatsuye ignores this. We have a lot to do, she says. Get out of bed.

Hatsuye stands in the starbridge and stares down at the moon below.
 

She wishes that she could apologize to it. Once, Deimos was beautiful. Now, like the doomsayer says, Deimos is a rotten tooth.
 

Tonight Deimos will be relieved of its pain.
 

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•

When Hatsuye returns to the compartment, it is 1900 hours and she is very tired. She has been awake since the wee hours, departing with the morning shift surge to trace the route under crowd cover. The service corridors will be empty tonight, so they'll stick to those as often as possible.

When she had been certain of the route and the timing, she went to work. She had quickly arranged for a shift swap, and spent the day scrubbing dishes in the black kitchen. Now she trudges home, her excitement for the night quashed by exhaustion.
 

She steps into the compartment and stops short. Murray is there, unwinding the bandages around his legs. He's sitting on the bed. There's a woman standing a few feet away, hands on her hips.
 

Right, Hatsuye remembers. The friend.
 

But she is cautious now, like Murray was last night. Suddenly Murray's concern seems practical, and Hatsuye regrets brushing him off the night before.
 

The stranger looks up, sees Hatsuye, and smiles.

I'm told your name is Linset, the stranger says.

Hatsuye nods. Linset, she says.

Linset and Murray, the stranger says. A perfectly delightful, ordinary couple. The Asian woman who works in the kitchen, and the mummy who stays in his tomb.
 

I'm no mummy, Murray says.
 

Of course, the stranger says. And Hatsuye here is no ordinary dishwasher. Nobody suspects the dishwasher.

Hatsuye snaps into gear. Until we leave, I am Linset. Listen, I don't know anything about you. The surface team vouched, but that doesn't carry any weight until I know you better. You're a risk -- I know you know that, so I won't belabor the point. But if you're coming with us tonight -- and if you're not, then you really have other things to do right now -- then until we are away, I am Linset, and he is Murray, and you are -- you are -- who are you?

The stranger smiles. Of course, you're nervous. I completely understand. I'm an unknown quantity, inserted into your careful plans at the last moment. You should be nervous. But there's no reason to be. We're working for the same cause. I'm a free agent now, but I hope after tonight I won't be any longer.

Your name, please, Hatsuye says.
 

Of course, the stranger says again.
 

She holds out her hand.
 

I'm Catrine Newsome, she says. It's a real pleasure.

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Murray continues to unwind his bandages.

I don't know you, Hatsuye says.

Catrine smiles. No, of course you don't.
 

I know most of the people in our -- in our field, Hatsuye says. What have you done?

I'm a free agent now, Catrine says again, but until fairly recently I was the second of another resistance agent.
 

The second, Murray says, looking up. What do you mean?

Second-in-command, Catrine says. First officer. First lieutenant. The person who got shit done. However you want to put it.
 

Ah, Murray says.
 

He keeps unwinding. Both legs are free now, and the pile of bandages grows. Murray's skin has a yellowish tinge beneath the wrappings.

I look like I have full-body jaundice, he says.

Hatsuye ignores him. Second for who? she asks Catrine.

Catrine hesitates.
 

Second for who? Hatsuye repeats.
 

When Catrine doesn't answer immediately, Hatsuye says, This is a fairly simple equation, Ms. Newsome. Without an answer, you remain in this compartment when we leave. I assume the surface team filled you in on the plan. You know what that means?

I worked for Tasneem Kyoh, Catrine says.

Murray stops unwrapping his hips. Wait, he says.

Tasneem Kyoh, Hatsuye says.
 

The Tasneem Kyoh? Murray asks.

Catrine nods.
 

I thought Tasneem Kyoh was dead, Murray says.

She died in the System War, Hatsuye says.
 

Not true, Catrine says.
 

Then --

Tasneem's been biding her time since the war, Catrine says. She's in hiding, waiting for the right moment to come out.
 

Tasneem Kyoh is legendary, Murray says. I can't believe she's alive.

She's not, Hatsuye says. She's lying. You're lying.

I'm telling the truth, Catrine says.
 

Proof would help, Hatsuye says.
 

Do you have a wave system? Catrine asks.

Murray points at the wall beside the bed.
 

Catrine fiddles with the system, then settles on a raw frequency that's crunchy with static. Between the static, however, a woman's voice can be heard.
 

I heard that earlier, Hatsuye says. Someone else was listening to it.
 

Meet Tasneem Kyoh, Catrine says.
 

...
hard to remember what things were [static] the Council. Before the Citadel. We're made to work [static] forget to remember. But I remember. I never forget. I remember [static] was stolen away.

Catrine turns the system off.

She's in hiding, seeding the Machine class with these messages, waiting for something to sprout, Catrine says. So far, there's not much. Little uprisings here and there, always crushed by the Citadel.

Where is she? Hatsuye asks.

In hiding, Catrine says again. She's not coming out until she's needed.
 

She's needed now, Hatsuye says. This revolution needs a face.

If she comes out now, the Citadel will kill her, Catrine says.

Martyrs inspire change, Hatsuye says.

Maybe, says Catrine. But if they killed her now, it would be a story. Not a martyrdom. There aren't enough people in the movement to rise up yet. There's no movement. Most of the system never hears these broadcasts. Most of the system never hears about the little rebellions. They have their own problems.
 

I'd like to meet her, Hatsuye says. How old is she now?

Must be a thousand, Murray says, unwrapping his belly.
 

Not quite, Catrine says. She's between five hundred and six hundred years old. I always forget exactly. She never liked that. My memory wasn't good with those kinds of things.

You said the system needs a reason to rise up, Hatsuye says.

They need a reason to believe that freedom matters, Catrine says. Most of them need a definition for freedom. They'd be lost if they had it. They've lived under the Council for so long. Someone needs to remind them of what we once had.

Tonight might serve that purpose, Hatsuye says.

They wouldn't tell me much, Catrine says.
 

Neither will I, Hatsuye says.

Murray stands up, and unwraps his chest. Two breasts plop out, imprinted with bandage marks.
 

Catrine stares, then looks at Hatsuye.
 

Hatsuye shrugs. We have secrets, too.

Murray looks up and sees Catrine staring. What? he asks.

You -- you have breasts, Catrine says.

Yes, Murray says.

You're -- are you a woman?

Hatsuye rolls her eyes.
 

It's a fair question, Murray says.

Hatsuye walks over to Murray and pulls at the bandages on his head, revealing first one eye, then the next.
 

Hey, hey, whoa, Murray says. That hurts. Let me do it.
 

Murray pulls and pulls, unwinding the bandages carefully. A shock of red hair emerges, matted and snagged by the wrappings. Two blue eyes, a narrow nose, two sharp cheekbones. Plump, feminine lips.

Hatsuye turns to Catrine, whose mouth hangs open.
 

Catrine Newsome, she says. I'd like you to meet the real face of the revolution.
 

She's a little dramatic, Murray says, extending one still-bandaged hand. I'm Evelyn Jans.

Olympus is a prism.

Its great columns and spheres of glass catch the waning Mars sunset and fragment it, spearing shards of light this way and that. The rusty desert surrounding the city dances with thrown light. Tiny beads of light flit through the streets and airways, each containing a Martian. An Olympian. The city is approaching nightfall, its residents struggling to get home, to see their families, to dine and sleep.

Deimos is a great stone, tumbling overhead.

It it pitted and cavernous in places, the enormous chasms plugged with mining scaffolds and building-sized drills and thudding, pounding machinery. The rock is alive with tiny miners and mining bots, all of them crawling through the small moon like ants, like termites.

The rebellion is born anew tonight.

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Hatsuye guides Catrine and Evelyn through the service corridors, moving at a comfortable pace. There are few people about.
 

Here, she says.
 

They follow a passage marked with spaceport symbols, tiny rockets emitting cartoonish puffs of smoke and plumes of flame.
 

We're leaving? Catrine asks.

If you want to live, Hatsuye says.

Evelyn shushes them both. Look, I'm as pleased to be out of that tomb as anybody, but can you please shut the fuck up and focus?
 

Sorry, Miss Jans, Catrine says.

It's just Evelyn, Hatsuye says. No need to be formal.