Futatsu makes a bad prisoner. [Earthsiders]
All you need to know: 'Tatsu got shot down. *Someone* picked him up. Backstory. To Be Continued as soon as the next line stops trying to injure me.
So here I am fucked up beyond all recognition in someone else’s cell, which is not where you wanna be in the middle of a war, and especially not when you know the war’s against terrorists, and especially not when you’re trained to resist torture and they know it, because dammit, all my training ever gets me is beat up worse. Anyway yeah, I already have about five hundred bruises and I can’t breathe right and hey, they patched up my leg, which is damn decent of them, but not gonna help my opinion of them a whole lot in the long run.
I go through all that in two and a half seconds and I don’t make a noise except a little tiny hitch in breathing when I find out about my broken ribs, but the guy standing watch over me still knocks on the cinderblocks and says, “Hey. Get up.”
No point pretending, I guess, and I sit up and try not to scream. I mean they know I’m fucked up, but I might as well try to do the tough-guy thing, and dammit, I swear I do not whimper. Not even a little bit, when I twist and my abdominal muscles are attacked by flamethrower-wielding porcupines.
Guy is taller than I am and half again as big around, and full of efficient-looking malice. He has a dorky but practical haircut. His clothes are beat up. I’m trying not to think about how few scars he has. You think facial scars are scary? Nah. What’s fucking scary is someone who looks like he’d break you in half and pour your blood over cereal, all casual-like, and doesn’t have any marks from the eight hundred fights he must’ve been in.
Scary-guy glares at me - I guess it could be his standard, but it looks like a glare. God, imagine having sex with a guy like that. Anyway. So then someone else comes in, and he is kinda roughed up, but scary-guy defers, so he’s probably even more dangerous. God-fucking-dammit.
I push myself sitting against the wall, and stop. “Sorry man, can’t get any farther than this. Thanks for the leg, though. Feels almost like it’s not gonna cause my painful death from blood-loss and infection!” I tell boss-guy, and give him a wave and my best smile. I think it’s kinda hard to charm a guy when half your face is gone purple from a fucking rock being thrown at it, though, ‘cause he doesn’t look impressed.
Also the porcupines have taken up tap-dancing. Does this mean I should keep my stupid fucking mouth shut? Nah.
“That’d be kinda a shame, yeah?” he says. Guy’s got a straight-up Earthsider accent, probably some flavor of North American. He also grins like a pro. I am in such deep shit right now.
“I like to think so,” I say. Like I ever pass up a chance to talk.
“I’d think so. You got a lot to tell me, flyboy,” he says. Who the fuck says ‘flyboy’?
“Yeah that’s not high on my list of priorities right now,” I tell him. “I’ll just be leaving. Hate to be mobbed and run, but you know, got a lot to do.”
He nods, totally nonchalant. I may be outclassed. “Yeah, I bet. Lots of folks to slaughter, buildings to bomb, that kinda thing, yeah?”
I weigh the options, trying not to talk with my hands and failing. Damned ingrained habits. “Something like that. Probably lighter on the slaughter and heavier on the bombings. What with the whole ‘terrorist’ situation, you fuckers are hard to kill.”
Bossguy sighs and nods at scaryguy, who promptly steps into my cell and kicks me back onto the floor. I do not yell. Maybe just a little bit. Mostly I’m centered on the oh-my-fucking-god-PAIN thing, so I might not know what I’m talking about, but I don’t hear myself yelling until after I get a chance to stop seeing white. The porcupines take up residence in my head and shoulder and also, get issued napalm. Little spiny fuckers.
“I ain’t anybody’s terrorist, spacer. So. You’re Futatsu Walker.” He gives my rank and serial number, and the division I belong to, and the model of plane I fly. Well fuck me.
From somewhere - sure as hell not my brain, ‘cause that’s clearly not working at this point or I’d have shut up - I manage to retrieve the sentence, “Something seems kinda backwards about this.”
I don’t see him grin, being all sprawled on the floor, as you do, but I can hear it. “I’m not seein’ it, nope. See, way I got this situation worked out, the guy willin’ to give out the information don’t get beat up. You seem like a bright fella, you understand.”
Yeah, I understand, since this situation is not exactly new to me. These guys are smart though. Bothers me. Seem nice enough, too. It’s really gonna suck when I have to kill ‘em.
“Warning you, I’m trained in resisting torture.” ‘Course that doesn’t mean I’m actually good at it, and like I said, all it ever gets me is more bruises. Not like guys like me even ever get any top-secret shit to keep under wraps.
I pull myself up, keep my head as still as I can - feels like my brain’s sloshing around in my head, and it takes me a while to focus. Concussion: fun with sensory warp.
Bossguy nods. “Yeah see, I kinda figured. So I’m not gonna bother, right off, ‘less I hear you cursing my folks again.” Oh great… wait, what?
“That’s not how it’s supposed to go.” I don’t think. Could be wrong. Might be perceiving time backwards. That’d be kinda cool.
He shakes his head, and all of a sudden scaryguy is pulling me to an upright position. The fuck? Bossguy says, “Nah, wrong again. First I’m gonna give you some info, you’re gonna kindly not try to kill me, and then we’re gonna see who’s willing. After that, we go on to torture. If we need it. We usually don’t.”
I get upright in time to hear the end of that little speech and boggle. There’s a usual? “What the fuck?”
I’m kinda starting to hate that grin. Serious annoyance factor going on here. “Yeah, we get folks down like this a lot.” He nods at scaryguy significantly.
I pick up on this subtle sign instantly… momentarily… very slowly. Oh shut the hell up, I’m concussed. “…Tall-dark-and-fucked-in-the-head there was Spacer?”
Scaryguy says, “Yes, and I’m not anymore. Though I still do hate pilots.” He has a perfect Colony accent and the deepest voice I ever heard.
He also has a very specific attitude. “Oh fuck me, it’s infantry.”
His glare gets deeper. He’s gonna get wrinkles when he’s older. “I was Marines. Don’t even.”
“Thought Marines never left a guy behind? Fucking traitor,” I spit out. He hits me again. Something kind of cracks in what I think is probably my spine.
Bossguy clucks, which is just surreal. Sounds like someone’s grandma. “Both’a you shut it. Une here’s gonna give you some stuff that’ll give you a real life-changin’ experience, then I’m gonna come back, we’re gonna talk. You clear?”
Yeah, clear, even though the porcupines running races through my eye sockets are making it kinda hard to focus. “…Ow. Yeah. Clear. Fucked up, but clear.” I want to curse out the fucking traitor a bit better. Can’t though. Kind of fuzzy. Oh look, I’m halfway on the floor again. And I’m so going to have a black eye. Nice.
Bossguy rolls his eyes, I think. I’m losing focus. I will not pass out, dammit. “Yeah, you’re gonna fit right in,” he says. “Une, get him the folders, and for the love of Pete don’t let SingKueh in here ‘til after he’s had his revelation.” Marine-man walks out. I do not sigh in relief. I think.
Anyway so new information! I latch on to that to keep my brain from frying itself. “Who the hell’s SingKueh?”
Bossguy snickers. “Chinese guy, ‘bout your height, carries a sword.”
I know him! “That motherfucker shot me!” And it fucking hurt! And I completely forgot about it until right now! Fuck. Now my shoulder hurts even worse. It’s probably totally fucked up. Whee, that means seven hundred hours of physical therapy before I can even think about setting this whole damn place on fire.
Shrug. “You’re a bomber pilot.” Oh really. I’d forgotten. Damn, my sarcasm sucks right now.
“I wasn’t shooting at him,” I protest. Okay I was about half an hour before that, but then I got shot out of the fucking sky, so I think I made up for it, you know?
Bossguy gives me what I think is his calculating look, and I shiver. Because it’s cold. And I may or may not be in shock. “Yeah, that’s true. And you didn’t shoot the kids.”
“Oh man, that says…” deep breath to finish the sarcastic thought “…great things about your social system.” Bossguy shifts half a step closer and I do not edge back, I move to push myself back up against the wall. Because I’ve fallen on the floor again. Okay, that last bit’s actually true, I am so, so fucked. And he’s really tall. Though that could be just ‘cause I’m looking up from the floor of a fucking cell. I hate perspective.
He looks curious, not murderous. That’s scarier. Oh I am so killing him when I can stand up without crying like a little bitch. “None of us ever shoot kids. You folks, you shoot everything.”
Not like I’d have to if someone hadn’t decided it was time to blow a fucking colony out of the sky. “I don’t. Can we get this fucking over with?” I’m kinda looking forward to the unconsciousness bit now. Except for the bit where I have to wake up later.
“Not a problem. Just knock out for a while, Une’ll be back when you come to. Read. Talk to me when you’re done.” I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, and you know, I’d tell him so, but he’s kinda spinning and I don’t think he’d hear me from so far away and I don’t have the energy to shout…
***
I wake up, and it hurts. Like I didn’t expect that. Still.
At least it’s not porcupines anymore! Now, it’s sandpaper in the eyeballs, and pickaxe-bearing, combat-boot-wearing circus bears. In my head. Mother-fuck.
At least I’m tracking. I think. When I hear something outside the cinderblock wall - Christ, if I was in any shape to take anyone, I could waltz right on out of here - and my head whips around on instinct, I only yelp a little as the world turns forty-five degrees inside out. Forty-five degrees of pain.
But after that, I can focus. It’s Marine-man again. Whatsit. Une. Weirdass name. Not that I’m one to talk (thanks, Grandma). He’s got a file folder, beat-up old thing with a bunch of cheap newspaper in it.
He tosses it over at me and I just barely manage to smack it with the tips of my fingers - oh god why I just made a quick movement with my shot arm OW - and send the contents flying across the floor. “Fuck!” I swear to high heaven I’m usually more coordinated than this.
“Read those. Keep quiet ‘til you’re done,” he says, and settles himself back into the opening of the cinderblocks. He doesn’t put his back to me, and normally I’d say that’s smart, but seriously? I’d have trouble fighting off a concussed mosquito at this point. If I tried to knock him out, it’d be like the blooper reel to a slapstick comedy. Pick up cinderblock, spin around under its weight, flailing picturesquely, drop on toes, cry like five-year-old girl.
“Whatever, Groundie.” He growls - swear to God, growls, like the world’s most horrifying pit bull. I subside. Guess my sense of self-preservation is kicking in - didn’t know I had one of those.
So the papers are all Colony, Pacem Times, Inceptia Report - hang on a frickin’ minute, Inceptia? I check the date. It’s just two and a half days before the explosion.
I glare up at Marine-man. Are they trying to make me even more pissed off than I already am? There’s a reason I’m down here, dammit, and this is it.
He glares right back. There’s something to be said for the fuck-off power of a black eye and an open head wound, but his is still better. I look back at the paper, and force myself to focus on the text.
Nothing interesting. The clipped article is on the hydrogen-fusion energy cells. You know, the ones the Inceptia scientists were working on before the fucking groundie terrorists fucking blew up the fucking colony with every fucking civilian still on it. The ones that would’ve put us on Mars and let us get the hell out of Earth’s skies.
It’s cross-reffed to a bunch of the bits that Marine-man spilled all over the place - I am so not at fault for that, you don’t throw shit at a concussed guy unless you really want it broke. Don’t really feel like dragging myself all over the room to look ‘em up in order, so I grab the nearest. A piece of damn good repro military memo paper, signed and sealed - holy mother fucker of God.
This isn’t repro. No, that is sure as shootin’ the real thing. And it says, and I quote the important bits:
Operation Earthside: mission accomplished. Rebel planted.
And it’s signed by the fucking head of the UK Army. And it’s dated a day before the explosion.
I try for a laugh, but I wind up sounding like death with a head cold. “You guys got some good forgers, down here,” I say. Marine-man doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response. Yeah, so it was pretty weak. No way they’ve got the tools to do this kinda stuff down here. Not then, not now. I already figured that out: the actual head of the actual UK military sent this. To the actual head of the actual US army. A day before anyone ever capitalized the word ‘earthside’.
So everyone knows Earthside Rebel were the guys who brought down the Inceptia. I was only ten and I remember it damn well - hell, that’s when I decided I wanted to join the military. I used to go on field trips to Inceptia. My dad knew some people there. I saw it fall apart and burn up on reentry. I went to the funerals.
No one ever figured out how the groundies got in. There were all kindsa conspiracy theories, and here I am, holding the proof of the biggest one of all.
“Someone tell me I’m asleep,” I mutter, and shake the paper. Yeah, ‘cause my fucked-up brain is just hallucinating conspiracy shit - dammit, I never believed a word of it, always figured it was just social engineering and there were maybe two or three suicidal bastards on the colony - and it’ll resolve into something totally innocent if I just look at it right.
Marine-man says, “You woke up fifteen minutes ago.”
“Goddammit, I was trying to forget that,” I tell him. Glare. Maybe if I focus through the paper.
Nope. I grab the next article. The Mars project is postponed: there’s Earth to deal with first. Earthsiders keeping the crops, refusing to support the colonies, yeah, I remember that: fucking famine in the most developed time in man’s history. There’s a reason I’m so damn short.
So then we finally figure out the stupid space-worthy growing fields, get some supply colonies going, and there’s a whole fucking official paper trail that says shit like ‘postpone acknowledgement’ and ‘delicate situation’ and ‘sway public opinion’ and God damn it.
“Fuck!” Not eloquent. I’d hit the wall, but I don’t need any more breaks, so I just slam my head against it, very gently. “God-damned mother-fucking sons of camels’ prison bitches!” Better. I still need to hit something.
“Yeah, it’s kind of like that,” Marine-man says. He has a told-you-so smirk on. I could hit him. That’d be cathartic. I probably look like I’m about to try, because he says, “If I hit you again, you’ll stay down. Don’t.” Like I have a choice.
“Real tough, Marine. You usually threaten guys when they’re down with cracked ribs and a broken leg?” I fucking hate torturers so much. I also hate traitors. …Fuck. I think I’m about to have to hate myself.
He does that growly thing again. “I don’t usually have to hit people more than once.”
I believe it, but dammit, I do not let it show. “Oh right, sorry, tough guy. Didn’t mean to insult your mad beating-defenseless-prisoners skillz.” It is one of my virtues that I get more sarcastic when I’m terrified. It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t know me well enough to know that.
There’s a light footstep in the hallway before he can pull his brain cell together for a witty comeback. That’s not Bossguy’s walk, so… huh. I did have a revelation, after all.
My suspicions are confirmed when a sword-hilt and shiny black hair come into view. I can’t remember his name, but it’s my Chinese swordsman. The one who put a bullet in my shoulder.
Which shrieks as I try to pull myself into a less pathetic-looking position - I’m going to put a bullet through his eye. Okay it’s gonna be a shame, ‘cause they are damn good-looking eyes, but I am still going to do it.
He looks over Marine’s shoulder, glaring down at me. Fuck. So maybe I’m not, actually.
“You’ve figured it out?” he says, with a clipped UK-groundie accent. I glare right back. I think I’ve got him beat, though he gets points for being, you know, standing upright.
“Yeeeeeah, I think I got it,” I say. “You guys should look into getting a bigger circulation.” Bigger than ‘people you’ve nearly killed and are keeping captive in a jury-rigged prison’.
“We’ve tried. Each time, we find ourselves fighting enemies from above,” short-dark-and-Chinese says. It’s damn impressive how much ice you can get into a UK accent.
I try to shrug, wince, and settle for a sort of quirk of the eyebrows. Even that hurts. And I don’t think I’m getting back to the infirmary anytime soon. At least I won’t have to resist the temptation of sweet, blessed morphine that way.
Short-dark-and-Chinese does not seem impressed by my massive skills in reparte. Do something about that later. “So I guess you’re done with me here? I think I have some angst scheduled in about an hour. You know, brainwashed by the system, oh-god-what-have-I-done.” Yeah so that may not have been as sarcastic as I’d’ve liked it.
“Do it here,” Marine says. SDaC says nothing. I maybe shouldn’t be developing a crush on the guy who shot me... ah whatever. He’s probably straight as a laser.
“Not the best place for it, you know? I mean it’s a great place! Brilliant decoration with the misspelled lewd graffiti and I tell you the fallen cinderblocks and the open indefensibility of the place make it an exquisite contemplation on the true nature of freedom, but for a proper angst, you need, you know. Empty space. Rain falling on your head, dirty shoes, wind in your hair. In short, the outside world.” I think I stole part of all that straight out of something I wrote in middle school. You know how everyone goes through that emo phase? Mine had poetry.
Marine never wrote poetry. You can tell because he’s actually trying to make sense of what I just said. SDaC, on the other hand, knows bullshit when he hears it. I like that in a guy.
“You’ll manage. You’ll also stay here until we’ve decided what to do with you.” By his expression, he’d be perfectly happy if he was ordered to string me up by the nuts until dead. I’d be kind of less so.
“I’m sure I’d be all kinds of helpful in making that decision,” I tell him. Who designed the human face so it stops working when it gets hit? My charming grin is not working properly. On the other hand, this guy could probably resist Marilyn fucking Monroe, so I don’t waste my time feeling bad about it. Continue with the brave, if kind of stiff and swollen, face in adversity.
“You’re not helping anything. Une, keep him quiet.” He stalks off.
“Aw, dammit.” I slide back onto the wall. My shoulder twinges. Oh yeah, I had some revenge to take. Maybe later. Hey it sort of counts as revenge if I talk him into a good fuck, right?
So now I have nothing to do past re-read the communiques - which just makes me pissed off to the point that I slap the floor, which wasn’t high on my list of the best ideas I’ve ever had - and my only company is a guy who might as well be made out of tungsten.
I sit there for a while and emote pain and distress. Doesn’t work. I try bordom. Not a twitch does he give. Doesn’t even blink when I flop onto my good shoulder and try to grab some sleep. Fifteen minutes later I spend all the energy thus gained getting back into a sitting position.
“So. Marine. What’d you do to get the staring at prisoners gig?” I ask him, eventually. I think that might have been the slightest raising of an eyebrow! Fascinating. I press on in the name of research.
“I mean you were Spacer so you must’ve done something to get in their good books. Your boss kind of has trust issues.” Now he looks like he’s trying to decide if that’s close enough to an insult that he can hit me again, so I back off a bit.
On the upside, after a slight pause where that braincell works overtime to get the thought lined up with the mouth, he says, “Took care of something for them. Spy work.”
This killer worked as a spy? Fuck. Well, hell, I wouldn’t question a guy like him - okay so I would, but most people aren’t as buckfuck crazy as I am. On the other hand I’d be a shitty spy so that way out is not going to do so hot for me.
I tell him this, and he shrugs one shoulder. Helpful, extremely helpful. “So you think there’s any other kind of thing I could take care of? I can do tricks. Juggling, precision sniping, areospace engineering, I make a mean chicken alfredo-“ he looks up at me all sharp-eyed and I stop cold. Scary Marine is fucking scary.
“Tricks, huh?” he asks, looking interested for the first time. I bump my estimation of the cardinality of his neurons up to three. Unaware of my rising opinion of him, he clicks something on his belt - and you will not believe me but I swear to God, it’s an old-fashioned walkie-talkie, with a speaker/reciever and static and everything - and says, “Boss, need you here.” Then he clicks it off.
“Boss?” I ask.
“You met him.” Hah. I guess I guessed right. I knew he was in charge. Guy like that didn’t get that way taking orders.
“So what, you think he’s going to be terribly impressed by my stovetop skills?” I kind of hope so. On the other hand it’s probably as hard to get parmesan down here as it is to get titanium alloy, so maybe I should just let it be - nah.
Marine’s glare changes fractionally from ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ to ‘stop taking the piss’. I shut up, but only ‘cause I can hear stomping footsteps down the hall.
Boss walks in, looks at Marine, looks at me. I shrug and give a halfassed finger-wave. He rolls his eyes.
“Tell him what you said,” Marine says.
“The bit about the alfredo, or the bit about the trust issues?” I ask. God, do I ever listen before I open my mouth - wait, does that make sense? Never mind, doesn’t matter, it’s not making Boss like me any better.
“Sounds like you two had quite the conversation,” he drawls. “You got something useful or do I just fuck off ‘til you get bored again?” Marine glowers at me. Well, don’t want to make the guy with the big muscles mad at me. For the moment.
“Probably what he wants me to say is either ‘I’m a crack shot’ or ‘I built my own damn jet’. Both of which are true,” I toss off, casual-like. Hey, down here I might even get to reverse-engineer the new stealth shit! It’s all kinds of illegal upstairs, but hell, these guys are already getting bombs dropped on ‘em, so how much more damage can a little bit of copyright violation do?
Boss is impressed! Or maybe not, it’s hard to tell since his default expression is stuck on ‘tolerant skepticism’. I had a teacher like that in the eighth grade and I never knew if I was in trouble or not ‘til she was calling my parents in. Again. You know, being trapped in an open cell by a single representative of a backwards terrorist disorganization is significantly less embarassing than a parent-teacher conference in which you have to explain you really didn’t know the ceiling was inflammable.
Anyway, he says, “You built that? Shit, I almost feel bad about it now.” My stomach goes kind of watery. Must not sound weepy-emotional over my ship. Pissed-the-fuck-off-emotional is fine, though.
“What the hell did you do to my Stella?” I ask him. He does not look at all like he is feeling bad about something.
He shrugs. “SP is gutting it and taking it apart for scrap, but there wasn’t enough left of the computers or the skin to make it worthwhile. We flamethrowered it and scavenged the ceramics.”
“Fuck you! She took six years to get spaceworthy!” So okay about three of those were spent telling folks in bars ‘hey, I have a shuttlejet waiting for flight rights, wanna see my cockpit’ - that line works more often than you’d think - but seriously. “You killed my ship!”
“I ain’t the one who was flyin’ her,” he says. “Think of it like burnt bridges.”
“Burnt bridges I can get the fucking wood for, there’s no way I’m getting hold of enough titanium down here - or the workspace - damn it!” I am not going to pound my head against the wall in frustration, I am not, I am not - ow. Aw, fuck it, I’ll heal. Stella won’t. Nanobots aren’t that good yet, though dammit, they should be, it’s been like half a fucking century.
He does the smirking thing again. “Yeah, he’s an engineer. All good, we’ll put him with SingKueh and he can fix those damn fuel lines, we’ll see what he’s got.” Marine shrugs.
I can almost feel my knuckles slamming into Boss’s scarred-up cheekbone. I bet I could get out a tooth. Maybe he’s got a glass jaw.
“Still conscious,” I remind him, since, you know, I can hardly move right now so the only fighting I can do is verbal. “SingKueh’s the guy who tried to dismember me. Not conducive to a good working environment.”
“Most of us’ll be after your blood, spacer, but he won’t be if I tell him not to,” he says. Looks kinda bored. Wonder how many times he’s given this lecture? At least one - hell, it probably took a couple of times for it to take in musclehead here’s skull, so he must’ve gotten in some practice.
So here I am fucked up beyond all recognition in someone else’s cell, which is not where you wanna be in the middle of a war, and especially not when you know the war’s against terrorists, and especially not when you’re trained to resist torture and they know it, because dammit, all my training ever gets me is beat up worse. Anyway yeah, I already have about five hundred bruises and I can’t breathe right and hey, they patched up my leg, which is damn decent of them, but not gonna help my opinion of them a whole lot in the long run.
I go through all that in two and a half seconds and I don’t make a noise except a little tiny hitch in breathing when I find out about my broken ribs, but the guy standing watch over me still knocks on the cinderblocks and says, “Hey. Get up.”
No point pretending, I guess, and I sit up and try not to scream. I mean they know I’m fucked up, but I might as well try to do the tough-guy thing, and dammit, I swear I do not whimper. Not even a little bit, when I twist and my abdominal muscles are attacked by flamethrower-wielding porcupines.
Guy is taller than I am and half again as big around, and full of efficient-looking malice. He has a dorky but practical haircut. His clothes are beat up. I’m trying not to think about how few scars he has. You think facial scars are scary? Nah. What’s fucking scary is someone who looks like he’d break you in half and pour your blood over cereal, all casual-like, and doesn’t have any marks from the eight hundred fights he must’ve been in.
Scary-guy glares at me - I guess it could be his standard, but it looks like a glare. God, imagine having sex with a guy like that. Anyway. So then someone else comes in, and he is kinda roughed up, but scary-guy defers, so he’s probably even more dangerous. God-fucking-dammit.
I push myself sitting against the wall, and stop. “Sorry man, can’t get any farther than this. Thanks for the leg, though. Feels almost like it’s not gonna cause my painful death from blood-loss and infection!” I tell boss-guy, and give him a wave and my best smile. I think it’s kinda hard to charm a guy when half your face is gone purple from a fucking rock being thrown at it, though, ‘cause he doesn’t look impressed.
Also the porcupines have taken up tap-dancing. Does this mean I should keep my stupid fucking mouth shut? Nah.
“That’d be kinda a shame, yeah?” he says. Guy’s got a straight-up Earthsider accent, probably some flavor of North American. He also grins like a pro. I am in such deep shit right now.
“I like to think so,” I say. Like I ever pass up a chance to talk.
“I’d think so. You got a lot to tell me, flyboy,” he says. Who the fuck says ‘flyboy’?
“Yeah that’s not high on my list of priorities right now,” I tell him. “I’ll just be leaving. Hate to be mobbed and run, but you know, got a lot to do.”
He nods, totally nonchalant. I may be outclassed. “Yeah, I bet. Lots of folks to slaughter, buildings to bomb, that kinda thing, yeah?”
I weigh the options, trying not to talk with my hands and failing. Damned ingrained habits. “Something like that. Probably lighter on the slaughter and heavier on the bombings. What with the whole ‘terrorist’ situation, you fuckers are hard to kill.”
Bossguy sighs and nods at scaryguy, who promptly steps into my cell and kicks me back onto the floor. I do not yell. Maybe just a little bit. Mostly I’m centered on the oh-my-fucking-god-PAIN thing, so I might not know what I’m talking about, but I don’t hear myself yelling until after I get a chance to stop seeing white. The porcupines take up residence in my head and shoulder and also, get issued napalm. Little spiny fuckers.
“I ain’t anybody’s terrorist, spacer. So. You’re Futatsu Walker.” He gives my rank and serial number, and the division I belong to, and the model of plane I fly. Well fuck me.
From somewhere - sure as hell not my brain, ‘cause that’s clearly not working at this point or I’d have shut up - I manage to retrieve the sentence, “Something seems kinda backwards about this.”
I don’t see him grin, being all sprawled on the floor, as you do, but I can hear it. “I’m not seein’ it, nope. See, way I got this situation worked out, the guy willin’ to give out the information don’t get beat up. You seem like a bright fella, you understand.”
Yeah, I understand, since this situation is not exactly new to me. These guys are smart though. Bothers me. Seem nice enough, too. It’s really gonna suck when I have to kill ‘em.
“Warning you, I’m trained in resisting torture.” ‘Course that doesn’t mean I’m actually good at it, and like I said, all it ever gets me is more bruises. Not like guys like me even ever get any top-secret shit to keep under wraps.
I pull myself up, keep my head as still as I can - feels like my brain’s sloshing around in my head, and it takes me a while to focus. Concussion: fun with sensory warp.
Bossguy nods. “Yeah see, I kinda figured. So I’m not gonna bother, right off, ‘less I hear you cursing my folks again.” Oh great… wait, what?
“That’s not how it’s supposed to go.” I don’t think. Could be wrong. Might be perceiving time backwards. That’d be kinda cool.
He shakes his head, and all of a sudden scaryguy is pulling me to an upright position. The fuck? Bossguy says, “Nah, wrong again. First I’m gonna give you some info, you’re gonna kindly not try to kill me, and then we’re gonna see who’s willing. After that, we go on to torture. If we need it. We usually don’t.”
I get upright in time to hear the end of that little speech and boggle. There’s a usual? “What the fuck?”
I’m kinda starting to hate that grin. Serious annoyance factor going on here. “Yeah, we get folks down like this a lot.” He nods at scaryguy significantly.
I pick up on this subtle sign instantly… momentarily… very slowly. Oh shut the hell up, I’m concussed. “…Tall-dark-and-fucked-in-the-head there was Spacer?”
Scaryguy says, “Yes, and I’m not anymore. Though I still do hate pilots.” He has a perfect Colony accent and the deepest voice I ever heard.
He also has a very specific attitude. “Oh fuck me, it’s infantry.”
His glare gets deeper. He’s gonna get wrinkles when he’s older. “I was Marines. Don’t even.”
“Thought Marines never left a guy behind? Fucking traitor,” I spit out. He hits me again. Something kind of cracks in what I think is probably my spine.
Bossguy clucks, which is just surreal. Sounds like someone’s grandma. “Both’a you shut it. Une here’s gonna give you some stuff that’ll give you a real life-changin’ experience, then I’m gonna come back, we’re gonna talk. You clear?”
Yeah, clear, even though the porcupines running races through my eye sockets are making it kinda hard to focus. “…Ow. Yeah. Clear. Fucked up, but clear.” I want to curse out the fucking traitor a bit better. Can’t though. Kind of fuzzy. Oh look, I’m halfway on the floor again. And I’m so going to have a black eye. Nice.
Bossguy rolls his eyes, I think. I’m losing focus. I will not pass out, dammit. “Yeah, you’re gonna fit right in,” he says. “Une, get him the folders, and for the love of Pete don’t let SingKueh in here ‘til after he’s had his revelation.” Marine-man walks out. I do not sigh in relief. I think.
Anyway so new information! I latch on to that to keep my brain from frying itself. “Who the hell’s SingKueh?”
Bossguy snickers. “Chinese guy, ‘bout your height, carries a sword.”
I know him! “That motherfucker shot me!” And it fucking hurt! And I completely forgot about it until right now! Fuck. Now my shoulder hurts even worse. It’s probably totally fucked up. Whee, that means seven hundred hours of physical therapy before I can even think about setting this whole damn place on fire.
Shrug. “You’re a bomber pilot.” Oh really. I’d forgotten. Damn, my sarcasm sucks right now.
“I wasn’t shooting at him,” I protest. Okay I was about half an hour before that, but then I got shot out of the fucking sky, so I think I made up for it, you know?
Bossguy gives me what I think is his calculating look, and I shiver. Because it’s cold. And I may or may not be in shock. “Yeah, that’s true. And you didn’t shoot the kids.”
“Oh man, that says…” deep breath to finish the sarcastic thought “…great things about your social system.” Bossguy shifts half a step closer and I do not edge back, I move to push myself back up against the wall. Because I’ve fallen on the floor again. Okay, that last bit’s actually true, I am so, so fucked. And he’s really tall. Though that could be just ‘cause I’m looking up from the floor of a fucking cell. I hate perspective.
He looks curious, not murderous. That’s scarier. Oh I am so killing him when I can stand up without crying like a little bitch. “None of us ever shoot kids. You folks, you shoot everything.”
Not like I’d have to if someone hadn’t decided it was time to blow a fucking colony out of the sky. “I don’t. Can we get this fucking over with?” I’m kinda looking forward to the unconsciousness bit now. Except for the bit where I have to wake up later.
“Not a problem. Just knock out for a while, Une’ll be back when you come to. Read. Talk to me when you’re done.” I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, and you know, I’d tell him so, but he’s kinda spinning and I don’t think he’d hear me from so far away and I don’t have the energy to shout…
***
I wake up, and it hurts. Like I didn’t expect that. Still.
At least it’s not porcupines anymore! Now, it’s sandpaper in the eyeballs, and pickaxe-bearing, combat-boot-wearing circus bears. In my head. Mother-fuck.
At least I’m tracking. I think. When I hear something outside the cinderblock wall - Christ, if I was in any shape to take anyone, I could waltz right on out of here - and my head whips around on instinct, I only yelp a little as the world turns forty-five degrees inside out. Forty-five degrees of pain.
But after that, I can focus. It’s Marine-man again. Whatsit. Une. Weirdass name. Not that I’m one to talk (thanks, Grandma). He’s got a file folder, beat-up old thing with a bunch of cheap newspaper in it.
He tosses it over at me and I just barely manage to smack it with the tips of my fingers - oh god why I just made a quick movement with my shot arm OW - and send the contents flying across the floor. “Fuck!” I swear to high heaven I’m usually more coordinated than this.
“Read those. Keep quiet ‘til you’re done,” he says, and settles himself back into the opening of the cinderblocks. He doesn’t put his back to me, and normally I’d say that’s smart, but seriously? I’d have trouble fighting off a concussed mosquito at this point. If I tried to knock him out, it’d be like the blooper reel to a slapstick comedy. Pick up cinderblock, spin around under its weight, flailing picturesquely, drop on toes, cry like five-year-old girl.
“Whatever, Groundie.” He growls - swear to God, growls, like the world’s most horrifying pit bull. I subside. Guess my sense of self-preservation is kicking in - didn’t know I had one of those.
So the papers are all Colony, Pacem Times, Inceptia Report - hang on a frickin’ minute, Inceptia? I check the date. It’s just two and a half days before the explosion.
I glare up at Marine-man. Are they trying to make me even more pissed off than I already am? There’s a reason I’m down here, dammit, and this is it.
He glares right back. There’s something to be said for the fuck-off power of a black eye and an open head wound, but his is still better. I look back at the paper, and force myself to focus on the text.
Nothing interesting. The clipped article is on the hydrogen-fusion energy cells. You know, the ones the Inceptia scientists were working on before the fucking groundie terrorists fucking blew up the fucking colony with every fucking civilian still on it. The ones that would’ve put us on Mars and let us get the hell out of Earth’s skies.
It’s cross-reffed to a bunch of the bits that Marine-man spilled all over the place - I am so not at fault for that, you don’t throw shit at a concussed guy unless you really want it broke. Don’t really feel like dragging myself all over the room to look ‘em up in order, so I grab the nearest. A piece of damn good repro military memo paper, signed and sealed - holy mother fucker of God.
This isn’t repro. No, that is sure as shootin’ the real thing. And it says, and I quote the important bits:
Operation Earthside: mission accomplished. Rebel planted.
And it’s signed by the fucking head of the UK Army. And it’s dated a day before the explosion.
I try for a laugh, but I wind up sounding like death with a head cold. “You guys got some good forgers, down here,” I say. Marine-man doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response. Yeah, so it was pretty weak. No way they’ve got the tools to do this kinda stuff down here. Not then, not now. I already figured that out: the actual head of the actual UK military sent this. To the actual head of the actual US army. A day before anyone ever capitalized the word ‘earthside’.
So everyone knows Earthside Rebel were the guys who brought down the Inceptia. I was only ten and I remember it damn well - hell, that’s when I decided I wanted to join the military. I used to go on field trips to Inceptia. My dad knew some people there. I saw it fall apart and burn up on reentry. I went to the funerals.
No one ever figured out how the groundies got in. There were all kindsa conspiracy theories, and here I am, holding the proof of the biggest one of all.
“Someone tell me I’m asleep,” I mutter, and shake the paper. Yeah, ‘cause my fucked-up brain is just hallucinating conspiracy shit - dammit, I never believed a word of it, always figured it was just social engineering and there were maybe two or three suicidal bastards on the colony - and it’ll resolve into something totally innocent if I just look at it right.
Marine-man says, “You woke up fifteen minutes ago.”
“Goddammit, I was trying to forget that,” I tell him. Glare. Maybe if I focus through the paper.
Nope. I grab the next article. The Mars project is postponed: there’s Earth to deal with first. Earthsiders keeping the crops, refusing to support the colonies, yeah, I remember that: fucking famine in the most developed time in man’s history. There’s a reason I’m so damn short.
So then we finally figure out the stupid space-worthy growing fields, get some supply colonies going, and there’s a whole fucking official paper trail that says shit like ‘postpone acknowledgement’ and ‘delicate situation’ and ‘sway public opinion’ and God damn it.
“Fuck!” Not eloquent. I’d hit the wall, but I don’t need any more breaks, so I just slam my head against it, very gently. “God-damned mother-fucking sons of camels’ prison bitches!” Better. I still need to hit something.
“Yeah, it’s kind of like that,” Marine-man says. He has a told-you-so smirk on. I could hit him. That’d be cathartic. I probably look like I’m about to try, because he says, “If I hit you again, you’ll stay down. Don’t.” Like I have a choice.
“Real tough, Marine. You usually threaten guys when they’re down with cracked ribs and a broken leg?” I fucking hate torturers so much. I also hate traitors. …Fuck. I think I’m about to have to hate myself.
He does that growly thing again. “I don’t usually have to hit people more than once.”
I believe it, but dammit, I do not let it show. “Oh right, sorry, tough guy. Didn’t mean to insult your mad beating-defenseless-prisoners skillz.” It is one of my virtues that I get more sarcastic when I’m terrified. It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t know me well enough to know that.
There’s a light footstep in the hallway before he can pull his brain cell together for a witty comeback. That’s not Bossguy’s walk, so… huh. I did have a revelation, after all.
My suspicions are confirmed when a sword-hilt and shiny black hair come into view. I can’t remember his name, but it’s my Chinese swordsman. The one who put a bullet in my shoulder.
Which shrieks as I try to pull myself into a less pathetic-looking position - I’m going to put a bullet through his eye. Okay it’s gonna be a shame, ‘cause they are damn good-looking eyes, but I am still going to do it.
He looks over Marine’s shoulder, glaring down at me. Fuck. So maybe I’m not, actually.
“You’ve figured it out?” he says, with a clipped UK-groundie accent. I glare right back. I think I’ve got him beat, though he gets points for being, you know, standing upright.
“Yeeeeeah, I think I got it,” I say. “You guys should look into getting a bigger circulation.” Bigger than ‘people you’ve nearly killed and are keeping captive in a jury-rigged prison’.
“We’ve tried. Each time, we find ourselves fighting enemies from above,” short-dark-and-Chinese says. It’s damn impressive how much ice you can get into a UK accent.
I try to shrug, wince, and settle for a sort of quirk of the eyebrows. Even that hurts. And I don’t think I’m getting back to the infirmary anytime soon. At least I won’t have to resist the temptation of sweet, blessed morphine that way.
Short-dark-and-Chinese does not seem impressed by my massive skills in reparte. Do something about that later. “So I guess you’re done with me here? I think I have some angst scheduled in about an hour. You know, brainwashed by the system, oh-god-what-have-I-done.” Yeah so that may not have been as sarcastic as I’d’ve liked it.
“Do it here,” Marine says. SDaC says nothing. I maybe shouldn’t be developing a crush on the guy who shot me... ah whatever. He’s probably straight as a laser.
“Not the best place for it, you know? I mean it’s a great place! Brilliant decoration with the misspelled lewd graffiti and I tell you the fallen cinderblocks and the open indefensibility of the place make it an exquisite contemplation on the true nature of freedom, but for a proper angst, you need, you know. Empty space. Rain falling on your head, dirty shoes, wind in your hair. In short, the outside world.” I think I stole part of all that straight out of something I wrote in middle school. You know how everyone goes through that emo phase? Mine had poetry.
Marine never wrote poetry. You can tell because he’s actually trying to make sense of what I just said. SDaC, on the other hand, knows bullshit when he hears it. I like that in a guy.
“You’ll manage. You’ll also stay here until we’ve decided what to do with you.” By his expression, he’d be perfectly happy if he was ordered to string me up by the nuts until dead. I’d be kind of less so.
“I’m sure I’d be all kinds of helpful in making that decision,” I tell him. Who designed the human face so it stops working when it gets hit? My charming grin is not working properly. On the other hand, this guy could probably resist Marilyn fucking Monroe, so I don’t waste my time feeling bad about it. Continue with the brave, if kind of stiff and swollen, face in adversity.
“You’re not helping anything. Une, keep him quiet.” He stalks off.
“Aw, dammit.” I slide back onto the wall. My shoulder twinges. Oh yeah, I had some revenge to take. Maybe later. Hey it sort of counts as revenge if I talk him into a good fuck, right?
So now I have nothing to do past re-read the communiques - which just makes me pissed off to the point that I slap the floor, which wasn’t high on my list of the best ideas I’ve ever had - and my only company is a guy who might as well be made out of tungsten.
I sit there for a while and emote pain and distress. Doesn’t work. I try bordom. Not a twitch does he give. Doesn’t even blink when I flop onto my good shoulder and try to grab some sleep. Fifteen minutes later I spend all the energy thus gained getting back into a sitting position.
“So. Marine. What’d you do to get the staring at prisoners gig?” I ask him, eventually. I think that might have been the slightest raising of an eyebrow! Fascinating. I press on in the name of research.
“I mean you were Spacer so you must’ve done something to get in their good books. Your boss kind of has trust issues.” Now he looks like he’s trying to decide if that’s close enough to an insult that he can hit me again, so I back off a bit.
On the upside, after a slight pause where that braincell works overtime to get the thought lined up with the mouth, he says, “Took care of something for them. Spy work.”
This killer worked as a spy? Fuck. Well, hell, I wouldn’t question a guy like him - okay so I would, but most people aren’t as buckfuck crazy as I am. On the other hand I’d be a shitty spy so that way out is not going to do so hot for me.
I tell him this, and he shrugs one shoulder. Helpful, extremely helpful. “So you think there’s any other kind of thing I could take care of? I can do tricks. Juggling, precision sniping, areospace engineering, I make a mean chicken alfredo-“ he looks up at me all sharp-eyed and I stop cold. Scary Marine is fucking scary.
“Tricks, huh?” he asks, looking interested for the first time. I bump my estimation of the cardinality of his neurons up to three. Unaware of my rising opinion of him, he clicks something on his belt - and you will not believe me but I swear to God, it’s an old-fashioned walkie-talkie, with a speaker/reciever and static and everything - and says, “Boss, need you here.” Then he clicks it off.
“Boss?” I ask.
“You met him.” Hah. I guess I guessed right. I knew he was in charge. Guy like that didn’t get that way taking orders.
“So what, you think he’s going to be terribly impressed by my stovetop skills?” I kind of hope so. On the other hand it’s probably as hard to get parmesan down here as it is to get titanium alloy, so maybe I should just let it be - nah.
Marine’s glare changes fractionally from ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ to ‘stop taking the piss’. I shut up, but only ‘cause I can hear stomping footsteps down the hall.
Boss walks in, looks at Marine, looks at me. I shrug and give a halfassed finger-wave. He rolls his eyes.
“Tell him what you said,” Marine says.
“The bit about the alfredo, or the bit about the trust issues?” I ask. God, do I ever listen before I open my mouth - wait, does that make sense? Never mind, doesn’t matter, it’s not making Boss like me any better.
“Sounds like you two had quite the conversation,” he drawls. “You got something useful or do I just fuck off ‘til you get bored again?” Marine glowers at me. Well, don’t want to make the guy with the big muscles mad at me. For the moment.
“Probably what he wants me to say is either ‘I’m a crack shot’ or ‘I built my own damn jet’. Both of which are true,” I toss off, casual-like. Hey, down here I might even get to reverse-engineer the new stealth shit! It’s all kinds of illegal upstairs, but hell, these guys are already getting bombs dropped on ‘em, so how much more damage can a little bit of copyright violation do?
Boss is impressed! Or maybe not, it’s hard to tell since his default expression is stuck on ‘tolerant skepticism’. I had a teacher like that in the eighth grade and I never knew if I was in trouble or not ‘til she was calling my parents in. Again. You know, being trapped in an open cell by a single representative of a backwards terrorist disorganization is significantly less embarassing than a parent-teacher conference in which you have to explain you really didn’t know the ceiling was inflammable.
Anyway, he says, “You built that? Shit, I almost feel bad about it now.” My stomach goes kind of watery. Must not sound weepy-emotional over my ship. Pissed-the-fuck-off-emotional is fine, though.
“What the hell did you do to my Stella?” I ask him. He does not look at all like he is feeling bad about something.
He shrugs. “SP is gutting it and taking it apart for scrap, but there wasn’t enough left of the computers or the skin to make it worthwhile. We flamethrowered it and scavenged the ceramics.”
“Fuck you! She took six years to get spaceworthy!” So okay about three of those were spent telling folks in bars ‘hey, I have a shuttlejet waiting for flight rights, wanna see my cockpit’ - that line works more often than you’d think - but seriously. “You killed my ship!”
“I ain’t the one who was flyin’ her,” he says. “Think of it like burnt bridges.”
“Burnt bridges I can get the fucking wood for, there’s no way I’m getting hold of enough titanium down here - or the workspace - damn it!” I am not going to pound my head against the wall in frustration, I am not, I am not - ow. Aw, fuck it, I’ll heal. Stella won’t. Nanobots aren’t that good yet, though dammit, they should be, it’s been like half a fucking century.
He does the smirking thing again. “Yeah, he’s an engineer. All good, we’ll put him with SingKueh and he can fix those damn fuel lines, we’ll see what he’s got.” Marine shrugs.
I can almost feel my knuckles slamming into Boss’s scarred-up cheekbone. I bet I could get out a tooth. Maybe he’s got a glass jaw.
“Still conscious,” I remind him, since, you know, I can hardly move right now so the only fighting I can do is verbal. “SingKueh’s the guy who tried to dismember me. Not conducive to a good working environment.”
“Most of us’ll be after your blood, spacer, but he won’t be if I tell him not to,” he says. Looks kinda bored. Wonder how many times he’s given this lecture? At least one - hell, it probably took a couple of times for it to take in musclehead here’s skull, so he must’ve gotten in some practice.