by Paul Cesarini
Commander Park is going to kill me if I don’t die first, she thought, her evacpod skidding upside down across the rocky terrain, random pieces of the cockpit ricocheting around her. She is going to absolutely kill me, then demote me, then kill me again just to make sure I’m still dead so my stupidity won’t infect the rest of the division. The vertical stabilizer had been torn clean off after she punched through a small structure moments ago, as had most of the landing gear. She always reminds us how much these things cost, she thought, trying and failing to control her landing. Always telling us how just one pod costs more than any of us makes in two full rotations. Bet the shuttle cost ten times that, at least. I got shot down before I could rescue a single colonist and I am not going to make that date with Todd tonight and I have to pee and I will never be a mom because she will put me in the brig until I hit menopause and then she will kill me.
Gomez had already lost her shuttle to enemy fire in low orbit. Now, her evacpod was toast, too. She had been trained to glide an unpowered one in the event of a catastrophic power failure. They all had. In fact, Homeland didn’t allow anyone to graduate unless they could demonstrate that they were capable of this. Gomez had done so – barely – with a little help from Yun and Soo-Jin. Maybe too much help? Now, it was just her. No one to help. No one to vent at, to complain to, or to make sarcastic remarks about their flight instructors. No one at all. Just her.
She hoped for a semi-controlled, belly landing in a big ravine she spotted. Instead, it was a spinning, pirouetting, thunderous mess – not unlike her life. The evacpod shuddered to a halt, a tangle of partially severed straps and broken harnesses still mostly holding her in place. It was debatable if they were protecting her or imprisoning her.
Still upside down, she fumbled through the pockets in her EVA suit, found her utility knife, cut herself loose, then pressurized her suit as best as she could. She half-flopped, half-crawled out of the pod, face planted over what was left of the landing gear, then looked over her surroundings. Desolate, rocky, nothingness. She saw the main communication tower for the colony – barely – on the other side of the ravine. She took some readings off the screen on her wrist, then frowned. Half a day’s walk, and the colony may or may not be overrun with hostiles. Still, with this toxic atmosphere and no help in sight, it was either that or death by suffocation – assuming she didn’t die of thirst first. Not good odds but she took them.
Gomez climbed over the craggy outcroppings as the twin suns beat down on her. The climate controls in her suit shielded her from most of the sweltering heat but once the battery ran out she wouldn’t last long. She kept as strong a pace as she could, alternating between climbing, walking, and stumbling based on the terrain. Her screen beeped at her. Again. Battery and oxygen were both low-ish – not terrible but certainly not where she’d like them to be, what with there being no place to recharge or replenish. There should still be plenty of places to connect at the colony or, barring that, she could at least make her way inside some pressurized area.
Of course, this all assumed the colony was safe. The colonists they rescued were now gone, but… others were likely there now. No one had actually seen them – just their ships – but everyone knew the outcome of such an encounter: gas. It was their weapon of choice, for whatever reason. They had gassed four other colonies over the past three cycles, wiping out virtually all livestock and crops. Homeland couldn’t let that go unanswered, she thought, grimly, so they flung a few asteroids at the enemy bases via two huge, mass drivers parked in orbit. They figured that solved the problem. Then, this most recent colony was gassed.
High concentrations of methane and ammonia had triggered widespread panic. Colonies were now only possible on about a third of the surface, where the air was still breathable. Even then, everyone wore masks. All the external crops, all the beautiful farmland they had taken so long to cultivate, were left to rot or switched to greenhouses. All the outdoor spaces, including pristine meadows, nearly new playgrounds, parks, and various training facilities, sat unused for over half a cycle.
She kept moving, in and out of the rocky terrain, zigzagging her way across as best as she could while keeping the communication tower in sight. She missed her friends. When the reports first flooded in of the gradual atmospheric changes on this moon, Yun was the first to volunteer for the rescue. He, Soo-Jin, and the others had already made 2-3 runs each, transporting as many colonists as possible to two of the orbital base stations.
The huge rescue effort – where they called up anyone with a pilot license to form a flotilla of cruisers, shuttles, freighters, and any other ships available to get everyone out, went mostly as planned thanks to the meticulous work done in Soo-Jin’s division. Meanwhile, this had been Gomez’s first run, and she already screwed it up. Now, she was the one who needed rescuing.
Her screen beeped yet again. Still preoccupied, she turned the corner and came face-to-face with another person. An actual, living person. Similar height and build. Likely female. Completely unfamiliar EVA suit. Different colors and markings. Tubes everywhere. Pressurized cylinders on each arm.
“Holy crap!” Gomez hollered, as they both jumped back. She fumbled for her sidearm, eventually yanking it out from her holster, while the other woman quickly pressed a button on her wrist. A small drone adorned with crimson and black markings zipped out from her life support harness. The drone flew up to about twice their height, buzzing angrily, training a bright, green beam on Gomez.
“Crap! Crap! Crap!!”
Gomez got off three quick pulse shots which tore through the sky – not even close to either the drone or the other woman, then leapt behind some rocks. She awkwardly fired a few more, waving her sidearm from behind the rocks. She peered over one of them, saw the other woman just staring at her, clearly annoyed, hands on her hips. She couldn’t see the drone anywhere. Until she did. It was directly overhead. Once again, the green beam beared down on her, moving up from her torso to her forehead. She could hear an increasingly high-pitched sound emanating from it and saw the beam increasing in intensity. She got off one more shot that might have actually hit the drone, if it hadn’t effortlessly dodged it. It moved back into position then slowly advanced.
“Who … who the Fek are you?!” shouted Gomez, stepping out from the useless coverage of the rocks, alternating her aim between the woman and the drone. “Don’t move!” she yelled, nervously. The other woman just paused, stared at her, motioning toward her helmet. Gomez could tell she was speaking but nothing came through her channel. She switched channels, then heard a piercing, clicking sound mixed with static and what seemed like chirping. She quickly dialed back the volume.
The other woman shook her head impatiently, then motioned for Gomez to wait while she fished a small object out of a pocket on her forearm. It was an oblong-shaped stone, iridescent, about the size of her index finger. She flipped it over then pressed a tiny button on it, causing it to split in two. She then stuck one half on her EVA suit, by her throat, and tossed the other half to Gomez.
“What? What is this?”
She pointed at the half she threw to Gomez, then indicated she should put it up to her throat, too.
“I’m … I’m not doing that,” said Gomez, shaking her head. “Nope.” The other woman pointed emphatically at the device again, and at Gomez’s throat. Uncertain but not having any better idea, Gomez raised it up near her chin. Before she could react, it jumped from her hand and attached itself just below there. She couldn’t tell if it was magnetic or not, but it held. The other woman motioned for Gomez to speak.
“Hello? Can … can you hear me? Can you understand me now? I don’t know how this thing works. I mean, this isn’t anything I’ve seen or used before. I … I wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission, really,” she said, looking away. “I mean, I volunteered, but so did everyone and I guess I didn’t want to feel like I was letting down my friends, y’know? They’re all real brave and stuff.” She looked back at her. “Can you even understand me?”
“Mostly,” said the other woman, quickly glancing up at her drone then back at Gomez. Her voice was fuzzy, slightly distorted, but intelligible. “Your syntax is … mixed up. But understand.”
“Yours, too. Look, who are you?”
“Who am I? Who … are you, slug-thrower?” The drone edged closer, its green beam now aimed squarely at Gomez’s forehead.
“Don’t … don’t you move, now. Either of you.”
The woman slowly raised her hands. The drone stayed locked on Gomez, who took a step closer. She could see most of her face now, through her helmet. Pale fuschia complexion, with faint stripes along the cheeks. Small tendrils in place of eyebrows. Sharp teeth. Yellow eyes that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight.
“Feytmek Dalgah. Magistrate Expeditionary Unit.” She kept her hands up but motioned with her head that she expected a reply from her.
Gomez, still unsure where to aim her sidearm, took another step forward. Overhead, the drone positioned itself between her and Dalgah. “Gomez. Lieutenant. Homeland Reconnaissance, team 3B.”
“Why … are you here, Gomez Lieutenant? You could have … killed me with that,” she said, motioning to her sidearm.
“I-I was trying to rescue the colonists,” she said, stressed. “You shot down my ship. I crashed …” she motioned off to the side “over there.”
“That … you?! Your crash … destroyed my field outpost. All my data. My rover. Lost.”
“Was that yours? Sorry. Couldn’t be helped, really. I mean, I wasn’t trying to or anything. A crash is a crash, right? Look, why are your people even here? This sector belongs to Homeland. This whole moon is ours. None of you have any claim here.”
Dalgah looked around, unsure what to say but trying to form the right words. “We… are here first. You,” she waved her hand around in front of Gomez “trespassing. All of you. Shouldn’t be here. Need to leave. Now.”
“Like I said: I crashed – I can’t leave. None of those colonists should’ve had to leave, either. It took them over four cycles to build these settlements. They have – they had – lives here.”
“Need to leave. Trespassing.”
“Trespassing? Us?! You used poison gas to kill our people! You didn’t just gas soldiers – you did it to farmers, teachers, whole families. You ruined their crops, too. Those that didn’t die right away eventually starved.”
Dalgah waved her off. “Trespassing. All of you.”
“You’re a bunch of awful murderers, afraid to face us in person. You just poison us from a distance, pick up the bodies, then use the colonies we built, with our own hands!”
“Murderers?!” said Dalgah. “We … are scientists. Terraforming this moon. To use as a base. Interstellar exploration. Shipyards.”
“Oh, ok. ‘Terraforming’? Is that what we’re calling toxic methane gas now?”
“We breathe … what you call methane. Ammonia. Would die in this atmosphere, without it.”
“Well, we die with it! You’re all just terrible, awful. You’re … you’re just a bunch of baby killers!” she said, slightly surprised by her own response.
“What… about you?” Dalgah asked, pacing as her drone stayed locked on Gomez. “Slug-throwers, all of you!”
“What does that even mean?” she asked, dismissively. “Why do you keep calling me that? Is that supposed to be some sort of put-down or something?”
“Your species, they use … projectile weapons – always!” She motioned to Gomez’s sidearm. “These! These are outlawed! For generations, these … slug-throwers outlawed! Dilintiri Accords, of 9th Dynastic Convention – you are only ones still using them.”
Gomez aimed her sidearm down slightly, looking at it. “This? This is a ‘slug-thrower?’ I mean, it uses ammunition if that’s what you’re referring to.”
“Yes!” She pointed emphatically. “Yes – slug-thrower. Banned. Outlawed by all sentient species!”
“I mean, it’s just my sidearm.”
Dalgah, furious, shook her fist. “Always slug-throwers! Always! Bigger ones! Armor-piercing. Hypersonic. Thermobaric. Biggest ones use asteroids – kill thousands. You all … baby killers!”
Gomez, clearly taken aback, put down her sidearm and put up her hands. “Now, you just wait a hot minute here. I don’t know about any of … of this. I’m in Logistics & Supply, mainly. I wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission. I had a date. I should be on a date right now, with Todd.”
Dalgah glared at her, clearly unimpressed.
“Look, I’ve never heard of those accords. What was it you called them – ‘demon-terry’?”
“Dilintiri Accords. Ratified over 3000 cycles ago. All know of them!” she said, pounding her fist into her open palm. “All civilized know.”
“Well, if you don’t use what you call ‘slug-throwers’ for weapons, what do you use? Y’all shot down my shuttle – the one I was using to rescue the colonists. I didn’t imagine that, right? I’m stuck here, just like you, without a ship. We’ve been taking casualties left and right by you for nearly two cycles now. Those colonists barely escaped. I didn’t have a chance to rescue any of them. It was just dumb luck that the other ships were able to pick ‘em all up without mine.”
“Not colonists! Colonizers. If … terraforming is bad for them – bad for you – why are you here? Only answer: invaders. We are scientists, explorers, but can protect ourselves. Have defense forces. Use directed energy weapons. Microwave. Ultrasonic. Ion – Fusion. All sentient, all civilized species do.”
“Well, those ‘directed energy’ weapons slice right through our ships!” she said, pointing her finger at Dalgah. “One hit from those and they depressurize whole sections. I’ve had friends of mine …” she paused, momentarily choking up, “good friends – die of asphyxiation in minutes because of your so-called ‘defense forces’! We don’t even understand how they work. Our techs tried reverse-engineering them but didn’t have any luck.”
“Because we are more advanced,” Dalgah scoffed, turning away. “Not slug-throwers, like your kind!” she hissed, turning back and pointing at her. Her drone stayed locked on Gomez, who sheathed her sidearm and put her hands on her hips.
“And we don’t use chemical weapons.”
“Not weapons – terraforming!” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Whatever. So, you can’t breathe our air and we can’t breathe yours? And we both want this same moon?”
Dalgah nodded, slowly.
“And we each use weapons the other thinks are barbaric?”
She nodded again.
Gomez sighed, then sat down on a nearby outcropping of rocks. “So, what’s next? Where do we go from here?”
“Don’t… know, slug-thrower.” she said, still standing but motioning for her drones to stand down. It switched off the green beam and zipped over to her, parking itself in mid air.
“Stop calling me that,” she said, looking away. “I’m not even supposed to be here.” Her screen beeped again. Only six units left of oxygen, and seven of battery. Even if she switched her suit to low power mode and remained as still as possible, that would only buy her a few more of each at best. She looked up at Dalgah, now also sitting on another outcropping of rocks. “How much methane does your suit have left? What about power?”
“Not … enough.”
“Same here. Can you get more, at the colony?”
Dalgah shook her head and pointed in the opposite direction. “My team. Secondary research outpost … the other side. Power. Methane.”
“Fine. Then we go our separate ways. You go yours and I go mine.”
“It would not have … hurt you.”
“What?”
Dalgah pointed up to the drone. “It is a … geological tool. My assistant. Beam performs multispectral analysis on… soil samples. Can’t hurt you.”
Gomez looked up at the drone, unsure whether to be impressed or offended. “That would explain why you never fired back at me. Nice bluff.” It nodded at her.
“Lucky for me you are … lousy shot,” said Dalgah.
“Believe me, I know. Well, so long.” She turned and started toward the colony.
As she turned, Dalgah glanced at Gomez’s display. Her expression changed. “Wait!” she sighed. “Too far. Won’t make it.”
“What? Are – are you sure?”
“Won’t make it.” She motioned toward her outpost. “Closer. Can make your oxygen, too.”
“Oxygen?” Gomez stopped. “You can make oxygen there?”
“Already have, for … atmospheric experiments. We will give you oxygen. Power. Beacon to call for … orbital transport. So you leave. Just… leave.”
“Works for me.”
“Gomez Lieutenant, you … tell your superiors. You give them a message. Not murderers. Scientists. Explorers. Tell them, you are all … trespassing. Don’t belong here. You tell them that.”
“Fine, but I don’t think they’ll believe me. I’m just in Logistics & Supply. I’ll be scrubbing latrines when I get back, if I’m lucky.”
“Tell them.”
“Wait, what if this is all some big trick? I go with you, then I suppose your ‘defense forces’ will just kill me, right? Or, take me prisoner, toss me in a cell somewhere and do terrible things to me?”
“What?” said Dalgah, exasperated. “No killing. No cell. What is ‘terrible things’?”
“Because, y’ know,” she said matter of factly, gesturing to her body. “I mean, I got all this goin’ on.”
Dalgah looked incredulously at her, paused, then stifled a laugh.
“Ok, right. Fine. Just forget it,” she said, slightly miffed and looking away. “I’ve had a stressful day and almost died twice already. My mind wanders.”
“My superior – he is an … asshole. Not a bastard,” Dalgah said, shaking her head.
“Well, we got that much in common, particularly some of the women I work with,” Gomez said, smiling just a little.
“Women? Assholes?” Dalgah said, clearly perplexed. She shook her head. “No. Men. Men are… assholes,” she said, making another first and smacking it down on her outstretched palm. “Always telling us what to do, like they know best. Always … explaining things we already know. Assholes.”
“Girl, it’s called ‘mansplaining’ and they’ve been doin’ it since the beginning of time. They can’t help themselves, really. It’s part of their DNA. Look, men are definitely assholes – with the possible exception of Todd – but sometimes women are, too. Seriously. I need to tell you about Commander Park. But first, I really need to pee …”
Dalgah nodded, waited, then motioned toward the outpost. She pressed a button on her wrist and recalled the drone, which quickly flew down and folded back into her harness. They turned and headed out, casting long shadows under the setting suns.
Originally from Massachusetts (with a 25 year layover in Ohio), Paul Cesarini is a Dean at Loyola University New Orleans. He is a big fan of Golden Age sci-fi. He is not a fan of wax beans. Beans are supposed to be green, not yellow.