 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
FAQ
Screenshots
Concept Art
Halo 2 Updates
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
HBO IRC Channel
Links
Admin
Submissions
FTP Uploads
HTTP Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Here Lies Sarah Eaton by Arthur Wellesley
|
Here Lies Sarah Eaton: Part 1
Date: 17 August 2006, 1:03 pm
I regret to inform you of an alteration to your initial plans for your Spartan II program. Your requested quota of one hundred subjects has been reduced to seventy-five as per the requisition of Colonel Burke, Section Three. A parallel program codenamed Project Areani will be conducted under his directorship using your proposed methods on the remaining twenty-five potentials you have selected. I apologize for the lateness of this message informing you of the loss, though your ideas have recently garnered much attention in Special Branch.
You will keep Colonel Burke informed of your progress as he will you. He has made several modifications to the augmentations which you have set out for your subjects due to the unique intention of Project Areani. I will leave it to him to divulge the specifics of his plans.
I expect to hear from both of you as your respective projects unfold.
- Letter from Admiral Ysionris Jeromi to Doctor Catherine Halsey, September 10th, 2517.
They were getting worse. She vaguely recalled being medicated by her handlers, though memories of that place seemed so long ago and very far away. Remembering her experiences back at the camp, what they did to her, was akin to trying to studying one's surroundings through a gauze curtain. She very often wondered if any of it had been real; certainly people had treated her thus far as she were terribly deluded. Had that dead and broken world truly been her home, or had that memory been of a life that never was? At once she would pray that insanity had not overcome her and yet also that it might have.
For now, though, she simply prayed that the pain would end, that she would be released from the paralysis that gripped her. Almost as bad as the agony that racked her body was the feeling of utter helplessness. She could feel the vibrations in the wooden floor, the heavy padding of booted feet up the distant stairwell; someone was coming. She willed the episode to end, but it only got worse.
Her eyes began to role to the back of her head, robbing her of what sight she had. Her back arched to an impossible degree, and she was quite certain this time her spine could not withstand the strain. The worst of her infirmities, however, came with the constricting of her throat and the pressure of an invisible weight on her chest. The wrenching convulsions ceased as she became completely stiff, merely vibrating with the pent up tension barely contained in her limbs.
Just as she thought she would finally succumb to the pain or suffocation, her body released her from her torment. She let out a breathless gasp that doubled her over on the floor and reached out instinctually for the bedside table, bringing it down in a startling crash. Grabbing the drawer which had fallen from the table, she tried to prop herself against the bed and prepare for the footsteps which came ever closer.
There was a sharp knock at the door. "What the fuck is all that noise in there?" a male voice asked angrily.
Summoning all her strength, she hurled the drawer at the door, splintering it against the hard surface. "Leave at once!" she screamed.
Silence was the man's response. The man's heart had spiked at the shattering of the drawer, but presently it had slowed to a steady rhythm, his breathing following suit. He would not press the issue, she knew; he would leave, at least for now.
The footsteps could soon be heard retreating and heading back downstairs. When they became too faint to clearly discern, she got unsteadily to her feet and limped towards the meager bathroom. Her right leg was uncomfortably stiff and the vision in her left eye was so blurry she was almost half-blind. Reaching to the walls for balance, she was able to stumble before the mirror in front of the filthy sink.
And she looked into the face of Sarah-027. That was what they had called her, at least—but that was not her real name.
Eaton. That was her name: Sarah Eaton.
Her face was not as it had been. Her left eye was almost entirely red, filled with blood from the capillaries burst by the exertions of her seizure; a common enough occurrence that always seemed to correct itself. Her skin, pale from years without sunlight, seemed now close to bloodless. Her black hair, being at shoulder length the longest she had ever remembered it, was matted against her face. She tried to push some of it from her forehead, but the cold sweat which coated her body made it cling persistently to her. Against her hand, her skin felt like ice.
Sarah tore her gaze from the ghastly image of her face, making her way slowly to the mangy bed which had cost her so much. From beneath the pillow she retrieved her pistol and slumped down on the worn surface. She was freezing, every inch of her trembling from the cold, yet she could not summon the energy to pull up the covers. Instead she cradled the pistol gently to her chest, its unnatural weight lending her some small comfort, assuring her of its presence. She would be safe here, as long as she did not let go of that weapon.
Michael Eaton took what small comfort he could in the drink. Any regrets for what he had done or any bitterness at the life he was forced to lead was all washed away by the cheap booze of Lansing's Saloon. Looking around him, he saw many people holding their drinks with the same covetous grasp in which he held his. Corsini was a world that offered a life well worth forgetting; carnal vices were always good business here.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was light and in his state easily ignored. Yet the person was insistent, and grabbed his shoulder to give him a firm shake. "You know I don't like it when you drink yourself to death here," a voice said to him. "You're just playing his game."
A voice he recognized all too well. Turning slowly around, he eyed the speaker warily. "Well Mr. Lansing thinks even less of your presence here than you do of mine."
Elisa Russo grabbed the drink from his hands and glared at him. "You can throw away what money we have indulging yourself or you can tell me the reason you seek refuge in drinking for free."
Michael seized back his drink, causing some of the amber liquid to drip down his front. "Spending time with you wasn't always free, though, was it?"
Elisa's eyes flashed in anger. "Had I but known you would seize every opportunity to throw the nature of my previous line of work in my face I might not have left."
He sighed in response, and took another swig of his drink. He often said things he later regretted when he was drunk. More often than not, in fact, he felt little better intoxicated than he did when sober; he spent most of his time brooding over the past in a lonely corner of the saloon. Yet it took the edge off, it dulled the aching pain of remorse, of self-pity. Anything to keep the crushing weight of reality from driving him to madness.
Very slowly, he turned back around to face the bar. "Leave me be, Elisa," he said tiredly.
He was going to lose her. In that moment he realized it quite clearly. The solace he had felt with her at first had long since evaporated, replaced by the pain of what she embodied: a failed life, one with no prospects and no future. He could barely bring himself to go home anymore. His heart ached when he realized he took more comfort from his despicable work than he did from his wife.
To his very great surprise, a hand was once again placed on his shoulder, beckoning him to turn around. As he faced who wanted his attention once more, he quickly registered the person was not Elisa. Looking into the blazing green eyes of the young woman, he realized it was someone very much different.
Michael Eaton let out a startled cry and stumbled backwards, though in his haste he tripped on his stool and fell flat on his back. He tried to crawl backwards but the great crowd of people in the saloon impeded his progress. Eventually, he was forced to look once more into the woman's eyes, and very nearly he wept. Elisa had come to him to help him up, but upon seeing the figure she, too, was stunned by surprise.
Some of the people near the bar had turned to see the spectacle. To one Michael appealed in a hoarse voice, "Tell me, please, is the girl that stands before me now of flesh and blood or an apparition of my drunken mind?"
"There is a girl that stands there, sir, of dark hair and pale skin," the man confirmed in a voice slurred by alcohol.
"And why shouldn't you see me, sir, whom I believe to be Michael Eaton?" the girl asked curiously.
Michael cringed at the sound of her voice and was seemingly paralyzed by the sight of her, still lying on the wooden floor. "Because you're dead," he gasped.
Here Lies Sarah Eaton: Part 2
Date: 25 August 2006, 5:17 am
The clientele of the saloon barely registered the brief interruption. A few of the men who recognized Michael hastened to help him to his feet, seating him at an empty table near the front. He was too stunned to offer gratitude, and the men merely shrugged and returned to their previous occupations. Elisa also drifted over to the table, gazing ceaselessly at the young woman.
The newcomer herself did not seem particularly fazed by her effect on Michael, or at least did not choose to show it. She slid herself into the third seat across from Michael, who continued to stare at her with horrified eyes.
At length, Elisa was able to speak. "What is your name?" she asked tremulously.
The woman steadfastly ignored her, seeming only to have eyes for Michael. "I would not doubt your conviction at my death, were it not for your fright at my presence, for I seem to drift from place to place as if I were never there. Yet I am alive, and have shed blood to erase any doubt." Her eyes narrowed in confusion. "Though you mean what you say: you believe me to be dead."
"I was with you at the end, Sarah," Michael brought himself to say. "I never left your side through all your suffering."
"In that we reach an impasse, brother," she said. "I've not seen you for so long a time that I've had to question whether or not the memory was real."
Michael cringed at the word "brother". He leaned over the table to more closely look at her, as if trying to make sure she was really there. "When you were six, you were diagnosed with a degenerative mental disorder. For over ten years, you got progressively worse, until you passed a few months ago. I cared for you all that time. We cared for you," he added, gesturing meaningfully to Elisa.
For the first time, Sarah tore her gaze from Michael and showed some interest in Elisa. "I have no memory of you," she said slowly.
"My wife," Michael said shortly, quickly moving on. "Who are you? How did you come here?"
Sarah thought for a moment before answering. "What you have described bears much similarity to the products of flash cloning. I was covertly taken from Vesta many years ago and likely replaced with such a clone to avoid the questions that might arise with my disappearance."
This explanation once more struck Michael speechless. He cradled his forehead with his fingertips and slowly closed his eyes.
Elise seemed more composed, and she looked intently at her. "Who took you, Sarah?"
"Those who wished perfection of me," she whispered, her eyes becoming unfocused. "They took me—us—to make us the best that they would have. We were supposed to garner the secrets kept from the Council to prevent war and rebellion. They were to be the hammer; we were to be the blade."
"Who were they?" Elisa asked.
Sarah shook off her reverie and seemed startled by the interruption. Eventually she just shrugged. "There were others, trained strictly for combat. They did not talk about them much. Our training took up all our lives."
Elisa looked at her carefully as she said this, judging exactly what she meant by this. She then turned to Michael, who seemed to not have taken in anything his sister had just said. She squeezed his elbow lightly, causing him to snap suddenly to attention. "Perhaps we should leave," she suggested gently. "I don't think Lansing will appreciate either of us in his bar." Michael nodded without seeming to have heard.
The three of them rose from the table, though in the crowded saloon Sarah pushed her chair into the leg of one of the men who was walking back to his seat. The man cursed and stumbled, spilling some of his drink to the floor.
The man rounded angrily on Sarah, grabbing her roughly by the collar of her shirt and hauling her close to his face. "What the fuck was that, little girl?" he demanded venomously.
Instinctually, Michael leapt to his sister's defense, for the first time becoming animated. "Tom…" he began.
Sarah, however, also reacted quickly. With one hand, she twisted the man's hands off her shirt, and with the other she pushed him back into the crowd.
The man was furious, and reached for the gun in his holster. He held a hand to Michael, who seemed about to intervene. "Step away, Mike," he ordered, then turned immediately back to Sarah. "You just struck an officer of the law," he told her. His hand closed over the grip of the pistol and his eyes blazed dangerously. The crowd had scampered out of the way to give the two a wide berth, including Michael and Elisa. The officer took a step closer to Sarah, who gave no ground. "Do it again," he said threateningly.
At this, her eyes stopped looking at the man, stopped looking at anything. A coldness swept over her, adrenaline coursed through her veins, her heart began beating so fast she thought her ears must be close to bursting. Much time had passed since this feeling had swept over her last…
"Do it again."
The snow was painfully cold on her foot, but she ignored it; the excitement, the energy pressed her on. She could hear every sound he made, judge the distance between them by the increasing volume of his footsteps across the frozen ground. He was in a rush, breaking branches and brushing shrubbery out of his way. Possibly he was terrified, running scared from a faceless threat. More likely he was elated by what he saw as an easy escape from a doomed life.
Burke told these men a short path to freedom laid through these woods, that they would only need to successfully avoid a single tracker to receive a full pardon for their crimes. This one had been careful at first, progressing slowly and warily covering evidence of his passing. Of course she had known where he had been at all times, yet the thrill of the hunt, of following someone so closely while they are so sure they are alone, was all consuming. In a life of structure, discipline, and pain, the freedom and adventure out here in the woods was like a drug.
She was closing on him now, moving silently between the trees. He would be so close to his freedom now, tasting it, elating in it. The thought that she would take it away lent fire to her frozen limbs.
At last, she snapped a branch, causing the man to stop so suddenly he almost doubled over. He turned around quickly, but the foliage was thick and the sun was setting, and he did not see her. He looked around again to his side, as she threw a rock into a nearby tree. The man stepped forward tentatively to inspect the noise.
She was on him in a second, twisting the man's arm above his head and sliding her knife neatly between his ribs. He gasped in pain and surprise, unable to scream, and fell to the snow covered forest floor. A shaking hand moved towards the wound, but could not seem to find the source of his pain.
She looked at the man curiously, studying his contorted features and the dying light in his eyes. She had seen men die before, but never by her hand. The sight stirred unusual feelings in her.
Her earpiece, after twelve hours of silence, finally crackled to life. "Very good, Sarah," a man's voice told her soothingly. "You have done well, all that could be expected of you. Now you must finish what you came here to do."
Nodding, she knelt next to the man, trying unsuccessfully to avert her eyes from his. Then, very quickly, she thrust her knife into the man's chest. What air was left to him escaped the man's lungs silently as he curled uselessly into the fetal position.
"Again, Sarah," the man said gently. She yanked the knife from the man and stabbed him once more, this time eliciting little more than a whimper.
"Do it again," the voice commanded. And she did. She stabbed him again and again, more times than she could remember. She screamed pure ecstasy, the man's death making her feel more alive than she had ever felt. Blood was everywhere, coating the snow, the trees—herself. Everything became red, and the man became nothing. She stabbed and tore at him until he became unrecognizable, inhuman.
"Do it again."
"Jesus Christ, Sarah, stop!" Michael pleaded, wrenching desperately on her arm.
Sarah stopped, her whole body shaking with pure energy. The officer lay beneath her, his face and chest a mass of blood. He was still and silent now, though his mouth was still open as if not done screaming. She dropped the knife that had appeared in her hand and crawled away from the corpse in horror.
Very gradually she became aware of the pandemonium which surrounded her. People were shouting indiscernibly, some running purposefully towards the back, most fleeing in a panic from the saloon. A few seemed intent capturing her, put a pair of arms lifted her from the floor and half carried her back into the night air.
They had brought her back to her hotel room, Michael laying her not without some care on the bed. This done, he backed quickly away, as if she might be given to attack him next. Elisa remained hovering near the door, a trembling hand over her mouth.
"I've never seen a man killed in such a horrible manner," she said falteringly, "nor anyone move with such speed."
"What in God's name was that?" Michael cried. "What demon have I taken under my wing in my sister's guise? Who are you? And for that matter what are you?"
Sarah lifted herself slowly so that she was upright, but did not rise from the bed. "I am what I claim to be, brother," she said softly. "Those that took me trained me in certain ways—changed me."
"Which is to say you are a danger to all around you?"
She shook her head slowly. "Certain events or phrases evoke memories of my training. When confronted I—lost control."
The conversation was abruptly ended by a quiet ringing. Michael pulled a small phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. His dark face soon turned white. "It's Lansing," he said in a hollow voice. "He wants to see me."
"He means to kill Sarah?" Elisa asked.
"I think it unlikely he would stop there," Michael returned.
Sarah looked at the two of them, following the brief exchange. "If this man aims to see us dead, I would have the threat removed."
Michael laughed mirthlessly. He looked at her furiously. "If any of what you say is true, why did you come here? I can offer you no help and you have brought me nothing but trouble and further burden!"
"I came to you because yours is the only memory I have not of pain or sadness," she said simply.
Michael averted his eyes and turned to look out the window into the darkness. He lowered his head and closed his eyes as he spoke. "We will decide what to do in the morning. It is late now, and we should get what sleep we can. Elisa and I will rent a rent a room to give you your privacy."
As he and Elisa made their leave, Sarah studied him intently, though Michael deliberately refused to return the gaze.
The lobby of the gloomy hotel was small and crowded and offered only one chair for its guests. Sarah sat in the uncomfortable chair expectantly, awaiting what she knew would come. At last, she heard Michael approaching the door of his room, carefully turning the doorknob, and creeping slowly down the stairs that refused to allow a silent passage.
When he passed her, she decided it was the time to reveal herself. "I was interested to see whether you would bring her or not," she said quietly, startling Michael into a small jump. "For while I knew you intended to leave me to die I was unsure if your wife merited your efforts."
When Michael had regained his breath, he answered in a low fury, "I left a note for her to leave the city. She will not be in any immediate threat from Lansing's anger, for she is not the source of it."
Sarah nodded, sensing the truth in what he said. After some time, she merely shrugged. "I don't know why, but somehow I expected more."
Michael dropped the suitcase he was holding and ran a hand through his hair. He took a step closer to her. "When you were diagnosed, I was nine years old. I was devastated. I had friends, I did well in school; all of that ended when it happened. I spent all my time with you, taking care of you. And when mom was killed by the rebels three years later, I was all you had. I protected you through the occupation, cradled you as you screamed senselessly through the bombardments. When they evacuated us and dumped us here, I fought tooth and nail for you, Sarah. I got a job doing things that made me hate myself and everything else so that you could eat and get your medicine. I gave everything I had to care for you, to make you comfortable.
"And all the while, as I hovered over your twisted frame, I would pray that it would end. I remember wishing you would die as I spoon-fed you, and I remember the relief that came when you did." Tears began streaming openly down his bearded face. "And now to see you again, healthy and alive—it is as a knife to the heart, and I can not bear the pain."
Sarah cupped his face in her hands and lifted his head so that his eyes met hers. "And when your prayers were answered, and you saw me dead, was it the boon you thought it would be?"
Michael shook his head vehemently. "I was racked by such guilt I wished I would be taken with you."
"And if you leave now, what feeling might follow you wherever you might go?"
At this, he shed more tears, and slowly, tenderly, he embraced her, as if making sure she would not melt away. He rested his head on her shoulder. "Why were you taken from me?"
"All that matters is that I'm back now," she answered gently.
Michael broke the embraced and gathered his suitcase. "You will not tell her about this?" he asked.
Sarah shook her head. "I will not."
With his thanks, brother and sister made their way back upstairs.
Here Lies Sarah Eaton: Part 3
Date: 8 September 2006, 3:56 am
Sunlight crept slowly into the musty hotel room, peeking timidly through the thin curtains. As the gentle morning glow gradually illuminated her brother's face, Sarah Eaton was once again struck by how different Michael was in appearance to herself. Shorter than she was, he also had a layer of fat that obscured a considerable frame. His skin, too, was much darker. Certainly, he had spent much time under the hot Corsini sun while she was kept under the unnatural light of the fluorescent bulb, but nevertheless he seemed naturally swarthier.
He was her brother, though; of that, no doubt lingered. She felt so different in his presence, hearkening back to a time far beyond what she could recall. She could not put a word to it, could only describe the physical sensation: warmth. For so long she had felt so cold, forever shivering whatever the temperature, as if the chill had come from within, emanating from her core. Yet here in this hotel room, talking of what had happened since their separation, the soothing heat embraced her almost tangibly, as a blanket would.
Presently, Michael was taking a long drink from a sizeable flask. He seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure from the contents, sighing blissfully after each hearty swig. She was not certain, though it seemed to her that drinking at sunrise was not proper behavior.
Of course, little here seemed to fit what she was taught to be proper behavior.
After swallowing his latest mouthful, Michael tipped the flask in his sister's direction and gave her an inquisitive look.
Sarah shook her head and held up her hand. "I don't drink," she said quickly.
He retracted the proffered flask and gave a short, nervous laugh. "Of course not."
Elisa had still not risen and Michael did not want to disturb her rest. In any case, sleep was the last thing on his mind. Many things were still to be discussed with his sister and her mysterious return.
Michael twisted the cap back on the container and dropped it to the floor, turning to look at his sister directly. "It still stretches my belief that I am talking with you now," he confessed. "I must ask how you came back to me. For that matter, how you left me."
"I was taken from our home," she said, struggling to recall. "The last memory I have of home was in my bed, trying to get to sleep. Sleep found me quickly and instantly, and I awoke next on Reach, told that we would be trained to be humanity's vanguard."
Michael's eyes opened in sudden understanding. "I recall the day well," he said suddenly. "The morning after the night you speak of, you were much changed. You had trouble performing the most basic tasks and could not remember the faces of many outside our immediate family. But more than that, you lost your fire, your spark." He squinted as he closely examined her. "It was your eyes most of all—my God, how blind I must have been not to see it: the brilliant green of your eyes that danced and glowed as they do now was replaced by a dull sheen, as if nothing was truly there…"
"None of this I knew," Sarah answered gently. "All I could understand was that everything had changed, and nothing would ever be the same again."
"But you escaped?"
"I did. It was barely a challenge: a perimeter fence was all that separated us from our freedom. They had depended so long on our fear keeping us captive, and for a very long time they were right. I resisted for years becoming what they wanted me to be—on no moral grounds, I assure you. The very concept of morality was taught to us academically rather than intuitively, and as a topic it was generally considered negative and counter-productive to our mission. Yet after a time, after they taught us to…" She could not go on. "It was killing me. I had to leave.
"I was sure it would be my end, but I was careful and I knew the land well. It was so easy to slip away and blend in with the crowd of civilization, and then to steal a civilian shuttle. I left Reach and headed for Vesta."
At this, Michael's face darkened. "You traveled to Vesta?"
"Yes, but upon arriving I found nothing there and no one left. The sight of my home in ruins, even if it was such a distant memory as to be naught but an ideal, filled my heart with the greatest sadness. It was with much difficulty that I tracked you here."
"Much has happened in your absence, Sarah," Michael told her heavily. "Three years after you were taken, war gripped our system. Palmyra, a nearby colony, had felt slighted for a long time as they were not granted Earth-equal status in the Council as Reach was, despite having comparable population and economic power. It came to rebellion in 2519 when they kicked all the Marines and UN personnel off the surface, killing a good many of them, too. There the UNSC thought the conflict would stay and eventually end, as Palmyra, like all colonies, had no navy. But they converted their vast civilian fleet into a makeshift fighting force, carrying an army of nearly half a million men. They traveled to Vesta, to our home, the closest colony to them which boasted substantial shipyards.
"No one saw it coming. Never before had rebellion spread beyond a colony by military means. The Palmyrene rebels overwhelmed the small fleet defending our planet by sheer numbers and by mass boarding. With control of the air, the surface surrendered forthwith." Michael shook his head regretfully. "They couldn't have known, but what a mistake it was to let them seize us on a whim!
"Once on the surface, the rebels made life miserable for us. They imposed Martial Law and imprisoned the ruling party. They took Mom soon after arriving… I never saw her again…
"We all wondered what the UNSC was doing. Of course mobilizing one of the largest fleets in history while dealing with any number of Outer Colony Rebellions took time, but that meant nothing to us as we suffered under their oppression. Over the next year, the rebels transported an additional million men to Vesta. Cities were ravaged as they were turned into veritable fortresses, for the strategy was to stay in urban areas as it was thought the UNSC would be unwilling to utilize its inevitable air superiority in the dense cities. Our city, Massilia, was devastated, its beauty crushed beneath the boots of nearly two million soldiers. You and I were forced into crowded shelters as your condition worsened, and I began to think no punishment would be severe enough for these rebels.
"The UNSC finally came a year later with about half a million Marines and a fleet of nearly a hundred warships. The rebel fleet, comprised now of several captured UNSC ships, fled immediately in the face of such firepower to defend their home world. They ordered their men on the surface to fight as long and as hard as possible, so that the war might become so devastating that it would force the Council to recognize Palmyrene independence.
"And it was devastating. Thousands died on both sides as the fighting quickly devolved into urban warfare, and thousands more civilians were caught in the crossfire. Millions fled the planet as the Marines began liberating much of the planet; those that could leave. Many of us were still trapped in the hell of the big cities, dying in such numbers each day as to leave a scar on all our souls.
"Yet the war was being won. With lines of supply open to the UNSC, more troops arrived each day as the rebels were battered down. At last, the weight of arms was so heavy against them, the rebels decided to flee the cities, though they exacted a terrible toll as they left: nuclear bombs were detonated in all the urban centers upon their retreat, reducing what was left of the beauty of our planet to utter ruin. Civilian casualties soared into many millions. The rebels then began to fire chemical and nuclear missiles across the surface, rendering huge swaths of the planet uninhabitable and killing untold numbers of Marines and civilians. The UNSC then did the only thing left to them: they evacuated the planet, Marines and civilians all, after which they began their own massive orbital bombardment of the colony, to drive the rebels from the expansive wilderness.
"It worked, of course. The rebels had no choice then but to surrender, but the bombardment further ravaged our home. The war was won, at the cost of an entire world and over seven million dead. The UN, however, then had to deal with a new problem: twenty million civilian refugees that needed a new home, for Vesta had been rendered entirely uninhabitable. For most of them, the problem was solved easily enough—many had family on other colonies or at least the money to buy their way elsewhere. All that was left was the bottom of society; the poor, the destitute, and, like us, the orphaned. Four million of us. So they found a newly terraformed and uninhabited planet to settle us. And that was how we came to Corsini."
"So they just dumped you here?" Sarah asked in subdued astonishment. "Four million people of no means on an undeveloped planet?"
"It was not entirely their fault," Michael said, though his bitter tone indicated otherwise. "You see, after the first nuclear detonation on Vesta, the Palmyrene government immediately condemned the actions of their own army. They surrendered at the end of 2521, months before the rebels on Vesta offered their capitulation. The UN, realizing Palmyra still posed a formidable threat, were light on retribution given the destructiveness of the war they were responsible for. The terms were an extra tax levied to help pay for the damage done and a temporary suspension of Colonial rule; beyond that, the people of Palmyra suffered little more. Combined with the fact that the UN let Vesta be taken so easily and then contributed to its destruction, much resentment was bred among the refugees of Vesta.
"There was a small group of intellectual elites among us who painted a wonderful picture of a world free from UN influence, and the bitter survivors rallied around the idea. This group formed the Governing Body of Corsini, and the UN granted the new colony complete, indefinite autonomy with only a limited mandate. The UN was quick to agree, eager to unload the burden and unworried about the threat from a colony of only four million. What no one had realized, however, was that along with the bottom rung of society came all the criminals of old, who seized upon the situation quickly to further their own ends. No sooner had the Governing Body been established that they were bought or bullied into the crime lords' pockets. Now we all live under the thumb of these corrupt kingpins; there is no law, no order."
"But that man, the man in the bar…" her voice trailed off at the memory, but she shook her head and continued. "He identified himself as a police officer."
Michael snorted. "As part of the mandate which granted us autonomy, we were required to have a bare minimum of social services, including a police force. These 'officers' are no more than bagmen for Dayan; that they are emboldened by their badges to greater violence is perhaps their only notable trait."
"Dayan?" Sarah asked.
"Eyal Dayan. He is the criminal ruler of this sector. This city we are in, New Massilia, is the largest settlement on this colony right now, of two and a half million people. North of the bay went to Tokugawa Yakuchi; the south is headed by Dayan."
"And this Lansing works for Dayan?"
"Alexander Lansing is Dayan's lieutenant," Michael said, nodding.
"I am to understand that you work for this man?"
Michael angrily dismissed her accusatory gaze. "I had little choice in the matter. Working for them is the only job that pays on this planet, and I both you and Elisa to provide for."
At this, Sarah merely shrugged. "And we are to meet this man?"
"No," Michael said steadily, "I am."
"If I am clearly the source of discussion in this meeting, I think it would be appropriate if I accompanied you."
Michael sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Lansing wants to see you dead, Sarah. If you come, he will kill you where you stand. Remaining here would perhaps lend me the time to plead for your life."
Sarah rose from the bed and retrieved her pistol from beneath her pillow, causing her brother to back up a few involuntary steps. "I do not believe you have adequately assessed the situation. Criminals operate successfully by rule of fear; if Lansing wanted us dead, he would mobilize his men and scour the city top to bottom, gathering as much attention as he could. He would make an example of you, and use the opportunity to intimidate the people and assert his absolute power over them, as well as impressing his superior. Quietly asking you to come to him suggests he wishes to keep what happened under wraps so he can further whatever agenda he has that in some way involves us. Besides," she continued, sliding the weapon's clip into position, "if I stand before this man and he threatens my life, I would not be the one you need worry about."
Leaving no room for argument, Michael had no choice but to follow his sister from the room, the look of a man unsure of what has just happened upon his face.
Elisa had taken much persuasion to remain at the hotel, but Michael convinced her she would only make Lansing less charitable. When Sarah had asked what he had meant by this, he pointedly ignored her.
Presently they were driving down a dirt road which led through the city towards Lansing's Saloon. The tenements which rose on each side of the narrow street were made mostly of wood, though some looked as if they were just prefabricated shelters stacked on top of one another. In either case, the buildings looked dangerously precarious, as if a gust of wind would knock them all down in a single sweep. As the car could only crawl down the road clogged with people, Sarah could clearly see the shabby residences, even see through their windows where weak lights illuminated cramped and filthy interiors. A foul odor wafted into the vehicle despite all the windows being tightly closed.
"They call this 'New Town'," Michael said wryly as he watched her studying her grubby surroundings. "The UN contracted workers from the other planet in this system, Pegasus, to build the city. But when the criminals took over, they kicked them all out immediately as they were wary of any UN personnel on the surface. It was up to the refugees to build the rest, but being mostly skill-less, this was the product of their labors."
"Is there an 'Old Town'?" Sarah asked without looking round to him, busy studying a pair of men dragging a screaming third into a dark alleyway.
Michael nodded. "The contractors did get some of the building done before the refugees arrived. That's called Whitehall District. There are some very nice homes and community centers there, as well as the marble seat of government for which the area was named. It was all seized by the new rulers, of course, to house themselves and their employees—to keep them loyal."
"Do you have a place in Whitehall?"
"Yes," he answered shortly and guiltlessly.
Judging by the crowds which surrounded the car it seemed the Corsinians spent every free moment they had out-of-doors, enjoying the only small comfort of their circumstance: the beautiful weather. Placed just above the equatorial belt as its namesake had been, New Massilia had warm and sunny days for almost the whole of the year broken only by a short monsoon season whereby it would experience brief but torrential rains. Right now, under the clear blue sky above and with a gentle breeze preventing the heat from becoming too intense, the discarded people of this forgotten planet tried to garner what pleasure they could from their miserable lives.
"We're coming up on the saloon," Sarah said suddenly, still taking in her all there was to see.
"That's right," Michael said, impressed she so quickly recognized her surroundings amidst an endless sea of nearly identical tenements. "Whitehall is down further a little more. The saloon is built on its edge, just outside the district proper." The quality of the road soon improved greatly, widening and with pavement now beneath the tires. He was finally able to bring the car to a faster clip. "Let me talk to Lansing, Sarah," he said on the final approach. "I don't want him asking you too many questions."
She seemed annoyed at the advice, but said nothing as the vehicle came to a halt at the curb in front of the saloon. She leaped out quickly, before Michael even had a chance to switch off the ignition; she was trembling with energy, pent up and ready to explode. He did not even try to calm her, unsure of what response that might produce.
The saloon was of vastly better make than most of the city, being of solid wood and lit with gaudy signage. Despite this, however, on any other planet but this one it would be regarded as an exceptionally seedy establishment. Its image was not helped by the clientele, scruffy looking men with all manner of weapons holstered visibly across their bodies. To these people, it was one of the few places on the surface to escape the crushing reality of their existence. Sarah imagined what pittance was paid to them went quickly back to the pockets of the criminal overlords in saloons like this one.
She waited until her brother reached her side before pushing the bar doors open. Their entrance earned them piercing stares from the two men who stood guard at the threshold. One of them approached Michael and placed an arm gently on his elbow.
"Mr. Eaton, please come this way, sir," the man said respectfully.
He nodded silently and beckoned Sarah to follow. As they passed, they heard the other guard quietly announce their arrival into a handheld radio.
Up the staircase which led to Lansing's office, Michael's nerves began to kick in. What confidence he had was robbed of him; his bowels seemed to turn to liquid, his legs to jelly. He was surrounded by men who had both the means and the cause to kill him at any moment. Corsini was a big planet—why had he not run?
When they reached his office, their guide opened the door for them and led them in. He closed it once they had entered and continued standing beside it so that he was positioned behind them as they walked towards the center of the room. The thought made him stand on edge, and he braced for a shot he would never feel.
Lansing sat attentively at his dark oak desk. The room was unassuming; it seemed small and cramped, what little space there was crowded with papers, filing cabinets, and the only luxury Lansing allowed himself: a small mini bar running along the side wall. The only impressive aspect of his office was a two-way mirror behind his desk which afforded a wide vista of the saloon floor below.
"I wasn't sure if you were going to show up," Lansing admitted, speaking at last to fill the gaping silence. His voice had the consistency of gravel and filled the small room with unwavering authority. Wearing a fine suit, Alexander Lansing had handsome features framed by grey hair and a slightly darker beard, all painfully well groomed. He certainly looked his part, even if his office did not. "You show the same courage and good judgment in doing this that I've come to expect of you, Eaton." He jerked his head towards the guard standing at the back. "Search them," he ordered. He looked to Michael with a small, almost apologetic smile. "I don't yet trust you that much, I'm afraid."
The guard approached Sarah first, patting his hands down her sides. She seemed to spring to life at this like a coiled spring, the energy that had been building during the uneventful car ride unleashing on the man in a single, fluid motion. Seizing the man's left wrist, she twisted it brutally and brought him to his knees with a swift kick aimed behind her. At the same time she brought out her pistol with her other hand, pointing it squarely at Lansing's head.
He flinched slightly at the sight but showed little more emotion at the spectacle before him. He reached a consoling hand towards her, gesturing for her to lower the weapon. "I'm not looking to see anyone die in my saloon today, sweetheart," he said calmly, staring at her unblinkingly. "I can guarantee your brother's death if you fire at me now even if I'm not convinced you would meet your own."
These words seemed to penetrate Sarah's clouded mind and she at once lowered the pistol and released her grip of the guard's wrist. She took a deep breath to regain her lost composure.
"Go to the clinic and have that seen to, Ben," Lansing told the agonized man without looking at him. "And why don't you wait outside for now," he told Sarah, who complied wordlessly and followed the limping man out of the office.
Alone now with Lansing, Michael found it difficult to remain standing. He was hesitant, however, to sit in the room's only other chair without invitation. Instead he brought himself to meet the steady eyes of his employer. "I apologize for my sister."
"You never told me you had another sister, Eaton," he answered, relaxing in his chair once more, perfectly aware of Michael's discomfort.
"It's a long story."
"I'm sure. Much of the money you earned here went towards keeping your other sister alive, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
Lansing nodded to himself as if he hadn't already been sure of the answer. "You were much distraught at her death, as I remember. And now to have this second sister arrive mysteriously at my saloon… she stirred up quite a scene, too, or so I'm told. A shock it was to me, but I can only imagine your surprise. A relief, also, I would think, to see another surviving sister, though I think you were struck by a pang as well. To have something you thought lost brought back to you would make it all the more painful if it were taken away from you; this you understand. And I daresay you won't be expecting any more missing siblings appearing at your doorstep."
Michael swallowed, though there seemed to be nothing there to swallow. He wondered how much Lansing knew. "No, sir," he said at length in barely more than a whisper.
"Then let us get to the business at hand. Your sister has twice shown herself to possess remarkable physical ability. As such, she is an intriguing wildcard in this unique and fluid situation we find ourselves in; the sister, no less, of one of my more competent employees. A man who might actually be able to control her and make use of her productively. One wonders how to use her abilities to further our ends here, and defend what we have sought to create."
"You are looking to start a turf war with the north, sir?"
"If it comes to that," Lansing said slowly. "But that is not what I speak of. There are events in motion now on Corsini which may bring about the end of our operation, and the danger they present are far more complex than that of the Bakuto. But," he said, getting to his feet and walking over towards Michael, "I've not the time to talk about it now. Take your sister to your home and I will call you later today. Mr. Dayan wishes to speak with you personally."
Michael raised an eyebrow at this. He had never met the leader of the Red Hand before, and rare was the occasion that he wished to have words with a lowly bagman. He wondered what the meeting would entail. "Yes, sir," was all he said.
"Then I will see you later." As Michael turned to leave, Lansing called him back. "Oh, and Eaton?" He reached a hand to his shoulder and brought upon him a vice-like grip, causing him to flinch in pain. "May an easy death find you swiftly if ever I have a gun pointed at me again by one you know," he hissed maliciously into his ear. "Do we understand each other?"
"Sir," he nodded, being all he could manage.
Lansing at last released his hold on him. "Good. I would keep an eye on her—she seems one to stray from sense."
Michael Eaton retreated quickly from the room.
|
