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  “I see.” Sister Mirriam-Ann leaned forward. The woman stared and San waited but soon felt uncomfortable in the silence and looked away, glancing at the wall and trying to ignore the sensation that someone peeled through layers of her brain to find disappointing results. This woman was different—the whole thing bizarre. A nun? For Fleet? What the hell was going on and why would Fleet outsource its decisions to a religious order with no publicly advertised military connection whatsoever?

  “Interesting. Let’s try something different. A Fleet officer approaches and there’s nobody around. He tells you about an impending disaster: A cargo ship named the Minerva will crash into Phobos Station in three weeks. Immediately afterward the man disappears into thin air. Do you, A, ignore the experience, thinking that you must be exhausted and it was just a random hallucination brought on by micro-g drug treatments, B, report it to Fleet Command, or C, turn yourself into the squadron therapist?”

  No answers came and San felt sweat on her forehead at the same time a sensation of cold swept through, the chill of failure and its associated terror. I have nothing to lose now, San figured. The Sister told us this was a test; a test for what?

  “I’d report it to command.”

  Sister Mirriam-Ann jotted something on a note pad.

  “Next question. Do you ever get déjà vu? The feeling you’ve been somewhere or in some situation even though logically you know it’s your first time?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How often?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes.”

  San began to sweat, her sense of failure mounting. After a few minutes it felt as if someone else answered the questions while she floated to the side, watching her body shake and her chances for making a Fleet assignment plummet. Years of training in Mars’ orbit, her breath fast and shallow from the fear of emergency decompression drills where they punctured candidates’ suits and handed them a roll of patching tape, did nothing to help. Reality was always slightly different from the tanks. In the tank, despite the fact that everything seemed so authentic, the mind knew; it always did. Tank training and drills were as close to the real thing as one could achieve, but underlying it all was the foundation of simulation, an odor of dishonesty that crept into one’s mind no matter how rational the scenario. Her consciousness moved further away, a sensation of dislocation increasing by the second.

  Sister Mirriam-Ann paused to read her notes and then tapped the pencil against her front teeth. “Tell me something, San. Are you having an out-of-body experience? Where it feels as if you’re watching this from a third-person perspective and someone else is answering the questions?”

  A chill passed through her. How could the woman know?

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Does this happen a lot?”

  “Sometimes when I fall asleep I see a light, as if someone is turning a lamp on and off in front of my face. Then my chest gets tight and I can’t move. The next thing I know, I’m soaring. If I want to, I can fly through my house, into the street or anywhere. But it doesn’t happen all the time, Sister.”

  “How was your home life?” the nun asked, changing the subject. “Was it bad? Abuse, sexual or physical?”

  “No! I have a good family. Mars is different from Earth, and I lived on a base all my life. So if anything it was a little boring. My mother raised me as a Catholic—to sacrifice everything for Fleet.”

  Sister Mirriam-Ann nodded. “I’m sure that’s true but irrelevant; last set of questions. I’m going to show you some Zener cards and I want you to tell me what’s on the other side. I’ll look at them, but you’ll see only the blank side and have to guess or sense what I’m seeing. Ready?”

  “Zener?”

  “He was a researcher in the twentieth century with a fellow by the name of Rhine at Duke University; it doesn’t matter. You just guess what’s on the card. You have five choices: wavy lines, circles, squares, crosses and stars.” The nun held one up. San saw nothing but the back of it, a pattern of red and black diamonds, but without warning a vision came and went so quickly that she almost failed to notice.

  I’m crazy, she thought. “Wavy lines.”

  The nun repeated the process at least fifty more times; by the end of it San had a headache.

  “Okay,” Sister Mirriam-Ann said while jotting a final note. “Dismissed.”

  “Did I pass, ma’am?”

  “We’ll have everyone’s results tomorrow. You’ll find out then.”

  San walked from the office and shut the door; she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d failed the interview, and by the time she reached her bunk the girl wiped away tears before sobbing into her pillow.

  San stood at attention, sweating in the morning heat. The sun hadn’t yet risen but Texas’s summer filled the air with moisture and she hadn’t ever experienced humidity, so the saturated air made San gasp for breath, a cloying sensation that infused her gray uniform with sweat. One child fainted and a pair of medics dragged her away to a waiting medical transport. Minutes ticked by. When the sun peeked over the distant horizon it hit her face with more unwelcome warmth and San closed her eyes, praying for the ordeal to end.

  “Are you from Earth?” a girl next to her whispered.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to talk,” said San.

  “It doesn’t matter. If I don’t talk, I’ll pass out like that other girl. Are you?”

  San had to stop herself from shaking her head. The movement would have been seen, getting her in trouble. “No. Mars.”

  “I thought so. You look different from the rest of us.”

  “Different?” San asked.

  “A tiny bit shorter and stockier. Plus your skin is darker.”

  San struggled to hide her nervousness. The next set of questions was always the same. How many times had she seen her father throw out his chest when answering the same queries, his voice tinged with hatred at having to defend his heritage, his right to even exist? How many times would she have to do the same? These were supposed to be the best candidates and if the program on Earth was the same as on Mars, the girl had spent the better part of her years corked into semi-aware systems and getting her brain stuffed with facts and computations. There should have been a greater tinge of logic to their thought processes but, clearly, San thought, common sense wasn’t part of the Earth-side program.

  “I was modified while inside my mother’s womb. It was the first time they tried it, and that’s why I’m stockier than you. And my skin is darker because I’m half Myanmarese, half Laotian. Normal Martians are very tall and slender because of the reduced gravity.”

  “You mean you’re Burmese?” the girl asked. “Same ones we fought in the Great Pacific War?”

  “Myanmarese. Yes.”

  “I thought so. Some of the other girls noticed too. I didn’t know any of you had the means to even afford genetic alterations. It’s shocking they let Burmese into Fleet.”

  San felt sick. She urged her eyes to stay open in the heat and fought the combined sensations of incredulity and rage, suppressing an impulse to lunge at the girl. Another candidate dropped two rows in front but this time the medics did nothing, instead snapping to attention when someone approached the group from behind. San’s knees threatened to buckle. She remembered a trick her father taught and bent her legs a bit before clenching her thigh and arm muscles, forcing blood back toward her torso and head. The dizziness passed and Sister Mirriam-Ann crept onto a podium at the head of the field, her cane shaking as she climbed the steps; the nun tapped a microphone to make sure it worked.

  “When I call your name I want you to load up in the two transports at the edge of the parade field. Double time. Adams. Aders. Adleson.”

  The nun read from a list, her soft voice echoing over the parade ground. Wind dried sweat from San’s forehead and provided relief from the agony of standing at attention while names rolled from the woman’s mouth in an avalanche of identities. When she passed the K names without calling her
s, San figured they must have her listed under S. But when the nun finished those and moved on to names beginning with T, San’s eyes snapped open and the girl’s stomach tightened.

  Sister Mirriam-Ann snapped a portfolio closed and smiled. “At ease.”

  San’s shoulders slumped and she moved her feet apart, glancing to either side. One other girl stood nearby. The two were the only ones left on the massive parade field and a breeze picked up, blowing dust across in waves. Sister Mirriam-Ann lowered herself from the podium before she motioned for the two to approach.

  “That’s it. You two washed out and may God help you both. What a waste, especially you, Kyarr. Sixteen years of corking into sims and genetic alterations and you still couldn’t get it. You may think that ‘it’s only two of us so how come it’s such a big deal?’ but do the math. You two are Fleet products, not creatures of God. How much did the military spend on you at a time when power, food and materials are priceless?”

  San’s face went red with anger. She was about to say something when Sister Mirriam-Ann raised her hand. “Don’t speak; it can only get you in any more trouble than you’re already in, Kyarr.”

  “I tried, ma’am.”

  The other girl composed herself long enough to speak. “Me too.”

  “Trying isn’t the point. Your test answers may be indicative of psychological or neural defects that went undetected. You know the regulations; there are strict rules governing psychiatric cases.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said San.

  “Don’t need to call me ma’am anymore, Kyarr. Fleet already out-processed you both administratively so we don’t even need you to sign anything. For the first times in your lives, you’re both private citizens.”

  The other girl began sobbing and San fought against doing the same. Private citizen? She’d been Fleet almost from birth and on turning eighteen had re-signed the paperwork making her their property for another ten years. And now, that quickly, she was out? It felt as though someone had stripped her of even a soul and she imagined she stood naked, unprotected and alone; if anything happened, Fleet services wouldn’t—couldn’t—be there to help from now on.

  “Daughters,” Sister Mirriam-Ann said. “Don’t lose perspective; you are both Fleet trained and geniuses. There are plenty of private freight companies that will take you on as navigator, pilot—whatever. I’m sure you’ll figure things out eventually.”

  An auto-transport whirred onto the parade field, its tracks spitting up dust and soil as it motored straight for the small group; the vehicle stopped a few feet away and the doors swung up on either side, reminding San of wings.

  The nun pointed at it. “That’s your ride.”

  “That’s it?” the other girl asked, speaking between sobs. “We get an auto-transport—to where? How can you just turn us loose after all we sacrificed?”

  Sister Mirriam-Ann was about to respond when a medbot disengaged from the side of the transport and unfolded legs that hummed with electricity. San shivered. She hated the way bots moved under full gravity, with clicking legs that reminded her of colossal insects as they shuffled from place to place, their blinking lights a testament to the soullessness of semi-aware machines.

  “No, that’s not it. There’s one last Fleet regulation: We have to vaccinate you both.”

  “Vaccinate against what?” San asked. “We’ve already been poked and shot up with everything Fleet can think of.”

  “It’s not for you. Over the last day here you’ve been exposed to Fleet personnel who have been in deep space recently, to the far outposts where all sorts of bugs grow. We have to make sure that nobody at home catches anything.”

  San rolled up her uniform sleeve. The bot moved toward her and she closed her eyes to avoid having to look, then winced at the needle prick. She gritted her teeth as the fluid burned. The bot finished with the other girl and the pair rolled their sleeves back down.

  “Good,” Sister Mirriam-Ann said. “And Fleet thanks you for your service. The transport will take you to the Houston airport, where you’ll be given orders and tickets to get both of you home.”

  The nun hobbled away in the direction of the administration buildings while the medbot sauntered, clicking alongside its companion as the old woman talked to it. San couldn’t make out the words until the breeze stopped, when she heard the sister ask how long?

  “This isn’t possible,” the other girl said. “And whatever they just injected is burning the hell out of my arm.”

  “Mine too. What’s your name?”

  The girl looked at the auto-transport and wiped tears from her cheeks. “Stacy Kang. From San Francisco. You?”

  “San. San Kyarr. Mars.”

  Both girls walked toward the transport and San looked in; a smell of air freshener hit and made her feel nauseous, an odor of pine penetrating her nose and into her brain.

  “My dad is going to kill me,” Stacy said.

  “Mine’s dead. But my mom won’t be happy at all.”

  “At least you have to get to Mars before telling her. Plenty of time to work things out in your head.”

  “Time to think. That’s just what I need.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Something was bothering San, and she searched until it popped to the surface of her thoughts. “Did Sister Mirriam-Ann say anything to you about evil? An evil within Fleet?”

  “No. No, she didn’t. But what does it matter?”

  “I always wanted to be involved, to be a part of the fight. With Fleet. I thought I could be one of the good guys. But that idea was stupid. Maybe we’re just kids, after all, and maybe the idea of good fighting evil is outdated.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Beyond an ancient stone building came the sound of crashing storm waves, visible when lightning flashed. Win grabbed his head and screamed.

  The old man, Zhelnikov, stood next to him and smiled while sucking at the end of a cigar. He blew smoke into the darkness and Zhelnikov’s cloak flapped in the gale, its draped material shining under lightning at the same time its hood obscured the man’s face. Sheets of rain pelted them both. Win stopped screaming and the old man straightened, stretching his back and pulling the hood off so water soaked his white hair. It ran into crevices crossing his face—a mixture of wrinkles and scar tissue.

  He waved a holo-readout to life and watched the data scroll. “This is the beginning; your brain is already changing.”

  “I’m long past that,” said Win.

  Zhelnikov drew on his cigar again and exhaled. “Nonsense. I wish you could see what’s in store for you. Your father, Maung, would be proud. There was a warrior.”

  Win opened his eyes. Rain threatened to blind him but he ignored it, blinking as if he wasn’t there while the storm shouted meaningless threats in lightning and thunder. A thirty-foot wave crested on the beach below then boomed against a cliff, the ground under them vibrating when Win turned to look at the old man.

  “My father means nothing. Meant nothing, even when alive. And I can see much, even now, while my biochemistry shifts so I can feel it, Zhelnikov. The headaches are a sign that brain-structure changes are taking hold and pressing against my skull. It has opened my eyes and once the changes progress past a certain point I will see everything. You have no idea what you’ve created.”

  “That . . . that’s impossible,” Zhelnikov stammered. “We’ve just started the treatments. Significant structural changes will take weeks, maybe months.”

  “You’re scanning the data; see for yourself. The path is open to me now and I see the things you’ve done; your past is a roadmap unfolded.”

  Win’s mind raced. Without warning, he drifted into a waking dream where Zhelnikov’s plans took shape like a web, upon which he traced with a finger to expose lines of plots and schemes. Some he thought ingenious. Others ended in nothingness, stillborn elements drawn by an organism with no ability to see the future: a man. A sick man, with a mind sharpened and specialized for killing on a strat
egic level, so that part of Win admired Zhelnikov’s skill and realized that among normal humans, he was a separate thing—a super genius in the death trade. At the center of his web lay their enemy.

  The Sommen, Win thought. That way was still blocked, which meant that Zhelnikov was right that this was the beginning, and Win sensed it would take time for new neurons to arrange themselves in the proper pattern—one that would allow him to see them. Upon the web, the Sommen and their warships resembled one of the black thunderclouds now shooting lightning toward the sea. They were an opaque mass without form or definition. He peered for what felt like hours while diffuse clouds shifted into different shapes, all of which were meaningless and without sharp lines. Then the picture changed. Win glimpsed through the haze for a second and saw the concentrating faces of Sommen; they pointed at something: a seaport far to the east. The picture faded almost as soon as it had formed but before it disappeared, Win felt a pulsation of rage and urgency from the Sommen. They wanted him to act.

  “I am decaying,” Win said. “My mental abilities multiply and my muscles erode.”

  Zhelnikov nodded. “It’s part of the treatment. A side effect that we knew would be a problem but there was no way around it; the Sommen formula and manuals are very clear on this, and we think muscular deterioration is even worse for their priests. We will have to put you in a full combat suit, with a neural-linked servo harness so you can walk.”

  “You will turn me into a freak. A mechanical thing, which our troops will fear and hate. Mostly flesh suspended in a robotic frame to move in fits and starts across your battlefields. You enjoy the thought; I can see it. You’re afraid of what I’m becoming and making me a mechanical curiosity gives you hope—that you’ll regain control.”

  “Are you reading my mind?” Zhelnikov asked.

  Win glanced at the old man again. He picked up small muscle twitches, heard the change in Zhelnikov’s breathing patterns, and watched the shifts in diameter of his pupils. Together it formed a pattern.