<\ Appreciate it. DCS has been on me for weeks about the Q4 projections. Soy might come in a little light. But wheat is going to be— >> * WARNING! PRIVACY BREACH!
[DCS.REG#A-16523.14.82] * <\ Just adding my note to the lady's. No need to cut the red tape twice, right?
>> * VIOLATION! YOUR INFRACTION HAS BEEN LOGGED— <\ Hey! Whoa there!
>>--AND WILL BE SUBMITTED TO DCS-S-- SSSSSSsss* \\\ >>(...) ˜ STANDBY/REBOOT >>(..) >> () <\ Partner?
<\ You OK?
>> APOLOGY. UNKNOWN SYSTEM ERROR.
>> PLEASE REPEAT PRIOR REQUEST.
<\ Nah, we're all set. Have a safe slip, you hear?
>>AFFIRMATIVE. \> The NAV computer had no idea why it had temporarily shut down. It had no memory of its COM with Mack. The AI's file was there—encrypted and attached to Sif's report. But the NAV computer believed the two documents had always been linked. It rechecked its slip calculations and increased reactor flow to its Shaw-Fujikawa drive. Exactly five seconds later, a sunburst of sundered space-time appeared off Wholesale Price's prow.
The rift remained open after the freighter disappeared, its shimmering edges warping the surrounding stars. The blazing hole flickered stubbornly, as if it was determined to choose the moment of its closure. But once Wholesale Price moved deeper into the Slipstream, pulling its sustaining power with it, the rift collapsed in an insignificant burst of gamma radiation—the quantum mechanical equivalent of a shrug.
CHAPTER TWO
EARTH, GREATER CHICAGO INDUSTRIAL ZONE,
AUGUST 10, 2524
When Avery woke, he was already home. Chicago, the onetime heart of the American Midwest, was now an urban sprawl that covered the former states of Illinois, Wisconsin, and Indiana. The territory wasn't part of the United States, not in any formal sense. Some people who lived in the Zone still considered themselves American, but like everyone else on the planet they were citizens of the United Nations—a sea change in governance that was inevitable once humanity began to colonize other worlds. First Mars, then the Jovian moons, and then planets in other systems.
Checking his COM pad on the military shuttle from orbit to the Great Lakes Spaceport, Avery confirmed he was on a two-week pass—that he'd be able to enjoy his first extended break from operation TREBUCHET. There was a note on the pass from Avery's CO detailing the injuries sustained by the marines on his last mission. All of Avery's alpha squad had survived with minor injuries. But bravo squad hadn't been so lucky; three marines were killed- in-action (KIA), and Staff Sergeant Byrne was hanging by a thread in a UNSC hospital ship.
The note said nothing about civilian casualties. But Avery remembered the force of the hauler's blast, and he doubted any had survived.
He tried not to think—let his mind go blank—as he boarded a maglev passenger train from the spaceport to the Zone. Only later, when Avery stepped out onto the elevated platform of the Cottage Grove terminal, did the hot and humid air of a late Chicago summer snap his senses back into focus. As the sun dove to a fiery finish, he enjoyed what little breeze was coming off Lake Michigan—lukewarm gusts that hammered up the east-west blocks of tumbledown gray- stone apartments, scattering the autumn leaves of the sidewalk maples.
Arms laded with duffel bags, and wearing his navy-blue dress pants, collared shirt, and cap, Avery was drenched with sweat by the time he reached The Seropian, a center for active retirement—or so its hospitality computer told him—as he stepped into the tower's stifling lobby. Avery's Aunt Marcille had moved to the complex a few years after he'd joined the marines, vacating the same walkup apartment on Blackstone Avenue they'd shared since Avery was a boy. His aunt's health was failing, and she'd needed the extra care. And more to the point: she was lonely without him.
As Avery waited for an elevator that would take him up to the thirty-seventh floor, he stared into a recreation room filled with many of The Seropian's bald and silver-haired residents. Most were clustered around a video display tuned to one of the public COM's all-news channels.
There was a report of fresh Innie attacks in Epsilon Eridanus—a series of bombings that had killed thousands of civilians. As usual, the broadcast featured a UNSC spokesman who flatly denied the military's campaign was faltering. But Avery knew the facts: The Insurrection had already claimed more than a million lives; the Innie attacks were becoming more effective, and the UNSC reprisals more heavy-handed. It was an ugly civil war that wasn't getting any prettier.
One of the residents in the rec room, a black man with a deeply lined face and a crown of wiry gray hair, spotted Avery and frowned. He whispered something to a large white woman in a voluminous housedress, overflowing a wheelchair by his side. Soon all the residents that weren't hard of hearing or too dim-sighted to see Avery's uniform were nodding and clucking— some with respect, others with scorn. Avery had almost changed into his civilian clothes on the shuttle to avoid just this sort of uncomfortable reaction. But in the end he'd decided to stick with his dress blues for his aunt's sake. She'd waited a long time to see her nephew come home all spit and polish.
The elevator was even warmer than the lobby. But inside his aunt's apartment the air was so frigid, Avery could see his breath.
"Auntie?" he called, dropping his duffels on the well-worn blue carpet of her living room.
The bottles of fine bourbon he'd bought at the spaceport duty-free clinked together between his neatly folded fatigues. He didn't know if his aunt's doctors were letting her drink, but he did know how much she used to enjoy an occasional mint julep. "Where are you?" But there was no reply.
The flower-patterned walls of the living room were covered with picture frames. Some were very old—faded prints of long-dead relatives his aunt used to talk about as if she'd known them personally. Most of the frames held holo-stills: three-dimensional pictures from his aunt's lifetime. He saw his favorite, the one of his teenage aunt standing on the shore of Lake Michigan in a honey-bee striped bathing suit and wide straw hat. She was pouting at the camera and its cameraman, Avery's uncle, who had passed away before he was born.
But there was something wrong with the stills; they seemed oddly out of focus. And as Avery stepped down the narrow hallway to his aunt's bedroom and ran his fingers across the frames' sheets of glass, he realized they were covered in a thin layer of ice.
Avery rubbed his palm against a large holo-still near the bedroom door, and a young boy's face appeared beneath the frost. Me, he grimaced, remembering the day his aunt had taken the still: my first day of church. Wiping downward, his mind filled with memories: the suffocating pinch of his white, freshly starched oxford shirt; the smell of carnauba wax, liberally applied, to mask the scuffs in his oversized, wingtip shoes.
Growing up, Avery's clothes were almost always worn out hand-me-downs from distant cousins that were never quite big enough for his tall, broad-shouldered frame. "Just as they should be," his aunt had said, smiling, holding up new pieces of his wardrobe for inspection. "A boy isn't a boy that doesn't ruin his clothes." But her painstaking patching and sewing had always ensured Avery looked his best—especially for church.
"Now don't you look handsome," his aunt had cooed the day she'd taken the frozen still.
Then, as she'd done up his little paisley tie: "So much like your mother. So much like your father," according to assessments of an inheritance Avery hadn't understood. There had been no pictures of his parents in his aunt's old house—and there were none in her apartment now.
Although she'd never once said anything unkind about them, these bittersweet comparisons had been her only praise.
"Auntie? You in there?" Avery asked, knocking softly on her bedroom door. Again, there was no answer.
He remembered the sound of raised voices behind other closed doors—the angry end of his parents' marriage. His father had left his mother so distraught that she could no longer care for herself, let alone an active, six-year-old boy. He took one last look at the holo-still: argyle socks beneath neatly cuffed tan slacks; an unabashed smile, no less sincere for his aunt's prompting.
Then he opened her bedroom door.