Muromets
I
He stood on top of the ship’s deck, the sea raging around him, the heavy black clouds covering the skies. It almost felt as if the world itself was striking out against its visitors in fury, lashing out with winds and storms so fierce that the original colonists named it after them.
Tempest. It was a fitting name, he thought – most fitting indeed. His friend once assured him that there was a marvelous variety in weather and in fauna and flora on Tempest; a true treasure trove for any xenobiologist or aerologist, only slightly marred by the incredible amounts of heavy metals contained within tempestian life. Yet it was always the storms that came to his mind when he thought of Tempest and its boundless waters.
He extended his hand, fingertips reaching out towards the storm around him, mesmerized by its strange, harsh beauty. It lasted for but a moment, though.
“You should take care, Ilya. We can’t have you daydreaming on the job.”
None of this was real, after all. Just a digital echo, the worst storm in a decade reduced to nothing more than streams of data, fed to him through tubes crawling and writhing within his body, miniscule strands of computronium coated in smart matter.
He opened his eyes, only to behold an extended hand, artificial muscle being spun around a metallic skeleton even as the veins continued to worm their way into his synth-flesh. The sterile, white cold of the ship’s medical bay had none of the primal strength of the storm within it, none of the fury – this was a precise creation of man, the proof of his conquest and mastery of nature, of throwing off the final shackles cast upon him by it.
“I’m good, Sergei. I’m good.”
There was no time or opportunity for romanticism aboard a starship.
As the spider-bots and the artificial arms of the autodoc continued their work, he lowered his arm and turned his gaze to his comrade – now partially fused with the ship’s medical systems, data-veins piercing through the ports within his suit. Sergei’s work was as much art as it was science – and he always preferred that additional personal touch, no matter how much Tatiana pouted about unnecessary neural strain.
He couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the thought. Over the years, he had seen them go at it dozens of times, but it never got old. It was hardly a secret that Tatiana did not worry about the strain, not really at least - Sergei was a fifth iteration, they didn’t get the jitters nowadays. She just didn’t like her beau interfacing with anyone but her.
When he first departed from Earth, he never thought that he’d get to see a jealous starship. O brave new world, that has such people in it.
“Well, I’m glad to see that you’re in a good mood, at least. A lot of people take this sort of thing pretty poorly. There was some kind of great hubbub over it back in 21st, as I recall. Never quite went away, either.”
Of course, Ilya wasn’t one of “most people”. There was a good reason why, out of all the possible candidates, he was the one who was picked to participate in this operation, after all.
With every passing moment, he could see his body filling out more and more, taking on the still-vague, but unmistakable, shape of a woman.
II
She never thought that he would get to see Tempest in person. It was not the kind of privilege that was usually bestowed upon ones such as her – their duty and purpose singular, their dedication without question, they all decided to abandon their own personal, little dreams in pursuit of something much greater, a dream so big and so wonderful that it left no room for anything else.
Yet, there she was, aboard a stealth frigate, deep beneath the surface of an ocean contaminated with enough heavy metals to make it lethal to unmodified humans, wearing new flesh, soon to see the great jungles that she talked about so much.
“Why did you even want to go to Tempest? The place is a dump. Toxic, hot and backwards in all the wrong ways. I spent a vacay here once, and so I swear if I didn’t get to see it in person I would have still thought that a modern society using a caste system was just bad propaganda by butthurt EU corpies after some of them had sharp pieces of wood shoved bit too far up their asses. Butthurt, you get it? Hah! I really kill myself sometimes.”
Ilya glanced at the one following her, tuning out her comrade’s endless chatter. Grigori was a good friend, really – certainly a reliable one - but the octopus uplift that they picked up during one of the missions in Deep Rim had the unfortunate habit of never seeming to shut up, only further facilitated by his exoskeleton’s systems acting in lieu of vocal chords. He couldn’t even get tired of talking.
Boris mentioned something about it being a result of trauma – Grigori spent over three months trapped alone in a drone whaler after a hunt gone bad killed the rest of the crew, and if they hadn’t found him when they did while searching for a flock of drones that integrated posthuman technology into themselves, he would have died in less than three days, with nothing but the corpses of his friends to keep him company. Octopi are naturally far more solitary than humans, even the uplifts, so he did not outright lose his mind in there, but the experience still left its mark on him.
“I needed a break, actually. Simple, clean job. I can’t exactly take a vacation, after all, but it’s as close as I can get.”
She could see one of Grigori’s armoured tentacles scratch the suit’s chin, for the lack of a better term – a rather surreal sight, though she could never quite find out if this was done by some kind of flawed human interaction subroutine trying to mimic the body language, or if Grigori was simply trying that hard to fit in. She wasn’t sure which of the two was worse, either.
“Ah, I see. After the Rebirth op? Yeah, that one did not go so well. Or, well, at all well.”
To say the least. Suffice to say, Ilya would never be able to look at Zora back on the station quite the same way again, even if she knew that she was not a true Zenith. It was a miracle that they managed to recover enough of her brain to actually bring her back, and the memories still gave her chills. Metaphorically.
“Why Tempest in specific, though? There was another mission in Oceania, for example. Standard data recovery, I believe. Wouldn’t even have to dress up.”
“Well,” Ilya started, weighing her words carefully, “I always wanted to see Tempest. In person, I mean. I saw the sims, of course, but that’s not the same.”
A small AR lightbulb appeared above Grigori’s head.
“Ah, now I have figured it out! It’s Johanna, isn’t it? I bet it’s Johanna. You spend so much time talking that Jan over in direct action thought that you two were having an affair, an affair, can you believe it? So that’s where this must have come from. The longing of someone kept on a leash for beautiful vistas painted for him by someone who lost it all, eh?”
Ilya tuned the octopus’ chatter out once again, subroutines continuing to prowl through the conversation in case something genuinely important came up. Grigori was right, though – she did crave a fragment of freedom that she once abandoned, and with Johanna unable to ever return to Tempest again, the least she could do was visit it in her stead.
With that in mind, she continued on, as the frigate slowly approached its destination.
III
The storm was still raging outside, now all too tangible.
The circumstances could hardly be more ideal – the cloud cover would obstruct any surveillance satellites above this region, and the wind was strong enough that no pilot, not even one of the Tempest’s colour-coded transhumans, would fly into it without a very good reason.
There was nobody present to notice the frigate or the package that it was going to leave and then later pick up again. Just a few days through the jungle, a week at most, and Ilya would be right where she was needed – and while a normal human would have great problems with making that journey, Ilya was not normal by any means.
Or at least that is what should have happened.
High above them, a woman fought for her life on top of an overturned boat, with a flock of some of Tempest’s many great sea predators circling around the ship, almost lazily, glimpses of metallic carapace occasionally showing through the furious waves. They knew that regardless of who she was, she could only hold on for so long – and then she would be theirs to rip apart, neither the first nor the last of the colonists who lost their lives in the wilds of Tempest.
She was so close to the shore, so tantalizingly close, but so utterly out of reach. The moment she fell into water would be her last.
The frigate’s complex sensor systems, from the compound photosensitive detector grids covering the hull to ultra-high resolution sonar mounted specifically for this mission, allowed them to see the events unfold with terrifying clarity. Indeed, in the middle of the storm, they were the only ones who could see it, in some kind of cruel twist of fate.
Despite all chances, all probability, in the midst of the raging ocean, there was someone present, someone that could help – that could save her. Strange visitors from a distant star, uninvited and unwelcome, but who would pick and choose their savior in a time of need?
And yet, their hands were tied.
The captain’s eyes followed one of the sharks – or the closest thing that Tempest had to a shark, she supposed, she could never be bothered with finding out how the colonists ultimately named the things – watching as the massive, armoured predator bumped into the boat with its nose, trying to shake the woman off it. An impatient one, that.
“Well, that’s that, I suppose. At this rate, it will all be over in a couple of minutes.”
She sighed and turned to look at Ilya. He – or she, at this point, the captain supposed, for what little difference this made in her case – stared at the scene unfolding with intent that she hadn’t seen in the agent ever since that failed op in Magnate space. Truth to be told, this was as much of a salvage operation as anything else – the Directors did not want their best field operative to retire either, after all, and Ilya’s feeling towards Tempest – towards Johanna – were hardly a secret for them.
“…are we really going to just wait here and watch her get eaten, Ana? Just like that?”
Of course, trapped in a situation like this, it could also create unexpected problems.
“Well, Ilya, just what are you expecting me to do? Fire up the autorails and kill everything in the water? Surface the whole fucking frigate below them so that you can grab her and get her to the shore like some princess trapped in a tower? This is a covert operation. No witnesses.”
She stood up, the picture on the bridge screen in front of her changing to that of Tempest itself beheld from geosynchronous orbit with a wave of a hand, showing the great storm from orbit.
“I have seen enough death of my life, Ilya. Little of it had, ultimately, any point to it, and this is not one of those times. But when we took our oaths – we sacrificed ourselves, Ilya. It’s not about what we feel is right. It never was. This is the burden that all of us agreed to take.”
No matter how much they might not like it.
Ilya lowered her head, taking her eyes off the doomed woman and her executioners. She knew better than to argue this – she knew what Anastasiya was talking about, and why she was saying this. Still, it wasn’t meant to be like that.
She didn’t want to come to Tempest only to see some poor woman get killed while she could only stand by and watch, despite the power that she had at her disposal. Regardless of how stupid the Tempestian must have been to go out to sea like that despite the storm warnings, she didn't deserve this. Nobody did. It shouldn’t be like that.
This wasn’t what she wanted.
In the silence that followed, the eyes of the crew were inevitably drawn towards the scene. Tempest wasn’t an enemy, not really, regardless of what some of the Directors back home might have thought. Nobody wished this to end the way it was going to, but ultimately, the captain was right. When they joined SVR, they were told that they might have to do things that they normally would not be comfortable with doing. For the sake of the mission. Their nation. The great dream that all of them shared.
A cause far greater than any single life.
Yet, in that solemn moment, one voice saw fit to interrupt.
“Well, Ana,” Grigori spoke, his voice unusually soft, “I believe I might have a plan…”
IV
Perhaps, Katrin thought as another gust of wind nearly threw her off the boat, this really was a bad idea. She should have known better than to risk going out at sea after the official storm warning was issued, no matter how much she thought she needed to. They could have waited a day or two, if it came down to it.
Now she was going to die a horrible death on her return trip, alone and less than five minutes of swimming away from the familiar beach. Of course, with what was in the water right now, she would last maybe five seconds. Maybe. If she got lucky, and the sharks were feeling unusually lazy.
She felt another bump, one of her assailants trying to quicken her death and its meal just a bit. Yeah, no luck with that laziness, it seemed. The beasts were just begging for a bite. Or two. Perhaps a dozen or so, if Katrin would be so glad and just oblige.
Well, she wouldn’t! She still had a lot to live for! Delicious food to eat, sights to see, women to bed – sooner or later she’s going to succeed at that, she was sure! If she could only hold on for long enough, the sharks should get tired of waiting and leave in search of an easier prey. If only…
Still, if she had a good argument or two to drive that point in, like, say, a grenade…
The boat rocked once more and she felt her grip slipping, hands unable to hold onto the wet metal.
Her last thoughts before the water took her was the deep regret at not knowing if those two Reds ever get together in A Hundred Days of Night.
She could see the shark approaching her as she sunk almost in slow motion, its jaws opening, drawing closer, filled with so many teeth…
And then it vanished, something massive hitting it from the side and drawing it deeper into the water.
She took the chance, gathering her reserves of strength, nearly leaping back out of the water and trying to crawl back onto the boat. Of course, she knew just what she saw in the water; she was a Violet, living in Tempest’s jungles for most of her life. She might still have a lot to learn, but it did not take a genius to recognize a kraken of all things. A kraken, this close to the shore! She did not know if this was a miracle or a curse, given how the beast could pluck her off her boat with trivial ease if the sharks did not sate its appetite. Or if it decided that perhaps a beautiful girl for a dessert would be just what it needs to make its day. There were some strange tales about sea monsters told by the older Violets when the beer got flowing.
Yet, it was futile. The metal was too slippery, too hard to find any purchase on from this position. She found herself slipping back down into the water after just a few seconds of relative safety.
Still, if the sharks were occupied by the kraken, then maybe, maybe she could make it to the shore. The chance was small, but if one miracle has already happened, then why not another?
She swam with the strength and speed that only desperation can bring, trying to fight against the waves. It was too slow, though, too damn slow; what should have been five minutes dragged on and on as she was thrown around by the waves, unable to even see the signs of the sharks anymore, just feeling the metallic taste of blood in the water, the red clouding everything.
The impact came as a surprise; the exclamation mark at the end of several minutes of terror, knocking the wind out of Katrin and sending the Violet deeper into the water. This time, she could see a faint silhouette of a shark approaching – apparently, this one decided to grab a meal while the kraken occupied itself with the rest of its flock, heedless of the risk.
Well, that was it, then. In the end, whatever gods or goddesses existed out there in the heavens above, poor Katrin Minervudottir, age 21, did not merit more than one miracle. Perhaps she should have lived a safer, better life, rather than tempt the fates like this. Perhaps she should have stood up for herself and just said “no” today, no matter the consequences. It’s not like they could be any worse than this.
Trapped beneath the raging ocean, moments away from death, she cried, tears fading away in the water.
She did not want to die.
In the instant the shark’s jaws were going to close on her, however, something smashed into the shark, its shape blurred by the blood in the water, tearing it away from her and tossing it aside, the predator's body floating lifelessly in the water.
Then it came to her, and she felt a human arm grabbing her, dragging her back to the shore.
With every passing moment, the cloud of red that surrounded her boat grew more distant, the sharks dead or retreating in face of one of Tempest’s apex predators.
Finally, she felt the sand of the beach under her, the stranger having dragged her out of the raging hell that nearly became her grave. The storm clouds stayed as they were, dark and unfeeling, the torrents of the brownish water that they rained down upon them feeling so hot, even as the winds continued to blow.
Hot. It was so hot that she felt like she might go crazy.
She laughed, drunk on adrenaline and fear and relief, great bouts of laughter nearly drowning out the storm.
Finally, she opened her eyes, and beheld her savior leaning over her. She was tall, for a Violet at least, her skin and metallic, silvery hair glistening magnificently in the rain. She was extending a hand towards her, the other still holding a massive machete that she must have used to kill that shark.
Katrin took it, giving her a faint smile. It was all that she could manage at the moment.
“Greetings. I’m Miranda,” her savior spoke, giving her the most brilliant smile that she had ever seen in her life, “and I’m glad that you’re alive.”