CATEGORY: ANTHEM FAN FICTION

When two Sentinels in power armor knocked down the door to the Freehold’s inner keep, they found a pair of corpses. One lay slumped on the tile flooring of a kitchenette area, a smudge between the eyes leaking blood. An automatic pistol lay a few inches from his fingers. The second dead man sat on a sofa across the room, legs still crossed, a bullet hole through his right eye socket, heavy pistol holstered and strapped on his chest.

“Shapers’ balls,” Sentinel Drew said. His voice crackled from a grill in his armor’s chest. “That’s messed up.”

“Headset mode only, rookie,” Sentinel Pang said, in Drew’s ear. “You’re not a soldier anymore. When you put on that suit, you ‘re an emblem of the Emperor’s justice, of the peace and order His Majesty brings to this messy world. Which means no public swearing while working as a Sentinel, or you won’t be a Sentinel long. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Drew said, the external speaker cutting out after ‘yes.’ “Sorry, sir.”

“We got two more doors in this room to clear. Look lively.” Drew saw from the available schematic neither space was large enough to be anything other than a closet. Something told him Pang wouldn’t be reassured.

“Okay, going to open the door in the southwest,” Drew said.

“I’ve got your back,” Pang said. Which meant, Drew knew, that Pang planned on staying a safe distance away, in case of booby traps. The armor they wore was designed to shrug off bullets and even grenades, but even the toughest composites and metals had limits. You didn’t make it to Pang’s age as a Sentinel unless you learned not to take chances.

Neither door was booby trapped. They both opened onto (surprise!) closets, stocked with food, ammunition, clothes, blankets, and medical supplies.

“The room’s clear,” Sentinel Pang told Drew. “Take a breath, but don’t let your guard down completely,” The faceplate to Pang’s armor opened. Drew noticed; he quickly followed suit. His nose wrinkled. The smell in the room was coppery, choking. “I didn’t mean literally take a breath!” Pang said, snorting with laughter. Drew felt embarrassed and annoyed; he powered through.

“Question, sir?”

“What’s that?” Pang asked, leaning over the dead men in the kitchenette.

“What happened here? You said this was a welfare check?”

“Yep,” Pang said. He stepped over to the body on the sofa, careful not to disturb the scene any more than they already had. He piloted the ponderous armor with a delicate grace that Drew admired. Pang ignored Drew and studied the scene in the Freehold’s inner sanctum.

Freeholding was controversial in the parts of the world where humans struggled with giant spiders, self-organizing insect ecologies and ancient artifacts prone to remaking the terrain for hundreds of miles when set off. The Empire’s official position was that while it would award land claims based on the traditional formula for establishing a viable Freehold in disputed territory, Imperial Sentinels could not commit to defending or assisting Freeholds in trouble. Out past the high walls of the Imperial strongholds, the reality was complicated. Large Freeholds, especially those wise enough to build at strategic locations or wealthy enough to maintain turrets and defensive positions, could expect help in times of trouble.

Smaller Freeholds, like the one Drew and Pang explored, depended on Sentinels at their peril. Drew had two days of experience working for the Sentinel organization, and even he could tell something was odd about their current mission. The smell of recently fired ammunition still lingered in the air when they arrived.

“Do you think-” Drew began. Pang shook his head.

“I think if you want to know what happened here, you should stop asking me so many questions and start paying attention to what’s in front of your eyes. What do you see?”

“What do I see?” Drew blinked at Pang, who looked at him with eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Pang said. “Go on. Tell me.”

“Two dead men?”

“That’s a start. Anything special about how they died?”

“They’ve been shot,” Drew said. Pang nodded.

“Important point. Okay. And?”

“The dead men are both armed,” Drew said.

“That’s common out here in the Disputed Territories,” Pang said. “Even the kids walk around packing heat.”

“That guy in the kitchen got his gun out, though,” Drew said. “Something spooked him.”

“Good,” Pang said. “What about the other one, on the sofa?”

“He didn’t have time to get his gun out,” Drew said, slowly. “He got shot in the back of the head.”

“Right. Based on the position of the bodies, entry and exit wounds, blood spatter, and scene analysis, the ballistics software says more than eighty percent likely the fatal shot for sofa guy came from someone sitting in that bed.” Pang waved across the room. “Ninety percent likely that the fatal shot for the guy in the kitchen came from a few feet away, on the ground next to the bed.”

Drew tried to visualize the scene.

“There must have been a third guy,” he said. “Sitting in the bed.” Pang nodded. “A third guy who doesn’t seem to be here now,” Drew said.

“A third guy who locked the door behind him,” Pang said. “I just sent off the scene data for analysis. Base can ID the bodies for us. Maybe send crime scene specialists, depends on how much they give a damn about the case.”

On the bottom right of his field of view, Drew saw a red light.

“Huh,” Pang said. Drew squinted at the icon.

“What’s that error? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“We’ve lost connection with Base,” Pang said. “I only saw it in the war with the Dominion, when…” Pang’s eyes got wide. “Cao! Go into full defensive mode now, rookie!” Pang shouted. The older man’s visor snapped shut. Drew made the necessary gesture, wondering what spooked Pang.

Drew heard a whistle, for a split second, and then an explosion boomed. Drew flew back, tumbled down and out. The world burned. The sky turned to smoke. Drew’s eyes got blurry. He saw a parade of animated icons in daffy colors dance across the bottom of his HUD before Drew went dark, too.

The month Drew turned fifteen he and all the other kids born in March submitted to four tests spread out over two days, each test taking three hours. Drew enjoyed the break from regular school days. He didn’t understand why his Ma and Pa got so tense about the tests until the afternoon the letter from the regional Governor came. Drew’s scholarly, Arcane education was over. Basic training for military service was due to begin three days after Drew’s receipt of the letter. Drew’s parents talked about challenging the results and asking the Academy to let Drew retake the tests.

“I don’t want to retake the tests,” Drew said.

“Nonsense,” his Ma said. “Of course, you’re going to retake them, if they let us, and this time you’re going to do your best, you’re not going to treat it like a big game.”

Drew felt stubborn.

“I want to join the Army,” Drew said. Drew’s parents exchanged surprised looks.

“You wouldn’t survive a day in the military,” Drew’s father said. “You think your mother and I are hard on you? You have no idea, mister. You’re small for your age, you’re still just a boy.”

“Man enough to be drafted by the greatest army in the history of the world,” Drew said. His heart thumped in his (not-quite developed) chest.

“Soldiering is a bad job for worse pay,” Drew’s father said.

“You served,” Drew said. “Best days of your life, that’s what you say…”

“Only when he’s had too much to drink,” Drew’s mother said.

“The Scars are on our borders,” Drew said. “You see the feeds?”

Drew’s mother traded a look. Drew’s parents didn’t approve of the news feeds Drew watched. They preferred the reassuring voices of the state-run media, but at fifteen Drew considered himself a free thinker. Bonus, the footage of Sentinels emptying chain guns into hordes of exploding Scar looked cool.

“Things aren’t always as simple as they make it seem on the feeds,” Drew’s father said. Not for the first time!

“Guess I’ll find out for myself in seventy-two hours,” Drew said.

“You really don’t want us to even try to get you a retest?” Drew’s mother asked. “That’s crazy to me.” She sounded forlorn, and for a moment Drew’s anger flickered. “I’ve never been any good with tests,” Drew said. “You know that, Ma.”

“I do know, that’s why you having a second chance at the exams is perfectly fair. Test taking just isn’t your forte.”

Drew’s jaw clenched.

“I think I can be a good soldier,” Drew said.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Drew’s father said.

When Drew woke up, he hurt everywhere. His HUD was gone.

“Hello, Jupiter,” he said, tasting blood. “What hit us?” Red letters flashed on his screen.

Personal assistant Jupiter not available. Suit status overview. HUD: offline. Weapons: offline. Strength augmentation: offline. Flight: offline. Ground mobility: offline. Comms: offline.

“Great,” Drew said. “First week as a Sentinel, totaled a javelin.” Drew took a breath, tried to stand. The effort hurt so much he squeaked. His suit didn’t budge. Drew reconsidered. “Suit,” he said. “I need you to open.” He waited. Drew wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of leaving his javelin, but what choice did he have?

Authorization for in-mission suit exit required, the screen flashed. Contacting superior officer.

“Authorization for suit exit required? Are you kidding me?” Drew tried to make a fist, but his gauntlets refused to budge. Drew’s anger got the better of him, and he fought furiously against the constraints of the suit, making animal sounds into his dead mic.

His suit stayed still. On his screen, a new message.

Superior officer not responding. Escalating to HQ. Error: HQ not responding. Retrying HQ…

If the comms unit is down, you’re not going to get HQ,” Drew said, in what he felt like was a reasonable voice. “Suit, I need you to open. Now!”

Authorization for in-mission suit exit required. Contacting superior officer.

Drew groaned.

“Can you at least open up the helmet, let me see the sky? Get some fresh air?” Drew didn’t get a response. After a few minutes, he tried again. “Suit, open faceplate!”

Superior officer not responding. Escalating to HQ.

“The comm unit is still broken,” Drew said.

Error: HQ not responding. Retrying HQ…

“Aw, don’t bother,” Drew said. He puffed out the air in his cheeks. He couldn’t think of anything to do, except wait. Drew did not enjoy waiting, even when a library of movies was available for streaming into his HUD. In a busted suit with no comm link, all Drew saw looking straight ahead was darkness.

“If I was the hero in a serial vid,” Drew said. “This is when I would have a meaningful flashback.”

The still and dark of the suit didn’t go anywhere. Drew felt an itch on his back; he scraped himself against the ruined interior of his javelin until a hard metal knob scraped against the offending itch. Drew licked his lips.

“Suit? Can you extend a water tube? I’m parched here.”

Error retrieving pilot data.

This was a new error! Drew knew the Sentinels built anti-theft tech into their suits; he didn’t want to be ID’d as a thief or find out what the Sentinel high command thought was an appropriate response to the theft of one of their suits.

“Suit, my Imperial ID number is THX 1139,” Drew said. “I am the authorized pilot of this javelin.”

Escalating to superior officer.

“He’s not going to answer. And HQ isn’t going to answer.”

Drew tried to focus on the feel of air passing over his lips. He let himself float, untethered, away from the stress of the moment.

Drew needed to get out of his ruined javelin. He accepted this as truth. He tried to open himself to possibilities, and as he hovered, tranquil, he had an idea: he might run out of air inside his suit.

Drew crashed back down to itchy, uncomfortable reality. He fought back a shout. He didn’t have the air to spare. Drew felt scared. As scared as the first ten minutes of his first real combat in a javelin with opponents trying to kill him. The footage the news feeds Drew watched as a kid made the Scars look slow, stupid, easy to kill. The Scars turned out to be none of those things. As a grunt, Drew got lucky; he was teamed with three veteran javelin pilots, and when he froze they kept him alive long enough for him to stop freaking out and start doing basic soldier stuff, like running, taking cover, watching out for enemies and occasionally shooting back at the bad guys.

Another thing Drew’s news feeds didn’t warn him about? The sounds injured and dying Scars made. Even after he got his chain gun spinning, he didn’t get the same rush he’d felt in the simulators when he knocked down Scars. Then again, in the simulators the Scars didn’t flail about with their weird insect arms when they fell or try to push alien organs back inside shattered carapaces. Also, in the simulators, Scars didn’t crouch by injured allies and wail.

Entombed in the armor that was supposed to allow him to fly, Drew felt angry. Not at the Scars, but at the news feeds he watched as a kid. They made things seem simple; everyone was either good or bad, no shades of gray. They twisted true things, to make them more exciting or because the truth didn’t fit the story they wanted to sell the audience. Drew’s parents tried to explain all that to him, but at fifteen Drew preferred the simple stories the feeds told him. The Emperor was wise and just. Scars were animals, eager to flood into the Empire and destroy everything humanity fought so hard to build.

At the thought of his Ma and Pa, even anger deserted him.

“Suit,” Drew said. “How much air do I have left?”

Error retrieving pilot data.

“Terrific,” Drew said.

When Drew went after the Sentinel job in a fort on the edge of the Imperium, he thought he was getting a chance to redeem himself. He was a good pilot, and outside the high walls of the Imperial settlements, he knew there was always a need for good javelin pilots. Video chatting with Ma and Pa a couple days back, Drew found himself talking about all the stuff you could do in a javelin that didn’t require burning down Scar city-hives. He wanted to chase down criminals, protect people who wanted to live peaceful lives. If a Shaper relic turned itself on and started making chaos, he could shut it down. If Arcanists needed to explore a site in bad territory, Drew could help with that, too. Drew didn’t mind the idea of wiping out skorpions, or even shooting Scars if they attacked, but he was tired of being a soldier. He was ready to do something more than just kill.

Staring at the void where his HUD should be, Drew wished he’d gotten another chance. How many lives could he have saved? How many bad people could he have stopped? How much good could he have done?

He blacked out.

He woke, a minute (a lifetime?) later, bright light dazzling him despite squinted eyes. He heard the familiar whoosh and grind of his suit opening. Drew sat up. The world tilted around him.

“You okay, rookie?” Pang’s face came into focus.

“Yeah,” Drew said. “I mean, yes sir.”

“Stow that ‘sir’ shit right now, kid,” Pang said. “Out here, without our suits, we act like civilians.”

“What? Why? You’re out of your suit,” Drew said.

“You noticed! Get up. We need to go.” Drew nodded. He tried to get up, staggered. Pang caught his arm.

“What’s the rush?” Drew asked.

“The missile strike that took out our suits,” Pang said. “Whoever sent them probably has a follow up team on the way. We need to move.”

“Why would anybody hit this place?” Drew said. His dizziness subsided enough that he could look around. The compound was nothing but ruins, drifting ash flakes and patches of fire.

“I’ve got some guesses,” Pang said. “Here’s the real bad news, kid. The people who blocked our comms and sent the missiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Sentinel command,” Pang said.

“What?” Drew said. He struggled to wrap his head around the significance. Why would command shoot down their own Sentinels? “That doesn’t make any sense. It must have been a mistake.”

“My suit’s sensors registered a dozen different missile impacts and traced them back to our silos. Every one of those missiles cost about a million credits. You think Sentinel command makes many twelve million credit mistakes?” Pang shook his head. “Someone high up signed off, and not only did they not warn us, pōfù blocked our comms and detection systems. They didn’t want us to leave.”

“That can’t be true,” Drew said. Drew thought of himself first and foremost as a loyal subject of the Emperor. He didn’t like the idea that suddenly he was on the wrong side of his parents, friends, and everyone he’d ever known. Pang couldn’t be right!

Pang shrugged. He crouched by Drew’s suit look enough to confirm that there was nothing salvageable. He stood, stiffly.

“I think we stumbled on something at that compound we weren’t meant to see,” Pang said. “I can’t order you to follow me, but I wouldn’t recommend sticking around.”

“Where are you going?” Drew asked. “We’re in the middle of the wilderness!” Pang, to Drew’s surprise, laughed. The old man started walking away.

“Just because the Territories are disputed,” he called back, “Doesn’t mean that there’s nobody out here, kid. There’s a place twenty or thirty clicks from here, we can get a drink and maybe make some discreet inquiries about our official status with the Empire.”

“What kind of place?” Drew wasn’t as casual about a ‘twenty or thirty click’ walk as Pang seemed to be, not through a landscape of hostile alien creatures without so much as a pistol on either one of them. Drew picked up his pace.

“What kind of place?” he repeated.

“Outlaw city,” Pang said.

Drew knew that the outlaws in the wilderness had their own settlements, hidden in caves, ruins and dense forests. Anywhere, really, they could avoid detection by Imperial javelins patrolling overhead.

“This place have a name?” Drew asked. Pang glanced back, frowned.

“Yes,” Pang said. He turned his attention forward.

“Are you going to tell me?” Drew said.

“It’s called Black Orchid,” Pang said. He turned back and glared at Drew. “Don’t freak out on me, okay, kid?”

Drew knew the name. Of course, he did! In the (semi-) historical movies, anime, and comics Drew loved watching, Black Orchid was legendary, an outlaw stronghold with its own javelin forge and police force. Also, brothels, taverns, and markets stuffed with goods from all over the world, from squawking chickens to rocket launchers, and delicate Arcanist diagnostic tools to skinned grabbits. The city was supposedly run by a group of crime lords, mysterious and powerful but oddly vulnerable to lone Imperial heroes who came looking for justice for a murdered family member and/or pet.

“You want me to follow you to Black Orchid?” Drew asked. Pang grunted. Drew forgot, for a moment, about his aches and pains. He caught up to the other man. “Are you screwing with me, Pang? You’re supposed to be a hard-ass Sentinel sergeant,” Drew said. “How do even get into Black Orchid? I thought they shot Sentinels on sight!”

“They do,” Pang said. “If you’re stupid enough to fly in with your javelin.” He didn’t slow down, but his voice and manner lost the edge. “Where did you grow up, kid? Someplace far away here, right?”

“Yeah,” Drew said, grudgingly.

“You’re in for some surprises,” Pang said. “Here on the Outside, humans stick together when times get real bad, even if we might have some differences of opinion. It’s not like in the videos.”

“So you’re telling me there aren’t skorpions, Scar, and Dominion strike teams just waiting to pounce on us?”

“Oh, no,” Pang said. “The vids are right about all that stuff. But no sweat. Stick with me, kid. We’ll get to Black Orchid.”

-CT, 4/6/19. If you want to see this narrative unfold, I’ll be regularly adding updates over at fanfiction.net.