Komodo
Two chapters from the science fiction novel of ambition, betrayal, and ascendancy.
1
The structure would not last. Its frame sagged, warping dozens of floors under the stress of an uneven orbit. Its windows reflected the sun in dusty florals, the vogue of a bygone century. Inside, human blurs lived and slept like bees in a slab of lost honeycomb. Anywhere closer to civilization, Glenwood Orbitals would have been condemned long ago.
Basra crawled across the rotating tenement. She followed a shadowed figure, his spacesuit tethered to her own by an oxygen line. When her lamplight bobbed across his armored back, it lit up with six silver letters. ‘MARRET.’
From the tugs on the line, Basra could feel the four men behind her keeping pace. Her short breath fogged her visor, then cleared. She scanned the void—empty, aside from the planet Alvarado. It hung above her, dotted with upside-down towns, mountains, and deserts. She avoided looking up. Ahead, Special Agent Marret’s helmet light flashed twice. Basra halted, relaying the message down the line.
The government override panel had corroded. Marret pocketed his masterkey, trading it for a prybar. With a soundless snap, the tenement’s service hatch flew open. Amber light covered Marret, and Basra could see him sign a quick prayer as he uncoupled his oxygen tether. Pushing off, he entered the station’s gravity field and dropped from view.
Basra approached the shaft and hesitated. Even with radio silence, she could feel the judgement of the four task force operators behind her. The drop ahead was terrifying. Her world spun. She felt as if Alvarado may fall and crush her at any moment. After a few more seconds, someone tugged the oxygen line in annoyance. “Just start,” she said to herself. “Just start.” Taking a last breath tinged with old helmet padding and someone else’s aftershave, she broke from the tether and thrust herself into the service corridor.
Equilibrium returned. What was ‘up’ now clearly became ‘sideways’ as she landed on the station’s bottom floor. Marret grabbed her arm, guiding her aside as Peterson landed where she’d just stood. Breathe slowly, Basra remembered. The two assisting deputies from the Alvarado Sheriff’s Department followed. Shipwright entered last, and when the corridor was sealed all six removed their pressure visors.
“Damn, desk jockey,” the shorter deputy mocked, “trying to hold us up till all your terrorist buddies get here?” He knocked Basra in the shoulder, where her armor read ‘LIAISON.’ She had never in her career with the Unitary Territorial Defense Agency expressed any radical sentiment, but her outworld features and coloring were enough to draw these constant allegations from the woodwork.
“Ninth level,” said Basra. “Marret, I’m behind you.”
Glenwood Orbitals was a murky labyrinth. Garbage and debris piled the halls, blocking fire sprinklers. The lights had stopped functioning long ago. As she advanced, Basra saw dark shapes scatter, their steps silent on carpet. Her own boots were loud and cumbersome. Each was equipped with a miniature field generator, a costly addition to account for the possibility of a stationwide gravitational blackout. To protect their belongings from the same inconvenience, station residents used tape.
“Which door?” Marret whispered.
The five armed men checked their rifles. Basra opened the station schematics. Blinded by her display light, she could still feel dozens of residents’ eyes watching her from the shadows. “Forty-four bravo,” she said, and when she lowered the screen she met the silent glare of a Mahav child.
The boy was no more than ten years old. He stood barefoot by a garbage chute, draped in the victory jersey of last year’s losing championship team. His face was gaunt, and his saucerlike eyes shone with uncanny brilliance as they stared her down.
They were her eyes, too.
Basra’s tactical mask could not conceal her unease. The boy raised three fingers and signed a single character in its ancient, sacred form. Race traitor.
“Camden,” Marret repeated with a snap. Basra blinked. “Help me out here,” he said, and pointed with two fingers to the tenement front doors. In the light, it was clear that every unit number had been stripped clean.
“Right,” said Basra. She tried in vain to count the doors of this level’s endless hallway, then turned the other way and attempted the same. Peterson caught her gaze with concern. Behind him, the shorter deputy grumbled. The taller one’s eyes darted, while Shipwright kept his rifle trained on the rear flank.
Basra turned back. The boy was gone. “We’re way open here,” said Marret, a twitch in his voice.
“Give me your thermal,” said Basra. Marret shifted, and she pulled the headset from the velcro of his bandolier. Against her eyes, the device transformed the scene into an ocean of humming blue-green. The walls melted away, and each living compartment revealed a miniature hub of human activity.
Two doors down, a small man moved in panic, bouncing from corner to corner of his cluttered apartment. “That’s him,” said Basra.
“Stula? You’re sure?” Marret asked.
“Everyone else is too tall. They’re station babies. Bald Stula grew up on a farming world.”
Marret nodded. “Alright,” said Peterson, “hurry up and clear it with Anza.”
“No time,” said Basra. “I’ll greenlight it.”
“No,” said Peterson. His tone was diligent, approaching arrogant. “Height on thermal is circumstantial at best. Anza needs to clear it. Make the call or I will.”
Basra lowered the thermal headset and held a large transmitter to her mouth. “Home Base, Home Base, this is Diamond Two, we have circumstantial ID of suspect, need Michael to greenlight ASAP, over.”
She felt the weight of each second as her helmet clock rolled. “Craig,” said Shipwright, calling to Marret, “we’ve got massing contacts at the end of the corridor.”
“Copied, Diamond Two,” a woman’s voice crackled over the transmitter. “Define circumstantial ID. Over.”
Basra scoffed. “Visual on adult male matching suspect parameters. It’s him. Sorry, who is this? Over.”
Twenty-five seconds passed. “Diamond Two, this is the Unitary Defense Headquarters on Canavan. Bald Stula is a high-importance target and UDH has taken directorial control of this operation.”
Canavan? Basra counted on her fingers. That’s ten light-seconds from here.
“Camden,” said Marret. “Update.”
“Working on it,” said Basra. “Canavan HQ, we’re exposed. Seconds count. If we can’t get remote greenlight, we might,” Peterson shook his head gravely, “we just really need that clearance.”
She released the send button and awaited the twenty-second roundtrip. “What kind of a name is ‘Bald,’ anyway?” the shorter deputy said, sweat at his forehead. “You don’t need to go into smuggling to find a toupee.”
“It’s from the ancient tongue,” said Basra. “It means ‘clever.’”
“Alright, Diamond Two,” said the woman on Canavan. “We hear you. Hang on.”
“Can’t do shit around here,” Basra grumbled, clipping the transmitter to her belt.
Marret looked over with concern. “Craig,” Shipwright called from the end of the line, “Craig, they’re all gone.”
The team’s chatter stopped. Basra swept the hallway with the thermal headset. It was devoid of life. Then, in the silence, a new sound began to rise.
“Do you hear that?” Peterson whispered. Basra nodded, hair bristling on her neck. The hallway shook, then shook again, to the beat of a dull, rhythmic pounding.
“Hull breach?” asked the taller deputy, groping for his pressure visor. “Do we need to bug out?”
“Stay cool,” said Marret, taking the thermal back from Basra. “Camden, do a scan, figure it out.”
Basra didn’t need to do a scan. “Marret,” she said, her nerves ice, “that’s a Mahav war dance.”
“A what?” the shorter deputy laughed.
“Marret,” she said, stepping close to the point man and touching his arm. “Pull the plug on this. Call it right now and get us back to the evac point.”
“The guy’s right there,” said Marret. He reached a hand out toward the wall. “He’s right goddamn there.”
Shipwright looked to the ducts, then the floor. Anxiety spread through the task force. From both sides, darkness closed in.
“Call it,” said Basra. “Just call it. Please, Craig. Trust me. You don’t want to mess around here. We’ll have another chance. Just—”
The transmitter lit up. “Greenlight, Diamond Force, repeat, greenlight. Go, go, go.”
Marret kicked in the apartment door, and the room exploded.
He didn’t have time to shout. A dazzle of incendiary charges went off like flashbulbs, searing the air and blinding the point man where he stood. Basra’s ears rang, and from her vantage point she retained a small amount of her vision. She watched Marret stumbling, aiming his rifle hopelessly ahead. Above him, she saw the whir of a suicide drone.
Basra charged Marret. She tackled him, taking their two weighted bodies to the carpet in an instant. Overhead, the suicide drones went off like popcorn, sending jagged shards across the room in neck-level starbursts. Holding Marret’s head to the floor with her own, Basra inhaled the shag carpet’s odor of cigarettes and sour beer.
The chaos quieted. Bootsteps entered from the hall. Eyes shut, Basra felt someone lifting her to her feet by the handle of her armor. It was Peterson, and when he saw her face he melted into weary relief. “You’re alright,” he said, staying hunched in the smoky apartment. It was deserted, cleared of both furniture and life. “You’re alright, Camden.”
“Where’s Stula?” she asked, but her voice was too singed to be heard.
“Casualty!” Shipwright cried out beside her. He held a limp Marret by the back of his armor, and when the point man was lifted Basra could see that the flesh of his face had been seared away. His eyes were fused shut, and his cheeks were gnarled in a bright, glistening red. The two assisting deputies stood helpless as Peterson rushed to administer aid.
Basra scanned the room. Floorboards were overturned, and needles littered the floor along with box-meal cartons and cans. Only one lamp functioned, and its flickering red light gave the entire space a sinister glow.
It was in this glow that Basra spotted the face. It loomed in the wall, staring through slats of a ventilation grate with a wicked smile. Its teeth were sharpened, and its wide eyes watched the triage of Special Agent Marret with insidious glee. Slowly, it shifted, until it fixed itself on Basra with obsession.
“Stula!” Basra shouted. She swept her hand across the floor, catching Marret’s fallen rifle and swinging its barrel toward the ventilation grate. As soon as her finger reached the trigger, she opened fire.
The rifle cracked like fireworks. Even at subsonic speed, its fire created incredible noise within the confined space station. The Alvarado deputies dropped to the ground, and the two standing agents huddled to protect their fallen comrade. Sparks showered where lead hit the grate. By the time her magazine ran out, Basra could hear almost nothing. She kept the weapon trained. The grate fell in pieces to the floor of the apartment, revealing a black chasm pocked with bullet holes.
Bald Stula was nowhere to be seen.
2
Gunpowder popped in Basra’s face as she entered the UTDA Anza Station office. Streamers fluttered over her, adding to the wilted pile of a previous, premature ambush. “Surprise,” five lumpy public servants sang, holding a painted banner that read ‘Welcome Back Task Force.’ In front of them sat a half-eaten cake, along with mismatched cutlery and plates. Behind, a mummy in a wheelchair sat silent.
“Thanks,” Basra mumbled, scratching the mark from her hospital wristband.
With a broad smile, Pomona Lauter stepped forward and handed her a greeting card. Pomona’s hands were perpetually hot, and a small stroke of melted icing crossed to Basra’s fingers when they touched. “For our Anza Station hero,” she beamed.
Basra pushed through the party’s killzone. “Peterson? Shipwright?” she asked Takuya, who had released his portion of the banner to let her pass.
“Still on leave,” said Takuya. “It’s in their hazard contract.”
Formation broken, the office workers returned to their natural cliques. Basra pulled a rolling chair aside and sat in the corner, beside the mummy. His head rested against a framed sign which promised ‘Local Vigilance and Planetary Excellence’ in drab, unitary blue. Where the bandages stopped at his mouth and eyes, she could see Marret’s handsome features squeezed within. On his lap was a plate of untouched cake, which he could neither hold nor move, and which had clearly been placed there by some now-absent party.
Basra took the cake from him and ate. “Hey, man,” she said, keeping her voice low. He groaned, and she adjusted her seat to fall within his eyeline. “How come you’re back already?”
Marret grunted.
“I can’t believe what happened with UDH,” Basra went on. “They really think they can provide mission support twenty seconds out of sync? With no notice? I might go into my debrief and just tear them up on the record for once.”
Marret grunted.
“Almost sixty grand flushed in gear and OT, and we didn’t even get the guy,” said Basra. “If I ran this outfit, you’d see a lot done differently, let me tell you.”
Marret grunted in warning. From across the party, Michael Spalding beckoned her into the administrator’s office.
“You’re right,” she said, depositing the empty plate on his lap. “Well, time to bat cleanup.”
“Awful,” said Spalding. “Just awful.”
“Oh, I agree, sir,” said Basra, sitting at attention.
Spalding said nothing. He pressed at a troublesome desk insert, which had come out of its proper drawer and was unwilling to fit cleanly back in.
“Has Canavan sent in a report yet?” Basra asked.
“Canavan,” Spalding sighed. “The station, the cost, the report, the cleanup. Just awful.”
Basra’s patience for the morose was limited. “I think our focus should remain capturing Stula,” she said. “We now have a confirmed sighting less than three days ago, which means his travel cone is small. My threat report is still valid, and now we have an even stronger platform of operational knowledge to work with. Let ASD handle the cleanup so we can take point. This guy’s the number one smuggler in the sector.”
“Much worse than that,” said Spalding.
“Sorry?” Basra asked.
“Trafficking. Prostitution. Arms movement. He’s no radical, but he’s more than happy to sell them a missile battery or two. UDH has been less than, well, it’s been a busy morning.”
“All the more reason to put together an operation,” said Basra. “Two or three scanners. Work the informants. Once we get a lock, two days to plan and then we hit him again.”
“The operation is already approved,” said Spalding, glancing at Basra’s surprise before returning his eyes to the desk drawer. “That’s not why I called you in.”
“Okay,” said Basra, “well, you’ve got my thoughts from the written after-action, but I’m happy to lay it down in person. It might not be too flattering for Canavan UDH, though. Look, I can hit the ground running with this new operation and—”
“I read the after-action,” said Spalding. “The operation is fine without you. UDH is taking point. You’re sitting this one out.” He pressed one corner of the insert, and another popped out. “Please don’t make this difficult, Basra.”
“I,” Basra stopped. “What else is there to coordinate?”
“Nothing,” Spalding snapped, slamming against the drawer. “You’re not on operations right now. You’re going to be doing drug education on Alvarado for a while, with Pomona. You start next week.”
“Pomona?”
“Yes, elementary schools, mostly. I’ll let her brief you, she’s very excited about it.”
Basra was about to shout. She was about to rant about Pomona, about the assisting deputies, about UDH and Marret and the culpability of everyone other than herself. Then she paused. She watched the withered bureaucrat press at the desk, unable to face his subordinate of nine years. The insert was permanently warped with age. It would never fit inside the drawer again.
Basra picked up her briefcase and left.
(End of excerpt.)
Komodo is a science fiction novel of sweeping, relentless personal and interstellar conflict. It's a saga of enterprise, empire, and will to power exerted across the heavens.
You can order the full novel in digital or print form through Amazon at the link below.
Futurist Letters is an independent publication and a labor of love. It is entirely user-supported, and any patronage you provide is greatly valued. Paid subscribers have the ability to comment and browse the article archives.
If you liked this post, please consider sharing it with some friends, or on social media. You can also follow Cairo Smith on Twitter, Instagram, and Letterboxd.