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Day One
Yibo’s earpiece crackles to life as he’s waist-deep in thrashing limbs and three meters underground, clearing out a driller bug nest. “Tracer 85, status report.”
“Status: busy,” Yibo snaps, ducking a plated tail that swings at his head. Two blocks and a crunch that vibrates up his arms later, the biggest sentries are down and he can breathe for a moment. “You’re not Li Chen.”
“No names on the comm,” the voice in his ear says crisply. “Your previous handler is–no longer available. I’ll be your Mission Control from here on out.”
“What happened to her?” Yibo asks, rounding a corner and beheading a defender that snaps at his face.
“She quit,” Mission Control says dryly. “Something about an asset that goes out on his own without notifying Command.”
“I gave notice,” Yibo lies, striking down the last driller in the cavern. He straightens. “System must have glitched.”
“Must have,” Mission Control murmurs, and then his voice firms up, focused and clean and all business. “A nest this large means a Queen. Any sign of the focal chamber?”
“Not yet,” Yibo says, slinging his electroblade over his back and breaking into a jog. “But we’ve got all kinds of time before we’re through here, Mission Control.”
Day Three
Somewhere in his file, Yibo knows, there’s a psych eval. Probably several; he knows at least a few of the “debriefing sessions” he’s undergone have been surreptitious evaluations, and he assumes there have been more. It’s not supposed to be easy, this kind of life, and he knows that Command has invested a considerable amount in him, in the other Assets of his class. It makes sense that they’d want to protect their investment.
Yibo doesn’t mind, as long as they keep letting him do his job. He’s good at it, he knows it and Command knows it, and he doesn’t care how many Mission Controls he burns through as long as they keep letting him clear out driller nests and rescue ‘steaders and free-skate down frozen lava flows.
He does wonder, however, what kind of notes are in the file Command is undoubtedly keeping on this Mission Control: adaptable, unfazed by violence, and able to wrangle strong personalities are probably all in the job description, but people lie on their resume all the time. Yibo has the trail of Controls behind him to prove it: they either burn out, or they transfer, or they straight-up quit (although that’s a new one) and Yibo has to spend time and energy breaking a new person in.
No one stays. Not in Yibo’s experience.
Day Twenty-Nine
“Careful now,” Mission Control murmurs in his ear, and Yibo slows his footsteps. “Three lifeforms ahead, but I’m showing severe fracturing in the cliff-face. One good tremor will set it off.”
As he finishes speaking, the ground beneath Yibo shakes again. It’s nothing as bad as the wild tremors that had rocked this little settlement earlier in the day and opened the new crevasse ahead of him, but it is enough to make Yibo pause.
“More quakes incoming?” he asks.
“Seismic activity is hard to track,” Mission Control says apologetically, as if he personally is responsible for the limits of technology. “We get a few minute’s warning, if that. Drones are on the way, but if you can get them out first...”
“A few minutes is all I need,” Yibo says, and Mission Control laughs warmly in his ear, like he believes him.
Yibo pulls up short on the edge of the crevasse, leaning over. Three terrified faces peer back up at him, and Yibo feels his stomach lurch; they’re just kids, and the ledge they’re on is barely wide enough for all three of them.
“I’m going to get you out of there, okay?” he calls down as he unspools the all-purpose cable at his belt. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
The first child comes up easily, seated in the improvised net Yibo constructs. The second is able to help a little bit, clawing his way up the cliffside as Yibo pulls. The remaining kid even gives him a boost, heaving him up as she’s left alone on the ledge.
“You need to hurry,” Mission Control murmurs into Yibo’s ear. “Remember that few minute’s warning?”
Yibo’s arms ache as he lowers the cable one more time. “I’m hurrying,” he says through gritted teeth as the girl secures the cable around her waist.
The ground shakes again beneath Yibo’s feet, but this time it doesn’t subside, pebbles and larger chunks of earth sloughing off the cliff-face and sliding into the crevasse below. Yibo spares a glance behind him; the other two kids are back by his drifter, hopefully out of range, but this whole structure could go at any moment. He needs an exit, and he needs it fast.
The ground gives a low roar and the earth shifts beneath him. Yibo looks wildly around but there’s nothing like solid ground anymore, only the increasing rumble of the earth and a high, electronic whine–
Yibo looks up, then looks down at the girl on the ledge.
“Hold tight, okay?” He shouts, and she nods, gripping the cable. Yibo wraps the other end a couple of times around his forearm, backing up so he has space for a running start.
“You gonna catch me, Mission Control?” he says, leaning into a sprint toward the edge. The ground shakes and slides beneath his feet, and as Yibo launches himself into the open air Mission Control murmurs, “Always.”
Yibo freewheels through the air for one long moment–and then his hand closes around the lower chassis of the foremost Search & Rescue drone, buzzing up the crevasse. The drone dips but stabilizes, and the cable around Yibo’s arm goes taut as the girl swings out over the roiling chasm, the cliff-face disintegrating behind her. Yibo glances down in alarm when the first shriek drifts up to him, but she’s screaming with delighted laughter, spinning at the bottom of the cable as the cliff-face slides away.
“Remind you of anyone?” Mission Control says, low and amused in his ear, and Yibo huffs as the drone changes course, taking them back toward solid ground and safety.
Day Fifty-Seven
Sometimes during the night-cycle Yibo likes to head up to the roof of the little unit that’s been assigned to him, to sit and watch the stars.
“Mission Control?” he says softly, looking up into the darklit night. He thinks he can pick out the bright point that is the orbiting space station where Command sits, but he’s not sure.
“I’m here, Tracer 85,” comes the immediate reply.
“Don’t you sleep?” Yibo asks, and the warm chuckle he gets sets tingles down his spine.
“When you do,” Mission Control says, which is–not the answer Yibo expected. He’d known there was extensive monitoring built into his suit, even into his unit–hell, his bed tracks his REM cycle and his blood pressure–but he hadn’t considered what someone might be doing with all of that data.
“So you’re, what–just waiting for my call? Day or night?”
“Yes,” Mission Control says simply, and Yibo doesn’t know what to do with that. This part had never been explained to him, or at least not in a way that makes Yibo feel vaguely guilty for keeping someone that he’s never met from sleep.
“I don’t mind, Tracer 85,” Mission Control says when Yibo lets the silence grow long. “It’s what I signed up for, just like you did. And I have to say, you’re by far the most interesting Asset I’ve spotted for yet.”
Yet. Yibo hates that suddenly, hates the thought of Mission Control moving on to another Asset. He can’t bear the thought of another voice in his ear, celebrating his victories and keeping him from defeat, guiding him through ursabear packs and through half-collapsed tunnels.
“Guess I’ll just have to keep being interesting, then,” he says lightly, leaning back with his hands folded behind his head. It’s a warm night; he has an insulated blanket with him but he might not need it even if he stays up here until the dawn.
“I have no doubt that you will,” Mission Control murmurs warmly in his ear. Yibo smiles, and closes his eyes.
Day Seventy
“Yibo?” Mission Control says into his ear, and Yibo groans, pushing himself up. “Yibo, answer me.”
Yibo swallows, scrabbling for his suitlamp and only breathing easier when it lights, casting weird shadows on the wall as he looks around. “Thought I might have bought it on that one.”
“No,” Mission Control says fiercely. “Help is on the way. I’ve never lost an Asset and you are not going to be the first, do you hear me, Yibo?”
Yibo chuckles and tries to ignore the tickle in the back of his throat, the jumping shadows. “No names on the comm,” he says, and Mission Control makes a frustrated noise in his ear.
“Tell me what happened,” Mission Control says as Yibo inspects the wall of rubble at the end of the small enclosure. The dark behind him is pressing in at him, but if he can move any of this debris–
“Cave-in,” Yibo says shortly, attempting to shift some of the rock. He manages to roll aside a small boulder but more debris cascades down to fill the space it left and he backs away, coughing.
“Stop making it worse and tell me again. Walk me through it,” Mission Control says tightly. He sounds tense, even worried, and if Yibo weren’t already acutely aware of the severity of his situation that would have driven it home.
Yibo’s back hits the wall and his knees fold underneath him, sliding him down until his ass hits the floor. He stays there, breathing quietly. It’s probably best that he conserve his energy; he doesn’t know how long he’ll be down here. The thought sets something tight in his gut and he tries to breathe through it, but he can feel his chest moving faster.
“Yibo,” Mission Control says quietly into his ear. “Tell me what happened.”
Yibo draws in a breath that tastes of stone and dust and lets it out slowly. “I was free-skating down Mengqin Falls. You know, just north of the ice waste,” he says, as if Mission Control doesn’t have access to satellite maps of the whole planet and the tracking feed inside Yibo’s suit.
Mission Control makes an encouraging noise and Yibo folds his arms. Is it getting colder in here? It’s probably just that he’s stopped moving, he decides. “I spun through a curve–probably faster than I should have,” he admits grudgingly. “Didn’t see the weak spot up ahead. I fell through. And when I woke up I was in this cave.”
“Your feed says you were out for only out for a few minutes,” Mission Control confirms. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Sleepy?”
“No, vaguely, and I know better than to sleep on a concussion,” Yibo responds. “But there’s nothing else to do down here.”
“You’re going to talk to me,” Mission Control says firmly. “Until the recovery unit digs you out, you’re going to stay on the comm.”
Yibo chuckles, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. “So you’ll know if there’s anything worth digging out?”
“Stop that,” Mission Control hisses. “You’re getting out of there if I have to come dig you out myself.”
“Wow,” Yibo says. “A Mission Control threatening to leave his post and come planetside, now I feel important.”
“You are important, Yibo” Mission Control says softly, and Yibo’s breath catches. Then Mission Control’s voice firms up. “Now talk. Tell me about the Academy. I’ve heard all kinds of stories, tell me one.”
“Uh.” Yibo is still scrambling to catch up from you are important, but Academy stories, he can do that, he can deliver the polished and pre-approved Academy narratives in his sleep. “Sure. The cafeteria always served these alpine plums, you know, the kind they harvest by the hoverload on Xiaopei. Everybody hated them. So one day Seungyoon–”
The plum story always lands well with a crowd, and Mission Control is no exception, laughing in all the right spots and giving a horrified gasp when Yibo gets to the part with the Director. Yibo knows he’s being played to, but he’s always liked an appreciative audience, and maybe he hams it up a little just to hear Mission Control’s laughter, warm and present in his ear. If Yibo closes his eyes he can almost imagine he’s back home, sitting on top of his little unit or high up on a cliff, as close as he can get to the stars where Mission Control sits.
“Yibo?” Mission Control’s voice has an edge of worry in it, like it’s not the first time he’s said Yibo’s name.
“Ah. Sorry.” Yibo opens his eyes, but all that greets him is a wall of rock irregularly illuminated by his suitlamp. “Anyway–that’s why they don’t serve alpine plums at the Academy anymore, and good luck finding someone who will sell you any in that Directorship.”
“Amazing,” Mission Control murmurs. “So you’re saying Xiaopei is ripe for a black market fruit enterprise.”
Yibo groans. “That’s terrible, zero points.” Mission Control chuckles, and when Yibo doesn’t say anything else the silence falls over him like an overly thick blanket. Surely he’d be able to hear the recovery unit if it was close?
Yibo licks dry lips, tasting stale dust. The air seems to be growing warmer, but maybe that’s just his imagination. He keeps his eyes trained on the glow from his suitlamp and tries to ignore the shadows that move with his breathing.
“Will you tell me something?” he asks quietly into the weird half-light.
“Anything,” Mission Control says. “Anything you want to hear.”
Yibo chuckles. “That’s a dangerous invitation. What if I wanted the orbital launch codes?”
“What do you want?” Mission Control asks, and Yibo huffs.
“You know my name; you know everything about me,” Yibo says, keeping his eyes trained on the light. “But it’s been months and I don’t know yours.”
Mission Control is silent, and Yibo blows out a breath.
“I know, I know,” he starts. “No names on the–”
“Xiao Zhan,” Mission Control says. “My name is Xiao Zhan.”
“Xiao Zhan.” Yibo tries it out, smiling as he tips his head back to rest against the rough cave wall. “Xiao Zhan. You must really think I’m going to die down here, huh,” he says, and Mission Control hisses in his ear.
“Stop saying that,” Mission Con–Xiao Zhan orders. “You are not dying today, and that’s final. Cover your face.”
“Cover my–what?” Yibo winces as light lances into the little cave, belatedly raising an arm to shield his face as the wall of rock shifts and collapses outward. Two recovery units hover on the other side, shifting debris, and above them–very far above them, Yibo has to crane his neck as he scrambles out of the cave–Yibo can see the hole he made when he fell through. His knees seem to be staging some sort of revolt, and he sinks down when he’s safely on the other side. One of the recovery units leaves off shifting rock and comes to scan him, and Yibo tips his head back, gazing up through the jagged hole in the frozen flow far above.
The evening is oncoming, the first stars just emerging. Yibo grins at them, and waves.
Day Seventy-One
The med-post clears him in record time: nothing broken, no internal bleeding, just several spectacular bruises and a minor concussion. His suit had taken the brunt of the impact, which it’s designed to do, and it’s with some regret that Yibo watches it be carted off for repair. He feels almost naked without it, the thin cotton medical shirt and pants a poor substitute for carbon polymer. He’s sent home with strict orders to stay there, and he’s feeling banged up enough that he submits without argument.
He hasn’t heard from Mission Control–from Xiao Zhan–in several hours, and Yibo chews his lip uneasily as he lets himself in. He flops down on his bed and affixes his earpiece, rescued from the remains of his armor.
“Mission Control?” he says out of habit, and then, softer, “Xiao Zhan?”
“I’m here,” comes the immediate reply, and Yibo heaves out a sigh, relaxing into the pillow.
“I–” he doesn’t have a reason for this call, he realizes, and scrambles for something plausible. “When do you think they’ll clear me for duty again?”
“Well normally I would say ‘when you’ve learned not to fall from unimaginable distances,’” Xiao Zhan muses, “but somehow I don’t think you’ve learned that lesson.”
Yibo grins. “I can lie and say I have,” he says, and Xiao Zhan laughs.
“Let’s save us all the trouble,” he says, and then his voice gentles. “But they told you at the med-post it would be at least two weeks.”
They had. “Were you listening?”
Xiao Zhan pauses. “I have all of your files, you know that.”
“So you were listening,” Yibo says, a grin stretching across his face.
“I was looking after my Asset,” Xiao Zhan says primly, and something warm lights in the pit of Yibo’s stomach at the way Xiao Zhan says my Asset. “Now why did you really call?”
To see if you’d stayed. “To see if you would answer,” Yibo hedges, and Xiao Zhan makes a thoughtful noise.
“I’ll always answer, Yibo,” Xiao Zhan says gently, and so confidently Yibo can’t help but believe him. “Always.”
Day Eighty-Five
“Tracer 85, checking in.” Yibo swings his electroblade over his shoulder, letting it settle into place on his back. He tests the fit on his new armor around his wrists, relishing the crisp click of the newly installed catches.
“I read you loud and clear, Tracer 85,” Xiao Zhan says. “Where are we off to today?”
“I was about to ask you, Mission Control.” Yibo grins, letting himself into the little bay where his drifter is parked. It fires up immediately at his touch, and Yibo swings his leg over as the bay door lifts.
“Well,” Xiao Zhan muses in his ear. “I hear the southern reaches are flush with snowmelt. Real white-water action in the rivers. Someone should probably investigate.”
It’s been ages since Yibo’s gone riverboarding. He steers the drifter out of the little settlement, turning its nose south as he picks up speed. “You going to fish me out if I fall in?”
Xiao Zhan’s chuckle is warm in his ear, right where it belongs. “Always. You said it yourself: we’ve got all kinds of time before we’re through here.”