Latif's Sunrise

by David Bell

David Bell is a writer by way of Omaha Nebraska. He also works as a physical therapist. This is his first story.

The Army drafted Latif in the 20th year of the Island Wars. She’d been born in one of the mining stations in the Rocks. But after her folks struck it rich, they ditched the asteroid and she grew up in the ritzy New Maldive Cylinder orbiting Titan. The war started in her eighth year, but the fighting had been far away.

Travel by freighter to Aldrinstown was deep-sleep time. She’d make it to basic training if the ship wasn’t attacked on the way. She’d never been to the Moon, never been that close to Earth.

Deep-sleep only brought dreams at its outset and ending. She dreamt of Statehood Day and New Maldivians cheering as a 55^th  star was added to the flag. She also caught hints of dread on their faces, but whether it was a memory or a dream she did not know. Her head twitched slightly as she slept. The dream parade inside the rotating New Maldivian glass cylinder continued as the rings of Saturn came into view. A glint betrayed the reflection of a ship. Plasma fire arced across the window panel, burning for half a mile. Vacuum yanked breath from 100,000 people whose screams would never be heard.

She shot upright, awake and gasping.

“Easy there, soldier. Lotsa people come outta deep-sleep with nightmares.” A medic rested a comforting hand on her shoulder for a moment, then handed her a pack containing her uniform. He lumbered away in the light lunar gravity. She dressed.

Four months later, Latif had made it to private first class and smelled as bad as the rest of her platoon, wearing their exo-suits around the clock at times. Water was apparently a problem for them and the enemy. The Independents had mostly retreated to the Trojans. There was talk they might make a break for the Oort Cloud, which would make her military stint a little shorter than the easy two years she’d anticipated. Her higher-ups wouldn’t bother with the enemy out in the Oort.

For the time being, she patrolled towns and bases on the Moon. She looked at Earth often enough – unavoidable really. But she would not be visiting. Growing up in ½G on New Maldive, and even less in the Rocks, her body was too frail and slight to survive for long in the homelands. She worked with worlders. To her they were squat brutes who relied on brawn too much. She was only two generations removed from these people, her so-called countrymen, her brothers and sisters in arms.

About a year on, trouble had started in the Rocks again. The Independents were on the warpath, and had taken a few old mining colonies, including her drab little birth place. A counteroffensive was inevitable, but they assigned her to patrol O’Neal One instead. She was happy to be rid of the Moon. She was also uneasy that others would die in her place. There would be killing. She would be elsewhere.

O’Neal One used to gleam brighter in earth’s night sky as a testament to humanity’s best and worst intentions. A giant torus wheel able to support 20,000 people, it was the first built and the first ruined. Returning miners, starved and angry, kicked out the rich genetic nightmares who had slowly overtaken O’Neal by graft and intimidation. The first Independent Community began here. The War followed.

Sgt. Latif, now 35 in Earth years, patrols O’Neal One with her helmet on and radio down, hearing her breathing and light chatter from Bravo Company. Full suits are required in the open. The Air Force attack on O’Neal had left the colony airless and abandoned. Two years later New Maldive asked for statehood amid both dread and fervor.  She has another receiver in her helmet and, out here by herself, she tunes in, direct input to her brain from a clandestine source unimaginably far away.

Official word is that the repairs will restore the once proud colony. Words can belie truth during war. Here especially. O’Neal is almost empty, save the military camp, a burgeoning prison and cheaply pressurized living quarters. The overweight tycoons that once lived in indolence here will not be returning, one way or another. It will be a prison camp. Rumor is that the Indies are losing the Rock colonies completely. If anyone surrenders, here they’ll stay -- right where it all began.

Patrols occupy their time as well as they can in desolate areas. Latif started a collection of Independent propaganda she’d found in an airless home, at first as a souvenir, later as words committed to memory.

Three weeks ago, plasma fire tore into one of three great window panels at New Maldive. None survived. Most news channels reported a rogue Indie gunship made it past the American defenses and tore the gap in a suicide attack. There are whispers here and there. There are rumors that New Maldive was about to secede from the U.S. There were dead reporters and networks suddenly gone silent. There were final communications from her parents so redacted by intel that they didn’t make sense. There were 100,000 people who had their screams stolen from them. Her parents were among them.

Latif sits in the hanger bay, her shuttle ready as well as her mind. Her body will never be ready for Earth.

No matter. Getting the antimatter bomb into the cargo hold was ungainly work. Instructions from her contact in the Oort Cloud had given her the info she needed to build it. Her platoon and everyone else in O’Neal died from poisoned air tanks.

The hangar opens. There is no sound. The shuttle drifts off towards the bright planet below with its squat, barbarian killers; a land of eternal conflict. The shuttle descends into atmosphere and crosses into morning over North America. Today a new sun will rise for many, and for them, like Latif, there will be no other.