In late October 2287, morning in New Babel, the Helix Dynamics corporate city on the Seventh Planet, began with three electronic chimes.

It was called morning because the company's clocks said so. No sunrise ever reached the lowest level. Ventilation pipes blanketing the ceiling of Environmental Control Sector 47 coughed up the black powder that had settled overnight and flushed it into the corridor drains. Disinfectant and scorched resin: to those raised here, that was what the world's air smelled like.

Biological Unit E84-Zeta, known as Elara, sat on the edge of her bed chewing a fluorescent-pink ration. Sweet. So sweet it numbed the back of her tongue. The nutritional label listed everything required: an appetite suppressant, a drug that dulled the fear response, and sugar to keep her working. There was no category for enjoying the taste.

The liquid-crystal mirror above the sink reflected the marks on her neck. She had only just been released from the night's “special service.” Under the pretext of rest for regular soldiers, clone soldiers were assigned duties without their consent. Elara did not count her wounds. Counting them would not make the company pay for anything.

'Asset E84. Estimated remaining operational life: fourteen months.'

Pale-blue letters hovered at the edge of her vision.

“I know.”

Her muttering was saved in the audio log. Elara clicked her tongue. Even a useless reaction like that could later become material for an audit.

Her genes contained regulatory sequences that accelerated aging. An engineered body was not meant to work beyond its warranty. Once cultivation and repair costs were deducted, long-lived soldiers were not profitable. Helix Dynamics had carried that design philosophy through to the end.

Beneath the mirror, thin letters scratched by the previous occupant remained.

Elara looked at the words every morning, though paint was supposed to have erased them. One day she too would be carried out of this room. Would the next unit notice the scratches in the mirror?

The third chime sounded. Deployment orders. Elara crumpled the ration wrapper and slipped into her protective undersuit. A seam beneath her left arm touched a wound. Her hand stopped for a moment. Then she pulled up the zipper as though it had never stopped.

There were twelve empty seats in the briefing room. Yesterday there had been nine. The chairs remained; only the nameplates had been removed. As Elara sat in the back row, a new protective suit rustled beside her.

“You're Senior E84... right?”

Replacement soldier K01-Alpha. Her assigned call name was Kiri. She kept tugging at both gloves to settle her fingers into place. Her fingers shook enough to be visible through the suit.

“What if I'm not?”

“I'm sorry. The records say you're my instructor starting today.”

“If the records say so, I suppose I am.”

Kiri nodded and straightened her back. Three weeks out of the cultivation tank. Half the required training time. When the company ran short of soldiers, it pushed the shortage onto the replacement soldiers' nervous systems.

“How long have you been here, Senior?”

“Am I getting paid to answer that?”

“...No.”

“Then review your firing posture in your head.”

Kiri fell silent. A few seconds later she spoke again.

“Just one more question. I saw Earth's sky in the archives. Is it really blue?”

Elara crushed the wrapper in her lap.

“You saw the footage.”

“Not in footage. I mean, if I looked at it with my own eyes, would it look like that?”

A mission map appeared at the front of the room: Defense Line 47, the purification plant's water intake. The two of them had been assigned to the right flank, where the mud was deepest. Elara answered without looking away from the map.

“Look up on this planet and acid rain kills your optical sensors. Watch your footing.”

“But sometimes the clouds might part...”

“While you wait for that moment, somebody dies.”

The instant she finished, she realized her voice had been sharper than intended. Kiri's shoulders drew in. Elara did not apologize. Instead, she glanced at the girl's hands and corrected a glove clasp fastened backward.

“You can't perform an emergency disconnect like that. Turn it so your right thumb can pull it.”

“...Yes.”

“If it's about equipment, ask as many times as you need.”

Kiri unfastened the clasp and refastened it using only her own fingers. The metal made a small click. She closed her eyes and repeated the motion. Elara did not interrupt. All that mattered was whether she could do it without looking down in a dark cockpit.

“Was that right?”

“Yes. If you forget in combat, tear the whole glove off.”

“Won't I be reprimanded when we get back?”

“Get reprimanded after you get back.”

For the first time, Kiri smiled a little. Elara noticed while pretending not to look.

Death reports for their predecessors scrolled across the front display. The format never varied: time of death, salvageable parts, monetary loss. Nobody asked why the chairs were empty.

Kiri traced one report with her finger.

“This person taught me how to choose targets in yesterday's training.”

“Name?”

“G22... I think.”

“The name they went by.”

Kiri could not answer. Neither did Elara know that soldier's name. They had passed in the corridors, heard the same alarms, eaten the same food in the same cafeteria.

“How do you find out the names of people who don't come back?”

“If you can't ask them, all you can do is hope someone remembers.”

“...That's awful.”

“If you think it's awful, don't call me E84. It's Elara.”

For a moment Kiri looked as if she did not understand what she had been allowed to do.

“Senior Elara.”

“Leave out the senior.”

“Then... Ms. Elara.”

That sounded oddly unsettling too. Elara cleared her throat and faced front again.

The briefing began. The commander's hologram had no face. A security mask replaced its outline with geometric facets.

'Raise the priority of defending the water intake by one level. Repairs to the outer defensive wall are deferred. Attrition of personnel assets is within acceptable limits.'

One soldier began typing, “Have changes in enemy behavior been confirmed?” into the question field. It closed immediately. The commander's voice did not waver.

'Additional inquiries should be directed to the audit desk after the operation.'

Elara knew no way for those who died on the battlefield to ask questions after an operation.

Cradles stood in rows inside the hangar, like enormous coffins. They were piloted walking weapons equipped with semi-organic armor and artificial muscle for the local Helix military. They were machines soldiers climbed into, not facilities that housed spacecraft. Pilots sank into amniotic capsules and received the machine's senses through connectors at the cervical spine. When the machine's arm was torn open, the brain decided its own arm had been torn open. The equipment included a pain bypass, but replacement parts had not arrived for months.

Recovered Cradle cockpits were piled in one corner. Stripped of their seats, they resembled skeletons without flesh. Kiri unconsciously shortened her stride.

“Why are there so many...?”

“Machines can be repaired. Pilots can't. That's all.”

“But aren't these machines for us?”

“We get into machines that belong to the company. Don't get the order wrong.”

Elara picked up the maintenance record attached to her machine. Three days earlier, its left knee actuator had been scheduled for replacement. The replacement part had not arrived. Shipment had been denied because transport costs to the front exceeded the projected benefit of extending the asset's working life.

“Give me spares.”

The mechanic shrugged. His worker's badge read <NEIL>. Oil always hid half the name.

“If I had any, I'd have installed them already.”

“Then tell me how to stop it before it breaks.”

“Cut the propellant and shift the load to the right leg. Don't brace on the left. And if you grab wet mud, grit gets into the joint.”

“Got it.”

The mechanic lowered his voice a little.

“E84. Two spare oxygen cylinders disappeared from my station this morning.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Is that right? If you find whoever has them, tell them to give one to the rookie.”

Instead of answering, Elara pointed at Kiri's chest harness. The mechanic gave a wry smile and passed Kiri a spare cylinder.

Its label said <NON-COMBAT USE> in bold. As usual, the things most needed were prohibited exactly where they were most needed.

The armor around Elara's machine's left knee was a different color. Damaged in the last battle, it had been patched together from parts removed from a machine scheduled for scrapping. The mechanic tapped the seam.

“If this splits again, the leg won't hold. Bring her back in a straight line.”

“I'll make that an aspirational target.”

The mechanic did not laugh. He slotted the remaining cylinder into Elara's chest harness.

Kiri tried to fit her own spare cylinder and dropped the clasp. She snatched it up and wiped the mud off with her sleeve.

“That's your spare. Don't use it for normal breathing.”

“Yes. ...If yours runs out, please use mine.”

“Stay alive yourself first.”

“So after that, it's all right?”

The mechanic stopped with his wrench in hand. Elara said nothing, only checked the clasp Kiri had secured for herself. It was tight. Before deployment, all she could do was make sure that what had been given could actually be used.

“It's against regulations. Don't let the auditors catch you.”

“I'll use it before they catch me.”

“Don't jinx it.”

Elara looked at Kiri's machine. New paint. New neural cables. But the fuel inspection window showed a tank only half full.

“K01, show me your maintenance sheet.”

“It's got a passed stamp.”

“You can't run on a passed stamp. Check the level.”

Kiri hurriedly operated her terminal. No predeployment refueling was recorded. Without a word, the mechanic opened the filling valve. White mist hissed out and the gauge needle slowly rose.

“...Thank you.”

“Tell me when you come back.”

“Then make sure you're here to hear it when we return, Mr. Neil.”

“I'm here every day. You're the ones who are late.”

He tightened the last fastener. Kiri imitated his motions and touched the auxiliary cylinder's clasp once more. It had not loosened.

Elara climbed into her own capsule. Cold culture fluid rose to her ears, and the connector found the port in her cervical spine.

'BCI neural interface connected. Latency: 0.8 milliseconds. Synchronization rate: 78%. Pain bypass filter partially inoperative due to error.'

The same voice every time. A slightly different pain every time.

Her vision inverted. The work lights on the ceiling receded, and the mechanic's hand touching the machine's forelimb felt as though it were touching her own fingertips. Elara made a fist. Metal rang: a sound no human fist could make.

“K01. Don't try to understand everything on your first deployment. Just follow my tracks.”

'Yes, Senior.'

“And if you get scared, say so. I won't notice if you stay quiet.”

A soft breath came over the channel.

'...I'm scared.'

“That's fine.”

It was time for the connection test. Only Kiri's machine repeatedly raised its right arm and stopped. Elara opened the channel.

“What's wrong?”

'It feels as if I have two arms—my own and the machine's.'

“That's how it is at first. Don't force yourself to erase one. Close your hand, open it, lift your foot. Just do that.”

On the training display, Kiri's rejection rate ticked upward.

'I'm afraid of the pain, so I tense up.'

“When the pain comes, read the numbers. Even when you can't think of anything else, you can still read numbers.”

'...Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-two.'

“Good. Now lower the right arm slowly.”

The machine's palm pressed against the hangar floor, raising a fine dust of metal. Kiri finally lowered its arm.

'Were you good at this from the start, Senior?'

“First time, I crushed a maintenance table with my machine's fingers.”

'What?'

“I only crushed the table. That's why I'm still here today.”

After a brief silence, laughter came over the channel. Elara did not stop it. Someone laughing in the lowest level was quiet enough to be lost in the noise of the hangar. Yet through the machine's neural connection, it sounded strangely distinct.

While they waited for deployment, Elara opened the corporate distribution records on the maintenance display. Repair materials for Sector 47 had been cut for three consecutive months. Sanitary supplies were two weeks late. Meanwhile, expenditure on “maintenance of troop morale” had increased. According to the records, every soldier reported high satisfaction.

Soldiers disappeared before their complaints could be recorded. The company called that an improvement in the statistics.

Kiri opened a channel.

'Ms. Elara. When I get back, I'm going to thank the mechanic.'

“I told you to do it after we return.”

'That's why I've decided on one reason to come back.'

Elara had no answer.

'And one more thing. May I look into the sky?'

“Do what you like off duty.”

'There isn't much off-duty time.'

“Don't cut into your sleep. Your nerves will recover more slowly.”

'All right. Then I'll research it in my dreams.'

As if anything could be so convenient. Elara was about to say so when the launch light came on.

Their drop point lay beyond a defensive wall eaten away by acid rain. The sky was gray without end, with no line between clouds and horizon. Each Cradle's ankles sank into the mud and pulled free with a heavy sound. Elara took point and transmitted her footsteps to Kiri's machine.

'Thermal signatures, one hundred twenty meters ahead. Count: thirty-eight.'

“Don't fire. They'll approach once our formation breaks.”

'But I can already see them.'

“You don't shoot because you can see them. You shoot when they're close enough to kill.”

Therions emerged from the mud. Their numbers of limbs and the positions of their spines did not match. Sensors rendered gas leaking between their carapace plates as yellow mist. Elara shot one through a foreleg, then fired again when it fell. The next carcass checked the advance of those behind it. A narrow corridor opened in blood and mud.

“K01, fire down that corridor. Even a miss won't be wasted.”

'Roger!'

Kiri's first round threw up spray. Her second grazed an enemy's shoulder; her third blocked the corridor. Elara listened to Kiri's breathing more closely than she watched the enemy's position.

“Good. Wait one beat before the next shot. Don't rush.”

'Senior, I hit one.'

“I saw.”

The breath that was about to become laughter stopped over the channel. From another direction came the sound of breaking metal.

Eleven minutes into the battle, Elara realized there were too few enemies. The monitoring grid still showed thirty-eight, yet only about half were advancing at the front. The other thermal signatures appeared to be waiting behind rocks.

“K01, don't pursue. Put your back to the wall.”

'Why?'

“The ones behind the rocks aren't moving. Like they're waiting for bait.”

'Therions can wait?'

“That's why I don't like it.”

According to prior combat records, Therions simply surged forward. They came head-on. You shot. Their numbers dwindled. Soldiers had adapted to that routine. But the pack in front of her avoided its fallen members instead of using them as footholds. The enemy was beginning to turn the corridor Elara had made to its own advantage.

She sent the footage to command. The reply was a template.

'Behavioral change falls within statistical margin of error. Continue mission.'

“So this is the age when an error has fangs.”

'What was that?'

“Nothing.”

A soldier's voice came over another channel from the left flank.

'Cover us—they've flanked from the left, the targets are coming right at—'

The voice cut off. At that instant, one friendly identification marker vanished. Kiri gasped. Elara stopped herself from wondering which of the empty chairs would receive that soldier's nameplate.

“K01. You can talk about what you just saw when we get back. For now, eyes forward.”

'...Yes.'

A new thermal signature appeared on their right. A heavily armored specimen. Elara adjusted her firing angle. Three shots, four, five. The rounds left bright marks on its surface but did not halt its legs.

Kiri stared, transfixed. Elara shared her field of vision. The target's teeth filled the image, and the reticle trembled slightly. The rookie could no longer take her focus off the thing coming to kill her.

“K01. Can you hear my voice?”

'Yes.'

“Then read the ground beneath you. Depth?”

'...Twenty-seven centimeters.'

“Two steps right.”

'Yes.'

The first step succeeded. On the second, the ground opened like a black mouth.

The automated gun emplacement supporting the right flank was sinking. Yesterday's bombardment had left a hollow beneath the defensive line. The weight of the gun bore down on it, and the ground split from the edge. Kiri changed course to avoid the emplacement. Mud swallowed her Cradle to the knees.

'I can't get out...!'

“Reduce output. A drive that sucks in mud will burn out.”

'They're coming from behind. Senior, I can't move!'

Elara fired a tow cable toward Kiri's machine. It fell short. A pack lay across the four hundred meters between them. Nearby emplacements demanded resupply, and command ordered the machines to hold position.

'E84, maintain your assigned firing sector. Rescue of K01 will increase the asset-loss rate.'

“K01, listen only to my voice. Don't move your legs.”

'Ah, ah... No, don't come near me...! Rejection rate rising... Move, please, move!'

One heavily armored creature pushed through the pack. Though standard-unit shell impacts marred its carapace, it did not slow. It lowered its head toward Kiri's machine and opened its jaws.

The company's recommended course of action appeared in Elara's vision.

She had seen words like those countless times. Chairs stripped of nameplates. Empty lockers belonging to those taken away. The message beneath the mirror: <HAVE A NAME>.

'Help me! Somebody, no, I don't want to die...! The sky...!'

'Senior... I haven't seen the sky yet.'

Elara bit back the pink sweetness that had returned to the back of her tongue.

“K01. Close your eyes.”

'What...?'

“There's going to be an impact. Don't open them until I give the signal.”

An instant before the collision, she heard Kiri's voice.

'Senior, I—'

The machine's alarm swallowed the rest. Elara was angry with herself for trying to catch the words. This was the moment to calculate the enemy's center of gravity and choose what to do after impact. Yet she wanted to know what Kiri had been about to say.

Their instructor had once told them never to let clone soldiers become excessively dependent on one another: if another's death reduced combat capability, the survivor became defective merchandise. Elara had obeyed faithfully. Never used names, never returned greetings, always kept the prescribed distance even when someone begged for help.

Yet today the distance was four hundred meters.

Four hundred meters. To close it, Elara removed her machine's limiter.

She disabled the safety controls and fed the remaining propellant to the back thrusters. Just as the mechanic had warned, the seam at her left knee glowed red.

'Unauthorized operation.'

“If I wait for authorization, I'll be too late.”

She kicked free of the mud. The machine accelerated. Artificial muscles tore, and their ruptures came back as the sensation of her own thigh splitting open. Elara clenched her teeth. The center of her sights was not the enemy's head, but the thinnest side of the body it had angled toward Kiri.

“Now! Get down!”

Kiri's Cradle crouched. Elara skimmed over its head and slammed her full weight into the heavily armored creature's flank.

Impact. The external feed flashed white and vanished. Somewhere far away came the sound of severed connectors.

'Warning: severe external armor damage. Eighty percent of artificial muscle bundles ruptured. BCI neural rejection exceeds 45%—pilot life support at critical risk.'

Elara was still checking only that Kiri's machine had not fallen.

When she first saw Kiri, the whiteness of the new suit had infuriated her. She had wanted to tell the girl to run before it got dirty. But Elara did not know anywhere to run to. So she would at least drag her back to the place where she herself stood. If doing so cost one machine, so be it.

The recommendation <ABANDON REPLACEMENT SOLDIER K01> still hung in her vision. Elara moved a finger trembling with pain and closed that line manually. She no longer needed it.

Beyond the collision, Kiri's breathing came in broken intervals. Alive. Just knowing that changed the weight of the ruined machine a little.

When she closed her eyes, she could still see the white briefing room. There she had told Kiri not to look up at the blue sky. She could not take the words back. So if Kiri asked again, she would try to give her a different answer. Even if it had to be qualified with: if we survive.

And deep in her own left chest, she heard a thin bone break.

In the Gray Cradle, She and I Dream of a Blue Sky — Chapter 1: A Soldier Who Has Never Known a Blue Sky

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