by James Evans
He swore again then jumped like a frightened child when his communicator beeped. He snatched it out and opened the link.
“Platoon Six here,” he said, speaking more loudly than he would have liked in order to make himself heard above the din of the storm.
“This is, Varpulis. What is your status, Six?”
“Situation dire,” he reported, relieved to have someone to give him orders. “We lack supplies, we’re low on ammunition and we have injured comrades. Immediate extraction requested.”
“Understood, Lieutenant. Extraction not immediately possible, timing unknown due to the uncertainty of operational parameters. Remain on this channel. Retreat to safety and do not engage the enemy.”
“Acknowledged,” he said, hopes of an early rescue dashed. “Six out.”
He swore again, although it didn’t make him feel any better.
Then he saw figures emerging from a building. The shorter, long-haired one led the way, one of the local females. There was a figure walking behind her and two more bringing up the rear; one was carrying weapons. He couldn’t believe it – the figure in the middle was a prisoner, they’d captured one of his fellow officers. How? There had been no reports of anyone going missing; then again, the fighting had been chaotic, the withdrawal even more so.
The tattered remnants of his command joined him to peer over the wall. Two hundred metres away, the small group moved quickly across the open ground, heading for another of the large buildings. In seconds they would be too far away, and their captured comrade would be beyond help. Intolerable! Damn his orders; he had to act.
He signalled the attack, pulled out his rifle, and all four troopers opened fire, blasting away at the enemy to give their comrade a chance to escape.
The lead figure went down in the first seconds, struck by at least one round, hair flailing as she fell. The other two were luckier and dived away into cover. They returned fire almost immediately, and one of his comrades was hit in the face, his helmet smashed apart, bits of skull and brain matter spattering the ground.
An ominous click from his rifle told him that he was out of ammunition, but the captured comrade was free, racing towards them in giant, ungainly leaps. They must have drugged him; surely no comrade officer would move so inelegantly, and so slowly, towards freedom?
Then he ducked as rounds slammed into the wall and whistled close to his helmet. When he looked again, their captured comrade had almost reached their position. One more leap and he cleared the wall, landing behind them in the remains of the building. Platoon Six might have lost a man, but they had rescued a fellow officer, and that was a fair exchange, worth the risk. The comrade officer had been captured and would have useful intelligence. The enemy was foolish to allow him to escape so easily.
He tossed aside his useless rifle and turned to signal the retreat. It was only then that he saw that his freed comrade was armed with a pistol and was blasting rounds into the two troopers who were still shooting at the enemy.
The lieutenant shouted in alarm and dived forward. He grappled with the turncoat, batting aside the pistol and groping for the man’s throat or eyes, all the time shouting at him, screaming questions, burning to understand why they had been betrayed. Why had he lost more men? Good men, his comrades, his friends.
The traitorous scum punched and kicked, but the young platoon leader had momentum on his side and bore his opponent to the ground. They wrestled furiously for a moment as the rain hammered down around them, then he found himself astride the rebel officer. Fuelled by his righteous fury, he attacked with all the ferocity he could bring to bear. He was no longer concerned with escape or survival; he just needed to punish this traitor, to beat the life from him with his bare fists.
Having gained the upper hand, he lashed out, pummelling his enemy with blow after blow, screaming in wordless fury, blinded by rage and rainwater. All his opponent could do was feebly try to fend off his blows with one hand.
Through the red mist, he saw that the bastard was frantically reaching for something, even as his fists smashed again and again into his face.
He looked down and, in the fraction of a second left to him, he saw what it was. A pistol, lying in a puddle died red with blood that had oozed from one of his men. Then he collapsed back against the wall, his own personal universe snuffed out.
Atticus rolled to one side, coughing and spitting blood from his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth but, by some miracle, none were broken. This clone was tough. He was amazed he could still see straight after the pounding he’d taken. He kicked his legs free from the tangle of the last enemy and got to his knees. There was a pair of binoculars attached to the webbing of the corpse, and he unclipped them, moving to the wall to get a look at Warden and Governor Denmead.
A burst of fire greeted him the moment he popped his head up, stitching along the wall just below his head. He ducked immediately. Bugger. He couldn’t blame them; he did look exactly like the enemy.
“Warden, the enemy patrol is down. What’s your status?” he asked, wondering why the hell he hadn’t just used his HUD in the first place. “Also, I’m going to stand up, so please don’t shoot at me anymore.”
“Ahh. Sorry, Captain.”
“Not a problem, Lieutenant, just update me.”
“The hospital director was hit in the head; he never stood a chance. Johnson has a couple of minor flesh wounds, but he’s operational.”
“What about Governor Denmead?” Atticus asked.
There was a pause before Warden replied. “She was hit in the shoulder, sir. I’m doing my best until the medics arrive. It’s bad.”
Atticus swore at that news. “Understood. I’m on my way.”
1
There was a bright light in her eyes that didn’t get any dimmer even when she squeezed them shut. Strange. Her head was pounding as well, and there was an uncomfortable feeling around her shoulder. Her chest felt tight, and her alarm was beeping incessantly and to a strange rhythm. She tried to reach out and slap it away, but somehow she just didn’t have the energy.
And why was someone singing in the next room? What the hell had she drunk last night? Not more of that miserable attempt at producing gin that the self-professed ‘best biologist on the planet’ had cobbled together from potatoes and engine grease.
At least the beeping had stopped. No. Not stopped, changed to a single dull tone. Why couldn’t she find the alarm clock? Was she on the wrong side of the bed or simply in the wrong bed entirely. Oh no, had she got so drunk she’d gone home with a biologist? That would be hard to live down; it was bad enough most of them were less than a third of her age, but a biologist? If her friends found out, she’d never hear the end of it. More sleep, that was the trick. Just fall back and ignore the alarm, maybe the headache would go away.
The voices in the other room got louder.
“Fuck! No, we’re losing her. She’s flatlining.”
“Stay calm. Give me 10cc of adrenaline and another bag of plasma, please.”
Denmead dozed for a few minutes and when she awoke the alarm was back on. It must have a second round in case you slept through the first. Bloody alarm clocks, it was like they were designed just to disrupt your sleep, she thought, giggling inanely. She coughed and felt something pressing down around her mouth; she tried to reach for it, but her left arm wouldn’t budge. She must have slept on it, and it had gone dead. Right arm then.
“No,” said one of the voices from the other room. “Leave that on, Governor. No, leave it on. Nurse, help me out here!”
A hand closed around hers and gently but firmly held it back from her face.
“It’s all right. You’re in the hospital. We’re trying to help you. Can you hear me?”
How could she not? This strange man was screaming at the top of his lungs. It didn’t seem much like a hospital voice. She tried to respond.
“I’m not sure what that was, you’re slurring a bit because of the anaesthetic. My guess is you want to know wha
t happened. Squeeze my hand if you can,” the male voice said, and she did her best to grip his hand firmly.
“Good. You had a bit of an accident. Well, usually we get accidents. This is the first time I’ve had to say this, Governor, but you’ve been shot. No, don’t worry, you’re going to be okay. No need for a new body, it’s just a flesh wound. You’ve lost a lot of blood, though, so you will probably feel a bit grotty for a while. Lie back, and we’ll have you back on your feet in no time,” the nurse said.
A hand waved slowly in front of her eyes, and she tried to focus. It was blurry but getting clearer. “That’s better; you’re starting to come round from the knock out drops. You’ll be right as rain soon, you’ll see. I’m going to give you a shot to help you come around properly, okay?”
She tried to nod, but the sharp pain in her neck took her breath away. She wished she had the energy to wince, but instead, she just passed out again.
The next time she came round, her head was pounding a little less, the light wasn’t so bright, and she didn’t have a mask strapped to her face. Her left arm still wasn’t responding but, by grasping something with her right hand, she managed to sit up. She had barely swung her legs over the side of the bed before the panicking nurse appeared, shouting for the doctor.
“Governor, you stop that right now! You’ve been shot. You’re in no condition to get out of bed,” the doctor suggested. Well, ordered – Denmead supposed that was how the doctor would see it. She was buggered if some quack was going to give her orders.
“Is the wound sealed? Do I have enough blood to be going on with?”
“Yes, but you need bed rest to recover, complete immobility.”
“I see. And will bed rest help me deal with an orbital strike or a few rounds from a rifle or a grenade?” she asked in her best icy tone.
“You are my patient, and I am not going to discharge you until I’m satisfied that you are fit for duty and won’t collapse in a heap. Other people can deal with the business of the colony for a while. You need to focus on your recovery,” the doctor tried.
“No, they can’t. I don’t have time to argue, Doctor. I’m getting up, I’m getting dressed, and I’m going to work. You can help me get dressed. You can give me something for my headache and stims to keep me alert. What you may not do, young lady, is tell me to sit idly by like some lazy hipster drinking flat whites while my colony burns. Now, are you going to help me, or would you prefer to be charged with treason?”
The doctor stared at her, eyes narrowing. Then she bit back whatever retort she’d been considering and started giving orders to the nurse.
They got her dressed, or at least decent. Her jacket and shirt were ruined. The bullet hole might have been sewn up, but the clothes had been drenched in blood, and whatever had survived the attack had been cut to ribbons by the medical team.
“The bullet went through your upper arm, into your chest, and exited under the collarbone. Your arm must have been on the backswing. You were centimetres away from death.”
“Well, a hospital T-shirt will do just fine for now. How long have I been out?”
“About an hour and a half since you were shot, Governor.”
“As little as that? Excellent work. Now, find me whatever painkillers you recommend and whatever stimulant you think will strike the right balance between utility and safety, and help me get over to my headquarters. There will be a lot more people in here with far worse injuries than me if we don’t get this right, Doctor.”
“I must advise against this course of action most strongly,” said the doctor, holding up her hand when Denmead opened her mouth to speak. “I will do as you ask, but I want you back here in two hours, no more. We need to check your wounds, change your bandages and push more fluids into you. You’re to drink frequently while you are up, and if you lose consciousness or do anything to further risk your health, I’ll sedate you for a week to let your body recover. Is that clear?”
Denmead looked at the doctor for a moment then gave a curt nod, ignoring the sharp pains that shot down her neck.
“Nurse Gailey will accompany you, just in case.” Gailey nodded, although the look on his face was no more encouraging than the doctor’s.
A few minutes later, dosed with painkillers and with more in her pocket, she was on her way, Gailey following along behind, muttering all the while. Denmead found that she didn’t have the strength to object.
2
“Right, let’s have a little order here, people,” said Atticus, rapping his long fingers on the table to call the meeting to order. His gaze was drawn to his hand and he flexed the odd, spindly fingers. They looked thin and fragile, but he’d discovered they were deceptively strong with an unyielding grip.
Being deployed in an unfamiliar clone type was strange. The proportions of his body felt wrong, somehow, as if he were wearing someone else's clothes, which he supposed he was, in a way.
Looking up at the rest of the people sitting around the conference table, he saw telltale signs of nervousness and not just because of the dire situation that New Bristol faced. Some were fidgeting. Some studied data slates in a manner too intense to be convincing. Others were paying attention but their eyes flickered about, unable to settle on him. A few snuck glances at him, or rather, at what he was wearing.
The colonists were worried by his use of an alien clone body as well, and from what Warden had told him, the unusual dental arrangements of his new skull made him sound menacingly inhuman.
“Where is the governor?” asked Smith, the aptly-named Chief Manufacturing Engineer. “She should be chairing this meeting. It’s not good to break protocol, especially in situations like this,” lectured Smith, working himself up to give Atticus a proper tongue-lashing. “Just because things are bad, there’s no reason to jettison our longstanding Colony World procedures. They’ve endured for a reason, you know!” he said, wagging his finger.
Atticus hissed at him, and the man stopped talking and started blinking instead, then he lowered his finger and sat back in his chair. Intimidating hissing, it seemed, was something this body did well. It would probably make an excellent pianist as well, mused Atticus, trying to keep the smirk from his face.
“We’re all familiar with the protocols, Smith,” said Grimes, his strong Yorkshire accent carried over from his youth and thriving, hundreds of light years from home, “and we need to give Captain Atticus a chance to speak.”
“Thank you, Mr Grimes,” said Atticus, somewhat relieved that the taciturn head of civil engineering was taking part in the discussion.
“Don’t thank me yet, son, I haven’t done anything for you, and we’re still deep in the shit,” said Grimes, demonstrating an admirable, if gruff, honesty that Atticus hadn’t expected from members of this council.
“Our agenda is short,” said Atticus in an attempt to move things along, “as is our time. The enemy fleet is only days away, there may be troops still on the ground that we don’t know about and we don’t know when we will be reinforced. That means we need to evacuate the city, move our vital equipment to safe, easily defended positions and conscript every person who can be spared into a militia. The goal will be simply to survive long enough for the fleet to arrive and effect a rescue.”
“Evacuate?” said Smith. “Are you mad? This is our home, we can’t just abandon it to the enemy!” Atticus opened his mouth to explain but it seemed Smith wasn’t the only councillor unhappy with his suggestions.
“I must agree with my colleague,” said Liz Sharp, deputy chief medical officer and the most senior doctor in the colony while her superior was in the queue for a new clone body. “We have injured people in the hospital and more equipment than we can feasibly move. Evacuation isn't an option.”
“And even if it were,” interjected Smith, leaning forward and wagging his finger again to emphasise his points, “even if it were, we have nowhere to go. So no, we’ll have to stay in the city, it’s as simple as that.” The captain was beginning to find the finger-w
agging irritating and he briefly considered grabbing the offending digit and giving it a sharp twist.
Atticus looked around the group and saw the heads nodding in agreement. This was going to be more difficult than he had hoped. He sighed, a peculiarly aggressive sound in his borrowed body, and placed his hands flat on the table.
“Ladies, gentlemen. We have to be realistic about what is militarily possible and strategically achievable. We’ll be fighting a guerrilla war, striking hard and moving quickly to confuse the enemy and disrupt their plans. My force isn’t large enough to defend the city, so if we stay, everyone will die.” He paused to emphasise the point then continued just as the councillors realised they could speak. “If we evacuate, some at least will have the chance of avoiding body death, and we should have an opportunity to recover everyone else.” He paused again to look around the room, assessing the continuing unease at abandoning the city.
“So let’s just look at how we’ll manage the evacuation,” he said, moving on as Sharp raised her hand to speak.
“How many people are left in the city?” he asked, trying to keep the discussion moving. “And what options do we have to move them?”
And now everyone spoke at once. Smith wanted to talk about the practicalities of moving large numbers of people, Sharp was witheringly critical of any suggestion that the hospital would have to move or even change, and Grimes’s deep voice growled out his scepticism about the difficulties of repositioning civil facilities and heavy equipment. Atticus could feel his patience being buried in a stream of administrative objections.
Then the door opened and, to Atticus’s considerable relief, Governor Denmead walked into the council chamber. She looked awful, her face pale and her arm heavily strapped. The room fell silent as she walked slowly to her chair and waited pointedly until Smith pulled it out for her so that she could sit. Then she looked around at the councillors and senior personnel that ran Ashton.