by BL Craig
He choked out the order to Hank’s replacement. “Watson, please add an item to the decision tree.”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Have the troops terminate any reanimates who have been critically injured and are showing signs of pain. Can you parse that?”
Watson asked William a series of clarifying what qualified as “critical” and “signs of pain.”
William hoarsely croaked out answers as another clear day dawned on Mirada.
* * *
…
* * *
When the fortifications were finally overrun, William realized that he had made a terrible error. The remaining officers were under orders to send the drones in to clear any remaining fortifications before entering themselves. There were only a handful of officers left on the front. William had never gotten a clear answer as to why they were not being reinforced from the fleet. The small Rannit space presence had been run out of the system, back through their gate. The ships should be sending support.
When it was deemed reasonably safe, William took his cadre of drone assistants, armed to the teeth and entered the enclave that had been the largest Rannit settlement, a city of originally around 120,000 people. Once he and his small patrol of drones were past the hastily erected gates he saw the first bodies. The tiny Rannit looked so fragile riddled with holes and burns from the human guns. Many of them had been shot while fleeing, and worst of all, of the wounded had been gunned down. William saw what was clearly a triage center that had been fired on by anti-armor weapons. Little Rannit doctors and nurses were lying with their fallen patients. He had steeled himself to see dead defenders, but the bodies did not stop at the battlements. They continued further into the city. Doors had been kicked down and bodies were strewn everywhere. It was clear where some of the drones had lost their weapons and began simply beating or tearing the smaller aliens apart. They were sweeping through the city killing all the “enemies” they encountered. No one had given them any orders for how to treat non-combatants. William had not given them orders.
“Watson, Watson, send the stand down order. Tell them not to harm the civilians.” How would they know the difference? “No order them to fall back right now. If they are attacked, they are to run and not fire. Do it, do it now!”
* * *
…
* * *
After the drones fell back, the colonists had secured the city with almost no blood shed. They rescued the deputy ambassador and confiscated the Rannit weapons. William was hailed as the hero of Mirada, saving the human colonists from the aggressive aliens. He was given a promotion and medals and ribbons. There were ceremonies and speeches and press interviews. Command made sure William had a script. They drilled it into him. He was catnip for the reporters. His handsome face, shy manner, and reluctance to accept accolades made him the perfect poster boy for the rightness of the colonists and the Navy and humanity.
At night, William heard the sounds of 10,000 silent bodies marching. He heard the moans and whines as they died. He saw the brutalized Rannit. He heard the echoes of gun shots as his troops finished off their fellow, dying, dead.
* * *
…
* * *
Those people you used for cannon fodder on Mirada were our friends. Brooks had to be wrong. The drones William directed on Mirada were nothing like the crew of the Tilly. Brooks clearly believed that the high-functioning workers on the Yan Luo had been in the battle, but William had had contact directly or indirectly with almost every reanimate on the field. Any of them could have contacted him to let him know they were people, scared and unprepared. Those people . . . were our friends. It did not make any sense. It could not be true.
No wonder Brooks hated him. He believed William had marched his friends to their deaths. William Butcher, the hero of Mirada. What would that shining face and “aww, shucks” affect look like to the high-functioning SecondLifers? Like a remorseless murderer. A callous man who sacrificed thousands of innocents for a medal and fame. The Butcher of Mirada.
* * *
…
* * *
Once inside his room, Sarah laid William on the bed as best she could and crouched in front of him. She did all the things that mothers do: felt his forehead (for all the good it would do), wrapped a blanket around him, and petted his hair. He came back to himself, somewhat. “Why did they put me here? Why not some rock at the end of the galaxy?”
“Because you were needed here.”
“Needed,” he choked. “I can’t do this anymore, Sarah. I can’t . . . every time I start to feel it this dead blandness just rolls over me. I’m broken. I want to cry, to scream, but I just sit here and think about it. All those poor dead men and women. I thought at least I wouldn’t have the attacks anymore.”
“Atypes have pretty good self-preservation skills. We can “fight or flight” as well as the living. It’s a different mechanism. I guess that means you can still have panic attacks.”
“I can’t stop thinking about all of it. The life I was supposed to have. Worrying what’s happened to . . . it just turns over and over and I can’t make it go away. I’d rather be burned with a hot poker. At least I could feel that. I’d rather be dead for real. Why don’t you hate me? I would hate me?”
“Mirada wasn’t your fault.”
“No, no, no.” He shook his head at each “no” like a tick.
Sarah sucked in a sharp breath. “Fuck, it. Hold on William. I’ve got something that might help.” She rifled through her pockets. William slumped, biting his lip until it oozed grey fluid, just like the dead on Mirada had. He hardly felt the cut.
“Here, put this on your tongue and let it dissolve.”
“What is it?”
“A sort of bypass . . . just take it and give it a moment. I need to check this system message.” She pulled her nexus out of a pocket and began furiously swiping and tapping.
The little tasteless tablet was slowly melting away. Then it hit him like a massive wave. The pain, it was glorious and terrible. His temples throbbed, his throat grew swollen and rough. His heart raced and he heard the rapid-fire thumping in his ears. He fell sideways onto the bed and shook all over. The numbness was gone. He thought for a moment he was having another attack. Then the wave broke, and he let out a low moaning cry that became great, loud, wrenching sobs. Sobs of grief and anger and pain. His eyes began to sting, and viscous tears slid over his face collecting on the blanket under his cheek.
Sarah curled around him and held him while he poured out his grief and rage in moans and cries and whimpers. “Shh, shh, it’ll be OK,” she whispered, petting his hair, her arm wrapped around his middle. He carried on for some time Then he slept, really slept, and didn’t dream.
* * *
…
* * *
Shit, shit, shit, Elva thought, walking to Brooks quarters. She should have sat William down before they got this far and questioned him. Given him a chance to ask questions. But she dithered. Told herself, he’s probably already figured it out. It’s pretty fucking obvious when you know just how many of us there are, she had thought. But then again, it was amazing how many people did not know. Chose not to know. Were taught not to know. The living knew it was the dead who build gates. Did they think it was really all just drones? But of course, they did, because thinking about the alternative was just too fucking disturbing.
What was she supposed to do? She knew the stories in the news were not the complete tale of what happened at Mirada. There was simply no way a single junior officer could have been responsible for all of it. She had not thought William was a callous murderer, just that he had benefited from the tragedy of the disregarded dead. She thought he knew that most of the Yan Luo crew were something more than drones. She had not wanted to ask him for details. How do you ask someone about how they perpetrated a massacre? Now, she suspected that what William had seen and done on Mirada was very different from what she had been led to believe.
Why had the
company allowed it? Any of it? Surely the administrators on the Yan Luo could have refused to turn over their staff, their fellow undead completely unprepared to go into battle. Why hadn’t the workers protested, refused? Not all of the Yan Luo crew were high-functioning, but a good proportion of them were. They worked closely with the drones. Many of the supervisors had affection for their low-functioning subordinates and took their care very seriously. If someone had tried to come and take their people away, Elva believed they would have said something, done something, refused to turn their workers over.
Surely William would have noticed if the high-functioning SecondLifers talked to him, asked what was going on, told him no fucking way they were going to march into a slaughter. What could he have done if any of them had simply refused? But they hadn’t. William had been certain that he had only marched drones to war. He had insisted that half of the Yan Luo workers had survived. Was he lying? Delusional? She did not think so. Did the company really not expect the crew to figure out the discrepancies between William’s story and the official AfterLife news posts?
She needed to acknowledge her own culpability in the confrontation on the bridge. She been an officer her entire adult life. She knew better. Right now, she needed to make sure William was not completely broken. She needed to pin Brooks’ ears to the wall and make him squirm. He was an arrogant fucking ass, but Elva knew that he had also meant what he said. He had really believed William had carelessly slaughtered the Yan Luo workers and that kind of inhuman behavior rankled his prickly sense of justice. She only hoped that she could get Brooks to see that William had not understood the scope of what he had done. Should he have realized? She was beginning to suspect that Williams ignorance of the atypes under his command was not bias or choice. He really did not know. If that was true, AfterLife has just dropped a William shaped grenade into their laps and blown up her family.
She rounded the corner to John’s cabin. Stood before the door a moment, calming herself, and then entered.
* * *
…
* * *
Sometime later, Sarah left William sleeping. The Captain was standing just outside the cabin door. She jerked her head down the hall and set off. Sarah followed.
“How is he?” Elva asked, once they were in the conference room with the door closed.
“It was bad. I think he was ready to space himself. I worked a temporary bypass and let him cry it out.”
“You what?”
“I covered. I made him think it was some sort of adrenaline pill.”
“That was dangerous,” Elva hissed.
“What was dangerous was leaving him like that,” Sarah shot back. “Have a heart, Elva. That kid’s been through the wringer. He needed to let it out.”
“And if they decide to take him into the base to do a follow-up, they will find it and we’ll be in it to our eyeballs. You know better, Sarah. All of us are on the line, not just you. We barely know him.”
“You don’t honestly think he’s a spy?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean we just give up all of our secrets.”
“You didn’t see him. You didn’t hear him. He’s been dying inside. He needed to let it out. To be allowed to feel it. You would have done the same.”
“I did see him. He’s stronger than you think. He’s been through more than you realize.”
“Okay, fine, maybe I needed it? I’m bloody well human, you know. I couldn’t sit by and watch someone suffering like that when I knew I could help. Neither could you.”
The Captain sighed, “Your humanity could have compromised us all. There are bigger concerns right now. It’s about more than you, or him, or any of us. You know that.”
Silence.
“Fine, fine. I know there’s no point in arguing with you anymore,” the Captain said throwing her hands up. “Just don’t do it again. There are ways to help him that won’t get us killed. Look, tell him not to tell anyone about your little trick. Let him think the rest of us don’t know. He’ll be more careful with your secret as opposed to our secret. I’m going to see him.”
7
Chilling Effect
When William woke up, Sarah was gone and whatever the little pill had done was gone as well. He felt . . . not numb but still regulated. There was a lightness that came with pouring out his grief. There was a congealed substance on his face, where the tears had run. He tried wiping it off, but it proved sticky. He checked in the bathroom mirror and he looked like hell. The sclera of his eyes were blue-tinged, puffy, and grey elixir clung to his lashes. His hair was sticking up in all directions and his lip was cut pretty deeply where he’d bitten it. It appeared to be healing already but stung when he touched it. No doubt it would be throbbing if he were still alive.
He needed to wash his face off. The door chimed.
“Come in,” he said moving back into the cabin.
The Captain entered. “You look like shit, Butcher.” Her blunt words carried an unspoken sympathy and validation for his current wrung-out state.
“The waiter. He said, “‘Die like they did.’ He meant Mirada. It was revenge.”
“I dunno, Butcher,” the Captain sighed, “It sure sounds that way, but it’s been centuries since a drone malfunctioned that badly. AfterLife keeps a tight lock on drones, especially the ones that interact with 1st Lifers. I’m not sure a service model would even know what happened on Mirada, let alone how many reanimates died. It’s possible he was just reacting to some trauma from FirstLife buried in the back of his brain. Maybe you look just like his abusive uncle. Maybe he thought he was back in the kitchen carving up a turkey. Who can say?”
William looked at the Captain with open skepticism.
“I’ve got no answers for you, other than to say that I’m sorry you got shoved into all this without a moment to breathe. Normally you would have been on Elysium long enough for the techs to get your baseline and make adjustments to your Elixir balances. They would have run you through counseling to see how you reacted and given you time to acclimate. Death is a traumatic shit show, but it’s not usually this bad for newbies. I’m going to have Clarke do some calibrations on your NCM and give you a whole new infusion of Elixir. You’re not due for a couple of weeks, but it can’t hurt to flush your system. The stuff they give you during reanimation is a bit different from our maintenance fluid, but that’ll have to wait a bit. How are you feeling now?”
“I feel . . . better.”
“Good. Take some more time to rest. I’ll be in my office for the next several hours. I need to ask you some questions. Come by when you are ready.”
* * *
…
* * *
John reached for a connector and upended the open sorter, sending tiny resistors, connectors, and transistors flying. “Son of a bitch!” he cursed. He wanted to blame his clumsiness on Addy’s dirty trick with the stunner, but really, he was just angry. He should not be working with delicate electronics when he was amped up. The Captain’s words still stung in his ears.
John had not blamed Sarah for being genial with Butcher, at first. She had to work with him most, and she was not one for unnecessary confrontation. He respected her professionalism, though he knew from experience she could flay a man alive with words when she finally built up to it. John had been on the receiving end of her ire once in the 12 years she had been on the Tilly and that had been quite enough.
It was clear now, from her behavior on the bridge, that she had bought into Butcher’s wounded warrior schtick. Worse, the Captain was backing it up. “I don’t care what you think about him. You will comport yourself as a member of this crew. That means being respectful of the rest of the crew and not picking fights. Period.”
Respect? Where was the respect for the dead on Mirada?
* * *
…
* * *
William picked up his nexus. He did not know what he was looking for, just a distraction. He had been steadily checking off orientation items, but very li
ttle seemed to be sticking in his brain. He was sure he had missed some important things, but he could not bring himself to care.
The screen illuminated and the counselor icon flashed and opened up. The generic-faced woman appeared on the screen. “Hello, William. Your Captain has reported that you had an anxiety attack on duty during a live fire simulation. Your file does not include a diagnosis for anxiety or post-traumatic stress, however, your experiences in the Navy would certainly support that. Is your file incomplete? Have you received counseling for this before?”
“Ummm, no.” He replied flatly. Supposedly, the Navy was the foremost authority on trauma, given their long tradition of throwing humans into deadly situations and forcing them to attack other people. However, it had been centuries since Navy personnel had engaged in any kind of combat. The counselor they had assigned him tried to help but was clearly out of his depth frequently referring to the battle as the “accident.” Each time William met with the man there was some new exercise or meditation guaranteed to help him “take control” of his anxiety. After a while he simply focused on helping William identify when an attack was impending. The Navy did not want him melting down on camera. Any time he brought up the nightmares the handlers had quickly deflected, offering him yoga or encouraging him to go for a run. If they had acknowledged his condition, they would have to put him on leave, or perhaps even discharge him.