by B. V. Larson
“All right,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”
She nodded while I tramped up to the officer’s deck.
As far as I was concerned, I was on a fool’s errand. Winslade didn’t even want to listen to me, much less take any advice I had to offer.
After I’d explained to the primus about the dead crew of the freighter and that we had reserved the right to revive them during this pursuit, he gave me an odd look.
“Claver,” Winslade said. “You’re talking about Claver, right? I knew you had a shady past with that snake, McGill, but I didn’t think you’d go this far.”
Blinking, I stared at him for a moment.
“What’s Claver got to do with this, sir?” I asked.
“You’re going to play it that way again, are you? The hulking ignoramus routine? It gets old, McGill. It really does.”
“Uh…”
“Claver was on the freighter. You arranged that part yourself according to legend, helping him get the titanium delivery contracts.”
“I don’t remember anything about delivery contracts.”
Winslade rolled his eyes at me. I hated that, but I waited for him to explain.
“How else did you expect Claver to cash in on the lucrative deal you helped set up for him if he wasn’t flying cargo back and forth from Machine World? Didn’t your best friend at least send you a text?”
I frowned, thinking hard. Claver had been given the right to trade titanium from Machine World but only to other parties. Not to Earth. We got our share for free.
“I’m confused, sir—” I began.
“To put it mildly.”
“Well…I mean the last I knew of Claver he was on Earth. He was arrested, you know, and put on notice by Central. I didn’t know he was released to go out to Machine World and do business.”
Winslade crossed his arms and huffed. “Central arresting Claver? You’re talking about Equestrian Nagata. That man has no idea what will stick and what won’t. He’s honorable, but stupid. Central wasn’t going to let anyone hold Claver. Earth needs that titanium. Who better to get it than a snake like your friend?”
I followed his logic to a degree. Apparently, Claver had been authorized to transport and deliver titanium from Machine World. It wasn’t surprising that I hadn’t heard about that. I’d ducked out of legion politics as quickly as I could once I’d returned home to Earth. But now here I was, back in the middle of it all.
“But sir,” I objected. “Claver was given the right to trade titanium with other worlds, not Earth.”
“Right,” Winslade said in a condescending tone. “Let’s go over the logic of that statement, shall we? One trader was given the right to transport and sell some of the titanium to other worlds while the balance went to us. Now, how do you think the actual delivery went down?”
“I have no idea.”
“I thought not. It’s the same as the delivery of any product. Claver was already transporting the product to multiple customer worlds. Why wouldn’t he make his delivery rounds in a single ship—collecting a transportation fee from everyone along the way, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, finally catching on.
Claver was a slippery business man. If there was a profit to be made, a deal to be cut, he’d get it done. I could see how he’d used his position to lever delivery contracts with Earth in addition to other worlds. The metal was “free” technically, but it still had to be transported. It only made sense to have one transportation network from a supplier world. Why duplicate the effort?
“So,” I said. “You’re saying Claver was aboard the freighter according to the manifest, and he died when the ship slammed into Earth.”
“He was probably long dead by that time. But your statement is accurate enough in the essentials.”
“Well sir…” I said, “then I suggest we revive him.”
“What a surprise. Let’s hear your reasons, just for the record.”
“Because, if there’s one man in the cosmos who knows what the hell is going on out here, it’s Claver. He may not want to tell us—but he knows the score.”
Winslade chewed on his upper lip for a time. I tried not to watch.
“Agreed,” he said at last. “He’s the only one we can ask. After Turov and Tribune Drusus have been revived and given their blessings, we’ll—”
“Whoa, hold on there,” I said. “Let’s back that up, Primus. I strongly recommend that we get Claver out right now, before anyone else.”
Winslade frowned at me. “Whatever for? Are you trying to get me into difficulties with my superiors? I know you excel at that sort of thing.”
“I do, sir, I do. But I want you to think about something: if Turov could have revived Claver at any point along this search into space—why didn’t she do it?”
Winslade’s eyes narrowed until they resembled those of a ferret. “You’re right. Such primitive cunning—but it’s undeniable. If she’d wanted to do it, she would have done it during the voyage out here.”
“Exactly sir. And might I add that if she didn’t want to do it before, she’s not going to allow it once she’s back in charge of this mission.”
Winslade looked stressed. He began to pace. I could see the warring thoughts within his mind. He wasn’t sure what he should do.
If he crossed Turov, it would cost him. But then again, he wanted to know what Claver might say. His own survival might hang in the balance.
“There is something wrong, here,” he said. “I’ll admit that. And another point has occurred to me: Did you know Turov wasn’t too keen on this mission to begin with? She wanted to turn around and abandon the search after the first target world was missed.”
“I heard something to that effect, sir.”
Winslade eyed me with calculated respect. “You’ve got my mind churning, veteran.”
“Yes Primus. I excel at that.”
Winslade flicked his eyes down to his desk. He tapped on virtual keypad that appeared before him, and soon the revival queue as it stood now was displayed. He studied it, and made tsking sounds.
“This won’t do at all,” he said. “I’m going to go further than you suggested…I’m going to fully streamline the revival queue. I’ll make sure the best possible use of our limited resources is achieved.”
For a second, I blinked at him. Then I got it. He was going to reorder the queue, micromanaging the process. He would decide who lived again—and who stayed dead.
“I understand perfectly, sir.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said in a condescending tone. “But you understand enough to do my bidding. That will suffice.”
-18-
We moved ourselves down to the revival chambers. After waiting around for a few minutes, we saw the bio specialist in charge leave the room. She gave us an up-down look, but didn’t say anything as we both out-ranked her. When she hurried away down the passage, we quickly ducked inside.
Editing a revival queue isn’t all that hard to do—especially not when the acting C. O. has given you the go-ahead.
I hacked my way past the login screen easily enough. Our first snag came when the system required me to enter a comment in a memo box justifying the change. Winslade and I looked at one another in concern.
“This input field is a new one,” I said.
“Indeed. Someone has altered the data entry screens to add this requirement.”
“Do you think it was the bio people? Or maybe a new firmware release from Central?”
Winslade shrugged. “It hardly matters. The pertinent detail is that the system is logging our changes, including who made them, when, and why. What’s your answer, McGill?”
“Me?” I asked, aghast. “I’m supposed to put in the answer?”
“You’re making the alterations. I’m a bystander. Technically, I’m not even here.” So saying, he stepped away and looked into the distance. Maybe he thought his face might get into a vid recording, somehow.
My lips twisted
up into an expression of disgust. Winslade was as quick and slippery as a snake in a grease-fire—and he was just about as ornery, too.
Cracking my knuckles, I typed in a spray of text and hit enter. Winslade turned around on his heel and came back to stand at my side.
“What did you enter?” he asked.
“Nothing special. Just some vague double-talk. I’ve heard it all my life, and it comes out naturally when convenient.”
Winslade snorted. “Indeed. Well enough, then.”
“Who shall we revive first?” I asked.
“Claver,” Winslade said. “As you suggested earlier. Push him to the top of the queue.”
I did so and locked it in.
“And what’s next?”
“Take these names of the list,” Winslade said, sliding a computer scroll in front of me. The list contained the names of everyone in the legion who outranked him, either by virtue of position or seniority. In particular he’d taken pains to remove senior brass from the list entirely, putting them on hold.
“Are you sure about this, sir?”
“Just do it, McGill.”
I didn’t like it, but I did it. I adjusted the queue and saved it. A few short minutes later a tapping sound began at the chamber door. Anne’s face appeared in the foggy porthole. Maybe she’d been alerted somehow. Then I saw that the bio we’d chased off earlier was with her. Doubtlessly, the woman had gone to get Anne.
Anne was frowning at us like we were two urchins in her kitchen, sneaking cookie dough. I knew the look well. Two non-bio people were fooling with her most holy of holy machines. That wouldn’t do at all for any self-respecting bio.
“They’re getting restless,” I said.
“Too bad. Do you have any other suggested edits, while we’re at it? Who should come out after Claver? It can’t be the brass—not yet. We have to have time to interrogate Claver thoroughly before anyone can take command and remove me from my position.”
After thinking about it for a moment or two, I came up with an idea.
“How about prioritizing combat troops?” I asked. “We’ll load up everyone who’s died in this cohort first. That way, we’ll have hours to talk to him while the rest of the cohort people are spit out.”
“Excellent. There are operational precedents for that sort of thing. When under fire from local resistance, unit cohesion comes first. Front-line troops are often revived before top-level brass. We’ll claim the situation was an emergency, and that the reordering of the revival process was necessary.”
“As good a dodge as any.”
“Do it. Make the rest of the edits and reactivate the machine.”
“Uh…but sir, if I do that, it will abort the current grow. Can’t we just let this one finish and then bring Claver out next?”
Even as I said these words, Anne’s fist began hammering on the door. Her face was in the porthole again, one eye roving angrily.
“As you can see,” Winslade said, “we already have our first objector. I want this over with. We must be ruthless and quick. Perform all your questionable deeds at midnight, McGill. Do them all at once, as fast as you can. Those are words to live by.”
“If you say so, sir,” I said. Gritting my teeth, I typed in the changes and engaged the confirmation code.
The machine began to burble and made sloshing sounds. The noises reminded me of a dishwasher switching into the rinse cycle. I hated to hear that sound.
After less than a minute, the maw yawned open and disgorged a half-baked person. The living corpse was gray and malformed. I’d expected it might be small, like a baby, but it wasn’t. The machine apparently grew people differently than a normal gestation of an infant. It formed the cellular structure of an adult and kept refining the shape until it got it right. The thing looked like a slug with fat, curled-up arms and legs. The gray skin was covered in slime.
“That’s got to be the foulest thing…” Winslade said.
Anne must have caught sight of our latest action, and she didn’t approve. She burst into the chamber puffing with anger.
“What is the meaning of this act?” she demanded. “Who’s responsible for aborting this grow?”
“Remain calm, Specialist,” Winslade said. “You do it all the time when something goes wrong.”
“But this was a perfectly good grow. You killed it!”
Truer words were never spoken. Partially formed lungs heaved and sighed. They rattled their last and the proto-person shivered in death.
“Recycle this mess,” Winslade ordered. “Do not alter the queue as it now stands. Alert me when the next grow is complete.”
He left then, with an imperious air. I had to admit, he knew how to give orders like a pro.
“I’m sorry, Anne,” I said when he left.
“This has got to be your idea,” she said.
“Not at all. Check the memo in the work order.”
She did, and she frowned: “‘Authorized by Primus Leonard Winslade, acting commander. Alteration request approved. Reasons: Classified.’ What the hell is this?”
“That’s what he had me type in,” I said. “He was in charge. I just knew how to do what he wanted. Maybe he thought a real bio would give him grief.”
“He was right about that. You wait until I make my full report. Winslade will wish he’d never been revived this time around. Turov will tear him apart.”
Inwardly, I grinned. My ad-lib memo field was already coming in handy. I was fairly certain it would reap even bigger rewards later on.
“Aren’t you interested to know why he really did it?” I asked.
“Yes, I suppose. Tell me.”
I pointed to the queue. “Did you happen to notice the next name on that list—the next grow, who even now is gestating inside the guts of the machine?”
Anne looked, and she gasped. “Claver? Tell me this is some kind of mistake!”
Shrugging and shaking my head, I endeavored to look innocent. “I’m following orders,” I said. “I didn’t even know he was aboard Minotaur.”
“Don’t be a…never mind. Yes, James, he was on the manifest. We’ve had his data since we left Earth. He died on the freighter when it crashed into Earth. At least, that’s when his death became officially recognized. We’ve had the authorization to revive him since that time.”
“Why didn’t Turov do it?”
“I don’t know. It does seem odd. The machine sat idle for nearly a month. Why let him linger in death for so long? And why is Winslade bringing him back now, when we need this single machine to revive an entire legion?”
“Different commanders, different priorities.”
Anne narrowed her eyes. “You know more than you’re letting on, right? Never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to get into politics. The only thing slimier than the guts of this machine is the twisted double-dealings of people like Winslade and Turov. I want no part of it.”
I nodded and shut up. It was easy to keep quiet. After all, I barely knew what was going on myself.
But I intended to find out.
-19-
By the time Claver was coming out of the oven, things were heating up outside the lifter as well. We were back in Winslade’s office where he was looking over incoming reports.
“My helmet’s buzzing nonstop,” Winslade complained. He glowered as he worked his tapper. “Those…things you discovered out there in the forest, how many do you think you saw?”
I shrugged. “Thirteen was the count. But that’s only counting the production of a single tree. There might be more.”
Winslade’s expression changed to one of worry. “No weaponry, right? Just a pack of big, walking bipeds?”
Thinking about the monster I’d witnessed, its power and sudden fury, I didn’t want to downplay how dangerous an army of them might be.
“We only fought one, but it had just crawled out of its cocoon. Even so, the damned thing killed one of my people before we brought it down… By the way, sir, did we bring any heavy weapo
nry down from Minotaur on this lifter?”
Winslade eyed me for a second. “There have been over a hundred sightings now. The confirmed reports number half that many—but the aliens haven’t moved against us yet. They’re maneuvering out there in the forest, just beyond our reach.”
“I don’t like the sound of that, sir. If they come at us, all at once and organized…well sir, in my opinion superior firepower may not be enough.”
“I’ll recall all our patrols,” Winslade said after a moment’s thought. “No one is to go more than a kilometer from the lifter. We’ll force the aliens to march into a killing zone.”
I watched in concern as he relayed these orders to Graves and the other Centurions. We had six full units of troops now, six hundred heavy infantry.
He hadn’t answered my question about artillery. Maybe there wasn’t any. Maybe Turov had wanted to make sure we survived the descent before she committed expensive equipment. If that was the case, we were more screwed than I’d thought.
My next move should have been to leave the revival room and rejoin my squad. They were outside preparing fortifications now, and if an army of those things was approaching, I needed to be with them.
But before I could excuse myself, Anne contacted us. “Claver is coming out now. James, would you come help me? I’m in the middle of a shift-change on orderlies.”
Never having been a fan of this process, I marched down there to help. It was the least I could do. My teeth were gritted for the next few minutes while we delivered a naked, slimy Claver onto a steel palette. He shivered and mewed. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for the bastard—almost.
“He’s a good grow—if that can be said about Claver,” Anne said, letting go of his eyelid. The eyeball underneath rolled away from us and he snapped that eyelid shut when he was able.
“I don’t feel like a good grow,” he said in a croaking voice. He kept his eyes screwed shut. “Can you turn off those lights?”
“No,” Anne told him flatly.
Claver chuckled and coughed. “You get an ‘F’ in bedside manners, my dear.”