by M. R. Forbes
Dr. Drummond didn't look convinced. It didn't matter. Mitchell had already signed the discharge.
He left the infirmary without another word.
7
Major Arapo knocked on his p-rat the following morning, at precisely oh seven hundred hours. Mitchell had been awake for three hours prior, the thirty-four hour days on Liberty offering him a little more recuperation time than he might have been granted on Earth. He'd used the time to go through his typical morning run followed by a round of intense PE that helped him try to work his arm back into its normal range of motion. The run had given him a chance to clear his head. By the time he'd returned to his room sweaty and awake, he had come to the conclusion that the voice in his head was exactly what Dr. Drummond had said it was - nothing more than a minor glitch caused by the repair of his neural implant.
A quick clean up and a new uniform, and then he was left waiting on a gel sofa, using his p-rat to scan through the local news. Of course, the attack from the day before was splashed everywhere he looked, followed by election polls and updates on rebuilding projects around the city. The media had completely bought into the whole terrorist plot angle, playing it up as if all of Liberty had been under siege.
"Good morning, Mitchell," Christine said when he opened the hatch to his room. The Major looked exactly the same as she had the night before, as though she had spent the entire time since he had last seen her frozen in suspended animation.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said.
"Christine. Please, Mitchell." She continued to stand at the entrance to his room.
"Right. Since we're on friendly terms, Mitch will do. You can come in whenever you're ready."
She didn't lose her stoic expression as she crossed the threshold. A signal in his ear sounded when she pushed a document to him.
"I'm sending you an updated itinerary."
Mitchell scanned it. "We're staying on Liberty?"
"Yes. For another four days. It was Security's recommendation, based on the data models."
"They already tried to kill me here and failed, so this is where I'm the most safe."
"Yes. Something like that."
"What about the one that got away?"
"We found the bike abandoned at the spaceport. We're operating under the assumption that they fled."
"Do you think that's the right assumption?" he asked.
"No. We'll have a team trailing us while we're here on Liberty. They'll keep you safe."
Mitchell smiled. "You want them to try again." It was a statement, not a question.
She shrugged. "Let's just say Command wouldn't be disappointed to have a shot at capturing the assassin. If there's a chance at learning where and how they were hired, it might give us a vector to plant someone."
"Into the Federation? Good luck with that."
"In the meantime, arrangements are being made to host a gala for you tomorrow night, in recognition of your heroism yesterday."
"What heroism? Five people died because of me. A fact that you didn't hesitate to point out yourself."
"And I reprimanded you accordingly. As far as the people of Liberty are concerned, you saved them. Again."
Mitchell shook his head. "What will Command do if the truth ever finds its way out to the public?"
"It won't."
"How do you know?"
Christine was silent. Mitchell waited for an answer, and when it didn't come, he returned his attention to his new schedule. They would spend the rest of the morning visiting campuses around the city, and then the afternoon at a heavy equipment manufacturing plant, cheering on the workers who were pumping out the mechs that were rebuilding the planet's infrastructure. He had another interview later in the evening with a local stream in Bethesda, a smaller city on the other side of the globe. Then they would circle back to Liberty to prepare for the big party.
"I did get shot yesterday, you know," he said, closing the list, and his eyes. He suddenly felt tired.
"That's hardly a grueling schedule, Mitch. Show up, shake hands, say a few words, eat, drink, and... on second thought, don't drink."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Her left eye twitched as she checked her p-rat. "Transportation is here. Are you ready to go?"
"Almost." He stood and entered the bedroom. His AZ-9 had been left at the base of his bed, cleaned and reloaded, along with a small magnetic clip to help him hide it more efficiently beneath his uniform. He mounted it in easy reach and returned to the living area, flashing it to the Major. "I got the feeling you wanted me to keep carrying this."
"We can't let you run around defenseless."
He followed her out to the waiting transport. It was a long-range personal carrier, a long, windowless rectangle with a wedge-shaped nose that rested on a pair of repulser nacelles, making it able to move in both ground and aerial lanes of traffic. The hatch opened as they approached, and they hopped inside and took up positions in the rear pair of cushioned seats. High-resolution cameras transformed the solid walls into windows on both sides of them, offering a view that scared people who didn't do much flying. Mitchell glanced forward in search of a cockpit. More and more carriers were returning to human pilots, part of the Alliance's economic initiatives to reverse a centuries-long trend of automation and robotic replacement. This one was still completely AI controlled.
The hatch slid closed and the transport rocketed forward and up, inertial negators absorbing the g-forces for the passengers. It felt like they weren't moving at all, though the view from outside made it obvious they were.
"First stop is Liberty University," Christine said. "We arranged a quick recruitment fair. We'll set you up at the front of it to sign autographs and answer questions about life as a Space Marine. World Stream will be by at some point for wider coverage."
"If I don't look excited, it's only because I'm saving it all for later," Mitchell said. It was meant to be a joke, but Christine didn't show any signs of a sense of humor. "Never mind."
They continued the trip in silence. Mitchell could tell the Major was using her p-rat the entire time, probably handling whatever business she had been forced to drop to attend to him. She was more than public relations. That much he was sure of.
"What branch?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"Excuse me?" she said.
"I was just wondering what branch of the military you did field duty in, before you moved to PR. You're too..." He tried to think of a word that wouldn't come across as offensive. "Fit... to have always been in marketing."
She paused, trying to decide whether or not to answer him.
"Army," she said at last. "I wanted to be a Space Marine, but I failed the neural testing."
All of the military's neural implants were equal. The Marine's version was just a little more equal, and a Marine pilot's was even more equal than that. The Marine's base model required an ability to handle an increased power draw on the body due to the added support systems and more robust algorithms. Mitchell's version also contained the interface for the CAP-NN system that helped him pilot the fighters and mechs with better skill and efficiency than the automated systems that had come before him; like the one flying the transport. Either way, neural aptitude was a genetic trait, not really a failure. You were either born with the juice or you weren't. You either had the right makeup to communicate with CAP-NN or you didn't. Mitchell had heard rumors there were initiatives underway to change those facts, but it was too late for the Major.
"Being a ground-pounder is nothing to be ashamed of. It takes a lot of guts to run around in an exosuit without mech support."
"Who said I was ashamed?" She glared at him with angry eyes. Defensive. "For that matter, where did you get the idea that I was in public relations?"
"You said you were my handler. Corporal Kwon was PR."
Christine started laughing. "I'm not PR."
"Then what are you?"
"Not PR."
"Come on, Chris-"
"Stow it, Captain."
&n
bsp; Mitchell closed his mouth. He was used to secrets. Besides, he could guess what she was by looking at her. Command didn't want him surrounded by security. Planting a Special Ops agent as his rep was the next best thing.
8
"Captain Williams, it's an honor to meet you."
He couldn't have been more than eighteen, fresh-faced and wide-eyed to be in the presence of the Alliance's newest and most visible celebrity. He was wearing a high collar and tight gold vest with three-quarter length pants and molded boots, a popular fashion on Liberty at the moment.
He held out his hand. It was pale and delicate.
Mitchell took it and shook, careful to squeeze hard enough that the Space Marine machismo was communicated, and soft enough that he didn't break the kid's hand.
"Great to meet you, too. Thanks for stopping by," he said. "What's your name?"
"Aldus, sir."
"Aldus. That's an interesting name." A stupid name.
"It's the name of the first scientist who entered XENO-1. My parents are huuuuuggggeeee history lovers. Especially XENO-1. They had so many books on it, and I read every one."
Mitchell smiled and nodded, glancing to his left. Major Arapo had positioned herself near the rear of the small enclosure, keeping an eye on him and the students who were filing in to meet him, take a poster and enlistment packet, and walk back out. There was a Private at the door making sure only one person could enter at a time.
Excellence University was the third of the five schools on their itinerary for the morning. Mitchell accessed his p-rat and checked the time. Another hour here, and then an hour at the other two campuses, which were each less than a five minute transport ride.
"XENO-1," Mitchell parroted, not really listening to the student. "I'm not that familiar." He pulled up a stream in his p-rat, some kind of romantic comedy or something. He switched streams.
"Really? The alien starship that crashed on Earth? The reason we're even standing here?"
Mitchell kept nodding, playing along. "Oh. Yeah. I remember now." He didn't. "Do you have anything you want me to sign?"
"No, but I did want you to remember Goliath."
Mitchell dropped the p-rat overlay and glared at the boy, who smiled sheepishly, his face turning red.
"What did you just say?" Mitchell asked.
"I didn't bring anything. I was in a rush to get here before the line got too long."
"No, you said something else. Goliath?"
"No, sir."
"You did," Mitchell insisted. He leaned forward, and the student shied away.
"I was talking about XENO-1. The Goliath was the first starship that was built from the tech that was recovered from it. I didn't say anything about it though. Maybe you just extrapolated it in your mind?" He kept retreating towards the door.
Christine was at his side a moment later. "Is there a problem, Captain?"
Mitchell looked at Aldus. The boy was terrified. He straightened up and spread his friendliest smile.
"No. No problem. Aldus and I were just discussing history. Did you know he's named after the first scientist who entered XENO-1?"
"Mmmmm. Did you get an enlistment packet, Aldus?"
Aldus shook his head. "No, ma'am. I don't want to enlist. I'm studying to be an engineer. I have a full scholarship from Kurida Heavy Machines."
"Are you sure? We have a contract with Kurida. They allow their engineers to work on military projects after five years of employment. You can enroll into the program now if you want."
He kept backing away. "Not today, thank you, ma'am. Captain Williams, thank you again." He ducked out of the enclosure, giving Mitchell a few seconds to regain his composure.
"What was that about?" Christine asked.
"Nothing," Mitchell said. He fixed his posture and held the smile. He sent the message out to the Private at the door that he was ready for the next visitor.
She was nineteen or twenty, with short, spiked brown hair and a clear, carbonate nose ring that held the tiny broken abdomens of flash bugs piled inside, causing it to flicker. She wore a shirt that barely covered her breasts, and shorts that could have been easily mistaken for panties.
Or maybe they were panties?
"Wow, you're more gorgeous in person than you are on the streams," she said.
He wasn't sure how that could be. The streams were sharper than real-life, their filtering designed to minimize atmospheric interference, even skin tones, and balance lighting.
"Thank you," he said, maintaining his composure. They had prepared him to handle all kinds of people making all kinds of comments.
She held out her tablet, a foldable piece of e-paper that currently sported a picture of him completely naked, a heavy rifle slung over his shoulder and his CAP-NN helmet in front of his groin. He fought not to laugh as he took it from her and swung his finger along the picture to sign it. It was a photoshop, a fake. They'd taken his head and attached it to another model. The physique was pretty close, and the helmet had been well blended. As for the rifle... He would never carry anything that big. There was no room in the cockpit for something like that.
"You know that isn't really me?" he said.
"Is is when I'm alone at night," she replied.
Mitchell smiled. "You dream about me?"
"While I play with myself."
He fought to stay neutral. Maybe they hadn't prepared him well enough? "Oh. I'm flattered. Are you interested in enlisting?"
"Shit, yeah. I want to be a pilot, like you. I already went down to the center for the neural testing. They said I passed."
"You know they won't let you keep the decorations." He leaned back to grab the packet from the table. It was special e-paper that contained all the forms and an easy, secure transfer up to Alliance databanks.
She put her hand to her nose ring. "Yeah. Easy come, easy go. Anyway, I just wanted to see you for real. Thanks for the autograph." She took the packet and extended her hand. He shook it, impressed with her grip. When she took her hand away, he found she'd left him a folded up note.
"Just in case you want to let me try the real thing," she said. She winked at him and left the enclosure.
Mitchell looked down at the e-paper. Not everyone had an ARR, which meant they had to resort to less technically advanced means of passing information. She could have knocked him from her tablet, but he guessed she didn't trust the privacy of it. He unwrapped the paper, expecting to find her signature print.
They're coming. Goliath. Find it.
He felt his heart rate pop. He glanced back at Major Arapo. Her left eye was twitching, but the other one noticed him. She tilted her head in silent question.
He looked back at the paper. Was he losing his mind?
They're coming. Goliath. Find it.
It was still there in a messy print. He started towards the front of the enclosure. He had to find the girl and ask her what the hell this was about. He only made it two steps before Christine's arm was on his shoulder.
"Mitch?"
Her eyes were on the paper. He closed his hand over it. Dr. Drummond had told him his experience was normal. If that were true, why did the word "Goliath" keep forcing itself into his mind?
"What is it?" Christine asked.
He opened his hand and gave her the strip. "What does it say?" He held his breath, bracing himself for the answer.
"You're freaking out about her sig print? I didn't take you for being into the grungy type, but as long as she comes to you and it's consensual-"
"That's not it, damn it," he said. "I think I may be having some residual symptoms." He put his hand to his head. The patch had fallen off while he slept, leaving the wound completely healed. "I'm done for today."
"You're done when the day is over, Captain," she replied.
"Christine, I said-"
"Major Arapo. You can call me Christine when you're being cooperative."
"Are you joking?"
She grabbed his arm and pulled his face close to hers. "Property
, Captain. That's what you are. Did you ever bitch at your CO that you couldn't make a drop because you had a headache?"
"That was life or death. This is... this is all bullshit."
"Lower your tone, Captain."
"Or what? What can you do? Lock me up? Court-martial me?"
"We made you. We can break you."
"No. You can't. That's what I'm trying to tell you. I'm already broken." He tapped his skull. "I'm hearing things, seeing things. Something's messed up in there, and it happened after I got shot yesterday. I'm not trying to be a problem, Major, but unless you want to risk me freaking out on World Stream, you need to get me the hell out of here."
She let him go, her face turning rigid. "Okay. I'm bringing you back to Drummond. Whatever happens, whatever he tells you, you're not getting out of the gala. General Cornelius is going to be there to give you the medal himself, and I'll be damned if you're going to miss that."
Cornelius was one of the top ranking officers in the Space Marines and a legend in his own right. The last thing Mitchell wanted was to embarrass himself in front of the man. "Yes, ma'am."
"Wait here. I'll clear the queue. We leave in five minutes."
Mitchell watched her exit the enclosure. He noticed she'd dropped the strip on the floor. He picked it up and looked at it. He could see the sig print clearly now. Why had he seen a message before?
There was something wrong with him, but what?
9
"Mmmhmmm. I don't see anything wrong with your brain, Captain," Dr. Drummond said. "At least, nothing that wasn't there before." He brought a pair of scans up onto the wall behind him. "The one on the left is your gray matter during your last physical, about eight months ago. The one on the right is today."
Mitchell shifted between the two. They were nearly identical, save for a small spot in his prefrontal cortex. "What about that?" he asked, pointing.
Drummond examined the scan. "That's the wire that connects your brain to your implant. It was damaged yesterday, so the techs replaced it. From what I've been told, it's a standard upgrade. All the new recruits are getting fitted with it by default."