by Jamie Sawyer
Dr Hunt swept into the room, the female tech chasing after him.
“Up already?” he asked. “Surely that wasn’t so bad, eh? I bet you wish that you had come to see us sooner.”
I sighed and said nothing.
He went on, “You’ll need to take it easy for a while and you’ll need to get to know that hand. It’ll be easy to over-grasp to begin with. You won’t know your own strength.”
“Don’t go shaking anyone’s hand,” the medtech said, dryly. “Or anything else.”
“It’ll take several months to bed in,” Hunt insisted. He prodded the line where flesh met metal with the tip of his pen. I could feel where the item touched flesh, but not where it contacted the prosthetic. “I’m ordering limited use of the hand to begin with.”
I flexed the hand again, noted the delay in response time. It felt clumsy. The physical operation was only one half of the undertaking: there was also a lot going on under the hood. Medical nanotech worked on the inside; fusing neural pathways to enable my nerve impulses to be interpreted by the new hand. The nanites were self-assembling an electrode array inside me, and I knew that over time their integration with my body would improve.
“It’ll get better,” Hunt said. “Try light, simple activity at first; the more regularly you use it, the faster it will become. We run twice-weekly sessions down in the Bionics department. Lots of veterans attend – they can teach you some useful exercises.”
“Looks like it’ll have to do,” I said.
Hunt’s face softened a little. Not so much that I’d venture that I liked the man, but enough to let me know that he was human. “You ever think about taking some downtime?”
“No,” I said, brusquely. “I have too much to do. There’s a war to fight, Doctor.”
“And don’t I know it. I’m not talking about removing you from operational duty. Perhaps taking a rear post for a while.”
“Become a REMF?”
“That’s what you troopers call them, isn’t it? ‘Rear echelon motherfuckers’?”
I nodded. “I’m no REMF.”
“Maybe a few months running a battalion administratively, watching the war from the sidelines, might be a good idea. You’re a colonel now, Harris. Colonels don’t go to war on the frontline, last I checked.”
“This colonel does,” I said. “I’m Sim Ops, and I’m Lazarus Legion.”
Hunt sighed. It was the sound of a man used to giving advice, but in the knowledge that it would be ignored. “I know all about Lazarus Legion, and I know about Dr Marceau. Your story has become more than common knowledge.” He turned the data-slate to me; showed me what he’d been reading. LAZARUS LEGION LIBERATES A THOUSAND PRISONERS FROM DIRECTORATE LABOUR CAMP, the headline read. “I won’t remove your certification, Harris, because people out here need someone to believe in.”
“So what’s your point?” I said, swinging my legs off the end of the bed, readying to end the conversation.
“You’re burnt out. This is a young man’s game, and you’re not getting any younger.”
“So people keep telling me. Look, all I need to know is can I get back in the field?”
“You keep getting into the tank, sooner or later you’re not going to be coming out. It’s as simple as that.” He paused, meaningfully, tightened his lips. “The results of your most recent medical examinations aren’t good. We’re talking synaptic damage – extensive – and degradation of the tissue around your spinal port.”
“Then put a new one in,” I said. “That’s not a problem. I just need you to recertify me and my team. All of us.”
“Private Kaminski?”
I nodded.
“By my oath as a doctor, I should medically discharge him. The Directorate have put so much metal in his head there isn’t room for much else in there.”
There wasn’t much in the first place, I thought to myself.
“You can take it out,” I said. “He’s an essential member of the Legion.”
“He needs a long-term psych-eval, and even more than you he qualifies for some shore-leave.”
“But you will recertify him,” I said. My tone made it plain that this was not a question: that I expected Kaminski to be back on the force. “We look after our own.” I looked to the data-slate in front of Dr Hunt: at the glowing icon that said CERTIFICATION: YES/NO. “I just need your bio-print on the dotted line, and I’ll be getting out of your hair.”
For a fraught second, I thought that he might press the NO icon, but just as he seemed to veer in that direction he keyed YES.
“I’m doing this because Viscarri told me that you were a good operator. I’m doing this because I want to leave this shit-forsaken outpost… But I’m serious about one thing. You’ll need to let that new hand bed in. Nothing strenuous for at least six weeks, while the nerve-connectors do their thing.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I mean it!” Hunt rebuked. “You could cause serious damage to the remaining skeletal-muscular structure, and I doubt that a man of your age can take another implant—”
“I’ll rest when the war’s done, Hunt.”
“I think that your rest will come a lot sooner than that,” Hunt said. “Gaia’s praises be on you.”
Dejah Mason was waiting for me in the room outside. A couple of miner kids, dressed in diminutive orange vac-suits plastered with a combination of corporate badges and religious iconography, chased around her feet. She flipped them a credit chip, tousling their hair. When they saw me approaching, with my metal hand, their eyes went wide and they both scrammed towards their waiting mother.
Mason smiled. “That new hand has some benefits, at least.”
“You were recertified, I take it?” I said.
She activated her wrist-comp and waved it in my direction. “Borderline test results, but they’ll do. I would’ve asked for a certificate, but I guess they were all out.” Mason’s eyes narrowed. “And Kaminski too, surprisingly. They said that he’s going to be fine, that he can get back in the tanks whenever he wants.”
“Good,” I said.
“He seems happy with the decision. Did you have anything to do with it?”
I ignored the question. “Let’s move. I don’t like it down here.”
“What’s to like?” Mason said. “Colonists, injured servicemen, whining kids… Where are you headed now, sir?”
“Thought I’d go and get a drink,” I said. “I can’t do much else, what with this ‘remain on-station’ order in effect. Care to join me?”
Mason sighed. “No thanks, sir. I’m going to ring home—”
My wrist-comp chimed, noisily. The screen filled with a priority alert. This was the first time I’d ever received such a message.
*** ORDERS *** ORDERS *** ORDERS ***
EYES ONLY
REPORT TO COMMAND SECTOR FORTHWITH
IMMEDIATE ATTENDANCE REQUIRED
“Christo, they don’t mess around out here!” Mason said.
“There’s a war going on,” I said. “No time to waste.”
“Good luck,” Mason called after me, as I hailed a transport.
The Command Sector was located on the outer edge of Calico Base. It was the current centre of tactical operations in the region: the beating heart of the war effort. Admin staff hurriedly dashed between their posts, jostling stacks of paperwork and data-slates. Officers were plugged to holo-consoles, plotting troop dispositions. Sci-Div xeno-specialists argued with tacticians over potential Krell invasion patterns.
Two MPs met me at the security entrance and I noted with amusement that they had been my escort from earlier in the day.
“Not hassling any dumbshit colonists this afternoon, Private Nico?”
“No, sir,” Nico said, through his speaker grille. “Better things to do this shift.”
“Good.”
The second MP guarded the main gate through to the command chambers. He held out a gloved hand.
“Sidearm, sir,” he said.
�
�Is that necessary?”
“Sorry. Regulations. Only MPs are allowed to carry weapons in the Command Sector.”
I unholstered my sidearm from the webbing on my chest. It was my only weapon, but it wasn’t much of one: a standard Berringer M-5. I felt a twinge of uncertainty as I removed the gun, but overrode the impulse and handed it over. That was what I’d become – hardwired to expect the worst. The idea of being unarmed ever… It felt uncomfortably alien to me. The big MP didn’t seem to notice my reaction and placed the handgun into a lockbox beside the security arch.
“Your appointment is through here,” Nico said. “Follow me.”
The room had been converted into a dining hall appropriate for the senior officer cadre: several tables meticulously laid with metal cutlery, real ceramic plates and napkins. There were even stirrups to anchor the tableware, in the event of the loss of gravity – a layover from when Calico Base’s gravity generator was less dependable. The empty lunar plains were visible through the windows that claimed one wall, and in a glorious display of bad taste an enormous fish tank occupied the opposite aspect: replete with multi-coloured aquatic life-forms that reminded me a little too much of the Krell.
An aide met me at the door, feet seeming to slide across the carpet as though he’d made a profession of moving around senior officers without causing disruption. What a skill for a soldier to have, I thought.
“This way, sir,” he said, leading me across the chamber.
Although the dining hall could probably accommodate a hundred personnel, there was only a handful of occupants. Several fully uniformed senior officers were sitting around a single table. The scent of proper hot food lingered in the air; the clatter of cutlery against plates. As I reached the table, proceedings paused. Eight pairs of eyes stared up at me. The brass evaluated me, and I could almost see the gears working behind their ancient eyes. Asking whether I was really the legend about which they’d heard so much, or whether they’d been sold a lie.
As they assessed me, I did the same to them: asked myself whether I had any allies in here. I found one possibility at the head of the table: General Mohammed Cole, looking every bit as exhausted as the last time that I’d seen him. That had been two years ago, during my briefing for the Damascus mission. Now he wore his formal uniform, but it was skewed and he looked uncomfortable in it.
The other occupants of the table were from a variety of military branches. Two Army, two Navy, a Marine, a Military Intelligence officer and a Science Division representative. All were high ranking, their uniforms carrying the insignia of generals, admirals, commandants, chief science officer. I swallowed. Realisation dawned on me. Faces and names tumbled through my memory: I knew these people, had seen their likeness on numerous military bulletins and holo-feeds.
What have I walked into?
The brass said nothing, because they didn’t need to. This wasn’t a normal briefing. This was High Command: the apex of the decision-making tree for the war. As I stared into the face of Command, I wished that I had come better prepared. For a grunt like me, it was like staring into the face of God.
“Welcome to this special assembly of the Council of War,” one of the officers grumbled. To the aide: “Thomas, commence recording and ensure that the door remains locked.”
“Of course,” the aide replied.
“Do sit, Colonel,” came a voice from the table.
The speaker was an elderly male dressed in the long white smock of a Science Division officer. He waved at the aide, who had appeared ghost-like at my shoulder.
“Serve the colonel some food,” the Sci-Div officer said, adopting the persona of a kindly old man, his coiffed silver hair falling in strands over his balding scalp. “Calico might not be known for its delicatessens, but this is mostly imported. The steak is really quite good.”
I was too stunned to turn down the offer of food, and, although I didn’t see what, the aide served me with something. Everyone else sat over plates of steamed meat and vegetables. Not substitutes, by the smell, but real food. Given that food was fast becoming a scarce commodity, acquiring anything that wasn’t out of a ration-pack was an impressive feat.
“You don’t need to know everyone’s name,” Cole said gruffly, “because several of High Command are here in a purely observational capacity.” He glared around the table, and a few of the attendees shrank back, obviously primed that they would take no part in the discussion at hand. It seemed that not all members of Command were created equal. “I’ll introduce those that matter.” He pointed out the science officer. “Dr Storemberg, head of Science Division.”
With my track record for destroying Artefacts and Shard tech, I predicted that there would be friction here, but Storemberg gave a restrained nod and said, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Colonel. I am most grateful that you managed to retrieve Professor Ashan Saul from the hands of the Directorate.” His smile hardened. “His presence will be important to the war effort in the coming days.”
Cole pointed across the table at the next officer. “Fleet Admiral Sunsam.”
Sunsam was a bona fide five-star Naval officer, and the chest of his Naval dress uniform was weighed down with a plethora of medals and other rank insignia. He’d been recruited from Azure, had been in service when I’d lived on that planet. This man alone commanded sufficient firepower to obliterate most of the Milky Way Galaxy. He said nothing in greeting.
“Commandant of the Marine Corps,” Cole said, “General Leonovich.”
Leonovich was middle-aged with a bad haircut, maybe in the fashion of the moment for whatever Core World she’d crawled from. She was smoking, ethereal swirls rising from an ashtray in front of her.
“Good evening, Colonel,” she said. “I too am glad to meet with you.”
Cole waved a hand at the rest of the gathered personnel. “I’ll introduce you to the others as necessary. As I said, many of our members are here to listen rather than participate.”
“Understood, sir,” I said.
“We have been reviewing your recent debrief material,” Dr Storemberg said. He spoke with a Germanic lilt, his intonation difficult to follow. “What happened in Damascus Space has us all very concerned. Would you say that the operation was a success, Colonel?”
“No,” I said. “I would not. There are numerous intelligence leads that remain live.”
“You mean the discovery of the Endeavour?”
Just mention of the name set me on edge. “Yes, sir.”
Leonovich leant forward, feeding herself a sugar beet from her plate. “What you found in Damascus – what you did there – might be the key to ending this war.”
“And that is why we have called you here today,” Cole suddenly broke in. “You’re obviously aware of the loss of Liberty Point; and you know that it went down due to a Krell war-fleet.”
A holographic projection sprang to life in the middle of the table. It was a bizarre effect; cutting through plates of steamed vegetables and rapidly cooling meats. Military aides jumped from their hiding places around the dining hall and quickly moved aside the plates.
“This incursion,” Admiral Sunsam picked up, “is the end of things. The end of us.”
There was silence as all parties absorbed the imagery. What the map showed was far worse than we’d encountered during the First Krell War: the Krell were moving in a ragged mob – disorganised, unpredictable – into Alliance systems. As the animation progressed, glowing markers disappeared beneath the tidal wave. Each represented an outpost, a world, a star system: billions of lives lost to the Krell.
“This map demonstrates the movement of Krell forces across the Quarantine Zone,” he said. “As you can see, we have lost substantial territories in the Van Diem Straits and several star systems bordering the Asiatic Rim. The Krell seem to be attacking in far greater numbers, with greater ferocity, than was previously the case. They have no clear line of attack. This has made anticipating their advance difficult. Impossible even, in some instances.”
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“That,” Dr Storemberg said, “and the obvious fact that the Krell seem to be evolving at a hitherto unknown rate. Their ships are becoming faster, their ground troops more resilient, their weapons more effective.”
I’d been a first-hand witness to that. There had been a time when the hulking tertiary-forms were a rarity – employed only when the Collective needed a hammer to shatter resistance. Now, as on Capa V, they were appearing with most Collectives.
“We have even received unconfirmed reports of so-called ‘quaternary-forms’,” Storemberg said. “Quite what they are evolving into, and why, is anyone’s guess.” He shrugged. “For another time, perhaps.”
Markers shifted across the map. Red represented Krell forces, and green Alliance. Calico sat on the new frontline; probably just months away from the Krell advance.
“Putting it bluntly, we don’t have sufficient forces to repel them,” Sunsam said. “We’ve already evacuated several of the more remote listening posts, and we have started moving non-essential personnel back to the Core.” He sounded less than happy about that. “All available resources are being fed into the war effort. As I’m sure that you can appreciate, Colonel, time-dilation is a significant issue when synchronising an operation of this scale.”
“There are additional, political considerations as well,” Storemberg said. “I am, technically, a citizen of the nation-state once known as Germany, a constituent of the European Confederacy.” He tilted his head. “Of course, my family connections are with Tau Ceti, but that is hardly the point. You may be aware that certain elements within the Alliance wish for another peace treaty. The Confederacy has been most vocal in expressing this intention. There is much discussion in Congress as to the possibility.”
Cole sighed and shook his head. “It’s tearing the Alliance apart, Harris. This war is fracturing what we have left, and the politicos and pen-pushers can’t decide on our response.”
“So I’d heard,” I said. It was hard not to pick up on these things; the civilian news-feeds were filled with hackneyed opinions on the Alliance’s continued viability in the face of the Krell threat.