Origins

by Jamie Sawyer

  I flipped a grenade behind me; felt the detonation against my null-shield. Two signals disappeared from my bio-scanner – two less Swords to worry about.

  Then we were on the bridge: inside the enemy camp.

  “Get us sealed in,” I ordered, grunting against the pain. I can’t die yet! “Kaminski, patch us in to the mainframe.”

  Mason took up a spot by the door, working on the controls, Martinez watching her back. Sporadic gunfire chased us, rounds hitting equipment around the room. Jenkins covered the approach onto the bridge, while Kaminski shouldered his rifle and followed me.

  The bridge didn’t look so different to that of an Alliance warship – glowing terminal screens, holo-displays and posts for a dozen or so officers. The main difference was that every crewman and woman stationed here was dead.

  “Shit,” Kaminski said. “This is not an advert for permanently hardwiring your crew…”

  We picked our way through the carnage, our missile pods twitching as they detected ghost-targets. The crew were all symbionts, like Kyung; bred for purpose. Probably revenants in life, rendered horrifying in death. Wide-eyed, still plugged to their stations, bleeding ears and eyes. Those were the worst – still wide, uncomprehending. Kyung had damned them all. The deck shifting beneath me again, I prodded the nearest body with the muzzle of my rifle. Gender indistinct, the officer had tried to claw his or her data-ports – to break the connection to the Shanghai – and had fingers wet with blood. The corpse slid from the seat, headset coming free, and a whine of static pricked my consciousness.

  “Every one is the same,” Kaminski said. “Every fucking one.”

  Every officer in this room had been listening to the Artefact – listening to the wave of psychic noise that had erupted as the Shard Gate had opened. Technical analyses of the Shard-transmission occupied every monitor—

  A mag-round hit the back of my left calf. I stumbled forward. CRITICAL DAMAGE DETECTED, my HUD told me. Even with my simulated body being flooded with analgesics and endorphins, it was getting harder to ignore the pain.

  “The door override isn’t working!” Mason said, ducking back into cover as more rounds poured across the bridge.

  “Then hold them off,” I ordered. “Kaminski, get on the command terminal.”

  “Affirmative,”’Ski said, hurriedly moving a dead body from the main console. He unclipped a hacking-device from his belt, began to plug it into the desk. “How long have I got?”

  “A minute,” Martinez broke in. “Maybe less.”

  Beyond the open view-port, Devonia stared at me like an unblinking eye: stripped to its black bones. Lights winked across the surface. Little acts of resistance from the Krell, whatever was left down there.

  I had to speak to her.

  One last time.

  “Colossus!” I yelled, bouncing my transmission off the Shanghai’s comms array. “Elena!”

  The line was a sheet of white noise, and my heart plummeted at the thought that she wouldn’t hear me, but after a second I heard her voice.

  “Conrad! We’re still here!”

  “We’re on the bridge,” I said. “We’re nearly there—”

  The ship lurched starboard, and I was almost flung from the command throne. The inertial dampeners failed, sending loose debris scattering all around me. Every terminal filled with evacuation warnings; declarations that the ship was being abandoned. The view out of the obs windows shifted again—

  “What the fuck are you playing at?” Jenkins yelled at Kaminski.

  ’Ski shook his armoured head, his gloved fingers guts-deep in the Directorate command station, diodes on the hacker flashing angrily. “I’m trying to reprogramme thrust control—”

  The Revenant loomed massive. Directly in our flightpath. Swarmed by Krell bio-ships, but reaching out now. Sending energy pulses across space, finding targets. Did it know what we were going to do?

  “Correcting course!” Kaminski declared, and the Shanghai steered port-side.

  “Are you still there, Conrad?” Elena said.

  “I’m here,” I said. “We’re going down. It’s working.”

  As the Shanghai reached terminal decline, tipped into an orbit that would lead to direct impact with Devonia, I saw something beneath us.

  Devonia’s cloud cover had been sheared away by the devastation on the surface, and a mass of living metal spiralled out from the Maze.

  Kyung.

  She’d expanded, taken on mass. Become a silver monstrosity, a conglomeration of nightmare fractals, with a radius of kilometres.

  “We have to do this,” I said to Elena. More will come, I told myself. Unless I finish it, now, more will come. “I promise you, I will come back. Tell Loeb to be ready to activate the FTL!”

  “We’re ready,” Elena said. “On your word.”

  “As soon as we’re back in the tanks…” I said.

  The ride was becoming bumpier. A bank of computers in the nose of the bridge ignited. The air was choked with smoke, and even through my suit I could feel the temperature soaring. More bodies sailed past me, and someone hit the inside of the bridge’s obs window. Fractures appeared across the armour-glass.

  The hull began to scream with torsion as the Shanghai turned towards the objective…

  Then sudden, devastating silence.

  “We’ve lost atmosphere,” Jenkins declared over the comm. “It’s working.”

  Only the screech of the machine-mind answered me. It dominated every frequency; flooding near-space. Out there, beyond the blast-shutters, the Revenant realised what we were doing. It knew.

  “You’re a day late and a dollar short, motherfucker!” Kaminski yelled at the planet below us: at the Revenant, too late – moving fast, but unable to intercept us.

  They won’t follow you any more, Elena.

  Atmosphere came up to meet us fast. Outer heat-shielding was stripped away. The ship trailed black across the sky as she fell. This was the plunge of a falling comet: of an inert block thrown to earth like the fall of a hammer.

  The Revenant fired an energy weapon, and something hit our flank. Part of the Shanghai sheared off, an enormous shockwave rippling through the deck.

  “I couldn’t think of a better bunch of assholes to die with…” Jenkins said.

  “We are the Lazarus Legion!” Mason shouted.

  The Revenant was beneath us.

  The Kyung-Reaper atop the Artefact.

  “I am Lazarus, and I decide when I—”

  EPILOGUE

  THE FUNERAL

  Two years later

  It was raining, and hard, when I arrived at the cemetery. Petrichor – the smell of rain hitting earth – lingered in the air. I’ve never liked the rain, but since I’d got back, things had been different. It’s astounding, the little things that you miss about a lifetime spent off-world. And yes, ten years out of civilisation is a lifetime, so far as I’m concerned.

  Being back on Earth was by turns exhausting and exhilarating, exciting and depressing. The rain hung in the air and served to reinforce the dull nature of the surroundings. They couldn’t have chosen a more depressing location, I thought. Perhaps it was deliberate. The only colour out here was the grid of white graves that marked the hillside. That even grass refused to grow was a reminder of the nuclear fallout that had once consumed the region. Things were different now, time being the healer and all that, but not much. The Earth I had come back to had changed immeasurably in some senses, but remained frightening similar in others.

  Vincent Kaminski met me at the gate. He shirked uncomfortably, blushed a little, as he saw me. I hadn’t seen him since the debrief, since the Alliance military had given up asking their incessant questions.

  “You look handsome,” I said. “The uniform suits.”

  Tattoos poked from the neckline of Vincent Kaminski’s dress collar, and his muscled frame strained at the shoulders of his jacket. In truth, he looked immensely out of place in the formal blues, and when I mentioned it he looked away
nervously. His lapels were lined with various medals, the names of which I didn’t know.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said. “I… It’s required.”

  “Quit the formality, Vincent. It’s still me.”

  “It’s just…” he said. His eyes were red-lined; his expression pained. He’d been crying, I realised.

  “It’s hard,” I said, trying not to sound trite. “I know that.”

  Since we’d got back – after the Colossus had limped into port in Tau Ceti, we’d then been shipped onwards to Earth in some military transport I’d forgotten the name of – Vincent had changed. There was a distance between us: as though he didn’t want to look me in the eye. I’d often wondered, in the months since our return, whether the Lazarus Legion – the military in general – blamed me for what Conrad had done.

  “How was the flight over?” he asked. Small-talk: refuge of the awkward male through the ages.

  “Fine,” I said. “Crowded.”

  I’d taken a sub-orbital from Paris, touched down at Wayne County terminal; an aeroport not far from Detroit Metro. The flight had been packed with military staff, Science Division personnel shipping in from Europe. Thankfully, none had recognised me. I’d slept for most of the two-hour flight.

  “And how’s the farm?” he asked.

  “Bien,” I said. “Très bien.” Speaking Standard was a drag; back home we talked in French mostly. That was when I spoke with others, at least. “Thank you for asking, but we can cut through the niceties.”

  Vincent looked relieved, if that were possible in his ceremonial uniform.

  “Help me with this,” I said.

  I held out a hand, and he clutched it: helped me through the wet grass.

  The rest of the Lazarus Legion were already at the graveside. Keira Jenkins, Elliot Martinez, Dejah Mason. And not just them: a crowd of military personnel. Admiral Loeb, Lieutenant James. I barely knew the last two, but I’d heard that the charges had been dropped against the admiral. I was pleased about that; he was a good man. James was, quite explicably, still skinned, but the others were in their real bodies. There were so many faces that I didn’t recognise, had no idea how they came to be here. Some were organised into ranks – an honour guard, was that the phrase? – but others were clustered around the open grave. It was a good turnout: a couple of hundred personnel.

  “We’ve managed to keep the news reporters away so far,” Jenkins said. She looked awfully smart in her uniform too, her hair pulled back from her face. The time since our retreat from Devonia had been kinder to her, perhaps: she looked less drawn, more together. “Figured that you wouldn’t want them here.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said. “It means a lot to me.”

  “And it would’ve meant a lot to him,” said Mason. In her formal wear, she looked even younger than in her fatigues. She, too, had been crying.

  They’re good, I thought. Very good.

  “If we’re all here,” a po-faced priest – dressed in ridiculous robes and clutching a holy book to his chest, “let us begin the service.”

  Huddling under umbrellas, in the grey light of a Detroit winter’s day, the service commenced.

  I spied a single news-drone at the edge of my vision, flittering at the cemetery gates – watching the proceedings with its electronic eyes.

  “Damn it!” Elliot Martinez muttered under his breath, starting off for the gate. The Venusian was a hot-head, and I had wondered whether he might even conduct the ceremony, but I suppose in the circumstances that would’ve been wrong.

  I clutched his arm.

  “Let them watch.”

  The ceremony was brief but to the point. I believe that the phrase is full military honours, or something like that.

  The Lazarus Legion acted as pall bearers. One on each corner, they bore the coffin to the graveside. Sat it beside the open rectangle of earth – doorway into the great beyond. They looked as though they struggled with the weight, but that was all part of the occasion. Some of the soldiers sang a song as the coffin was lowered into the grave. It was in Spanish, and I followed only some of the lyrics. Martinez had already told me that it was called ‘La muerte no es el fin’. A fitting tribute: ‘Death is not the end’.

  Three Hornets scrambled overhead, jet engines screeching, leaving a trail of white through the grey sky. There was a three-volley salute after that. Seven members of the Simulant Operations team fired rifles into the air, as people who had barely known Conrad Harris cried for his passing.

  “He would’ve wanted plasma weapons,” Jenkins grumbled.

  “Let us bow out heads,” the chaplain said, “and forget the horrors of war that Colonel Harris had to endure—”

  The crowd around me did as ordered, but I didn’t. I raised my head, felt the rain on my face. Damn, it felt good. It felt good to have the pull of real gravity beneath me. To be here, on Old Earth. It felt real.

  “Let’s not,” I said, as loudly as I could. The funeral procession froze, the priest looking at me with embarrassment. “Let’s remember who he was. Let’s remember what he did for all of us; that he finished this mess once and for all. That he made the ultimate sacrifice.”

  That he destroyed the Revenant.

  “This is highly unorthodox, ma’am…” the chaplain said.

  “Let’s remember him for who he was,” I said, searching the faces of the gathered mourners. “The man that I loved. The man known as Lazarus.”

  A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Jenkins’ lips.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” she said.

  The military contingent were slow to dispel after the funeral, and lingered at the graveside. Several officers – men and women whom I was sure Conrad hadn’t known, and probably wouldn’t have liked even if he had – threw flowers into the grave. I was choked a little at that. He’d hate flowers, I wanted to say. But I bit my tongue; played on as the grieving partner. It’s better that way, I told myself.

  By the time the proceedings were finished, several news-drones had gathered at the gates. Their privacy-intrusion settings were restricted, and despite the annoyance they caused they did not reach into the actual cemetery. Flashes went off as they captured vid-feeds and still images of the party, of the Legion leaving the grounds. Two reporters lingered there as well – a glossy-faced woman and a slick-looking man – and their attitudes to privacy were not quite so fixed. They wandered between the rows of stark white graves, waving microphone wands under my nose. Are machines sometimes better than flesh? I’d been asking myself that a lot since I’d come back from the front, since I’d left Devonia.

  “Dr Marceau!” the woman implored. “I realise that this is difficult, but can you spare a moment of your time?”

  “Chester Sinclair,” the man introduced himself. “With Core News Network. I’d love to hear your views on the latest developments with the Krell. Was Colonel Harris’ sacrifice worth it?”

  I waved a hand at the reporter, dismissing him. “He died doing what he loved doing.”

  “But he hated the Krell, didn’t he?” the man probed. “How would he feel, do you think, hearing that the – ah, fish heads – are to be our allies?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “You’d have to ask him.”

  “Was his loss worth the founding of the Second Treaty?” the woman persisted. “I mean, he ended the war; but what about for you? We’re looking for a personal angle on this story, and as his closest kin what better person to give us an insight—?”

  “He died in the tanks,” I said. “Exactly as he would’ve wanted.”

  “No comment!” came Martinez’s growl behind me. He was stockier, broader of chest than the others in his real body. He looked quite imposing. “Now fuck off!”

  The reporters looked suitably startled. They pushed back from the gate, taking their news-drones with them.

  “They would’ve left,” I said to Martinez. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  He was the moody one, the soldier that I found mo
st difficult to read.

  “Parasites,” he said. “After all you’ve been through, can’t they just leave you alone?”

  “I’m fine, Corporal,” I said. “Really, I am.”

  “I’ll walk you to the car,” Jenkins said.

  The Lazarus Legion dispersed, kept watchful eyes on the reporters across the street. I was surprised, actually, that there were only two.

  “My car is at the end of the road,” I said. It was a rental job; an air-car with false plates.

  “Okay,” the lieutenant said.

  “I’ve heard that you’re going back,” I said, abruptly. “To the front, I mean.”

  Jenkins paused before answering. “There isn’t a front any more. Not after what Harris did.”

  “That’s a lie, and we both know it. I’ve heard that you’re getting a squad of your own.”

  “Will he be disappointed if I go?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “It’s what he’d always expected of you, isn’t it?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “I’m Lazarus Legion.”

  “Without a Lazarus, is there really a Legion?”

  Jenkins didn’t answer.

  We had reached the end of the street, and the reporters were long gone now. I knew that it would roll over, that they would lose interest. It was already happening: with fantastic stories of the new enemy, of the advances that were being made as a result of our new friendship with the Krell Empire. I doubted that much of it was true – I’d already seen and heard the Alliance propaganda machine at its best – but I was glad of the shift in attention.

  “This is my car,” I said. It was a basic Sedan with blacked-out windows. That had been my only requirement. “Thanks for walking me.”

  Jenkins nodded, turned back towards the cemetery. But she paused a few steps away from me; looked back.

  “Does it have to be this way?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “It does. It really does.”

  She bit her lower lip. Thought on it for a second, then nodded at me.

  “Maybe I can drop by the farm one day,” she said.