Orphan Brigade

by Henry V. O'Neil

“Yes, sir. He was outside throwing up, but he said he was all right and walked away.” Remembering the supply officer’s bizarre advice. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid so. He’s dead.”

  Noonan, overhearing the quiet conversation, rose and joined them. “Drew’s dead? What happened?”

  “I should have been paying closer attention, but you know how he was. Always going on about how we were all gonna starve if the resupply got messed up, asking why couldn’t we figure out a way to make captured Sim rations edible . . . it seems he was conducting an experiment.”

  “Experiment? With Sim chow? It’s poison.”

  “Yeah. We found a case of it in his room. It looks like he’d been slowly adding it to some of our rations . . . and eating it.” Pappas’s face was pale, and he licked his lips rapidly. “Poor stupid son of a bitch. I guess he thought we could bulk up our food with theirs, something like that. He was always so worried about everything, but I should have noticed. He was so . . . thin.”

  Colonel Alden walked in just then, not smiling, and Sergeant Major Zacker called the assembled men to attention. For those moments before Alden reached his chair and told everyone to relax, the room was silent. Standing there, separated from much of the group by his uniform and now touched by the real presence of death, Mortas felt his heart thumping heavily.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “How many times do I have to say this? There is no Sim home world!”

  Olech Mortas sat in one of Unity’s largest safe rooms, listening to brilliant men and women argue around a doughnut-­shaped conference table. Stretching away from him on either side were a collection of doctors, scientists, and historians who collectively formed the Select Committee on the Sims. As was his habit, he sat back and let the great minds talk in an overlapping free-­for-­all.

  “No Sim home world? They just burst into being in the middle of space?”

  “Everyone here already agrees that the Sims were—­and are—­a manufactured opponent. A designer enemy. So no, they didn’t just appear in the middle of space. But they didn’t evolve, either. They were created someplace—­perhaps in many places—­which means it is a pointless exercise to keep looking for this mythical home world.”

  “Didn’t evolve? You’re telling me they mastered spaceflight within forty to one hundred years of their creation?”

  “Hold on there. Just because we’re only now seeing Sims with gray hair in the war zone doesn’t mean they’re the oldest Sims in existence. It only means that we haven’t seen any elderly Sims, which could be easily explained as a cultural unwillingness to send their elders out to fight.”

  “Are you even listening to yourself? For the first twenty years of the conflict our troops never encountered a Sim who was even middle-­aged. It’s only in the last two decades that we’ve been seeing older Sims. Which is pretty strong evidence that the Sims don’t predate the war by very long.”

  “Not necessarily. What if they changed their terms of military ser­vice? What if they’re getting desperate, and have turned to sending out the older males?”

  “Getting desperate? We’re seeing larger and larger numbers of them, despite having gotten quite efficient at killing them in large numbers. They’ve got an inexhaustible supply of soldiers, most of whom are estimated to be twenty years of age. They don’t need to be sending the elder males out, assuming they’ve actually got any.”

  “Wait a moment, let’s back up the conversation. I think we all agree a humanlike opponent that can’t form any of our words, can’t consume our food, and dies within days of captivity is probably a good bet to be a ‘designer enemy’ as you said. Which of course means they’re being manufactured by some other entity. An entity so superior to mankind that I have to ask yet again: why didn’t this entity just wipe us out?”

  “I’ll answer you yet again: whatever is making the Sims is doing so because it has to. If it didn’t have to, why go to all that trouble? So this entity probably lacks most of the capabilities we see in the Sims. I’d wager they’re not physically large or strong—­if they have any material existence at all—­and so they needed a material, physical agent to combat us once we began to spread across the solar systems.”

  “If this entity has no material form, why would it care if we got closer, or even if we moved in next door? And why is it fighting us for the Hab planets if it can survive anywhere?”

  “The Sims are fighting us for the Habs, not this alleged creator entity.”

  “I cannot believe you still think the Sims came into existence on their own. They can’t reproduce, and we keep seeing more and more of them from the young end of the scale. There is only one explanation for that: somebody is making them.”

  Olech cleared his throat, and the room fell silent. Folding his hands, the Chairman of the Emergency Senate rested his forearms on the table as if getting ready to pray. “I enjoy the spirited debate as much as anyone, but your latest comments reminded me of something I’ve told this group before.

  “In the early years of the war we thought the Hab planets were the key to victory, when in fact they’re only the prize that will ultimately go to the winner in this conflict. Don’t confuse the prize with the key. The key gets you the prize. So let’s all remember we’re trying to answer the question, ‘What is the key that wins us the prize?’ ”

  A cold silence followed his words, and Olech sat back to indicate that he was done for the moment. It didn’t take long for the debate to resume.

  “The Chairman’s right. The Sims may see the Habs as key to their survival, but how does that fit the goals of whatever is making the Sims? Is their plan to create a bulwark of Sim-­occupied Habs, to keep us away from them? And if so, why?”

  “The Sims are far too aggressive for that to be the case. They aren’t seeking to contain us. They’re meant to replace us.”

  “Replace us? More like exterminate us. I think whatever is making the Sims views us as an infestation, and they’re responding exactly the way we would. If we couldn’t get rid of an infestation any other way, we’d find or breed an organism that could enter the infestation’s environment and destroy it. And we wouldn’t use an organism that was going to end up being worse than the infestation. We’d pick something that we could easily eradicate once the infestation was destroyed.”

  “Oh, not the Kill Switch Theory again.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t call it that. But it makes sense that whatever is creating all these Sims would want some way to get rid of them once they’ve gotten rid of us.” Cold, clinical eyes directed at Olech. “And if we can figure out what that ‘Kill Switch’ is, we might just have your key, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, making promises to the Chairman when we’re dealing almost completely in hypotheses. And let’s not forget that the Sims, even if completely victorious, will die out in one generation because they can’t reproduce. In other words, whatever is making the Sims has no need for a ‘Kill Switch’ at all. They just have to turn off the machines making the new Sims and wait a few decades.”

  “That’s not necessarily the case. The Sims can’t communicate with us, eat our food, or come into close contact with us for prolonged periods. I say they were designed that way because their creators were concerned they might join up with us. And if that is the case, the creators would want a means of turning their creations off if they turned against them.”

  “Just how would that work? A chemical? A biological agent? The Sims are spread across numerous solar systems. It would be impossible to deliver such a thing to all of them. They’re not stupid, you know. They’ve faced diseases just like we have, and they’d figure it out pretty quickly if something was trying to finish them off that way.”

  “They’re not stupid, but they don’t possess the ingenuity of humans. Their technology moves forward in fits and starts, and there’s no explaining how
it developed.”

  “Our technological history is not a smooth upward line, and even if it were, remember that some human cultures never invented the wheel.”

  “Just a moment. How does the evolution of their technology bear on the theory that their creators could turn them off at will?”

  “Their tech keeps improving, but in weird, spotty leaps. They jump from Point A to Point D without any indication they passed through the developmental stages of Point B and Point C. Some of that could be explained by their exposure to us and captured human devices, but not all of it. Personally, I believe that whatever is making the Sims periodically provides them with the knowledge they need to stay in this fight.”

  Olech’s face tightened, despite his years in politics and a fine ability to hide his emotions. Fortunately, the discussion was so electric that no one seemed to notice.

  “I have to agree with my colleague on that. At different times when the war was going badly for them, the enemy suddenly demonstrated new tools and techniques that put them back in the game. And there is absolutely no way that the opponent we’ve been facing for forty years could have developed this new ‘mud’ munition, the one our troops encountered on Roanum. It turned solid ground into mud so thick that it almost swallowed armored vehicles, and shortly after that the dirt returned to its former state. The Sims aren’t smart enough to come up with something like that, and I know that for a fact because we aren’t smart enough.”

  The silence returned, with brooding expressions and eyes directed at the table. Olech was just about to prod them when one of the scientists spoke up.

  “Mr. Chairman, a few of us have heard a disquieting rumor about something else allegedly encountered on Roanum. Everyone here recognizes the heroism of your son, and the contribution your family has already made to this war. But if this committee is to be of any help at all, we need the latest and most complete information possible.

  “Mr. Chairman, is there any truth to the rumor about a shape-­shifting alien?”

  Olech wasn’t surprised by the question, and ready with an answer.

  “I can neither confirm, nor deny, those rumors.”

  Eyes widened, and meaningful glances swept across the table. The phrasing of the response had significance for this group, and was always taken as an unqualified yes. The ramifications for such a being’s existence were hard to fathom, but at a minimum it confirmed there was intelligent life in the universe that was not human and not Sim.

  A series of hollow thumps emanated from the sealed entrance behind Olech, and the room went silent when the door opened. A staff member whispered in his ear, and the Chairman rose.

  “A matter has arisen that requires my personal attention, but please continue the session without me. I’m sure you have a lot to discuss.”

  “Thanks for getting me out of there, Burke.” Olech smiled at the young staffer, who beamed with the compliment. Although Olech had found the session highly interesting, he’d arranged to be called away because of an important event he wanted to witness personally. Despite that, he seldom missed a chance to praise his subordinates, and it didn’t hurt that the scuttlebutt among the youngsters would suggest he found the SCOTS meetings tedious. The cover story about the alien was not the only disinformation campaign Olech Mortas had in progress.

  They walked briskly, following the curve of the circular hallway in that particular part of the Unity complex. Young ­people in the uniform of the chairman’s staff passed them coming and going, and Olech greeted most of them by name. Artificial light brightened the cream-­colored corridor, flowing down from tall screens projecting images from outside the building. Every common area in the fortified complex boasted these screens, to the extent that most of the ­people who worked there at least subconsciously believed they were surrounded by windows.

  The walk didn’t take long, and Olech gently dismissed Burke before stepping past a sentry guarding a door set into the corridor wall. Not far from that entrance, a large set of wooden doors led into one of Unity’s main briefing rooms. The side entrance gave him admittance to a much smaller space with a two-­way mirror that would allow him to watch the proceedings without interrupting them.

  A row of comfortable chairs faced the wide window, and Hugh Leeger already occupied one of them. Sitting down, Olech heard Reena’s voice on the speakers. He nodded at Hugh, then leaned forward to look down into the room.

  Two long tables faced each other from a distance of ten yards, and microphones stood up in front of the ­people taking part in the proceedings. Reena sat at the center of the main table, her red hair done up in a bun and wearing a blue business suit with a high collar. Two other ministers sat to her right and left, but they were mostly for show, to give the impression that this was simply a fact-­finding interview.

  Across from them sat a uniformed officer of the Human Defense Force, a general named Merkit. Heavyset with a florid face, his tunic displayed a surprising lack of combat decorations for a man of his station. Merkit was the officer in charge of Force personnel, and he was surrounded by members of his staff.

  The rear of the room, behind the general, was taken up with several rows of seats. Sessions in this room were always recorded and usually broadcast over the Bounce, and so the chairs were filled with an assortment of Olech’s staff ­people and several reporters who’d been alerted that this particular interview might be worth watching.

  “—­so thank you, General Merkit, for taking us through the latest numbers related to discharged Force personnel currently taking advantage of the educational opportunities they earned while serving our race in its hour of need.

  “I’d like to change the subject slightly, and divert from our prepared agenda to ask a question about a different category of Force personnel. The troops I’m interested in are approaching discharge or already past that date, but still in the war zone.”

  Olech grinned when Merkit’s face turned a shade redder. The officers seated closest to him immediately snatched up their handhelds and begun punching or thumbing through their prepared numbers, but Reena wasn’t willing to wait for them.

  “Specifically, I’ve been reviewing the number and disposition of the troops currently residing on Platinus.”

  “Stationed, Minister.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The term is ‘stationed,’ Minister, not ‘residing.’ Those soldiers are an important part of the work that begins on every Hab planet as soon as it is secured. This is for the benefit of—­”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was inaccurate to say they were stationed there when such a large percentage of them had already passed their discharge dates. I assumed they had elected to stay on as colonists, as is their prerogative—­Force demands permitting, of course.”

  Conditions on many of the home planets were far from ideal for returning soldiers who’d completed terms of enlistment that were a minimum of seven years in duration. Many of the veterans elected to settle on the captured Hab planets in or near the war zone. Those colonization efforts had proceeded on some of the earliest conquests to the extent that loved ones and families had joined the veterans as well. It was an effective and equitable way of developing the new worlds, but the excessive number of troops on Platinus was not an example of that policy.

  “I’m glad you mentioned Force requirements, Minister. As you know, Platinus was declared secure only two years ago and it is well within the range of Sim fleets. As such—­”

  “Oh. So these soldiers who are past their discharge dates are not there voluntarily?”

  Merkit’s eyes had narrowed, and he seemed on the verge of an accusation of some kind when one of his aides leaned in and whispered to him. He nodded, paused for a moment, and then spoke into the microphone.

  “My apologies, Minister. I wasn’t familiar with the exact disposition of the troops on Platinus. Apparently local commanders identified Platinus as
a good location for quarantined soldiers, troops who had been exposed to some of the many unusual diseases we’ve encountered on the planets in the war zone. These soldiers are currently showing no symptoms, but because these diseases are new to our medical personnel, the quarantine period is of an indeterminate duration.”

  “That certainly makes sense, General. Thank you for clearing that up.” Reena tilted her handheld, and let her eyebrows rise. “One other thing, though: according to my figures, almost all of the troops on Platinus—­discharged or not—­are citizens of Tratia. How did the Tratian leadership respond when they were informed of the large number of their soldiers who’d been quarantined?”

  Merkit folded his hands on the table, staring at Reena with a half smile of realization. When one of his officers tried to feed him an excuse, he shook his head minutely, and the assistant subsided.

  “The Tratian leadership, as would be expected, is quite concerned about the welfare of their troops—­on Platinus or anywhere else. There are many Force concentrations across the war zone that would appear to reflect an imbalance such as this one, but closer examination usually reveals that it is mere coincidence. For example, there is a very large concentration of troops from your native Celestia on—­”

  “Thank you, General, your answer is already sufficient.”

  Merkit allowed the smile to broaden. “Are you sure, Minister? I could go on.”

  Reena returned the smile, and Merkit’s face lost some of its humor. “Are you certain that would be the best use of our time, General? Because I’ll let you continue . . . if you think it’s wise.”

  Merkit’s smile vanished. “No, Minister. On second thought I believe I’ve said enough.”

  In the observation room, Olech turned to see Leeger smirking. He grabbed the security man’s forearm and squeezed it tightly. “God I love that woman.”

  “Kletterman.”

  “Who?” Ayliss sat down in the chair held by Selkirk, her eyes on Dev Harlec. The data genius had been waiting for them at a table in a restaurant frequented by the Brodan elite. Selkirk took a long look around the crowded floor before seating himself across from Harlec, who was wearing a suit that was only slightly more formal than his normal warm-­up clothes. The contrast reminded Ayliss that Lee looked especially good tonight; a jacket of a dark green fabric outlined his muscular torso to great advantage. Security uniforms were frowned upon in Brodan society, and the rest of her detail was likewise dressed in mufti as they circulated in the cavernous dining room.