A Learning Experience

by Christopher Nuttall

  He rolled his eyes as he walked through the building, noting just how boring it had to be for the wounded veterans. There were televisions and DVD players, but there were also large signs forbidding smoking, drinking and gambling. He had a strong suspicion that the latter two were completely ignored, provided the veterans could get their hands on drink, money and cards. Someone sympathetic might well have smuggled all three of them into the complex.

  Outside, the garden was depressingly morbid, despite some attempts to cheer up the veterans with flowers. A handful of wheelchairs were parked on the grass, evenly spaced around the garden, making it harder for the veterans to even talk to one another. They ranged in age, he noted; some of them were younger than him, others were old enough to be his father. He caught sight of the man he wanted and walked forward, coming to a halt in front of his chair.

  Up close, it was clear that Edward Romford was no older than Kevin himself – and crippled, crippled beyond the help of human medical science. According to the reports he’d downloaded from the residence home’s computers – their security was laughable, although they had no conception of the threat facing them - Edward Romford would never walk again and, without a family to take him in, he had simply been abandoned at the home. But how long would the home be able to look after him?

  “Sir,” he said. “I come with a proposition.”

  “Married already,” Romford croaked. He wasn't, Kevin knew. His ex-wife had left him long before he’d been wounded, yet another marriage destroyed by the strains deployment placed on it. “Fuck off.”

  He paused. “Unless you have alcohol,” he added, in a softer tone. “Bitch over there says it destroys our brain cells. Why else would we want to drink it?”

  Kevin smiled. “You seem to be mentally sound,” he said. “Listen carefully.”

  He leaned closer. “There’s a new residence home for veterans, in Montana,” he said. It was the cover story they’d established, after they’d worked out that there were no relatives who could simply take Edward Romford away without permission. “They’re pioneering a new treatment. You may be able to walk again.”

  Edward Romford looked up, torn between hope and wariness. He’d long since lost hope of being able to walk again, let alone have a full life. Kevin understood just how easy it would be to give in to despair and just waste away, no matter how carefully one was treated by the nurses. Now ... Romford had to wonder if this was real ... or if it was just a trick. But there was no motive to trick him or anyone else.

  “You can come with me, now,” he added. “Or you can stay here for the rest of your life.”

  Romford smiled. “Take me away,” he said. “Hell, just take me outside the walls and leave me there. I can get away from there on my own.”

  Kevin winced in pity. The residence home was hardly a prison, provided the inhabitants could walk. As it was, they couldn't get up the steps or out past the gates without help. To someone who had once walked all over Afghanistan, it was a prison, made worse by the fact the nurses were genuinely trying to help. Or were they? Kevin was a cynical person at the best of times and he couldn’t keep himself from wondering if the veterans in the garden were meant to catch cold and die. It would take a burden off the residence home’s nurses.

  “Just don't say a word,” he said, as he took the handles of the wheelchair and pushed it forward, back towards the house. “I’ve already cleared the paperwork.”

  Somewhat to his disappointment, no one tried to bar their path as he pushed the wheelchair through the building and down to the van. Finding a van designed for a wheelchair had been surprisingly tricky – it seemed that there were additional requirements to drive one – but he’d found one eventually. He helped Romford into the vehicle, secured the wheelchair in place and then clambered into the driver’s seat. No one shouted in outrage as they drove out of the car park and onto the road.

  “A daring commando raid,” Romford observed. He chuckled, harshly. “Bitches never let us leave, even with an escort. I used to pray for terrorists or even muggers, just to put us out of our misery.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kevin said. He felt another pang of bitter guilt – and rage. Surely their country could do better than this for their wounded veterans? No wonder Romford had prayed for death. Given the complete absence of security at the residence home, it was a minor miracle that terrorists hadn't attacked the building already. “But it’s nearly over now.”

  He parked the van – they’d been warned against trying to teleport away from a moving vehicle – and then sent the command to the interface. The world became silver – he heard Romford yelp in shock – then resolved, revealing the starship’s sickbay. Romford gasped and choked, then coughed violently as Mariko ran forward and caught him. Kevin watched, grimly, as she ran one of the alien scanners over his body.

  “You’re an angel,” Romford said. He sounded dazed. “Am I in heaven?”

  “You're in a starship,” Mariko said, softly. She looked up at Steve. “I think he’s of reasonably sound mind, but there’s a lot of damage.”

  She hesitated. “And I’m not sure about the ethics of some of the proposed treatments.”

  Kevin could understand. Healing someone was one thing, but taking out their brain and inserting it into a cyborg frame was quite another. He wouldn't have wanted to give up sex and the other pleasures of being human, yet if he was facing certain death would he still make the same decision? And besides, Romford wasn't quite on the verge of death.

  Romford produced a croaking sound, drawing their attention. “What sort of treatments?”

  Kevin opened his mouth to respond, but Mariko beat him to it. “We can heal you, to some extent,” she said. “Or we can transform you into an inhuman cyborg. You would no longer be completely human.”

  What an elegant sales pitch, Kevin thought, sourly. But did they really want cyborgs?

  Romford hesitated. “You can heal me?”

  “You’ll be able to walk again, yes,” Mariko confirmed. “It may take some time for you to get used to it, but you’ll be able to walk again. And we can fix the other damage at the same time.”

  “Then please do so,” Romford said.

  Kevin watched as Mariko helped him into the tube – for all her slight build, she was surprisingly strong – and activated the medical system. There was a long pause, long enough to make Kevin wonder if something had gone wrong, then the system came to life, scanning Romford’s body. He shook his head in awe. Even under the best circumstances, no human treatment could eradicate the effects of those wounds. But for the alien autodoc it was all in a day’s work.

  “There would be people who would pay millions for this kind of treatment,” he said, softly. “We could approach them and ...”

  “We will,” Steve said. “But the vets come first.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kevin said. After seeing the residential home, it had become clear that they needed to reach out for other suitable candidates. With a little effort, and some computer hacking, they could create a whole charity intent on transferring wounded veterans to the ranch, where they could be teleported to the starship. “But there are others we also need to recruit.”

  “You’ll be off to Switzerland next,” Steve said. “Don’t forget your passport.”

  Kevin snorted. He’d have given his right arm for the teleporter while he’d been in intelligence, if only to avoid border controls and hazardous journeys across bandit-infested mountains. Maybe the Marines and the Rangers did more fighting – it was hard to argue that – but the intelligence officers were often in more danger. Kevin had been in places where a single word out of place would have ensured his death.

  But Switzerland was a reasonably peaceful country.

  “I won't need it,” he said. “How’s Keith settling in?”

  “Reading as much as he can download,” Steve said. “I think his fans are going to be a little disappointed this year.”

  Kevin sighed. “They’ll tar and feather me if they ever f
ind out,” he said. Glass’s fans were quite faithful. They wouldn't forgive one of their own for taking their writer away from his work. “Did we get a few samples produced from the fabricators?”

  “They’re ready,” Steve said. “Have fun. And just think of all the air miles you’re racking up.”

  “You mean teleporter miles,” Kevin corrected. “And I don't think they really count.”

  “Probably should,” Mariko said, from where she was watching the medical treatment. “Have you considered the long-term effects of having your body broken down to energy and then put back together again?”

  “No,” Kevin said.

  “Nor as anyone else, as far as I can determine,” Mariko said. “If it were up to me, I’d have the teleport restricted as much as possible.”

  “We need it,” Steve said, quietly.

  Kevin nodded and left the compartment.

  Chapter Seven

  Bern, Switzerland

  Kevin had always liked the Swiss. They were a mountain folk, like some of his own family, and they had a robust attitude towards personal freedom, gun ownership and maintaining their independence despite being surrounded by stronger and often hostile nations. Indeed, they actually were more democratic – for better or worse – than much of the Western World.

  They also maintained a largely-secure banking system, despite the pressures of the War on Terror. Their reputation for discretion was everything, even though it worked against the forces of freedom and liberty as much as they worked against dictatorships and tyrannies. An African despot could have a Swiss bank account, crammed with as much foreign aid funds as he could loot from his benefactors, but so could his opponents. And they had far fewer pesky laws on technology transfer than the USA. Quite a few small computing businesses had moved operations to Switzerland in the last few years.

  He stopped outside the building and smiled to himself. Wilhelm Technology was a very small firm compared to the giants, but it had operations in both Texas and Switzerland. On the surface, the technology they produced was made in Switzerland, allowing it to avoid export restrictions and government interference. If nothing else, the internet made it much harder to hide when something existed the government didn't want its citizens to have. And then they could simply order it from overseas.

  Idiots, he thought, sourly. Small innovative firms like Wilhelm had once been the lifeblood of the American economy. Now, they were often forced out of the market by paperwork and regulations that the bigger industries could simply pay lawyers to avoid. Maybe some of the regulations made sense, maybe they didn’t ... but they collectively strangled the life out of the small businessman. In desperation, some of them had even started to outsource their production facilities to other countries. Many of the major industries were already gone.

  He stepped inside and smiled. There were few people working in the offices; Wilhelm Technology’s factories consumed much of their manpower. The receptionist looked at his card and waved him to a seat. He’d expected a wait – most corporate big-shots preferred to keep people waiting, just to make their inferiority clear – but he was met within seconds. But then, he should have expected no less.

  Markus Wilhelm had been a USAF Geek when Kevin had first met him, years ago. He’d never flown an aircraft and never would, not even one of the Predator drones, but he’d been extremely important, none the less. The fighter pilots might sneer, yet in an age of increasing technological development and deployment, the computer geek was often more important than the pilot. After he’d finished his first term, Wilhelm had taken his expertise and founded a company of his very own. And he’d seen moderate success since then. It would have been more, Kevin knew, if he’d been able to find additional capital.

  “Kevin,” Wilhelm said. He was a tall, but slim man, the very picture of a geek. The glasses he wore, he had once claimed, were the same style as Bill Gates had worn before he’d become a billionaire. “It's good to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” Kevin said, as Wilhelm led him into the office. He couldn't help a trickle of nervousness. All the other people he’d contacted for Steve – and the ones Mongo was collecting – were people who could disappear, if necessary, without being missed in a hurry. Wilhelm, on the other hand, would be very noticeable if he vanished. People would ask questions. “I was wondering if you would be interested in a business proposition?”

  Wilhelm turned and frowned at him. “You are offering me a business proposition?”

  “Something like that,” Kevin said. “There is a piece of ... technology we wish you to market for us. We would split the profits.”

  “And who,” Wilhelm asked, “are you working for?”

  Kevin nodded, mentally. He’d expected the question. Unlike the others, Wilhelm had good reason to be suspicious of any offer, particularly with an unverifiable source. The CIA had turned more than one American business into a front operation over the years, doing serious damage to American interests when the truth finally came out. Wilhelm was hardly interested in turning his company into a cover for the Company, particularly given the pressure on his operations from the NSA.

  “Someone new,” Kevin said, evasively. He reached into his briefcase and produced another NDA. He’d rewritten it for Wilhelm, his wife and any of his employees he felt like inviting into the secret. “Someone who needs your assistance in selling his wares.”

  Wilhelm’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me,” he said.

  Kevin had considered several cover stories, but most of them would be easily to disprove, given enough incentive to ask questions. And Wilhelm would definitely have such incentive.

  “Sign,” he said, instead. “And then we will discuss matters.”

  After a long moment, Wilhelm took the paper and sighed it.

  ***

  “Let me get this straight,” Wilhelm said, after he’d been teleported to the starship and given a brief tour. “You’re founding your own nation and you intend to sell technology to finance your operations?”

  “Basically, yes,” Steve said. He found himself liking Wilhelm on sight, but it was hard to trust anyone who hadn't seen the sharp end of war completely. “We have various ... gadgets we intend to sell, through you if you're interested in helping.”

  “A case could be made that your actions are treasonous,” Wilhelm said, after a long moment. “What do you make of that?”

  Steve put firm controls on his temper. “I understand that you are having your own problems with the government,” he said. “What do you make of our desire to avoid the government?”

  Wilhelm nodded, slowly. Steve smiled, recognising he’d scored a point. He wasn't sure he fully understood Kevin’s explanations of precisely why Wilhelm Technology was having problems, but he was sure it was because of government interference. Besides, if Wilhelm had been completely committed to the government, he would have stayed and worked for them on a very low wage.

  “We’ll have to claim they came out of the factory near Bern,” Wilhelm said, finally. “We were ramping up production of the new hard drives in any case, so it isn't completely implausible. Not being able to file a patent, on the other hand, might raise some eyebrows.”

  “You can file a confidential patent,” Kevin pointed out.

  “The government would still have access,” Wilhelm reminded him. “But it might not be a bad thing if another company eventually cracked the secret of how the technology worked.”

  “No, it wouldn't,” Steve agreed. The devices they’d intended to suggest were advanced enough to be noticeable, at least ten to twenty years ahead of Earth’s finest technology. It was depressing to realise that the alien starship designers probably considered them nothing more than toys. “How quickly could you start selling them?”

  Wilhelm considered. “Maybe a month or two,” he said. “We could claim that the whole project was so secret hardly anyone knew about it – that isn't uncommon in the computer world – which would allow us to start selling in two weeks, but that would probably rai
se eyebrows. Few secrets remain secret indefinitely.”

  Steve smiled, tiredly. “Are you interested, then?”

  “I’d be very interested,” Wilhelm said. “But I’d also be interested in relocating to the moon once you have a colony established. What sort of laws do you intend to have covering commercial operations?”

  “We haven’t thought that far ahead, yet,” Steve admitted.

  “Better get thinking about it,” Wilhelm said. “There are quite a few possibilities that don’t include alien technology, if you have free access to outer space. Zero-gravity production, for one thing, would allow us to produce all sorts of improvements on current technology and machined components. And then there would be no need to worry about pollution.”