Salvation

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Combat training was kept to a minimum while the booster program was implemented. No one was surprised when Janc volunteered to be first.

  “I hate it,” Yirella exclaimed on their third night. They’d finished dinner and moved outside to sit on the terrace while the sun dropped out of the sky. The bungalow was playing some music recorded on Earth thousands of years ago. Yirella liked having music available. Back in the dorm it hadn’t been particularly popular—at least not the quieter, more melodic tracks she always chose.

  “Hate what?” Dellian asked in surprise.

  “Boosting. They’re changing us. We have no control.”

  “We do. Alexandre said; we don’t have to do this.” He poured the last of the beer into their glasses.

  “And if we don’t? If we don’t go out there and fight, what do we do? Stay on Juloss? Because there’s so much opportunity available here, isn’t there?”

  “Not everyone is going to be part of the war effort.”

  “Yeah, I can join the remotes scrubbing the decks on board our battleship.”

  He reached out and gripped her hand. “I hate it when you’re this unhappy.”

  “This is not me being miserable. This is me being angry.”

  “Okay. Angry is scary.”

  She grinned weakly and took another sip of the beer. “I just hate that we can’t control our lives, not really. I know we don’t have to go to war, but, come on, what is there for us here? Everyone on Juloss is going to leave when the youngest yeargroup finishes their training and gets boosted. I don’t know about you, but I can’t see myself staying behind and waiting for the enemy to arrive. And they always do, you know. They go through any star system we settle like a plague, destroying everything.”

  “I know.” He stared out at the dark trees at the end of the garden, where colorful birds were settling for the night. “So you will come with us? The boys need you. I need you.”

  “Of course I’m coming with you. I’m no martyr, waiting out in the jungle by myself for the enemy to finally find Juloss—if they ever do. And I will not let you down. Remember? But we’re not a yeargroup anymore, are we? Not just a team playing tournaments against the other clans. You and the boys are becoming a proper military squad.”

  “For now. After the war, we can live how we want.”

  “If we win.”

  Dellian gave her a shocked look, but she seemed very earnest. “We’ll win. We have the Saints on our side.”

  For a moment it looked like she might argue. But in the end she raised her glass to him. “That we do.”

  * * *

  —

  The next morning they went to the medical facility to visit Janc. His cohort were in a special den, with a long window allowing them to look in at their master, helping to keep them calm. But they weren’t allowed into the recovery and activation room.

  When Dellian and Yirella walked in, Janc was lying in the middle of a wide bed with his limbs covered in thick sleeves of green a-skin, and a broad strip across the top of his skull, running over the crown to the nape of his neck like a particularly flat Mohawk. The rubbery membranes sprouted a multitude of fiber optics that were plugged into the clinic’s genten, which monitored and modified the boost implants.

  Rello was sitting on the side of the bed, holding Janc’s hand, the two of them grinning as if they’d just gotten away with some inane mischief.

  “Well, you look okay,” Dellian said cheerfully.

  “Feeling good,” Janc said. “I’m thinking the happy juice glands might be kicking in already.”

  Yirella knew that wouldn’t be happening, but kept quiet.

  “Timing is everything,” Rello said. “We were just talking about that, how fine the control is going to be, if you can trigger a gland discharge when you’re fucking. Double it up.”

  “Going to be doing plenty of experimenting there,” Dellian agreed.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Yirella sighed. “Don’t you boys ever think of anything else?”

  “No!” the three of them replied.

  “I’m not sure any of the glands are amphetamine-based. They won’t act as a serotonergic agonist.”

  “You had to say that,” Rello complained.

  “Whatever the crap it means.” Janc laughed.

  Yirella couldn’t help her own smile. “What else did they give you?”

  “Apart from the glands? The main arterial valves are in.”

  “Always going to be useful when you get a limb ripped off,” Dellian said with mock enthusiasm.

  Yirella knew his humor was slightly forced. Undergoing boosting had finally made it physical and actual. They really were going to be embarking on a battleship and portaling off into the galaxy. There weren’t even statistics about how many of them would survive, if any.

  “If there’s any limb ripping going on, it’ll be me doing it,” Janc said. “They put the first batch of nerve induction sheaths in, too. For the larger muscles.”

  “So six more batches,” Rello said, “and you’ll be fully emittive.”

  Janc held a hand up to his face, flexing his fingers one at a time as if testing them. “Yeah. I didn’t realize just how many subliminal gestures we make to the little guys. It’s just natural now, you know?”

  Yirella glanced over at the window where Janc’s munc cohort were looking in on them. “After all this time, they’re a part of us now, like mobile extra limbs. And you’re going to need them,” she said solemnly.

  “When do they start modifying your cohort?” Dellian asked eagerly.

  “Tomorrow,” Janc said.

  “Aren’t you sad about that?” Yirella asked.

  The boys looked at her with such incomprehension she thought she could actually hear the gulf splitting open between them. It was over, she realized; they weren’t her family of brothers anymore. Difference now outweighed love. It was all she could do not to burst into tears in front of them.

  “No,” Janc said, careful not to sound indignant. “This way they’ll still be relevant to me. More than relevant: necessary. Relationships change. We’re growing up, Yirella. I don’t need a bunch of cuddly pets anymore.” He grinned up at Rello, who squeezed his hand fondly.

  “Growing up,” she said distantly. “Yes, we are.”

  Dellian put his arm around her, knowing something was badly wrong. “Nobody’s changing that much,” he assured her.

  * * *

  —

  The munc center always used to be a reassuring place for Yirella. If Uma or Doony ever got knocked about, she would come to Uranti, knowing scratches and bruises would be tended to and soothed. If they’d stupidly eaten something bad, they’d get medicine and treatment in a ward. This time when she walked into the broad entrance hall that ran clean through the diameter of the dome, the old sensation of comfort was nowhere to be had. The hygienic white tile floor and light gray walls were too functional for her now, too symbolic of the true nature of muncs: artificial, doomed…

  Uranti was in a treatment room at the back of the clinic, tending to a munc belonging to a boy in the clan’s fifth yeargroup. Sie smiled and waved Yirella to a seat as sie finished wrapping a cut in black a-skin. Boy and munc held hands delightedly as they were dismissed, with Uranti’s dire warnings not to exert themselves for twenty-four hours following them out.

  “The arena?” Yirella asked.

  Uranti stripped the sanitary gloves from hir hands. “Field hockey. I have no idea which genius thought it would be a good idea to give muncs hockey sticks that they can wave around on a crowded field.” Sie sighed, shaking hir head. “This whole bonding procedure is one giant malleable experiment.” Sie looked around. “Where are yours?”

  “Back at the house.”

  “Really? Don’t they mind being apart from you?”

  �
�I guess. A little. I don’t have the kind of bond the boys have with their cohorts. I suppose I’m more reserved. It’s rubbed off on Uma and Doony.”

  Uranti gave her a soft smile. “And yet, no one else in your yeargroup has given their muncs an actual name.”

  “We’re not allowed to.”

  “Dear me, is that a touch of rebellion I hear in your voice?”

  “I was just being practical—and polite. Which seems a bit pointless now.”

  “How so?”

  “The modification; it’s the kind of phrase an old-Earth politician would use—given what you’re going to do to our poor muncs.”

  “I see. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to see them.”

  “Them?”

  “The combat cores you modify them into. I’ve seen the images, and I’ve studied the blueprints. But it’s not them.”

  “I understand. The map is not the territory.”

  Yirella frowned for a moment. “Something like that. Yes.”

  Uranti led her back into the main corridor and into a hexagonal hub chamber. The portal sie chose emerged into a section of the building Yirella had never been in before. She was in an observation gallery that ran along a clean assembly facility 150 meters long, with seamless pearl-white walls, floor, and ceiling; smaller glass-walled rooms lined the sides. In her t-shirt and shorts, with sandals on her feet, Yirella felt totally out of place. The few people she could see walking amid the industrial-size fabricators were all wearing hospital-style gowns.

  “Those are Neána-style molecular initiators,” Uranti said, a degree of pride in hir voice as sie indicated the row of large cubes on the floor below. “We think, anyway. The insertion metahumans were never quite sure they mastered all the principles. Our own biogenetic science plateaued a long way short of this technology’s ability.”

  “They made the muncs,” Yirella said tonelessly.

  “Yes. The muncs are biologics. But I’m proud to say, a completely human design. We never had access to the creation programs the Neána insertion ship possessed.”

  “And the combat cores, what are they?”

  “A fusion of biologics and human weapons. This way.”

  They walked along the gallery until they were overlooking the construction bays. A cohort of combat cores lay in their cradles, with genten remote arms moving around them, integrating the final layer of components. The living machines were matte-gray cylinders three meters long and two wide, with a wasp-waist constriction a third of the way along; both ends curved to form sharp cones. Their skin had rings of silver studs and sockets, ready to linc with external armaments and sensors. Even additional propulsion systems could be linced if they were operating in space or within a gas giant’s atmosphere.

  “Aren’t they amazing?” Uranti said, hir eyes fixed on one with complete admiration. “The center section has a life support nucleus that will house the munc brain after it’s removed from the body. Drive units are exotic matter gravitonic manipulation. It’s all powered by triplicated aneutronic fusion chambers. Quantum entanglement keeps them connected to their master.”

  “From the muscle sheaths,” Yirella said.

  “Yes. The muncs can read every single body language posture the boys produce. They understand and respond to it all, big or small, refining the simple verbal orders. It’s the closest we’ll ever come to telepathy. In combat situations, that will be a monumental advantage. No time wasted shouting orders or interpreting what to do. The combat cohort instinctively knows what their master wants, and deploys accordingly. You’ve all spent sixteen years refining that empathic bond. The fight response will be instantaneous. And you and the other girls will direct it; you’ll be the lords of strategy.”

  “You must be so proud,” Yirella said savagely.

  Uranti gave her a long, questing look. “Yes. I am.”

  “I wonder if the muncs are?”

  “You’re anthropomorphizing, Yirella. That’s a mistake. The muncs are just biologics, that’s all. They’re alien machines.”

  “That’s bollocks. They’re alive. Their neurology is modeled on a human brain. They have memory and emotional responses. Just because their cellular biochemistry is slightly different, that doesn’t make them a machine. They’re sentient. That’s why they willingly undergo…this.” Her arm jabbed out, taking in the combat cores. “They want it because the boys want it.”

  “Of course they do. It’s why we’re all here. This is our purpose.”

  “To wage war isn’t a purpose, it’s a threat reflex. We should be trying to think our way out of this mess.”

  “We’ve tried. We cannot flee out of their reach, for the enemy is more widespread than us. The Saints themselves know there is no Sanctuary star to be had, so the legend that a generation ship in our past vowed to look for one is nothing more than that: legend. We cannot call out to the Neána for help, even if they still exist, because to do so would betray our position to the enemy. We are alone, and their hunt is inexorable. Our only hope is to spread our generation ships wide and one day to turn and fight. Look it up; the files are open to you now. All the files. Principal Jenner authorized it. We don’t even know how many humans have died or been taken trying to achieve that noble goal. All we have left now is our crusade to defend the human race. To destroy an enemy so relentless that this whole galaxy is unsafe.”

  “You can’t be certain we’ll win.”

  “Of course we can’t. But we are striving to create the greatest army our science and technology can produce. This is my project. We’ve worked hard to achieve this level of success. If we fail, it will not be from weakness.”

  “Congratulations. And when does my boost begin?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “You’re very confident about our empathy with the muncs, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. However, your muncs’ neurology is slightly different from those in the boys’ cohorts. They’ll be your filters.”

  “Yes, but only when you’ve ripped their brains out and wired them up to gentens as peripherals.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “What?”

  “The physical aspect…It’s not strictly necessary. It’s what they’ve learned that is important. The thought routines they’re using today are the priceless result of sixteen years of your bonding. Think of it. When you finally go up against the enemy, you’ll be receiving hundreds of signals from the squads at the moment of greatest conflict. Even your mind can’t absorb that much information, no matter how good the direct neural connection boost we give you. You have to filter and prioritize. That’s where the munc routines come in, providing a preliminary analysis and grading requests for your attention. The genten will use that interpretive ability to generate the right assessment for you.”

  “If the gentens are that good, then you don’t need us.”

  “You know why we need you. Principal Jenner explained that. There has to be a human in the loop—not just for trust, but for intuition, too. We were all so proud of you at the crash site, the way you questioned your situation. None of us were expecting that.”

  “Bravo me.”

  “Look, if you are genuinely too fond of Uma and Doony to see this happen, I can download their thought routines and run them in a simulated munc neurology within the genten. Their brains have the facility for that built in.” Sie smiled, searching for approval. “Would you like that?”

  Yirella’s shoulders slumped. “You really have thought of everything.”

  “I try. But I know I’m not as good as you.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  —

  Yirella woke up as the dawn chorus of birds began to seep across the estate. She lay in b
ed for a while, allowing her eyes to adjust to the weak pastel light that seeped through the reed blinds she’d chosen for her bedroom windows. Dellian was lying on the mattress beside her, sprawled on his chest, still sleeping. She looked at his pale body, seeming so childishly small on her long mattress, trying to hold her emotions back. Today was the day he was going to the medical facility for his first boost.

  It was the day she was going to lose him. She knew he would still adore her, and she him, but what he was would be changed. No more of a change than every other day they devoted to training, to exploring a new tactical game, or spent in class learning about another weapon. Every day changed them; she acknowledged that readily enough. But this was a physical change underscoring his outlook. Today he would be claimed by inevitability.

  He was definitely going to join the war. It was what he’d always wanted, the noblest cause a human could undertake in these strange times. His life was to be dedicated to salvation for all of them. He dreamed of it. He lived for it. And she would never try to stop him.

  But that didn’t make his choice any less painful for her.

  Last night she’d clung to him with a passion that had surprised him as much as he’d been physically delighted. He’d asked if anything was wrong. And as they strained against each other on the bed, she’d clutched him tighter. “There could never be anything wrong with this,” she’d promised him lustfully.

  She’d been as energetic and enthusiastic as he’d ever known. Fulfilling every sexual craving wasn’t just for his benefit. Her final time with her original beautiful Dellian deserved such an intimate celebration, locking the perfect memory for an age to come when she’d need it most. Then, after even his stamina had been exhausted, she’d cried silently while he slept.

  This morning, she determined, there would be no tears. That was her change. Her choice.