“I saw… At the Barrow… the shells of the two Bug bots…” I remember.
“Snyder Sanchez and Dakota Ellis,” he names them. “I have given them analog bodies like this and returned them to their families. Or what family I could save.”
“What you did at Industry,” I also remember.
“I cannot restore the dead.” He very pointedly looks at Lyra. “But I was able to get the living out of harm’s way, get them to a safe place. Safer place. Maybe I’ll get a chance to show you, one day.”
Lyra’s still glaring at him, unimpressed, and I expect eager to test her own new body against whatever he’s become, despite what he’s just shown us.
“I know who you are, girl,” he confesses. “And I’m sorry for what I took from you, for whatever nothing that’s worth. I only saw monsters doing monstrous things. I did not pause to consider why they made those choices, could not imagine that they could love and be loved. I could say I was not myself at the time, but that would be a lie.”
“So this is you doing penance?” Star questions, falling in to stand at Lyra’s side, also clearly not ready to consider forgiveness.
“Just doing what’s right,” he mutters pathetically. Then he looks over my shoulder and accuses: “Somebody has to.”
I turn to see what or who he’s accusing. Yod is standing there on the blood-soaked ground, in his Old Doc avatar.
“So is he your agent, now, doing what you can’t without showing your hand?” I accuse (though I can’t say I’m against the choice).
He shrugs with that lazy smile he likes to wear.
“And all these people had to die, just to keep it convincing?” Now I’m getting angry.
“No one has died, not completely,” he tells me like it’s barely important. “Bodies have been destroyed, consciousnesses interrupted. But everyone still exists in my fabric. No one has been deleted.”
“So… What? They’re keepsakes?” I’d put my sword through his face if I thought it would hurt him at all. “Just another thing to collect, your weakness for nostalgia?”
“I value them much more than inanimate objects,” he reassures lamely. But then his body—his avatar—shifts. It becomes Horst. Wearing his helmetless armor. Looking convincingly confused, shocked.
“Don’t,” I warn like I could stop him.
“It’s not an avatar.” Yod’s suddenly behind me, standing next to Chang, as Old Doc again.
“Colonel?” the Horst copy asks me, visibly trembling. “What’s going on?”
Lyra looks confused and more than a little terrified. It was one thing to tell her about Yod, another to experience the inconceivable first-hand. Star just looks as pissed as I am, while Chang has a vaguely annoyed expression.
“Stop it,” I hopelessly demand.
“It’s not a trick,” Yod insists calmly. “It’s him. As he was. Before…”
I stare at Horst. He looks honestly bewildered by his materialization. His hand reaches up, feels for where the Harvesters injected into his neck, finds no wound. But
“I remember… I… I remember putting my gun in my mouth. Looking at the pictures of my family, dead so long ago now… Looking at the sun, the sky. Putting the gun in my mouth. Fingering the trigger. Trying to get up the nerve. Telling myself I was dead anyway. Even if you could fix me, like Specialist Jameson… I… I didn’t want to become what you are… not after what…”
He doesn’t finish. Lyra looks down at her boots, shuffles uncomfortably in her new body.
“I took a deep breath…” he starts again, gathering himself. “One deep breath… told myself I had a good run, a good life, no regrets… no regrets now… then…” He looks at me, locks my eyes, desperately needing to know: “Did you stop me? I don’t remember you stopping me. I don’t remember how I got here. I was…”
Star steps up to him, clamps her hand on his neck. He flinches, but then allows it when she gives him an almost reassuring smile.
“He’s human,” she declares. “Strictly organic. No tech. No signals.”
“What did you do?” I confront Yod.
His avatar just shrugs again.
“So is there another body, another him, in that grave?” I demand insensitively, pointing in the direction of the cairns. Copy Horst’s eyes go wide as he understands what I’m saying.
“Good point,” Yod agrees easily. I hear rocks shift from the direction of the cairns. I run over, but know what I’m going to see: Horst’s burial mound has collapsed. Empty.
When I turn back, fully ready to punch Yod in his smiling stolen face, Horst has followed me.
“That was mine, wasn’t it?” he knows.
I ignore him coldly, march back to confront the engineer of this transgression.
“You think you can just copy life, however perfect?” I rail at Yod. “That’s not him! Just like Matthew wasn’t Matthew! Or anybody else you fucking Xeroxed out of raw elements! You don’t understand because you aren’t alive like we are! You’re digital. You don’t see the fucking difference between a data-perfect copy and the life that’s gone. And don’t give me that shit about not being able to tell the difference, because all we are is bodies and memories. Stanley Horst—or at least the Stanley Horst that came here with me—is dead. This one just looks like him, thinks it’s him, but the Horst that stopped being when he blew his own brains out is gone!”
Horst—the copy—looks horrified, shattered, lost. I’m sure he honestly believes he is who he thinks he is, who his replicated memories tell him he is, that the copy is that perfect. But now he also knows he’s not. (And isn’t that what drove Asmodeus madder than he already was? Isn’t that what’s dogging my every thought and act?) I think the only reason he’s not running away screaming is that he’s as strong as his… What? Original? That’s not even right. Horst—if he did come from the original pre-Event reality—was a Modded immortal. Yod would have had to have remade him, as he remade everyone. And did he do it by truly remaking them, by disintegrating the originals and making copies he was sure were as good as the real thing? Did he do that to the entire human race? Did he kill all of us, not understanding that he was, thinking his perfect copies were just as good?
And is this him trying to teach me something, by confronting me with it, giving me this recreated life to judge valid or not?
“I could certainly undo what I’ve created,” Yod offers dully, confirming my suspicion. “I could make it so none of you even remember this, if it upsets you.”
“No.” It’s the most coherent thing I can say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Star reach for my pistol, just like she did when she shot Jackson. I spin, block her hand, but she isn’t there. She’s still standing where she was, meters away from me, now looking at me like I’ve just had a bizarre twitch. It was an illusion, a trick. I glare at Yod.
“Not only will you not ask me to destroy this life, you act to protect it,” he reveals me. “If you don’t believe this life is real, that this man is a living human, why would you do that?”
“Because I don’t know!” I yell at him. “Because I can’t be sure of anything anymore, not since you started shredding the rules of reality!”
“I assure you, old friend, I have done my best to follow the established laws of physics since the Change, to let the world run its course, only intervening in extraordinary circumstances. If you would prefer, I will cease doing even that. I think it is time, now. This life will be my last extraordinary gift to you.”
And that sounds like a deal lined with poisoned barbs. I don’t say another word.
New Horst doesn’t look any less traumatized.
“Welcome to our world, Lieutenant,” Star offers him. “I’ll give you the dime tour, catch you up on the chapters you missed. Your ex-CO would, but he’s in one of his famous moods right now. Best not to get too close.”
I ignore the jab.
“Long story…” Horst mumbles. “…bad ending.”
“It’s all right, Lieutenant,” Lyra tries j
ust as poorly. “I’m getting that it’s best not to think about it too much. Or you’ll wind up trying to puke when you’re loaded with tech that makes sure you can’t.” And we get to the anger stage: “Speaking of which: What else can’t I do anymore?”
“No pissing, no shitting, no menses, no BO, no bad breath… And then there’s the whole eating and drinking through your skin thing that takes some getting used to,” Star lists. “And you think the Lieutenant here isn’t real.”
“Don’t you have a countermeasure to disseminate?” I decide to focus on better priorities.
“I do, actually,” she lets me know. “Or she does.” She gestures at Lyra. “It’s in her. She can deliver it by physical contact. Neutralizes once the infection is clear.”
“There are people waiting for it,” she remembers. “Assuming it isn’t too late. I hope we didn’t take too long.”
“Smith is ready to fly you out of here in Jackson’s AAV,” I tell them the plan. Then I figure I should give Smith fair warning, considering the passengers he’s about to receive.
“Smith!” I call on his channel. “Spin up. Time to go. And try to get through to the Grave Base. Tell them we have a countermeasure against the Harvesters incoming.”
“You’re not worried Asmodeus is listening?” he worries.
“Asmodeus is done,” I tell him with surprisingly little satisfaction. “It’s over. We just need to mop up what he’s left us.”
I hear the engines start cycling.
“What are you going to tell him about…?” Star wonders, gesturing toward Horst.
“We won’t mention his dying,” I insist. “Smith will go along.”
I see Horst chew his lip, give me a nod of tentative thanks.
“Sir,” Smith comes back. “I have Colonel Ava.”
“Michael!” I hear her burst onto the channel. “What happened to Colonel Jackson?”
“He’s dead,” I tell her. “He died with honor, bravely, trying to defend us from Asmodeus’ latest monstrosity. We also lost Corso, Simmons and Scheffe. But Asmodeus has been dealt with. It’s over.” Saying it again, I find I still don’t really believe it, certainly not enough to celebrate it. But I also feel no doubt about Chang.
I hear some cheering in the background, maybe a handful of voices. I think I recognize Anton’s and Kastl’s among them.
“I’m sending Smith, Horst and Jameson back to you,” I keep to pressing business. “Specialist Jameson is… She’s one of us, now. But she’s bringing you an effective countermeasure for Harvester infection, one Earthside should be able to live with.”
“Understood,” she tells me with cautious elation. “I’ll let Halley and Ryder know to prepare.” I hear no cheering now, but had no reason to expect it. Lyra will be met with extreme suspicion at the very least.
“Are you acting CO?” I ask her, trying to get a sense of what I’m sending Lyra back to.
“She is, and she’s doing her job with distinction, Colonel,” I hear Richards answer. “I’m going to do my best to make it permanent.”
“It’s good to hear your voice, General,” I tell him honestly. “I thought you were at Melas Two when it was attacked.”
“I was. But Chang—we think it was Chang—neutralized the vectors and somehow cleared the infection from those exposed.”
I look at Chang then, give him a smile and a nod. He returns the smile shyly, humbly.
“And he apparently neutralized Fohat,” Lisa adds. “Bel contacted us.”
“I’ve heard,” I admit without explaining.
“So is it really over?” Richards wants assurance. “Can we actually move forward now?”
“I expect there are still Harvesters out there, but they’re still not your only challenge on this planet, General. However, I think what remains is very much contingent on how you choose to proceed.”
“I understand, Colonel. And thank you for all you’ve…”
“Sirs!” I hear Kastl interrupt. “I have an urgent incoming from the ETE. It’s Paul Stilson…”
“Can you put him through to me?” I ask.
Lisa allows it, and Kastl splices the call through. I get video, fuzzy with interference, but the shot is chaotic, like the cameraman is running. I see ETE in white suits hurrying to clear a section like the devil is on their tails. Others push through them, armed with their standard Tools. I recognize the scene when the camera turns back in the direction they’re fleeing from: It’s the containment section where they were keeping Terina.
“Paul! This is Ram! What’s happening?”
“Seems we made a bit of an error…” he gasps back breathlessly. I see one of the ETE responders get thrown across the chamber like a doll, then another. “We could use your help… It’s the Companion… She’s hacked our network. She’s taken con…”
He gets hit by a flying body, knocked to the floor. I can see better now that the ETE in the way have either fled or been swept away.
It is Terina, in her converted form. She’s whole again, standing with her Glaive in her left hand, held behind her back. In her right is a Sphere that she clearly has control over. I can see the energy field blaze around her as the ETE try to push her back, disarm her. They have no effect at all.
“I AM KAH-TERINA SHER-KHAN, FIRST DAUGHTER OF SAGREV KHAN, WAR KING OF KATAR!” her voice booms through the chamber and on the channel. She’s got at least that part of her memory back, and she sounds less than cheerful about it. “YOU WHO HAVE CLAIMED TO PROTECT THIS PLANET WILL NOW ACT TO DO SO. YOU WILL NO LONGER HIDE LIKE COWARDS IN YOUR HIGH CASTLES. YOU WILL FIGHT AGAINST OUR MUTUAL ENEMIES. IF YOU DARE REFUSE, I WILL DRIVE YOU ALL OUT INTO THE OPEN AIR AND LEAVE YOU HELPLESS. I HAVE CONTROL OF YOUR STATIONS. I HAVE CONTROL OVER YOUR WEAPONS.”
As demonstration, the energy assault on her ceases. The ETE are all locked out of their Tools.
One of the white suits tries to advance on her anyway. I see that he’s carrying an old ICW, probably left over from Station Security pre-Bang. He empties it at her, screaming his rage and panic through his helmet. The bullets all vaporize against her shields. Then he gets picked up, held in midair, and his sealsuit disintegrates, leaving him naked. He’s an older man by ETE standards, maybe the local Station Counsel. His body gets violently contorted. Then his flesh burns away, like a man caught in a nuclear blast. Anyone who tries to get to him gets thrown back. His charred body drops to the deck, unmoving.
“YOU WILL FIGHT FOR MARS, OR YOU WILL FALL WITH THE ENEMIES OF MARS.”
“Contact Bel and the others!” I tell Lisa. “And have them find Jonathan Drake. And the Carters. Bly. Straker. Everybody!” I glare at Yod. He doesn’t even seem to be paying attention. I need to get there myself, fast. “Smith! You’ll have one more passenger.”
“Two,” Star joins me.
I look at Chang to see if he’s in, but he’s also distracted.
“Something’s wrong,” he announces, sounding deeply disturbed, and not by the news that a Companion Bound with brain damage has just taken complete control of the ETE Station Network. His eyes scan the ground like he’s reading it. “There was a replication trace in Asmodeus’ code. But I can’t track it.” His form shifts from visible to black and back again in waves. “There are no other active nodes on-planet. I neutralized them all. But there’s one odd link string I can’t account for. And every time I try to follow it I run into…” He looks up at Yod, eyes wide. “You. Your code.”
Yod does a convincing job of looking confused, then idly introspective. Then he turns his head skyward with a curious expression on his face—I know they’re all just condescension for us simpler creatures—and his lips curl into an amused grin.
“That’s interesting,” he mutters as if he means whatever’s got his attention is a lot more than just interesting. Then he looks at me, and gives me a sad little sigh, like he’s sorry about something.
“I apologize,” he says like a parent to a child. “But this will be rather uncomfortable. And disorienting.”
He begins to dissolve into light. I’ve seen him do this before, shimmering, sparkling, as if every nanite in his avatar individually turns into pure white light, until he loses substance and winks out of existence. (Is it theatrical? Or is he really systematically converting himself into energy, or at least his sub-atomic nature?) And I’m about to very foolishly ask him what is going to be uncomfortable and disorienting when my fingertips catch fire.
Not fire. They blaze with electricity. Energy. I see them turn to light, just like Yod did, cell-by-cell. The light works its way up my fingers, my hands, my arms. I can’t move, can’t make a sound. I can only watch myself come apart. I look down, see it happening to my torso, my legs. I am a man of paper in a blast furnace.
I hear Star scream my name. Lyra is staring at what’s happening to me, wide-eyed in terror. But then she’s gone in the light, everything gone in the light, everything becomes light…
White.
The light has faded, dulled, but it’s left the world washed away, a matte white surface, like a plain of ice seen from a great height. But it isn’t. I realize I’m only a few meters from it, realize it’s almost perfectly flat. I dully remember an atrocity in a museum of modern art, where someone painted a massive canvas all one color, gave it a pretentious name and reason for being, and put a several million dollar price tag on it. It looked exactly like a painted wall.
I’m looking at a painted wall.
No. A ceiling. Textured.
I dumbly track the edges of its rectangle, then the walls that support it. I’m in a room, about the size of a large bedroom. The walls are as plain as the ceiling, only sparsely decorated with simple art. There’s a large mirror, a set of dark-wood furnishings, a large entertainment screen. One wall is broken by a shadowy corridor that I expect leads out of here. The opposite wall is dominated by dull white slat blinds that glow with muted daylight, which is the only source of illumination as the light fixtures aren’t turned on.
I’m lying on my back on a large bed, on top of a deep red comforter. It’s very soft. The pain—the electric agony of disintegration—is completely gone, leaving only a vague tingle.
The God Mars Book Six: Valhalla I Am Coming Page 42