by Jamie Sawyer
General Draven: head honcho for all Alliance military in this sector. He would only become involved if Captain Heinrich escalated this up the chain of command, and it seemed that was exactly what he’d done.
“It wasn’t our fault,” Feng insisted again.
“Doesn’t matter whose fault was,” Novak said. “Is FUBAR, as you Yankees say, yes?”
“Is FUBAR,” I agreed.
The security-drone that by Alliance military regulation was required to follow Novak everywhere was back at his shoulder. Its single electronic eye fixed the Russian with its gaze.
“Prisoner 675,” the drone bleated in a high-pitched, monotone voice, “return to quarters. Under Military Code 983 you are under limited release on a life-term service contract. Your mission has been aborted, and as such your licence requires immediate recall to the allocated barracks facility…”
Novak grunted, and rolled his neck. His head and shoulders were criss-crossed with real scars from a lifetime of criminality.
“Do as it says, Novak,” I ordered.
Novak set his jaw, but didn’t argue. He padded back towards the barracks, the drone trailing after him.
“It’ll be okay,” Riggs said. He reached out a hand in my direction, touched my shoulder.
I shrugged him off. Felt a hot flush of anger over my cheeks. “No, Riggs. It won’t. All of you: get back to the barracks and remain there until I order otherwise.”
Riggs gave me one of his best wounded looks, but I just turned away.
Nothing was going to get me out of this one.
Strikeships were expected to operate away from homebase for long tours, and as such the Bainbridge carried a full complement of post-op facilities. Unfortunately, that meant that I was scheduled for a complete hypno-debrief on the way back to base. I spent the better part of the journey in interrogation, as did the Jackals. Every shred of our intel would be pored over by the Military Intelligence service once we got back to base.
Despite the name, there’s nothing particularly hypnotic about the process. It’s just a direct neural-link, a smash-and-grab of your most recent memories. Although it’s more reliable than a manual debrief, that comes at a cost: it gives you a headache that hurts a hella lot worse than a hangover.
I went down to Medical with the post-debrief ache ringing in my head. My express intention was to get something to soothe the pain, but that wasn’t the only reason. The arrival of the Krell on Daktar was bound to affect some members of the Jackals more than others: I was worried about Zero.
But as I left the elevator tube and approached the Simulant Operations Centre, I heard a surprising sound. Laughter: gentle and genuine, carried above the hum of the air-recycling units. As I got closer, I corrected my impression. This wasn’t laughter: it was giggling. Accompanied by two voices that I recognised.
I found Zero sitting at her console, Feng at the terminal next to her. As they saw me, both seemed to jump.
“Evening, ma’am,” Feng said.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Private Feng?” I asked, with only a half-serious tone.
Feng slid off the console. Pressed down the front tab of his uniform. He wore duty fatigues, the black dog-head insignia of “Jenkins’ Jackals” printed on a tab on his shoulder, together with scant other achievement badges.
“Y … yes, ma’am,” he stammered. “I was just, well…”
I raised an eyebrow. Feng’s cheeks had turned a brighter shade of pink.
“And is the place that you need to be the Simulant Operations Centre?” I said. “Or somewhere else on the Bainbridge? We’re done with the debrief for now.”
Feng swallowed hard. “Well, I was supposed to…”
“The private was just requesting some painkillers as a result of the hypno-debrief,” Zero pitched in, saving Feng’s blushes. “That, and the recent extraction, were causing him discomfort. I was prescribing him something for the pain.”
There was a little frisson between Feng and Zero that I hadn’t noticed before. I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not.
“And you now have your painkillers,” I said, phrasing the words as a statement rather than a question.
Feng gave a quick flick of his eyes to Zero, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I have them.”
“And so there is, I assume, no reason for you to remain in the SOC?”
“That’s right, ma’am. I’ll be going.”
Feng looked remarkably young in that moment. He squirmed under my gaze, and I could barely suppress a smile.
“Get out of here,” I said. “Make sure that you’re ready for disembarkation to Unity Base.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Feng said. He made a fast exit from the SOC, but not before offering a covert smile in Zero’s direction. They were co-conspirators.
As soon as he was out of the door, Zero burst into laughter. A proper belly laugh—an unexpected sound from the young woman.
“Did you have to be so damned officious to Chu?” she said.
“So he’s ‘Chu’ now?” I asked. “And was that flirting I heard on the way in?”
Zero was the closest thing that I had to a friend aboard the ship, among the team, and she and I could talk together unlike any of the others. Our shared record went back years. She had been my handler with my previous Sim Ops squad, and I’d insisted that she transfer to the Jackals when I took over their command.
Zero’s cheeks now burnt. “What do you think of him?”
“I think that he’s a moderately useful member of the Simulant Operations Programme, in the right circumstances,” I said, adopting a mock-formal tone. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
It was pretty obvious what she was getting at but I chose to leave it there. I was hardly one to criticise what Zero and Feng did in their downtime, given the mess I’d gotten into with Riggs. Not even Zero knew about that.
Not that there was much to know right now. I had made the decision to call it off. Riggs didn’t realise that yet. While fraternisation between a commissioned and non-commissioned officer wasn’t exactly forbidden, if Heinrich found out about what we’d been doing, it would be something else that he could use against me. I couldn’t let that happen. I figured that, given enough missed comms, Riggs would eventually get the message.
“Just be careful of Feng,” I said.
“Why?”
I shook my head. Unsure of how to phrase it. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s a former Directorate weapon of war. A clone-trooper who would, if the universe had turned out a little differently, be fighting against us, rather than with us.”
“That’s a pretty narrow view, Jenk.”
“I’m only telling you because I’m worried about you. As a friend, not your CO.”
“I can look after myself,” Zero said, warmly. “After what you went through, I know it’s tough letting go of the past. But this is a changed universe. The Asiatic Directorate is gone.”
“That’s not quite true…” I started. While the Directorate was finished as a significant threat, there were still strongholds of purported support for the former military regime.
“The Directorate is shattered,” Zero said. “And even if it were any kind of threat, Private Feng—Chu—isn’t Directorate. They just happened to make him, is all.”
Imagine the situation: Earth, divided by two superpowers—political blocs grown so vast that they left no room for any other authority. The Alliance: a conglomeration of superstates and power pacts that included the United Americas, the European Confederacy, the Pacific Pact. The Asiatic Directorate: comprised of Unified Korea, the Chino Republic, and almost every other bordering nation. Engaged in a war that lasted decades, that had been through so many cycles of hot and cold that the phrases had lost all meaning. A war which had claimed most of Old Earth in nuclear fire, and eventually spilled out into the cold of space. One side discovered the quantum-drive, and within months the other side had it too. The end result: Old Earth’s animosities were suddenly spread a
cross the galaxy, or at least that portion of it that the human race called home.
All of that changed with the discovery of the Shard Gates. By chance, most of them were located in, or bordered on, Alliance space. Time-dilation became a thing of the past. Almost overnight, the Asiatic Directorate collapsed. The war between us and them ended not with a bomb, but with the Gates.
I was lost in reverie for a moment, and it took Zero’s voice to pull me back.
“He’s a good trooper,” she said.
“I know, but it’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?”
“He’s different to you and me,” I said, explaining what Zero already knew. “Born into that body. He hasn’t had the experience of growing into it.”
Directorate clones had an accelerated rate of growth: a design objective, so that they would be ready to fight more quickly. Once they reached adulthood, as Feng had now, they slowed down and achieved a regular ageing rate. The technique was not without risk. Many liberated Directorate clones had personality defects—were subject to rage, depression, psychosis. Feng hadn’t demonstrated any of those defects yet, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t…
“Don’t you trust him?” Zero asked, bluntly.
I rubbed the back of my neck and thought about it. I had every reason not to, given the history of my former outfit. Hell, I’d been involved in official and unofficial military actions against the Directorate for years. But try as I might, I didn’t see the Directorate in Feng. I’d read Feng’s interrogation file, and I knew more than anyone what he’d been through. He had been “recovered” from a crèche facility—from Delta Crema station—not long after his birthing. He’d never fought for the Directorate, and now that he was Sim Ops he never would. Of course, it still worried me that Feng might not be what he seemed.
I sidestepped the question, and said, “Just remember that Feng has a distinctly different upbringing to yours.”
Zero smiled weakly. “I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing,” she said. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Surely you haven’t come all the way down to Medical just to interfere with my love life, or lack thereof?”
“Same as Feng. My head is splitting.”
“Common side effect of hypno-debrief,” Zero said, knowingly.
“Tell me about it. I’ve been through more than enough of them.”
I flopped into a chair beside Zero. Half-empty coffee cups lined the terminal around her, filling the air with the smell of stale java. Zero’s monitoring station was in the middle of the Jackals’ operating bay: a command throne surrounded by tiers of holo-tabs and viewers, a post from which she could direct the war in relative comfort. She could be the ultimate voyeur in here, safe and sound aboard the Bainbridge.
“What have you been doing?”
Zero rummaged through one of the many drug cabinets around the SOC and produced a packet of meds. Tossed me a strip of ugly-looking tablets that carried numerous addiction and overdose warnings.
“I’ve been reviewing the data from the Daktar operation,” Zero said. “Such as there is.”
Zero was like this after every mission—would often review the available data-feeds, immerse herself in whatever was sent back to her command station. That sort of initiative is the sign of a good handler, sure, but Zero took it to a whole new level.
I popped a couple of tabs from the strip and swallowed them down with a mouthful of cold coffee. My head hurt so badly that the bitter aftertaste was a price I willingly paid.
Zero settled back into her chair. “What’s the feeling on the ship then?”
I snorted a sound that I’d intended to be a laugh. “You’re on it, Zero. You tell me.”
“I’ve been kind of busy since the extraction,” she said. “And I missed the last mess.”
“And the one before that,” I added. “But you saw how everyone reacted when Daktar went down. The vibe is pretty bad, Zero. I’ve petitioned Captain Heinrich for an audience, but he says this is now a matter for High Command.”
“Maybe General Draven will surprise you.”
“If the reaction on this ship is anything to go by, I’m in deep trouble. Place feels awfully lonely all of a sudden: every other Sim Ops team leader is avoiding me.”
“Don’t think that way,” Zero said. “It really wasn’t your fault.”
“We’ve known each other a long time,” I said. “Longer than the others. You don’t have to tow the company line. Not when it’s only us.”
“Then take it from me that I’m not towing the line, Keira. You’re a damned good trooper, operator, and officer.”
“Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like I have front-seat tickets to a shitshow.”
“No one else could’ve gotten into that Tower in time. It’s an achievement that you got into the outpost in the first place.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“You should, Keira. You really should.”
Zero glared at the monitors, at the low-resolution images that looped across her screens. Ordinarily, if a mission went to plan, every scrap of data that the suits collected would be broadcast back to Command for review. That included the video-feeds from our armour. As we’d lost the comms link to the Bainbridge so early in the operation, only fragments of visual had been retained. Had she been sim-operational, Zero could’ve directly tapped into the feeds and relived the experience on Daktar Outpost. Instead, she was reduced to watching the streams manually, living the fight second-hand.
“You still wish things could’ve been different for you?” I asked.
Zero answered without pause, as though the response was automatic. “Every fucking day.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Even on a day like today?”
“Especially on a day like today,” she said. “I grew up wanting to be Sim Ops. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.”
“Not this again.”
Zero chuckled. “Hey, don’t knock my one and only war story.”
“Great,” I said, more bitterly than I’d intended. “I managed to get a trooper to sign up for a branch of military service that she couldn’t even undertake…”
Zero looked down at her bare arms, where the data-ports would ordinarily be located. She still had bright scar tissue there. “That wasn’t your fault either,” she said. “How was anyone to know that I would be a negative?”
“Just bad luck.”
“Just like today,” she countered.
I was never comfortable talking about what had happened to Zero, so I changed the topic: “What happened to the Krell ship, back at Daktar?”
“The bio-ship jumped system,” Zero said, “right after the explosion. Used the Shard Gate. Doesn’t look like the ship took any damage.”
“How were you with being, you know, around the Krell?”
“It was fine,” Zero said, a little too quickly for a genuine reaction.
Even in the low light of the SOC I could see that a sweat had broken on her upper lip. She caught a few errant strands of hair, pulled them back from her face. While it was true that pretty much no one really liked the fish heads—that being in their presence evinced a universal foreign-body reaction that few humans, simulated or otherwise, ever really overcame—Zero and the Krell had proper history.
“It’s okay to hate them,” I said. “For what they did, I mean.”
“Yeah, well, it was a long time ago.”
“But those sort of memories … They’re hard to forget. Even harder in your own skin.”
“Honestly, I’m fine,” Zero said.
That was the other thing about Zoe Campbell. She struggled to lie. She was the same with everyone, but with me the difficulty seemed more pronounced. Another aspect of our shared history. But I knew that Zero would let me know if she needed me, if she wanted to talk. She turned back to her screens. Better not to push it any further.
I stood from the terminal. “Thanks for the drugs and coffee.”
“Anytime.”
“And try to keep away from Feng.”
“I’ll try,” Zero said. “But no promises.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
UNITY BASE
The Bainbridge docked with Unity Base, and we disembarked. As I suspected, there was a security detail waiting for me.
“You’ve got priority orders to report to General Draven’s office,” a burly Military Police officer said.
“Can I get a shower first?”
“Nope.”
A short walk across Unity and here I was: cooped up in Draven’s waiting room, left to stew in my own juices. Great. What a way to end a military career.
Unity Base orbited 986-Udanis, a K-class star on the edge of the Former Quarantine Zone. It was home base for most of the military agencies operating in and around the Maelstrom—a launch pad for the Alliance Navy, the Army, the Marine Corps. A couple of million military types under one roof. Place was so named because it was supposed to be a monument to the lasting peace that had been achieved between the Alliance and the Krell. A place of hope, for a better future.
For me, it had come to represent anything but. It had been here, six months ago, that General Draven had first given me command of the Jackals.
“They’re a rough outfit,” he’d told me, “and they’ll need some polishing, but I know that you’re the trooper for the job.” As I had looked through their personnel files, scattered across his desk, I remember thinking that “polishing” was a very optimistic description for the task at hand. The operators that made up the Jackals were completely green, not a veteran among them, and their training records were far from good.
That initial shock had quickly turned to determination though. Determination to shape the squad into the best they could be. Determination to make them my squad, to make them into a decent fighting unit. Great job you did there. I mulled on that as I sat in the waiting room that adjoined General Draven’s office.
Trying to do anything to get my mind off the inevitable ass kicking I was about to receive, I watched the tri-D viewer set into the table. The rate at which news spread in the Alliance seemed to be exponential: the worse it was, the faster it travelled. What had happened on Daktar was moving faster than light. The programme was Core News Network—Senator Rodrigo Lopez being interviewed by a glossy lipped reporter.