by P. R. Adams
“Were the gunships involved in the communications process?” Rimes tried to focus on the hardware rather than the body it was embedded into.
“I’m pretty sure it was acting as a booster and relay station. Even if we can’t take those ships out, and even if I can’t crack the encryption they’re using, we’ve got options.”
“Such as?”
“EMP.”
Rimes shook his head. “Those ships are going to be heavily shielded. No way—”
“Not against the ships, although I think we could try it as a means to harass the gunships. Those things are tinfoil with an engine and a bunch of weapons. No shielding to speak of, not unless I missed something. Cooper should look one of them over.”
“We’re not lobbing nuclear weapons at a bunch of gunships, Lonny.” Rimes frowned. “We don’t even have any onboard. You know they’re against international laws.”
“I mean over the planet.” Meyers formed a small circle with one hand, then formed a larger circle with his other. “Whatever it is going on in the Sahara dead zone, whatever caused it, it affects the proxies. With me?”
“Sure.”
“They don’t have the same sort of shielding the mother ships do.” Meyers encircled the smaller circle with the larger one. “Hit the upper atmosphere with a reasonable nuclear blast and take everything down for a while, long enough for us to punch through and get on-planet. Maybe it’s enough for us to hit their forces and shut this operation down before it really takes off.”
Rimes looked at the corpse again. Somewhere deep inside, a sense of frustrated rage flared up. He suddenly wanted to punch the dead face, to gouge out the dead eyes. He was facing an enemy intent on harming his family and his way of life, an enemy that had shown a bestial, inhuman nature, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t affect it. He didn’t know how to resolve that. Molly, be strong. We’re coming.
“Jack?”
Rimes stood and smiled weakly. “I’ll see if Coop can rig up some nukes and give the data on those gunships a look.” He hoped he didn’t sound as half-hearted as he thought. Lee “Coop” Cooper was their weapons officer and had a particular skill with the Valdez’s systems, but he wasn’t one to budge on his ethics or morality. Nuclear weapons were universally seen as the weapons of criminals and cowards. “I may need to turn to you and Brozek, even if Coop agrees.”
Meyers gave a noncommittal grunt. “Any word back on getting us home faster?” He sounded skeptical.
Rimes’s body tensed at the realization that his family was in peril, and there was still nearly three weeks left to go on the trip to return home. “Like you said, reasonable progress. We’re running these things as fast as we safely can.”
“They’ll be okay, Jack.”
After a nod and a forced smile, Rimes turned to go. The metacorporations had attacked a UN research facility with the intent to kill, to butcher everyone. They were attacking the colonies. He remembered Khalil’s words. That’s to be ugly work. Slash-and-burn. They hand-selected their entire task force. It sounded personal.
The corridors on the way to the infirmary were empty and cool. Rimes’s steps echoed hollowly, a reminder of just how alone he felt. He stopped outside Commander Wambach’s office in the infirmary. She opened the door only after the second buzz.
“Colonel Rimes.” Wambach’s voice was cool, and her dark eyes were half-closed. Her olive skin was smooth and her features unreadable. She rubbed the side of her wide nose and stepped out of the doorway. “I thought it might be you.”
“Did I come at a bad time?” Rimes stood in the doorway, unsure how to proceed.
Wambach slouched in her chair more than normal, making her seem more heavy and tired than usual. “It’s always a bad time, isn’t it? Patching up soldiers injured during your crazy training exercises, trying to save some shattered thing that used to be a pirate…”
Rimes turned toward the infirmary. Only Brozek’s bed was visible.
“Come in, Colonel.” Wambach pointed to the chair across from her desk. “We need to talk, quite obviously.”
“We do.” Rimes settled into the chair. “I think you should start.”
“Maybe I should.” Wambach pursed her lips. “I remember when you approached me to take on this job. Do you?”
“Yes. Everything I heard about you indicated you were the perfect fit: not hung up on military protocol, the best surgeon available, unafraid of speaking your mind.”
Wambach nodded at each of his points. “And your testimony about the genies to the Special Security Council, the refusal to dehumanize an enemy and—more importantly—the refusal to go along with proposals to hunt them down. That’s what made me accept your offer. Yet here we are, people muttering about you killing a prisoner of war.”
“I think it’s far too early to talk about this—”
Wambach jerked forward in her seat. “Jack, you asked me to show you how to drain the blood from a human body. A human body!”
“It’s built the same as a human body, so we assumed—”
“Assumed. Assumed!” Wambach banged her elbows against her desktop and cradled her head in her hands. Chubby little fingers ran through frizzy, black hair. “We’ve got to accept the reality that you might be facing a court-martial for this.”
Rimes rubbed at the scar on his temple. “We’re in a struggle with mercenaries and metacorporate security forces, Hope. As far as I can tell, they’re attacking the colonies. Maybe they’re attacking Earth. My job is to eliminate threats like this. I have a lot of leeway in how I do that.”
Wambach settled back in her seat. “You can’t dehumanize these people. You can’t become like your bosses and the politicians.”
“Yes, I can. And if you saw what they did down there, maybe you’d understand that.”
Wambach stared at him, then let out a long sigh. “You’re the one who’s going to have to find peace with yourself.”
“I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’m curious what you think of these proxies. Did you get a look at the bodies we brought up?”
“I did.”
Rimes leaned his right arm against the chair’s rest before curling his right hand into a fist and to settle his jaw against. “And?”
“And I think you’d have a hard time convincing a jury those weren’t humans.”
“In your opinion, are they synthetics? Were they built to be used as proxies by human operators?”
Wambach glanced down at the images of her family that were embedded in her desk’s display top. Rimes knew the images well. They often shared stories about how tough it was being military and leaving a wife behind to bring up kids. “In my expert opinion, yes, they were synthetic bodies used to house the awareness of human operators.” She looked back up at Rimes. “And in my philosophical viewpoint that makes them human.”
“Philosophy’s a tricky thing.”
“What’s happening to you, Jack? You’ve always been a bundle of contradictions, but you always had a streak of decency and integrity. I never thought there was any chance you’d become a cold-blooded murderer.”
“They killed civilians. They’re attacking our home right now. Would you feel the same if they hurt one of your children? Your wife?”
Wambach glared at Rimes, and her face seemed to grow darker. “That sort of speculation isn’t productive.”
Rimes stood. “I’d like to chat with Mr. Brozek, if that would be okay.”
Wambach waved toward the door. “He’s awake.”
Rimes marched out, stopping at the doorway and turning back. “Thank you, Hope.”
Wambach said nothing.
The air outside Wambach’s office seemed cooler, almost cold, and the darkness of the patient bay felt welcoming. As Rimes walked into the gloom, he breathed in the smell of disinfectant. He’d been in Brozek’s place before.
Brozek turned toward Rimes as he approached, gray eyes and skin paler than the bedding. Brozek’s delicate, slender fingers shook nervously, and his long
, narrow face broke into a weak smile as he waved Rimes closer.
“How’re you doing, Dariusz?”
“I am…” Brozek swallowed, wincing. “Improving. Better than roommate.” Brozek looked across at the shadow-covered shape of Honig’s brain-dead operator. Tears suddenly welled up in Brozek’s eyes, and he shook. He wiped at the tears. “I am sorry. The killing. I cannot…”
Rimes took Brozek’s hand. “I understand. What happened, it’s hard to believe.”
“We were research, nothing more. Scientists.”
“We’re trying to put things together. It’s a puzzle without many pieces right now.” Rimes sighed. “Even their technology. They’ve done some things we’ve never seen.”
“In the universe, there is nothing mysterious.” The pain faded from Brozek’s eyes for a moment, replaced by an unhealthy intensity. “For what they did, they should die.”
“They—” Rimes stopped himself. He couldn’t reasonably try to dissuade Brozek, not after what had happened to the researchers on Sahara. “You may be able to help us against them.” Rimes didn’t feel the least bit of shame at the prospect of exploiting a civilian’s desire for revenge.
“Anything, Colonel. I shoot gun. I fly ship. I build you weapon. Anything.”
“I may take you up on that. Get some rest for now.”
Rimes exited the infirmary, the body on life support fresh in his mind. Thirty-one killed in cold blood. Scientists, non-combatants, all butchered. The acts hinted at by the ruined bodies shook him with an impotent rage. He traveled the ship’s dark corridors in silence, his thoughts as black as the void of space.
10
2 December, 2173. CFN Valdez.
* * *
Rimes wiped sweat from his brow, then froze the security video Sergeant Lazovic’s team had recovered from the Sahara research station shelter. On the display, the research facility’s security personnel were deployed behind tables, surrounded by carryalls and supply sacks. The shelter interior was optimized for defense, and they seemed ready to fight against the attacking force. Dr. Vance and the other scientists were pushed all the way to the rear, hidden beneath clothing and food bags, the most expendable scientists and technicians lying in front of the most valuable. Gleason was positioned behind a support beam that split the room at the midway point, gun pointed at the lone entry. Her hand was surprisingly steady, given what she knew.
Rimes shifted uncomfortably in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, frustrated. In the dark and quiet of his cabin, the video seemed to show the present instead of the past, as if he were glimpsing something happening right then, right there. The research team’s desperate whispers, their hopeless plight—it made every second of the playback agony. Worse, he couldn’t drive away the thought of Molly, Jared, and Calvin being hidden among the scientists.
Could they do that…to children? They’ve already shown they can slaughter women callously.
Sighing, Rimes resumed the playback. He clenched his teeth as the scene repeated. Shaped charges blew the doors open, shattering the locks with ridiculous ease.
A demolitions expert.
Smoke was still rolling out from the door when grenades skidded into the room.
Concussion. They wanted them alive. Initially.
Concussive waves rippled through the smoke. A heartbeat. Another, and then the first mercenaries were through the door.
Humans. Even though the proxies were replaceable, they sent the humans in first.
Two of the security team recovered enough to fire.
Close range. Even with their armor that could have been lethal, but they sent humans through anyway. Like they didn’t care about their own people.
Three mercenaries collapsed beneath the gunfire, then it was over. The mercenaries closed. They wrestled weapons from the security force and held them at gunpoint.
Once more, Rimes froze the video. He examined the mercenary force’s tactics and discipline—dispersal, target prioritization, force application. The mercenaries were competent enough to be effective against a security force, but they weren’t elite.
Smaller militaries, possibly. Junior units. Castoffs.
None displayed the sort of capabilities that concerned him in a reasonable engagement. They could overcome a small security team with pistols. They could succeed, thanks to sheer numbers.
How many could they bring against Plymouth? What weapons would they use?
A quick rewind. Another playback of the breach, and Rimes settled in for the worst of it. His stomach turned as Gleason was restrained and pulled to the front of the security team.
Cuffed in front. That had to alarm her. Yes, she’s confused.
A small team of mercenaries, guns waving threateningly, moved to the back to retrieve the terrified scientists.
Compensating, bullying. Young, undisciplined, angry. Rimes’s focus returned to Gleason. The first. They knew who she was.
One of the proxies—mid-thirties, Arab, possibly North African, powerfully built—stood in front of Gleason. A cold, threatening smile and a multi-tool. He held it high for everyone to see, opening it up into a pair of dykes. Gleason’s eyes bulged.
It’s torture already. Without making the first cut, they've got everyone’s attention.
Gleason struggled, but she was held by two mercenaries, one leering, the other every bit as terrified as Gleason.
Not all inhuman.
The Arab grabbed Gleason’s clenched right fist, forced it open, worked a shaking index finger away from the others. Snot and spittle flew from Gleason’s flared nostrils and quivering mouth as she strained futilely. Her face was bright red. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The Arab taunted her, then snapped the finger back, dislocating it, leaving it to dangle hideously for a moment.
Gleason howled, and the Arab laughed. He looked at the rest, eyes closing to slits. He turned back to Gleason and grabbed the dislocated finger, twisting it until the bones were visible just beneath the skin. Gleason screamed soundlessly. And then the cutting began. The horrifying scene ended with Gleason bleeding out on the floor, her guts spilling out a wicked gash she futilely tried to close with fingerless hands.
Rimes watched the butchery again, his eyes wide at the cruelty he witnessed. It wasn’t just the security team slaughtered as a lesson to anyone who might think of resisting the mercenaries. The second person the Arab turned his attention to was a tiny, frail, middle-aged female technician incapable of threatening anyone.
Rimes froze the playback and pulled up the woman’s dossier. He reviewed it again, flipping from dossier to frozen image, struggling to comprehend what he saw. There was absolutely nothing meaningful in her file.
Marie Demol, fifty-four, Belgian, recently divorced, unremarkable but competent with similarly unremarkable educational credentials. Rimes bit his bottom lip and looked at the woman’s frozen image. Neither pretty nor homely, no political affiliation, no leadership positions, no history of significance at all.
Why her? Why the entire research team? Why?
Two mercenaries hauled Demol to the front. She stared at Gleason’s corpse in horror, transfixed, lips quivering, eyes fluttering, head slowly shaking. The mercenaries held her as once again the Arab stepped forward, this time holding high the gory knife he’d used to gut Gleason.
Demol, mother of two daughters, breast cancer survivor, pleaded for a moment. She lost control of her bladder, generating laughter among many of the mercenaries, human and proxy alike. Then, the Arab stuck the knife in her just above her crotch and slowly pulled it upward, all the while smiling into Demol’s ghost-white face as it worked in agonized disbelief.
Rimes froze the playback for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching. He looked into Demol’s face and saw Molly. He blinked and then stared at Demol’s eyes. He could see the image clearly now. His confusion was reflected in her eyes.
I’m just a technician. Why me? What have I ever done to deserve this?
Finally, as her intestines spilled out the
vicious wound, she screamed. It was a long, lingering scream that slowly built from a whisper to a painful, piercing cry before tapering off to a whisper again. The scream acknowledged her end and the futility of life and its struggles.
It’s the proxies that are engaged in the worst of the savagery, but some of the mercenaries are enjoying it. No excuses, no telling myself it’s the result of being in a proxy body. How many thousands of years have we proclaimed ourselves superior, dreamt we’ve somehow risen above the beast, and we’ve not? They’re animals. Animals.
Shaking with disgust and fear, Rimes forced himself through the final butchery. More torture, more disemboweling. Laughing, the mercenaries gunned down the last of the research team and exited the shelter.
A few of the humans lingered, watching the dying, taking in the devastation. They gathered their own fallen. Rimes could see tears in the eyes of two of the men. One of the crying mercenaries finished off a dying scientist with a mercy shot to the forehead before stumbling out trailing a spray of vomit.
Some shred of humanity exists among them. Existed. Gone now. Gone. Irretrievable.
Staring at the frozen final frame, Rimes thought back to Sahara.
It’s not madness brought on by the dead zone; it’s a release of the darker self normally held in check. We’re pack animals, and when one of us releases this dark self, the weaker ones follow.
He thought back to Meyers examining the Nordic commander’s butchered body. It was just another piece of equipment. A human in form only. An experiment.
How close are we to that edge already? It was just “equipment,” but would it have mattered?
Grunting quietly, Rimes brought up the battle analyses, flipping between the planet-side and orbital recordings. After a moment he settled on the orbital battle. He watched on split screen, with the computer’s digitized playback on top and the recorded footage playing on the bottom. Brigston’s analysis audio played into Rimes’s right ear; the computer’s analysis played into his left.