by Jeff Stanley
Natural, considering. In a weird way, this Simon was his son, too. If stolen cells altered and combined with some other, anonymous, donor could be called a son.
“Some. A little. Some days are worse than others.” The admission obviously pained Simon, though he could hardly do anything else. Programmed for truth, they were unable to deceive, either by intent or omission. A lesson learned in the early days.
“And today?”
Simon raised his head and smiled, and another part of Santiago died. So like Simon. So like his son. Dead. Dead, dead, dead. “Today is worse than most.”
“See medical. Get them to give you something. My authorization.”
Simon nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Thank you. Is there anything else you need?”
“No. Go on, Simon. See the doctors. Get something. Then rest. I’ll retire soon, myself.”
“Should I send your nurse then, sir?” Solicitous.
“Yes. But have her prepare my room first, if you don’t mind.”
“As you will, sir,” Simon said, withdrawing. The door slid closed, creaking on its age-worn tracks, leaving Santiago alone with his thoughts.
He stared at the closed door. He could hear Simon gathering his things to leave the reception area. The man was so precise, so economical in his movements. Physical perfection. Or at least he would have been, should have been. If not for the contagion.
Santiago pushed back from his desk, the wheels of his sled sliding with a whisper across the smooth, polished tiles. He stared down at his legs, rendered useless by the last stroke and now shriveled. He could picture his legs beneath the thin fabric of his uniform, like sticks painted with age-spotted, wrinkled skin.
As he heard the sound of his nurse entering his office suite he picked up the datapad from his desk and wheeled himself toward the door. It opened before he had crossed the office, and Diane stepped around behind him, taking the handles of his sled.
“Your room is ready, Captain. Should I have your favorite dinner sent up?” Diane’s voice was low and soothing, soft.
He turned his head and looked up at her. Beautiful, with her dark hair pulled back and gathered by a copper clasp and her eyes wide, bright, and clear, Diane smiled down at him. “Oh, are the processors working again? Yes. A nice filet mignon would be nice. Overstuffed baked potato, too.”
“Pureed, or would you like to try to suck it whole through the straw?” She kept a straight face, wheeling him through the reception area and into the wide, white corridor toward his quarters. “Tell you what, I’ll get them to use an extra flavor cube for you.”
“You’re too kind,” he said with a sigh.
“The least I can do for our fearless leader.”
He chuckled. “Fearless leader? Diane, if I were twenty years younger . . .”
“You’d still be old enough to be my grandfather.”
“Fifty, then. Fifty years younger.”
“Seriously, how are you feeling, Captain? You didn’t overdo it today, did you?” She laid a soft, warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
He reached up and patted her hand. “I’m not dead yet, Diane. There’s a lot of life left in these old bones.”
There has to be. There has to be.
Later, having dined on a thick landskin soup—sucked through a straw, no less—Santiago sat in bed reviewing the day’s reports. Simon’s latest findings lay in his lap, the screen glowing blue in the darkness of his austere quarters.
More than usual, he found it difficult to concentrate. His mind wandered, drifting over the accumulated flotsam of his ninety-plus years. Without doubt, the past twenty years on the surface of this alien world occupied the lion’s share of his memories. But there were other times, other memories. Before. Though the turmoil of this harsh existence pressed on him daily, nothing could rob him of his earlier, better memories. In retrospect, all his achievements in Service, his rapid advancement, his first command, his distinguishments, the accolades that had rained down on him like a spring shower—they meant nothing. When he was gone, they would be forgotten. Doubtless they already had been forgotten in Hegemony space, save perhaps in the annals of the military.
Here, planetside, it would be no different.
No. That was untrue. It would be horribly, tragically different. He would still be forgotten, would fade from the memories of whatever pitiful remnant of humanity survived on this disgusting world. But his legacy would remain, if any survived. A legacy of pain and failure, genocide and enslavement. His was the hand that had wrought this perversion of humanity, had given the orders that set the techs on their campaign of recombinant DNA and cloning, downloading and alteration, orientation and indoctrination. Generations of Hatchlings had been born, grown, educated, and put to work under his direction. And they had died, by his orders. Been killed, to be more precise. Again, at his orders.
What could he have done differently?
Let them—us—die with dignity. All of us. To the last man.
For the millionth time the thought flickered through his consciousness, a nagging certainty that yearned to be born.
On his death, it would all fall apart. He knew it, knew it in his heart, his soul. All of this, this travesty of human existence, would come tumbling down. It would vanish beneath the oppressive weight of the landskin, as the eerie stuff grew to reclaim its own.
And what of humanity? Sooner or later the Hatchlings would rise and throw off the oppression of the Founders. They would revolt. And poisoned by the contagion, who knew what would arise if they were left unchecked, allowed to breed?
“Rodriguez,” Santiago whispered. He wondered what had happened to the rebel. They had given up searching for him and his followers long, long ago, when Mac died, dissolved down to his boots by the caustic agents vomited up by the drakes. In all these years, two decades, Rodriguez had been silent. Dead, most likely, a victim of his own delusions.
“You’re getting old, ancient, Rafael,” he told himself. “Old. I feel it.”
He leaned back, tossing the datapad to the night table and crossing his arms beneath his head. The ceiling gave no answers, only conjured up the other memories, the better ones. He forced the tragedy of his mistakes down where they could continue to fester, eating at his soul.
“Simon,” he said, picturing his son in the discolorations on the ceiling. He remembered the downy soft hair, the way it fell into his eyes as the boy ran through the green, green grass of the parklands. The sounds of his child’s laugher echoed in Santiago’s quarters, summoned from a deep reservoir of pain and pride. Santiago could still feel Simon, feel his butter-soft skin, as the boy tumbled into his arms. The mingled scents of grass and wind, little-boy sweat, and the shampoo Diane used to wash his hair rose in a tantalizing, poignant cloud.
How often had he held the boy? How often had he spared the time from his call to duty to hold him, comfort him, tell him how proud he was to have such a fine, fine boy for his son? Not often enough. Never often enough.
Simon should have been the legacy he left behind, his own personal immortality. Such a good, bright boy. So strong. So rambunctious.
Dead. Forty years and more before Santiago had signed on for this foolish, doomed mission. Killed, with Diane, his mother, in a stupid, tragic accident. Killed, while Santiago journeyed between the stars.
Tears dripped down Santiago’s cheeks, spilling onto his pillow.
“How long?” Santiago hung his head, the words reverberating in his mind like Klaxons.
“Six months, perhaps. With diligent care.” The med-tech laced his fingers together and leaned close. Programmed for a sympathetic bedside manner, the tech laid a smooth, young hand on Santiago’s shoulder. “Strict bedrest. No stress.”
“There’s nothing that can be done? No drugs? No surgery?”
The tech shook his head. “I’m sorry. Your body could not handle the strain of even the most minor surgery, and the drugs have lost their efficacy. There’s nothing else.”
Santiago
nodded. “I understand. Thank you. Will you call my nurse, please? And . . . give me a moment, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” the tech said, rising smoothly, easily, on long, young legs. He left the room, left Santiago alone with the news of his coming demise. No. Too clinical a word. Death. Left Santiago alone with his coming death.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He wondered . . .
“Oh, hell,” he said, spinning his sled about and wheeling toward the door. It slid open, and Diane was there. Diane, with her too-sympathetic expression and her beautiful eyes. Eyes like his Diane’s. He could not face those eyes, not now.
“Call Singh. Have him meet me in my office.”
“Office? But the doctor said . . .”
“I don’t care what the doctor said. Have Singh meet me in my office. Tell him I don’t want to wait on his leisure. Whatever he’s doing, tell him to drop it, and attend me.”
She hesitated. “Y-yes, sir.” She reached for the handles on the back of his sled.
“Leave off of that! Fetch Singh. Now!”
She blanched, retreating a step, then another. A hurt expression crossed her face. “Yes, sir.”
He left the med-wing under his own power, wheeling through a waiting room packed with degenerating Hatchlings, feeling their eyes on him. A certainty of the dark thoughts behind their eyes came to him, the undoubted knowledge that they relished this, had waited for it. Their time would come, soon.
“Not yet, damn you,” he shouted, sending his sled rolling into the hall. “Not fucking yet.”
“What you are speaking of is highly irregular. I am not certain such a thing is possible.” Singh’s normally neutral expression had vanished in the wake of Santiago’s announcement. His eyes widened. His mouth turned down into a deep grimace.
“Nonsense,” Santiago barked. “We’ve done it—or something so damned close to it as to be indistinguishable—a hundred thousand times. Why not? Surely you see that there is no clear alternative.”
“I am unsure. This . . . this is very irregular, Captain. Theoretically possible, yes. But wise? There can be no guarantee.”
“Again, I can see no alternative.” He reached out and took one of Singh’s hands between his. “Let me pose you a question, Singh. What will happen if I die? Now. With things the way they are? With the Hatchlings outnumbering us twelve to one. How long will they be content to be bred like chattel, to be stuffed with personalities and egos not their own? How long before they rebel and slaughter all of you?”
Singh pulled away, shook his head. “I . . .” He sighed. “Not long. From what I have been able to observe of their collective psyche, there is a deep-rooted, instinctual urge to truly live, unfettered.”
“Live. In what form, what fashion, Singh? Each generation of Hatchlings we breed quickens sooner, alters sooner. Changes sooner. And the mutations grow more profound as year sweeps into year. What will the shape of mankind be in a dozen years? Fifty? A hundred? Would we even recognize ourselves? Especially without the stabilizing effect of the Founders around to keep at least one strain pure. Chaos.”
Singh continued to shake his head. “But what you are proposing. This . . . this is so . . . so irrevocable. So profound.”
“Do you think I like the idea, Singh? Do you think I relish the idea of immortality melded into a machine, bonded into a computer system, rendered little more than an active download? Is this how you think I envisioned my existence as a boy, staring up at the sky, the stars?”
“No. No. Of course not.” He turned his back, watching through the window in the door as Simon went about his duties. A tumor had appeared on the young Hatchling’s forehead in the last weeks, a tumor filled with bone that swelled his head to twice its normal size. Singh shivered.
“Yes. I see you’ve realized what I realized long ago. I can’t download into a Hatchling. The damage could well extend into my own psyche.” He spread his hands. “There is no choice.”
Singh sighed. “I shall investigate the possibilities. There are a few techs who remain loyal to us who, perhaps, could accomplish this deed. And deep within the bowels of the Enclave there are systems that remain undamaged. The computer core could easily house a . . . a ghost.”
Santiago smiled. “A ghost? There’s a certain irony in that, isn’t there.”
“Indeed.” The psych officer shook his head again. “I shall see what I can do.”
“Make it quick, Singh. There is not much time. Not much time at all.”
Chapter 32
“You!” The howling wind of the ool’s passage ripped the word from Rian’s throat and cast it out, raw and feeble. Rian jerked back from the stranger. His right hand curled around the haft of his makeshift spear.
The stranger smiled. He seized Rian’s throat and dragged him from the root-lined bower, out into the storm of noise and debris. He ignored the pummeling hail of torn earth and the rattle of stones that pelted his smooth skin. Strong fingers dug into Rian’s flesh, choking, constricting.
Rian threw himself on the stranger. The man fell back, stumbling over a tangle of snapped roots. The stranger’s confident smile evaporated as Rian’s fist crashed into the side of his face. Rian felt the satisfying crunch of breaking bone. Blood spurted. The stranger lost his grip on Rian; his head rocked back. Grasping the stranger’s arm, Rian twisted. The stranger went to his knees. Rian slammed his knee into the stranger’s chin. Whirling the spear about, he thrust for the stranger’s chest.
A hand whipped in from Rian’s right, slapping aside the spear. Its sharpened end tore through the stranger’s hand and ripped an oozing hole in the landskin beneath. The stranger cried out and clutched the spear with his other hand. Rian threw himself back as another figure flew at him, snarling. He clung to the spear, and the stranger screamed as the wood tore through his flesh. Rian raised his middle arm, blocking a descending blow. The impact numbed his arm.
A woman, as perfectly formed as the stranger, leaped at him. Her fist smashed into the side of his head, a jarring blow that dropped him to his knees. His vision clouded and he fell back on his haunches. Another blow crashed into the bridge of his nose, snapping back his head. He fell, cracking his head on a tight knot of roots. In his hand, the shaft of his spear shattered. A heavy weight landed on his chest. His middle arm shot up, his hand seeking, finding soft flesh and digging at it. Blinking his eyes to clear the pain-haze, Rian blocked another hail of blows, feeling each impact like a knife thrust in his arms. His hand wrapped around a soft throat. The woman growled, her teeth bared, long streamers of drool dangling from her peeled-back lips.
Rian heaved, thrust his greater weight against her pinning legs. She toppled, and he slammed his left elbow into her chin, rocking her head back. She grunted. Twisting around, Rian palmed her face and slammed her head into the roots of the tree. He whipped the broken haft of the spear around, stabbing it into her midsection. She screamed as a great gout of blood spurted up from the wound. Rian jerked upward on the spear, ripping flesh.
“No!” Rian heard. He turned his head, flinching at the just-seen shape careening toward his face. The fist grazed his chin. Slick with the woman’s blood, Rian’s spear shard slipped from his hand. He tumbled away from the woman, who lay groaning, curled into a tight ball. The stranger howled in rage and flung himself on Rian.
Rian raised his knee, crashing it into the stranger’s crotch. The stranger hunched over, and Rian grabbed the side of his head with his right and left hands, pounding his middle fist into the stranger’s face. And again. Blood sprayed, painting Rian’s arm to the elbow.
The stranger’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. His hands seized Rian’s throat, squeezing. Rian pounded him, fists smashing into the stranger. His middle hand clawed at the vicelike grip on his throat. He fought for leverage, twisted his body, rolling over on top of the stranger. He slid his middle hand up, gouging his thumb into one of the stranger’s eyes. Blood squirted, gushing out of ruptured flesh. An eyeball popped beneath his thumbnail, squirting l
iquid like a miniature geyser.
Do not resist. It is all according to plan. Rian ignored the insistent voice in his head.
A tremendous blow on the back of his head knocked him away. A knotted, powerful arm encircled his throat, jerking him away from the stranger’s grip. Rian tried to twist, striking behind him with his fists, pounding into soft flesh that sheathed an inner core of hard, banded muscle. As the stranger staggered to his feet, hand clasped to his bleeding face, the woman dragged Rian back, keeping him from gaining his feet.
She tripped over an upthrust root, spilling them both to the landskin. Tendrils slashed out of the heaving flesh, twining about Rian’s calves, constricting, holding him. He kicked out, but the tentacles tightened, winding like fat serpents around his knees, his thighs. Others spun out, wrapping around his right forearm. The woman jerked up on Rian’s head. His spine, wrenched, crackled in protest. Sharp needles of pain wracked him.
The stranger, blood streaking his face and mottling his shoulders, lurched toward them. He kicked out, slamming his heel into Rian’s stomach. Though Rian tensed, he felt the blow in his back. He gagged, squeezing his eyes shut. The woman kept the inexorable pressure on his throat. Waves of blackness closed in, a wash of numbness that threatened to steal his consciousness.
“Ease up. Do not kill him,” the stranger said. “But keep him still.”
Rian forced open his eyes, squinting up at the looming face of the stranger. One mangled, distended eyeball hung down on the stranger’s cheek, slowly leaking yellowish fluid. The other was swollen, crimson with the stain of a thousand burst blood vessels. He flexed his injured hand, sending sprinkles of blood dripping to the landskin.
The landskin flowed over Rian like a tight blanket, molding to the contours of his body.
Don’t resist. Don’t struggle. Be still, and wait. I am with you. It is all according to plan. Rian ignored the strange, alien voice in his head, fighting with all of his strength against the constricting bonds of landskin.