“I’m late, I’m late, for a most important date,” Teape sang softly, his low voice broadcasting clearly through the small cockpit; speak of the devil! Lara smiled vaguely but could hear the strain in his voice, the carefully checked fear. Behind her, Pop laughed.
Lara glanced up at a one-way monitor and quickly looked back at her computer screen; Teape and Jess were tightening their armor already, but Pulaski was still padding around in his jock, simultaneously chewing on a Mars bar and unselfconsciously scratching one huge and tightly muscled buttock. The Candyman was a testosterone-dork, almost a giant even without the obvious years of bodybuilding and steroids. Big-time macho right down to the buzzed white mohawk and a tattoo of a snake on his arm. Not someone she particularly wanted to watch scratching his butt; let Pop keep an eye on things for a while.
“You wanna light a fire down there, Pulaski?” Pop had apparently been doing just that. Lara glanced over her shoulder; he was already focused back on the controls, piloting easily toward Traon.
“Light this,” said Pulaski, and laughed loudly. Lara didn’t bother to look up this time; she could guess what he was holding besides the perpetual candy bar.
A list of stats and a form-letter acknowledgment scrolled up in front of her as Deep 4 picked up its channel of choice; she punched in the return formalities and logged a few numbers, trying to tune out some of the tense laughter that pulsed over the intercom as the boys got themselves geared. This was her seventh run on the Nemesis with Pop, their fifth with this particular threesome—well, except for Teape’s predecessor, Mannings; that weasely little creep had finally burned out four missions back. None of the volunteers were in for sex crimes, Company precautions and morale and all that—but she’d suspected that Mannings had slipped through anyway. The way he’d watched her every time she moved—Lara shuddered slightly. Even now, she couldn’t muster any pity for him, although he’d psyched out hard, maybe one mission away from a full psychotic break…
A solemn male voice interrupted her thoughts. “…this is Traon Weyland/Yutani Deep 4, hailing Nemesis, over.”
Lara tapped her mike. “Traon, Deep 4, you got Hunter/Killer Nemesis on an inward bounder, requesting landing coordinates. We are at”—she glanced down at her monitor—“101-37, headed 100-26. Over.”
A string of numbers flitted across the screen, and when the communications tech spoke again, she could hear exhaustion and relief in his voice.
“Can’t tell you how glad we are to see a Berserker team, Nemesis. Coordinates sent and LZ is clear. Supervisor Sturges will come across, over.”
“Received, over and out.” Lara punched a few more buttons and then stretched her arms back, duties performed for the moment. Jess and Pulaski were laughing over something, and she warily looked up at the locker vid; Pulaski had pants on, at least. They were a pretty good group, all in all, a cut above what she’d come to expect. Martin Jess was straddling one end of the locker-room bench, grinning easily. Tall, brown-skinned with a winning laugh and some military experience, he was a solid ground leader—one of those calm-in-crisis types who excelled in keeping up team spirit. Although not particularly well educated, he was sharp and alert in his work, high intelligence marks from his parole distributor.
Jess looked up at the cam, still grinning. “Hey, Pop, you hear that? Teape wants to know how come they can’t train a dog to do his job—”
Pulaski cut in, “—and he tole him ’cause they can’t find a dog dumb enough to volunteer!”
Teape smiled tightly, his thin, pale face outlined by a dark scruff of beard. The cuff of his right ear was pierced with thick steel hoops, his spiky hair pushed back over shaved sides. Teape was the youngest member of the team.
“Yeah, you’re a real funny guy, Jess. I’ll lie awake nights and laugh about that one. My life has meaning now.” Lara could tell that he was sweating in spite of the cool temperature in the locker room.
Pulaski was finally struggling into his armor, the legend eat me scrawled across one massive shoulder guard. “Well, I ain’t dumb, an’ I volunteered.”
Teape and Jess exchanged a smirking glance and Teape sighed. “Borderline psychotics don’t count, Candyman, since their intelligence isn’t called into play over decisions like H/K sign-up; it’d be reflexive.”
Jess cracked up, Teape played it straight, as usual. He was probably the wittiest of the three, which was good; Lara had theorized that the baiters with decent senses of humor did better than those without. Hell, look at Mannings; hysterics, shakes, the whole read of symptoms—and his taste had run toward frighteningly malicious “pussy” jokes. Teape held it together pretty well, all things considered.
“I don’t remember no mention of the word ‘borderline,’” Pulaski said, then laughed bawdily. He picked up an M41 and pumped the action on the grenade launcher, the well-oiled metal snapping sharply.
Pop spoke up behind her, sounding amused. “That’s what I like, a happy crew! I’m going to miss you little rays of sunshine when I’m gone.”
Pop couldn’t see her expression; Lara smiled slightly. She couldn’t speak for the team, but she didn’t expect to miss Eric “Pop” Izzard very much at all. In spite of whatever he thought…
“And speaking of, how’s Max, Ellis?”
Lara tuned back in. Max was fine or they’d have heard about it, but she wondered how their newest addition was holding up. Ellis seemed like a nice kid, shy, straggling with some of the same career choices as her. They’d talked a few times over coffee about assignments and she’d filled him in on a few tidbits of H/K etiquette while they swapped info on Max; he was as interested in the SOP as she was the robotics.
Ellis’s soft, clear voice filled the cool room. “Still in deep sedation, sir. Respiratory and cardio rate even, no REMs— you want me to run a full systems check, Commander?”
Lara winced slightly, and Pop’s icily bland reply spoke volumes.
“That would be helpful, son. We may be needing him soon.”
He ’commed off sharply and scoffed. “Twenty-six missions and they saddle me with Ellis. What does the guy do all day?”
Lara shrugged but didn’t turn around. “He’s green, but he’s got the training. Give him a chance.”
Pop laughed softly, and she could tell that he was shaking his head gently. As if to say, “Yeah, whatever, babe.” He raised his voice suddenly, his standard go-get-’em tone at full volume as he addressed the team.
“We’re there in five! Belt up, boot up, and get ready to roll, people!”
God, he was starting to annoy her. Sleeping with him had been a serious mistake.
2
Brian Ellis listened to the ’com snap off and sighed, setting aside the electronic/hydraulic-interface manual that Katherine had lent him. He’d been waiting for the command from Pop to run systems, as he’d been trained. It had become painfully obvious in the three weeks since his assignment to Nemesis that the commander had his own way of doing things.
Ellis typed in the codes and then sat back, taking off his glasses to polish them with one overlong coat cuff. The check only took a few minutes, and everything else was ready; it wasn’t as if he were some kind of slacker, as Izzard seemed to think. What else was there to do? He was anxiously excited about the prospect of running Max outside a simulator, but it would also be his first actual activity since they’d left dock.
The Company recruiting brochures had promised mental stimulation and real-time training on the cutting edge of robotics and synthetic repair. Appealing, bright holoshots of eager young techs like himself, actively working in full labs and glowing with the joy of a job well done, enjoying the camaraderie of their shipmates as they made a real difference. There had been a big push at the university for synth techs with a heavy background in chemistry, corporate cards in every senior hand, and he’d been enticed by the chance to work with Max. That had been six months ago, before the Company program and before this assignment.
The reality was that the Nemesis wa
s cold all of the time, the food was reconstituted and chalky, and the workplace was the size of a walk-in closet—where his primary duties to date had been monitoring endless stats for minor changes. Not to mention a macho commander who seemed to think that techs existed to be crapped upon and three cons who hadn’t particularly bothered to notice him yet.
There was Katherine Lara, but he sometimes got the feeling that she was simply trying to be nice to the new boy. Although she seemed interested in the robotics work, she didn’t seem interested in him, as a person.
Story of my life, yes? He’d never been very good with people anyway; machines were much more… understandable. Still, the brochure camaraderie had been appealing; perhaps when he felt more comfortable with his job, he’d attempt to strike up a dialogue with some of the team. His work was essential to their survival, after all. And Pop would be leaving soon, which would almost certainly help matters along; he could endure the commander for three more runs, couldn’t he?
Ellis put his glasses back on and watched the systems check run. The lab only had one chair, surrounded by screens and buttons and a ceiling low enough to reach up and touch while standing. Thick bundles of electrical cords snaked through the wall directly to his left, where Max could be seen through a shielded window, smudgy with plasticine dust. Max looked exactly as he’d looked the last thousand times Ellis had glanced over: inert, inactive, expensive. Dead tons of metal and weaponry hooked up to over a dozen tubes, a machine with no power source in a cold blank room.
Of course, all of that would change soon. The power source was there, only waiting for the touch of a button to spark into action. Waiting for his touch.
Maybe this would be worth it after all, in spite of the long wait and the numerous drawbacks; he had to admit, it was rather exciting now that the moment was close at hand. This was the kind of work he’d always been fascinated by—the machine as a physical power, led by the whims of man for the greater good of all. Perhaps a naive and idealistic view of his career choice, but one that still drew him as nothing else could.
The monitor in front of him bleated softly to let him know that the check was over, no deviation from textbook standards, no irregularities except for a lysine flutter that this Max had always had; every Max had its own idiosyncrasies. The training model had been diabetic…
Pop’s voice suddenly blared loudly over the shipwide, causing him to jump in his seat. Silent treatment over, so it seemed. Five minutes until atmospheric break.
Ellis took a last look at Max’s condition and then belted in, wondering if it would be everything he hoped. This was what he’d worked toward, for the few critical moments when his skills would be called upon to save human lives; would he perform as well in true crisis as he had been trained? Lieutenant Lara was the fail-safe, would take over if he stumbled—but his twenty-run contract would be terminated and he’d end up in a small subcorporate lab somewhere, running repairs or studying tissue deterioration. The rest of his life would be mapped out, a safe and tidy existence that would never know the thrill of actually living.
Pop interrupted him. “All right, boys, get settled. Here’s the count: three… two… one… mark!”
Ellis gasped as the Nemesis dropped, heaving his stomach into his lungs, his heart suddenly constricted and seemingly overfull. His blood seemed to surge against his skin, a tingling and not unpleasant sensation, and his fingers reflexively tightened against the armrests.
He heard the ground team cackle and whoop from their locker room, joyful and unrestrained through the sudden rise of temperature in the poorly insulated ship. Ellis grinned, feeling a nameless emotion at their voices that unexpectedly threatened to overwhelm him with happiness.
“This is life,” he breathed, and closed his eyes tightly as they made their way to the doomed colony.
* * *
Wesley Acchord Teape was at the circus behind his closed eyes, watching the acrobats twirl and tumble. Pretty designs, they made—circling, twisting, falling. There were no crowds, no stands, no sound except for the sharp and deep inhalations of the athletes as they performed their beautiful feats of the flesh beneath a brilliant spotlight.
“Coming in at 0702, ETA two minutes fifteen… the guy’s name is Sturges, Supervisor, got it?”
“Yeah… Christ, what a sad little rock! You’d have to be nuts to go into geology these days, the way they have these things set up.”
Distractions. Teape tried to hold out a little longer, but it was no good; the acrobats blurred and faded, their miracles only a memory as Lara and Pop guided the Nemesis over Traon to Deep 4.
He sighed but kept his eyes closed, the signal to Jess and Pulaski not to disturb him. They were generally respectful of his need for a little peace when the Nemesis was going in, saving their posturing and jokes for afterwards.
Except there may not be an afterwards, Teepee-Teape, you wanna think about that? What if Traon is where you buy it?
Teape scowled. Pulaski’s pet name had been taken up by the Voice, apparently. He tuned his thoughts to a fuzzy black, breathing evenly and slowly. It had become a familiar companion, that voice in his head, checking in gleefully for almost five months now. He watched for it and did what he could not to listen—but it was getting harder. The Voice had gathered a lot of material picking through his memories, visions that he had thought buried or blocked; with each new recovery, the Voice got louder. He’d been to hell eleven times now, but at least one could escape from hell. The Voice was worse in some ways, because it wanted to drive him insane or see him dead. And because it was part of him, there was no way out.
Check that shit. New picture.
A white vastness, dotted with pockets of shadow. A plain of sand that filled his vision, deep and blank. Endless, even breaths.
Time passed, maybe only a few seconds, maybe longer. As soon as he wondered, the desert began to fade, giving in to reality. Teape groped for something to hold on to, some focal point to keep him there. There—a lone wanderer far below, trekking across the wastes but headed for nowhere, no bigger than…
…an ant, maybe? Ants like monsters breeding with nightmares and teeth that stink of carrion death and is that YOU, Teape, is that you in their teeth?
Teape opened his eyes wearily; the Voice had learned a trick or two of its own, the rat-bastard.
Across from him, Pulaski noticed that he had tuned back in. The Candyman grinned and raised a clenched fist in the air. The left side of his mouth was smeared with chocolate.
“You know it! Balls of steel, Teepee!”
“Wouldn’t know it. Mine went in and never came back out when I took this job,” he managed, and pasted on a lopsided grin. Pulaski talked a lot of bite and was badass with a rifle, but Teape usually thought of him as kind of a big, dumb dog. Intimidating at first, but loyal to the death as long as you kept smiling at him.
He could almost hear the huge man’s gears grind to life beneath the short white mohawk as Pulaski searched for a one-liner to shoot back with. Teape waited him out, suddenly eager for a bit of conversation, even with a dope like Candy; sometimes talking the game worked at getting him through landings without the Voice.
“At least you still got ’em, right? My ex-bitch wife wears mine like they’re earrings!” Pulaski slapped one meaty thigh and roared at his own wit.
“Gee, Candyman, she told me that they fell off while she was shelling peas and were forever lost; of course, maybe that was just pillow talk.”
Pulaski worked that one over for a moment and then decided that it was a keeper. He slapped his thigh again, braying laughter through horsey white teeth. Teape wondered what it would be like, to be someone like Pulaski— big, dumb, happy; just smart enough to enjoy wine, women, song, and a good brawl every now and then, not enough brainpan to concern himself about what came next…
Actually, maybe the Candyman was a genius.
“All right, all right, that’s enough.” Jess held up one long-fingered hand while Pulaski shook his head, still
chuckling. “You wanna listen up now, I got something to say.”
From Jess’s carefully patient expression, Teape got ready for what he thought of as the prologue speech. Martin Jess was a good leader, if predictable; a few words to the boys, get ’em revved up for action.
Jess had a deep and soothing voice, brimming with the confidence that Teape had long wished for. “We know what to do and we know how to do it. We got this down to a’ art and to a science; we see the plan, we drop the man, and he takes care of the problem. Ain’t no reason to think it’s gonna be different this time, all right? Clean and smooth.”
Pulaski’s mammoth jaw was set and clenched, his eyes glimmering with the prospect of battle. “Semper fuck yeah, brother!”
Jess looked at Teape, and although he kept his tone light, Teape saw a sizing-up in his mild brown eyes. “You in there, Teape? You gonna know that we in there for you?”
It doesn’t matter what you know, Teepee, it’s the Max that saves your ass and he doesn’t even know your name—
Shut up!
Teape let his grin widen and played along, trying to muster enough certainty to still the enemy voice. “Ain’t no other way, baby.”
Jess hesitated, still searching, then smiled and slapped Teape’s shoulder pad. He looked back at Pulaski and then abruptly leaned over and ruffled the giant’s bleached strip of hair.
Pulaski scowled and ducked away. “You better watch that shit, black man, or I’m—”
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