Fuck me, Ryck thought.
“Cease fire,” Gunny DePardue passed over the training circuit.
The three Klethos, the finest simulacrums Dreamworks had probably ever made, eased back up to their default position while the platoon’s PICS powered back on.
Ryck’d had high hopes for the pikes. He’d been assured that they could knock a Klethos senseless and allow the Marines to capture some of the creatures. And while the incapacitating current had seemed to have an effect, and while the pike shaft itself had withstood the Klethos swords, evidently, the transmission lines for the current had not, rendering the pikes as nothing more than long but inert metal rods.
At least Dandridge had improvised, turning the training session from a capture to a kill mission. It had been too late, but he’d done something and had even scored a kill.
“Well, back to the drawing board,” Ryck remarked to the engineer from Hephaestus Foundries, SA. “I think you’ve got a few bugs to work out.”
“I’m not sure what happened, sir. But trust us, we’ll fix it.”
Ryck ignored the engineer as the man started going over possible fixes. The engineering was beyond Ryck anyway. He as a fighter, not an engineer. Just give him a weapon and tell him how to use it. He didn’t need to know how it worked, just how to work it.
He looked up at the three upright and one prone Klethos simulacrums. Now those were amazingly complex—and amazingly expensive—pieces of gear. Dreamworks had long been the leader of making fake dinosaurs and fantastic creatures for flicks, amusement parks, and even museums. They had quickly made up a life-size Klethos for display, and almost immediately, a master sergeant in one of the battalions attached to the Second Marine Brigade tried to rent one for training. It was one of those “duh” moments when everyone else realized this should have been done immediately and not waited for a battalion staff member to think of it.
To really be effective, though, the simulacrum should be more than a static display to get Marines used to a Klethos’ size and movement patterns. It should be able to interact with the Marines and Marine weapons. Cybogen, the AI company, had already developed a computer program that weapons companies could use to simulate the efficacy of new weapons against the Klethos. Marrying up two unique sets of capabilities, Dreamworks teamed up with Cybogen, and together they poured countless manpower and hours to create the Klethos Interactive Training Unit. The KITUs had proven to be invaluable with five units going to each brigade and more planned to be delivered as they got off the manufacturing line.
The KITUs simulated weapons, both the gun and sword, were connected to the Marines’ AI control, so when a ghost sword, for example, swung through a PICS, the AI shut that PICS down. It was easily as good as the RECT systems back on base, but these allowed Marines far more realistic training scenarios. The RECTs had also been reprogrammed, but as more KITUs were delivered, larger units would be able to go force-on-force with the simulacrums.
One of the Dreamworks engineers moved forward to reset the downed KITU. The contracted support teams had been very protective of the units, especially since one had been knocked out by a very energetic group of 2/3 Marines, who, led by Sergeant Wayne Miller, a former street kid from Piaster who was being noticed as an up-and-comer, had physically mauled the unit and knocked it out of action.
Ryck and Sandy had both been called on the carpet for that by Major General Sergovich, the Deputy CG, who in no uncertain terms told both of them that a single KITU was worth more than any number of Marines. New ROIs were enacted, with intensive SNCO supervision, that eliminated any physical contact between a PICS and KITU.
Ryck wished he’d had that fifth KITU online, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—fault Marines for being aggressive. When the real shit hit the fan, they’d need all Sergeant Millers they could find and all the aggression they could raise.
Chapter 22
Ryck sat in the waiting room, his nerves on edge. He was pretty sure he knew what he was going to hear. He’d spent enough time on the net researching, and Marines were always aware of the risks. Still, he needed a doctor’s confirmation.
He held out his right arm, slowly rotating the wrist back and forth. The twinges of pain were there, subtle and weak, but there. This was not his imagination working overtime. It had been almost 13 months since his golf injury—that still sounded crazy to him: “golf injury—and there should be no trace of it anymore. But it was still there, and then there was the incident of getting into his PICS on the Brandenburg. No, something was wrong, and Ryck thought he knew what it was. He feared he knew what it was.
“Mr. Stilicho, the doctor will see you now,” the receptionist said from her desk.
“Mr. Stilicho! The doctor will see you,” she said again, looking straight at Ryck.
Oh, shit, that’s me, Ryck thought as he hurriedly got to his feet. I need to remember that!
He went through the indicated door where a nurse waited for him. The nurse, a rather large, slightly overweight young man, smiled broadly, putting his hand on Ryck’s shoulder and ushering him down the hall.
“Right this way, sir. I’m Gefflin. Dr. Patterson will be with you in a moment. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Zoom?”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m fine,” Ryck said.
“OK, if you need anything, just let me know,” Gefflin said, waving open a door that slid silently on its tracks. “Please, take a seat.”
“Th . . . thanks,” Ryck said, his voice catching.
“I know you’re nervous, Mr. Stilicho. But rest assured, Dr. Patterson is the best, simply the best.”
“Yes, I know he is. I’ve read the reviews. It’s just, well, I’ve never, I mean—”
“I understand,” Gefflin said, patting Ryck’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”
As the nurse left, he murmured something, and a moment later, soft classical music filled the room. It was a pretty obvious ploy, but it did lower Ryck’s anxiety a bit.
Ryck had not been to a civilian doctor since he was 18 and still in high school. He trusted Navy doctors, and he wasn’t sure if he had that same degree of trust in mainstream medicine. That was irrational, he knew. Medicine was medicine, and the Hope Clinic of Jorneytown was highly rated. But the overt, well, commercial-ness of the clinic was a little unsettling to him. It was like they were trying too hard, trying to awe the patients. This waiting room, with the soft, muted colors, art on the walls, and very comfortable furniture was a far cry from the Spartan, yet professional-feeling treatment rooms of the Navy.
Ryck had gotten up at 0515 that morning, telling Hannah he was going to play golf at 0700 at Thunder Bay, a civilian course some 110 km north of the city. He’d loaded his clubs, but instead of heading north, he drove to the maglev station and bought a ticket to Jorneytown for his appointment. At 0930, he’d been ushered in for his scan, and now, an hour after that, he was waiting for the news.
Ryck jumped when the hatch opened five minutes later and the doctor came in, dressed in a light blue high-neck, sleeveless T and khaki bongo pants. His smile and outstretched hand, along with his dress, conveyed the obvious corporate philosophy of a caring group of friends, but Ryck didn’t resonate too well with the image. He wasn’t here to find a friend; he wanted a professional, competent doctor.
Ryck pushed that thought away and stood up to shake the doctor’s hand.
“Hi, Mr. Stilicho, or can I call you Sandy?” he said, his teeth gleaming impossibly white.
“Uh, sure. Sandy is fine,” Ryck said.
“I’m Gregori, Sandy. Good to meet you. Please, take a seat,” the doctor said as he sat down, not behind his desk, but in the chair next to Ryck’s.
“Well, I’m sure you want to get your results,” the doctor said, looking at his PA for a few moments.
Ryck was sure that was just for show. The doctor had to have already seen the results before coming into the room.
“Sandy, we’ve done the scan, and the results are pretty conclusiv
e. It’s not good news, but we can almost certainly take care of you.”
Get to the grubbing point!
“I can confirm that you have BRC, but still in the early stages,” the doctor said without a change in his cheery voice.
BRC! The Brick! Boosted Regeneration Cancer, Ryck thought, his heart falling.
He already knew that is what he had. It made the most sense. But still, to hear it was a blow to the gut.
“. . . get you into your first treatment on Friday. I’ll have Gefflin brief you on the procedures—”
“Aren’t I a little young for the Brick?” Ryck asked, interrupting the doctor.
Ryck had been sure he had it, but he still wanted to know why.
“Well, yes, you’re 46, and we generally don’t see too many people before they are in their 60’s, but it isn’t that rare. How old were you when you had regen?” he asked, looking at his PA in earnest this time.
Ryck hadn’t given any health data, so the doctor would be looking in vain.
“When I was 19,” Ryck said. “A full limb regen.”
“So, 27 years ago. Not too surprising then. Rare, but reasonable.”
“But I know people who’ve had five regens, and they haven’t caught the Brick,” Ryck protested.
Why he was protesting, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the doctor who put him in this position. But Ryck hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about it, and he needed the catharsis.
“Sandy, you know what causes BRC, right?”
Ryck nodded, but the doctor went on, “Cancer is caused by cancer stem cells. Most cancer cells, cells that everyone has in their bodies, can’t reproduce any more than your own heart or brain cells can reproduce. However, through the process of epithelial-to-mesenchymal transition, or EMT, a normal cancer cell is changed to a stem cell, which not only can develop into many different kinds of cancer, but through an elongation process, can form metastases by using the blood stream as sort of an expressway to distant sites in the body, where they can then establish new, malignant tumors.”
He looked at Ryck expectantly.
“Look, what I mean is picture these inert cancer cells as square blocks, which is a fair depiction. EMT changes these cancer cells to stem cancer cells, and by stretching them out, they can slide through the bloodstream like eels, migrating to anywhere” the doctor said.
“But I have the cancer killer nanos, like everyone else,” Ryck said.
“Yes, but you’ve also had regen. You know, right, that people cannot just grow a new arm when they want to.”
“Of course I do. That’s why we use stem cells in regen.”
“Well, what regen does is use its own form of EMT to create viable stem cells from what your body has.”
“I didn’t lose my testes,” Ryck protested. “They got the stem cells there.”
“True, but you were not an embryo. And while testes-harvested stem cells are much easier to work with than regular cells harvested elsewhere, they still need to know where to go and what to do. So through our own EMT process, they are given their marching orders and put to work. But we also boost them. How long did it take for you to grow a new arm?”
“About eight months,” Ryck said.
“And how long for you to grow that arm in the first place? To its full size?”
“Well, I don’t know. Eighteen years?”
“Exactly. So you have not-so-efficient stem cells and not so much time, so we boost the regen process,” the doctor said, his eyes brimming with the excitement of someone immersed in the process. “We give the orders, and in eight months, you have a new arm.”
“OK, and so?” Ryck asked.
“Don’t you see? We boost the stem cells, make them super stems. But that same process boosts the cancer stems cells at the same time, or at least gives them the foundation. They lie quiet for a time, for reasons we still don’t understand,” he said, his eyes furrowing together as he seemed to contemplate the universal unfairness of the lack of complete mastery over the process. “Then something, an injury, a sickness, even stress triggers the metastases process.”
Like a golf injury? Grubbing hell. I’ve got this now because I was determined to outdrive Sams?
“But the good thing is that we can defeat this. It is not too late for you by a longshot. Basically, we just repeat the process, regening your blood, lymphatic system—where your BRC is primarily located at the moment—and anywhere the BRC resides. You’ll need better monitoring as you have proven yourself to be susceptible, but there’s no reason that you won’t live a long and productive life.”
Ryck sat back, letting the words sink in. He’d known most of what the doc said, of course. BRC was an occupational hazard for Marines. Twenty percent of all regen patients contracted it at some time in their lives.
“If I don’t start treatment, how long, I mean, well, how long before it’s untreatable?” he asked.
“Oh, if you can’t start treatment on Friday? Don’t worry, it’s not that urgent yet. I’d say from the readings that you have nine, maybe ten months before it gets to the point of no return.”
“And how long is the treatment?”
“For your type of cancer? Unless it metastasizes elsewhere, you’ve got about six months of regen,” the doctor told him.
“So I can wait awhile?” Ryck asked.
“Sure, but I don’t see why you’d want . . . uh, do you have a financial concern? I see you don’t have Prime, T1, or private insurance.”
Ryck was covered by the Navy, and his wife and kids were under Prime, the federal health insurance given to government employees and both military and government dependents. T1 was the Tarawa health plan.
“You know, if you received regen through military or FCDC service, you are still covered, even if you have no other insurance. It doesn’t matter if you have money or not. Show us proof that your regen was service-related, and we can start the treatment now. We’ll bill the Federation directly. You won’t hear from our bookkeeping at all.”
“No, I have insurance,” Ryck said, standing up. “I just have a few things I need to get done before I take the time for regen. Business matters. But don’t worry, I’ll be in soon, long before it gets too late.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” the doctor said, his eyes expressing doubt.
“I’ll be back, and I’ll get the treatment. What am I, an idiot?” Ryck asked.
“No, of course not. Just, well, just keep in touch, and if you do need anything, like if your business encounters some money-flow issues, we’ll work with you. OK?”
“Sure thing, doc. I will,” Ryck said, taking the doctor’s hand in a firm grip. “I’m sure you’ve got other patients waiting for you, so I’ll just let myself out. I’ll check out with the receptionist before leaving, though.”
Ryck could tell that the doctor was truly concerned for him, and given Ryck’s haircut and the fact that the military was a big part of Tarawa, he’d guessed, and guessed correctly, that Ryck’s regen was done by the Navy. What he didn’t guess correctly was why Ryck was hesitant.
It was the same reason that Ryck had taken the maglev to Jorneytown. It was the same reason why he’d checked into the clinic as Sandy Stilicho. He didn’t want the Marine Corps to know. The rules were pretty straight forward. A Marine in regen had to give up his command. General Papadakis hadn’t been able to fight that iron-clad regulation, and he was the commandant. If Ryck went into treatment, he was done, and given his previous resignation and the unique reason for his reinstatement, he might be done for good.
Ryck wasn’t done, though. There was still a fight to fight. The Klethos were still out there, and they were a threat to humankind. His brigade was getting ready to embark once again, and they needed him. They needed his leadership.
At least that was what he kept telling himself.
Chapter 23
Ryck was immersed in the after-action reports for Bold Tender, the first full-scale Joint Ground Task Force training operation since its for
mation when Hannah stuck her head into his office. Ryck smiled and put down his secured reader, his mind going back to when Hannah made an appearance before he last deployed. That smile faded as he saw the expression on her face.
“You’ve got your PA turned off,” she stated.
“Yeah, I was going over the after action report, and I didn’t want any interruptions. Sorry if I missed your call. What’s up?”
Ryck’s PA, while Level 3 Secure, was not authorized for the after action report, which requited a Level 2 security certificate. So he’d turned it off after drawing a Level 2 reader.
“You need to turn it on and check the news feed,” she said.
Can’t you just tell me? he wondered. What’s the big deal?
He secured the reader and turned on his PA. His homepage was FNF, and immediately, the main news feed caught his attention.
Holy fuck! was all he could think.
The FCDC, backed by a battalion of Marines, had just taken over the government of Ellison, the homeworld of his parents and his long lost brother, Myke. Ryck had never felt much of an affinity for the planet; Prophesy was his homeworld, and his parents had never said much about Ellison and their reason for emigrating, but still, the news hit Ryck hard. There had been an unreported number of casualties, and the reason for the takeover was not explained.
Ryck switched the channel to Truthtellers. FNF was not officially affiliated with the Federation government, but it was known to be quite friendly to government desires. Truthtellers was an independent news agency from Indigo, and while it tended to be slanted against the Federation (and the Brotherhood and Confederation), it also tended to have more details, especially when covering controversial issues.
The “invasion” was the lead story on Truthtellers. According to them, the Federation had gotten tired of the impasse with the two main unions on Ellison and had invaded to break the unions’ stranglehold on the planetary government. Initial accounts were that over 10,000 people were killed, almost all on Ellison side.
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