“Wonder where you’ll get stationed?” I ask. My speech is still slow.
“Well, I’m not getting busted down to private, but there are a lot of new restrictions on my file, so it’ll be interesting.”
“Wonder when they’ll fire me,” I ask, picturing a military policeman entering my cell and announcing my discharge. It’s so clear in my mind’s eye that I’m sure he’ll be standing right there if I open my eyes.
“They don’t work this hard on commanders who are about to get drummed out of the service,” she chuckles.
That leads me to a far darker thought. “Will I be me?” I ask.
“What’s that?” she asks as though prompting a child.
I don’t mind. A little soft condescension goes a long way in my soft-headed state. “Will I still be me at the end of therapy?” I ask, chortling at the ring of the rhyme.
“I’ll make sure,” she promises. “I’ll tell you all about yourself.” They let us stay together for a long time, even though I can’t think of anything to talk about while she’s cradling my head in her lap.
Part 3 – Prudence
“Open your eyes, Clark,” says the big voice from above.
I’m struggling to stay on my feet in the middle of an arid plain. The sand swirls around my feet, the sun summons beads of sweat from my pores. Everything feels heavy again, but I remain on my feet. “Where am I?”
“What do you want to do, Clark?”
What a ridiculous question. In all directions there’s nothing but sand, scrub bush, and sky. I meet the question head on with a worthy answer. “Dig a hole.” It ceases to make sense the moment I speak it aloud. “For water,” I add, trying to sound a little more intelligent. My mouth is dry. I check for the emergency water tube in the collar of my vacsuit and, to my surprise, find it. I stick the tube in my mouth and bury it in my cheek, sucking precious moisture.
“You’re hydrating, very good,” congratulates the voice from above. “Now find your way out.”
I want to lay down, but find myself looking in each direction. The heads-up display from my comm unit appears before my eyes. My fingers feel my left wrist for my command and control unit but find nothing but bare vacsuit. I ignore that discrepancy and glance towards the scanner icons in my peripheral view. Within a few seconds I locate a map of the area - I’m in the Scacha Valley, the nearest town is called Christine. It should be surrounded by a landing field.
Without a second thought, I seal my vacsuit. It begins cooling my skin, lowering my body temperature back down to normal, and I start walking. Despite weariness and leaden limbs, I place one foot in front of the other, sometimes having to steady myself by extending my arms, but one step follows another.
My lids begin closing on their own, as heavy as emergency bulkheads. I force them back up every time, eventually gnashing my teeth and grunting forth. This is a battle for survival. There are no medical scans available from my vacsuit, I keep trying to scan myself, but the system isn’t working. I could be injured, drugged, there’s no way for me to know. I have to use any time I have to get to civilisation, it’s my best shot at surviving.
My eyes close again, and I hit the ground as limp as a training dummy. I try to press against the ground, to get myself back up on my feet but fail. The sounds of running feet come towards me, the sun goes down in an instant, and then I see something that can’t be real.
On the First Light, that ship I once studied, there was a Doctor named Carl Anderson. He was at once the advisor and the overseer of the First Light crew. He allowed them to make their own decisions, but reported their actions back to Freeground Intelligence. He’s running towards me now, in a black vacsuit with red pinstripes down the arms, legs and shoulders. The official Freeground Intelligence uniform that I’ve only ever seen in training manuals.
Doctor Anderson turns me over onto my back and disables the hood of my vacsuit. “Just breathe, son. The air is cool, you’re in your cell.”
A few blinks later, I realise that he’s right. I’m in my cell. He’s kneeling over me. Doctor Marlin is standing behind the bars. I’m still in my prisoner’s uniform. My limbs still feel like they’re weighted down, however. It’s difficult to move.
“What the hell are you doing to him?” Doctor Anderson asks, appalled. “He’s a few cc’s away from overdosing.”
“He’s becoming more difficult to manipulate,” explains Doctor Marlin. “We have to perform this series of tests now, before it’s too late.”
“This series of tests? What kind of testing is this?”
“We’re trying to find out how ingrained his training really is. The order came down from Fleet Command; he’s not to be released until we are absolutely certain he can perform.”
Doctor Anderson picks me up and puts me down on the bed. I’m like a child in his arms. He has more grey hair than he did in his profile. Other than that, he’s exactly as I would have expected. “He finished the grief therapy, what else are you going to take away from him?”
“Take away?” asked Doctor Marlin irritably. “We’re making sure he’s ready to reenter service. This deep psychological character and skill building could save his life, and the lives of those under his command.”
“This stops here,” Doctor Anderson says. I’m watching, my mind a complete blank. “You’re going to let the ichni and everything else in his system wear off, give him a chance to sleep for a day or two, then you’ll call me and I’ll give him his choices.”
“You should take a look at the regimen I have scheduled, maybe you’ll understand what it is I’m trying to accomplish, Sir.”
Doctor Anderson shakes his head slowly. “I don’t care. As of today, you’re on vacation. Don’t come back to this facility for a week.”
Doctor Marlin wordlessly retreats, walking down the small hallway through the secondary security door.
Doctor Anderson looks at me and smiles warmly. “Three weeks with him dosing you up and pushing your buttons. I hope there’s enough of you left after you’ve made your way back through the looking glass.”
Chapter 6 - The Art Of Being Conscious
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I wake up. I’m not feeling like I’m seeing through a fog, my limbs feel as light as they should, and my head feels like it’s the proper size. I’m not in a cell anymore. Instead, I’m in a small bedroom overlooking the docking operations of a port I’ve never seen. This looks like Freeground.
I keep looking and realize the construction is slightly different. This is a super-carrier. I’m on the Amazon, the quarantine section, by my best guess. It makes sense; I’m a criminal, and the quarantine section of a super-carrier is just as isolated and secure as a prison. The difference? Comfort, and the promise that I may be free to visit other parts of the ship.
Through the floor to ceiling transparent metal window, I see half a dozen patrol carriers - four hundred twenty metre ships with launch bays stretched across the front, giving them the look of snakes grinning with slightly parted teeth - all docked a few levels below. My room is simple. A fairly comfortable bed, small lockable dresser, narrow closet, and a door that will lead to a toilet and sink.
Before I know it I’m basically washed up, wearing a basic spray-on black vacsuit and sealing my combat boots. This room is in a barracks somewhere, and they’re officer’s quarters, so I haven’t been demoted too far. The memory of my last conversation with my sister comes back and I feel absolutely nothing. I know that’s strange, but don’t care enough to dwell. It’s time to figure out where I’ve ended up.
I leave my room and enter a common lounge. There are several older-looking armchairs arranged to view the port through a transparent section of hull and a couple of tables with metal chairs around them. The room is octagonal, four stories high; three walls are transparent while the rest feature three levels of quarters. Each lets out onto a walkway with stairs regularly spaced around. It doesn’t look like any barrack configuration I’ve seen before.
I
t’s dead in here. At a glance I count four people in the seats, all with their backs facing me, looking out at a carrier that’s almost centred in view, its engines flaring as though it’s trying to keep up.
One of the people stand and look at me. It’s Mary Reed. It feels like everything happens in the wrong order. I smile, then I feel like smiling at her. I wonder why I’m smiling when I see this woman, then realize that we’ve been friends since we were toddlers. It’s all backwards, but by the time the muscular, expectant woman is standing in front of me, it feels like everything’s back where it should be - emotionally speaking.
“How bad is it? Did they completely reprogram you, or did Doctor Anderson catch you in time?” she asks, stroking my cheek with her palm.
I have a flash of her taking care of me in a dark cell, my head on her lap, and I catch a hint of what that forlorn moment felt like. Before I realize it, my smile is gone. “There’s enough left,” I tell her. “I think.” A slim faced, gum chewing soldier spins his chair dramatically and asks; “Soldier! What’s your name? Your serial number? Rank? Which pod did you hatch in?”
I answer before thinking. “I’m called Clark Patterson, oh twenty eight nine seventy dash thirty five, Freeground Fleet Commander-”
“Ignore him,” Mary says with a look that tells me that my young inquisitor is someone she tolerates more than likes. “That little wanker has a strange sense of humour.”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“You are aboard the Amazon,” replies Doctor Anderson as he stands. He’s looking at me with the reassuring smile I’ve seen in videos. “As of two days ago, you all separated with dishonour from the Freeground Fleet and were pressed into the Grey Section of Freeground Intelligence.”
“He’s going to tell you that you serve with them or spend the rest of your good breeding years in prison,” the copper topped soldier says from his seat.
“Ensign Sands is right,” Doctor Anderson confirms. “How are you feeling, Commander?”
The question is more important than it should be. Normally I’d mechanically answer with ‘I’m fine,’ or offer some bravado bullshit like ‘ready for anything’ but this moment is slow. I look from Doctor Anderson, who I still half-believe to be an illusion, to Mary, who stares back with expectation, to the new guy who’s watching me like I’m the eight AM show, then back to the doctor. It feels like Sarah Piper is pinning all my emotional extremes to the mat, muffling my peaks and valleys leaving only the boring, middle range of feeling. Before I realise it, I tap my leg twice. I don’t think anyone else notices. “I feel numb.”
“Let’s sit down,” Doctor Anderson tells Mary and me. We take seats in a semi-circle in front of that big window. For the first time, I see the last person enjoying the lounge. She’s curled up in an arm chair, her long dark hair half obscuring her face as she sleeps. I recognise her, but can’t remember where from.
Sands claps and folds his arms as if to hide the act.
The woman, who looks younger than me by five, maybe even ten years opens her brown eyes and they focus right on me. I can’t look away as she slowly smiles. On a station with millions of pasty white citizens, she’s blessed with features that are every shade of human brown. Beautiful.
I manage to tear my eyes away as she stretches into a yawn.
“All right, everyone, let’s welcome the commander properly,” slim-faced Sands says. “Name, rank, and tell him a little about how you earned your spot here.”
Doctor Anderson settles into the last seat in the semi-circle and watches us.
The dark young woman answers first. “I’m Lieutenant Isabel Fonte, pilot with all vessel class qualifications and a small ship combat specialisation.” She looks at Sands. “How we earned our spot, Remmy?”
“Your offence. I think we’re all here because we’ve been bad little citizens, so spill.”
“Oh,” Isabel says, straightening up. “I organised a protest in the parliamentary pod against the travel ban. After it turned into a riot they tossed me into the stockade.” As soon as she says protest I remember the various news broadcasts depicting her as a terrorist, a villain to social order.
“That riot was over a year ago,” Mary says.
“Yup. Thought they forgot about me until Doctor Anderson turned up.”
“You mean they didn’t actually put you on trial?”
“Nope. They kept rescheduling me. I was never even arraigned.” She looked to Remmy. “Your turn.”
“Me? I was caught red handed with enough digital contraband to properly entertain half of Freeground for the rest of their lives. As if that wasn’t enough, a little Order of Eden propaganda got mixed in by mistake. Well, maybe not always by mistake, no one knows how to capture a holographic tour of a nature preserve like those Order weirdos. There was this holo of a hawk gliding over the mountains on Eden Prime... I’m telling you it was like you could smell the pine trees. There was another-”
Isabel clears her throat.
“Right, Order of Eden propaganda bad, Puritan Party propaganda good,” he says, correcting himself. “But, yeah, they sentenced me to fifteen years. When Doctor Anderson came for me I was working on month three. I don’t think they managed to completely reprogram me while I was in there, I almost feel like myself again.” He leans forward in his chair, looking at me. “It gets better. In a few days you’ll feel almost normal.”
“Good,” is all I say.
“What did you do to get the worst case of brain burn I’ve ever seen, anyway?” he asks.
“My sister tried to defect to the Order of Eden,” I tell him mechanically. “They executed her.”
“Wow,” Remmy says, leaning back. “Family turning to the enemy. That’s a career ender.”
Mary takes my hand and squeezes it. “Commander Patterson was also charged with gross social misrepresentation and dissemination of contraband. I was charged with gross social misrepresentation, possession of contraband, and assaulting an officer of the court.”
I stare at her, wondering how the last charge came about.
She must see the question on my face, because she smiles back. “My lawyer called me a stupid dyke so I broke her nose and called her a puritan breeder drone. I think the harsh language hurt more.”
“I think I’m in love.” Remmy swooned exaggeratedly. “Why do I always fall for unavailable women?”
“Anyway, I’m an infantry sergeant, specialist in ship to ship incursion.”
Mary glances at me and answers Remmy’s questions. “The commander here was in line to become first officer on the Dimitri.”
“Wow,” Isabel says, straightening in her seat.
“The Dimitri’s right on the front line with twelve thousand aboard,” Remmy says. “That’s a seriously high-end commission. I think I’ve only met two or three officers who have ever had that much pull.”
“That’s not going to happen now,” I tell him passively. I actually wanted to sound irritated, peevish at least, but it just comes out like everything else: flat.
“Yeah,” Remmy says. “Sorry.”
“I hope you don’t mind me speaking for you, Clark,” Doctor Anderson says.
I shake my head.
“The commander was undergoing deep reprogramming so he wouldn’t turn on Freeground Fleet until I managed to get through the red tape and take him into my chain of command. He finished the first course of treatment, so he’ll need about a week to come all the way back to us.”
“Personality revision?” asks Isabel quietly, sympathy written all over her face.
“Do you mind if I tell them?” Doctor Anderson asks me.
I don’t see withholding anything I’ve been through as important. In fact, as I give him my consent with a nod, I start feeling that I want people to know. Like a revelation, it strikes me that I might not have deserved anything that was done to me.
“Doctor Marlin and his team finished administering deep grief treatment, re-prioritisation, and they were just starting on combat fitn
ess reinforcement.”
“They were trying to turn you into a drone,” Remmy says. “Brutal.”
“I got there in time,” Doctor Anderson tells them. “Clark,” he says as he turns to me. “You were sedated for a day after you were placed in my custody, so some of the re-prioritisation programming could be rolled back. As for the grief treatment, that’s something you’ll eventually have to break through, but I doubt you’ll ever completely overcome it. The combat fitness reinforcement wasn’t a factor, they were only in the early stages of assessing your readiness so there wasn’t much of an impression made. You should feel mostly like yourself soon, just like Remmy here said.”
“Sedated for a day,” I say. Everyone is hanging on my every word. “No wonder I had to piss so bad when I woke up.” I deliver the punch line slowly, but they’re laughing before I finish.
“What about us?” asks Isabel. “They had me dosed for at least a few days.”
“Most of the modifications to Remmy’s personality didn’t actually take,” Doctor Anderson tells them. “He was about to go under for another round of intensive treatment. As for you, Isabel, well, they were drugging you for passive interrogation, getting you to relive the last few months of your life aloud so they could record the names of your co-conspirators and other anti-Puritan Party citizens. Mary here was just starting a round of sexual reorientation. I was able to get the backing of a few New Liberal Party representatives in securing her release.”
“Thank you,” Mary tells him. “Thank you very, very much.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Doctor Anderson says. “There are conditions.” He pauses and stands, pacing into the space between us and the window. “First, let me tell you about myself. For over thirty years I’ve been indirectly involved with the politics of Freeground. Not intentionally, mind you, I hate politics. The first time I got involved was when my partner and her daughter were exiled from the British Colonies for violating the limitations placed on genetic engineering. As an Intelligence Officer, I assisted the British exiles in securing asylum, then citizenship on Freeground. When the question of military service came up, I was one of the official supporters of British exiles with military experience serving in the Freeground Fleet, a move that the Puritan Party opposed then and won’t let me forget now.”
The Expendable Few: A Spinward Fringe Novel Page 3