by Jamie Sawyer
The first meal after a long sleep is important. Hypersleep messes with the body’s natural rhythm: although you’re pumped with sufficient nutrients to keep you alive, long-term the experience is debilitating. The side-effect was the gnawing in my gut that reminded me I hadn’t eaten for nine months. It inevitably took its toll, to the extent that Loeb’s directive to go and eat was actually welcome.
After getting lost twice, I found the mess hall on one of the lower crew decks. It was a large and busy room; lined with metal tables and chairs, enough for maybe a couple of hundred personnel to be fed at the same time. The place had a relaxed ambience, with a clutch of big green trees occupying one corner. Full-scale observation windows claimed a wall, gave a decent view of near-space. The stars looked alien to me, and they were: we had passed over into the Maelstrom now. Space was full of colours, full of disarmingly beautiful spirals and multi-hued stars.
A constant reminder that we are in enemy territory.
Sailors and support staff were catching meals; the ship had a real servery dispensing proper cooked food from a kitchen at the end of the hall. The smell was welcome – I wasn’t used to real food aboard a ship. Mostly MREs and vac-packs were the order of the day. I picked up some kind of geno-modified fried meat and a pureed potato paste. I decided to skip the Centaurian insect-bites, grabbed a nutrient shake. Wasn’t any breakfast that I’d ever heard of but I needed carbs and sugar badly.
The Legion sat around a table, all drawn and tired – hunched over trays of steaming food. Saul sat with them, working on a data-slate, but he wasn’t eating.
“All in order, Major?” Jenkins said.
I grimaced. “As well as it’s going to be. We’re out of any immediate danger.”
“Immediate?” Jenkins said. “That sounds real encouraging.”
“We’re in the Maelstrom,” Kaminski said. “Being out of immediate danger is the best that any of us could ask for.”
He’d probably meant it as a joke, but for once Kaminski was actually talking sense.
“Scuttlebutt is that we got hit by a meteor shower,” Jenkins said. “Care to confirm, Major?”
“Yes,” I said. I chewed on the steak. It was a vat-grown clone source, and the texture felt wrong. The techs never seemed to get the little details right. “Your intel is accurate.”
“How bad is it?” Jenkins asked.
“From what I could see, just the hypersleep suite,” I said. “A couple of bays. Ours happened to be one of them.”
Jenkins whistled. “We really do get all the luck.”
“Loeb is putting it down to a cargo load error,” I said. “That sent us off course, apparently. We wandered into the storm.”
“How’s that possible?” Mason said. “The cargo mass is calculated by the ship’s AI. There’s virtually no room for error.”
I sighed. “You want to go and argue with the admiral, be my guest. Loeb is a piece of work.”
“We heard that his nickname is the Buzzard,” Kaminski said, swallowing down a mouthful of hot food. “And that he doesn’t like Sim Ops.”
“Well he certainly doesn’t like me.”
“We thought maybe he’d invite you for breakfast in the officers’ mess…” Jenkins said.
“That isn’t going to happen anytime soon. How are the quarters?”
“Clean, small, quiet,” Martinez said. “Good.”
“How far are we from Damascus Space?” Jenkins asked.
“A few days. I didn’t get the chance to ask properly.”
“It’s that bad, huh?” Jenkins said.
“Pretty much,” I answered. “We’ll need to get to work soon. This new guy – Williams – what’s he like? Sounded like you knew him.”
I smiled at her, teasing the point.
“I know – or knew – him,” Jenkins said. She stared down at the potato-substitute on her plate. “Sort of.”
“You didn’t mention it,” Kaminski added, otherwise oblivious to the significance of the comment.
I recalled Jenkins’ reaction to Williams when we’d boarded the Colossus, and I suspected that there was something more to Jenkins’ comment. Williams and the Warfighters ate breakfast a few tables away. His team was younger, probably fitter than mine. They were boisterous and seemed to have thrown off the thawing already. I noticed that Williams was regularly looking over in our direction: trying to make eye contact with Jenkins.
“’Ski,” Jenkins said, her voice dropping to that authoritative tone that made her such a good NCO, “I want you to escort Professor Saul to the cargo bay. Do an inventory check on the Sci-Div crates.”
“Sure thing,” Kaminski said. “Just as soon as I finish this.”
“Now,” Jenkins said. “It’s a priority; Admiral Loeb will want to check on any damage. Martinez, you go with him.”
Kaminski looked nonplussed. Martinez didn’t argue and stood without argument. He hauled a very confused-looking Saul to his feet.
“Come on, Professor,” he said. “Sergeant has a good point.”
The three quickly disappeared out of the mess.
Once she was sure they’d gone, Jenkins looked over my shoulder, at the Warfighters. Sipping a fruit juice from a foil pouch, she began to talk again.
“This Captain Williams: we were in Basic together.”
“And?” I asked. “So what?”
Basic training was the standard infantry course that all Alliance Army went through – that had been so for as long as the Army had existed. There had to be more to this than just two soldiers training together.
“We had a thing.”
“Right…” I said, waiting for more.
“Nothing serious. It only lasted a few weeks.”
Mason broke a smile. “Is that all? Basic is a different world. It must’ve been years ago. Captain Williams probably won’t even remember you.”
Jenkins looked offended. “Thanks, Mason. And there was me thinking that we had a sisterhood thing going on here.”
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
Jenkins cut her off. “He obviously remembers, but I haven’t seen him in a very long time.”
“Nothing sinister in that,” I said. “The Point’s a big place.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She looked at me awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure that someone will be pissed to hear an old boyfriend is on the scene.”
“Kaminski?” I asked. “He’s a big boy now, and he’ll just have to deal with it. But if you were in Basic together, Williams made captain fast.”
“I know. It surprised me too. He has a background in technical training.”
“Now he’s on a crucial operation into another Artefact,” I said. “Cole spoke highly of him.”
“Well, he must be doing something right. Maybe he’s changed.” Jenkins slurped down the remainder of her juice. “Just thought that you should know.”
Loeb called an orientation session shortly after breakfast. It was an expected inconvenience and most personnel were required to attend. Navy officers briefed us on safety measures aboard the ship, on emergency exits, on the flight decks. The blurb was standard: evacuation pods are clearly signposted; do not collect your belongings in the case of an emergency; please try not to activate the airlocks without permission. It all washed over me pretty easily and I was sure that my team ignored most of it too.
“Communications between the fleet are restricted,” droned a junior officer with a penchant for his own voice. “And comms back home are completely prohibited. Such broadcasts could attract the attentions of the Krell, and we want to avoid that if at all possible.”
“What if they find us first?” Kaminski called.
“Shut up, ’Ski,” Jenkins hissed. “Let him talk and let’s get this over with.”
“We have a procedure called the ‘dark protocol’,” the officer continued. “In the event that a significant Krell war-fleet is discovered near our location – a Krell Collective with a threat-range the Damascus battlegroup is unable to deal w
ith – then we simply go dark.”
“We hide?” Kaminski said. “All this firepower, and that’s what we do? Just hide?”
“Exactly. We hide and wait for the threat to pass.”
Just as boredom was starting to set in, and the crowd was beginning to turn against the Navy officers, Admiral Loeb took the podium. He scanned the room, jaw set. He was, in many ways, the very epitome of an old-school Navy officer. The room fell into a nervous hush.
“I know that everyone has heard about this morning’s fiasco,” he started. “Sixteen personnel were killed in Sector Three.”
He let the words breathe, kept those eyes pinned on the crowd. Although it could’ve been paranoia, it felt like a good deal of his animosity was directed at me.
“We flew into a previously uncharted meteor storm. Unfortunately, that’s the reality of travel in the Maelstrom. Before the rumour mill gets out of control, allow me to spell it out: we are still mission capable and we are pressing on to the objective. Professor Saul assures me that we are approaching the designated coordinates in Damascus Space.”
Saul sat a row away from the Legion. Some faces turned to look in his direction. Uncomfortable with the sudden attention, he quickly nodded in an attempt to diffuse it.
“As we move closer to the Rift,” Loeb said, “cosmic radiation counts will increase. Dr West will be arranging anti-radiation drugs and appropriate smart-meds. I want complete compliance with the medical team.
“There will be a remembrance service for the dead – for today’s casualties – at seventeen hundred hours tomorrow evening.” Loeb lingered on the words “today’s casualties” as though he suspected that there would be many more before this fool’s errand was done: again, the barb of his criticism was directed towards me. “My office is distributing the list of names. All are welcome to attend.
“That’ll be all.”
The Legion filed out of the auditorium, appropriately admonished by the admiral. The corridor was jammed with personnel; several looking at the list of deceased crew displayed on a terminal screen outside.
“Major Harris?” someone called.
I stopped and turned, took in the man following me. He was an aerospace pilot, and a real flyboy at that; dressed in a bronze-metallic flight-suit, mirrored helm under his arm. Tall, handsome and the better side of thirty standard. He threw me a crisp salute and smiled broadly.
“Lieutenant Andre James, Alliance Aerospace Force,” he said. “I wanted to introduce myself and my team. I’m commander of the aerospace group.”
A badge on his shoulder marked him as the “CAG”: this man was in charge of the Colossus’ space force element, the fighter ships that we would rely on in the event of enemy action. His flight-suit was covered in varied and colourful insignia. The largest was a comic depiction of a rad-scorpion, tail arching to stab at a star.
I nodded down his salute. “At ease.”
“It’s an honour to meet the commanding officer of the Lazarus Legion,” James said.
“Ah shucks,” Jenkins said. “We’ve got a fan.”
“Scorpio Squadron – my boys – are the best.” James tapped the scorpion insignia; obviously his squadron badge. “We’ve got a whole wing of fighters aboard the Colossus: we fly Hornets, Dragonflies, Wildcats. Whatever your team needs by way of space support, we’re at your disposal.”
At least this reception is better than that I got from Loeb, I thought. His presentation was a good deal better than I’d seen of Williams’ Warfighters as well. If nothing else, at least James was enthusiastic and seemed behind the operation.
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Was that you outside on the approach back at Liberty Point?”
“Damn straight. Sorry about the acrobatics. Something for the ladies.” He gave a surreptitious glance in the direction of Jenkins and Mason. James had a precise and sinewy physique, like most flyboys that I’d known; I’d heard that it came from a lifetime of space runs at high-G. “The squadron likes to stretch its wings every now and again.”
“Don’t we all.”
“Admiral Loeb thinks that we’re unlikely to see any proper action during this operation, but I’m not so sure—”
Lincoln bounded into the corridor. The old dog was barking and growling; had worked himself into a real rage. I realised that his vitriol was directed specifically at James. The pilot shooed the dog away with his booted foot, growled back at him.
“He doesn’t like you much,” I said.
“It’s not personal,” James said, “he just doesn’t like simulants.”
I paused; felt the rest of my squad doing the same behind me.
“Simulant?” Jenkins asked. “But you’re not in a sim…”
James gave her a perplexed stare. “Did the hypersleep scramble your head or something?”
He pointed to an emblem on his shoulder: SIMULANT OPERATIONS – AEROSPACE FORCE DIVISION.
I’d heard of testing – expanding the Programme beyond front-line troops – but nothing more than that. Liberty Point exclusively ran simulant combat operations; I’d never heard of simulant space pilots before.
“I’m on the Programme,” he said. “I thought that you knew.”
“How could we?” I asked. “You look – well – like a flyboy.”
“I’m just the same in my own skin,” he said. Gave a brief look down at Mason: on automatic, her cheeks flushed red. “Except, some say, a bit better looking.”
Dr West appeared beside James and patted him on the arm like he was a piece of meat. Which he was, in a sense.
“Lieutenant James is operating a next-generation simulant. I expect, Major Harris, that you and your team are conversant with the combat-simulants. The next-gens are the newest models. The project has been in development for several years, and we’re finally seeing the results. The next-gens are being used for various alternative military roles, other than direct combat.”
“I’d call flying a Hornet direct combat,” James muttered. “You try getting one of those things to do as it’s told.” He laughed; typical flyboy humour. “My whole flight wing is skinned up. There are thirty-two of us. We have our own dedicated Sim Ops bay. I’ll show you around some time, if it interests.”
“That’s some impressive shit,” Jenkins said, moving in closer to James. “You look completely real.”
On looking at him up close, I felt a strange chill. Not because he looked unreal, but because he looked too real. Down to the pores in his face, the speckling of stubble on his chin: a perfect replica of a flyboy. The combat-grade sims were based on the operator’s genetic footprint, but they were obviously upgraded: homo sapiens mark two. James’ body appeared to be indistinguishable – any upgrades that Sci-Div had worked into him were well hidden. But it’s more than just that, I considered. I was discomfited by the fact that Sim Ops was moving on. I knew – or at least thought I knew – everything about Sim Ops, and yet here was a specialist division about which I’d only heard rumours.
Dr West took over. “We’ve achieved a number of deviations from the standard combat-simulant model. It would be possible to create an almost precise copy of your actual body, Sergeant.” This was obviously her specialism; the discussion illuminated her aged face. “The technology exists and it could be done, but I’m not sure why you’d want to do so. The advantages of using a simulant would largely be lost. For instance, muscle-mass requires a larger frame – a body at your size would have only a nominal muscular increase.”
“The next-gen models have other advantages though,” James went on. “I can withstand increased G-force and I have improved eyesight. I can fly further and faster than I can in my own skin. Like your combat-sims, but in a more refined package. Can’t have the Army stealing all the best inventions.”
“And you’re disposable…” Kaminski said.
“Not if he can help it,” Dr West said. “The next-gen sims are as expensive to clone as your combat models.”
“How long can you stay in that sim for?�
�� Jenkins asked, intrigued.
“As long as I want,” James said.
“The next-gen models allow for an almost indefinite operating period,” Dr West said. “Provided that the operator is kept in biomass; and obviously the simulant requires feeding and watering, as any other biological vessel.”
“Not standard food, of course, but we have specialised nutrients.”
“Can you drink alcohol in that skin?” Kaminski asked.
“I could, but it wouldn’t have much effect,” James said. “The liver is improved, works double-time. I’d filter out the good stuff before it had a chance to act.”
“As you can imagine,” Dr West said, “we’re very excited about the potential of these advances on the standard simulant model.”
“Can you make me one?” Kaminski asked. “I’d quite like a copy of myself.”
“We don’t want to know what you’d do with it,” Martinez said, with a chuckle.
Dr West missed the joke completely and shook her head with a matronly smile. “Sadly no, Private. The technology to replicate bodies isn’t available aboard the Colossus. We have to rely on simulants being imported from Liberty Point.”
“What about making him a James copy?” Jenkins asked. “I’m sure that’d be easier on the eye.”
Dr West shook her head again. “The genotype must match, just like your combat-sims. This is another area that we are seeking to research, but at present only the real Lieutenant James can operate a simulated copy of himself.”
The dog barked at James again, and Dr West gave a high-pitched whistle.
“Lincoln!” she called.
Lincoln reluctantly went to the aide’s side, but kept eyes on James.
“Loeb spoils that dog,” said James, “and he has the run of the place. I’d suggest that you keep away from him when you’re skinned up. It’s something about the pheromones simulants produce that drives him crazy.”
“We haven’t quite cracked that one,” Dr West said, with an apologetic smile. She turned to me. “Major, the admiral would like to see you in his chambers.”