Old Man's War Boxed Set 1 (55 page)

“How?” Sagan yelled the question, too loudly.

“I don’t know,” Jared said.

Sagan stood up. “It’s Boutin,” she said, groggily. “He told them how. Must have.”

“Maybe,” Jared said. Sagan wobbled slightly; Jared steadied her and came around to face her. “We have to move, Lieutenant,” he said. “If the Obin are blocking us, that means they know we’re here. They’re coming for us. We have to get our people up and moving.”

“We have more people coming,” Sagan said. “Have to…” She stopped, and straightened, as if something cold and horrible had just washed over her. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God.” She looked up into the sky.

“What is it?” Jared asked, and looked up, scanning for the tell-tale subtle ripples of camouflaged parachutes. It took him a second to realize he didn’t see any. It took him another second to realize what it meant.

“Oh, my God,” Jared said.

Alex Roentgen’s first guess was that he managed to lose his tightbeam connection with the rest of the platoon.

Well, shit,
he thought, and shifted his position, spread-eagling and spinning a few times to let the tightbeam receiver seek out and locate the other members of the platoon, letting his BrainPal extrapolate their positions based on where they had been on their last transmission. He didn’t need to find them all; just one would do nicely and then he would be reconnected, reintegrated.

Nothing.

Roentgen pushed his concerns away. He’d lost tightbeam before—only once, but once was enough to know it happened. He had reconnected when he made it to ground then; he’d do it again this time. He didn’t have any more time to waste on it anyway because he was coming up on deployment altitude; they were deploying as low as possible to cover their tracks, so when to deploy was a matter of some precision. Roentgen checked his BrainPal to determine his altitude and it was then he realized that for the last minute he’d had no contact with his BrainPal at all.

Roentgen spent ten seconds processing the thought; it refused to process. Then tried again and this time his brain not only refused to process it but pushed back against it, expelling it violently, knowing the consequences of accepting the thought as truth. He attempted to access his BrainPal once, and then again and then again and then again and then again, each time fighting back a sense of panic that fed on itself exponentially. He called out inside his head. No one answered. No one had heard him. He was alone.

Alex Roentgen lost most of his mind then, and for the rest of his fall twisted and kicked and tore at the sky, screaming with a voice he used so rarely that some small, disassociated part of his brain marveled at the sound of it in his skull. His parachute did not deploy; it, like nearly every physical object and mental process Roentgen used, was controlled and activated by his BrainPal, a piece of equipment that had been so reliable for so long that the Colonial Defense Forces had simply stopped thinking of it as equipment and considered it as a given, like the rest of the brain and the soldier’s physical body. Roentgen plummeted past the deployment line unknowing, uncaring, and insensate to the implications of passing through that final barrier.

It wasn’t the knowledge that he was going to die that had driven Roentgen insane. It was being alone, separated, unintegrated for the first time and the last time in the six years he had been alive. In that time he’d felt the lives of his platoon mates in every intimate detail, how they fought, how they fucked, every moment that they lived, and the moment when they died. He took comfort in knowing he was there in their final moments and that others would be there for him in his. But they wouldn’t be, and he wouldn’t be there for them. The terror of his separation was matched by the shame of not being able to comfort his friends who were plunging to the same death as he was.

Alex Roentgen twisted again, faced the ground that would kill him, and screamed the scream of the abandoned.

Jared watched in dread as the pinwheeling gray dot above him appeared to gain speed in the final few seconds and, revealed as a screaming human, ground into the meadow with a sickening, splashy thud, followed by a horrifying bounce. The impact shocked Jared out of immobility. He shoved Sagan, screaming at her to run, and ran toward the others, hauling them up and shoving them toward the tree line, trying to make them get out of the way of the falling bodies.

Seaborg and Harvey had recovered but were staring at the sky, watching their friends die. Jared pushed Harvey and slapped Seaborg, yelling at both of them to move. Wigner refused to move and lay there, seemingly catatonic; Jared picked him up and handed him to Seaborg and told him to move. He reached down for Manley; she pushed him away and began crawling toward the meadow, screeching. She picked herself up and ran as bodies tore apart on impact around her. Sixty meters out she stopped, turned around rapidly and screamed away the rest of her sanity. Jared turned away and missed seeing the leg of the body that fell next to her clip her on the neck and shoulder, crushing arteries and bones and driving shattered ribs into her lungs and heart. Manley’s scream clipped off with a grunt.

From the first hit, it took only two minutes for the rest of 2nd Platoon to hit the ground. Jared and the rest of his squad watched from the tree line as they fell.

When it was over, Jared turned to the four remaining members of the squad and took stock. All of them seemed to be in varying stages of shock, with Sagan being the most responsive and Wigner the least, although he finally seemed aware of his surroundings. Jared felt sick but was otherwise functioning; he’d spent enough time out of integration that he could function without it. For the moment, at least, he was in charge.

He turned to Sagan. “We need to move,” he said. “Into the trees. Away from here.”

“The mission—” Sagan began.

“There is no mission anymore,” Jared said. “They know we’re here. We’re going to die if we stay.”

The words seemed to help clear Sagan’s head. “Someone needs to go back,” she said. “Take the capture pod. Let the CDF know.” She looked directly at him. “Not you.”

“Not me,” Jared agreed. He knew she said it because she was suspicious of him, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He couldn’t go back because he was the only one who was entirely functional. “You go back,” he suggested to Sagan.

“No,” Sagan said. Flat. Final.

“Seaborg, then,” Jared said. After Sagan, Seaborg was the next most functional; he could tell the CDF what had happened, and tell them to prepare for the worst.

“Seaborg,” Sagan agreed.

“Okay,” Jared said, and turned to Seaborg. “Come on, Steve. Let’s get you in this thing.”

Seaborg wobbled over and began removing foliage from the capture pod to get to the door, moved to open the entry and then stopped.

“What is it?” Jared said.

“How do I open this?” Seaborg said, his voice squeaky from nonuse.

“Use your…
fuck,
” Jared said. The capture pod opened via BrainPal.

“Well, this is just fucking
perfect,
” Seaborg said, and slumped angrily next to the pod.

Jared moved to Seaborg, and then stopped and cocked his head.

In the distance, something was coming closer, and whatever it was was not worried about sneaking up on them.

“What is it?” Sagan said.

“Someone’s coming,” Jared said. “More than one. The Obin. They’ve found us.”

They managed to elude the Obin for half an hour before they were cornered.

The squad would have been better off separating, drawing the pursuing Obin in several directions and opening up the possibility of one or more of its number slipping away at the sacrifice of the others. But they stayed together, compensating for the lack of integration by staying in each other’s sight. Jared led the way at first, Sagan taking up the rear to drag along Wigner. Somewhere along the way Jared and Sagan traded roles, Sagan taking them largely north, away from the Obin pursuing them.

A distant whine became louder; Jared looked up through the tree canopy and saw an Obin aircraft pacing the squad and then heading north. Ahead, Sagan skipped to the right and headed east; she’d heard the aircraft as well. A few minutes later a second aircraft appeared and paced the squad again, dropping down to about ten meters above the canopy. There was an immense rattle and branches fell and exploded around them; the Obin had opened fire. Sagan skidded to a stop as huge-caliber slugs blew up dirt directly in front of her. That was that for going east; the squad turned north. The aircraft turned and paced them, offering bullets when they lagged or when they deviated too far to the east or west. The aircraft wasn’t giving chase; it was herding them efficiently toward an unknown destination.

That destination appeared ten minutes later when the squad emerged into another, smaller meadow, this one with the Obin who had been in the first aircraft waiting for them. Behind them the second aircraft was preparing to land; behind that the initial group of Obin, who had never been far behind, was now becoming visible through the trees.

Wigner, still not entirely recovered from the mental trauma of being unplugged, pushed away from Jared and raised his Empee, apparently determined not to go out without a fight. He sighted in at the group of Obin waiting for them in the meadow and yanked at the trigger. Nothing happened. To keep the Empee from being used against CDF soldiers by their enemies, the Empee required a BrainPal verification to fire. It got none. Wigner snarled in frustration, and then everything above his eyebrows disappeared as a single shot took off the top of his head. He collapsed; in the distance Jared could see an Obin soldier lowering a weapon.

Jared, Sagan, Harvey and Seaborg came together, drew their combat knives and put their backs to each other, each facing a different direction. Drawing their knives was a futile gesture of defiance; none of them pretended to imagine that the Obin needed to get within an arm’s reach to kill them all. Each took some small comfort in knowing they’d die within arm’s reach of each other. It wasn’t integration, but it was the best they could hope for.

By this time the second aircraft had landed; from inside the craft six Obin emerged, three carrying weapons, two with other equipment, and one empty-handed. The empty-handed one swayed over to the humans in the Obin’s peculiarly graceful gait, and stopped a prudent distance away, its back covered by the three weapon-wielding Obin. Its blinking multiple eyes appeared to fix on Sagan, who was closest to it.

“Surrender,” it said, in sibilant but clear English.

Sagan blinked. “Excuse me?” she said. As far as she knew, the Obin never took prisoners.

“Surrender,” it said again. “You will die if you do not.”

“You will let us live if we surrender,” Sagan said.

“Yes,” the Obin said.

Jared glanced over to Sagan, who was to his right; he could see her chewing over the offer. The offer looked good to Jared; the Obin might kill them if they surrendered, but they would definitely kill them if they didn’t. He didn’t offer the opinion to Sagan; he knew she didn’t trust him or want to hear his opinion about anything.

“Drop your weapons,” Sagan said, finally. Jared dropped his knife and unslung his Empee; the others did likewise. The Obin also had them remove their packs and belts, leaving only their unitards. A couple of the Obin who had been in the original group pursuing them came over and picked up the weapons and equipment and hauled them back to the airship. When one walked in front of Harvey, Jared could feel him tense up; Jared suspected Harvey was trying very hard not to kick it.

Their weapons and equipment removed, Jared and the others were made to stand apart from each other while the two Obin bearing equipment waved said equipment over each of them, searching, Jared suspected, for hidden weapons. The two Obin scanned the other three and then came to Jared, only to cut their examination short. One of them offered up a fluty comment to the head Obin in its native language. The head Obin came over to Jared, two armed Obin trailing it.

“You come with us,” it said.

Jared glanced over at Sagan, looking for clues on how she wanted him to play this and getting nothing. “Where am I going?” Jared asked.

The head Obin turned and trilled something. One of the Obin behind him raised his weapon and shot Steve Seaborg in the leg. Seaborg went down screaming.

The head Obin swiveled its attention back to Jared. “You come with us,” it said again.

“Jesus fuck, Dirac!” Seaborg said. “Go with the fucking Obin!”

Jared stepped out of line and allowed himself to be escorted to the aircraft.

Sagan watched Jared step out of line and briefly considered lunging and snapping his neck, depriving the Obin and Boutin of their prize and assuring that Dirac wouldn’t have the opportunity to do anything stupid. The moment passed, and besides, it would have been a long shot anyway. And then they would all almost certainly be dead. As it was now they were still alive.

The head Obin turned its attention to Sagan, whom it recognized as the squad’s leader. “You will stay,” it said, and gamboled off before Sagan could say anything. She stepped forward to address the retreating Obin, but as she did three Obin came forward, brandishing weapons. Sagan put her hands up and backed away, but the Obin continued forward, motioning to Sagan that she and the rest of the squad needed to move.

She turned to Seaborg, who was still on the ground. “How’s your leg?” she asked.

“The unitard caught most of it,” he said, referring to the uniform’s ability to stiffen and absorb some of the impact of a projectile. “It’s not too bad. I’ll live.”

“Can you walk?” Sagan asked.

“As long as I’m not required to like it,” Seaborg said.

“Come on, then,” Sagan said, and held out her hand to help Seaborg up. “Harvey, get Wigner.” Daniel Harvey walked over to the dead soldier and picked him up in a fireman’s carry.

They were being herded into a depression slightly off-center from the middle of the meadow; the small spray of trees within it suggested the bedrock below had eroded away. As they arrived at the depression, Sagan heard the whine of an airship departing and a second whine of one arriving. The arriving craft, larger than the other two had been, landed near the depression, and from its guts rolled a series of identical machines.

“What the hell are those?” Harvey asked, setting down Wigner’s body. Sagan didn’t answer; she watched as the machines positioned themselves around the perimeter of the bowl, eight in all. The Obin who had come with the machines scrambled to the top of the machines and retracted the metal coverings, revealing large, multibarrel fléchette guns. When all the covers had been retracted, one of the Obin activated the fléchette guns; they powered up ominously, and began to track objects.

“It’s a fence,” Sagan said. “They’ve locked us in here.” Sagan took an experimental step toward one of the guns; it swung toward her and tracked her movement. She took another step forward and it emitted a painful, high-pitched squeal, which Sagan assumed was designed to serve as a proximity warning. Sagan imagined that another step toward the gun would result in her foot being shot off at the very least, but she did not bother to test the proposition. She backed away from the gun; it turned off its siren but did not stop tracking her until she had retreated several steps.

“They had those here just waiting for us,” Harvey said. “Very nice. What do you think are the odds?”

Sagan stared back up at the guns. “The odds are bad,” Sagan said.

“What do you mean?” Harvey said.

“These are from the science station,” Sagan said, motioning to the guns. “They have to be. There’s no other sort of installation anywhere close to here. These aren’t the sort of things a science station would just have lying around. They’ve used them here before to hold people in.”

“Yeah, okay,” Seaborg said. “But who? And why?”

“We’ve had six Special Forces ships disappear,” Sagan said, omitting the one the Obin attacked and destroyed. “Those crews went somewhere. Maybe they were brought here.”

“That still doesn’t answer why,” Seaborg said.

Sagan shrugged. She hadn’t figured out that part yet.

The air was filled with the sound of the airships lifting off. The noise of their engines attenuated away, leaving nothing but the ambient sounds of nature behind.

“Great,” Harvey said. He chucked a stone at one of the guns; it tracked the rock but didn’t fire on it. “We’re out here with no food, water or shelter. What you think the odds are that the Obin are never coming back for us?”

Sagan thought those odds were very good indeed.

“So you’re me,” Charles Boutin said to Jared. “Funny. I thought I’d be taller.”

Jared said nothing. On arrival at the science station he had been confined to a crèche, tightly secured, and wheeled through the high, bare hallways until he arrived at what he assumed was a laboratory, filled with unfamiliar machines. Jared was left there for what seemed like hours before Boutin entered and strolled right up to the crèche, examining Jared physically as if he were a large and really interesting bug. Jared hoped Boutin would come up far enough to receive a head butt. He did not.

“That was a joke,” Boutin said to Jared.

“I know,” Jared said. “It just wasn’t funny.”

“Well,” Boutin said. “I’m out of practice. You may have noticed the Obin are not the sort to crack wise.”

“I noticed,” Jared said. During the entire trip to the science station, the Obin were utterly silent. The only words the head Obin had said to Jared were “get out” when they arrived and “get in” when they opened the portable crèche.

“You can blame the Consu for that,” Boutin said. “When they made the Obin, I guess they forgot to drop in a humor module. Among the many other things they apparently forgot.”

Despite himself—or because of whose memories and personality he held in his head—Jared’s attention focused. “Then it’s true?” he asked. “The Consu uplifted the Obin.”

“If you want to call it that,” Boutin said. “Although the word
uplift
by its nature implies good intentions on the part of the up-lifter, which is not in evidence here. From what I can get from the Obin, the Consu one day wondered what would happen if you made some species smart. So they came to Obinur, found an omnivore in a minor ecological niche, and gave it intelligence. You know, just to see what would happen next.”

“What happened next?” Jared said.

“A long and cascading series of unintended consequences, my friend,” Boutin said. “That end, for now, with you and me here in this lab. It’s a direct line from there to here.”

“I don’t understand,” Jared said.

“Of course you don’t,” Boutin said. “You don’t have all the data. I didn’t have all the data before I came here, so even if you know everything I know, you wouldn’t know that. How much of what I know
do
you know?”

Jared said nothing. Boutin smiled. “Enough, anyway,” he said. “I can tell you have some of my same interests. I saw how you perked up when I talked about the Consu. But maybe we should start with the simple things. Like: What is your name? I find it disconcerting to talk to my sort-of clone without having something to call you.”

“Jared Dirac,” Jared said.

“Ah,” Boutin said. “Yes, the Special Forces naming protocol. Random first name, notable scientist last name. I did some work with the Special Forces at one time—indirectly, since you people don’t like non–Special Forces getting in your way. What is that name you call us?”

“Realborn,” Jared said.

“Right,” Boutin said. “You like keeping yourself apart from the realborn. Anyway, the naming protocol of the Special Forces always amused me. The pool of last names is actually pretty limited: A couple hundred or so, and mostly classical European scientists. Not to mention the first names! Jared. Brad. Cynthia. John.
Jane.
” The names came out as a good-natured sneer. “Hardly a non-Western name among them, and for no good reason, since Special Forces aren’t recruited from Earth like the rest of the CDF. You could have been called Yusef al-Biruni and it would have been all the same to you. The set of names Special Forces uses implicitly says something about the point of view of the people who created them, and created you. Don’t you think?”

“I like my name,
Charles,
” Jared said.

“Touché,” Boutin said. “But I got my name through family tradition, where yours was just mixed and matched. Not that there’s anything wrong with ‘Dirac.’ Named for Paul Dirac, no doubt. Ever heard of the ‘Dirac sea’?”

“No,” Jared said.

“Dirac proposed that what vacuum really was, was a vast sea of negative energy,” Boutin said. “And that’s a lovely image. Some physicists at the time thought it was an inelegant hypothesis, and maybe it was. But it was poetic, and they didn’t appreciate that aspect. But that’s physicists for you. Not exactly brimming over with poetry. The Obin are excellent physicists, and not one of them has any more poetry than a chicken. They definitely wouldn’t appreciate the Dirac sea. How are you feeling?”

“Constrained,” Jared said. “And I need to piss.”

“So piss,” Boutin said. “I don’t mind. The crèche is self-cleaning, of course. And I’m sure your unitard can wick away the urine.”

“Not without talking to my BrainPal about it,” Jared said. Without communicating with the owner’s BrainPal, the nanobots in the unitard’s fabric only maintained basic defensive properties, like impact stiffening, designed to keep the owner safe through loss of consciousness or BrainPal trauma. Secondary capabilities, like the ability to drain away sweat and urine, were deemed nonessential.