Origins (19 page)

“The SOC is ready to run,” Mason said. “We've got tanks, and they work. But no Science Division support.”

“I never thought there would be a time when I'd miss those fuckers,” Martinez said, “but it's finally come.”

He was right. The Sci-Div complement was a requirement for a simulant operation; usually made up of fifty or so medical staff. I'd already checked the numbers, done a tally: the
Colossus
currently carried five medtechs. All were of the minimal operating grade for a sim op and one was injured. Dr Serova was the most senior, but she had seen only a single combat operation and wasn't sim-tech approved.

“We've got plenty of simulants,” Mason said. “On last count, we've got enough for ten bodies a piece.” She smiled at Kaminski. “Even 'Ski has some new skins.”

“That so?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I'm itching to get skinned up again.”

“Could've been an administrative error,” Mason said, “or maybe Captain Ostrow planned it that way.”

“What about other equipment?” I said, turning to Martinez.

“Good news on that front; we've got a decent supply of arms and armour,” Martinez said. The Venusian's eyes glimmered for a second, and despite our current circumstances he looked enthused. “We got upgrades,
jefe
. Mili-Intel came through on this one. There are fifty suits of Ares battle-armour in the armoury.”

Mason whistled. “I've read about that. It's bleeding edge.”

“Believe me,” Jenkins said, “it looks a lot better in person than it ever could on paper. It's some real nice shit.”

Battle-suits were up-armoured and up-gunned versions of the usual combat-suits employed on sim ops; armoured units comparable with exo-suits or powered mechs in terms of their offensive capability. That Command had approved their use on this mission, or that Ostrow had managed to secure fifty of them, was impressive: given the current war-footing, it was a considerable investment of resources.

Kaminski cracked his knuckles. “If I get the chance to kick some Krell ass, all the better.”

I stood from the table, took the intel data-clip again.

“I'll make an address to the crew,” Loeb said. “After everything that's happened, it's the least they deserve.”

“You do that. Those medtechs will need to get the sleepers prepped as well. We're going to be in Q-space for a long time – too long to stay awake.”

There were some groans from the Legion.

“It'll take a couple of hours to conduct final flight checks,” Loeb said.

The hours before the sleep were filled with hurried, desperate preparations for launch. Those that needed it received medical attention from the limited sci-med crew. I insisted that they leave me until last, and Dr Serova oversaw the cleaning of the frag injuries to my shoulders and back, the wealth of lacerations to my face, the broken ribs. Far from them being the worst injuries I'd received, I was more than able to work on through them.

The
Colossus
sailed as quietly and invisibly as she could in an attempt to hide from both the Krell and the Directorate. No other ships turned up, and there was not so much as a single transmission received from the rest of the Alliance fleet. I was satisfied that they were gone: that the surprise attack on Calico Base had scattered, if not destroyed, the remaining Navy battlegroups.

We held a brief and impersonal funeral service for Captain Ostrow. His body was wrapped in a body bag and laid in the main hangar deck, surrounded by a handful of crew. No one knew enough about him to make any kind of comment on his passing, but Martinez said a few words: the Latter Day Catholic funeral rites. Then Ostrow's body was loaded into a firing tube, usually reserved for missiles, and we stood at salute. The body was launched into space, rapidly disappearing into the void, visible through the view-ports as a quickly diminishing spot in the dark.

“I hope that doesn't attract attention from the Krell,” Jenkins said.

Mason bit her lip and glared sideways at the older woman. “Have some respect, Jenkins. Please.”

Jenkins shrugged. “When you've seen death as often as the rest of us, you'll understand. This is nothing new.”

“At least it isn't one of our own this time,” Martinez said, sighing and shaking his head. I knew that it wasn't meant glibly.

“It's an occupational hazard,” I muttered. “And it'll get us all in the end.”

“Let's not forget the passing of those lost at Calico Base,” Martinez added, bowing his head. “We should pay our respects to Baker, Sperenzo; everyone else we left behind. They won't be forgotten.”

The deck cleared very quickly, and the task was done. I followed Kaminski and Saul out into the corridor. Not quite friends, they seemed to stick together as though the time spent in Directorate detention had somehow forged a bond between them.

“You sure that you're up to this?” I asked Kaminski.

“I was recertified,” Kaminski said, rolling his shoulder blades. “I can do this.”

“You don't have to go in with the Legion,” I said.

“Stop talking about me as though I'm not Lazarus Legion.” He grinned boyishly. “I was gone for a while, that's all.”

“I'm not going to ask you again,” I said, “but you need anything, 'Ski, just say.”

He paused, nodded. “Appreciate it, boss, but it really isn't me you need to watch. The rest of the team is just as strung out.”

Saul lingered wordlessly nearby, wringing his hands with unrelieved anxiety. “Same goes for you, Professor,” I said. “I know this is tough on you too.”

Saul looked at me as though he hadn't realised I was speaking to him, blinking behind his enhanced-visual glasses. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

“I guess that you were hoping for a break from the madness, Prof?” Kaminski jibed. “Somewhere warm and safe, eh?”

“Something like that,” Saul said. “I'd rather keep my head out of this mess, if I can. What the Warfighters did in the terminal, it… it wasn't something that I want to see again.”

“Did Command, or Ostrow, explain any of this to you?” I questioned.

Saul hesitated before he answered. “No. Nothing.”

I don't believe you, Saul
, I thought.

“What about the code word ‘Revenant'? That mean anything to you?”

That same pause again. “No.”

The
Colossus
' PA system gave a soft chime overhead.

“Last call for sleepers,” came the announcement. “All personnel to the hypersleep suite for pre-sleep medication.”

“After the sleep,” I said, “you and I need to talk.”

Saul repressed an uncomfortable swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Of course, Colonel.”

“All hands to the hypersleep bays…” the AI declared, repeating the order every couple of minutes.

The life-support systems cost power, and the starship AI was eager to conserve that wherever possible. By the time that Kaminski, Saul and I made it to the hypersleep suite, the
Colossus
had already started to put herself to sleep. The machine was taking decisions of its own accord, and had decided that several decks no longer required heat to operate at maximum efficiency. Given that we were surrounded by vacuum, the ship was quickly becoming cold. A plume of hot breath escaped my mouth as we made our way onto the crowded deck. The crew seemed to huddle together for warmth – or maybe safety – and there was only a single hypersleep bay operating for this operation.

Dr Serova patrolled the capsule banks, jotting things down on her data-slate as she went.

“All crew accounted for,” she declared to Loeb's executive officer, nodding to herself. “Except for Flight Lieutenant James…”

“So we get to see flyboy in his real body?” Jenkins said. She had changed into a hospital gown, and a clutch of IVs and data-jacks dangled from the open ports on her forearms like extracted veins.

Just then, a metal casket with a glass front floated into the bay: a grav-sled operated by two medtech custodians. Both kept a respectful distance from the pod; a machine something like a simulant-tank, stamped with the Sim Ops Aerospace Force seal.

“The lieutenant is here,” the nearest tech said. “Ready for decanting.”

The outer canopy of the pod was semi-opaque, and when I looked inside – curiosity getting the better of me – I immediately regretted it.

There wasn't much left of the body in the tank. A vague outline of a terribly scarred torso; metallic plugs grafted to the chest, feeder-tubes penetrating the ribcage. No arms or legs that I could see, but plenty of mottled skin where they had once existed. The face was the worst part, because it was undeniably familiar: because without even being told, I knew that this was Lieutenant James. He slept, eyes shut, but somehow I doubted that this was chemically induced hypersleep.

“Maybe you ought to go easy on him,” I said to Jenkins.

She pulled her eyes from the tank. “Maybe I should.”

I remembered James' explanation for his hesitation on Calico. His words: “
Kaminski was lucky.
” Seeing the thing in the tank – what was left of James – I realised that he had been right. The Directorate were capable of much, much worse.

The medtechs went about getting James into his hypersleep pod – thankfully, a unit away from the Legion – and we settled into our own machines.

I stripped out of my fatigues and struggled into a hospital gown. My bionic hand was performing well enough, but I still hadn't got used to it. The metal frame sent off harsh reflections. I stared down at the appendage for a moment.

Mason and Martinez were already loaded into their pods, and Jenkins was in the pod next to me. She had climbed into her machine and was wriggling against the cold plastic crash couch, making herself comfortable. I did the same, and soon the Legion were all hooked up and ready to be put under. The room around us had quietened down now. Medtechs were logging each pod, and some of the canopies had closed.

I felt the familiar rush of cryogen and sedative hitting my bloodstream. The dissociation that always came with the hypersleep was taking me more rapidly than usual. That might be, I considered, because I was already dog-tired. The attack on Calico had taken it out of me.

“Night,” Mason said, her voice anxious.

“Sleep well, assholes,” Jenkins replied.

“Always,” Martinez mumbled, in his sleep.

“Good to be back,” Kaminski said. He leant over to Jenkins' capsule, and the troopers kissed briefly. “Sleep tight, baby.”

“Dream about me,” Jenkins said. “But nothing slutty.”

Kaminski tapped his scarred cranium. “My head, Jenk. My rules.”

The pod canopy slid into place, humming as it descended.

I closed my eyes, let the sleep take me.

I saw – whether imagined or real, I couldn't say – a prickle of light on the inside of my eyelid. A blue light: star-bright. Even without opening my eyes, I knew what I was seeing. It was a tenacious image that had burnt into my mind, and had been plaguing me since Calico.

Had the
Shanghai Remembered
fired her drive as we'd left?

I knew that I should've discussed it with Admiral Loeb. At the very least, I should've asked the Legion whether they had seen it. There had been officers on the CIC – sailors manning the bridge – and their sensor arrays might've picked up emissions from an activated drive.

I couldn't tell them, in case it turned out to be true
, I thought to myself.
And if it's true, then I might lose the last chance that I have to save Elena.

I filed the thought away and let the hypersleep pod do its thing.

Ten years ago

I spent the next couple of hours locked in the back of a Mili-Pol meat wagon, cradling my bruised head with a medipack. The only indication that the launch had happened – that the shuttles had disembarked from Calico Base, left for the waiting expeditionary fleet – was the eruption of voices around me. The words “Launch! Launch! Launch!” were repeated again and again and again, accompanied by a tide of cheers and shouts.

This was not how I'd wanted today to go at all.

The inside of the van smelt of vomit and bactericide – a contradictory and heady combination – and although there were others caged nearby I was the only occupant of this particular holding cell. It was best described as cramped: a two-by-two with a metal bench on the cabin side, and a heavy wire-mesh grille separating me from the van's rear doors. No view-ports to the outside world, no way of stopping the mess that was unfolding in the hangar. I guessed – from the noise and commotion – that I was either still inside the launch hangar, or in an adjoining corridor.

I wrestled with the urge to be sick. The MPs had done a proper job on me: enough to put me out for the afternoon but just short of causing any lasting damage. Assholes. I closed my eyes. Willed the throbbing in my head to subside just a little.

There was a thumping against the outer door.
Maybe something has gone wrong. Perhaps there's still a chance that I can save her.
The rear door opened, leaving only the grille between me and freedom. Light spilled into the darkened cabin.

“He's being held pending double assault charges,” a gruff male voice said. “I got an officer willing to testify that he charged the cordon, ma'am.”

“Puh-lease,” a woman said in response. “He fell from the enclosure and got disoriented. Nothing more than that.”

I immediately recognised the voice. The CNN reporter from the press pit: the Brooke woman. She stood at the door, watching over the shoulder of an armoured MP. The officer blocked her path but held the door open just enough that she could see me inside the cage.

“He isn't going anywhere. We've had several incidents like this today, lots of disruption. It's bad enough dealing with the dissidents and religios without fuck-ups in uniform. I'm going to have to lodge a complaint with his senior officer.”

The reporter shook her head. The more I looked at her, the more recognisable her face became.

“This has been a great, momentous day for all of us,” she said, stroking the officer's forearm. “It really has. So let's not ruin it. I'm sure that the captain is sorry. Is informing his CO really necessary? It'll probably be a bucketload of paperwork for you to process, and like you say: you already have lots of other prisoners to deal with…”

The reporter grabbed his hand – so quickly that I barely noticed it – and, like a pro, slipped something into it. She was good, but so was the officer. He kept his hand lowered. His eyes remained on me.
And that
, I thought,
is how you bribe an Alliance Military Police officer into releasing a suspect…
But if it got me out of the cage, who was I to argue?

“He's Simulant Operations,” Brooke pined. “You know, officer, how difficult it is for them. They do such hard work – all that dying…”

The MP nodded. “All right. Just make sure that he stays out of trouble.”

“I'll see to it,” Brooke said. “He can be released into my custody.”

“Well, that was interesting…”

Brooke walked with me through the passageways of Calico Base. The celebrations were still in full swing, and didn't look as though they were going to slow down anytime soon. It made me feel a lot worse than the injury to my head. I had already tried to lose Brooke several times, but that wasn't as easy as I'd hoped. The woman was pernicious and faster than she looked, always on my tail.

“Thanks for getting me out and all,” I said, “but I have places to be.”

She raised a pale eyebrow at me. “Really?”

I grunted. She was on her own now, without news-drones, and she looked about as lost on Calico as I did. At the first sign of trouble, it appeared that Vijay the guide had vanished, eager to avoid trouble with MPs.

“I have a shuttle to catch,” I said.

“Funny how you weren't thinking of that when you jumped off that gantry…”

“I fell. You said so yourself.”

“Didn't look like that,” she said. “Didn't sound like that. Seeing a Sim Ops captain out here; it gets my news-senses tingling.”

“What do you want from me? I'm not a story, Brooke.”

She smiled. “I never said that you were. And call me Cassi.”

“Thanks for getting me out, Brooke, and I can pay for the bribe if that's what you're looking for.”

“That was on the house, Captain. But if you have the time…” She shrugged. “Maybe you can talk with me. Ten minutes. We can go for a drink.” Her face brightened. “I know a good place, not far from here. I'll even buy.”

I thought about it for a moment. Getting a shuttle off Calico Base would take some wrangling. It might be hours before I could get transport arranged, maybe even days before I could get out-system. Just the mention of a drink diminished the ache in my head, but exchanged it for a yearn in my gut. I hadn't appreciated that my hands were shaking until Brooke mentioned the drink.

What harm can it do?

“One drink,” I said.

“One drink,” she repeated.

The bar Brooke had suggested turned out to be the press lounge. It was barely recognisable to me: glittering glass frontage, a robotic piano player in one corner, chromed metallic floors and walls. Ordinarily, I would've avoided that place like the New Detroit heights, but today it wasn't an unappealing location. Every other bar, diner or club was packed with tourists and launch-celebrants: the press lounge, being reserved for Press Corps and associated Alliance staff, was far quieter. Granted, the launch had attracted press from all over, but we could get a seat and the bar hadn't run dry.

“This okay?” Brooke asked, pulling into a booth with glass walls and a transparent table.

“Fine,” I said. “But you promised drink.”

“That I did.”

She ordered us some local spirit that I didn't recognise. The bartender was human – an androgynous-looking man in an orange vac-suit – and quickly served up the drinks.

“I don't usually drink in press lounges,” Brooke said, “but today is an exception. That, and I've never been to Calico Base before. You?”

“First time for me,” I said, sipping the drink. I scrunched up my face: it tasted sweet and foul at the same time. “But I thought you said that I wasn't a story.”

“Those were your words, not mine.”

“You didn't disagree with me.”

She gave me a brittle, sympathetic smile. “I saw what you did out there. Everyone knows about Simulant Operations, what it could become. The new shit, the next big thing. Blah, blah, blah. I know what you troopers put up with, but what you did in the shuttle bay? It wasn't anything to do with Sim Ops. It was personal.”

“It was private,” I said. Staying and drinking was a very different beast from revealing what had happened between Elena and I.

Brooke tapped a cigarette from a crushed packet, offered one to me. I declined. “You had a thing for the girl, the doctor? What was her name – Marceau something or other?”

I sighed. “Elena. Her name is Elena Marceau.”

“Right, right,” Brooke said. “She was from Azure, wasn't she? Originally Old Earth, French origin? Am I right?”

I finished the sweet-tasting monstrosity but found that it had done nothing to quench my thirst. Without answering Brooke's question, I ordered another couple of drinks. My choosing this time: a basic Martian vodka, something crude but effective.

“I want to prove myself,” Brooke went on. Her voice had lowered; she was a good actress. “I don't want to be doing stories about
virons
being stuck up trees on Tau Ceti IV for the rest of my career.”

“
Virons?
”

“It's a native to Tau Ceti,” she said. “A lizard with fur, like a cat.”

“Does this act work on many soldiers?”

She shrugged, the veil of vulnerability lifting instantly. “Some,” she said. “But not you?”

“Not me. I'll drink with you, and then I'll get my shuttle.”

“Fair enough. Just tell me one thing: why were you so upset when you saw Dr Marceau leaving? Off the record.”

Before I'd had a chance to stop myself, something broke inside of me. I blurted, “I told her that if she left me, it would be the last time she would ever see me. I promised her that.” I swallowed back emotion. “That wasn't to be.”

“I've read her personnel files,” Brooke said, “such that are publicly available.”

“By which you mean none,” I said. All of our records were restricted. Sim Ops wasn't a secret any more, but that sort of data was still confidential. Even with Elena's posting to the
Endeavour
expedition, her civilian service record was classified.

“You'd be surprised what walls fall before a determined reporter,” Brooke said, “so we don't need to play that game. She was Sim Ops, and she was one of the original psychologists attached to the Programme.”

“That's true.”

“She was also one of the very first proponents of the Programme. A very vocal supporter of it, although she suggested that it should have very precise limits placed upon it.”

I said nothing to that: it was all painfully true.

“Look,” Brooke said, “I got you out of that prison van. They were going to report you to your CO—”

“And you said that it was gratis.”

“I'm not asking for a full interview or anything.”

“She was my girl, and she left me for the Maelstrom,” I said, as definitively as I could. “Let's leave it there.”

“And today, I guess, was your attempt to stop her from leaving?”

“Yes, it was.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “That's some seriously romantic shit, Harris.”

“Fuck you.”

“You think that she will ever come back?”

“I
hope
that she will,” I said.

But deep down? I was sure that she wouldn't. I thought of those starships – the expedition fleet – clustered in high orbit. All so fragile, all so weak. They weren't warships, and they shouldn't be taking the risk of sailing into the Maelstrom.

“So it was personal,” Brooke said. “Fair enough. Maybe not much of a story in that. Here's to the Treaty.”

She raised her glass. Several patrons nearby copied her.

I just drank hard and let it all go.

It turned out that I had more than a drink with Cassari Brooke – better known to CNN as Cassi Brooke, prime-time reporter for the Core Worlds. The evening rapidly spiralled into multiple drinks, until the table was filled with empty glasses.

Brooke got other information out of me, but – I was sure – not enough to make any sort of story. We talked about my father, although I studiously avoided the topic of his suicide, and then my grandfather. I was less concerned about talking about him, because there was so little to say.

“He was Section Eight,” I said.

“Which means?” Brooke slurred.

“He was discharged from the Army by reason of mental instability.”

“He went nuts?”

I shrugged. “You could say that.”

“How does this, ah, Section Eight, work with Sim Ops? Aren't you all a bit crazy?”

“Not enough for a discharge,” I said.

“Let me give you a name. A name for a man who doesn't ever die.”

“I die all right. I just keep coming back.”

“Is there a difference?” she asked, frowning.

“The simulation isn't real,” I said. “It only feels that way.”

This was basic textbook stuff; the material drip-fed to the media. Although the Sim Ops Programme was still young – was still a fraction of the size of the wider Alliance Army – we were already finding difficulties. More than enough recruits
had
gone full Section Eight: unable to tell the difference between what was real and simulated. The brain interpreted everything experienced in a sim as real, whether in a simulant or a hardcopy. The only difference was that simulated death wasn't final.

“My dear Captain Harris,” she said. “Died one hundred and twelve times.” She sat upright for a moment. “Do you guys all have, like, nicknames?”

“Call signs, you mean?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Some of us,” I said. “Not me. Not yet.”

“You should have one.” She ran a hand through her red hair, massaged her scalp. “Men don't fear men. They're scared of monsters. That's what the Krell have up on us, see?”

“I see.”

“Men needs myths. That's what you need to be, Harris. A myth. And with all those transitions…”

My attention was elsewhere, directed at the tri-D viewer beside the bar. It was getting late now, and many of the customers had moved on. The tri-D was still broadcasting a composite of news recordings from throughout the day, and the remaining patrons had gathered around it, eyes focused on the glowing graphics. Much of the material was pointless rubbish – overviews of the marching bands, detailed breakdowns of the starship specifications, further biographies of the crew. But this programme had caught my attention.

There were talking heads explaining what this mission meant to the Alliance. And not just the Alliance: Director-General Zhang, high executive of the Directorate, even made an address.

“He always looks so calm,” I whispered. “Whatever he is saying.”

Was that a learnt skill?
I wondered. Whether he was declaring war on the Outer Colonies, suggesting trade embargoes against the Antarctic Republic, or naming his fifteenth son, there was never any malice in his tone. He never so much as
looked
angry. It was particularly disturbing.