Origins (7 page)

“Do you find that dying makes you hungry?” came a voice.

I snapped awake and realised that I wasn't alone. Lieutenant James sat at the other end of the room, and stalked over to sit at my table. He looked dejected and shaken: a similar expression to that I'd seen him with on the surface of Capa, when he'd hesitated on the landing pad.

“No,” I said, swallowing a mouthful of bread, “but dealing with fuck-up flyboys who lose it when I need them most: that tends to make me hungry.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I'm sorry about that.”

He had a small bottle of Martian vodka, already uncapped. It was plain and unmarked, but seemed to emit a psychic beacon that called out to me.

“Next-gen sims don't get drunk,” I said. “We've been through this before.”

That wasn't quite true, because I'd seen James inebriated when he drank at speed. But this was a single bottle of vodka and I didn't think that it would be sufficient.

“I'm not drinking to get drunk,” he said.

“You get permission to bring alcohol aboard?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why? You going to tell Captain Qadr on me?”

I didn't answer but took the offered bottle. I'd been resisting it for a while – trying to do my best, hoping to avoid the other simulant teams seeing me in an impaired condition – but I couldn't resist any more. That ache in my bones, the sensation that could only be relieved by a good drink… I couldn't hold out. The spirit tasted hot and calming as it went down.

“What the fuck happened out there today, James?”

“Nothing,” he said, sighing. “I… I just…”

This wasn't like James, not at all. He was everything that a space jockey should be: handsome, cocky, a devil with the ladies.
This
James – simulated as he was – just looked frightened. He leant back in his chair, the rubberised flight-suit creaking. I had never actually seen him in his real body, and in the months we'd been stationed together I couldn't recall ever having seen him out of the flight-suit either.

“Kaminski was lucky,” he said.

I gave a hoarse laugh. “Try telling him that, but I wouldn't do it when Jenkins is around.”

He swigged the bottle, wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I'm sorry. I fucked up. It was just seeing those prisoners. It was too close to home.”

“What do you mean? You never said anything…”

He grimaced. “You ever wonder why you don't see me in my own skin, Harris?”

“Not especially. Your next-gens are made to live in, aren't they?”

“Some of us don't have a choice. What happened on Capa… It brought back memories.”

There was more to James than I'd realised. He'd mentioned family, mentioned previous postings, but not much else about his background. Scorpio Squadron had their own Sim Ops bay; that was pretty much protocol now, whenever Aerospace Force crew were attached to a sim operation. There were sixteen pilots on James' wing, and he was commander of the airgroup.

“How long did you do?” I probed.

“Six years, real-time,” he said. “Nothing like Cold Death, but just as bad. Jungle world; real hot, real sticky. I never even found out the name.”

“You should've told me. You could've run support—”

“That's not what I'm here for.”

“You jeopardised the mission, James. There were real skins down there.”

“It won't happen again,” he said. “We've all left people behind, Harris. We've all got guilt.”

Those words hit a nerve within me and I swigged deep at the bottle, wished that I had a whole case of the stuff. There was a real, bona fide war going on with the Krell. Not just a cold war, the likes of which I'd endured since the Treaty, but the real thing. The Krell were invading Alliance space again. I knew that I had responsibilities on the frontline.

All of those things were true.

But that didn't mean that I'd wanted to hear them.

I was feeling survivor's guilt.

I felt guilt because I hadn't been there when
Liberty Point
had gone down. I hadn't been there and hadn't been able to stop it. I felt guilt because over a dozen Alliance Navy starships had been lost in Damascus Space, with all hands. But if I dug really deep – painfully so – I knew that the real reason for my melancholy was Elena. At Damascus, I'd been so close to finding her: found a simulated copy of her aboard the Artefact. When the UAS
Colossus
had travelled through the Shard Gate, I had even seen her starship – the
Endeavour
. We'd witnessed the Shard Network; the grid of planets, stars and gateways that the Shard had left behind. The
Colossus
had been damaged by the journey; her sensor-suites and telemetry modules fried, her data-core burnt out like the neural synapses of a man driven into insanity.

So, Elena's location remained unknown. And try as I might, I hadn't been able to secure backing for another operation into the Maelstrom. The Alliance was too busy defending the new frontier to risk sanctioning another offensive. That wasn't good enough for me. The war wasn't going to be won by retreating, by gifting real estate to the Krell and hoping that they would be satisfied. For the Krell, it was
never
enough.

I pulled myself back to the conversation, realised that I'd finished the liquor. James didn't complain as I passed him the empty bottle.

“Did you hear what happened to the Buzzard?” he asked.

That was Admiral Joseph Loeb's nickname; earned from his appearance and his nature. He had been commanding officer of the
Colossus
, during the Damascus mission. I didn't answer: Loeb's situation was another source of guilt.

“His wings got clipped,” James said, drolly. “He's been permanently grounded, awaiting court-martial.”

“I know,” I answered. “I hear that he's on Calico now.”

James nodded. “I got new orders, too,” he said. “The whole of Scorpio Squadron got a recall notice.”

“Maybe that's for the best,” I said.

“Maybe,” James replied.

The conversation ended and James left a short while later.

I sat alone in the dark, the heave and sigh of the ship my only company.

It wasn't long before my mind turned to thoughts of Calico…

Ten years ago

Thirty-four years old, I was a captain with the Army's Simulant Operations Programme. The day that I had a chance to change my life, but didn't take it.

The last time that I saw Elena for real was on Calico.

I jostled my way through the crowded passageway, cursing as I nudged elbows with miners, colonists and corporate employees. Every outpost, even ship, had its own scent and aura: that instantly recognisable smell that comes with a home territory. Calico Base had it in force; a sweaty, grimy odour that reminded me this whole planet was basically one big mine.

Before the First Krell War, Calico had been a very profitable mining outpost. The original colonists were practitioners of some bizarre Hindu-Gaian sub-sect. Big on peace, small on war: despite the outpost's location close to the frontline, the Calicans had successfully avoided much involvement in the hostilities. They earned a living by mining raw materials from the rock, processing them in bulk, then hurling them Corewards. The planet wasn't much bigger than Old Earth's moon, and there was no atmosphere outside to terraform.

Closed ecosystems like this were always the worst for smell, and the off-worlders and tourists seemed to have swelled the population to double normal capacity. There were people everywhere: crammed into doorways, leaning from overhead railings. Every public space on Calico had been turned over to the procession, to the pomp and ceremony that would mark the launch of the UAS
Endeavour
. As I fought my way through the crowds, I even saw banners and flags printed with HAPPY LAUNCH DAY! It made my stomach turn.

Months prior, Elena had told me – when she left Azure, when she left me – that the launch details for the
Endeavour
expedition were classified. That had remained the case for several weeks, but when the Alliance media machine had got their teeth into the project everything had changed. The last few weeks had seen the mission made public.

I stared down at my wrist-comp. Thirty minutes until the launch. An avalanche of ideas occurred to me. I had to see her one last time. I had convinced myself that if I saw her –
if she saw me
– things would be different somehow.

“Where you headed, stranger?” a teenaged boy asked me, blocking my path.

“Shuttle bays.”

“Same as everyone,” he said. Shook his head. “It's a walk. You cutting it fine, soldier.”

I had cut it fine, and I knew it. I'd come down on the utility docks on the other side of Calico. That had cost me more time than I'd appreciated.

The boy shrugged. “But I can get you there, through the shafts, before a launch. You want, that is.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I reckon.”

The kid wore a bright orange vacuum-suit, his head comically small poking from the ring collar. I hadn't been on Calico for long – I'd taken a shuttle in, used my Sim Ops credentials to get a free ride – but I'd already noticed that everyone here wore vacuum-suits around the clock. While the base was fully pressurised and atmo-rated – you could go anywhere without a suit – some traditions were long in the tooth. The kid's suit looked as though it had been passed down several generations – worn and frayed, covered in a variety of neo-religious symbology. I doubted that it would actually survive exposure to vacuum.

“Gonna cost yous,” the boy said. “Ten credits get you there and back. No touch by gangs. Me see to it.”

“Nice try, kid. I'll just take directions, and those for free.”

The boy was mixed Indo-Asian stock; maybe thirteen or fourteen. A small gang of them were arranged about the corridor, ducking and diving between the tourists. Making a little on the side, pick-pocketing and making do. Like most of the children running amok around the base, this one was strangely stunted – his face much too old for the rest of his small body. Whether that was a lifetime of living among the grav-generators, or old-fashioned malnutrition, it was hard to say.

The boy rolled his eyes. “I can do it for five, sees. But no less. Gotta lotta business today. Launch day, see? I know these corridors.”

Reluctantly, I realised that the boy was probably right. I'd already got lost twice on the way here, and the passageways were tortuously labyrinthine. There was an enforced no-fly zone in effect. That meant no air-cars, no inter-base transport. I needed to make up lost time if I was going to stop her…

“All right. Five credits.”

“Up front, yes?” the boy said, flexing an open palm in my direction.

I rifled in the pocket of my fatigues. Found a credit chip and dropped it into the boy's palm. Despite his full vac-suit, he wasn't wearing gloves.

“Name's Vijay,” he said. Pocketed the credit chip in one of the many pouches lining the outside of his suit. “I be your guide today. And you?”

“Conrad. And if I get robbed on the way, Vijay, I'm promising you that I
will
kill you.”

“Me no scared of death, soldier,” Vijay said, flashing a yellow-tooth grin. “I born a bred Calico Base, see? Death walks here.”

Vijay started off down the corridor.

“When you get down, Soldier Conrad?” Vijay asked.

“Conrad is just fine. And I came down a few hours ago.”

“Me copy,” Vijay said. “Me like real military, sees?”

“Mmmm. I see.”

We passed through public halls, through big expanses with domed roofs. Calico had that slightly out-of-control feeling about it: of a plan gone awry, the hallmarks of a hundred changes in administration. Buildings were planted atop buildings. Structures sprouted from other structures. There was probably some architectural significance to the design work – this was, after all, a civilian facility, and how things looked was apparently as important to the builders as what they did – but it was lost on me. There were temples here and there, breaking up the monotony of grey buildings and metal scrapers. Those were painted in more exotic and enticing colours, as though to ensnare new followers. Lots of images of Old Earth, looking far greener and bluer than when I'd seen her last.

“I been a here since the start,” Vijay said. “Start a me, at least.”

“I follow that. Your folks first-generation colonists?”

“Or something. I no know 'em. No matter. I get in a Guild, get me accredited. Get me a rig, go a mining like the rest 'em.” He nodded in determination. “Get me a good life. Why you wanna come a Calico, anyhow? We no see so many soldiers a these days.”

“They're building a station,” I said. Although I could give the kid the exact details, because none of it was classified – not any more – I thought better of it, and summarised what I knew. “A few star systems out. A big base called
Liberty Point
. It'll divert traffic away from here.”

“That good a bad,” the kid said. “Probably mean less war a here, but maybe also less tourists. You sound American.”

“I am. That a problem?”

“Not for me. For lots out here, it is though. Maybe you should a get something else a wear?” He pointed out a clutch of tourists wearing bright orange, faux-Calico vac-suits. “You want one a these suits, I can find someone who can get you one. Rated for the vac and all.”

“I don't need a suit. My uniform is fine. I don't want to miss this launch.”

“You seem awful keen to get there. You got a girl aboard or something?”

“Something,” I said. “Are we far?”

“No,” he said. “I can even get you into a press pit, for a little extra. It'll be one a the best places to watch a launch.”

I don't want to watch the launch
, I thought.
I want to stop it.

“Do that,” I said. Didn't even ask about the credits.

For his faults – mainly, that he wouldn't stop talking about the history of Calico, about where he was from, and about the various items that he could acquire for me for just a few more credits – Vijay proved to be a reliable and decent guide. We carved our way through the passages and conclaves until we reached the transport sector. All the while, the timer clicked down. Anticipation was mounting inside of me. I'd already faced multiple simulated deaths by then – and started my meteoric rise within the Sim Ops Programme – but this was anxiety of an entirely different calibre.

If I didn't do something now, then Elena would be gone for good.

Through the transparent domed ceilings, I saw that the sides of star-scrapers had been dedicated to the celebration as well. The faces of the lead crew cycled through: in fifty-metre glory, each of them smiling towards the camera. It was sickening.

“Don't they know what they're doing?” I said aloud.

“They want a peace, see? That's what you military types don't understand. They want a go see a Krell and talk to 'em.”

“It'll never work.”

“But if this Treaty,” Vijay said, wagging his finger in a sage fashion, trying to appear far more knowledgeable than he actually was, “works out, then we'll all be winners. They talk about a Quarantine Zone or something.” Vijay ducked between two men wearing blue and green robes, swinging incense burners. “Shuttle bays a this way.”

It was there that Elena would be boarding, using the Calican shuttle terminals to reach the
Endeavour
. The actual expeditionary fleet was far above us, visible only as a collection of blinking lights, lost to the sea of stars.

“We start a build a space elevator,” Vijay told me. “It gonna be real good for finances.”

A metal beanstalk grew from the transport sector, surrounded by a series of industrial cranes and scaffold structures. Only a few hundred metres long at present, the unfinished elevator would connect Calico Base to the orbital docks: would allow for faster transport to and from the surface. Right now, the shuttles were the fastest option. That, and it gave the Alliance media machine plenty of opportunities to parade the crew before the cameras.

“Where's the press pit?” I asked.

Vijay pointed. “Down a that a way. I got a pass.”

The boy led me to a gangway. Sector security – men dressed in big blue vac-suits, with white lettering across their chests and backs – milled among Alliance Military Police; identifiable by their black flak-suits and the carbines slung over their chests. Vijay waved his wrist-comp at the nearest guard; a man with a head and face of tattoos, and missing front teeth. The guard raised an eyebrow in disbelief that a station rat would have a press pass, but was obviously too lazy to bother making the necessary checks.

“Go a through,” he said. “Enjoy a show.”

“We will, sir. Thanks a much, see.”

The shuttle bay had been completely given over to the launch and thousands of people were piled into the chamber; doors currently sealed, sixteen staunch transport shuttles on the apron, surrounded by launch scaffold and steps to the passenger cabins. Mostly unnecessary, but all part of the show. In the midst of the hangar, a military band paraded up and down the apron: fuckers in dress uniform playing their songs, barely audible above the combined cheering of the crowds. Civvies were blowing horns, waving flags, chanting.

I was glad that the press pit – despite its name – was elevated, overseeing the civilian onlookers. To my surprise, there was a mixture of press and military in the pit. The area above and around me was abuzz with news-drones – tiny cameras and microphones recording everything for posterity.

An enormous LED countdown flashed with TIME UNTIL BOARDING – 45 SECONDS AND COUNTING! SPONSORED BY DELAT ENTERPRISES!

There were no seats, but Vijay secured us a place near the front of the pit next to a female military reporter. I jostled my way forwards. I could see right down into the landing gantry from here: would be as close as I could get to Elena. Directly beneath us was a clear corridor, policed with security staff: a cordon holding back the swelling civilian masses.

I can't let her go
, I told myself.
She can't do this.

“Great! You're Sim Ops, huh?”

A female reporter stood beside me. Flame hair spilled over her shoulders, and a tight smart-suit clung to her body.

“What gave it away?” I said.

“Your uniform, actually.” She smiled at me with full red lips. It was an award-winning smile. An expression designed to make the recipient feel at ease.

“I was being sarcastic,” I said.

The woman shrugged off the implied insult. Two small news-drones circled her head. “How many deaths for you, Captain?”

So she could read rank insignia as well, huh? “Too many.”

She smiled that Pulitzer-winning grin again. I vaguely recognised her from one of the news-feeds that the Alliance military regularly put out; Cassi Something? Her deep green eyes flashed; data dancing across her pupils. I guessed she had an uplink with the Calico Base mainframe.

“Captain Conrad Harris, one hundred and twelve transitions,” she said. “Impressive.”

“That's a dangerous toy. Lot of intel could get into the wrong hands like that.”

“Core News is careful,” she said, tapping the holo-badge on her chest. The name read CASSI BROOKE, CORE NEWS NETWORK. Brooke nodded at the hangar. “Looks like you're just in time, soldier-boy.”

The countdown flashed: BOARDING! BOARDING! BOARDING!

The crew were protected by a military cordon, and were now being hustled to their waiting shuttles.

Shit. This is it.

Faces projected on to massive billboards, holos of the brave men and women of the Alliance expeditionary force.

Brooke began her spiel, speaking not to me but the news-drone in front of her. “Ten minutes to launch, people! The atmosphere here is incredible. The festivities have to be seen to be believed. The UAS
Endeavour
is currently kilometres above us, in Calico's galaxy-famous orbital docks.”