The Lazarus War: Legion (10 page)

Late fifties, West had pale skin, brilliant blue eyes and wispy grey hair.

“Will I have the opportunity to see Admiral Loeb before we set off?” I asked.

“Unfortunately not,” Dr West said. “You are running rather late. Our launch window is less than an hour away.”

Maybe last night hadn’t been such a good idea. I’d missed out on preliminary briefings with Admiral Loeb and Captain Williams. I guessed they would have to wait until we reached Damascus Space.

“Is the relic present?” Dr West said.

“It’s called the Key,” Saul replied. “It should be on our Wildcat. Please ensure that it is properly secured in the main laboratory.”

“Certainly,” Dr West said.

From nowhere, a dog started to bark: loud enough that it could be heard over the industrial din of the cargo deck. A black and brown animal pushed between the crowded personnel, slid across the polished metal tiles.

“Here boy!” Mason said, brushing past me to see the dog.

He was big, and I immediately recognised him as a genetic crossbreed – German shepherd and husky maybe. He barked some more, almost exclusively in the direction of Professor Saul, who positioned himself behind me, grimacing at the animal. The dog seemed to settle a little as Mason ruffled the fur behind his ears.


“This is Lincoln,” Williams said. “Admiral Loeb’s dog, retired from the combat division. Dumb mutt.”

None of the
Colossus
’ crew paid any attention to the dog.

“Last call for sleepers!” an officer yelled across the deck.

The
Colossus
had numerous hypersleep suites – each a vault big enough to house hundreds of sleepers – and we were led into one of them. Multiple rows of freezer units lined the bay: sometimes piled atop one another to make use of every possible space. Robot lifters were already stacking filled freezers; the canopies frosting, vacant human faces peering out. The hiss and churn of mechanical movers filled my ears; the crisp, cold smell of active cryogenics units filled my nose.

As I lay in my hypersleep capsule, hooked up to the device by intravenous drip and my data-ports, it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually been into the sleep since Helios. We’d been on other operations since our return but none of those had required a long journey time. Expectant anxiety crept into my bones; the idea that anything could happen once I’d fallen asleep.

You might never wake up.

Or you might wake up in ten years.

Maybe the war will be over.

Fat fucking chance.

The Legion lay in their own capsules, dressed in medical gowns and attached to machines. Martinez had already fallen asleep, whereas Mason was nervously fidgeting.

“First cold sleep for you, Mason?” I asked.

“Second,” she said. “I was frozen between Mars and the
Point
. How many times for you?”

“Too many, but you never get used to it.”

Mason fell silent. A pretty blonde medtech approached my capsule, with a placatory smile.

“Major Conrad Harris?” she asked. “You’ll be going into the sleep in a few minutes. Are there any travel requests?”

“Such as?”

She tapped the capsule lid with a fingernail. “These are new hypersleep capsules. They can assess brainwaves, encourage REM-sleep. It’s all very advanced. I can create an artificially induced dream for you.”

And you don’t need to know how it works,
the smile on her face explained.
Lousy grunts.

“I can download a dream-sequence, if you’d like. It’s non-intrusive; the system engages with your data-port—”

“I’ll have the Fortuna deluxe package,” Kaminski said. “And you can join me if you like. Something wet and wild.”

Jenkins scowled at him.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the medtech said, continuing that painted smile. “But you’d be surprised how many passengers make the same request.”

“Jog on, girl,” Jenkins ordered. “We’ll all take the same – a beach holiday, something simple.”

“Nothing for me,” I said.
I don’t want to dream.

The medtech busied herself about the procedure.

Whatever she did was happening in the dormant psyche – on a level not consciously appreciable, at least until we were under. But I could feel the cryogen being pumped into me; the gentle throb of the fluids entering through the IV.

“See you in nine months,” Jenkins said.

“Sooner,” Kaminski replied, “if something goes wrong.”

“Fuck you, ’Ski. Fuck you.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I asked.

“What were
we
supposed to do, don’t you mean?” Carrie replied.

She was pissed with me.

Pissed big time.

It had stopped raining a couple of hours ago. The sidewalks were still glazed with a layer of moisture, not yet cooked off by the cloud-wrapped sun, but the cloying warmth that had come to define the Metro had returned.

Carrie paced the storm drain. She shook her head. Crossed her arms over her chest, rubbed her elbows. Such adult affectations. She looked a lot like my mother. Hard to believe that she was not yet twelve.

I sat on the bank of the storm drain, watching the circus develop around us. It was interesting – made a change from the usual daily tedium, if nothing else.

“I can’t believe that you called them,” she said again. “It’s fucking embarrassing, Connie. Embarrassing, you know?”

I sighed. “I…I don’t get what the problem is.”

“You called them, Con. That makes us rats.”

The nearest spinner sat further up the storm drain. The vehicle was a deep blue with white panelling; the words DETROIT POLICE printed in bold lettering on the flank. The motto AUTOMOTIVE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD: MAKING DETROIT A SAFER PLACE TO LIVE, WORK AND VISIT had been painted over, but scratches to the bodywork allowed the forgotten lettering to show through. When it had landed, the cops aboard had used the siren. Now the roof-mounted cherry light flashed soundlessly. It was hypnotising; and for a kid like me it was exciting. They had even brought along a robot. Clad in the same blue-and-white livery as the spinner, it was much bigger than a man and stood stock-still, watching the proceedings with electronic eyes.

“I remembered the number,” I said, “and I phoned them. They can deal with him.” I swallowed. “With it.”

“That was our thing,” Carrie scolded. “Don’t we deal with our own shit round here? We should’ve told Adelia. She always says: anything goes wrong, come tell me. I’ll get it sorted. This is something going wrong, isn’t it?”

I played with a piece of grass I’d torn up from the drain floor.

“Adelia isn’t cops,” I said. “Adelia is a hooker.”

“Yeah, but she knows people. Knows the people who run this sector. Who do you think the cops are, Con? Another damned gang. Just a bigger gang than the rest, is all.”

“I wanted to tell Dad – but, you know…”

“Fat lot of good Jonathan would do,” Carrie replied. “Worse than the fucking cops.”

“This needed biggers. This needed cops. The baddest gang.”

“Baddest is right,” Carrie said.

It was a pretty big deal. For starters, it was the first dead body I had ever seen in person. The neutrality – the loss of any emotional response – to seeing the dead would come later.

“I’ve seen them on the viewer,” I said. “On the tri-D.”

“Who hasn’t? They’re everywhere, except the Metro.”

“So what was it doing in the drain?”

Carrie frowned at me angrily. She had probably been talking about police, I realised; whereas I’d been talking about the dead soldier. At the time, there was no reason I could imagine why a uniformed Directorate soldier would possibly be in a Detroit storm drain.

“Maybe they’re invading,” I suggested.

“Shut up, Con. Just shut up.”

It wasn’t as though there were ranks of enemy soldiers in the downtown. They had never landed in New York, Washington, San-Angeles: only dropped their terrible bombs.

“That’s why I called them,” I offered. “Because I can’t figure it out.”

“And they’re going to?”

There were lots of cop and other cars I didn’t recognise. At least six spinners – air-cars, designed for low-altitude flight. A couple of ambulances as well – throwing their own flashing lights over the walls of the storm drain. In the distance, beyond the multi-coloured light arcs, street people had gathered. They peered on with undisguised curiosity.

I was just as intrigued. I watched as the men and women milled around the sub-drain, flitting in and out of the tiny chamber in which we’d found the Directorate soldier. Some were in padded white forensic suits: faces covered with masks and goggles. Others were in blue flak-vests, POLICE printed over the chests. One wore a long brown trench coat, pulled up around his dusky unshaven chin. He was pointing things out to people, nodding a lot; telling them what to do. I decided that he was probably the boss.

“You ever see a cop this close up before?” I asked as I looked on. “They never come this far into the Metro.”

“No, and I damned well never want to,” she said.

“That robot is kind of cool.”

“It’s stupid.”

The cop-leader looked down at a data-pad, then up at us. Carrie shirked back – withering under the gaze of the law man. The cop only smiled at us: a tired but pleasant expression.

“Don’t go anywhere, kids,” he called. “I’ll have some questions for you later. Be with you as soon as I can, all right?”

“Now you’ve fucking done it…” Carrie muttered under her breath, quiet enough so that only I could hear it.

The cop went back to that dark rectangle of the drain entrance and we waited on the verge until he was ready to see us.

That turned out to be a lot longer than we’d expected.

Several hours passed. No one spoke to us.

Day turned into night.

The skyline became a dirty orange blaze, the sun setting uncomfortably on another day. Seemed to do nothing for the heat but a breeze began to filter down the exposed drain – sending off a fine skeet of grit. Overhead, warning beacons on the Skyshield occasionally flickered: a reminder of the UA government’s unwavering vigilance. That hadn’t seemed to deter the little man in the storm drain, whoever he was.

The flashers kept flashing: reds and blues, more imposing by night.

Carrie had given up complaining about my decision to call in the cops. Instead she was just hungry and tired, and had decided to focus on that. I tended to agree with her on both counts.

The cop in the trench coat eventually separated from the rest. Putting on his best and brightest ‘I’m a cop, but I’m okay’ smile, he approached us.

Carrie sat beside me, hands clutched in front of her knees, feet together. She looked a lot younger, all of a sudden.

“I’m Detective Romero,” the man said. “Pleased to meet you both.”

He held out his hand and I gingerly shook it. I’d seen adults doing that so it seemed the proper response. He did the same to Carrie but she edged backwards without explanation.

“You kids did the right thing calling us,” Romero said, nodding along with his own spiel. It was obviously working for him, even if Carrie didn’t buy it. “What you found is very interesting and important.”

He twitched his nose, rubbed it. Like all of the other cops, the boss wore a full filter: plugs jammed into both nostrils, a white-fabric face mask dangling loose around his neck. His voice sounded a little muffled behind the gear.

“Don’t you kids got filters?” he asked. “You should be wearing them outside. Whole lot of fallout in this sector, especially at night.”

We both shook our heads, mutely. I vaguely understood that fallout was bad and should be avoided, but not much more than that.

“Well, let’s see if we got some in the car. I’m sure that we do. Come with me and we’ll have a chat.”

Detective Romero was a slight Latino man; maybe once handsome, but face now lined heavily from too much hard work and exposure to the Detroit elements. Not as old as my father, not a young man either – Romero was clearly a seasoned officer. His clothes looked like him: weather-beaten, downtrodden. His black-leather boots were badly scuffed, and his trench coat was battered and lacerated.

One of the harness-bulls – that was what my father always called the beat-cops: in their heavy armour jackets, with their mirrored protective glasses – stood over by the lead air-car. As Romero approached, he nodded, and the uniformed cop opened the car. The gullwing door cracked with a creak of the hinges.

“You ever been inside a cop car before?” Romero asked me.

“No,” I said.

“Then this’ll be something new.”

He ushered me into the passenger side. Carrie scrambled into the car behind me; the front seat was easily wide enough to accommodate both of us. Romero went around the other side of the vehicle, opened his own door and slipped into the driver seat. With both doors closed, it felt like we were in a protective cocoon: warm, safe from the outside world.

This must be how cops feel,
I thought.

“Guess this must be kind of nerve-wracking for you?” Romero asked. “Finding that body and all.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I said. “But it wasn’t very nice.”

Romero laughed: a not-unpleasant sound, but not convincing either.

“You kids see the robot?” Romero said, pointing out past the windshield at the metal support bot. “He’s always a hit with the kids.”

“Yes,” I said. Copying my sister, I added: “It looks kind of stupid.”

Romero laughed. “Well, you know, he is a little stupid. That’s the thing about robots; they don’t think like people do. You tell Big Ron – our police bot – to do something, he’ll do it for ever. He’ll do it until his batteries run out.”

“I guess,” I said.

“You’re not much older than my nephew,” Romero said.

The car dashboard was an enticing combination of flashing diodes, tri-D projections, and exotic controls. Taped above the main police scanner was a creased and stained photograph: Romero and several young children. The picture looked old. He held two fingers together; kissed the tips, then touched the picture. I noticed that his hands were worn and tired. A sector tattoo – some police unit badge – coiled around his wrist.

“That’s him,” he said, referring to the photograph. “His name’s Diego. Gone off-world now, to the Cloud Cities. They say it’s real nice up there.”

Romero fished in the pocket of his coat. Pulled out a chocolate bar, broke it in half. He passed the first chunk to me then leant over me to give Carrie the second. We both took it and started eating immediately. Even at eight years old, I knew a bribe when I saw one – but I was so hungry that I didn’t care.

“You kids ever think about going into space?”

Carrie and I both shook our heads.

“That’s a shame. I’m sure that you’d both like it. They say that Mars is lovely right now. Been terraformed and all.”

“Okay,” I said, finishing the chocolate.

“Now, let’s talk about what happened,” Romero started. “First, you don’t got to worry: you’re not in any trouble.”

“I told you, Carrie,” I whispered.

She nudged me in the ribs. “Shut up, Connie.”

“That your name – Connie?”

“Conrad. And she’s Carrie.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. I’m Conrad Harris. She’s my sister.”

“That’s nice. Having a sister or a brother is nice. Family is important. How was the sweet?”

“Good,” I said.

“Glad to hear it. Like I was saying, you don’t got to think you’re in any trouble. You did the right thing calling us. You kids probably know that we don’t got to answer call-outs from the Metro any more.”

I nodded. I didn’t really understand why that was but the change had happened some months ago. The cops just stopped coming out this way; stopped answering calls for help. The politicos talked about better resource management, about “handing the streets back to the people”, but mostly it just meant that the police had given up on the Metro.

“I made an exception, because you two sounded like good kids,” Romero continued. He was staring out of the windscreen, looking at the cordon now formed around the drain door. “It’s important that you understand what you saw down there. That you realise what it actually was.”

I nodded. Swallowed down the last of the chocolate. It left a greasy aftertaste in my mouth. The man’s voice had changed: developed a harder edge. I’d heard that change in an adult’s voice before, and I didn’t like it one bit. It was the voice that my father used when he was angry. It was the voice that he used when he spoke to my mother, before she had died, when I heard them talking through the bedroom wall.

Romero fidgeted in the driver seat. His trench coat bulged at the chest – obviously fitted with flak armour plates but also something else. He pulled a pistol from a concealed holster. Slammed it onto the dashboard.

“You kids know what this is?” he asked. He removed his hand from the weapon and let us get a good long look.

“Yeah,” Carrie whispered.

“Our daddy – dad – has one,” I said. “He’s in the Army.”

The gun was big and silver. Multi-barrelled. Shiny like it had been looked after, polished. I’d seen more than enough guns for my age. But while I’d seen them around, I didn’t know what it really was: other than dangerous and threatening.

Which was, I guess, exactly what Romero intended it to be.

Carrie’s body had gone rigid beside me. She was never good at hiding things. Her fear was like the worst contagion and I felt my heart rate quickening too. We were in a closed space, trapped in the car.

Is he really going to shoot us…?

“Like I say, you need to understand what you saw down there. It wasn’t what you think, for starters.”

“What did we see?” Carrie asked.

Just as I’d been hypnotised by the flashing lights outside, now she was hypnotised by the silver gun. Her eyes were pinned to it as she spoke. She was asking a smart question, I figured, because it told us exactly what we were supposed to think.

Romero laughed. “Nothing, really. Some kook in a soldier’s costume. A prank in bad taste, is all. What would the Directorate be doing in the downtown? Doesn’t make sense, does it? Important thing is: what you saw wasn’t real. What you saw wasn’t a proper Directorate soldier.”

We sat in the cop car for a while.

All I could hear was Romero’s heavy breathing.

“Now, some of my colleagues down there suggested that I might need to take you to an all-night surgeon. A proper head-man, get you wiped. I told them you weren’t like that. I told them you were good kids.”