The Lazarus War: Legion (13 page)

“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.”

I followed Dr West through the
Colossus
’ corridors.

The ship was immaculately presented; floors a polished sheen, bulkheads oiled to perfection. The same could be said of the ship’s crew. Officers and enlisted men passed by, nodding and saluting as appropriate. Loeb’s dog padded on beside us, occasionally pausing to sniff the air.

“Despite the size of this ship, I find myself wearing two hats,” Dr West said. “I’m acting as aide to the admiral, and he wants to see you before you settle in.”

“Good.”

Dr West’s pace slowed, and she half-turned to me.

“A word of advice, Major,” she said. Her voice was hushed, almost conspiratorial.

“I’m listening,” I said, not quite sure where this was going.

Dr West smiled. “No one wants to stay here longer than absolutely necessary. No matter what General Cole has told you: the admiral is keen that you conclude your mission here as quickly as possible.”

“I understand.”

“That might explain the admiral’s current disposition. You’ll probably find that he can be, well, difficult.”

“I’ve seen that already, and I’m used to difficult.”

“He can be
very
difficult. He’s rather set in his ways, and I don’t think he values this posting.”

We passed into another corridor and the character of the ship changed sharply from austere and military to almost homely. The floor was carpeted. There were three chairs in a line against the wall – real wood, probably imported from the Core Worlds.

Dr West noticed me looking at the decor and gave me a slight smile. “Just like I said, set in his ways.”

The door to the admiral’s quarters slid open. Loeb appeared there.

“Come,” he ordered.

West watched me and Lincoln go inside.

Loeb’s room was modern and spartan. He strode across it and positioned himself behind a large glass desk. One of the self-cleaning types, not gaudy or cheap. A selection of data-slates, transparent films and other stationery lay across the surface; Loeb leant in and touched one item, moved another. Lincoln followed after Loeb, then settled down beside him.

Loeb nodded at one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.”

I took a chair.

“Coffee,” Loeb ordered, waving a hand at a junior orderly waiting nearby.

“None for me,” I said.

Loeb stared at me with small, very dark eyes. His nose was hooked, beaklike. He did, I decided, look very much like a buzzard: his nickname was more than appropriate. His features were aged, his greyed hair shorn very close; a shipboard Navy cap positioned precisely atop his head.

“This ship has history,” Loeb said. “Some of her elements are over a hundred years old.”

“Is that so?” I said, although the tone of my voice made plain the comment was not made out of curiosity.

“It is so,” Loeb replied. “And it’s an old Naval tradition that when a ship dies, the parts of her that can be saved are recycled. She’s born again, you see: whether by reuse of a data-coil or an engine component – her spirit lives on. She’s resurrected. Reborn.”

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have, because you aren’t Navy,” Loeb said. He had a habit of retaining eye contact; like he was staring me down. “The
Colossus
, or parts of her, have fought in many of the Alliance’s defining military engagements. She was at Titan when the Directorate were defeated. She was on Mars during the Rebellion.”

The orderly delivered Loeb’s coffee, then retreated in silence. Loeb smelled the drink for a long moment before continuing.

“The
Colossus
was once a drop-troop transport for the Alliance Army. She carried real, living human troopers: to whom life and death had a meaning.”

“Why exactly are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Because I can remember when war was real. When we didn’t run around chasing alien Artefacts, wearing skins that we weren’t born in.”

“Those days were a long time ago.”

I tried to weigh Loeb up, to get the measure of him. He wore a short-sleeved deck-issue Navy uniform, probably far less ostentatious than many senior officers would favour. Beneath the sleeve of his right arm I caught an ancient ink tattoo: a trident symbol, surrounded by stars.
An old Navy SEAL, perhaps?
The formation was now long gone, but the traditions lived on.
Is he a relic?
I asked myself.
Does he think that this war can be won with boots on the ground rather than bodies in simulators?
Lots of the older military organisations had been disbanded as a result of the success of the Sim Ops Programme. Many did not go quietly.

“My point, Major,” Loeb continued, “is that the Navy, and the
Colossus
, has history. Things work because of it. People do what they’ve done for generations and they do it better as a result. The Simulant Operations Programme, on the other hand, doesn’t. Maybe things work all right when the right man is in charge, maybe things fall apart when the wrong man is behind the controls.”

He sipped at his coffee, eyes closed as he savoured the taste.

I scanned the photos behind his desk. Most were famous framed holographics – Mustafa Islam, the first man on Mars; the atmosphere-processing grid on Alpha Centauri; a hardcopy of the Alliance Constitution – but something niggled. Last in the row was a graduation shot. A dozen or so young Naval officers, dressed in formal blues: smiling for a photographer. A familiar face, much younger than when I had known him, stared back at me.

Captain James Atkins.

GRADUATION CLASS OF 2261: GANYMEDE NAVAL OFFICER SCHOOL.

Former captain of the UAS
Oregon
.

It was like seeing a ghost: a reminder of how Helios had gone wrong. In the forefront of the picture, a rakishly thin man stood with his service cap in his hands. A much younger Admiral Loeb, I realised.

When I looked back to Loeb, he was staring at me again.

So that’s what this is all about.

“I know that a lot of people think you’re some kind of hero,” Loeb said. “But there’s a fine line between heroics and negligence. I haven’t yet decided on which side you fall. I’ve read the Helios debriefing. I know what happened to James Atkins. He was a damned good man, and he died – along with his ship – because people took risks. I won’t let that happen to my fleet, to my ship, to my crew.”

“Captain Atkins was a great man…” I said, my voice trailing off.

Let Loeb believe whatever he wants.
I couldn’t defend my actions because to do so would be an attack on Atkins; would undermine Atkins’ valour. Loeb hadn’t been on Helios and no matter what he’d read about it, he could never know what had really gone down. Captain Atkins had made a brave sacrifice – the ultimate sacrifice – and it was one that I would never forget.

“Listen, Lazarus or whatever it is you call yourself. I run a tight ship out here. We’re in enemy territory. I won’t be taking any risks. I don’t want any drama.”

I breathed out slowly. “I have a mission, and I’m going to complete it to the best of my ability.”

Loeb waved at a view-port set into the wall, at space beyond. “Then I’ll make this clear. Our – my – commitment to Damascus Space is a waste of resources. There are seventeen battle-ready warships in this fleet, and those ships would be better deployed on real operations. Those seventeen ships are my responsibility, and they are my resources. I want to be killing Krell, Major Harris. First chance I get: I’m off this operation.”

“Understood.”

“To ease your transition – forgive the word – into shipboard life, Captain Williams will acquaint you with the facilities aboard the
Colossus
. I’m sure that Lazarus, and his Legion, will want to utilise everything at their disposal.”

Loeb poured scorn into the words, emphasising
Lazarus
with contempt.

I stood from the desk. Loeb remained seated, watching me from under the brim of his cap.

“I’ll be seeing you, Admiral,” I said.

“I’m sure,” Loeb replied, as I left his quarters.

Williams was waiting for me outside the admiral’s room, lounging in one of the wooden seats. When he heard the door open, he jumped up and tried to salute.

“Don’t bother with any of that shit around me,” I said. “I’m not that kind of major.”

“So I hear,” Williams said. He smiled sheepishly. “Did the admiral chew you up?”

“Something like that. He doesn’t seem very sold on the idea of Sim Ops.”

“The Warfighters got the same reception when we first arrived, but I think that I’ve won him around.”

“How did you do that?”

“Loeb is just real angry, man.” He motioned with his hands – the whole of him seemed to be in movement – and tapped the side of his skull with his index finger. “Doesn’t like it out here. The best way to handle him is to keep your head down.”

We passed through a junction and made our way to an elevator shaft. Two Marines in combat gear sat at the end of the corridor. Both had shock-rifles slung over their chests.

“When the Buzzard is around, you’ve got to look like you’re doing something,” Williams said. “He likes busy people, see.”

“I see,” I said. I really didn’t. “So you’re afraid of hard work then, Captain?”

Williams shook his head. “It isn’t like that, man. It’s just that you need to know when to work.” It was almost as though Williams had forgotten that I was his CO. He rapidly tried to explain himself. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m Sim Ops, through and through, but I’ve never been a foot soldier, and never wanted to be one. I’m only interested in the glory work.”

“I’ll remember that.”

I’d have to watch Williams. He struck me as a liability and I wasn’t quite sure why a trooper like him would be assigned to such an important operation. I stayed quiet, allowed Williams to activate the elevator controls – selecting a destination in the upper decks of the
Colossus
.

“This is a restricted area,” the ship’s AI warned. “Security clearance red required for access.”

Williams tutted, swiped his thumb over a combination DNA and fingerprint scanner set into the elevator wall.

“User not recognised.”

He cursed, swiped again. There was a brief pause, then a light on the panel illuminated green.

“User recognised: Captain Lance Williams. Destination accepted. Note that your presence in this location will be logged.”

“Yeah, man. Just get us up there.”

Over the course of a couple of hours, Williams showed me around the ship. We toured the command intelligence centre – the CIC – and the bridge, which I’d already seen. I saw the navigation arrays, and the analytical engines – machines tuned to monitor the arcane energies of the Damascus Rift. He showed me the armoury, the barracks and the flight decks. I got an idea of the firepower that the
Colossus
could wield, if she was given a free rein. She was constructed over maybe thirty or forty decks, although many decks were dedicated to engineering, maintenance and other closed functions. Despite that, the ship was easily the largest upon which I’d travelled.

“How long have you been assigned to the
Colossus
?” I asked.

Williams sighed thoughtfully. “Six months? Well, fifteen with the time-dilation. We were in the Eskari Sector. Fighting’s pretty hot down there.”

“That so?” I questioned. I hadn’t heard of any activity in that sector of the QZ, but the Zone was big enough that combat action often got missed. That, and time-dilation, made casual observation of the war a difficult task. “Guess that kept Loeb happy.”

“But I miss home pretty bad. I’m Earth-born too; Californian. There are so few of us left these days. Don’t know if Jenkins told you, but we knew each other.”

“She didn’t mention,” I lied.

“Really? We had this thing together in Basic. She was sweet on me, man. Had it real bad. I had to let her down gently.”

“I’m sure.”

“These things – relationships – just don’t last when you’re both on long-term deployment. But Jenkins is a nice chick. It’s good to see her again.”

“Right,” I said. I was indifferent to what Williams had to say: I already felt like I knew more than enough about Jenkins’ past life. “What physical facilities does the
Colossus
have?”

“You mean like a gymnasium or something?”

“Anywhere I can work out.”

“Sure, man. We got everything here. You like to run?”

“Most days if I can.”

“Then you’ll like the Buzzard’s Run.”

That piqued my interest. “Show me.”

Our destination was the very upper deck of the ship.

“…Lots of personnel use this as a run,” Williams said. I’d tuned him out: he talked a lot. “We got anti-gravity exercise devices, a whole gym dedicated to muscle-mass and tone. You’ll find the Warfighters down there often, but sometimes the old ways are the best.” He turned to me, pointedly said: “You strike me as a man who appreciates the old ways, Harris.”

The elevator doors opened to a long, straight corridor. But this corridor was different: the walls and ceiling were composed entirely of glass, ribbed by metal supports. Beyond the glass, there was nothing but space. I swallowed, felt an intense wave of agoraphobia. The place was so utterly open. It gave the impression that I was walking through space.

A shadow fell across the deck for a moment and I turned to see a Hornet space fighter coming in to land. The corridor was on the very spine of the
Colossus
, and below us there was a vacuum-landing strip on either side. I watched as the fighter slowed down, caught by the gravity-runs of the strip. It eventually disappeared into the awaiting hangar.

“If you want to get a good view of the fighters coming in to land,” Williams babbled, “then take Vulture’s Row.”

He pointed out the tower almost directly above us. The Row was a regular feature on most space fighter carriers; a popular location for visitors and off-duty Marines to witness the spatial acrobatics of show-off jockeys.

“I’ll pass,” I said. I’d seen it all before.

Williams nodded. “This is what I wanted to show you. It’s a challenge, see? This end of the Run has a full decompression survival kit – first aid, an emergency respirator, the works.”

Williams jogged ahead of me. He pointed out a red box beside the elevator door, then the other end of the run. There was an empty space beside the corresponding elevator door, where the first had a supply box.

“That end has nothing. Aerospace crew removed it, to make the Run more of a risk. That’s where you start the Run.”

I’d seen similar games on other ships. If, unlikely though it was, you got caught mid-run, you’d have to finish the course in a decompressing environment. There would be no purpose in turning back, because the way you’d come from would have nothing to help your survival.

“Has the corridor actually ever decompressed before?” I asked.

Williams sniggered. “Not so far as I know, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“And I guess it’s called Buzzard’s Run because the admiral uses it?”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Williams chided. “Yeah, the old man uses it every day – oh-six-hundred sharp. Try not to be here when he is.”

“Doesn’t strike me as much of a runner. I reckon that I could take him.”

“You’re joking, right? He does good for a man of his age. The Run is exactly two hundred metres. He can clear it in twenty-five seconds.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really. He’s a machine, is old Loeb.”

“And what’s your best time, Williams?”

“Twenty-two.” He eyed me cautiously. “I’ve got the record. Some of the flyboys have set up a score table: you can patch in with your wrist-comp.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

The day’s tasks dealt with, I wandered through the maze of corridors to my assigned stateroom. The deck felt as cold and lonely as that of the Buzzard’s Run.

My away-bag had been unceremoniously dumped on the single bunk. A pile of smart-meds sat on the small terminal in the corner, printed plastic instructions sheets indicating appropriate use.

My body was exhausted but I didn’t feel like sleeping. I’d been under for nine months. Mentally, I felt as though I’d slept for long enough. So I took to the decks. I found the anti-grav gymnasium occupied by the Warfighters – the big Martian lifting weights – and decided that I’d give that a miss. I tried the Buzzard’s Run. Thought about inviting Martinez – he often ran with me, between ops – but decided to try it on my own first. Predictably, my time was atrocious. My wrist-comp put me on the leaderboard somewhere in the middle; well behind the entire Warfighter squad.

I considered that I might need something more cerebral to put me under. So I found a disused communications pod at the aft of the
Colossus
and claimed that as my own. The walls were soon plastered with mission papers and I hooked my slate up to the ship’s terminals. Started running analyses of our approach, checking near-space for any more surprises.

The comms-pod was meant to be manned by two staff. Crammed full of electronics gear – mainly passive listening and scanning devices – the place was comfortably tight with a single occupant. A tiny view-port sat in front of me: a slice of outer space moving by at sub-light speed.

I’m preparing for the mission,
I told myself.
Doing what any good commanding officer would do. That’s why I’m here.

“You’re becoming a good liar,” I whispered in the dark. “Even to yourself…”

I knew that mission prep wasn’t the real reason for my withdrawal from shipboard life.

I spent the hours tuning and retuning the comms receiver. Fragments of long-lost communications swept over me. Some in hot, fractious static. Others crystal-clear, as honest as the day that they were sent. The transmissions rarely had visual elements – but the audio was enough. Impossible to date, but likely sent at the end of the First Krell War.

It was like stepping back in time.

“I shouldn’t even be sending this,” came a disembodied voice – female, faltering. “But I wanted my children to hear me speak one last time. I want you all to know that I love you, that I’m sorry that I left…”

“This is the UAS
Atreides
.” A strong male voice: the voice of a Naval officer. “We have fallen back to the Rift. The Krell continue to give chase. Our Q-drive is damaged…”

“…Help us all! God help us all!”

The messages were retained by Damascus Space: by the triangulation of space debris, so many moons and planets, and the presence of the Rift itself. They would bounce around for ever, trapped in the void.

I discarded all of those messages. I knew exactly what I was listening for, even if I didn’t really want to admit it.

This was where Elena disappeared.

I was searching for Elena. For her ship, for some scrap of who she used to be. I needed to know what had become of her.

I cycled through the tuning bands, searching every possible frequency, to no avail. Eventually, my body won the war against my mind. I drifted into a fitful and shallow sleep.

And just then, I heard a voice.

“
…This is the UAS
Endeavour
. We’ve found it. The results of our examination have proved inconclusive
…”

The speaker was a reedy male voice; pitched, frightened. It wasn’t Elena, but just the mention of her ship – the
Endeavour
– was enough. Although I tried to wake up, my limbs were solid, as inert as a disused simulant’s. I didn’t know whether the voice was real, or a fabrication of my imagination. I wanted to investigate, to find the provenance of the transmission. But more than anything I wanted to believe that Elena was still out there.

In the twilight between wake and sleep, the voices kept coming from the squawk box, and all I could do was listen.

“I am sending messages home, to our loved ones. These people deserve a proper funeral. We have their bodies in the freezers. If we ever make it back, they can be honoured. Christo protect us all…”