The Lazarus War: Legion (32 page)

“By the way: that run up there?” Williams said. “It doesn’t count. You used zero-G to finish it. So looks like you come second again.”

He took another long drag on his cigarette. He had stopped smiling, was now just looking down at the pod—

Then, for the second time that day, something completely unexpected happened.

Bailey’s head exploded.

At first, I thought that the blood was mine. But in my drug-induced, pain-wracked fervour, I realised that the blood now spraying the auto-doc canopy was from outside the pod.

In my debilitated state, I registered the sound of the gunshot a second later.

Bailey’s blonde hair was a wash of brain and bone and blood. She slumped against the canopy.

Williams appeared as surprised as I was. He had no weapon – had been so sure of himself that he hadn’t bothered to pick up my Remington – and turned on the spot, face contorted in angry disbelief.

Another gunshot.

It hit him in the upper chest, reducing his fatigues to a black pulp. He managed to remain standing – mouth open to yell something that he never had the chance to voice. The barrel of the Remington was suddenly jammed into his face: point-blank range.

Dealing with unruly crewmen. Exactly what it’s for.

The shotgun barked again.

Williams’ head exploded with a single well-placed shot.

I lay still in the pod, trying to evaluate what had just happened. The auto-doc’s savage blades powered down. Like an insect drawing its legs up before flight, the medical tools adopted a relaxed position.

A friendly face appeared over me.

Tired, sallow; but friendly.

Private Dejah Mason.

“Jesus fuck, sir,” she shouted, loud enough that I could hear her from inside the pod. “What’s happening?”

I was weak – haemorrhaging from the open stump of my left arm – and didn’t have the strength to explain. “Activate the cauterisation protocol,” I said. “Now. Before I bleed out.”

Mason nodded, and the machine began that stomach-turning buzzing – started its work again.

Uneducated Army grunts aren’t typically trained in the use of the auto-doc. It’s a precision device: carrying a significant price-tag. That said, trauma-models like that in the infirmary were often programmed with automated routines. Some commands are a matter of pressing the right keys and issuing the correct commands. That was exactly what Mason did.

It took about five minutes to seal the wound with a medical laser, then less than a minute to pump me with real smart-meds to deal with the pain. I felt like I was floating: either the result of the blood loss or because I was in severe shock. The machine ended the treatment programme by sealing the stump with a thick layer of transparent plasti-skin.

“Treatment is now complete,” the auto-doc said. “Have a nice day.”

Mason stood over the control console. Dressed in a tank top and shorts, barefoot; the salvaged Remington shotgun was still in her hand.

“Good work,” I croaked. “Never let your gun out of your sight.”

“You okay, sir?”

“I’ll live. And you?”

“I’ve felt better,” she said. She rolled her head around against her shoulders. “But I guess I don’t really have grounds to complain.”

She stared down at the stump of my left arm. It had been severed completely at the wrist. Under the water-proofed false skin, nanos were working away inside my body to coagulate my blood, making sure that I wouldn’t bleed out. I was drenched in more than enough of that.

My severed hand lay on the treatment couch – fingers curled in a death-claw, already turning a sickening white.

“That’s going to hurt when the drugs wear off,” was all Mason could say.

“I’ll worry about that when it happens.” Perhaps it was a result of the smart-meds, but my dead hand was bizarrely hypnotic. It took some serious willpower to pull my eyes from it. “There’s work to be done.”

“I was in the cube, when I heard shouting,” Mason said. “How long have I been asleep for? And since when was Captain Williams trying to kill you?”

“Since the whole world went to shit.” I swivelled my legs out of the auto-doc and off the treatment couch, winced as I sat in my own blood. “It’s a long story, but all you need to know right now is that the Directorate are here. On the
Colossus
.”

“Where and how?”

“Unknown to both. We need to scramble the Legion, get them operational. Listen Mason, I’m so sorry. I should never have pushed you like that.”

Mason gave a nod. “Forget it.”

“I’m going to make sure that this is done right. Make sure everyone gets out of this in one piece.”

She gave a guilty smile at that. “Except for you.”

“This is nothing that can’t be fixed. A week in a regeneration tank and I’ll be good as new.”

That wasn’t quite true; I was grossly oversimplifying things. Regrowing a hand in a regen tank wasn’t easy and I’d heard that it was also an extremely painful experience. But I didn’t want to think about that, and especially didn’t want Mason thinking about it.

“I’m Lazarus. I always come back.”

“For the Legion,” Mason said.

“Let’s get the comms station over in the SOC working. You take the shotgun.”

“Affirmative.”

I stepped over the corpses of Bailey and Williams. There was a lot of blood; pooled around the bodies, leaking out onto the white floor tiles. Among the remains of Williams’ head, still on his lips but badly crumpled during the fall, was his cigarette.

“At least Williams is down,” I said. “That’s one less traitor to worry about…”

I paused, looked at his corpse. Maybe it was the blood loss. Maybe it was some deep intuition. Either way, something about his bone structure – about the underlying muscle tissue – bothered me.

I saw him with a split lip. I know that I did.

I reached down and scooped up the cigarette. It had absorbed a lot of blood: gone completely red.

“Mason, activate the chemical-analyser on the auto-doc.”

She did as ordered, without hesitation, although she couldn’t possibly have understood why I needed the analysis done. Only I’d been on the Artefact that night, and only I had seen Williams’ bizarre behaviour with the cigarette.

It was just a hunch, nothing more. But as I considered the idea, it became less and less fanciful: more plausible.

The auto-doc sucked the remains of the bloodstained cigarette into its analyser. It took a few seconds to work. Then a read-out appeared on the monitor.

We both stood, looking at the results.

I wasn’t sure what to say; wasn’t sure what could be said.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” Mason eventually asked.

“I think so.”

The chemical breakdown of the cigarette was concerning enough. The same analysis as that night on the Artefact. Extreme narcotic content, not just grown in Hydroponics but combined with other chems: no doubt provided by Bailey, in the perfect position to lift supplies from the infirmary and medical, right under Dr West’s nose.

More worrying was the sub-analysis of the blood content.

Three words glowed on the screen:

“Williams,” I said, “or at least
that
Williams, was a simulant.”

“I guess that explains why it took two shots to put him down,” Mason whispered. “But how is that possible?”

“When we first arrived here, Dr West bragged that the next-generation simulants were for more than direct combat. She even said that you could live in one indefinitely. That the sims were becoming second skins.”

“Holy shit…”

“Williams isn’t dead – not really dead, anyway.” The cut on his lip: gone the next morning. It suddenly made sense. I nudged the body on the floor with my foot. “This body is a next-gen simulant.”

It was the perfect cover. A traitor right under our noses, using next-gen simulants to minimise the risk to himself.

“I met him on the Run,” I whispered. “He didn’t come to save me. He came to make sure that I was dead…”

“Then where is the real Williams? Where’s his real skin?”

“Who knows?” I said, thinking it through. “He could be hidden somewhere else on the
Colossus
. Hell, there are more than enough hiding places on this ship. Or maybe he’s on one of the other Alliance warships; there are sixteen others in this fleet.”

“We’ll never find him,” Mason said. “What about the other Warfighters? You think they’re in on it too?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” I said. I mustered the best smile that I could in the circumstances. “And I’m all out of answers. We need to get to the SOC, and we can investigate from there. One more thing before we go.”

I reached down, and dragged Williams’ body to the auto-doc. Given I only had one hand, that wasn’t as easy as it should’ve been: Mason helped me get him into place. Then I activated the vibro-scalpel and sliced off his hand.
You took my hand, now I’ll take yours
. Not that he noticed or cared. This version of him just looked back at me with half a face, eyes vacant and confused.

“I think that we might need this.”

Mason cautiously covered every aspect of the deck as we moved, but we found the SOC as deserted as the rest of Medical.

“At least we’ve got power,” she said. “But someone has already been here.”

The simulators usually sat in two rows, facing each other like pieces on a holo-chess board. The Legion tanks were impassive, in sleep mode: a welcoming blue. All of the Warfighters’ tanks were missing. The outlines of their simulators were imprinted on the floor, connecting cables strewn nearby.

“You think our tanks are safe?” Mason asked.

I quickly inspected them. They appeared intact, no obvious damage. I activated each in turn. Checked the diagnostics panels on the outer canopy.

“They look to be operational. They haven’t been obviously sabotaged.” I shook my head. “Williams was too damned sloppy for that.”

“What would you have done?” Mason asked, as she powered up the communications station. Although the room was still cast in darkness, it seemed that most of the terminals were capable of running on emergency power.

“I’d have taken these tanks out the first opportunity I got.”

“What about the sims?” Mason said. “Maybe they’ve been sabotaged.”

“Only one way to find that out.”

My missing hand throbbed, but my data-ports ached even more. I’d never felt the urge to climb into the tanks so strongly. Just by clambering in, by making transition to the waiting sim in the belly of the
Colossus
, I could end the pain in my arm, in my head, everywhere in my body. The idea of living in a sim – combat or next-gen – seemed more than appealing.

“Communications off-line,” the AI chirped over the SOC speakers. “This starship is in a dark cycle. Authorisation required. User not recognised.”

Mason swiped her thumb over the DNA reader attached to the comms station. Cursed as she received the same response.

“Williams must’ve locked me out.”

“Let me,” I said, nudging my way to the terminal.

I used Williams’ dead hand. Swiped his cold thumb over the reader. It left a print in blood. “I knew it’d come in handy,” I said.

Mason gave me an unimpressed stare.

“What?” I asked. “I’m facing certain death on a Directorate-infested starship, and I can’t make a joke?”

“I thought you said that we were going to make it.”

“I don’t remember saying that at all.”

“Maybe it was the meds talking.”

“User recognised,” the AI interrupted. “Communications active.”

The general channel suddenly erupted with sound. Gunfire, screams. Shouts in Chino – I’d heard the language enough times to understand when it was being spoken, even if I didn’t understand the words – and Standard.

“Can you identify the brig?”

Mason shook her head. “The individual stations are still locked out.”

“Then can you open to broadcast on all decks?”

“That I can do, but it’s a one-way link.” Mason manipulated the controls. “Go ahead.”

I leant over the station, into the microphone. “This is Major Conrad Harris.”

Mason watched me very keenly. The irrational, misplaced optimism that surged behind her eyes was almost crushing.

“Many of you will know me as Lazarus,” I said. I let that sink in for whoever was listening. “The
Colossus
is my ship, and I know her well. So long as I breathe, I’m not going to give her up. I want every goddamned Directorate fuck on this ship to understand one thing: I’m coming for you. For every life you take today, I will take ten. No one is going to be left alive.”

I imagined my words streaming out of the speakers across the ship. Through the corridors, through the crew decks. If there was anyone loyal left alive on this ship, I just hoped that they would give them a glimmer of hope. Some sliver of assurance, to encourage them to keep fighting.

“For the Alliance,” I whispered, then closed the line.

Mason and I stood there for a little while: listening to the sounds of battle developing around us. Those were unmistakable now. Not nearby, but drifting through the air-ducts and maintenance shafts. I wasn’t sure how long we’d have before they reached Medical. Williams’ words haunted me: “That bulkhead on the way in is six inches of hardened steel. Nothing is coming through that door without a demo-charge or a plasma rifle.” The Warfighters had both of those things.

“What do we do?” Mason asked. She was still clutching the shotgun.

“I’m skinning up.”

“Then I am too.” She nodded. Stepped for her simulator.

“No,” I said. “I can’t allow you to do that. I want you to guard the SOC. Break out whatever weapons they have in Medical, but stay here.”

“You can’t go alone.”

“I’ll use my tank, make transition, and head for the brig. Kaminski will be there. If I’m still alive, I’ll move on the CIC.”

“Why the CIC?”

I stripped out of my fatigues. They were crusted with dry blood. “Because I need to see how high this goes. If Loeb’s Directorate – and I’ve reason to suspect he is – then I’ll take him down first.”

“Aim for the head, and sever the command chain?”

“Something like that. And Mason – one more thing,” I said, pausing as I climbed into my tank.