The Lazarus War: Legion (8 page)

“We can use the star-data to reach the Rift,” Cole concluded. “But there is more.”

Cole and Saul exchanged knowing glances.

My mouth suddenly felt dry, palms sweating. My data-ports positively burnt: so eager for activation.

“What do you know?” I queried.

Cole swallowed. “A tachyon trail has been identified around Proxima Altaris V. It leads to Damascus Space, and was left by an Alliance ship.”

“The
Endeavour
?” I asked. “Elena’s ship?”

Cole nodded. “We have quantum-space jump data. This route was taken by Dr Elena Marceau’s expedition, during the founding of the Treaty.”

Tachyon spills were left behind when human ships entered and left quantum-space. It was a virtual trail of breadcrumbs, an indicator that a ship had made a Q-jump somewhere nearby. Other than recognising that they existed, I didn’t know the science behind the tach trails. Even so, my mind raced with the disclosure. Krell ships used Q-space in just the same way as human vessels, but their technology was different and they didn’t leave behind a tach trail. I consulted the tactical display again, noted the location of Damascus Space. It was well within the Maelstrom, certainly further than I had ever gone before.

I breathed out slowly. This was it. At last: some solid evidence of where Elena had gone.

“When the UAS
Endeavour
left for the Maelstrom,” Cole said, “their rendezvous point was suggested by senior members of the Krell Collective.” He pointed to a location on the edge of the Maelstrom. “But we know that they left these coordinates shortly after making contact. It appears that they jumped to Altaris V, then from there likely to Damascus.”

“Why did Elena go into Damascus Space?”

“We aren’t sure,” Cole said.

“Although we have yet to find proof of life,” Saul picked up, “we know enough about the Shard to consider the species a continuing threat to Alliance security. It’s possible that the Krell have the same perception. I’m reasonably certain that the Damascus Artefact is a transport hub of some sort. As you Americans would say, a Grand Central Station.”

The graphic spun, showed routes across the region of space.

“In theory, if activated – if harnessed – it could be used as a Q-space jump point for Alliance ships, right into the heart of the Maelstrom. That might explain why the
Endeavour
took the journey.”

“Our goals are, for once, your goals,” Cole said. “We want to secure the second Artefact, and then to use the Q-jump point to access the inner Maelstrom. You want to follow Dr Marceau – the
Endeavour
.

“And we won’t be doing things by halves this time. You will be mission commander, but you’ll have the full might of the Navy behind you. A big team; a fleet. I’ve assigned a proper warship to the operation; the UAS
Colossus
, under Admiral Loeb. He’s assembled a fleet with sixteen other ships.”

Holos of the seventeen warships appeared on the display, spinning and scrolling with data-reads. The
Colossus
was a ship to be reckoned with and the assignment of the ship to Operation Portent demonstrated Cole’s commitment to the project. The other sixteen ships – cruisers, corvettes, a couple of battleships – were formidable too. Their names floated across the holo, but I didn’t have time to take in all of the details.

Loeb had said hardly anything throughout the briefing but he let out a pained sigh. “It’s a nine-month journey time between the
Point
and Damascus Space, give or take. All those resources tied up in one project.”

Cole ignored the veiled criticism – I strongly detected that Loeb disagreed with Operation Portent – but built on the comment.

“This Artefact might be our last chance to turn the tide of the war,” Cole said. “You’ll be able to pick your simulant team. Whatever personnel you want. Maybe a new candidate for the girl’s post – Mason, is it? Or a replacement for that unruly trooper.”

“Kaminski,” I said. “His name is Kaminski.”

“As you wish. Your second in command will be Captain Lance Williams; an experienced Sim Ops man. I selected him myself. He’s not unlike you, I suppose: he’ll break the rules if it gets results. He has already been assigned to the
Colossus
, with a four-man team. They call themselves the Warfighters – while they’re no Lazarus Legion, the extra personnel should assist in meeting your mission objectives.”

“What are my objectives?” I asked.

“I want the old Lazarus magic. Secure the Artefact, then support the science team in studying it. We want to know how this thing works; what makes it tick. Once you’re in-country, we want results as soon as possible. Take too long, and there might not be anything to come home to.”

Saul gave a nod of his head, a mild smile. “I will also be accompanying the expedition.”

Things didn’t go so well for the last Sci-Div officer that followed me out to the Maelstrom,
I considered, but said nothing.

“I believe that this Artefact may also interact with the Key,” Saul said, adjusting his glasses. “And as such, I’m procuring it. I’m particularly interested in the activation process.” There was a flash of excitement behind his one good eye. “The side-effects of a dormant transmitter were extensively catalogued by Dr Kellerman, but his mental state towards the end of his, ah, tenure make his data unreliable.”

I’ll have to watch him,
I thought.
Could he be another Kellerman in the making?

“This device is not transmitting at all; the reasons for that are unclear at present,” Saul continued. “These are all aspects which require further analysis.”

“I’ll need some time,” I said. “Before we leave the
Point
.”

That was a lie: it wasn’t me who needed time at all. I was ready and willing, would’ve suited up immediately. I wanted to speak with my squad, to ensure that they knew what they were signing up for. They might need the time, if they were coming with me – this was, after all, a volunteer-only op.

“We can’t give you much,” Cole said. “As Admiral Loeb says, huge resources have been sunk into Operation Portent. We haven’t been back to Helios. The Directorate might have access to whatever was left there. We aren’t the only ones listening and watching. Will forty-eight hours be enough to get your team together?”

“That’ll be fine, sir.”

Back into the madness.

I couldn’t wait.

I left the briefing room and found the Mili-Intel team waiting for me outside. Both soldiers lounged over the mule.

“All done, sir?” Ostrow asked.

“Nearly. I need to take the mule.”

Pieter shrugged. “You want a lift somewhere, sir?”

Afraid to let me off the leash?

“No. I need to do this alone.”

Pieter paused. Looked to Ostrow.

The captain tossed me the activation card. “Try not to crash it.”

“Don’t bother following me,” I said.

I went to see Sergeant Keira Jenkins first. She was my second in command and it only seemed proper that I explain the mission to her before the others.

Jenkins had a cube in the NCO barracks; somewhere near the station hub, where there was only artificial light. The overhead strips intermittently flickered and the deck had the slightly sickly smell of recent sterilisation. It was a warren of corridors and anonymous troopers’ quarters. I passed a grumbling utility robot, tasked with clearing up the remains of some trooper’s stomach from a particularly raucous night out. This area of the
Point
reminded me of where I’d grown up; of the crumbling apartment blocks of Detroit Metro, of the decaying inner city.

I found Jenkins’ cube and rang her buzzer. The room had an outer display unit, originally equipped with a surveillance eye so that the occupant could see who was calling. That had been smashed and blinked at me ineffectually.

After a long delay, I heard someone moving around behind the thin plastic door. Jenkins appeared through a crack between the door panel and jam.

“Major?” she asked. She ran a hand through her dishevelled dark hair, and still had last night’s make-up around her eyes.

“Catch you at a bad time, Jenkins?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. She didn’t sound very convincing. “Not at all. It’s just…I…” She paused, rubbing her eyes. “It’s early, is all.”

“This can’t wait. I need to speak with you.”

“Sure. Come in.”

She opened the door a little more, and I saw that Jenkins was dressed in an oversized San-Angeles speedball shirt. She wore it well; draping off her trim figure, falling to her thighs. Barefoot, she had obviously just woken up.

“Present from my folks back home,” she said, with an awkward smile to the shirt. “Fuckers can send parcels, fuckers can’t visit.”

Jenkins’ cube was in stark contradiction to her military state of mind. It was small but unkempt: clothing strewn across the floor, mingled with food wrappers and alcohol bottles. The door opened straight into the living quarters and a bunk filled the space – heaped with bedsheets and more clothes. An open-plan kitchenette adjoined the room.

A wall-screen dominated the panel behind the bunk: showing the sunrise over some Californian beach. How the West Coast used to look, how a great-grandparent would describe it; not the fallout-ridden seaboard my generation knew.

I wandered into the room, failing to hide my disbelief at the disarray. Jenkins slid the door shut behind me. Nudged a tequila bottle out of the way with her foot.

“Sorry about the mess. I’m still settling in to the new quarters.”

I raised an eyebrow. “We’ve been back on operational duty for eighteen months, Jenkins.”

“I’ve just been…you know…busy.”

“Was it a good night?”

“Something like that,” she said, voice cracking. Last night hadn’t claimed its dues just yet: she continued kneading her scalp.

“Anything to drink round here, Sergeant?”

“Yeah, sure. There’s water in the kitchen. I’ve paid up the sub.”

I laughed. “I was thinking of something a little stronger.”

“Whatever you can find then.”

I plucked the half-full bottle of Martian tequila from the floor, tilted it to check that the contents were as labelled, and searched the tiny kitchen worktop for a clean glass. An opened packet of stimulant tabs – ALLIANCE APPROVED, GUARANTEED NON-ADDICTIVE FORMULA: TROOPER’S FRIENDS – sat beside the piled-high sink, and I flipped a couple out of the wrappers.

“Maybe these will clear your head,” I said, passing them to Jenkins.

“I think I should definitely give alcohol a miss today,” she muttered. She dry swallowed the medication.

“We’ll see how long that lasts.”

I swigged at the tequila. It tasted hot in my mouth, burnt on the way down. Martian spirits are uniformly rough but they get the job done – a lot like the Martian people.

“You in a rush today, Jenkins?” I asked.

She reached back a little in the bed, over the heaped covers. There was something awkward in her presentation and it wasn’t just the hangover. I’d seen Jenkins with enough of those, and in any event with smart-meds and stims she’d be on her feet within the hour. This was something else, something different.

She’s hiding something.

Jenkins reached back again, feet dangling over the edge of the bed: back arched. “No rush. Just tired.”

“I don’t believe you. Have you got someone under there?”

Her face immediately turned scarlet. Simultaneously, something moved under the pile of bedsheets.
Someone
coughed.

“Just – a – friend,” Jenkins stammered, cheeks burning an even brighter shade, still trying vainly to hide whoever was in the bed with her.

“Kaminski?” I asked.

Jenkins was still for a long beat, then let out a sigh.

The bedcovers peeled back and Private Vincent Kaminski appeared from beneath them: bare-chested and grinning inanely, no hint of embarrassment on his face.

“Hey there, sir.”

“Morning, trooper.”

“Only just,” he said, nodding at his wrist-comp.

Oh-nine-hundred-thirty hours.

I laughed out loud, slinging back the rest of the tequila.

This was unbelievable, but now – seeing Kaminski and Jenkins sitting in the bed together – it also seemed strangely inevitable. Troopers worked hard and played hard.

“How long has this been going on for?” I asked. I was enjoying the mortified look on Jenkins’ face, which contrasted so comically with Kaminski’s unabashed grin.

“Not long,” Jenkins managed.

“On Helios? Before then?”

“After then,” Jenkins said. She shot Kaminski a look and he nodded in agreement. “Are you angry?”

“It’s a disciplinary offence. You’re lucky I don’t report you.”

“Are you going to?” said Jenkins.

“You know that I won’t. You’re the best damned troopers I’ve ever had, along with Martinez.”

“And Blake,” Jenkins added. “Don’t forget Blake.”

“How could I forget him? What you two do in your downtime is for you. Off ops, spend your time with whoever you like. As long as it doesn’t interfere with work, then it’s all good with me.”

Jenkins gave a relieved smile, and some pressure even seemed to escape from Kaminski’s vacant face.

“I might question your choice in men though, Jenkins. Maybe I’ll suggest you get an additional psych-eval. Any woman who chooses to go with ’Ski must need some work.”

The atmosphere in the cube suddenly relaxed and all three of us were at ease. I’d never actually seen my crew like this before, in all the years we’d served together.

“Now,” Jenkins said, back to her usual self again, “it’s always nice to see my CO – on or off duty – but care to tell us why you’re here?”

I sat on the end of the bunk and looked at them earnestly.

“I need to speak to you, to both of you. Command wants us to go back into the Maelstrom.”

I explained everything that I knew. Told them what had happened at the briefing, of the second Artefact and the Damascus Rift. They listened intently, rarely interrupting my account.

Of course I was willing to risk my life, do whatever it took to follow Elena, but it wasn’t just my life on the line out there. My squad deserved not just more intel before making an informed choice: they deserved complete disclosure.

But when is a military op ever that easy?
a voice in my head persisted.

Kaminski and Jenkins sat up in bed now, close together.

“So that’s everything I know,” I said. “Command wants to send us back into the Maelstrom, to secure the Artefact. I’m going, with or without a team, but Cole has promised I can have whoever I want. If I’m going back into the hot zone, then I want you two with me.”

I left out Cole’s snide remark about Kaminski. He might well be a bad comedian but he was a good trooper. Whatever had gone down in debrief, Cole could never know what my squad had collectively faced on Helios.

“If you want some more time to think about it, then I can ask for longer.”

“I’ve got your back,” Jenkins said, without hesitation.

She offered her fist to Kaminski. His face broke into another grin and he gently tapped knuckles with Jenkins.

“
We’ve
got your back. No way I’d let you go out there without us.”

“This is your choice, troopers. I won’t think any worse of you if you decide to stay here. After Helios, I can probably swing you a rear echelon post somewhere – not necessarily outside of Sim Ops—”

“No choice to be made,” Jenkins said. “Look: we all suffered on Helios. We all brought something back with us. And left something behind.”

Kaminski and Jenkins had pained expressions. I realised then that I’d been selfish, that for a long time I’d been wrapped up in my own memories of the Artefact. But my team had been there too. Neither of them would say it, but I immediately knew that they had the nightmares as well – that they remembered all too well.

“This will be a chance for closure,” Jenkins said. “A chance to put some things right.”

Although I could barely admit it to myself, I’d been dreading asking my crew to go back into the Maelstrom. More than anything, I’d secretly feared that they might say no: might decide that after what had happened on Helios, enough was enough. And who could blame them for that decision?

“I’m going to ask Martinez as well. You think he’ll agree to go?”

“No question,” Kaminski said. “He’ll take any opportunity to bring his righteous fury down on the infidels.” Kaminski crossed himself. “God’s way and all that. What about the fifth member of the squad?”

I rubbed my jaw. That wasn’t an easy question to answer. Private Dejah Mason was young and inexperienced. Should I take Cole up on his offer of some old blood in the post? There would be very little time to train with another soldier, even if we remained on the
Point
and opted for a virtual-reality simulation. But I saw something in her, something that I didn’t want to lose. She reminded me of Blake.

“I’m going to ask Mason,” I said, definitively.

“Is that a good idea? She’s still green, sir. Seven transitions, including the last one. And that hard-drop from the Wildcat nearly messed our shit up.”

“She’ll polish fine. I’m going to ask her. Maybe you’ll get your wish; she might say no.”

“No to a posting with Lazarus?” Kaminski said. “Not likely. The average sim operator would kill for a posting to the Legion.”

I nodded: didn’t need Kaminski to tell me that this was on my head.

“When do we leave?” Jenkins asked.

“You’ve got forty-eight hours to complete any formalities.”
Write a will, send a letter home.
“Cole has a starship assigned. Some real hot shit, apparently.”

I moved for the door and stepped over piled clothes. “Maybe you can use the time before we disembark to clear up this mess. And since you two are so close now, maybe Kaminski can help out. That’s an order.”

I left them to it.

Next was PFC Elliot Martinez.

There were areas of the
Point
where not even I felt safe. It had always been that way, in reality, but my time away had cemented the belief. It was a growing, ever-evolving outpost, with its own ecosystem and populace. Communities rose and fell within the wider structure, little empires and kingdoms splintering under the general Alliance military umbrella.

On larger outposts, it wasn’t unknown for whole sectors to fall through the cracks. The District was an example of that: originally a civilian recreation zone, designated for the use of contractors and visitors, it had evolved over time into an open-all-hours drinking spot. Sometimes, areas of a station were abandoned and took on a purpose that the original builders hadn’t intended. Real estate in space is precious.

The Ghetto was such a sector, and I knew that was where I would find Martinez.

I took the requisitioned Army mule down through the habitation decks. Large signs insisted CARRY YOUR BREATHER AT ALL TIMES! RISK OF ASPHYXIATION! Gradually, the character of the station changed. The stark military corridors became dirtier, some sectors even graffiti-covered. Old propaganda holo-posters jumped to life as my transport glided past: calling out to me to stay behind. The very few view-ports located in the walls were plastered over with maintenance signs or sealed with breaching foam. Much of the works had been started but left unfinished; funded by corporates that had long gone out of business, for military projects that were terminated before they had even started. Just one of the many peculiarities of time-dilation.

I approached a couple of troopers in old and worn-out Army fatigues, sitting around a burning oil can. They carried shock-rifles and one of them slowly flagged me down. I pulled my mule up to the checkpoint.

“Sir,” the trooper said. “You got business in this sector?”

“I have.”

“Such as?” the other asked.

“Here to see a friend.”

The rifles were worn on the hip, safeties off: charge level set to DEBILITATION. One chewed a toothpick, rolling it around his mouth as he looked over my vehicle.

“Can’t take a mule down there, sir. It’s a restricted area.”

“Then I’ll walk. I’m here to see Private Martinez. Either of you know him?”

The lead trooper gave a lazy smile. “Why didn’t you just say? Scares a trooper out of his mind, seeing a Sim Ops major turn up on a mule at this hour of the morning.” The soldier turned to his colleague. “Take the major through.”