Origins (10 page)

The
Shanghai Remembered
had been the flagship of the Directorate fleet sent to intercept us at the Damascus Rift. That explained the weird black shit beneath her skin: the result of a symbiotic graft with her starship. She felt everything that her ship felt, could react faster and with greater efficacy: was equipped with a full range of in-head comms apparatus. She wasn't quite human, and yet so much more – an engineered soldier, created for a purpose.

“She's a clone,” Loeb said. “But she's not like the line troops. She's worse: a custom-made job, sanctioned by the Executive.” He scowled. “Her name is Director-Admiral Kyung, but they call her the Assassin of Thebe…”

Loeb's voice trailed off, and he suddenly seemed a very long way away.

I was alone. I felt my hand trembling, the shake in my chest that told me I needed a drink, and needed one
now
. Thebe was a moon of Jupiter: a world many, many light-years from Calico Star. A world that had once housed an Alliance science station known as Jupiter Outpost…

“What's wrong?” Loeb asked.

“She was at Thebe…” I whispered. A heady mix of hate and remorse welled within me.

“That's what I just said. A lot older than she looks, that one, and the
Shanghai
has been refitted more times than I'd care to say… But it's the same ship. Scuttlebutt is that the
Shanghai
made it back from Damascus,” Loeb said, quietly, conspiratorially. “And if your man, Kaminski, came back as well: that confirms it. The ship is still out there.”

Maybe it was a coincidence that the
Shanghai
had been dispatched by the Directorate to take us on in Damascus. Odds should've been that time-dilation, and the distances involved, threw Kyung and I to different fates: to paths that would never intersect.

“Except that God doesn't do coincidences…” I whispered.

Not my words, but Martinez's. They seemed to have taken on some significant import: looking at the stylised globe that represented Jupiter Outpost, at the campaign badge worn by the Assassin of Thebe's crew.

I stood from the couch, abruptly. “I have to be going. I'm expected in Medical.”

“Good to see you, Harris,” Loeb said. “Take care.”

“And you,” I said, and I turned to leave: Kyung's mutilated face scorchingly precise in my mind's eye.

Almost as soon as I'd left Loeb's quarters, I was apprehended by two fully decked MPs.

“Are you lost, sir?” the lead trooper asked. Both wore imposing black flak-suits that completely covered them. The helmet visor was flipped shut, making their appearance a mystery. “The infirmary is in Sector Ninety-Eight.”

I doubted that these two had found me by chance. They were probably watching my movement via the security systems; via the surveillance drones that populated the tunnel junctions.

“I was just on my way,” I lied. I'd been intending to catch a drink, to do something to blot out Loeb's disclosure about Kyung.

The lead MP tapped his shoulder badge. “I'm Sergeant Nico, part of base security. Dr Hunt is waiting for you in the Medical Sector. The elevator shaft is the quickest way down there.”

“This way, sir,” the other trooper said. He was much bigger than his colleague; a hulk of a man.

“Let's walk,” I said. “I could do with the exercise. Dr Hunt can wait.”

“Yeah, man, sure,” the trooper said.

Calico's main infirmary was filled with a mixture of personnel: military – Army, Navy, and lots of maintenance crews – but just as many mining staff. They sat in despondent groups in the concourses, always in their vac-suits; crowded the corridors.

“Move aside, citizen,” the MP from my escort said. “We've got a genuine VIP coming through.”

He nudged his carbine into the chest of a miner who had blocked our passage. The civvie stood aside, but I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head as we passed.

“These guys never learn,” the other trooper said. “Dumb fucks. Always getting caught in rockfalls…”

I saw a lot of crush and impact injuries. I guessed that this was a common ailment among the miners – a risk that had to be managed but couldn't be eliminated.

“Hey, Nico,” I said. “You want to take it down a level? We're guests here, and I'm sure that these people don't take kindly to me queue-jumping.”

“Yeah, sir. Sorry.”

A small man in a white coat pushed in our direction. He carried himself with an air of certainty that suggested he was in charge down here, and his name-tag – DR HUNT: CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER – confirmed it. He read from a data-slate, continually running a hand through his bright blond hair. I didn't know the man, but remembered that
Liberty Point
's last chief medico had told me a new recruit was due to take his place.

“I guess that you must be Dr Viscarri's successor?” I asked.

“Hmmm,” he answered. When he looked up, he appeared almost angered by our presence. “I've been chief medico for over two years.”

“I've been away,” I said.

“Command has sent orders for a refit,” Nico said. “This is Colonel Harris.”

Hunt shook his head. “We already have one of your troopers down here.”

“That'd be Private Kaminski,” I said. “How's he doing?”

“Hmmm,” Hunt said, commencing to read from the data-slate. “He's got elevated neural readings and the data-port in his right forearm might need replacing. After what he's been through, he'll need a full psych-eval. All tests. He's not getting certified before I can look at his results.”

“But he will be,” I said, forcefully.

“He's broken,” Hunt said with a shrug. “Just like you. Come this way, and we'll talk about that hand.”

Hunt led the way to a quieter area of the infirmary, away from the civilian crowds.

“You're lucky that Alliance forces fell back to Calico,” he said. “While this facility doesn't have a regeneration pod, it does have an extensive supply of cybernetics. In reality, I doubt that a man of your age and disposition would survive a week in a regen pod: with a blood pressure like yours, it'd be a risky proposition. There's every prospect that you'd develop an immune reaction. You could end up with a failed graft.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just saying it like it is. But there is an alternative. The miners here; they aren't exactly a careful bunch. This is the safest course.”

A female medtech wheeled a table into the room. A glass tube sat on top, and inside was a metal hand, tapering in a trail of bio-organic cabling. The digits were multi-jointed but crude, whereas the upper limb was graphite-coated and armoured.

“It's a combat model,” Hunt said. “Made from a reinforced plastic-titanium compound. The grip response is far improved over your original model.”

“My real hand?”

“Your real hand,” Hunt said back at me. “I know that it's not pretty, and it won't win you any friends, but it's one of the better military models.” Without waiting for my consent to operate, he added, “Do you want to use the auto-doc for the surgery, or for me to arrange a surgeon to do it manually?”

“Manually. I prefer the old ways.”

“Why did I already know the answer to that question?” Hunt grumbled. “This really would be easier if you'd trust the damned machine instead.”

“I have a problem with auto-docs.”

Just over six hours later, I was awake on a treatment couch with my new bionic hand attached. The neural rethread was done via a nanite injection, which was the easiest part of the process, and I was asleep through the rest: the reweaving of titanium-composite grafts to the existing bone network, the reconnection of the surviving nerves. I felt groggy from the anaesthetic, but it was a fast-acting version and I knew that I'd be up and about within minutes.

I examined the hand. A complex arrangement of attenuators and semi-concealed hydraulics, the exposed metalwork glimmering softly under the treatment-room lights. It's amazing the number of individual bones, the variety of muscles, in the human hand: each of those natural occurrences had now been replaced by a man-made alternative. Palm up, I clenched the hand and watched the fingers move. The action caused an involuntary wave of revulsion in me. No matter how advanced the appendage was, it was still foreign. Not my own.

Dr Hunt swept into the room, the female tech chasing after him.

“Up already?” he asked. “Surely that wasn't so bad, eh? I bet you wish that you had come to see us sooner.”

I sighed and said nothing.

He went on, “You'll need to take it easy for a while and you'll need to get to know that hand. It'll be easy to over-grasp to begin with. You won't know your own strength.”

“Don't go shaking anyone's hand,” the medtech said, dryly. “Or anything else.”

“It'll take several months to bed in,” Hunt insisted. He prodded the line where flesh met metal with the tip of his pen. I could feel where the item touched flesh, but not where it contacted the prosthetic. “I'm ordering limited use of the hand to begin with.”

I flexed the hand again, noted the delay in response time. It felt clumsy. The physical operation was only one half of the undertaking: there was also a lot going on under the hood. Medical nanotech worked on the inside; fusing neural pathways to enable my nerve impulses to be interpreted by the new hand. The nanites were self-assembling an electrode array inside me, and I knew that over time their integration with my body would improve.

“It'll get better,” Hunt said. “Try light, simple activity at first; the more regularly you use it, the faster it will become. We run twice-weekly sessions down in the Bionics department. Lots of veterans attend – they can teach you some useful exercises.”

“Looks like it'll have to do,” I said.

Hunt's face softened a little. Not so much that I'd venture that I liked the man, but enough to let me know that he was human. “You ever think about taking some downtime?”

“No,” I said, brusquely. “I have too much to do. There's a war to fight, Doctor.”

“And don't I know it. I'm not talking about removing you from operational duty. Perhaps taking a rear post for a while.”

“Become a REMF?”

“That's what you troopers call them, isn't it? ‘Rear echelon motherfuckers'?”

I nodded. “I'm no REMF.”

“Maybe a few months running a battalion administratively, watching the war from the sidelines, might be a good idea. You're a colonel now, Harris. Colonels don't go to war on the frontline, last I checked.”

“This colonel does,” I said. “I'm Sim Ops, and I'm Lazarus Legion.”

Hunt sighed. It was the sound of a man used to giving advice, but in the knowledge that it would be ignored. “I know all about Lazarus Legion, and I know about Dr Marceau. Your story has become more than common knowledge.” He turned the data-slate to me; showed me what he'd been reading. LAZARUS LEGION LIBERATES A THOUSAND PRISONERS FROM DIRECTORATE LABOUR CAMP, the headline read. “I won't remove your certification, Harris, because people out here need someone to believe in.”

“So what's your point?” I said, swinging my legs off the end of the bed, readying to end the conversation.

“You're burnt out. This is a young man's game, and you're not getting any younger.”

“So people keep telling me. Look, all I need to know is can I get back in the field?”

“You keep getting into the tank, sooner or later you're not going to be coming out. It's as simple as that.” He paused, meaningfully, tightened his lips. “The results of your most recent medical examinations aren't good. We're talking synaptic damage – extensive – and degradation of the tissue around your spinal port.”

“Then put a new one in,” I said. “That's not a problem. I just need you to recertify me and my team. All of us.”

“Private Kaminski?”

I nodded.

“By my oath as a doctor, I should medically discharge him. The Directorate have put so much metal in his head there isn't room for much else in there.”

There wasn't much in the first place
, I thought to myself.

“You can take it out,” I said. “He's an essential member of the Legion.”

“He needs a long-term psych-eval, and even more than you he qualifies for some shore-leave.”

“But you
will
recertify him,” I said. My tone made it plain that this was not a question: that I expected Kaminski to be back on the force. “We look after our own.” I looked to the data-slate in front of Dr Hunt: at the glowing icon that said CERTIFICATION: YES/NO. “I just need your bio-print on the dotted line, and I'll be getting out of your hair.”

For a fraught second, I thought that he might press the NO icon, but just as he seemed to veer in that direction he keyed YES.

“I'm doing this because Viscarri told me that you were a good operator. I'm doing this because I want to leave this shit-forsaken outpost… But I'm serious about one thing. You'll need to let that new hand bed in. Nothing strenuous for at least six weeks, while the nerve-connectors do their thing.”

“I'll be careful.”

“I mean it!” Hunt rebuked. “You could cause serious damage to the remaining skeletal-muscular structure, and I doubt that a man of your age can take another implant—”

“I'll rest when the war's done, Hunt.”

“I think that your rest will come a lot sooner than that,” Hunt said. “Gaia's praises be on you.”

Dejah Mason was waiting for me in the room outside. A couple of miner kids, dressed in diminutive orange vac-suits plastered with a combination of corporate badges and religious iconography, chased around her feet. She flipped them a credit chip, tousling their hair. When they saw me approaching, with my metal hand, their eyes went wide and they both scrammed towards their waiting mother.

Mason smiled. “That new hand has some benefits, at least.”

“You were recertified, I take it?” I said.

She activated her wrist-comp and waved it in my direction. “Borderline test results, but they'll do. I would've asked for a certificate, but I guess they were all out.” Mason's eyes narrowed. “And Kaminski too, surprisingly. They said that he's going to be fine, that he can get back in the tanks whenever he wants.”

“Good,” I said.

“He seems happy with the decision. Did you have anything to do with it?”

I ignored the question. “Let's move. I don't like it down here.”

“What's to like?” Mason said. “Colonists, injured servicemen, whining kids… Where are you headed now, sir?”

“Thought I'd go and get a drink,” I said. “I can't do much else, what with this ‘remain on-station' order in effect. Care to join me?”

Mason sighed. “No thanks, sir. I'm going to ring home—”

My wrist-comp chimed, noisily. The screen filled with a priority alert. This was the first time I'd ever received such a message.

“Christo, they don't mess around out here!” Mason said.

“There's a war going on,” I said. “No time to waste.”

“Good luck,” Mason called after me, as I hailed a transport.

The Command Sector was located on the outer edge of Calico Base. It was the current centre of tactical operations in the region: the beating heart of the war effort. Admin staff hurriedly dashed between their posts, jostling stacks of paperwork and data-slates. Officers were plugged to holo-consoles, plotting troop dispositions. Sci-Div xeno-specialists argued with tacticians over potential Krell invasion patterns.

Two MPs met me at the security entrance and I noted with amusement that they had been my escort from earlier in the day.

“Not hassling any dumbshit colonists this afternoon, Private Nico?”

“No, sir,” Nico said, through his speaker grille. “Better things to do this shift.”

“Good.”

The second MP guarded the main gate through to the command chambers. He held out a gloved hand.