Origins (6 page)

The outpost had been annihilated in the detonation. Only an ugly, blasted crater remained: a basin with a kilometre radius, superheated by the nuclear explosion. The bare ground beneath a millennia of snowfall was heated to a glassy residue. Numerous sub-explosions had coursed over the mountain range, burning a violent spider-web into the landscape—

The image suddenly fuzzed with static, then collapsed to blackness.

“We've lost the Sentinel spy probe,” an officer replied, “and our local scopes are out of range.”

“Did the Krell bio-ship make it?”

The officer shook his head. “No, sir. It was caught in the blast.”

Ostrow followed me to the hatch. “Maybe a few weeks on Calico will do you some good,” he persisted. “You can get that hand replaced.”

The stump of my left arm was pinned inside my fatigue cuff, a constant reminder of Damascus. I could've had the missing hand treated months ago, but had chosen not to do so.

“I don't need it replaced,” I said. “I'm fine as I am.”

I am Lazarus. I always come back.

“Just a thought,” Ostrow said. “You might need it, is all.”

What with four Sim Ops teams and Scorpio Squadron stationed on the
Independence
, the ship had started cramped: with the additional POWs now aboard it was packed to the gills. Looking for Kaminski, I went down to the Medical Deck. Every available bunk was filled, with the walking wounded milling around between medical stations. Harried medtechs oversaw the new arrivals, administering medical assistance as best they could. A row of black body bags, neatly arranged on the infirmary floor, reminded me that some were beyond help.

I snagged one of the nurses and asked him where I could find Kaminski.

“That one has been causing us some trouble,” he said, shaking his head. “He's on the Observation Deck, despite advice.”

The Obs Deck was almost as busy as Medical. Those survivors that could walk and talk seemed to gravitate here. This was the most open deck aboard the
Independence
, and I reasoned that perhaps the ex-prisoners wanted to revel in their freedom. The windows provided a view of the void – Rodonis Capa dwindling to the extent that it was now barely visible against the curtain of stars.

I found Kaminski sitting in the corner of the deck. He'd exchanged his vacuum-suit – garb that he'd been wearing for the last few months, since Damascus – for hospital fatigues. I'd never seen him look so tired, exhaustion showing through the new stress-lines on his face. His hair had been shaven during his incarceration and the nerve-staples – implants, Directorate neurosurgery – appeared more pronounced: silver studs across his cranium.

Jenkins sat beside him, her hand in his lap, and they talked softly. Everyone else on the deck seemed to give them a wide berth: as though they realised that this was a long-earned moment of intimacy. I couldn't help it, but I felt a pang of jealousy. This was what I wanted with Elena. The tender expression on Jenkins' face communicated more than words ever could. As she saw me approaching, Jenkins sat a little more upright. Now that she had been promoted to lieutenant – a commissioned officer's rank – the relationship between her and Kaminski was going to be more problematic. He was a PFC, and had been for years.

“At ease,” I said. “This isn't a formal visit. I just wanted to see how things were.”

“All good,” he said, with his familiar grin. “I've nothing to complain about.”

“You should be down on Medical,” I said. “The medtechs don't sound happy that you discharged yourself.”

“That's what I keep telling him,” Jenkins said, “but he won't listen.”

“Like I said, I'm all good,”'Ski insisted. His smile dropped just a little. “There are people down there that need the bed more than me. How's the Prof?”

“Professor Saul? They say that he'll pull through, too. Physically, at least.”

I'd been updated on his medical status via the mainframe: Saul was being treated as a priority patient. The truth was that Command viewed Saul's survival as of far greater tactical significance than Kaminski's, or any other survivor's. Saul was irreplaceable; a specialist in Shard linguistics and tech. The idea that his intel could've fallen into enemy hands was unthinkable. But what good he'd be, after this experience? I couldn't say.

“I'm glad to be off that frozen shitball,”'Ski said.

Jenkins nudged him in the ribs; playfully, delicately. “You've had enough of being behind bars, eh?”

“That was nothing like Queens,” he said.

I noticed that Kaminski involuntarily put a hand to his head, rubbing the nerve-staples, as he spoke. Although the flesh around the studs was mostly healed, the surgery looked harsh and brutal: as though conducted by a backstreet medico.

“Military Intelligence will have a lot of questions for you,” I said, “when we get to Calico Base.”

“Is that where we're going?” he asked.

“Those are our orders.”

Jenkins shook her head. “I expect that Command will approve you some downtime, 'Ski. Maybe you can go to Fortuna for a few weeks, if not longer.”

'Ski laughed. “I don't need downtime, Jenkins. I need a decent drink and a simulator-tank.”

“I'm sure that you'll be recertified in good time,” said Jenkins.

Fortuna was a pleasure world, but it was also light-years from the frontline. If Kaminski went there, his posting with the Lazarus Legion would be over, and the time-dilation would surely end any relationship he had with Jenkins.

“Have you told him about the
Point
?” I asked her.

She nodded. “I've told him everything: the
Point
, the Warfighters, the Krell…”

Although 'Ski had only been gone for a few months so much had happened. He would have to be formally briefed on the situation if he was ever going to get back to active deployment.

“Damned fish heads,” Kaminski said, with some fervour. “The
Point
was home. Un-fucking-believable.”

“You better believe it,” I said. “The Krell have made it as far as Barnard's Star.”

“You're shitting me?”

“I shit you not. They're spilling out of their tank and they've already taken a dozen systems on the border.”

“Then we need to get out there and do what the Legion does.”

“Easy, trooper,” Jenkins said. “Take your time. The Krell can wait.”

The truth was that the Krell could not wait, and Jenkins knew it. The situation along the Maelstrom border was dire, and it had taken all of my clout as a lieutenant colonel – as Lazarus – to resource the operation into Directorate territory. We were running low on everything; even simulants, the most basic of commodities required to keep the Sim Ops Programme going. I didn't tell Kaminski, but one of the territories just ceded to the Krell had been a farm: a geno-facility dedicated to harvesting sims.

“Why were they down there?” I asked. “The Krell, I mean.”

“It's too early for a debrief—” Jenkins protested, protectively.

“It's okay, girl,” Kaminski said. “I'd rather tell the Legion what happened before the MI.” He gave a sharp intake of breath, started the story. “After we bailed out, the Krell turned up. We – Saul and I – saw the
Colossus
going through the Rift, then everything was chaos. The evac-pod didn't have scopes or sensors, and next thing we knew the Directorate had picked us up. They weren't in much better shape. There were lots of survivors in near-space – lots of crew evac'd their ships – and the Directorate took them all. And not just human crew: Krell too. We saw some of them aboard a Directorate ship. That's how they must've gotten to Capa.”

“But what did the Directorate want with the Krell?”

“They never told me,” Kaminski said. “But I'd guess the same as us: intelligence. After they captured us, they put us in the freezers. I woke up on Capa.” He rubbed his head again, the nerve-staples there. “They knew who I was, and they wanted intel from me.”

“They picked the wrong trooper there,” said Jenkins.

Kaminski smiled. “Sure did, girl. When I didn't tell them anything, they started to use the staples.”

“That shit been scanned for tracking tech?” I said.

“Of course,” Jenkins replied. “None of it is traceable.”

Even so, we couldn't rule out the possibility that one or more of the POWs had been implanted with a tracer. Although over interstellar distances it would do the Directorate no good, the Chino played for the long game: I didn't want this to be something that they could use against us on a future occasion. The nerve-staples would have to come out once we got to a proper medical facility.

“Did they tell you anything?” I asked.

“That isn't how an interrogation works,” Jenkins said. “And this is too early, Harris.”

I knew that I was pushing it too far now, that I should leave this. Debriefing of a POW was for Mili-Intel, and Jenkins was right – it was far too early – but I had to know.

“It's okay,” Kaminski insisted. “They didn't so much as
tell
me anything, but we talked among ourselves.”'Ski raised his shoulders; still muscled despite his ordeal. “We heard things.”

“Such as?”

He sighed, and his reaction made me all the more eager to hear what he had to say.

“Go on.”

“We heard that they had the Key,” Kaminski muttered. “They said that they had the Shard Key.”

“How is that possible…?” I started. “I saw it destroyed…”

Jenkins gave me a hard look. “I've read your debrief,” she said. “You left it aboard the Artefact. You never actually
saw
it destroyed.”

I rubbed my chin, let that thought bounce around my head. In Damascus, I'd used the Key to activate the Artefact – to open the Shard Gate – and then I'd extracted. I'd left it there, confident in the knowledge that it could never be retrieved and used against us…

“I don't know why they'd want it,” Kaminski said, “but it's Shard, and the Directorate seem to want pretty much anything Shard. But listen, don't read too much into it. For all I know, it might be wrong.”

I nodded, although it was hard not to. “Anything else?”

“Just that the Asiatic Directorate really hates you,” Kaminski said. “They told me that Director-General Zhang himself knows your name, and that he wants you dead.”

“I'm flattered, but I'm still waiting.”

Zhang: premier of the Asiatic Directorate, leader of over two-thirds of the population of explored space. His counterpart – President Francis – had been assassinated at some point while we were away in Damascus. We still didn't know whether there was any connection there, but the Directorate had assumed responsibility for the incident.

“That was all they said,” Kaminski added. “Thanks for coming back for me.”

“You should never have been left out there in the first place,” Jenkins said. “You can thank James and Loeb for that.”

Kaminski didn't react, and his face was accepting. That was the lot of a soldier: the risk that a man took when he went into the Maelstrom.

“What about the Warfighters?” I asked. “Did you see them on Capa?”

Kaminski pulled a face at Jenkins. “I told you that I never trusted Williams.”

“That wasn't the question,” she said.

He shook his head. “I don't think so. But, if what Jenkins tells me is true, they could be anywhere now. Until Command and Sci-Div let you in on the Next-Gen Project…”

Next-gen simulants were almost indistinguishable from human bodies. Wearing those skins, the Warfighters could be anywhere, and
that
did spook me. I shivered involuntarily and scanned the Obs Deck again, fought the dizzy sensation in my head. My data-ports began that steady throb, promising release and a sense of invulnerability that I could never feel in my own skin. My missing left hand gave off a phantom itch.

“Sorry to hear about what Williams did to you,” Kaminski said.

“It could've been worse.”

“I just want to get back into the tanks,” he said. “I can almost count the days since my last transition.” He nodded at the chest of my fatigues, at the holo-badge that read “236”. “I need to catch up with the boss.”

Although there was a captain somewhere on the Askari Line who claimed to have topped two hundred and thirty successful transitions, I still held the record. It was a dubious honour and one that I wasn't necessarily proud of, but it was another aspect of my legend: a statistic for the greens to look up to.

“It's not the number that counts,” Jenkins said, “it's what you do with it.”

“We'll be back on Calico in three days, provided we don't meet resistance,” I said. “Take it easy until then. Anything you need, just let me know. There are some perks to being a colonel.”

“Well done on the promotion,” Kaminski said.

I shrugged. “They had two choices: court-martial me or promote me. Glad to have you back, 'Ski.”

I turned to walk away, but Kaminski kept talking. “They know you, Harris, and they're scared of you.”

“They should be,” I said, with all the conviction that I could muster.

My mind was elsewhere. I found myself wondering whether the Asiatic Directorate would fear me if they knew who I really was.

What
I really was.

Old, exhausted, lost.

By the time I'd finished with Kaminski, and checked on the progress of the other prisoners, it was late in the
Independence
's day-cycle. Mess had finished, and the ship was quiet: exhausted Sim Ops teams and flyboys sleeping off the short trip back to Alliance space.

So I found the mess hall dark and largely empty. I grabbed a hot coffee and some stale bread from the servery, and hunkered down in one corner of the hall.