Origins (9 page)

Another young aide cut in: “Five hundred soldiers, sir? They're saying that it's the biggest haul in military history, since hostilities with the Directorate commenced.”

Jenkins sighed and activated her wrist-comp. She frowned as she read the news-cast, and waved it under my nose. LAZARUS LEGION RESCUES FIVE HUNDRED PRISONERS FROM DIRECTORATE PRISON, the headline read. Beneath, there were images of the Legion – all service shots that were years out of date. The story claimed that the Directorate prison had been bombed by the Alliance during a dawn raid, and that it had been declared incompatible with the Geneva Convention.

“Baker isn't going to be happy,” she said. “The Boys didn't even get a mention.”

“Baker is never happy,” I said.

This was the Alliance propaganda machine in full effect, and whether we liked it or not the Lazarus Legion were a key weapon in Psych Ops' armoury. Our names were known throughout Alliance and, increasingly, Directorate space.

“Private Kaminski? Serial code 561892?” the aide asked, reverently, despite being several ranks above that which 'Ski had or ever would achieve. “I'd like to welcome you back to Alliance space. You are due a full medical evaluation; Science Officer Delores here will make you comfortable.”

Kaminski grinned at the small brunette beside the stretcher. “Where I come from, that means something completely different…”

Jenkins jabbed him in the ribs. “Quit it, Private.”

“PFC Dejah Mason; you are also due a full assessment.”

Mason rolled her eyes. “Can't a trooper get a break?”

The female science officer ignored her protest, and moved briskly on to me. “I have orders to see to your hand—”

Simultaneously, all five of our wrist-comps chimed with updates as they linked to Calico Base's mainframe.

“Great,” Martinez said. “And this is why I prefer fieldwork…”

A series of messages flowed across the small panel mounted on the stub of my left wrist. One update caught my eye, and cancelled out all of the others:

“You just get the same message?” Jenkins asked me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Real cryptic.”

“Even me…” Kaminski added.

“You're still Legion,” Jenkins said.

“Let's get moving,” the lead aide interrupted. “If you will all just follow me—”

An MP grunt broke the line and approached the Legion.

“Welcome to Calico Base, Legion,” he said, going to salute. “Please submit to security procedures.”

“It's fine,” the aide said. “The Lazarus Legion doesn't need to be checked.”

There were several Mili-Pol on the clearance gate, all armed with short-pattern carbines – security-issue models, M400 kinetics. A couple started to deploy handheld scanners, sweeping the new arrivals.

“Standing orders, ma'am,” the MP said. “All incoming personnel to Calico Base have to be checked.”

“Check us,” Jenkins said in support. “And make sure that you check everyone coming in, whether they want to be or not.”

The aide looked hurt as the security detail ran their checks; scanning us and our luggage with negative results.

“You need more dogs,” Jenkins muttered, under her breath. “You can never have enough dogs.”

An assortment of combat dogs – big, ugly bastards with bionics grafted to their skulls – milled around the terminal. They occasionally stopped to sniff the air; circled around us but took no particular interest. Science Division had found, as a result of our mission in Damascus, that dogs were able to differentiate simulants from real skins. The exact science wasn't yet known, but so far this was the quickest way to detect next-gen and combat-sims.

Just then, James clambered down from the elevator cart.

“Steady!” I shouted. “He's skinned!”

The dogs went berserk: mouths wide and slathering, eyes glossy with rage. Their MP handlers fought to hold them on heavy chain leashes. I was surprised by the vigour of their reaction.

“Aerospace Force Sim Ops,” James said, pointing out his shoulder patch. The rest of Scorpio did the same.

“Stand down,” the lead officer said.

The security team did their thing, employing DNA scanners over any patch of exposed skin. The machines flickered affirmative reads, and the dogs almost immediately desisted. I guessed that those bionics were direct cranial interfaces – allowed their controllers to somehow alter their behavioural impulses. The dogs became docile, retreated from the sim pilots.

“They didn't work so well with Williams…” Martinez said.

“New tech,” a handler said. “They won't get past us again. We're supposed to check everything and everyone inbound.”

“You find anything yet?” I asked.

He shrugged, tapped his chest. “Not yet, but I'll keep trying. Get me a bonus that'll pay for a nice plot back on Proxima.”

There were four oversized playing cards taped to his chest. Each card had a name on it, with a reward figure in bold type beneath. The faces on the cards had become almost as well known as those of the Lazarus Legion.

CAPTAIN LANCE WILLIAMS. Leader of Williams' Warfighters, and the arch-traitor. Now the Ace of Spades.

CORPORAL DIEMTZ OSAKA. Second-in-command to the Warfighters; a big Martian bastard of a man. Now the King of Clubs.

PRIVATE ALICIA MALIKA. Just another soldier in an army of millions. Now the Queen of Diamonds.

PRIVATE REBECCA SPITARI. The Queen of Hearts.

Each card had been annotated with sighting details. Some – particularly those of Osaka and Malika – had been striped with tallies, indicating alleged deaths that associated simulants had suffered. The locations spanned Alliance space, as far as Alpha Centauri and as wide as Barnard's Star.

“It's the gift that keeps on giving,” the MP said, making a gun out of his forefinger and thumb. “You kill them, and they just keep coming back.”

“Sir,” the aide broke in, “an escort has been arranged—”

“I can't even be trusted to get down to Medical on my own now? I'll see to the hand later.” I looked back at the team; noted the slightly frenetic expression on Kaminski's face. He needed out of here. “See to the Legion; get them settled.”

“Whatever they need,” the aide said.

I nodded at Kaminski. “'Ski; go with Delores. No touching.” To the aide, I said, “You can help me with some directions. I'm trying to track down an old friend…”

We walked together into the main archway that marked the entrance to Calico Base, beneath an enormous security holo that constantly barked the message SUBMIT TO SCANNER SEARCHES ON REQUEST – TERRORISM: TOGETHER WE'LL BEAT IT.

I didn't want to spend any more time on Calico Base than was absolutely necessary. The place had changed in the ten years since I'd been here; since I'd seen
Endeavour
and her fleet off into the darkness. All the dusty vaults and tight corridors held for me were ghosts, unfulfilled opportunities.

But I had to do something while I was here; had to salve my conscience. The decision was against my better judgement, because I knew that I would not be able to help – knew that decisions had been taken far above my head – but even so I had to do it. The aide gave me directions, and even arranged an air-car for transport. Then she fucked off exactly as I'd ordered; leaving me alone in the dirty and desperate area of Calico Base. Suited me fine.

This was a prison by any other name. An area to which the dead and dying were relegated, to stop them spreading their pernicious diseases. Except that the diseases here were not physical ailments; the contagion that required quarantining was a mindset. The Alliance, and in particular Command, did not want those stationed here to pollute the rest of the outpost.

A single Military Police guard was posted at a junction.

“Sir,” he said, saluting. “This is a restricted area. I can't let you go any further.”

“You know who I am, trooper?”

“Yes, sir. You're Lazarus.”

“Then you'll know that I have clearance to go wherever I want.”

That was, of course, a lie. I was a lieutenant colonel now, and I was Lazarus, but there were restrictions on my movements just the same as with any other trooper. The difference was reputation.

“Of course, sir.”

“I'm looking for a particular officer. You know where I can find him?”

I pulled up the details on my wrist-comp, placed it under the MP's nose. His eyes widened a little and he nodded.

“Yes, sir. Cell – I mean room – 11-B. End of this corridor.”

A figure sat alone at a desk in the corner of the room, manipulating a tri-D, the glow of the projection dancing over his face.

“Yes?” he yelled, without looking up. “Come to check I'm still breathing? You take away my bloody dog—”

“It's me, Joseph.”

Admiral Joseph Loeb, former commanding officer of the UAS
Colossus
, turned to look at me.

The old admiral – the Buzzard, to those crews fortune enough to have served under him – had a rugged, angular face, but his features instantly softened as he saw me. When he smiled, it looked as though he had not done so in a long time: as though the expression was alien to him.

“How the damn are you, old bastard?” he said. “Come in.”

Despite everything that had happened – everything that was going to happen – Admiral Loeb still wore his duty uniform: pressed, parade-ground fresh. Chin clean-shaven, greyed hair cut close to his scalp. His service cap sat atop a stack of printed plastic sheets. Just waiting for that call to arms.

“Sit, talk,” Loeb said. “As you can probably guess, I don't get many visitors down here.”

I looked around the chamber. There was little furniture, and the room was in darkness save for the glow of the ships coming and going outside, visible through the obs window. Loeb cleared the stacks of reading material – hardcopy as well as data-slates – from the small couch, and we took up some seats.

“How have you been holding up?” I asked.

“Well enough,” Loeb said. “This is no way for an officer to live, but I'm making do.”

Since our return from the Maelstrom, Loeb had been under what the Navy still rather quaintly referred to as “house arrest”. He was a man used to travelling on starships – as his gaunt, thin appearance demonstrated. Without a command, without a ship, he was a man without a purpose. This – being planet-bound, confined to a small room – was hell for him.

“I've been keeping up to date on the news,” he said. “Watching the casts; there's little else to do in here. Five hundred POWs? That's quite a result.”

“The feeds lie, Loeb. There were eighty-three, and some of those didn't make it, but we found Kaminski.”

Loeb's face illuminated. “Gaia be praised!” he exclaimed.

“And Saul too,” I said. “'Ski is in a better state than the Professor, but they say he's going to make it.” I sighed. “I want you to know that I don't blame you, Loeb, and I don't think that Kaminski does, either.”

“Is he going to be operational?”

I smiled. Loeb knew Sim Ops well by now: knew that being operational, getting back into the tanks, was all that mattered to a proper operator. “Sci-Div will do their tests and we'll see, but I hope so.”

Loeb settled back into his chair. “I have some news of my own: I ship Corewards next month. They've fixed a date for the court-martial.”

“That has to be a good thing.”

“I'm not sure any more. Is hell any better than purgatory?”

“That's a question for Martinez,” I offered.

Command wanted someone on whom they could pin the blame for the Damascus incident, and Loeb was an easy target. He was a spritely sixty-seven Centaurian years – not much older by Earth-standard measurements – and pushing the door on retirement. Hell, he probably only had a few years of desk service left in him.

“Don't be like that,” I said. “It could go your way.”

Loeb shook his head. “I severely doubt that, Harris. They'll want to make an example of me. They've reassigned the
Colossus
.”

The Spine traced a silver thread to the orbital docks and the
Colossus
was clearly visible up there, poking from the metal sheath of the docks. Loeb wiped his hand against the inside of the window, then – as though he'd only just realised that I was watching – quickly drew it back.

“The new captain is a Proximan,” Loeb said. “If you can believe it. They've even stripped out all of her original scanner-suites; replaced them with cheap Proxy shit.”

While I had no particular animosity towards the descendants of Proxima Centauri, Loeb was an Alpha Centaurian. There was rivalry between the sons of those two colonies: each claiming that the other was inferior in some respect. The idea of a Proximan – even a Proximan American – manning the
Colossus
clearly had Loeb riled.

“What's this?” I asked, pointing to a stack of printed plastic sheets on the desk in the corner. I was trying to change the subject. “Looks like some good tribunal prep.”

There were schematics, maps, photographs. The stack fell open on a particular image; a low-res, tri-D capture of a woman's face. Her features were a mass of miscellaneous scars; some recent and blotchy, others angular and almost ritualistic. Like a cancer, a black network of veins seethed beneath the skin of her left cheek: moving with a life of its own. Her black hair was cut short, an arc of metal studs reaching her temples. Strangely, she seemed almost impossible to age; her features so unusual.

“It's research,” Loeb said. “Quite a looker, isn't she? Reminds me a lot of my ex-wife. She's the commanding officer of the
Shanghai Remembered
.”