The Ghost Brigades (7 page)

The end result of this genetic designing was DNA that described a creature based on a human, but not a human at all—inhuman enough that the creature, if allowed to develop from this step, would be an unholy agglomeration of parts, a monstrous creature that would have sent its spiritual godmother Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley far around the bend. Having pulled the DNA so far from humanity, Special Forces scientists now sculpted the genetic message to jam the creature they were forming back into a recognizably human shape. Among themselves the scientists brooded that this was the most difficult step; some (quietly) questioned its utility. None of them, it should be noted, looked any less than human themselves.

The DNA, sculpted to offer its owner superhuman abilities in human shape, is now finally assembled. Even with the addition of non-native genes, it is substantially leaner than the original human DNA; supplemental coding causes the DNA to organize into five chromosomal pairs, down substantially from an unaltered human's twenty-three and only one more than a fruit fly. While Special Forces soldiers are provided the sex of their donor and genes related to sexual development are preserved in the final genetic reduction, there is no Y-chromosome, a fact that made the earliest Special Forces–assigned scientists (the male ones) vaguely uncomfortable.

The DNA, now assembled, is deposited into a vacant zygote shell, which is itself placed into a developmental crèche, and the zygote gently prodded into mitotic division. The transformation from zygote to full-fledged embryo proceeds at a profoundly accelerated rate, producing metabolic heat levels that come close to denaturing the DNA. The developmental crèche fills with heat-transferring fluid packed with nanobots, which saturate the developing cells and act as heat sinks for the rapidly growing embryo.

And still Special Forces scientists are not done lowering the percentage of humanity in their soldiers. After the biological overhaul come the technological upgrades. Specialized nanobots injected into the rapidly developing Special Forces embryo head to two destinations. Most head to marrow-rich bone cores, where the nanobots digest the marrow and mechanically breed in its place to create SmartBlood, with better oxygen-carrying capacity than true blood, more efficient clotting and near-immunity to disease. The rest migrate to the fast-expanding brain and lay the groundwork for the BrainPal computer, which when fully constructed will be the size of an aggie marble. This marble, nestled deep in the brain, is surrounded by a dense network of antennae that sample the electric field of the brain, interpreting its wishes and responding through outputs integrated into the soldiers' eyes and ears.

There are other modifications as well, many experimental, tested within a small birthing group to see if they offer any advantages. If they do, these modifications are made more widely available among the Special Forces and hit the list for potential upgrades for the next generation of the Colonial Defense Forces' general infantry. If they don't, the modifications die with their test subjects.

The Special Forces soldier matures to the size of a newborn human in just over twenty-nine days; in sixteen weeks, provided the crèche's adequate metabolic management, it has grown to adult size. CDF attempts to shorten the developmental cycle resulted in bodies that fried in their own metabolic heat. Those embryos and bodies that didn't simply abort and die suffered DNA transcription errors, giving rise to developmental cancers and fatal mutations. Sixteen weeks was pushing the edge of DNA chemical stability as it was. At the end of sixteen weeks, the developmental crèche sends a synthetic hormone washing through the body, resetting the metabolic levels to normal tolerances.

During development the crèche exercises the body to strengthen it and allow its owner to use it from the moment he or she becomes conscious; in the brain, the BrainPal helps develop general neural pathways, stimulate the organs' processing centers, and prepare for the moment its owner was brought to consciousness, to help ease the transition from nothing to something.

For most Special Forces soldiers, all that was left at this point was “birth”—the decanting process followed by the quick and (usually) smooth transition into military life. For one Special Forces soldier, however, there was still one more step to take.

 

Szilard signaled to his techs, who began their tasks. Wilson focused again on his hardware, and waited for the signal to begin the transfer. The techs gave the all clear; Wilson sent the consciousness on its way. Machinery hummed quietly. The body in the crèche remained still. After a few minutes Wilson conferred with the techs, then with Robbins, who came over to Mattson. “It's done,” he said.

“That's it?” Mattson said, and glanced over the body in the crèche. “
He
doesn't look any different. He still looks like he's in a coma.”

“They haven't woken him up yet,” Robbins said. “They want to know how you want to do it. Normally with Special Forces soldiers they wake them up with their BrainPals switched to conscious integration. It gives the soldier a temporary sense of self until he can create one of his own. But since there may already be a consciousness in there, they didn't want to turn that on. It might confuse the person in there.”

Mattson snorted; he found the idea amusing. “Wake him up without switching on the BrainPal,” he said. “If that's Boutin in there, I don't want him confused. I want him talking.”

“Yes, sir,” Robbins said.

“If this thing worked, he'll know who he is as soon as he's conscious, right?” Mattson said.

Robbins glanced over to Wilson, who could hear the conversation; Wilson give a half shrug, half nod. “We think so,” Robbins said.

“Good,” Mattson said. “Then I want to be the first thing he sees.” He walked over to the crèche and placed himself in front of the unconscious body. “Tell them to wake up the son of a bitch,” he said. Robbins nodded to one of the techs, who jabbed a finger at the control board she had been working from.

The body jolted, precisely the way people do in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep, when they suddenly feel like they are falling. Its eyelids fluttered and twitched, and flew open. Eyes darted momentarily, seemingly confused, and then fixed on Mattson, who leaned in and grinned.

“Hello, Boutin,” Mattson said. “Bet you're surprised to see me.”

The body strained to move its head closer to Mattson, as if to say something. Mattson leaned in obligingly.

The body screamed.

 

General Szilard found Mattson in the head down the hall from the decanting lab, relieving himself.

“How's the ear?” Szilard asked.

“What kind of goddamned question is that, Szi?” Mattson said, still facing the wall. “
You
get a screaming earful from a babbling idiot and tell me how it feels.”

“He's not a babbling idiot,” Szilard said. “You woke up a newborn Special Forces soldier with his BrainPal switched off. He didn't have any sense of himself. He did what any newborn would do. What did you expect?”

“I expected Charles fucking Boutin,” Mattson said, and shook. “That's why we bred that little fucker in the crèche, if you'll recall.”

“You knew it might not work,” Szilard said. “I told you. Your people told you.”

“Thanks for the recap, Szi,” Mattson said. He zipped and moved over to the sink. “This little adventure has just been one big goddamn waste of time.”

“He still might be useful,” Szilard said. “Maybe the consciousness needs time to settle.”

“Robbins and Wilson said his consciousness would be there as soon as he woke up,” Mattson said. He waved his hands under the faucet. “Goddamn automatic faucet,” he said, and finally covered the sensor completely with his hand. The water kicked on.

“This is the first time anyone's done something like this,” Szilard said. “Maybe Robbins and Wilson were wrong.”

Mattson barked out a short laugh. “Those two
were
wrong, Szi, no maybes about it. Just not in the way you suggest. Besides, are
your
people going to babysit a full-grown, man-sized infant while you're waiting for his ‘consciousness to settle'? I'd be guessing ‘no,' and I'm sure as hell not going to do it. Wasted too much time on this as it is.” Mattson finished washing his hands and looked around for the towel dispenser.

Szilard pointed to the far wall. “Dispenser is out,” he said.

“Well, of
course
it is,” Mattson said. “Humanity can build soldiers from the DNA up but it can't stock a head with fucking paper towels.” He shook his hands violently and then wiped the excess moisture on his pants.

“Leaving the issue of paper towels to the side,” Szilard said, “does this mean you're relinquishing the soldier to me? If you are, I'm going to have his BrainPal turned on, and get him into a training platoon as soon as possible.”

“You in a rush?” Mattson said.

“He's a fully developed Special Forces solider,” Szilard said. “While I wouldn't say I am in a rush, you know as well as I do what the turnover rate for Special Forces is. We always need more. And let's just say I have faith that this particular soldier may yet turn out to be useful.”

“Such optimism,” Mattson said.

Szilard smiled. “Do you know how Special Forces soldiers are named, General?” Szilard asked.

“You're named after scientists and artists,” Mattson said.

“Scientists and philosophers,” Szilard said. “Last names, anyway. The first names are just random common names. I'm named after Leo Szilard. He was one of the scientists who helped to build the first atomic bomb, a fact that he would later come to regret.”

“I know who Leo Szilard was, Szi,” Mattson said.

“I didn't mean to imply you didn't, General,” Szilard said. “Although you never know with you realborn. You have funny gaps in your knowledge.”

“We spend most of our later educational years trying to get laid,” Mattson said. “It distracts most of us from stockpiling information about twentieth-century scientists.”

“Imagine that,” Szilard said, mildly, and then continued on his train of thought. “Aside from his scientific talents, Szilard was also good at predicting things. He predicted both of Earth's world wars in the twentieth century and other major events. It made him jumpy. He made it a point to live in hotels and always have a packed bag ready. Just in case.”

“Fascinating,” Mattson said. “What's your point?”

“I don't pretend to be related to Leo Szilard in any way,” Szilard said. “I was just assigned his name. But I think I share his talent for predicting things, especially when it comes to wars. I think this war we've got coming is going to get very bad indeed. That's not just speculation; we've been gathering intelligence now that my people know what to look for. And you don't have to be in possession of intelligence to know that humanity going up against three different races makes for bad odds for us.” Szilard motioned his head in the direction of the lab. “This soldier may not have Boutin's memories, but he's still got Boutin in him—in his genes. I think it'll make a difference, and we're going to need all the help we can get. Call him my packed bag.”

“You want him because of a hunch,” Mattson said.

“Among other things,” Szilard said.

“Sometimes it really shows that you're a teenager, Szi,” Mattson said.

“Do you release this soldier to me, General?” Szilard asked.

Mattson waved, dismissively. “He's yours, General,” he said. “Enjoy. At least I won't have to worry about this one turning traitor.”

“Thank you,” Szilard said.

“And what are you going to do with your new toy?” Mattson asked.

“For starters,” Szilard said, “I think we'll give him a name.”

He came into the world like most newborns do: screaming.

The world around him was formless chaos. Something was close to him and making noises at him when the world showed up; it frightened him. Suddenly it went away, leaking loud noises as it went.

He cried. He tried to move his body but could not. He cried some more.

Another form approached; based on his only previous experience, he yelled in fear and tried to get away. The form made noise and movement.

Clarity
.

It was as if corrective lenses had been placed on his consciousness. The world snapped into place. Everything remained unfamiliar, but everything also seemed to make sense. He knew that even though he couldn't identify or name anything he saw, it all had names and identities; some portion of his mind surged into life, itching to label it all but could not.

The entire universe was on the tip of his tongue.

::Can you perceive this?:: the form—the person—in front of him asked. And he could. He could hear the question, but he knew that no sound had been made; the question had been beamed directly into his brain. He didn't know how he knew this, or how it was done. He also didn't know how to respond. He opened his mouth to reply.

::Don't,:: the person in front of him said. ::Try
sending
me your reply instead. It's faster than speaking. It's what we all do. Here's how.::

Inside his head instructions appeared, and more than instructions, an awareness that suggested that anything he didn't understand would be defined, explained and placed into context; even as he thought this he felt the instructions he'd been sent expand, individual concepts and ideas branching off into pathways, searching for their own meanings in order to give him a framework he could use. Presently it coalesced into one big idea, a gestalt that allowed him to respond. He felt the urge to respond to the person in front of him grow; his mind, sensing this, offered up a series of possible responses. Each unpacked itself as the instructions had, offering up understanding and context as well as a suitable response.

All of this took slightly under five seconds.

::I perceive you,:: he said, finally.

::Excellent,:: the person in front of him said. ::I am Judy Curie.::

::Hello, Judy,:: he said, after his brain unpacked for him the concepts of names and also the protocols for responding to those who offer their names as identification. He tried to give his name, but came up blank. He was suddenly confused.

Curie smiled at him. ::Having a hard time remembering your name?:: she asked.

::Yes,:: he said.

::That's because you don't have one yet,:: Curie said. ::Would you like to know what your name is?::

::Please,:: he said.

::You are Jared Dirac,:: Curie said.

Jared sensed the name unpack in his brain. Jared: A biblical name (the definition of
biblical
unpacked, leading him to the definition of
book
and to the Bible, which he did not read, as he sensed the reading and subsequent unpacking thereof would take more than a few seconds), son of Mahalalel and the father of Enoch. Also the leader of the Jaredites in the Book of Mormon (another book left unpacked). Definition: The descendant.
Dirac
had a number of definitions, most derived from the name of Paul Dirac, a scientist. Jared had previously unpacked the meaning of names and the implications of naming conventions; he turned to Curie.

::I am a descendant of Paul Dirac?:: he asked.

::No,:: Curie said. ::Your name was randomly selected from a pool of names.::

::But my first name means
descendant,
:: Jared said. ::And last names are family names.::

::Even among realborn, first names usually don't mean anything,:: Curie said. ::And among us, last names don't either. Don't read too much into your names, Jared.::

Jared thought about this for a few moments, letting these ideas unpack themselves. One concept, “realborn,” refused to unpack itself; Jared noted it for further exploration but left it alone for now. ::I am confused,:: he said, eventually.

Curie smiled. ::You will be confused a lot to begin with,:: she said.

::Help me be less confused,:: Jared said.

::I will,:: Curie said. ::But not for too long. You have been born out of sequence, Jared; your training mates already have a two-day start on you. You must integrate with them as soon as possible, otherwise you may experience a delay from which you may never recover. I will tell you what I can while I take you to your training mates. They will fill in the rest. Now, let's get you out of that crèche. Let's see if you can walk as well as think.::

The concept of “walk” unpacked itself as the restraints holding Jared in the crèche removed themselves. Jared braced himself and pushed forward, out of the crèche. His foot landed on the floor.

::One small step for man,:: Curie said. Jared was surprised that the unpacking inherent in that phrase was substantial.

::First order of business,:: Curie said, as she and Jared walked through Phoenix Station. ::You think you're thinking, but you're not.::

Jared's first impulse was to say
I don't understand,
but he held back, intuiting for the first time that this was likely to be his response to most things in the near future. ::Please explain,:: he said instead.

::You are newly born,:: Curie said. ::Your brain—your
actual
brain—is entirely empty of knowledge and experience. In its place, a computer inside your head known as a BrainPal is feeding you knowledge and information. Everything you think you understand is being processed by your BrainPal and fed back to you in a way you can grasp. It is also the thing that is offering you suggestions on how to respond to things. Mind the crowd.:: Curie weaved to avoid a clot of CDF soldiers in the middle of the walkway.

Jared weaved with her. ::But I feel like I
almost
know so much,:: Jared said. ::Like I knew it once but now I don't.::

::Before you are born, the BrainPal conditions your brain,:: Curie said. ::It helps set down neural pathways common in all humans, and prepares your brain for rapid learning and processing of information. That's why it feel likes you know things already, because your brain has been
prepared
to learn it. For the first month of your life, everything feels like
déjà vu
. Then you learn it, it gets stored in your actual brain, and you stop using your BrainPal like a crutch. Because of the way we are, we can gather information and process it—and learn it—several times faster than Realborn.::

Jared stopped, partly to let his mind unpack everything Curie had just said to him, but partly because of something else. Curie, sensing he had stopped, stopped as well. ::What?:: she said.

::That's the second time you've used that word. “Realborn.” I can't find out what that means.::

::It's not something they put in your BrainPal,:: Curie said. She began walking again and motioned at the other soldiers on the walkway. ::“Realborn” is
them
. They're people who are born as babies and have to develop over a very long period of time—years. One of them who is sixteen years old might not know as much as you do now, and you've been alive for about sixteen minutes. It's really an inefficient way to do things, but it's the way it's done naturally and they think that means it's a good thing.::

::You don't?:: Jared asked.

::I don't think it's good or bad, aside from being inefficient,:: Curie said. ::I'm just as alive as they are. “Realborn” is a misnomer—we're really born too. Born, live, die. It's the same.::

::So we're just like them,:: Jared said.

Curie glanced back. ::No,:: she said. ::
Not
just like them. We're designed to be better physically and mentally. We move faster. We think faster. We even talk faster than they do. The first time you talk to a realborn it will seem like they're moving at half speed. See, watch.:: Curie stopped, appeared to look confused, and then tapped the shoulder of a soldier who was walking by.

“Excuse me,” she said, and she used her mouth to say it. “I was told there was a commissary on this level where I could get a really excellent hamburger, but I can't seem to find it. Can you help me?” Curie was speaking in a voice that mirrored to a close degree the voice Jared heard in his head…but slower, slow enough that for the briefest of seconds Jared had a hard time understanding what she was saying.

“Sure,” the soldier said. “The place you're thinking of is a couple hundred yards from here. Just keep going the direction you're going and you'll hit it. It's the first commissary you come to.”

“Great, thanks,” Curie said, and started walking again. ::See what I mean?:: she said to Jared. ::It's like they're retarded or something.::

Jared nodded absently. His brain had unpacked the concept of “hamburger,” which lead to an unpacking of “food,” which caused him to realize something else entirely. ::I think I'm hungry,:: he said to Curie.

::Later,:: Curie said. ::You should eat with your training mates. It's part of the bonding experience. You'll be doing most things with your training mates.::

::Where are your training mates?:: Jared asked.

::What a funny question,:: Curie said. ::I haven't seen them for years. You rarely see your training mates once you're
out
of training. After that you're assigned to wherever they need you, and then you integrate with your squad and platoon. Right now I'm integrated with one of the Special Forces platoons that decants soldiers as they're born.::

Jared unpacked the concept of “integration” in his brain, but found he was having a problem understanding it. He tried working through it again but was interrupted by Curie, who kept talking. ::You're going to be at a disadvantage to the rest of your training mates, I'm afraid,:: she said to him. ::They woke up integrated and are already used to each other. It might take them a couple of days to get used to you. You should have been decanted and integrated at the same time as they were.::

::Why wasn't I?:: Jared asked.

::Here we are,:: Curie said, and stopped at a door.

::What's in here?:: Jared asked.

::Shuttle pilot ready room,:: Curie said. ::Time to get you a ride. Come on.:: She opened the door for him, then followed him inside.

Inside the room were three pilots, playing poker. “I'm looking for Lieutenant Cloud,” Curie said.

“He's the one who's currently getting his ass kicked,” said one of the pilots, who tossed a chip into the pot. “Raise ten.”

“
Badly
kicked,” said one of the others, and threw in his own chip. “See your ten.”

“Your words of scorn would hurt so much more if we were actually playing for money,” said the third, who by process of elimination would be Lieutenant Cloud. He dropped in three chips. “I see your ten, and raise you twenty.”

“This is one of the drawbacks of having an all-expenses-paid tour of hell,” said the first pilot. “When everything's paid for, they don't have a reason to give you money. Call.”

“If I knew I was going to be working for socialists, I never would have signed up,” said the second. “Call.”

“Well, then, in addition to being dumb, you'd also be dead, wouldn't you?” Cloud said. “Talk about being alienated from your labor. You'd be alienated from
everything
. Also, you'd be out a couple hundred dollars on this hand.” He spread out his cards. “Snake eyes and a trio of snowmen. Read 'em and weep.”

“Aw, crap,” said the first pilot.

“Thank God for Karl Marx,” intoned the second.

“That's the first time in history
that
has been said at a poker table,” said Cloud. “You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am,” said the other pilot. “But please don't tell my momma. It would break her Texan heart.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Cloud said.

“Lieutenant Cloud,” Curie said. “Sometime this century would be good.”

“My apologies, Lieutenant,” Cloud said. “I just had to finish up some ritual humiliation. I'm sure you understand.”

“Not really,” Curie said, and nodded to Jared. “Here is the recruit you need to take to Camp Carson. You should already have the orders and clearance.”

“Probably,” Cloud said, and paused for a minute as he accessed his BrainPal. “Yeah, it's here. It looks like my shuttle has been prepped and fueled too. Let me file a flight plan and we'll be good to go.” He looked at Jared. “Taking anything with you but you?”

Jared glanced over to Curie, who shook her head. “No,” he said. “It's just me.” He was mildly startled to hear the sound of his own voice speaking for the first time, and how slowly the words formed. He became acutely aware of his tongue and its movement in his mouth; it made him vaguely queasy.

Cloud took in the exchange between Jared and Curie wordlessly and then motioned to a chair. “Okay, then. Have a seat, pal. I'll be with you in a just a minute.”