Wait! He heard another hint of movement, but this time to his left.
More than one grznart? Or did he only hear leaf murmurings from the wind?
Moisture beaded between his shoulder blades and trickled down his spine. Was he the hunter or the prey? Either way, his adrenaline rush fed the sensation of being totally alive.
THUD! The blow to his back drove him to the ground, his face pressed against grass and dirt. He reached over his shoulder and felt the wetness. Pulling his hand back, even in the semi-darkness, he recognized the bright yellow liquid covering his hand.
His heartbeat spiked. The grznart venom was relatively harmless to humans; this planet’s biology was similar enough to Earth’s for human exploitation but distinct enough to minimize the effects on humans of local pathogens and toxins. Nevertheless, a big enough exposure to the grznart’s “relatively” harmless venom could be uncomfortable and momentarily incapacitating—something he couldn’t afford. Dimitar fumbled in one of his vest pouches, pulled out the appropriately colored yellow ampoule, and stabbed himself in the thigh—the antivenom automatically injecting.
He had no time to monitor his reaction to either the venom or the ampoule contents. The grznart often followed the high-pressure injection stream with an attack. For native prey, the venom partially paralyzed upon contact, allowing the grznart to finish off even the largest prey before they recovered. Dimitar searched 360 degrees. The creatures were vicious, smart, and he suspected he faced a grznart hunting pair.
Branches broke to his right at the same time as to his left, and he heard bushes brushed aside by a quickly moving body. Dimitar whirled and flicked off the safety of his weapon, then fired a stream of super-high-velocity pellets to the intersection of where his hearing and his senses estimated a grznart would emerge from the foliage. Although only the size of a small pea, the pellet’s depleted uranium core, jacketed by titanium, disintegrated leaves, branches, small tree trunks, and the head and one shoulder of the first grznart. Instantly, Dimitar spun to face the second grznart almost upon him. He managed to focus the deadly stream on the grznart’s body just as a sabered forepaw sliced through his body.
Blackness smothered him for a second before blinding lights assaulted his retinas. He retched and reflexively hugged himself in a vain but instinctual motion to protect his organs. Time froze, as his senses processed the brightness and his sense of “Why am I still alive? When will the pain come?”
A disembodied voice shouted into his ears. “Hey, Andy, not bad if I have to say. Did the foliage move more realistically this time?”
Andy? Who is Andy? I’m Dimitar . . . no, wait, not Dimitar. Yes, I’m Andy . . . that’s who I am . . . Andrew.
Andrew’s eyes adjusted to the light but only after he squeezed them shut until they stopped hurting. When he gradually opened them, a face filled his vision field. A brown-haired and -eyed man in his mid- to late-twenties grinned at him.
“And those grznarts—you almost got them both, even though we increased their reaction time another ten percent. Nice going.” The man fumbled with something attached to Andrew’s head, causing Andrew’s vision to shake as his eyes seemed locked into position. A few more shakes and Andrew’s head was freed from a rubbery hood attached with wires. “But the foliage, what do you think?”
Christ. Couldn’t Ralph wait a few moments? Ralph? How do I know this guy is Ralph—and Ralph what?
Moments of disorientation passed before Andrew recognized the bright blue suit encasing his entire body. Hundreds of leads led out of sight. A man and a woman joined Ralph in detaching leads and unfastening sections of what encased him.
The usual momentary confusion ebbed, as he transitioned from the virtual reality scenario. The more users believed in their role, the better their performance. He was one of the best “Magi”—the name project members gave to the top performers inside the virtual reality. The user’s brain needed to temporarily believe in the scenario to achieve maximum use of the system’s capabilities. The same brain needed a few moments to again adjust to leaving the scenario and reentering the real world.
Hands pulled him out of the semi-fluid bath. The polymer solution controlled the degree of difficulty in moving for anyone wearing the suit. How it worked exactly Andrew couldn’t have explained, even after briefings by the chemical and mechanical engineers who developed it—something to do with electric current modulations changing the polymer molecules’ orientation, thus providing almost instant alterations in the fluid viscosity.
It had been six months since the U.S. Army assigned him to keep tabs on the project’s progress. Dimitar and the grznarts were the brainchildren of Ralph Markakis, the lead scenario designer for Virtual-Reality Incorporated, the company contracted by the Pentagon to develop the most sophisticated simulation system yet created.
Ralph continued chatting away, seemingly unaware his conversation with Andrew was a monologue. Andrew coughed and croaked, “Ralph, would you shut up for a bit?”
A startled Ralph stopped blabbering and looked surprised, then chagrined. “Oh, sorry, Andy.” The pause lasted three seconds. “I just really want to get your opinion of the changes. We increased the number of processors handling leaves and—”
Ralph broke off at Andrew’s warning glare and went back to helping him out of the suit.
“And it’s Andrew, not Andy,” he growled.
With a tug at the suit’s last layer, the other staff members freed his legs, and he became aware of the more internal attachments. Not electrical leads this time, but the plumbing that accounted for bodily fluids and substances that might be expelled or voided during an hours-long session. This part of the disconnection Andrew handled himself. He thought of one of the supporting physiology techs as Nurse Ratched. She wasn’t a nurse, but she reminded him of the infamous caregiver in the Cookoo’s Nest movie, her calm and smiley countenance covering what Andrew suspected to be a sadistic streak.
She never varied in her routine. “Shall I help you with those, Captain Jefferson?” She addressed him by his rank and indicated the aforementioned final connections, smiling all the while. Andrew glared at her. She answered with a cheery, “Okay, then, you’re on your own. Let me know if you need any help.” Andrew was half afraid to wonder if Ratched meant some other kind of help.
Unidentified people pulled portable screens into place. Andrew leaned against the edge of the tank, out of view of people scurrying around the room. They moved equipment, ran between monitors, yammered at one another about the run, and flittered around doing tasks he didn’t recognize. He quickly unhooked the final connections to his body, detached the disposable ends, and put them in an awaiting receptacle, to disappear forever from the world and Andrew’s memory, or so he told himself. Once completely free, he donned a robe, pushed a screen section aside, and walked, not too shakily, into the adjoining physical examination room where doctors and nurses would probe him, take blood, and hook him up to more equipment until he wondered if they were measuring him to be a cyborg.
Another forty minutes and the medical staff released him to find peace in the locker room, get a hot shower, dress, and start the session’s final routine—the verbal debriefing by the development staff. Tonight’s version passed quickly while he thought about the report he would submit to the Pentagon. Finally released, he walked down the hall, mentally reviewing what he would write.
Harold Nieze stepped out of a doorway.
“Ah . . . Jefferson. I hear the session went well. At least, that’s what Ralph told me. We’re headed out for a suds or two. You joining us?”
The slender, lank-haired staffer held the title of “Systems Engineer.” No one knew where the label originated, and Nieze held no engineering degree. In fact, he had no degree at all but had an intuitive ability in computer systems integration and ad hoc solutions. In his report, Andrew would reinforce that Ralph, Nieze, and Jason Cain, a mathematician, were the heart and soul of the project’s success.
“I think I’ll
skip tonight,” said Andrew. “It was a longer than usual session. I’d like a quiet evening.”
The core development crew, six to eight, often went for beers on Fridays or whenever the mood fit. They always asked Andrew to go. He didn’t know whether they accepted him as part of the group or invited him as a formality.
In Andrew’s opinion, Ralph’s puppy-doggish manner and naïve opinions could be irritating. Still, he was well intentioned and one of those nice people who did not quite fit into a not-always-nice world. Jason and Harold were good people, as were the others. Well, almost all the others. Nurse Ratched occasionally joined the after-session group, and the computer systems guy, Beau something or other, gave bores a bad name. No matter the makeup of any group from the staff, Andrew never felt as if he entirely belonged, the way he did by being part of the U.S. Army.
“Okay, then,” said Nieze. “Gotta go. It was a big day. Can’t wait to see where we go with the system once we confirm the latest results.”
I wonder myself, thought Andrew, but I suspect it’s nowhere you, the others, or I can imagine.
Even after months of working on the project, he still didn’t know the Pentagon’s use for such a complex system . . . but, hey, his understanding was, as usual, not a military requirement.
He felt exhausted, even though he had floated in a tank for six hours. What he wanted to do was take the twenty-minute walk from VR, Inc. to his apartment. No matter how well the day had gone, a sense of relief always followed once he closed the door and locked it behind him. He regretted knowing it was a way to shut out the world he did not always feel comfortable with. But that’s how it was.
Yet first, he needed to write a full report while the latest session remained fresh in his mind. Based on recent results, he felt the system was ready. Not that refinements couldn’t continue indefinitely, but he had instructions to evaluate when the system was operational and could be moved to a remote site for unspecified purposes.
He expected a consequence of his report would be his heading to a new posting—something he had devoutly wished for even before arriving at this assignment. However, he realized he would miss this group of civilians’ energy and camaraderie. Ralph was about as geeky as they came, and Harold was blissfully ignorant of how rare his abilities were. Jason remained a bit of an enigma but bright as hell. Maybe Andrew liked the feeling of being part of such a fanatically hard-working group—something he had appreciated when he had such experiences in the army. Anyway, it was time to move on in his career—likely to a posting as a staff officer in a battalion.
In sparse piles on his desk lay the technical reports of the last six sessions. It took Andrew thirty minutes to give them a quick review and find nothing to change today’s impressions. The system worked well. No, better than well. He appreciated the technical tour-de-force accomplished by the project, something more than a new standard—a breakthrough not only in simulations but computer algorithms, the integration of multiple systems, and God knows what else. But as always, he could not shake the question. What the hell was it all for? He didn’t see the dollar and cents reports, but the cost of the system’s development and the equipment must be astronomical. Why such a sophisticated system, and why the operational requirements?
His thoughts turned from what he didn’t know, and maybe would never know, and moved on to his personal response to today’s session. Andrew’s summary score, as judged on a complex formula incorporating how long he’d lasted, his control of his virtual movements, and the response time of the scenario, had resulted in the highest he had ever achieved in one of Ralph’s “shoot ’em up” scenarios. Even better for Andrew’s ego, Ralph had failed to mention that Ralph himself still reigned supreme in scoring, meaning the system designer thought Andrew had done well.
Andrew turned on his computer, waited for the system to boot up, input his encryption key, and brought up the blank file for formal reports. It usually took him about forty-five minutes to complete the straightforward report. Still, he had boxes to fill in: date, session number, his name, rank, serial number, blah-blah. He filled in all the boxes, ensuring an appropriate volume of bureaucratic chatter, enough to satisfy anyone reading the report. Then, one task remained—one he suspected mattered most—to whoever stood as the ultimate authority over this project. This second report consisted solely of an email to an innocuous-looking address. On this particular day, his entire succinct message said: “It’s ready.”
CHAPTER 3
NEXT PHASE
Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia
Major General Lionel Sinclair had initially been surprised when ordered to come immediately to the Pentagon. He was scheduled to make two stops before giving his quarterly in-person report. Instead, he got the fastest transportation from Lima, Ohio, to Washington, D.C. He was not told why the change, but he had been in the army long enough not to push superiors too hard for explanations, especially four-star generals.
His last report had been little different from others he had given the previous two years. No significant progress. He had warned them he wasn’t going to stay at his post forever. After all, he had already retired once. At fifty-five years of age, he had been passed over the second time for his second star. By military custom, if not literal law, that mandated his retirement. Jack Spalding, a three-star general in charge of the Eastern Military District and a longtime friend and colleague from West Point, had told him that in a time of war or other crises, Leo would have risen higher. But this was not such a time. Now political ability was more important than military skills. Leo understood. He’d always known the way the military worked. The fact that he rose to brigadier general had come as something of a surprise to him, though perhaps not to others, including his wife, Mary.
Sinclair had mixed feelings whenever he entered the Pentagon. He’d once estimated he’d spent the equivalent of two years within the seemingly endless corridors during the course of his army career—including one solid year posted only a few hundred yards and one floor from today’s destination. Yet when the time came to separate from the army, he had no regrets at the thought of never entering this building again. He had plans.
He took up a few of his interests, apart from his career—many of which were not widely known and were somewhat eclectic for a person of his demeanor and background. More important, he would spend more time with his wife. Then Mary died, and he found himself lost. About fifteen months after she passed, he got a call from Justin Hardesty, a classmate from West Point who had risen to the lofty level of four stars.
***
“Leo, I know you’re retired, but we have a job needing someone absolutely dependable. Not an overtly glamorous job, and unfortunately not likely to lead to further postings, but besides being important, I might be able to finagle you a second star before you retire again.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Can’t tell you right now, Leo. I’m just checking if you’d like to come to Washington so we can talk more in person. Trust me, I think you’ll be interested. I’ll only say for now it has to do with one of your past experiences. Actually, I guess it involves something both of us experienced. Sorry I can’t tell you more now, but think about it and get back to me.”
Leo did think about it. In fact, he thought long and hard—for about eight minutes. Of course, part of the time he was brushing his teeth, taking out the garbage, and opening a bottle of Dos Equis beer, even though the latter didn’t go well with toothpaste. He knew he had to get out of the house and DO something for a while. Without Mary, the house just didn’t seem right, but he figured to keep the house and someday return.
However, he didn’t want Hardesty to think he was too desperate, so he let two days pass before calling back.
“Great, Leo! I appreciate this. We really need someone we can trust. My adjutant will contact you in the next couple of days to arrange travel. You’ll find out more once you’re here, but I can tell you it will involve a pretty remote post and dealing with both civilians
and military. It’s also VERY important.”
***
The call had come two years previously. He hadn’t regretted the decision, but lack of progress and his weariness of the remote location had reached a point where a month ago he decided he’d done all he could, and the coterie of high-ranking officers overseeing the project could damn well find someone else to command Site 23. That resolution faded after he arrived in Lima and read Jefferson’s encrypted latest report suggesting the reason for the urgent change of plans.
General Hardesty’s office was definitely one of the plusher generals’ offices Sinclair had ever visited. Not that he had ever visited many four-star generals’ offices. In fact, now that he thought about it, this was the only four-star general’s Pentagon office he had ever been in and only because of Site 23.
The three men sat in leather-covered chairs around a low table. Hardesty always looked like he was no worse than second place on the sour persimmon scale. Sinclair also thought Hardesty could afford to lose twenty or thirty pounds, But, hey, when you’re a four-star general, you can pretty much do whatever you want. Hardesty was intelligent as well, with a PhD in political science and two master’s degrees—in Asiatic history and business administration. As sour as Hardesty was, General Wallens always seemed to be in a good mood, even when you might not have thought the situation warranted it. The Air Force four-star general looked very much like what he was—a bureaucrat. Not that Sinclair didn’t recognize the need for such people; even the military ran on regulations and mountains of paperwork.
Sinclair assumed the current meeting’s mood would be different from the one three months previous, either positive or negative. He was long past making guesses about anything to do with why he had come out of retirement.
Harbinger (The Janus Harbinger Book 1) Page 2
