by Jack Colrain
Now, Hammond was a suitable distance in front of them, as was kind of right but also amazing, as he was twenty years older, but she was leading the pack of everyone else, as usual. She enjoyed running here more than at other bases, at least, because, even at this hour, other bases were hives of activity, whereas there was peace and quiet here. She much preferred that.
As they approached the lake, she was actually surprised to hear engine noises, and doubly surprised to pass by a Humvee heading the other way. A second Humvee further along turned the heads of the team, including Hammond, who slowed slightly to allow a question he clearly anticipated. “Chief, are they bringing gear out for us?” she asked.
“Not a clue,” the chief said thoughtfully, without missing a breath. “Something’s up.” With that, he veered left and started leading them back towards the Admin buildings. By the time they got there, they had seen another three Humvees, and there were armed MPs walking sentry around the Armory. Hammond trotted aside to talk to them and returned to the group with a clouded expression and closed mouth.
Jessica didn’t like that at all. Something, as the chief had said, was definitely up.
Daniel showered before breakfast, and he was surprised to see that there was a TV on a trolley in the Mess, tuned to CNN.
“...outside a military recruiting center in Roanoke, Virginia,” the news anchor was saying. The screen showed what looked like an urban warzone, with a collapsed building, rubble strewn across roads, and multiple burnt-out cars and other vehicles. “...killing at least forty young recruits boarding a bus for basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.” The picture changed to a mugshot of a surly-looking man with lank blond hair and stubble. “Gene Fletcher, a Bostonian resident, gave himself up minutes after the bombing, claiming responsibility for it in the name of the Church of the Mozari, and giving police a manifesto stating that, because the Mozari are gods, raising arms to be used against them is blasphemy.” Daniel gritted his teeth, his hands white-knuckled around his cutlery.
“Fuck me,” Palmer said from over his breakfast. “These psychos need to be hit hard.”
Daniel nodded, shaking the tension out of his hands.
The CNN anchor was on screen himself now, continuing the report. Meanwhile, casualty figures and emergency contact details for relatives were rolling across the bottom of the screen. “There have been an increasing number of attacks against military installations on behalf of the Mozari in recent days...”
Evans came in then, her face like thunder. “Not just that,” she said. “Look at a map; we’re only a hundred miles away from there.”
“That explains the MP Humvees,” Palmer said.
Daniel shivered. “What’s been happening to the world while we’ve been here?”
None of the others could offer an answer.
Daniel stood. He had put this off since he’d arrived in St. Louis, but if the world was changing this much, and becoming so disturbingly askew, it was perhaps time to finally do it. “I think I’m going to call my parents. I want to know if this shit’s happening in Greenwich, as well.”
“That sounds pretty wise, West,” Evans said. “Pretty damn wise.”
Fifteen
Daniel had been a little surprised when Hope Ying asked him, a couple of days after they’d first watched TV, to come by her office and watch some more of The Bachelor. She had whole seasons recorded on DVR, and Daniel wasn’t sure if that was something he should worry about or an endearing trait. He had gone, though, and in time he had countered her show with the suggestion of Dancing with the Stars, which she had found she also enjoyed, and he found more palatable.
This morning, he had been assigned to cleanup around the PX, and had found some primroses growing around it. That gave him an idea: on The Bachelor, contestants who went through to the next week’s show were given roses. It was a little corny for Daniel’s taste, but Hope always seemed thrilled by those scenes. Still, here was something that at least had the same name, of sorts...
He made his way to her office as soon as he was off-duty, and knocked. When she answered, she found him carrying a bunch of blossoms. “I brought you these,” he said, deadpan.
“Primrose?”
“Yeah, well... They’re the nearest thing I could find to roses here at the Farm. Had to pick them out of the beds behind the PX, but...”
“But the thought is what counts.” She took them with a laugh, and added, “I’m glad I didn’t pack a suitcase.”
Daniel relaxed and laughed along with her. He had worried that maybe flowers—however improvised—might be a little too much, either for her or for the definitions of AR 600-20, which covered fraternization between service personnel, and couldn’t help being relieved that they weren’t.
“You know these could be misinterpreted,” he commented, trying to keep his tone light.
“As?”
“As a sign of affection in a romantic manner. You know how Kinsella or Peters would talk.”
She nodded. “That wouldn’t be misinterpreting, though, would it?” Daniel’s heart skipped a proverbial beat. “Unless I’m misinterpreting it, too. You can tell me if I am.”
Daniel opened and closed his mouth several times, before finally speaking. “So, where did we get to last time on The Bachelor?”
“We have a season finale coming up. It should be good.”
“I’m in.”
The next morning, Daniel was first among the unit into the briefing room after the morning run and breakfast. This meant he could snag his favorite chair in the room before anyone else. Hope and Hammond weren’t far behind him, and, while Hope studiously focused on the papers she was laying out on the conference table, Hammond nodded to Daniel.
“Early bird, huh, West?”
“Getting used to it, Chief,” he admitted. “I think I’m getting the hang of things.”
“Truth to tell,” Hammond said, “you’ve gotten the hang of Army life quicker than I did. Of course, when I joined twenty-odd years ago, things were pretty different, especially in basic.”
Daniel glanced at his eyes, searching for any sign of patronization or sarcasm, but there was none. He couldn’t think of a single reason to believe what the chief was saying to be true, but saw no sign that the man was lying, either. “But I missed basic, Mister Hammond—”
Hammond shrugged “You got what you needed. Trust me on that.” Trusting shouldn’t have been easy for a man trained in law, Daniel thought, but somehow he found that he did.
As Daniel nodded, and tried to get his head around what Hammond had said, the others, both Homies and Webbies, arrived, and Hammond got down to the subject of the briefing. “Everybody comfortable? If not, tough.” A ripple of laughter went around the room. “OK, Captain Ying and I have been looking at the stats for the weekend demolitions exercise. Everybody’s competent with using the charges, so time on setting them has improved, but some of you are too slow at reaching a safe distance.” He looked pointedly at Bailey, and added, “Superman, wasn’t there supposed to be a thing about faster than a speeding bullet?”
Bailey shifted uncomfortably, looking as ashamed as a puppy caught chewing the newspaper. “I think I might be faster when my ass is actually on fire, Chief.”
“Well, that’s a level of reality we want to avoid, if you catch my—” Hammond was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come on in.”
The door opened, and a middle-aged woman with cropped auburn hair, wearing the uniform of an Air Force general, strode into the room, followed by three men in very different suits. The eldest man looked like a typical balding desk-jockey, in a somber but very expensive business suit and silk tie, wearing a small stars-and-stripes flag pin and a visitor badge on a lanyard round his neck. The other two were perhaps in their late thirties, athletic despite one having a hipster beard and ponytail, and the other having gray in his hair. These two, to Daniel’s astonishment, were wearing Mozari Exo-suits just like the ones Hammond and Hope wore. A couple of white-coated
assistants came behind them, wheeling in a set of vertically-oriented hangers sheathed in shiny material.
“Good morning,” the woman began. “If any of you have wondered who to thank or blame for your assignment to this unit, now’s your chance. I’m General Carver, and this facility has been made available to me by Uncle Sam for your training. I may not be much of an on-site base commander, but rest assured I’ve been watching your progress very carefully and with great interest.”
She turned to Hammond, relaxing her tone. “Sorry, Keith, but I need to borrow the team off you for a few minutes.”
“Be my guest,” Hammond replied, bemusedly.
Carver indicated the men with her. “These gentlemen are with DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, and I’m sure are looking forward to introducing themselves.” She nodded to the elder man, who stepped forward.
“I’m Professor Kurtz,” he said, and these are Doctors Gibson and Martino. They’re part of a much larger team studying Mozari technology.”
“Those their real names, d’you think?” Bailey whispered to Daniel.
“Or real jobs?” Daniel shot back. “Does it matter?”
“You’ve been briefed,” Kurtz continued, “about the Mozari pods and their bounty. Sadly, it takes time to back-engineer such wonderfully different concepts and technology, and so our analysis is progressing slowly, but we have recently made a breakthrough.” He paused as if expecting applause, but none came. “Anyway, we have learned that some of the artifacts which appeared to be simple inert objects are, in fact...” He hesitated again, before continuing, “For want of a better term, equivalent to computer terminals. One has to wear a suit to be able to interact with these objects, and we found, when the doctors here gained access, that they contained source software and documentation that explain much about the suits themselves.”
Now everybody was listening intently, and Daniel felt as if he were on the set of one of his favorite cable-channel science documentaries. “Mozari technology is several hundred years beyond human tech, but the manufacturing processes are compatible with some of ours, and so a policy decision was made that the prime priority would be to increase the number of suits available.”
“How?” Hammond asked bluntly. “Is there a Mozari eBay that delivers?” he asked skeptically.
Kurtz glared daggers at him. “Not exactly, but open source is open source. We have managed to replicate them. We now have twelve man-made Exo-suits. One for each of your team.”
Hammond and Hope exchanged glances that looked as shocked as Daniel felt.
Carver looked to Hammond. “Well, Chief, do you have anything to add before your team puts on the suits? You’ve worn an Exo-suit longer than any human.”
Hammond studied the three scientists carefully. He wanted it to be true, and he wanted to be able to have more suits more quickly. Momentarily, he felt the way he had when it had come time to acquire new instruments for the US Army Concert Band back in DC, wanting the best for his men, no expense spared. Musical instruments weren’t experimental alien technology, however, and so the prospect of danger to his people from an early procurement was something he still had to get used to.
“Has anyone else tried them on yet?”
“No,” Kurtz said, apologetically. So, they were untried, untested, experimental technologies.
Hammond took half a step back. He gave Carver a dismayed look. “Then my opinion is that it’s too early to be risking my people in them.”
Kurtz shook his head with what Hammond thought was probably meant to seem like sympathy. “Chief, these suits have been analyzed and tested to the utmost degree in labs and engineering facilities you can’t even imagine. You can take my word for it that they are exactly and precisely like the Mozari suits you and Captain Ying are already wearing, to the utmost degree.”
“Except not made in space, or on their ship, or their planet, or wherever the hell the Mozari make these things. Maybe with different numbers of fingers, or even hands. Hell, we know some human inventions can only be made in zero gravity.”
“It’s true that humanity has to use a different manufacturing process, but each suit should function identically to a Mozari-made suit.”
Hammond’s ear picked up the discordant element in Kurtz’s reply, buzzing to him like an alarm signal. “Should? ‘Should’ doesn’t sound like ‘does’ to me; does it sound like it to you?”
“We’re refining the manufacturing process every day, learning more about their nano-manufacturing—”
“Learning more, meaning you hadn’t learned as much when you made these?”
The professor continued talking over Hammond, “—very soon, we’ll even be able to replicate the Mozari manufacturing process. At nine million dollars per suit... they could have been much more expensive.”
“Fuck expense,” Hammond snapped, stepping toward the scientist. “Any one of my people is worth far more.” He turned to Carver. “General, please tell me you’re not going to order this.”
Carver grimaced and hesitated. “I’m sorry, Keith, but the order doesn’t come from either you or I.” She reluctantly pulled an envelope from her breast pocket and handed it over. “There’s a direct Presidential order to issue them.”
“It’s too risky.”
Kurtz shook his head sadly. “Chief Hammond, we have taken every care over these matters. We have all the biometrics from your team, and have custom made each Exo-suit for its wearer’s DNA profile and brain activity pattern.”
“Exo-team form up by last name,” Carver told the squad gently, and Hammond felt a stab of gratefulness in that she hadn’t made him give the order. He still believed this move was wrong, and dangerous, and didn’t want to have to decide on mutiny.
The team shuffled into position along one side of the briefing room, Homies and Webbies mixed together. Dr. Gibson glanced at a clipboard. “Althaus, Franz,” he called. Althaus looked uncertain, but stepped away from Bailey, who was next in line, and went over to the white-coated technicians. They extracted a suit that looked pretty much like Hammond’s, if a little more rubbery, and showed him through a connecting door to a small classroom. “You can change there,” one of them said. “You pull it on like a wetsuit or dry-suit. Ideally, it bonds to the skin, so the less underwear the better, but it’s fine if you have tighty-whities of natural fibers. Man-made fibers, not so much. And if you have any difficulties or issues with it, we’ll be right out here, so just give us a yell.”
He better not have any difficulties, Hammond thought as Althaus went through the door, holding the suit at arm’s length, examining it curiously. Not him or any of them. Already, Bailey had been handed a suit, though he seemed to be standing and waiting for the rest of them to come along rather than following Althaus’ lead in going to change, and the second white-coated tech was going along the line, handing them over.
Daniel was the last guy to be handed a suit, and he didn’t mind the wait. He would rather have seen the result of a test first. None of the other soldiers looked any happier, despite knowing how the Mozari suits would improve their abilities, and he suspected that, like himself, they would probably all have preferred a genuine Mozari-made one over Dr. Frankenstein’s knock-offs.
Bailey looked towards the connecting door rather nervously, having waited for the rest of the Homies, and then back at the suit. “What happens with man-made skivvies?” he muttered.
“The nanites dismantle and convert them,” Gibson said. “You’d no longer be wearing them when you took the suit off. Organic material is safe.”
Bailey shook his head gently. “My organic material better be damn—”
The scream that blared from the next room was the most horrible thing Daniel had ever heard, and he started at the sound of it, his gut clenching and muscles quivering. It was hollow and warbling, yet terribly loud. The entire team dropped the suits that they’d been holding as they waited for Althaus to emerge, and then started towards the door as one, which Gibson was
already opening, but Hammond shoved right through.
Althaus was convulsing on the floor in his new Exo-suit, thrashing and flopping around like a dying fish on a boat deck. Unlike a dying fish, though, he was trying to tear the suit’s hood from his head, his fingers ragged and bloody, the nails beginning to tear away and mix with bits of scalp, so deep was he gouging at it—and the suit kept flowing closed across the wound, the skin closing with it, so that his hands tore it apart anew with every clawing motion he made.
The techs who had been assisting Althaus into the suit grabbed surgical scissors to cut it free, but they didn’t have any better luck, and the suit kept repairing itself. Althaus’ screams got louder and hoarser throughout, until, with an appalling suddenness, they stopped altogether.
As soon as he fell silent, the suit came apart under the rough ministrations of the techs, leaving Althaus’s unblemished body on the floor, wearing a terrible grimace. Daniel’s jaw dropped, and he felt a pit open in his stomach. Hammond’s jaw was quivering with tension, he saw, and even Carver was wide-eyed and speechless.
Kurtz appeared as lost for words as the rest of them at first, before managing to speak. “That shouldn’t have happened...”
Chief Hammond exploded. “The fuck, you say?! You’re damn right that shouldn’t have happened!”
Everyone within earshot flinched backwards, even General Carver wincing, and Kurtz ducked backwards, raising his hands as if he thought he could defend himself from the words. Daniel had never really seen anyone cower before. “I mean... I mean it literally shouldn’t have happened. We ran all the simulations, tested it—”
“Well, you didn’t test everything for real, did you? If you’d tested everything that the fucking thing can do to a man, you’d have found out it did that.”
