by Neal Asher
Finally they reached the lev-train station and boarded a carriage to take them back to Tritonia. The numbers of the walking wounded were lower on the train, though there were still plenty of those wearing military uniforms. Doubtless their injuries were not physical and they were due for mental cautery.
* * *
His head felt stuffed with cotton wool and recent events seemed to sit divorced in his mind, for he could not quite believe what had happened to him nor all the things he had done. Yet, when he looked down at himself, he found confirmation.
The shellwear enclosing Carl's chest while he had been in hospital had been an example of this technology not used for the purpose intended. Shellwear had been developed during the Prador war to enable severely wounded soldiers to continue functioning. Cormac flexed his damaged hand and carefully studied its new covering. Really, it looked just like the glove from a medieval suit of armour, but for the optical data ports along the section covering his wrist and the odd LEDs scattered here and there to give an immediate warning in the location of any problem. The underlying thumb, new little finger and various other skin, tendon and flesh grafts were functional and hurt not at all, but they needed protection and time to knit together. Now he gazed down at his legs. Much the same there, though as far as he could recollect, medieval armour did not actually have toes, nor those nutrient feed pipes, blood scrubbers and various black boxes containing selections of nano-factories. The medics here hadn't given him new legs, merely further grafts. Apparently they didn't like to replace entire limbs when there was no immediate need.
His spare set of legs was being kept on ice.
Cormac gazed at the cylindrical tank resting in the corner of the room. It was bar-coded and affixed to it was a mini-console that could display a manifest of its contents.
"So, just like every mosquito autogun or grav-tank, each soldier comes with a package of spare parts," he said.
"It's only practical," Olkennon replied.
He glanced at her. "I never knew."
"Well, we wouldn't want you getting careless with the originals." She grimaced. "Didn't seem to work in your case."
Cormac picked up the pack of clothing she had slapped down on his chest, then swung his metal legs over the side of the surgical table and sat upright. He felt a slight dizziness, just as the medic, who had recently departed, had told him to expect. Sitting there he hoped for further clarity—some emotional connection with recent events—for he had seen a friend murdered, he had been tortured and he had killed so many, yet still it all seemed like VR fantasy. And what seemed to aggravate this unreality was the scorpion drone that had rescued him, for it seemed to have flown right out of childhood memory.
After a moment he stood up, and found that his legs supported him without problem. He was slightly out of balance as he pulled on the undergarments and fatigues, but a supporting hand from Olkennon was enough. Once finished dressing he gazed around at the other familiar furnishings of this room and wondered, with his chosen profession, about the regularity of his visits to places like this.
"How many died?" he finally asked—one of the many questions nagging at him since the moment he woke up.
"Your questions will be answered during the debriefing," Olkennon replied. "Follow me." She headed towards the door.
Cormac peered down at his feet, twisted one of them against the floor to test its grip and, finding it sufficient, followed Olkennon out of the medical centre and along one of the township streets. As they walked he found himself scanning about him, half expecting to see a big steel scorpion crouching in the shadows nearby. Maybe he had imagined it; war drones tended to be quite similar in their choice of nightmarish body-shapes so perhaps it had just been a similar drone. After all, he had lost consciousness shortly after the CTD blast, and hadn't been entirely lucid and clear-headed just prior to it, since he'd been through rather a lot.
Now they reached another composite dome which, as far as Cormac knew, was used for storage. Olkennon led him inside, lights automatically switching on for them. Cormac gazed round at the stacked crates, racks filled with ordinance and crash-foam-wrapped items. To one side stood a column of disc-shaped antigravity tanks, stacked one upon the other like inverted plates. Assembled mosquito autoguns squatted in lines in one rack, occasionally shifting and twitching as if trying to get more comfortable in slumber. She took him into the shadows between racks loaded with engine components and what looked like bundles of pulse-gun barrels, then finally through an internal security door into an area packed with specialized equipment, where Agent Spencer sat behind a table spread with the component parts of various hand weapons.
"Pull up a chair," said Spencer, gesturing to where some folded camp chairs were resting against the wheel of a low-slung ATV. Olkennon grabbed up two chairs, handing one to Cormac, and they sat themselves before Spencer's table. Cormac was glad Olkennon had positioned herself next to him, for this indicated she was taking the position of advocate rather than interrogator.
"Are you paying attention?" asked Spencer.
Cormac only realised the question wasn't directed at him when a crab drone resting on some packing cases behind her unfolded gleaming legs and said, "I am always paying attention."
"So, Cormac," said Spencer, without looking up from the pulse-gun power supply she was inspecting, "in your own words, and in as much detail as you can supply, tell us what happened from the moment trooper Yallow was murdered."
That hit him in the stomach and immediately seemed to highlight his memories, or maybe the potent cocktail of analgaesics and antishock drugs washing about inside him was beginning to wear off.
"She's dead," he said.
Spencer looked up and nodded once.
"What about the CTD blast?" Cormac asked. "How many were killed?"
"None at all."
"What?"
"We'd already spread the rumour that another battalion was moving into the woods because we suspected that would be where a CTD would be deployed and we knew the Separatists would want to wait on a larger target. At that point we were preparing the battalion there to pull out. And they pulled out fast once we got the warning you posted on your personal net-space."
Cormac sat back, feeling some of the tightness in his chest slacken.
"Now, from the moment Yallow was murdered…"
Cormac told them the story, in detail. There were no interruptions until he reached the point where he escaped.
"So let me get this right," said Spencer. "You deliberately sacrificed one hand to enable yourself to get free, and thereupon managed to wipe out seven Separatists?"
"The forensic examination of his wounds seems to confirm his story," Olkennon observed. "As does the examination of the bodies recovered at the Separatist base." She turned and gazed at Cormac for a moment. "It would appear that this soldier is a walking abattoir."
Cormac absorbed that, understanding in an instant that they must have pieced together the sequence of events in Dramewood before this debriefing. However, he felt they really didn't understand what he had faced and why he acted as he did. "My choices were to either do nothing and be tortured, eventually to death, or to try and fight back. I was lucky, I was prepared to die and my opponents were not."
Spencer, who had long ago abandoned her inspection of the components before her, placed her elbows on the table, interlaced her fingers and rested her chin on them. "Then having been prepared to die and managing to survive, you went after Carl. If you could continue your story?"
Cormac did so, including in detail the mistakes he felt he made at the end.
"You made no mistakes," said Spencer. "Your time was limited both by your injuries and by the detonation time of the CTD so you needed to expose yourself to draw them out. Carl was wrong about that. If you had held back and spent your time trying to stalk them, you could have lost them, faced reinforcements or been forced into an encounter when your injuries further impaired your efficiency."
It was a distinctly
cold analysis.
"What about Carl?" he asked.
"What about him?" Spencer leant back, holding her hands out in appeal. "The Carl whose records we have grew up on Callisto and there joined ECS, but it now seems the Carl here was not the Carl there." She turned towards the crab drone. "Anything?"
The drone replied, "I have made enquiries: childhood genetic and medical records match with recent scans and samplings taken while he was in the medical unit here. The Callisto AI has now despatched agents to bring in his parents for questioning, for genetically it seems they are not his parents."
"The records have been altered?" Spencer suggested.
"The records have been altered," the drone confirmed. Cormac realised it must be telefactored from the local AI to have made such fast enquiries.
"So he has escaped," said Cormac, which was the real question he had been asking.
"Unless he was caught in the blast," said Spencer, "it would seem so."
Cormac paused for a moment, wondering how he was going to broach the next subject. "A drone rescued me."
"Your actions in the Separatist base resulted in their chameleonware crashing, but it seemed quite possible to us that they did that themselves to lure more ECS personnel within the blast radius of the CTD, so we left it. The explosion from your ATV was picked up by satellite shortly after our friend here," she stabbed a thumb back at the crab drone, "picked up your warning on your site. We then moved anything that could fly fast enough into the area. Lucky the drone found you and grabbed you when it did."
This was frustrating. How could he say to them that the drone looked just like one that had haunted his childhood? They'd probably send him back to the medical unit for brain scans.
"I can't say that I'd seen many war drones here," he said.
Spencer studied him for a short while, then shrugged. "There aren't many."
"Where's it from… has it been here for a while?" Cormac grimaced. "Drone or otherwise I'd like to thank it for getting me out of there."
"Hagren?" Spencer enquired, her use of the planet's name indicating that the AI using the crab drone behind her was the main planetary runcible AI.
"Amistad is a free drone and merely answered the call I put out for assistance. He is now no longer connected to the planetary net and is not responding to calls. I have no idea where he is."
"Amistad," Cormac repeated. "Do you have any other information about him?" As he finished speaking he wished he'd kept quiet, for now both Spencer and Olkennon were studying him carefully.
"There's something more to this," Spencer observed.
"I'm sure I've seen this drone before," Cormac admitted.
"Where?"
"On Earth—over ten years ago."
"I see," said Spencer, abruptly looking irritated. "Might I suggest you utilize your free time to research the matter?" Cormac nodded. "Now, let's get back to where we were." Spencer glanced across at Olkennon. "Obviously you no longer have a unit."
The Golem dipped her head.
"And, I understand," Spencer continued, "you'll be heading for… Cheyne III to train further recruits?"
"Such seems to be my burden," Olkennon replied.
Spencer turned back to Cormac. "You, Cormac, lack training and experience, but it seems that our masters," she glanced back at the crab drone, "feel, after your recent heroic efforts, prepared to take a risk with you." She picked something up from the table before her and gazed at it for a moment. "Though your warning enabled us to get the main battalion out of Dramewood there were still plenty of casualties there beforehand. A unit working there, directly for me, lost one of its members. The remaining three members of that unit have been observing this briefing, and it has only been down to their approval whether or not you replace their missing comrade. Apparently they approve."
She tossed something to him, fast, then smiled approvingly when he snatched this object from the air with his right hand. He opened his hand and gazed at a badge fashioned out of gold and platinum. It depicted a round shield with spears crossed behind it, topped with an ancient Greek hoplite war helm, all on a disc of milky crystal.
"Welcome to the Sparkind, Cormac."
"This is standard issue," said the medic. "I'd advise you to stick with it."
Cormac gazed at the augmentation lying on the plastic tray affixed to the side of the pedestal-mounted autodoc. It looked like a two-inch-long broad bean rendered in chrome. The aug was optional for most of those in the military and he'd seen many soldiers wearing them, but he had not been inclined to try such an invasive technology himself. Perhaps it was silly, but he felt a deep aversion to anyone tampering with what lay between his ears. He did not know where this aversion came from, and he had not noticed it in others. However, to become one of the Sparkind, wearing one of these things was now compulsory.
"But I have sufficient funds to pay for something more sophisticated," said Cormac. He still didn't like the idea of this, not one bit, but if he was going to have an aug, then he intended to have the best available.
"I give that advice every time," said the medic, "and mostly it is ignored."
"Then explain to me why you advise so."
"You understand that the aug makes nanofibre synaptic connections inside your skull?"
"Who doesn't understand that?"
The man grimaced. "You'd be surprised how many but, be that as it may. Up until recent years it hasn't been possible to disconnect those fibres or remove them from the skull. It is of course possible to remove the aug itself, but the fibres remain in place. They don't cause any harm, well, not much. This also means that the only kind of upgrade possible has been to the aug itself, not the fibres."
"Then surely that's a good reason to get the best one you can?" suggested Cormac.
"You'd think so, but no." The medic sighed, obviously groping for the best way to explain something complicated to this stupid soldier. "Methods of extracting the fibres are just becoming tenable, and meanwhile the sophistication of aug technology is advancing very fast. Within a year it will be possible to completely remove an aug like this one, however, it won't be possible to remove one of the more advanced ones presently available."
"Yes," said Cormac, not entirely sure what the man was driving at.
"What I'm saying is that for military purposes, the standard aug is more than adequate. You don't need to do any sophisticated modelling or need to put together an assault plan for an entire army, and I'm presuming you're not conducting any genetic research or studies of U-space mechanics?"
"No," said Cormac, still not entirely sure what point was being made here.
"Well," said the medic, "what I'm driving at here is that if you have one of the more sophisticated augs now, it will be outmoded within a few months and you won't be able to replace it. If you have this aug, it will be possible to remove it completely when you have decided, having used an aug for some time, what your requirements are, what aug you want. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," Cormac replied, but what really decided him was that "possible to remove completely" since he still did not like the idea of these things. "Go ahead and fit me with that one."
"If you would," the medic gestured to the surgical table
He sat on the table, lifted his legs up and lay back, his neck coming down into a V-shaped rest with his head overhanging the end of the table where various clamps were ready to be engaged. The medic quickly tightened these clamps then stepped back and swung the autodoc above Cormac's face.
"I've got your medical record on file," he said, "but I want to confirm that stuff about the editing."
Editing?
The underside of the doc was a nightmare thing—like looking at the underside of a woodlouse fashioned from chrome and glass.
"Close your eyes." He did so, and felt an intense glare and warmth traversing his face from forehead to chin. "Okay, that's done."
Cormac opened his eyes. "Editing?"
"Yes," said the medic thoughtfully
, probably while studying the scan result. "Obviously it was done while you were a child, which seems rather drastic, but then it wasn't an uncommon occurrence during the war."
Now the doc, down beside his head, stabbed out one of its many appendages. Something stung at the base of Cormac's skull and suddenly his head turned into a dead rock, his vision seemed to be down a dark tunnel, his hearing distant, both divorced from reality. He could no longer speak, no longer ask questions, but what more information could this man provide? He would know only that Cormac had received cerebral editing during his childhood.
When something crunched on the side of his head, Cormac expected some sort of explanation of the sensation, but none was forthcoming. Of course, this man was a military medic, so did not possess the bedside manner of those who fitted augs to civilians. Next the inside of his skull felt as if it were filling with ice-water, and something began hurting behind his ear. Then, nowhere he could precisely locate, a lid opened on the imaginary third eye he now possessed.
"Raise your hand when the status text appears," the medic instructed.
The pain started to fade, and as it faded blue text appeared in the vision of that third eye and blinked intermittently: STATUS >
Cormac raised his hand.
"Okay, now visualize the words 'search mode' and let me know when the words appear."
How was he supposed to let the man know? He visualized the words, felt an odd sensation as of a plug going into a socket somewhere inside his skull, then raised his hand when SEARCH MODE > appeared.
"Now search for something."
SEARCH MODE > EDITING
After a pause these words blinked out to be replaced with: CANNOT EDIT SEARCH MODE.
"Something else," the medic suggested.
SEARCH MODE > PRADOR
NO NET CONNECTION. NO MEMSTORE.
"Now you should have 'no net connection' and 'no memstore. " The man sounded bored, and Cormac wondered how many times he had said those words before.
