Greg looked to the others, puzzled. They all wore the same baffled expression. He stepped closer to the bed, angling his head, trying to see the Brown Coat’s face from different sides. Then he stopped, frozen in place. Cold shock washed over him. His mouth opened, but couldn’t form any words. At last, he finally managed, ‘Taylor?’
Chapter 22
Leah’s face went white. She crowded close herself, to confirm or deny. Cayden didn’t, but the older Golem was watching more intently than ever; maybe he recognised the name as well. Greg snapped his eyes back to Gaia’s lens. ‘How?’ he whispered. ‘How – He’s dead. I saw him, at the end.’
He scanned the room, in quick little jolts of his neck. ‘It was here – right here.’ The images of that day cascaded through his mind: the first fully coherent, tied-together memory. ‘I was recovering, but he wasn’t. The ARC was working, but that only made him worse; the rads kept cooking him while he healed, and re-healed. They wheeled him out, to someplace else; the morgue, I thought. He couldn’t have… he shouldn’t—’ He trailed off, unable to continue. He stared again at the ravaged body and altered face. The basic features he remembered were still there: the slim eyebrows, the stubby nose, the mole at the back of his left jawline. In every other way, the man was unrecognisable as the same one who’d gone through the hell of the Balkash breach.
‘No, he shouldn’t,’ Gaia replied. ‘And according to my own records, he didn’t.’ Beside the bed, one of the monitors changed, showing a set of files. They scrolled quickly through several pages, before finally stopping. ‘These are casualty lists for the period immediately following your operation at Lake Balkash.’ The voice began to read. ‘Golem ID T-305/339; given name, Taylor. Severely wounded from unexpected secondary blasts during mission, and major subsequent radiation exposure. Blast wounds healed en route to Facility, but irradiation proved too extensive, causing reopening and exacerbation of wounds during attempted ER procedures, and total body shutdown approximately twenty-four hours following return. Pronounced KIA shortly after; body removed from Facility for appropriate interment.’
The screen returned to its previous readouts. ‘This was the standard procedure for “appropriate interment” of Golems killed in action, intended to be simple, and discreet. First they went to the Facility morgue, until a full confidential report on their deaths was completed; when the casualty rates rose somewhat just before the end, sometimes they would temporarily go to the cooler at the naval base proper. Once the report was received by Langley, they would be brought up to the surface in temp-controlled cargo containers, shipped across the bay to Lewis-McChord by military ferry, and put aboard the next flight to D.C. Upon arrival, the Agency would take charge of the remains, perform a last autopsy to confirm the report, and deliver the bodies to a cremation facility it maintained in the area.’
‘Looks like they missed a few,’ Cayden growled. He was studying Taylor with an almost morbid fascination, despite his by-now standard dispassionate manner. ‘Nobody raised a fuss so long as we did our jobs in the dark – not you, the brass, or anybody else. Doubt they’d do any more once we were in a box.’
‘Very possibly, Cayden,’ Gaia said, without obvious praise or rebuke. ‘In this case, however, unlike many others before and then, the Agency appears to have taken extra precautions.’ More files appeared on the monitor, scrolling almost too fast to read. ‘All Golems who passed away at any time during the Project went through the same process – at least, so the records indicate. No video footage of the bodies was kept anywhere in the Agency’s digital files, and obviously hard copy clips are inaccessible if stored in a cold vault, which would be standard procedure. And that leaves aside the fact that, apart from the ARC compound, the bodies would have very little value. The Agency would nonetheless want them destroyed for that exact reason, but there would be little need or point to altering the paperwork anymore than they had.’
‘No obvious point,’ Greg corrected. He wanted to focus his attention and anger on Gaia, but couldn’t keep from stealing glances at Taylor’s carved-up form. The sight gave new impetus to a question he’d wanted to ask since first waking up that day – since they’d first come together in the Sanctuary, in fact. He looked up at the lens again. ‘There was no one else who had any sort of ties to the Project, outside the Agency and D.C.? No other groups, or personnel?’ He pushed a little more. ‘No families?’
‘None that I am aware of, Gregory.’ The blue light blinked once, or maybe it was his imagination. ‘The Project was meant to be a sealed operation, from the beginning. Only I and the people on the ground here knew its innermost workings. The Agency Director and his representatives, as well as the Pentagon and the President, knew the general details only, and weren’t wholly informed of those, either, or even tried to become so, due to compartmentalisation concerns.’
‘Then it was done from inside,’ Leah said. ‘If the Project was so airtight that not even families’—she stressed the word herself, trying to boost Greg’s probing—‘were informed when somebody sneezed wrong in this place, then only the people who knew anything about it would have the resources to make changes in the process.’ She stopped, palpably debating whether to continue. ‘Along with going after the ones in the know who stood a chance of stopping them.’
‘Please explain what you mean, Leah,’ Gaia said. Leah laid out the details of their escape from Chicago – including the Pax effects, though she left out the name – and the encounter at the airfield: the Brown Coats’ arrival, Caswell’s likely death, and the backup that had shown up at the very end. When she finished, Gaia didn’t immediately respond. After several seconds, she – it – asked another question. ‘What happened after you were airborne?’
‘Plenty,’ Greg replied, unable to keep the ice from his tone. He described the battle with the drone, and the response team – leaving out Costa and Patrick – along with their and Jorge’s summary of the tech they’d faced with the Brown Coats: the blades, the glasses, and the ARC-like talent. No sense in revealing everything, until we start learning something.
Once Greg was done, Gaia was silent again. ‘Your recovering the canister would bring a strong response – the Agency would not let it go without one. The choppers, the troops, the drones are standard for a retrieval operation where the targets are presumed to have backup of some kind. If the staff of the Project are being targeted as well, along with its records, and believed or confirmed survivors, this would suggest a larger operation, to erase everything related to it – including the canister.’
Greg nodded; the explanation fitted with what the Sanctuary Council had discussed. ‘So where does he fit in?’ He moved back to Taylor’s bedside, looking over the scars even more closely. ‘If he didn’t die, somehow, how and why’d he end up like this?’
Before Gaia could answer, he spotted a slim black device the size of a hole-puncher, sitting on the bedside table with a short cord running to a tablet computer: a portable medscanner. Grabbing the device, he powered it up, and brought it to Taylor’s sternum, holding it several inches above his mangled flesh.
The screen showed an image – holographic? Modified CAT-scan? – of the sleeping man’s ribcage, albeit with false, shifting colours to differentiate between organs and bones. Greg could distantly recall seeing similar equipment in his other visits to the ER but hadn’t ever found out what they were. Cayden and Leah gathered around him. Right away, he spotted a line of grey material, following the length of one of Taylor’s ribs, connecting to a larger mass of the same, in the dead centre of his chest. The colour stood out clearly against the backdrop of multiple tints and the white of the skeleton. As his eyes adjusted to this, he saw more and more grey lines, along the other ribs. With slow, careful moves, he held the tablet to Taylor’s shoulders and collarbone, down across his stomach and waist, and over both arms and legs. Everywhere, the same kind of implants were present, inserted within bones or running along their exterior. In some places – the knees, the shoulders, both elbows
and hands, even several vertebrae – entirely artificial versions had replaced the original bones. The sight was grotesque and awe-inducing. ‘What… the hell is this?’ Greg managed to whisper at last.
‘Multiple forms of surgical implantation,’ Gaia said. ‘The current implant count is estimated at 150. The types of implants include intramedullary rods in the legs and arms, internal fixations at these same areas, various forms of joint replacement. Cursory examination indicates no discernable medical need for such operations, due to the presence of ARC. Present theory is that the implantations were made as a means of providing additional reinforcement and strength to the individual, alongside that provided by ARC and other pre-existing augmentation.’
‘Who made the implantations?’ Cayden asked, not taking his eyes from the body.
‘Unknown,’ Gaia replied. ‘All catalogued implants have no serial number, or other form of identification commonly used in medical implants. However, whoever performed the procedures had to have known the patients were given the ARC compound. No normal human could withstand the trauma of so many surgeries, all at once or over a certain period. Infection, shock, blood loss, or some combination of the three would kill them in short order – yet this individual went through every single one. Including some with no discernible medical need, in the oesophageal region.’
Greg held the scanner over the designated spot. He leaned in for a better view – and flinched back. Leah sucked in a breath; Cayden muttered something low and sulphurous. He looked to the lens himself. ‘They cut out his tongue?’
Another possible blink of the light. ‘Professionally, after a fashion. There is no clear reason for the operation, unless tongue cancer been detected – which, despite the effects of your mission, is doubtful. The reason for the implant in the oesophagus is also unclear.’
What? Far from sure he wanted to, Greg looked where the voice indicated. Nestled in the middle of Taylor’s throat – right about the same place as the circular scar he’d noted before – was a grey lump, about as big as an eraser. ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ he asked, more to himself than Gaia or the others.
‘Unknown,’ Gaia said, her – its – maternal tone unchanged. ‘Earlier examination suggests a vocalisation device of some kind; closer scans indicate connections to the speech centres of the brain, and perhaps to another apparatus outside the body. The removal of the tongue, however, indicates speech would be impossible, or at best difficult, with or without the device.’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Leah said. She stared hard at the image of the implant. ‘Doesn’t make sense, either, for a covert ops team; they have to communicate, every way possible. So—’ She cut off, shock and understanding blooming on her face. ‘AllSpec,’ she murmured.
Greg frowned, not following – and then, suddenly, he did. Every soldier or operative had to talk sometimes: to give and respond to orders, or identify for superiors or security measures, or any of a hundred other, basic reasons. But what if someone weren’t interested in vocalisation– in speech of any kind? What if they just wanted the AllSpec to issue orders, without being overheard– or getting unnecessary backtalk? He tapped the screen, zooming in on the device. ‘Where’s this thing placed, exactly?’ he demanded.
‘The implant is situated in the exact site of the vocal cords,’ Gaia replied. ‘The cords themselves were surgically altered to accommodate it a long time ago, and somehow have not regenerated; this was confirmed by scan, and an endoscopy.’
‘Right,’ Greg said tightly. Instead of asking who’d done those procedures – one mystery at a time – he brought the image even closer in on the object. Extending from the top and bottom were several extremely fine filaments; to Greg’s eye, they couldn’t be thicker than spider’s silk.
Leah reached past his shoulder, pointing to the objects. ‘These have to connect directly to the nerves controlling the vocal cords, and from there to the other, similar implants in various parts of the brain, including the speech centre. It doesn’t only detect the movement of the cords, relaying them to the AllSpec, and the target person with the same tech; it actually receives the words, as thought by the user.’ She moved back, eyeing the image and the body in a new, disgusted fascination. ‘An ideal set-up for covert communications, like Jorge said. Add the tongue removal, and the other surgeries, and the desired result is a lot clearer.’
‘A new version,’ Greg half-muttered. He was unable to keep his eyes from following the twists and intertwining of every scar. ‘An upgrade, maybe, the way they saw it. A mute hit squad, with Golem training and abilities, controlled with a blink or a texted word.’ The idea sickened him at the same time it made perfect sense, from a purely tactical stance. Real-time direction from anywhere, and quicker than any. No need for shouted orders, or any words at all. No need for the boss to be on site, either, not with the cameras and mikes. And the surgeries would make them near-invulnerable, paired with the ARC. It explained almost everything about the Brown Coats, from their surviving car crashes and killshots to the ‘accident’ on the Sound. He couldn’t understand, though, why Taylor had wound up being part of this bizarre experiment. The ‘kid’ had believed in the Project and his duties, same as the rest of them. There was no way he’d have willingly stayed, even after being revived by it. He was forced, somehow.And if the ones who did ithad access to other bodies, once they went up the chain…
The train of thought came to a sharp halt, replaced by a new, more unnerving one. It didn’t click, not at first – but as more pieces fit together, there were fewer and fewer other answers. He spun to face Cayden. ‘The others in the “First Five”. Did you work with them at all, after the North Korea mission?’
‘Not even then, for very long,’ Cayden replied. ‘We were supposed to operate solo; it allowed us to cover larger stretches of territory, and more potential targets. We only cooperated when the targets were higher-profile, or more complex than a one-person strike could bring down. We were shipped home as a team, but separated soon as we landed at Lewis, for debriefing. I never worked with any of them again; it was solo missions only for me, from that point on. Don’t think I spotted them when I was here for—’
The older Golem cut off. His slowly whitening features – from anger or shock – said he understood where Greg’s line of thinking was headed. A quick look Leah’s way showed the same reaction. Greg turned back to the lens. ‘What did happen to the other four?’ he demanded. ‘They never showed at the Sanctuary, and we’ve never found or heard any hints about them anywhere.’
‘After the mission to Korea, they were sent on other individual assignments, as Cayden said,’ Gaia replied at once. ‘They were the first, and therefore unique in that sense, but not for very long.’ The tablet image changed, bringing up four files at once. The voice became a steady monotone. ‘M2 – Michael – listed as killed August 2037, in a raid against a terror cell along the Iranian-Pakistan border; remains shipped from Persian Gulf to D.C., rather than by the usual route. D4 – Drake – killed accidentally in an airstrike in Indonesia, January 2039; body delivered via normal process, despite Turmoil-related delays. J3 – Joey – killed in raid on narco-terror compound in the Sierra Madre, September 2041; body sent directly to D.C. F5 – Fred – killed during op in Yunnan, China, July 2038; body delayed due to still-elevated tensions in the region, but processed according to standard procedure.’
Cayden leaned in, staring at the documents for a time. Then he looked at Greg again. ‘You think they’re the others,’ he said, in an equally flat tone. ‘The other four you encountered.’
‘Until every body’s accounted for, that’s the theory,’ Greg said. ‘If you’re looking for the best candidates for this’—he waved at Taylor—‘then the first ones off the line would top the list. You weren’t just the first, either; you were the best. Every class after them was great, with its own specific talents – but nobody tops the ones who set the standard. Modifying members of the “First Five” would give the ones behind it serious prest
ige, in Agency and Pentagon circles. A chance to improve on the perfect soldier… plenty of brass and spooks would be drooling at the chance.’
He flipped the tablet around, showing it to the others. ‘And think about when the bodies were delayed, or went by different routes. Check the exact dates for each one.’ He did so himself. ‘All of them died in ops well after any threats – obvious or subtle – that needed Golem attention were over, or reduced to manageable levels. The Hong Kong and Quetta bombings, the revolutions in Southeast Asia, the cartel conflicts that spilled into the Southwest. Millions of people on the move or tearing each other apart for living space or resources. The governments and spooks involved just wanted to get a handle on the situation and start rebuilding. They wouldn’t think twice about authorising more covert ops to help that along, or worry when bodies started coming back.’
‘Or if they came back in delayed or off ways,’ Leah put in. Her nod was reluctant, but conceding. ‘People stopped paying attention to flag-draped coffins fast in the old War on Terror; very few would do the same for bodies that never existed in the first place. Perfect cover for moving them to some other site, once they got back to the States. List them as KIA, and anything becomes possible – even this.’ She motioned to the insensate Golem.
‘Except there’s no idea how he, or the others, could be brought back – in every sense of the word,’ Cayden growled. ‘I worked with every one of the First Five, from the beginning. They wouldn’t consent to any of this, and would fight like hell to break free if they were shipped back in chains. So either they had to have been kept under the whole way – no easy feat, for people with only the barest idea of what they’re dealing with – or they were dead to begin with, and were somehow revived.’
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