Augment

by C R MacFarlane

  Gal tapped his five fingers to his chest in a quick, customary thank you, wishing he was already retreating down the corridor. He rubbed his hands nervously on his sleeves. “Dinner is served in the mess at nineteen-hundred. The commander planned a special meal.”

  “My thanks to you and your officer. Sadly, I am afraid I will have to decline — there is some work to finalize before we are out of range. Is it possible to use your communications array?”

  Gal nodded, suppressing his instant sigh of relief. “I’ll send Lieutenant Wood to set it up for you.”

  “Much appreciated. My apologies for missing the meal.”

  Gal turned on his heel to leave, but the Poet stopped him: “Ah, I almost forgot — I have a gift for you, Galiant. You don’t mind if I call you Galiant, do you?”

  He shook his head dumbly, feet planted. What else could he say? One wrong move and there was no telling how the strange and unusual meeting would end.

  The Poet reached into a compartment on his luggage and pulled out a long, slender parcel. “I have heard it is your favourite.”

  Gal didn’t need to unwrap the package to recognize the bottle. He stared at the Jin-Jiu. But how had the Poet gotten it? How had he known?

  “Go on. Take it.”

  Gingerly he reached out, his fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle.

  “Tell me about yourself, Galiant.” The Poet leaned casually against the door frame. “Where is it you were born? You don’t look like Old Earth stock.”

  Still gazing at the wrapped bottle in his hands and wondering what the proper protocol was when given a gift of illegal drink by a dignitary, Gal replied without thinking, “No — Indaer.”

  “Oh,” the Poet chuckled softly, “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it called that. One of the first planets colonized when humanity began its reach into space from Earth. Rich mineral deposits and excellent crop yields.”

  Also the place the Central Army landed when they were forced off the Earth. They had set up their headquarters there, and changed the name to Etar — something about a new hope. The Poet had delivered the address.

  Gal scrambled to cover his misstep. “I lived on Indaer. When it was forest and farmland. But that planet’s gone. Nothing but a small forest preserve now. They paved over the farms to build the central city. I only said I’m from Indaer because that’s what I remember. I haven’t lived there since it became Etar”

  “Understandable. There have been a number of changes.” The Poet scanned him with his laser eyes before his features melted back into a friendly smile. “You fought in the war, did you not, Gal?”

  Gal slumped into the door frame for support. “Yeah.”

  “I read your personnel file,” the Poet continued. “Quite a decorated career you had: the Shining Compass, the Nations’ Cross, and the Ruby Star.”

  And a host of other medals that didn’t mean much more now than they did then. “Sure.” His hands clenched on the bottle, as memories of platoons and laz-cannons assaulted him. Things he only wanted to forget. “What about you, where did you grow up, Poet?”

  “Fighting is an awful thing,” said the Poet, blatantly ignoring the turn in conversation. “But it is also great for the changes it brings.”

  Gal shook his head, screams and explosions already flashing through his memory, dragging him out of the present and into the past.

  “‘The only way to move forward is to change. Sometimes the change is not what we want it to be, but it can set things in motion that we would not have dreamed otherwise.’ Do you not agree?”

  His legs gave out, only the wall keeping Gal upright. They weren’t the Poet’s words, they were Gal’s, said too many years ago. What kind of torture had they planned for him?

  His mouth said something — maybe rude, maybe incoherent. White light shone across his retinas, and an unnamed buzz rang in his ears. He turned and stormed down the corridor, the bottle clutched firmly to his chest.

  * * *

  Gal collapsed into his chair, picking up the overturned photo frame from the floor beneath his desk. Aaron’s face stared out at him — youthful, rugged, hopeful. Dead.

  He slammed it back down.

  Memories surfaced: In the dark of night, calls came through their old-fashioned radios — Gal on this side called to Aaron on the other. Stars shone bright overhead, and their breath came out in cold puffs.

  His pack pressed into his back and he kept low, footsteps crunching on the cold ground.

  Two weeks away from graduation, the Central Army Academy had taught him only half the things he knew, but he still happily used their vision enhancement tech. Through the engineered contact lenses, the walls looked dirty yellow, but he knew they were still the same grey as when they’d scoped the place in the daytime.

  Explosions sounded off, progressing precisely down the long sides of the building, dust and con-plas flying into the air. There were desperate shouts, and then sirens. Laz-fire blazed across the lawns.

  And somewhere in all that mess, Augments escaped. A war that had long been silent began in earnest. A planet died.

  Gal pulled his warmer from the drawer, dropping the bottle of Jin-Jiu inside.

  Xenoralia nervosa — the Red Fever. That was how it all began.

  The story felt unusual, unexpected. It started with a virus that affected less than ten-percent of the population, and would end with the loss of an entire planet. Absurd, but that was exactly what had happened.

  Twelve years before that night of explosions and laz-fights, the Red Fever had claimed its first victim. The next day, twenty. The following day, a hundred. Only pockets of the population were affected, but it decimated those regions like wildfire. It affected men and women of all ages — but strangely, not the children, not at first.

  In the adults, it caused tumours, erratic mitosis and whole body neoplasia until they were so disfigured they became unrecognizable. In the best cases, debilitating lumps and boils covered the whole body. A couple of people even survived it — though they envied the ones who didn’t.

  Researchers learned what it was: a transgene, a retrovirus. It inserted into the DNA and changed the growth of cells — some proteins were gained, some were lost, entirely new products started showing up.

  Once they identified the virus, they started to recognize the effect it had on children. It didn’t just insert into their genome, it changed it in ways no one could predict. The children became — for lack of a better word — augmented, genetically enhanced. They became something else: Augments.

  It acted like nothing seen before. Its origin remained a complete mystery. Was it natural or designed? And why?

  The infected children — their bodies still growing, their cells still dividing and moving — became stronger, their dexterity increased to almost incomprehensible levels. They were smarter too. They never forgot, and even when no one told them a thing, they could know it. The younger they were when infected, the more profound the result.

  The Central Army and their researchers offered to help the infected adults and children, and they submitted willingly. The medical trials weren’t always successful, but no one blamed the government — they were doing more than anyone else. A couple people were ‘cured,’ but more by chance than anything else. Thousands died in the hospitals.

  The disease ran its course and receded, but the children, orphans now, were still being treated in the Central Army compound at Evangecore.

  They weren’t sick. They had been strong and healthy before they went in, so why the children were still being held, no one knew. It was the Will of the Gods, said the Speakers. And there they stayed for the next twelve years.

  A rumour started that the Augment children were being experimented on. They were being trained. A couple of people went so far as to say the army was trying to figure out how to strengthen its soldiers without subjecting them to the disease.

  That night when Evangecore was bombed, the children fled. Most of them were teens by t
hat time. They blinked in the light, but they were fit, and they ran. They escaped into the woods and shot down an elite platoon with a single, measly 64V laz-pistol.

  Gal saw it in his mind’s eye: screams and explosions, trees silhouetted against the dark night, lit up by the light of hovercrafts dropping soldiers by the dozens into the battle. Periodically a single laz-pulse would strike out from the forest, and slowly all of the Central Army’s men and machines lay crumpled on the ground.

  He poured his mug full of Jin-Jiu, eager to drown the memories and the demons they brought with them.

  The war lasted three years, jumping from continent to continent as the Augments fled. They were careful though, and Gal respected that, keeping away from the inhabited areas and cities as much as possible.

  The government continued developing new weapons, up to the manic 200MV laz-cannon. By that point, Gal had made commander and worked to get his regiment to the North where they would deploy the cannon. The Army had discovered their stronghold and said the Augments had accessed the Earth’s core and they were using its energy to fuel a weapon that would destroy the Gods. So the Army went to destroy them. And Gal tagged along to see if there was anything he could do.

  Soldiers worked their way across the frozen ground, Gal panting with the extra effort needed to move through the waist-deep snow. Far ahead, alpha regiment moved the cannon into position. He encouraged his men to move faster, but they were not fast enough.

  The laz-cannon fired. A bright beam of red shot through the air, aimed at a small grouping of hills whose rocky peaks just poked through the snow. A boy sat as sentry, too far away to make out clearly, but no doubt he was just a kid.

  Gal stopped, shocked. He watched and waited for the boy’s imminent demise.

  But something in the air flickered and caught the laz-fire — a kind of forceshield. It rippled with colour. The cannon’s laz-stream poured into it, undulating the shield like water flowing into a pond.

  Gal left his men and ran wildly to the alpha commander, but she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t decrease the voltage.

  He slammed the cannon with the butt of his rifle. It wavered but kept firing its stream of intense energy.

  The forceshield buckled. Rapidly, it changed through red and orange and yellow to bright white. And then it went black.

  Gal stood, staring at it, deaf to the terrified shouts around him.

  Stored up energy in the forceshield dissipated like a thousand lightning storms. Bright, hot light shot out the top and bottom. It burned a hole straight to the very core of the planet, turning the hills and the Augments inside to vapour. The ground under them shook and lurched, crumbling down into the magma below.

  He downed the mug in one long series of gulps, sucking on it like he was drowning and it was the only thing that could keep him afloat.

  He’d managed to move his regiment back to the transport which took them to an airfield where he’d boarded a ship and left the planet for the last time. Thousands were left behind when the Earth collapsed and imploded on itself. And the war was suddenly, definitively over.

  TWO

  KIERAN WOOD RAN A HAND through his freshly buzzed hair, enjoying the prickly sensation as he rubbed his hand back and forth.

  Around him, twelve new crewmen buzzed anxiously, darting from console to console in the open engineering bay. They tugged at their new grey coveralls, scratching the collars and the heavy padded shoulders.

  “Is this alignment sufficient?” asked the man who was supposed to be his replacement as chief engineer, gesturing to the computer panel over the open access port.

  Kieran glanced at the output and raised an eyebrow good naturedly. “We’re going to hurtle ourselves through the very fabric of space-time.”

  The engineer — Ensign Cade Textile — shrugged. “The handbook says 95% is sufficient, and this is reading 96-point-3.”

  Kieran reached down to adjust the filaments himself. “If there’s one thing you’re going to learn about me over the next three months, it’s that I like to aim a little higher than sufficient.” He finished his tweaking and punched in the codes for the computer to run another diagnostic. “The Ishash’tor here is twenty-five years old — ready to be retired. And yet, we’ve not had a single engine malfunction in the last year.”

  The ensign turned an unusual shade of puce, and Kieran quickly analyzed his expression for anger or resentment. Fortunately, he only detected embarrassment.

  “No worries though, hey.” Kieran slapped him on the shoulder. The last thing he wanted to do was tell the man how to do his job — on the one hand it wasn’t the way he liked to operate, on the other he’d signed a mission briefing specifically stating that he wouldn’t influence the outcome of events. “When I go, you can do what you want, Ensign. It’s just my job to show you the ropes.”

  He left the engineer, taking a quick stroll around the bay to check on the others before retreating to the little alcove he called an office. It had a computer terminal and was out of the way enough. The last message he’d sent home had been a few days ago, and if he didn’t keep in regular contact, they would get worried and come for him.

  His fingers stretched across the input screen, accessing the subroutines that would let him send an encrypted message, but when it came to actually write the note, he paused. There was nothing to say. Had been nothing to say for months.

  He’d come here to explore the newly terra-formed planets in the Deep Black, thinking the freightship would be a perfect excuse to visit as many places as possible. And the captain was rumoured to have once been the foremost officer in New Planetary Exploration. It should have been a recipe for intrigue. Something at least. But all he’d done for a year was frog-jump back and forth across the galaxy.

  A quiet chime sounded from his terminal — a service request. He tapped on the icon, the details expanding across the screen: the Poet needed communications access. And Kieran knew just the engineer for the job.

  He picked up a mobile service kit from the storage lockers, waved at his team, and nearly skipped out the door.

  The Poet’s guest quarters were three decks below, and Kieran took the time to remind himself of his training. He had a list of questions carefully prepared by the time he arrived at the door and pressed the request chime.

  The door slid open a moment later, a tall man with peppered hair and long-grey robes greeted him.

  “Howdy-there, Poet.” Kieran spread his hand on his chest. “I’m Lieutenant Wood. Here to connect your communications port to our array.” At the last moment, he remembered to salute — five fingers coned together, the point pressed into the middle of the chest. The same weird way that they prayed.

  The Poet returned the gesture. “Thank you for coming.”

  Kieran grinned, carefully projecting an air of slight incompetence. People liked to open up if they didn’t feel threatened, if they didn’t think someone was carefully filing away everything they heard and saw. “Sure thing.”

  He followed the Poet to the fold-down desk and the wall terminal hidden behind it. He used the desk to hold his toolkit — not that he needed more tools than a computer access code, but he could buy a little more interview time if he made a show.

  “Have you — have you been an engineer for very long?”

  “Oh yeah.” He selected the hand-spanner and a flashy little laz-torch. “It’s not that hard really, you push this button, you push that button. Computer does most of it.” He popped the panel, letting the screen swing open to expose the inner wiring.

  The Poet frowned, pressing his lips into a tight line. “Do you feel it’s necessary to take apart the console?”

  All the intel Kieran had on the Poet suggested he was nothing more than a figurehead. He gave speeches that the folk lapped up — the same blah blah about the Path of the Gods.

  But the man currently watched him with a single raised eyebrow and a deadly patient smile. “Close the panel.”

  The words echoed strangely, and Kieran fou
nd himself closing the panel before his mind registered the order. He gulped uncomfortably, mind racing to integrate this new information and rewrite the assumptions he had made.

  He pushed out a laugh, adding a tinge of nervousness and a hint of embarrassment. “Busted. You know your way around a communications port.”

  “That I do.”

  “Sorry. I’m a big fan and we don’t often get a chance to see the non-mandatory broadcasts. Forgive me for trying to use my opportunity to speak with you a little more.” He gestured at the now shut panel. “I thought I’d stabilize the connections and put you on a lower-frequency transmission. The signal goes farther that way before it degrades too much.”

  For the first time, the Poet’s grey-blue eyes lit up in appreciation. “That is understandable then. I thought all the broadcasts were mandatory.”

  “Yeah. We don’t spend too many hours at Etar, so they get prioritized a little.”

  “Do you have a favourite?”

  He gulped — the recent propaganda was all pretty gaudy. “Uh. The one where you talk about Etar and the forest preserve and the progress that’s been made.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah.” But probably not for the same reasons as everyone else. “‘Definitive Might of the Gods, for they know all and see all and bend the world to their good,’” he quoted. A bead of sweat collected at his temple.

  The Poet eyed him skeptically.

  He jabbed his fingers into his chest again for good measure, grinning.

  “Yes, yes. Well remembered,” said the Poet with a reassuring smile, but his voice sounded empty.

  “Truth be told,” Kieran said quickly. “I liked your poems more than anything.” And it was the truth.

  The Poet’s blue eyes lit up, the low-light in the room twinkling off them. “Not many people care for the poems, so now I favour more direct prose. And the needs of the Speakers and the Gods, of course.”

  “Of course.” He turned to the panel. “I’ll have this sorted in a jiffy, here, Poet.”

  “Would it be possible to set the transmission to a specific frequency?”