The Corporation Wars_Dissidence

by Ken MacLeod

  “So they send six Sim Ops teams out into the Quarantine Zone to rescue one man?” Martinez asked. “Seems like overkill.”

  “I said we’re supposed to bring all personnel back. And it’s made more complex by this.”

  I adjusted the external camera controls, so that a wider graphic of space surrounding Maru Prime became visible. The sector was literally full of activity. Flocks of fighters wove between larger vessels, Alliance ships chasing down Krell bio-fighters.

  There were three Alliance warships anchored in high orbit: the Mallard, the Washington’s Paragon, and the Peace of Seattle. Assault cruisers with enough onboard firepower to level a small planet. They faced off against six advancing Krell starships of unknown designation, ranging in threat category. The alien vessels were variations on an aquatic theme–black as space, shaped like mutant molluscs.

  Both groups were on full offensive: firing torpedoes, railguns, flak cannons. The battlespace within a few thousand klicks was alight with plasma, the immediate and empty explosions of ships dying in vacuum. Tracer fire slid overhead: Alliance tech met with Krell organic equivalents. I picked out the Mallard somewhere in the fray–null-shields flaring, laser batteries bristling. Our real bodies, in the Mallard’s Simulant Operations Centre, were our vulnerability. One stray missile to the Mallard, one missed point-defence reaction, and we’d be open to vacuum.

  Our Wildcat was in the thick of the fighting, plummeting to the station below.

  “With this much shit going on above our heads,” I said, “Command thinks that we will be able to achieve retrieval of Professor Saul without attracting significant enemy attention.”

  Martinez sucked his teeth. “How long we got?”

  I shrugged. “Until Far Eye Station gets eaten by the planet below? Twenty-seven minutes. But we’ll be long gone by then. We’re going to breach, evac the civvies, then pull out.”

  “This all sounds a little too easy,” Jenkins added. Sarcasm was never her strong point. “What’s the complication…?”

  On cue, something hit the APS.

  A warning chimed in my helmet. Direct from the shuttle: CRITICAL DAMAGE DETECTED!

  We were hit, hard enough to slam the boat off course.

  The APS swung about, throwing me back into my seat. Reflexively, I grabbed the restraints. The shuttle engines started a throaty, unpleasant roaring: the deck underfoot buckling with each new turn.

  I checked my heads-up display; the stream of data projected onto the interior of my combat-suit helmet. I was hardwired into my armoured suit–fully powered, sealed, battle-ready–and what data couldn’t be relayed onto the HUD was ported directly into my neural-link. Shit. Significant structural damage. The main propulsion unit was compromised. I absorbed the information immediately; was already planning how we could stay combat-effective.

  “We’ll have to do this the hard way. Looks like you get your complication, Jenkins.”

  “Great.”

  There wouldn’t be time to correct our approach vector. We would miss our landing window. I patched through to Naval command, aboard the UAS Mallard.

  “Command, this is Lazarus Actual. Do you read me?”

  I’d learnt to embrace the callsign; if everyone was going to call me it, then why resist? Since Helios, it was hard to argue with the suggestion that I always came back.

  “Copy, Lazarus Actual, but only just,” the anonymous voice of Command replied. “Your bird has suffered a hit.”

  “I know. I guess we just got unlucky.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, Lazarus. It’s a glancing bio-plasma impact. You’re losing fuel fast. You want to extract?”

  “That’s a negative. We’re going to make a hard-drop to the outpost.”

  The officer whistled. “Sure you want to risk it?”

  “Not like we have a choice.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked. There are five other teams inbound on the same objective.”

  “So I’m supposed to let some other simulant outfit claim the prize? We’re operational and we’re proceeding with the mission.”

  “Your call, Lazarus. Gaia’s luck. Be aware that the drop window is closing fast.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You have your orders. Command out.”

  “Lazarus Actual out.”

  The cabin lights flickered, signalling radio silence with the Mallard. The craft was now descending at entirely the wrong angle; slamming me against the wall of the passenger cabin.

  I turned to my squad. “We’re hard-dropping to Maru Prime–straight down the pipe.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Kaminski said. When he was anxious, his Brooklyn accent became thick: like he’d just left New York City. Right now, it was the thickest I’d heard it in a long time. “New Girl ain’t up to this.”

  “My name is Mason. And of course I’m up to this. I’m a trained soldier just like the rest of you.”

  “Whatever, New Girl. Six transitions ain’t the same.” Kaminski tapped the numeric badge on his shoulder: one hundred and eighteen deaths so far. “Just looking out for you is all. Once you get your Legion badge, then we can talk some more.”

  “Quit the chatter,” Jenkins ordered. “On the major’s mark!”

  I unstrapped my safety harness, standing as steadily as I could. That was no easy task: the APS was shaking apart now, caught on a drift in the upper atmosphere of Maru. The mags in my boots automatically kicked in: held me to the deck underfoot. I checked everything I needed was strapped down, locked the plasma rifle to my back-plate. Grenades, power cells, sidearm–anything loose was going to be lost in the descent to the station below.

  “Suits sealed!” Jenkins yelled. “On the order, people!”

  Martinez and Kaminski were up and out of their harnesses, strapping equipment onto their combat-suits.

  We were approaching the station fast. The ugly domed structures spun beneath us as the APS tumbled through the sky. The view was heat-blurred and hazy. It’s going to be hot out there. I hope that the combat-suits can take it. There would be no way that real skins, even in full EVA gear, could operate in those temperatures. My onboard AI informed me that I could withstand six minutes, thirteen seconds before the heat caused catastrophic damage. That will have to be long enough, I decided.

  “Let’s do this.”

  The rear access hatch of the APS cycled open and I was immediately accosted by a wave of super-heated atmosphere–nearly strong enough to pull me out of the shuttle. I grappled the overhead safety webbing with one hand and fought the urge to cover my face with the other. That was the natural reaction, because Maru Prime’s surface was blindingly bright and exuded heat.

  “Fall in!”

  We assembled at the rear lock of the APS. The craft circled the base one more time, altitude only a few thousand metres now.

  “Don’t forget who we are,” Jenkins roared over the comm. “Lazarus Legion: prepare for drop.”

  I took a running jump out of the airlock.

  The rest of the squad did the same. Maru Prime had a strong gravitational field–over a gee, according to Science Division’s analysis–and I felt it as I launched into the upper atmosphere. The tug of planetary forces was enough to pump the air temporarily from my lungs. My onboard medi-suite issued me combat-drugs; a mixture of endorphins, analgesics and smart-drugs hit my bloodstream.

  My body was like an aerodynamic dart–armoured arms and legs held together to decrease drag. I heard nothing but saw everything. The blinding, furious world beneath me: bubbling, constantly spewing and churning. The prickle of heat on my face, the immediate damp of sweat forming on my brow and my back. The combat-suit attempted to remedy that, atmospheric conditioning working overtime to keep me at optimum combat temperature.

  All five of us, in perfect formation, were freefalling to the station below. The actual structure seemed to come up to meet us almost right away, the bare plains of landing bays and storage depots listing precariously.

  Pe
ople, civilians mainly, paid good money for this sort of experience. The serenity of the drop was absolute but it was an acquired taste. One false move, and I’d either be crushed by Maru’s gravity, or would fly drastically off course and burn up in the atmosphere.

  The trick was riding the momentum of the planet’s gravity well just so.

  “Thrusters!” I yelled.

  The Trident Class V was a premium combat-suit, made for battle in space. A full EVA suit but so much more. Of interest to me right now was the onboard manoeuvring system: thrusters incorporated into the backpack unit.

  I fired the manoeuvring jets and immediately changed direction. I moved into an upright position, kicked out with both feet and braced to hit the station landing pad. There was a muted hiss as the thrusters fired again, then the wrench of external forces competing with Maru’s gravity.

  The distance counter inside my helmet began to slow. I held up a hand, watched the armoured glove glow red with heat from the descent. Maru Prime’s atmosphere was thin and vapid, so the drop hadn’t caused as much frictional heat as it could’ve done.

  “I—I’m having some trouble out here!” Mason suddenly broke in over the comm.

  Shit. With supreme effort, I twisted my head in her direction. Every muscle in my neck felt locked, every bone fused by the opposing forces pulling at me. Because the Legion had done this so many times before I’d been concentrating on my own drop-technique.

  Private Mason had never hard-dropped. She spiralled alongside me, maybe a hundred metres off course. Her thruster pack fired–bright blue against the glaring red of the landscape below–and she spun head over heels.

  The combat-suits carried an active camouflage suite, made to mimic the surrounding conditions. Her suit flashed an angry red–mirroring the planet below–then, as her body spun, shifted to copy the black star-field above. The armour eventually gave up completely: the onboard AI must’ve decided that it was impossible to imitate the constantly shifting environment.

  “Told you she wasn’t ready,” Kaminski tutted.

  “You want me to fetch her?” Martinez asked. He panted heavily over the comm; even he was finding this taxing.

  “I’m the nearest,” I said. This was my problem. “Adopt primary drop formation and secure the LZ.”

  “Affirmative.”

  I fired my thruster. My descent was slowing, but I was still moving fast, and that made the lateral shift difficult. I pulled alongside the twisting figure.

  Up close, I saw the damage that Mason’s uncontrolled descent had caused. Her armour plating was blackened, glowing an incandescent white in places, angry blood-red and orange in others. Inside her helmet, her face was a mask of horror–eyes wide and pallor an absolute white.

  “I… I can’t get… angle!” she stammered.

  “Breathe deep. Focus.”

  I issued the orders verbally. In my head, I requested that her suit administer a dose of combat-drugs. Almost immediately, her rhythms flattened. It wouldn’t be enough to put her out, or even stop her from panicking, but I hoped that it was enough to keep her alive.

  “Help me! Please!”

  “Fire the thruster in three short bursts.” I was becoming increasingly hot; I realised suddenly how far off course Mason had actually drifted. “Just stay with it.”

  The thrusters were all thought-activated, and a panicked mind implicitly carried delay. She spiralled again and again, armour glowing hotter with every turn: every exposed angle blistering. Streamers of smoke had started rising from the damaged exterior. Unless I helped her, she was going to roast inside the armour.

  “Fire the thruster! Now!”

  Mason fired and her descent wobbled.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…” she babbled.

  “Keep quiet and keep the comms channel clear. Give me your hand.”

  Mason reached out to me, her gloved fingers spread. I fired my thruster again, edging nearer to her–I could almost feel the heat coming from her frazzled body, more powerful than that emanating from Maru Prime below.

  “I can’t reach—”

  She wobbled some more, spinning again. An alarm sounded in my helmet: SQUAD MEMBER IN CRITICAL CONDITION. Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.

  I reached for her, the tip of my forefinger brushing her arm.

  Distance: two hundred metres.

  “Reach again!” I shouted.

  Then suddenly Mason was upright, her thruster pack firing pure blue. She ground her teeth. Reached with splayed fingers. I grappled with her hand, locking around her wrist.

  Distance: one hundred metres.

  “Come on, Private. You can do this!”

  She nodded firmly, thruster firing in a steady rhythm.

  The distance counter slowed even further and suddenly we were over the LZ. The thruster pack gave one last, monumental fire–allowing me almost to hover above the landing pad. My feet touched down on the deck, absorbed the impact through the rest of my body. I stood for a second, breathing deep, enjoying the fact that I was on solid ground.

  “You okay?”

  Mason’s combat-suit had temporarily locked. She sagged inside the armour, sweated forehead touching her inner face-plate.

  “Christo,” she whispered. “That was a ride. Thanks.”

  I didn’t answer her, just scanned the landing pad. The rest of my squad watched on with something approaching disbelief. They were assembled outside the station’s primary airlock with weapons drawn.

  “Maybe Kaminski was right when he said that she wasn’t ready,” Jenkins said.

  “She’s alive,” I answered, using the restricted channel between Jenkins and me. I didn’t want Mason’s confidence any more bruised than it already was.

  “You really want a ride, maybe I can show you sometime,” Kaminski said.

  Mason didn’t bother with a reply.

  “Stow that shit,” I ordered, back on the general channel. “Get us inside the station and conduct a sweep.”

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  The Corporation Wars: Dissidence,

  look out for

  War Dogs

  by Greg Bear

  They made their presence on Earth known thirteen years ago. Providing technology and scientific insights far beyond what mankind was capable of, they became indispensable advisors and promised even more gifts that we just couldn’t pass up. We called them Gurus.

  But they had been hounded by mortal enemies from sun to sun, planet to planet, and were now stretched thin—and they needed our help.

  And so our first bill came due. Skyrines like me were volunteered to pay the price. As always. These enemies were already inside our solar system and were establishing a beachhead, but not on Earth. On Mars.

  DOWN TO EARTH

  I’m trying to go home. As the poet said, if you don’t know where you are, you don’t know who you are. Home is where you go to get all that sorted out.

  Hoofing it outside Skybase Lewis-McChord, I’m pretty sure this is Washington State, I’m pretty sure I’m walking along Pacific Highway, and this is the twenty-first century and not some fidging movie—

  But then a whining roar grinds the air and a broad shadow sweeps the road, eclipsing cafés and pawnshops and loan joints—followed seconds later by an eye-stinging haze of rocket fuel. I swivel on aching feet and look up to see a double-egg-and-hawksbill burn down from the sky, leaving a rainbow trail over McChord field…

  And I have to wonder.

  I just flew in on one of those after eight months in the vac, four going out, three back. Seven blissful months in timeout, stuffed in a dark tube and soaked in Cosmoline.

  All for three weeks in the shit. Rough, confusing weeks.

  I feel dizzy. I look down, blink out the sting, and keep walking. Cosmoline still fidges with my senses.

  Here on Earth, we don’t say fuck anymore, the Gurus don’t like it, so we say fidge instead. Part of the price of freedom. Out on the Red, we say fuck as much as we like. The ange
ls edit our words so the Gurus won’t have to hear.

  SNKRAZ.

  Joe has a funny story about fuck. I’ll tell you later, but right now, I’m not too happy with Joe. We came back in separate ships, he did not show up at the mob center, and my Cougar is still parked outside Skyport Virginia. I could grab a shuttle into town, but Joe told me to lie low. Besides, I badly want time alone—time to stretch my legs, put down one foot after another. There’s the joy of blue sky, if I can look up without keeling over, and open air without a helm—and minus the rocket smell—is a newness in the nose and a beauty in the lungs. In a couple of klicks, though, my insteps pinch and my calves knot. Earth tugs harsh after so long away. I want to heave. I straighten and look real serious, clamp my jaws, shake my head—barely manage to keep it down.

  Suddenly, I don’t feel the need to walk all the way to Seattle. I have my thumb and a decently goofy smile, but after half an hour and no joy, I’m making up my mind whether to try my luck at a minimall Starbucks when a little blue electric job creeps up behind me, quiet as a bad fart. Quiet is not good.

  I spin and try to stop shivering as the window rolls down. The driver is in her fifties, reddish hair rooted gray. For a queasy moment, I think she might be MHAT sent from Madigan. Joe warned me, “For Christ’s sake, after all that’s happened, stay away from the doctors.” MHAT is short for Military Health Advisory Team. But the driver is not from Madigan. She asks where I’m going. I say downtown Seattle. Climb in, she says. She’s a colonel’s secretary at Lewis, a pretty ordinary grandma, but she has these strange gray eyes that let me see all the way back to when her scorn shaped men’s lives.

  I ask if she can take me to Pike Place Market. She’s good with that. I climb in. After a while, she tells me she had a son just like me. He became a hero on Titan, she says—but she can’t really know that, because we aren’t on Titan yet, are we?

  I say to her, “Sorry for your loss.” I don’t say, Glad it wasn’t me.