by A J McKeep
He called out, “Which unit were you?”
Neither man moved nearer but the closest called back, “Rust and bust. Four-oh-four. You?”
Rust and bust. The nickname frontline grunts gave to Mech and Tech divisions. 404, he knew as a ghost squad. Specialized in covert and deniable ops, way into hostile territory.
He called back, “Two-eighty-two.”
“Oh,” the man said, still not moving. “Big boots.”
Garrison beckoned the two men over. When they hesitated, he wished he’d asked them sooner. At the door, when Garrison invited them in, the uglier grunt raised a dripping hand and said, “We’ll make your nice van muddy and wet.”
Garrison shrugged, “Not my van.” And he let the corners of his mouth tug. “And the interior is resilient enough. No soft furnishings will be harmed.” He spread an open hand. Water cascaded off the two men as they climbed in.
The bigger man held out a hand like a boulder. He was the one Garrison judged the uglier, though the contest was close. “Hershey, good buddy,” the man said. “This here is Coke. It’s decent of you. Inviting us in.”
“You’d do the same.”
Coke looked up from under a heavy dripping brow, “You don’t know that.” His smile was easy enough as he held out his hand, though. “Did I hear you asking about Hope’s?”
Garrison nodded. Coke told him, “That’s not something to ask about. Not out loud.” His voice lowered, “But if you were looking on the subnet – you know how to get there?” Garrison frowned. He’d heard of the subnet. Not being much of a techie, he never paid much attention. Coke said, “You get a subnet browser. There’s one called Shades, another is Backchannel. When you get there, if you search on the Dark Road, you’ll find…” he hesitated, “You’ll find all kinds of stuff there.”
Garrison wanted to know more, but asking questions wouldn’t be the way to learn. He could see that much.
A silence cooled the air. Hershey grinned and jerked a thumb at the fat transporter on the catapult outside. “What’s the world coming to when the illegal ops can’t keep to a schedule?”
Garrison’s eyebrows lifted toward the transport ahead, “How illegal is this?”
Coke shrugged as he looked up. “The legit signups all started lining up to board yesterday. Those are the last of them, boarding in the part of the base that’s covered and lit.”
Hershey nodded. “We’re all of us here because either something very bad happened very recently, or because we were in a hurry to leave and couldn’t get out there any other way.” Hershey’s eyes sparkled. “All apart from your own self, naturally.”
Coke chipped in, “And my good buddy and me. We’re legit.”
Garrison chuckled. “Of course. We’re the peace corps.”
They all nodded. “You got to have faith in something.” Coke said. And they all agreed.
Interruption
AFTER A LONG WAIT, boarding was sudden, hasty, and rushed. Garrison, Hershey and Coke were the last aboard and took the last three couches. Garrison guessed there were seventy passengers in all. He took the last space, by the emergency button on an aisle right at the back. The interior of the transport looked about twenty years old, and like it was cleaned and maintained maybe twice in that time.
The door was closing as Garrison slipped on the compression suit, strapped in and braced. Immediately the cabin announcements about safety covered the USMilCom’s legal ass as the huge pod’s nose lifted. The vessel swung back and rose on the catapult gantry. The cabin shook violently as the steam pressure built up. Every couch and molding squealed and creaked. The whole thing felt like it would launch a few hundred feet into the air and splinter into debris. There were no windows, only a diffuse artificial light inside.
When the announcement came, “Breathe in,” the sound of inhalation was like a communal prayer, made in rapid suction. The snap of the compression suit was like a whole-body kick. But it was a tickle compared to the slam of the launch. As the vessel rose and the g-force hardened, it flipped, nose over tail, then more slowly a second time and slower still for a third, nauseating spin.
The trip felt like a descent through circles of Hell. Long hours of tedium with no chance to move, eat, read or do anything but wait, still. Then sudden physical alarm as the wide body flipped, pitched and rolled before it was kicked again in another long upward arc. Up to the stomach-dropping peak where it hung and see-sawed, agonizingly slowly before it started the whole thing again.
By the fourth and final roll, Garrison was glad he hadn’t eaten lately. Vomiting with the pressure suit snapped would almost certainly be fatal, either by choking or drowning. Keeping a calm mind was vital at this ascent stage, between the launch and the boost. Great China was more distance than he had bounced before. He didn’t know what to expect but he guessed the he was in for a series of boosts, arcs, glides and flips.
The lights were off for most of the trip, not that many passengers would be able to sleep. After six hours of arcs, drops, flips, and kicks, at long last the seat-back screens read, ‘Final descent.’ A countdown to brace began at ninety seconds. Long drop, Garrison thought. He was not generally inclined to panic, but that was a long drop.
At the front of the cabin, a man stood. That couldn’t be good. Garrison unstrapped. This could surely be only one of two things. Either the guy had gone completely mad, or he was a terrorist. Either way, it would end badly. The countdown had reached 6.
The man’s eyes were red and rolling wild as he got to his feet. He started trying to shout, but the G-force whipped him through the cabin straight at the rear bulkhead.
Garrison saw what was coming. He shouted, “Release your couches!” as he slammed the emergency button. The top of the hull hinged open. Ocean swell was a few hundred feet away and coming up fast. The result was going to be catastrophic either way. If the lunatic had explosives and the hull had stayed shut, everyone on board would be red jelly. With the hull open, they’d probably all drown.
At least if they’d popped their couches that would give them buoyancy and a chance. For Garrison, the next few moments were in slo-mo. After he hit the button, he lunged to grab his couch and to lean as far as he could from the lunatic, cartwheeling toward him. As opening along the hull cracked wider, the madman crumpled against the bulkhead. The amazement on his face was what startled Garrison as the man flattened and splattered against the back of the pod.
His explosives went off. The force of air rushing in and G-force pulling back blew almost all the force of the explosion through the rear of the pod, leaving a hole in a bent depression, ringed with sooty black and slimy with red.
Garrison had a hold of the couch, but as the pod smashed into the ocean surface and started to break up, he was faced the wrong way. He got his compression suit to re-inflate, and that took most of the impact of the water. Darkness enfolded everything and silence as he pitched and rolled, spinning.
Darkness was washed through by shafts and fountains of pale green and blue light from all directions. Dark shapes drifted. Couches drifting upward, the big toad of the hull tumbling sickeningly slow, spiraling down into the darkness. Garrison fought to keep hold of the couch but the strain on his arms was too great and he hadn’t powered up in time. Consciousness dwindled down a tube to a dot and snuffed out.
Surfacing
LIGHT GRADUALLY FILTERED THROUGH the lids of Garrison’s closed eyes. The world felt odd. Upside down. A voice echoed in a hushed room.
“Eye movement changed. He’s surfacing.”
A hand gripped his arm. “Stay down, good buddy. All will be well, have faith. You’re in good hands.”
Another voice, detached. Smooth and educated but hard. “This will take a while. Be as comfortable as you can. We get a better result if you can stay conscious, but you have to be still.”
It seemed odd that had it taken so long for him to realize that his body was face down. He was on a plank or a couch or something that was shaped to his form and held him.
The gap for his face was like a massage table. He could breathe. His eyes would open if he wanted them to, or at least he thought they probably would. But he didn’t want them to. He felt like relaxation was being pumped into him somehow. He could hardly feel his body at all. The weight on the front of his shoulders was just about present. Not his chest, stomach or legs, though.
He felt at peace in every part of him except his mind. The need to know what was going on was strong and it frustrated him that he couldn’t summon the will to speak. Or open his eyes.
Something tugged hard along his back, but it felt very distant.
Insects
A RUSH LIKE A swarm of insects spread though his shoulder and his arm. Then down his spine. He knew they were good insects. He knew he needn’t be bothered by them. Even when they chewed little parts of his flesh, he knew they were going to do him good. A warm sensation of light followed him down into a soft buzz of sleep.
Grease monkey
“YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TOUGHER, good buddy. You’re a total badass.” Hershey stood at the end of his bed. “I’m assigned to keep you happy and engaged while we wait for the grease monkey to give you all the good news.”
He saw the tall shape at the end of the bed. A battlefield tech surgeon. Grease monkey. Enhancements. Garrison slipped back into the darkness.
Young Frankenstein
THE HARD, CULTURED VOICE startled him. It was familiar. Garrison opened his eyes. The gaunt tech surgeon looked exactly how he’d sounded. Pale, male, thin. Analytical and bloodless. He could easily have been six feet of hydraulics and Kevlar.
“You’ve made an exceptional recovery, Specialist Caine. And that’s always a great prognostic indication.” He came nearer to the bed. The room temperature seemed to drop. Garrison’s mouth felt dry as the doctor said, “Turn onto your front so I can examine you.”
Hershey stepped around so he was in Garrison’s line of view. For a hardass grunt with a murky history, he seemed to have a pretty sensitive disposition. Garrison blinked. Letting Hershey know it was appreciated.
The doctor’s hands were as cold as Garrison expected. He only felt them on the backs of his ribs, though. That opened his eyes.
“What have you done, Doc? What have I got?”
“You, my good comrade, are the lucky recipient of a full length, powered and intelligent spinal exo-support. Your ribcage, shoulders, and arms have been upgraded to interact with the enhancement, and you have a cardiac cybio replacement heart that’s ready juiced for ten years.” The doctor sounded impressed. “The whole system is driven and supported by enhanced neural interfaces and pathways. Hormonal boosts and charged up adrenal production are going to make you stronger, faster and quicker to think and respond than you would ever have believed possible.”
There was a wistful amazement in the doctor’s voice. Instinctively, Garrison said, “You haven’t done this before, have you Doc.”
The doctor stood back. The beaming smile was obvious in his voice before Garrison had turned over.
“You see?” The doctor’s hands were raised. He was actually restraining himself from clapping as he looked around. Garrison hadn’t noticed the arc of white coated figures beamed back at the doctor and at him.
The grease monkey grinned. “Would you have made that connection so fast before? I don’t think so.”
“I was a pretty fucking smart grunt already, thanks. But I didn’t need a powercell to take a shower.”
The doctor leaned in. “Would you rather we had left you paralysed?”
When I’m out of the service, that’s exactly what you have done, Garrison thought. But rule one in the Corps was; pick your battles. He let this one go.
“I’m sure you’ve done a fantastic job of work, doc. And, if I’m ever combat-fit, I’m certain I’ll get fantastic value out of it.” He wanted to finish by thanking the doc, but the words stuck in his throat.
The doctor smiled around the room. “You’re combat-fit right now, you just need to let the medication work its way through and clear your system. We could drop you in the forward target of the Great China push in about four hours time.” He took a step closer. “This time tomorrow you’ll have fought your way back here and doubled your shelf of engagement medals.”
Now the semicircle of student doctors or interns or whatever-the-fuck they were did break out a ripple of applause. Knowing how to make an exit, the doctor took both of Garrison’s hands in his, shook them vigorously then turned on his heel with a flourish. While he swept out of the room with the trail of white-coated acolytes in his wake, Hershey shared a look with Garrison.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Garrison’s jaw clenched. Tactile sense was creeping back through his body like a liquid flow. “This is some bleeding edge experimental shit he’s wired me up with.”
“You were in a bad way.” Hershey said, “But, yeah. I think young Frankenstein’s after some awards of his own. And where better to do experimental surgery than a field hospital.”
“It was you hauled me out of the ocean, right?”
Hershey shrugged. “Coke did most of the work. Anyway, you got me out of the rain.”
“Oh, cool.” Garrison smiled. “We’re about even then.”
Hershey’s eyes lit up as he shrugged again.
Garrison wanted to know, “Did Coke make it okay?”
Nursebot
THE NURSEBOT HAD A low, gentle, female voice. A voice that sounded like it was always about ready to laugh, although it never quite did. There was always the sound of a smile held back. The encouraging start of a chuckle. She was a waist high cylinder with a pair of extendible rubber-coated three-fingered mechanical hands, dextrous enough to stitch skin. She was able to administer prescription drugs orally, by syringe, or blown into an orifice. One side of the cylinder could slide a seat out to carry a patient. Her third hand was a warm and functional model of a human hand.
Forward combat support medical facilities had trailed alternatives and learned that a female voice aged around the mid twenties with an indistinct but familiar accent, coupled with three point eight seconds a day of warm hand holding gave an optimum lift to patient improvement stats and outcomes.
Garrison sat on the seat while the bot drove him back from physiotherapy. At the same time, she maintained and replaced the stitching across his shoulders, held his hand and said, “Aww,” encouragingly while she asked him about home.
A tough physiotherapy workout and assessment had showed Garrison the metered performance of his new spine, rib cage and shoulders. Along with the hormonal, neural and cardio assists, they were phenomenal, but he wasn’t able to persuade the lab tech to let him experience how any of it would function and perform when it was not powered up.
The puzzlement on the bright woman’s face seemed perfectly genuine. “Why would you want to worry about that?”
When Nursebot returned him to the room, Commissioning Agent Engineer First Class Arnot Keely was waiting for him. Fresh faced, tall and in his mid twenties, he wore clean dress fatigues from a designer label. His manner was bright, informal, and pally. Garrison loathed him on sight.
His pink hand was stretched out and he wore a happy puppy face as Garrison approached.
Keely smiled, looking him up and down. “I can see that you’re pretty well through the restoration process. That’s wonderful. They taking good care of you here?” He leaned in like a jolly conspirator. “Let me know if there’s any kinds of food you’d really like. They’re able to synth up pretty much anything you want here.”
He waved a hand for Garrison to sit as he looked down at a tablet and took the only chair. Garrison hesitated for a moment. Stay standing and act the hard-ass, sit on the bed like a pussy, or smack the gangly fucker. Tough choice. He picked the least comfortable option.
Perched on the edge of the tall bed, Garrison listened as well as he could to Keely as he listed all the sensational advantages that Garrison had gained. He listed them in monotonous detail. Then he told Garrison how the
‘restorative innovations’ were a ‘triumph,’ and he talked about ‘milestones.’ Keely practically sang the serial numbers of every feature as he described every possible benefit. Garrison sat on his hands, literally biting his tongue. More than once he regretted that he hadn’t just decked the weasel.
After what seemed like a very long time Garrison stood. “Just tell me. How many men got out of that transport alive?”
Keely stopped. Looked up at him, open-mouthed.
“Well, more than a third of the complement were women. But almost everybody survived.” His eyebrows went up. “I’m really sorry. Somebody really should have told you. You did a fantastic thing.” He stared at Garrison a while. Then he checked his table for certainty. Maybe for comfort, too. “All but two of the passengers made it safely to shore.” His voice was almost a whisper. “And one of those casualties was the terrorist.”
Garrison waited. Keely’s head shook. “Your fast initiative saved almost everyone on board that transport.”
“How about Coke?”
“Sir.”
“Excuse me?”
Keely gave him a soft, red cheeked smile. “Sir. As in, ‘How about Coke, sir?’ You get me?”
“Sir. How about Coke. Sir?”
Keely smiled. “Better. Coke made it, too. It was Coke who hauled you out. Said your suit wasn’t fully inflated and you were out of your couch.”
“Yes,” Garrison cleared this throat. “Sir. I had to get up to hit the emergency…”
“Deflation of the compression suit and moving from the couch before the transport has completed its arc and soft landing is in contravention of the safety instructions for bounce travel. Do you wish to assert that safety instructions and requirements were not issued to you in a timely fashion and made sufficiently clear for you to follow?”
