“Miss Kyung!” the computer shouted.
“What?”
“They’re coming again. Ten meters.”
“You do it,” she said.
“I don’t understand.”
Kyung grinned and closed her eyes so she could rest for a minute. “You tell them I’m their friend. Ask their doctors to operate on me, and when I’m awake, I’d like them to bring me come champagne and some noodles. And fish.”
Kyung opened her eyes for just a moment, aware that the computer was saying something over her external speakers, but she couldn’t understand the words, which mixed with numbers and nonsense so that she thought she laughed again but couldn’t be sure because the edges of her vision faded into a dark fuzz, her hearing muffled. She thought one of them stood over her, its face close to her helmet. The thing drooled, baring multiple rows of shiny black teeth, but then it shifted, its head melting into a nebulous globe of dark skin before transforming into the face of a Unified Korean officer, a captain, who smiled at her and said something like, “We wondered when someone would come, the food is almost gone.” And then, the last thing she remembered, Kyung felt something dragging her back from where she had come, back to the facility, and she smiled at the thought of her bones being added to the pile. The Chinese were on Koryo, she knew, but who cared? It didn’t matter anymore.
* * *
Kyung woke with a scream; her legs felt like they were on fire, and her eyes barely opened in the bright light that now surrounded her.
“Take it easy, Miss Kyung,” someone said.
Kyung’s eyes finally focused, and she saw a doctor standing over her; he wore the green overcoat of Unified Korean forces. “Where am I?” she asked.
“Field hospital. We owe you and Samsung a lot, Miss. Your company will be sending for you soon.”
“Where is my armor?” she asked. “It’s a prototype. I’m not supposed to let it out of my sight.” What was wrong with her, she thought, the first thing she asked about was her armor? But the fact was that she didn’t care about its secrets or keeping them safe anymore, the fact was that she missed the computer, wanted to hear its voice to make sure that she was actually speaking with a human doctor. How could she trust anything now that she had seen those things? Her computer was the only safe bet because it was synthetic, and it would tell her the truth when the entire world could be a shape-shifting lie.
“We have it outside. What an incredible system! When we first found you, we thought it was the suit occupant; it scared the hell out of me when I first opened your helmet. I’m still not used to combat suits with integrated, fully aware synthetics. I’ll go get it.”
“Who brought me out of the underground facility?”
The doctor looked away. “I think it’s better if we don’t talk about that particular aspect of your rescue, Miss. The general was clear that anyone who had contact with them was to keep their mouths shut and speak to nobody. Samsung made it clear too. I will say that your suit computer kept those things from attacking our boys, and Command was shocked to receive communications from a facility that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.”
Kyung laughed at that, but the effort made her nauseous. The doctor left and returned a minute later with her suit, leaning it against her bed, then taking a few minutes to help attach the headset. “There you go, Miss Kyung,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it. We gave your suit a new set of fuel cells; it was almost out when we found you.”
She waited until the doctor had left and glanced around to make sure she was alone. “Computer,” Kyung said.
“I’m glad to see that you’re alive, Miss. It was touch and go for a while. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you what happened after you went unconscious, but Samsung gave me orders. I already wiped that section of my memory. You should know that the doctors had to amputate both your legs, but don’t worry; Samsung indicated they intend to give you new ones, better than before.”
“You’re in touch with corporate?” she asked.
The computer sounded excited. “Yes, Miss. Now that we’re inside UK lines, I have full communications capabilities and was able to route through their systems.”
Kyung thought for a minute, not even worried about her legs. She was alive! But the memory wipe bothered her. What would Samsung do now that its secret was out? She imagined John going into damage control mode, calling in every marker and using every piece of information he had to threaten, bribe, or beg for the company executives to handle it his way, to arrange for her murder and total silence.
“John Leonard told you to wipe your memory?”
“No,” the computer answered, “Dr. Leonard has been arrested for violating international and Korean laws; it’s all over the news services, but specifics haven’t been leaked to the press. Not yet anyway.”
The news made her smile, and for a brief moment she imagined taking over the division, getting the promotion she had always dreamed of, but the thought didn’t make her happy—not as happy as it would have a week ago. “What’s going to happen to me now?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Miss Kyung. But there are no orders for your arrest, and I would imagine that corporate will want to talk to you to see if you’ll cooperate during an upcoming investigation. I was allowed to have this one last conversation with you before locking down because they wanted me to ask you a question.”
“What question?”
“What do you want?” the computer answered.
That was it, thought Kyung. Samsung wanted to get a feel for what she planned to do and then would decide their next steps. It was a dangerous place to be, and one misstep could result in her ship “accidentally” exploding on its way back from Koryo or any one of an infinite number of accidents that could happen anywhere, anytime. On the other hand, it was an opportunity. As long as she didn’t reach too far, this could be her ticket up the ladder. Kyung thought about it, imagining again what it would be like to be a division head or even a vice president reassigned to corporate headquarters itself on Earth in Pusan! She would be close to her parents. Able to see them every day if she wanted.
But something about it all made her stomach hurt because she had seen them up close, seen how they worked. And it was all wrong.
“Before I answer, where are those things now?” she asked. “The Sunshine creatures.”
The computer hesitated before answering, “I don’t know anything about Sunshine creatures, Miss, because as I said my data was wiped. But I’ve been in passive mode for the past week, listening to the Korean soldiers. If you’re referring to the new weapons system they recently discovered, I think they’re using the Sunshine organisms, Miss. I think our forces ordered them to attack.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes, Miss. The Chinese have lost all their captured territory and are now fighting to hold their planetary landing site.”
Kyung nodded, forgetting that the gesture meant nothing to the computer. “I’ve decided,” she said.
“Yes, Miss Kyung?”
Kyung knew it was what she wanted; the thought made her happy, relaxed, and if it worked, she’d get to see her parents anyway. “I quit. I want out of Samsung. I’ll keep my mouth shut, will work with Samsung lawyers as long as they need to fight the government, but only on one condition: I want a tenured position at Pusan University. The real Pusan on Earth. In their business school.”
The computer fell silent. At first she thought it had shut down and was about to say something else when it responded, “I’ve transmitted your response, Miss. Good luck.”
“Are you shutting down now?” she asked, shocked.
“No, Miss. I’m degaussing my memory, total destruction of my capabilities. I won’t be able to talk for much longer.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“F-f-for what?” it asked. Already the voice sounded weaker, its tone changed.
“For everything. You were a good friend.”
Kyung smiled when it was over. The comp
uter never said anything more, but she knew it had heard her, and in its absence she felt alone, as if the doctors and other humans could never match its friendship—even though it had frustrated her at times. There was only one thing that bothered her, and she whispered before falling asleep.
“I’m sorry we never gave you a name. That was wrong.”
Meet the Author
T.C. McCarthy earned a BA from the University of Virginia and a PhD from the University of Georgia before embarking on a career that gave him a unique perspective as a science fiction author. From his time as a patent examiner in complex biotechnology to his tenure with the Central Intelligence Agency, T.C. has studied and analyzed foreign militaries and weapons systems. T.C. was at the CIA during the September 11 terrorist attacks, and he was still there when US forces invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, allowing him to experience warfare from the perspective of an analyst. Find out more about the author at www.tcmccarthy.com.
T.C. McCarthy. Photo © by Carolyn McCarthy.
Also by T.C. McCarthy
THE SUBTERRENE WAR
Germline
Exogene
Chimera
If you enjoyed SUNSHINE,
look out for
GERMLINE
BOOK ONE OF THE SUBTERRENE WAR
by T.C. McCarthy
Chapter One
Crank Fire
I’ll never forget the smell: human waste, the dead, and rubbing alcohol—the smells of a Pulitzer.
The sergeant looked jumpy as he glanced at my ticket. “Stars and Stripes?” I couldn’t place the accent. New York, maybe. “You’ll be the first.”
“First what?”
He laughed as if I had made a joke. “The first civilian reporter wiped on the front line. Nobody from the press has ever been allowed up here, not even you guys. We got plenty of armor, rube, draw some on your way out and button up.” He gestured to a pile of used suits, next to which lay a mountain of undersuits, and on my way over the sergeant shouted to a corporal who had been relaxing against the wall. “Wake up, Chappy. We got a reporter needin’ some.”
Tired. Empty. I’d seen it before in Shymkent, in frontline troops rotating back for a week or two, barely able to walk and with dark circles under their eyes so they looked like nervous raccoons. Chappy had that look too.
He opened one eye. “Reporter?”
“Yep. Stripes.”
“Where’s your camera?”
I shrugged. “Not allowed one. Security. It’s gonna be an audio-only piece.”
Chappy frowned, as if I couldn’t be a real reporter since I didn’t have a holo unit, thought for a moment, and then stood. “If you’re going to be the first reporter on the line, I guess we oughta give you something special. What size?”
I knew my size and told him. I’d been through Rube-Hack back in the States, all of us had. The Pentagon called it basic battlefield training, but every grunt I’d met had just laughed at me, and not behind my back. Rube. Babe. Another civilian too stupid to realize that anything was better than Kaz because Kazakhstan was another world, purgatory for those who least deserved it, a vacation for the suicidal, and a novelty for those whose brain chemistry was messed up enough to make them think it would be a cool place to visit. To see it firsthand. Only graduates of Rube-Hack thought that last way, actually wanted Kaz.
Only reporters.
“Real special,” he said. Chappy lifted a suit from the pile and dropped it at my feet, then handed me a helmet. Across the back someone had scrawled FORGET ME NOT OR I’LL BLOW YOUR PUNK ASS AWAY. “That guy doesn’t need it anymore, got killed before he could suit up so it’s in decent shape.”
I tried not to think about it and grabbed an undersuit. “Where’s the APC hangar?”
He didn’t answer. The man had already slumped against the wall again, and didn’t bother to open his eyes this time, not even the one.
It took me a few minutes to remember. Sardines. Lips and guts stuffed into a sausage casing. Getting into a suit was hard, like over-packing a suitcase and then trying to close it from the inside. First came the undersuit, a network of hoses and cables. There was one tube that ended in a stretchy latex hood, to be snapped over the end of your you-know-what, and one that ended in a hollow plug (they issued antibacterial lube for that) and the plug had a funny belt to keep it from coming out. The alternative was sloshing around in a suit filled with your own waste, and we had been told that on the line you lived in a suit for weeks at a time.
I laughed when it occurred to me. Somewhere, you could almost bet on it, there was a certain class of people who didn’t mind the plug at all.
Underground meant the jitters. A klick of rock hung overhead so that even though I couldn’t see it I felt its weight crushing down, making the hair on my neck stand straight. These guys partied Subterrene, prayed for it. You’d recognize it in Shymkent, when you met up with other reporters at the hotel bar and saw Marines—fresh off the line—looking for booze and chicks. Grunts would come in and the waiter would move to seat them on the ground floor and they’d look at him like he was trying to get them killed. They didn’t have armor on, not allowed in Shymkent, so the guys had no defense against heat sensors or motion tracking, and instinct kicked in, reminding them that nothing lived long above ground. Suddenly they had eyes in their back of their heads. Line Marines, who until that moment had thought R & R meant safety, began shaking and one or two of them would back against the wall to make sure they couldn’t get it from that direction. How about downstairs? Got anything underground? A basement? The waiter would realize his mistake then, and usher them into the back room to a spiral staircase, into the deep.
The Marines would smile and breathe easy as they pushed to be the first one underground. Not me, though. The underworld was where you buried corpses, and where tunnel collapses guaranteed you’d be dead, sometimes slowly, so I didn’t think I could hack it, claustrophobia and all, but didn’t have much choice. I wanted the line. Begged for a last chance to prove I could write despite my habit. I even threw a party at the hotel when I found out that I was the only reporter selected for the front but there was one problem: at the line, everything was down—down and ubertight.
The APC bounced over something on the tunnel floor and the vehicle’s other passenger, a corpsman, grinned. “No shit?” he asked. “A reporter for real?”
I nodded.
“Hell yeah. Check it.” I couldn’t remember his name but for some reason the corpsman decided to unlock his suit and slip his arm out—what remained of it. Much of the flesh had been replaced by scar tissue so that it looked as though he had been partially eaten by a shark. “Flechettes. You should do a story on that, got a holo unit?”
“Nah. Not allowed.” He gave me the same look as Chappy—What kind of a reporter are you?—and it annoyed me because I hadn’t been lit lately, was starting to feel a kind of withdrawal, rough. I pointed to his arm. “Flechettes did that? I thought they were like needles, porcupine stickers.”
“Nah. Pops doesn’t use regular flechettes. Coats ’em with dog shit sometimes, and it’s nasty. Hell, a guy can take a couple of flechette hits and walk away. But not when they’ve got ’em coated in Baba-Yaga’s magic grease. Pops almost cost me the whole thing.”
“Pops?”
“Popov. Victor Popovich. The Russians.”
He looked about nineteen, but he spoke like he was eighty. You couldn’t get used to that, seeing kids half your age, speaking to them, and realizing that in one year God and war had somehow crammed in decades. Always giving advice as if they knew. They did know. Anyone who survived at the line learned more about death than I had ever wanted to and as I sat there the corpsman got that look on his face. Let me give you some advice…
“Don’t get shot, rube,” he said, “and if you do, there’s only one option.”
The whine of the APC’s turbines swelled as it angled downward and I had to shout. “Yeah? What?”
“Treat yourself.” He pointed his fi
ngers like a pistol and placed them against his temple. The corpsman grinned, as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard.
Marines in green armor rested against the curved walls of the tunnel and everything seemed slippery. Slick. Their ceramic armor was slick, and the tunnel walls had been melted by a fusion borer so that they shone like the inside of an empty soda can, slick, slick, and double slick. My helmet hung from a strap against my hip and banged with every step so I felt as though it were a cowbell, calling everyone’s attention.
First thing you noticed on the line? Everyone had a beard except me. The Marines stared as though I were a movie star, something out of place, and even though I wore the armor of a Subterrener—one of Vulcan’s apostles—mine didn’t fit quite right, hadn’t been scuffed in the right places or buckled just so because they all knew the best way, the way a veteran would have suited up. I asked once, in Shymkent, “Hey Marine, how come you guys all wear beards?” He smiled and reached for his, his smile fading when he realized it had been shaved. The guy even looked around for it, like it had fallen off or something. “’Cause it keeps the chafing down,” he said. “Ever try sleeping and eating with a bucket strapped around your face, 24-7?” I hadn’t. Early in the war the Third had required their Marines to shave their heads and faces before going on leave—to keep lice from getting it on behind the lines—but here in the underworld the Marines’ hair was theirs, a cushion between them and the vision-hood that clung tightly but never quite fit right, leaving blisters on anyone bald.
Not having a beard made me unique.
A captain grabbed my arm. “Who the hell are you?”
“Wendell. Stars and Stripes, civilian DOD.”
Sunshine Page 4
