by Jamie Sawyer
“I’ll join you for a drink. Nothing more.”
Kaminski laughed. “You always get more in the District.”
A siren sounded nearby. We didn’t flinch – it was a familiar occurrence on-station.
“This is an emergency,” said a female operator over the Point’s PA system. “All available military police units attend Sector Five. Terrorist attack in progress.”
We casually made our way through the crowd of civilians and soldiers, heading away from Sector Five. A unit of troopers in black military police uniforms, carbines shouldered, passed back towards the affected sector.
“Looks like more trouble,” Kaminski said. “If we’re not fighting the Krell, we’re fighting each other.”
“The Directorate will never learn,” I said.
The monorail station was quiet; a handful of off-duty soldiers and Navy boys milling around.
“Are you taking the monorail?” Kaminski asked. He seemed to realise his mistake immediately.
“I’ll walk,” I said.
Kaminski just nodded.
I left Kaminski at the monorail stop and took an elevator further up the hub to Sector Three. This was my ritual, after every simulant operation, and I had to do it alone.
Sector Three was virtually abandoned. Except for the occasional bereaved parent, it saw little traffic. Mom and Pop spending their life savings on a Q-space ticket, desperate for a last chance to say goodbye to Jonny or Joanne. The place gave me room to think.
I walked the empty corridors, heading towards the Memorial Hall. I passed view-screens showing the exterior of Liberty Point. It was the largest Alliance forward operating base on the boundary of the Quarantine Zone; housing several thousand troopers, and just as many Aerospace Force and Naval personnel. Not as big as the Venusian cloud habitats, but still a remarkable feat of human engineering.
Near-space bustled with combat ships and assorted shuttles embarking or disembarking the Point, like little flies flitting about a carcass. More ships seem to leave than ever come back, I thought. All manner of vessels were assembled; from small military cutters, to enormous warships, through to sleek experimental craft. This was the Alliance Navy – the combined efforts of the remainder of the United Americas, Europe, and much of the Western world.
I stopped, pressing a hand up against the cold glass of the view-port. I watched as the light cast by the Maelstrom glinted off the gathered fleet. For just a moment, I felt strangely patriotic, before I remembered where I was headed.
The Memorial Hall wasn’t really a hall or even a chamber, but more like a wall in the station’s outer ring. I reached it at about midday by the station day-cycle, and as expected it was empty.
Words scrolled along the top of the wall: TO ALL OF THOSE WHO HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES IN THE FURTHERANCE OF THE KRELL WAR, AND FOR THE CONTINUED EXISTENCE OF THE HUMAN RACE. Millions of names were laser-etched onto the wall; in chronological order, updated automatically as new casualties were reported. The list already occupied a significant portion of the outer ring for this particular deck.
Small shrines – offerings of flowers, incense burners or other little sentimental trinkets – had been left at the foot of the wall. I reverently avoided them as I found the spot, and crouched to read her name.
I needed that drink more than ever.
Liberty Point was on the very frontier of Alliance space. The nearest friendly outpost was several parsecs away and with a decent Q-drive it’d still take a good couple of weeks to reach. In any event, that was only a remote mining base. The Point had to be self-sufficient and, as well as housing an enormous military contingent, it was also home to a sizeable civilian population.
That was where the District came in. Sprawling and ramshackle, drunken and noisy, it was an inevitable evil. Although officially designated as a civilian recreational zone, so long as you had the credits the District was open to all. A trooper could get anything he wanted down here – from illegal narcotics, to any sort of sex, through to every type of alcohol. It was like a miniature Las Vegas, before the Directorate had dropped the bomb: all neon signs, casinos, bars, strip joints.
The officers on the Point had a dedicated mess hall, but I preferred something rawer and always drank with my squad. Our favoured drinking-spot was a rundown, old-style bar called the Depot. It was the favourite of most sim operators – the slogan YOU MIGHT DIE ONCE, BUT TRY DOING IT EVERY DAY was painted above the entrance. But it wasn’t exclusive, and also catered for regular Army, Navy, and other assorted military.
We occupied our usual table, not far from the bar. There was an unspoken rule among the regulars that this was our territory. I sat with my head hung over a half-empty pitcher of cheap beer. The table was already heavy with empty glasses. I felt comfortably fuzzy – just drunk enough to blot out the pain from my last op.
Blake and Jenkins sat with me, not far off my condition. Blake was continually eyeing a topless blonde dancer, who was obviously looking to make his pocket a little emptier. Unlike me, Blake was young enough to feel at home in his real body. He could’ve had any woman in the place, except for Jenkins.
She was having her own trouble; she’d already told a Navy ensign to go away several times, and was currently trying to avoid making eye contact with him from across the room.
“This always happens when I make an effort,” Jenkins said. “More hassle than it’s worth.”
Jenkins wore a tight red dress; but no matter what she wore, she still looked like a soldier. My whole squad did – it was a state of mind, the look in the eyes.
Martinez and Kaminski were elsewhere in the crowded bar – last I had seen them, Martinez was trying to pick a fight with some off-duty Navy boys, Kaminski was adding another tattoo to his already overloaded skin canvas.
“I bailed out first,” Blake said, shaking his head. “Second op in a row that I’ve bailed out first. I can’t believe it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Kid,” Jenkins said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Jenkins and Blake had a good relationship. She was much older, but looked out for him both during operations and when we were on downtime. He was like a little brother to her.
“And as ever, the captain was out last,” Blake said, smiling at me.
“Last in, last out,” I said. “There are no medals for that. Don’t worry about it, Blake. You did good.”
I liked Blake. He was a good soldier; showed a lot of potential as an operator. He was always like this after a mission: insistent on chewing over the details of the operation, on questioning whether he could’ve done things differently, eager to please. I was quite the opposite. While I wanted to get things done, I tried to seal away what had happened after each operation – to compartmentalise the detail. It was easier to forget, that way.
Jenkins sucked her teeth. “Let’s have another drink. I want to keep my boys watered.”
She sloppily poured us another beer from a scratched plastic pitcher, spilling some onto the grubby table. We grabbed glasses and lifted them, knocking them together noisily and spilling even more beer.
“To dying,” Jenkins proclaimed.
We threw our drinks down and swallowed them in one go. The beer tasted warm and still.
The squad had a good dynamic. I’d led many, during my lengthy stint in Sim Ops, and the current configuration was the best it had ever been. Kaminski had been with me from the very start, although he hadn’t accrued anything like the number of simulated deaths that I had. Most troopers liked to take downtime between operations. Jenkins and Martinez had joined my squad at about the same time – three years back. Then Blake had filled an unexpected squad vacancy, and the rest was history.
Jenkins wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, removing the overspill from her gulped beer.
“Such a lady, Jenkins,” Blake said, laughing at her. “The sort of woman my mother would like to meet.”
“You’re always talking about your mother,” Jenkins said. She slurred her words. “Do you mis
s your folks?”
Blake’s face froze slightly. Jenkins had, inadvertently, touched a nerve. My squad’s morale was a priority of mine. Something’s bugging him. But before I could act on his change in mood, before I could question him, he was himself again – full of his usual bravado. I’ll have to watch Blake, I decided. He was a thinker. Sometimes, for sim operators, that wasn’t a good thing.
“Course not. It’s just been a long time since I saw my family, is all.”
Jenkins gave a sage nod. “For me? Three years and counting. You’d think those assholes would take the time to come visit me out on the wild frontier!”
Blake and Jenkins bumped fists, descending into drunken laughter.
We were all Earth-born, except for Martinez – and he liked to believe that he was only a generation away from the homeworld. Relatives, families, friends: if you had them, this far out from the Core Worlds, they were just names, pretty pictures on holo-screens.
“So, what’s next for us, Captain?” Jenkins asked me. She nudged Blake’s shoulder. “We should bet on it. Get Kaminski and Martinez in on the action.”
“We’ll get more airtime when we’re good and ready,” I said, trying to hide the fact that I was already yearning to be back in a simulant. “Command will make that decision. You should be enjoying the downtime.” I nodded at the blonde dancer circling around our table. She was still making eyes at Blake. “I’m sure that you can find some action down here.”
Something like avarice crossed Blake’s face, and he seemed to sit a little prouder in his seat. At least I was getting his mind off the topic of work.
“We’ll report in seven days and find out what our next mission is,” I added.
“You’re not curious?” Jenkins asked.
I shrugged. “Not our place to ask questions. Five years ago – that was when I decided I would just stop asking.”
Jenkins looked down at her drink, her face slightly blushed. Either that, or it was the neon light.
“I know, Harris. And it must still hurt.” My squad knew everything, especially Jenkins. She was the unofficial listener: someone to talk to about history, concerns, the future, when it got too much. She was a damn better listener than the psych-evals, with their cold, dispassionate eyes.
Once, you didn’t mind a psych-eval so much, a voice reminded me in my head.
Jenkins leant across the table, giving me a knowing wink. “I hear that something big is happening. We’re about to be mobilised, and I don’t think it will be against the Krell. If you ask me, we’re going to be deployed against the Directorate.”
I barked a laugh at that. “Bullshit. If I had a credit for every time I’ve heard that the Sim Ops Programme would be deployed against the Directorate, I’d be a rich man.”
Jenkins held up her hands, palms open. “Hey, just telling you what I heard. Seems odd to me that so many teams get extracted, and so many are sitting around the Point just waiting for orders. I even hear that Old Man Cole is back on the Point.”
“I’d like nothing better than to go up against the Directorate, but it wouldn’t be a fair fight. You know they don’t have a simulant programme. We’d wipe the floor with them.”
Jenkins and Blake laughed again. Conspiracy theories were a constant source of chatter for Jenkins. She didn’t just listen to me and my squad; she picked up scuttlebutt from all over. She could be relied upon to offer a piece of unreliable gossip. A tenacious rumour, never yet proven to be true, was that Sim Ops would be mobilised en masse against the Asiatic Directorate. Jenkins liked to recount this particular story whenever she got the chance.
Our conversation was interrupted by a persistent tapping on my shoulder. I turned to see someone hovering behind me – a short middle-aged man, wearing a distinctive blue cap and a flak jacket with MILITARY REPORTER printed across the front. He was accompanied by a news-drone – a small flying camera that flittered overhead, glaring down at us.
“Fuck off!” Blake shouted, swiping at the camera like it was an annoying insect.
“Troopers, if I might just have a few moments of your time?” he blurted. He was sweating, waving a microphone device under my nose. “I’m from The Point Times and newly assigned to the base. I’m compiling a piece on the Simulant Operations Programme. Your names have come up as veteran operators who can speak of the Programme.”
“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Blake said.
The reporter was undeterred. He licked his lips and continued. “Just your views on the operation so far. How do you think it’s going? Maybe something on the Maelstrom. Have you ever been inside?”
“We’re on downtime,” I said. “Go speak to someone who cares.”
He shook his head, dismissing my objections. “What’s it like seeing the Krell face to face – as it were – on a regular basis?”
“The man told you to go away,” Jenkins said, half-standing from her seat.
“Captain Harris – you have experienced two hundred and eighteen simulated deaths. You are the most prolific simulant operator ever inducted. Some are calling you a military hero. I’ve heard another trooper refer to you as Lazarus – care to comment on that?” The reporter paused, waiting for me to respond. When I didn’t, he pressed on, as though reading from some invisible cue card: “What are your personal views on the Treaty? You have an unusual connection with it, which must be distressing at times. Can you share your views with us?”
Martinez appeared at the reporter’s shoulder, and stared down at him menacingly. Martinez was short, stocky and powerfully built: an imposing figure, especially in drink. The news-drone darted higher, detecting what the reporter seemed oblivious to.
“I think it’s time you left,” Martinez growled. “The captain doesn’t like to talk about the Treaty, cuate.”
He hauled the reporter by his shoulders and off his feet. The little man disappeared into the crowded bar.
“Looks like Martinez will get his fight after all,” Jenkins said. “Never fuck with a Venusian.”
“Go easy on him!” I called after them.
“I’d better see to this,” Jenkins said, following Martinez.
That left Blake and me alone. He was watching the dancer. She’d started another lap of the bar – keen to show Blake that she was still interested.
“Captain,” Blake started, eyeing the woman as she passed by, “I need to talk to you.”
I smiled. “But some other time, I guess?”
“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”
I nodded, and Blake was gone as well.
I had promised Kaminski that I would only have a drink down in the District, but a drink after an experience like the New Haven was not something to be taken lightly. After the first day of drinking the rest was a blur.
On the third day I was awoken early. My room door-chime sounded repeatedly. The fact that I was in my room and not the station brig was a good start. I had a vague recollection of the Point’s MPs getting involved in something, but whatever had happened couldn’t have been serious enough to warrant detention.
I rolled out of my cot and shook myself awake, clutching at some fatigues and stumbling into them. I punched at the door control console.
A squat yellow utility robot sat outside, with tracks and clawed arms. The bot’s chest was taken up by a viewer-screen that showed an animated face. I squinted in the bright corridor lights, and the robot paused before speaking.
“Captain Conrad Harris? Serial code 93778?”
I nodded, baring my wrist. The bot extended a scanner and swiped my serial code tattoo, confirming my ID.
“Is seven days up already?” I asked
“You have been recertified for active duty. Your station-leave is cancelled with immediate effect.”
The robot jabbed one of its claws at me, and slapped an envelope against my bare chest. I slowly took it, noting the Alliance military seal. The robot’s viewer shifted to display a smirking face.
“New orders. General Cole wants you to repor
t to his office at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. You have a new mission.”
“Cole?” I asked, dumbly.
“That’s what I said.”
The robot backed away from the door. Its electronic face shifted into a frown.
“You look like shit, buddy. I’m only saying it to be kind. Clean up.”
“You don’t look so good yourself,” I muttered.
The robot noisily rolled down the corridor. I stood in the doorway for a moment, turning over the envelope. A new mission is a good thing, I told myself. That ever-present urge to climb back into the simulator-tank – to make transition into my simulant – rose up inside of me.
But orders direct from General Cole? That was unusual. Cole was serious business. This had to be something big, something special.
Maybe Jenkins was right. There was a first time for everything.
The pain in my head told me that now was not the time to think about it. I fell back onto my cot and allowed my pounding headache to subside a little.
I turned, took in my room. It was a small officer’s cube – nothing flash, not a larger state room. As a captain, I would’ve been entitled to that, but I didn’t want it. I wasn’t one for material possessions, and my cubicle reflected that: austere, somewhere to sleep and not much more. But I kept a random jumble of personal articles beside my cot – just enough to remind me that I was still a member of the human race.
A preserved Krell claw, taken from a combat-suit after a sim-op that ended with a live return to the Point.
A blasted scrap of plastic, recovered from a destroyed plasma rifle.
Some spent solid-shot shell cases.
My father’s old revolver: an ancient pistol passed down from my grandfather.
A pink-silver ring set with orange gems.
Her picture.
The photo was faded with age: a picture from Azure. The backdrop of blue sky played to the red gloss of her lips, the deep almond of her eyes. Her long, dark hair; always thick with her scent. I touched the image and it sprang to life – mimicking the woman that she had been.
