The Lazarus War: Artefact

by Jamie Sawyer

  Atkins nodded to himself. He traced an arc with his finger, across one of the spiral arms of the Maelstrom. “Then we will be moving under the power of the Q-drive through the Ibanez Sector, directly to Helios Primary system.”

  “You’ve accounted for gravimetric storm activity in the region, I take it?”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “There are predicted storms moving out of nearby systems, possibly being thrown out by a minor black hole along the Yabaris Quadrant.” He again pointed to the locations of those sectors in the Maelstrom; those meant nothing to me, but I was happy to let him talk. “We should be safe, although nothing is a certainty.”

  I nodded along with him. The Maelstrom flashed and flickered in front of us, sparkling seductively off the observation window. Bright and colourful, jewel-like. The very centre of the star-swarm seemed alive with storms, pulsating with galactic energies.

  “How do you feel about this?” Atkins asked. “I know it is probably classified, and I’m not asking for details. I’ve heard rumours that you and your team have been into the Maelstrom before.”

  No point in lying to the man who would shortly be responsible for all of our lives. “The rumours are true. But that isn’t why I don’t like this op.”

  “Then why is it?”

  “The Maelstrom and I have a history together,” I said, adopting a definitive edge to my voice: I don’t want to discuss this any more, so don’t even ask.

  Atkins got the message, and our conversation ended naturally. I stood with him for a long time, both of us silent, both of us watching the dark splendour of the Maelstrom.

  At the appointed time, my squad and I reported to the hypersleep suite as required.

  “Looking forward to a six-month sleep, Martinez?” Blake asked.

  Martinez grunted. “Just don’t keep me awake with your snoring.”

  We were all dressed in pale gowns, and medics attended to us. Olsen oversaw the procedure: IV drips into forearms, numerous injections to prep us for the long sleep.

  The room had berths for maybe a hundred personnel, and would quarter the current starship staff easily. I smelt antiseptic and formaldehyde; a heavy odour that radiated not just from the medically pristine equipment but also my own body. The freezers were essential for a crew to travel through Q-space, to counter the demands of modern space operations. Known by many different names – cryogenic hibernation, deep-freeze, suspended animation – it all amounted to the same process: artificial, prolonged sleep.

  Atkins walked the hypersleep suite, overseeing the process. Many of the non-essential starship crew – maintenance staff, comms techs and junior officers – had also started going into cold sleep. The suite was becoming jammed with personnel.

  “We’re going to be entering Q-space in just under three hours,” he called across the room, medics tending to their subjects falling silent as he spoke. “Stealth systems will engage at this time. We will be effectively invisible to anyone who cares to look for us. Just enjoy your sleep.”

  “All subjects are prepped and ready to go under,” the chief medical tech declared. “Permission requested to put first group in, Captain.”

  Atkins gave a nod. “Permission granted.”

  I slipped into my hypersleep capsule – a glass-and-chrome tube, already filling with preservative fluids. It was cold and unwelcoming; tomb-like on the inside. The exact opposite of the warming waters of the simulator-tanks.

  “Sweet dreams,” Jenkins called, as she got into her own capsule. The rest of the team followed.

  “Let’s hope.”

  The capsule canopy slid into place above me, and the sounds of the outside world became muffled and distant. Through the silvered glass, the medics hurried about the sleepers, conducting last-minute checks. Even now, their faces were becoming blurred and vague.

  I’ve never liked the sleep and this was no different. There was nothing natural about hypersleep. The human body isn’t designed for this sort of experience. The world around me was slowing. I was so cold – the temperature of my entire body dropping rapidly. Cryofreeze was being pumped into me, through the multitude of cables and feeders attached to my body. I turned in my capsule, watched the others going through the same procedure. I was being plunged so deep into a state of suspended animation that I was a hair’s breadth from actual death.

  I freaked out for just a second. Wanted to bang my fists against the glass canopy, stop the sleep. I wanted to rail against it, but my arms and legs were lead.

  The shipboard lights above were hazed, adopting a star-like quality. I focused on them, as the sleep finally took me.

  “Anyone who says that you don’t dream in hypersleep is a liar.” Those were the words of DI Cubbitts, my drill instructor during basic induct. That had been twenty years ago, give or take, and every time I went into the freezers I remembered those words of wisdom. “The difference between real and artificial sleep is that you can’t wake up until the AI decides that you should. If you have a bad trip, you’re stuck with it.”

  Cubbitts had gone full Section Eight – declared unfit for duty by reason of mental incapacity – shortly after my graduation from basic.

  The Oregon’s corridors were empty now. The starship crew had gone to sleep as well, leaving the maintenance-bots and the AI to run the Oregon. With no human crew left awake, the corridors were darkened – running lights switched off to preserve power on the long journey through space.

  I escaped my body, wandered the empty halls as an incorporeal entity: a restless ghost. Stole glances at the dusted, cold command stations; watched the automated security-bots patrolling the hangar bay. Observed the ship’s AI plot our course through the QZ, then through the Great Veil. A mind vastly superior to mine or Atkins’ or Olsen’s conducted vast mathematical calculations to ensure that we safely countered the fluctuating eddies of the Maelstrom, that we escaped the devastating effects of the solar storms.

  In some ways, Jostin and Evers and the others had been right: we were not travelling far into the Maelstrom. To properly cross over to the most central Krell star systems would have been far more dangerous. There, the storms and pulsars and black holes were constant, and without accurate star-data and Q-jump plotting, death would be a surety.

  But it has happened. It has happened before.

  A thought niggled – refusing to be dismissed, irritating the edge of my consciousness. It was impossible for me to know when the event would happen but I knew that the Oregon would eventually cross over into the Maelstrom – into Krell-occupied space. That would be in direct violation of the Treaty.

  It’s already been violated. I’ve been here before – been into the Maelstrom.

  That, and the Alliance had already sent Dr Kellerman and his staff into the Maelstrom.

  But none of that meant that this operation was right.

  This felt different – worse – in some indescribable way.

  By doing this – by going into the Maelstrom – I was dishonouring her memory.

  Her sacrifice.

  Elena.

  I didn’t want to remember. It was so much easier to forget, to just think about the next death, than to dwell on old memories. Painful memories.

  That was why I hated the cold sleep. Because in the glass-and-steel coffin, I couldn’t escape the memories – because they came to me whether I wanted to remember them or not.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOMEONE WHO ISN’T AFRAID OF DEATH, OF DYING

  Ten years ago

  I was a sergeant with Alliance Special Forces, serving on Torus Seigel IV, when the order came. It was a simple directive – REPORT FOR IMMEDIATE PSYCH-EVAL – together with a series of further specifics. A transport shuttle had been arranged for onward processing and I was to leave the frontline immediately.

  Not even my CO knew why I was being recalled. When I boarded the off-world shuttle, the Naval crew weren’t permitted to give me details of my destination, or even how long I was supposed to be away from my uni
t.

  I was quartered on a military base, a research facility with the look and feel of an orbital station. Time, date and location undisclosed. Six other soldiers had been retrieved from the frontline as well – all Spec Forces troopers. One of those men was a young trooper called Vincent Kaminski, a soldier under my command.

  “This is some serious bullshit, eh, Sarge?” was all he could muster when we spoke on our arrival.

  I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  The base was staffed by fully kitted MPs, dog-faced bastards who looked as though they pulled triggers first and asked questions later. The sort of staff not used to being argued with.

  The guards separated us on our arrival. Alone, I was led into a room. A sign on the outer door read ASSESSMENT CHAMBER. The room itself was empty save for a metal table and a pair of chairs, bathed in clinical white light. That hurt my eyes: after a six-month tour on Seigel IV, I wasn’t used to light. Seigel had been cloaked in perpetual darkness and acclimatising myself to basic human experiences wasn’t easy. I’d spent six months more or less sealed inside a hostile-environment suit, on the frontline, fighting in the dark. I looked down at what I was wearing; the transport had been arranged in such a hurry, that I was still in my combat undersuit. The webbing carried the dirt and muck of the protracted Torus operation. That was a souvenir for Command, from the frontline. I still felt groggy from hypersleep, and hadn’t shaved since I’d come off the shuttle.

  I sat on one of the metal chairs, which was bolted to the ground. I had been waiting in the room for a few minutes, and had already tried to move the chair. They don’t even trust me with the furniture, I thought. Place feels like a damned prison.

  “Anyone out there going to speak to me?” I shouted, looking to the door. My voice echoed around the room, but no one answered.

  This was not a regular occurrence. Grunts were supposed to take orders and die, and that was all I was. Enough of my unit had done that already. A recall to psych-eval wasn’t the norm. I was angry, because in this room – on this research base, whatever it was – there was nothing that I could do to further the war effort. Out on Seigel IV, I could at least try to make a difference.

  A noise from the door shook me awake. There was a sound like a mechanical lock being activated, and faces appeared at the glass window. The door eventually opened.

  A woman entered the room, looking down at a data-slate, hurriedly reading from it. Immediately, this woman became the subject of my hostility. She had required me to leave the frontline, to leave my comrades. She was responsible.

  The woman was slim and much shorter than me. Dressed in an intentionally dated outfit: loose white blouse, knee-length fitted pencil skirt. The combination only seemed to accentuate her tight figure. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Antiquated black-rimmed glasses – those were surely more an affectation than a necessity: eyesight correction was simple and cheap, widely available. Difficult to judge her age, but I guessed at barely thirty Earth-standard.

  She walked with a determined gait and gave me a slight smile. Her heeled shoes pattered like hard rain on the tiled floor. Forgetting herself, she tried to move the bolted-down chair opposite me, and then frowned as she realised that it wouldn’t budge. She sat.

  A military guard took up position over by the door, a shock-rifle across his chest. That simply reinforced the impression that the facility was some sort of prison, making my anger even hotter.

  “Those are fixed in place for a reason,” he said, gruffly.

  “I don’t think that your presence will be required here,” she said, nodding at the guard. She pushed a curl of dark hair from her face. “I’m sure that the sergeant will behave himself.”

  “Orders, ma’am,” the guard said. “The subjects are, by their nature, prone to acts of violence.”

  I stood from the table, felt my face flush with irritation. “I’ll bet that you enjoy your work. Fuck you, desk jockey.”

  The guard gave me a smug nod. “See.”

  The woman was completely unruffled by our macho posturing, and barely looked up from her reading.

  “He is not a subject, guardsman. Sergeant Harris is a Special Forces soldier, and he has been selected for assessment. I think I know best here.” Her voice was firm despite her small size. She was obviously used to being listened to. “And I think you are not required here.”

  The guard glared at me but obviously thought it better not to argue, and stomped out of the room. I gave him the finger as he left.

  The woman arranged some papers in front of her on the desk, positioning the data-slate on her lap so that she could read from it. I watched her movements; very precise, very ordered. She took an inordinate amount of time organising herself, but there was nothing uncomfortable about the silence that stretched between us.

  “My name is Dr Elena Marceau, and I am a senior military psychiatrist,” she said. Her voice was melodic, slightly accented – French, or at least European. If not from Earth, then one of the Core Systems. “Welcome to Jefferson Research Facility. Thank you so much for attending this evaluation, Sergeant Harris.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I understand that. But aren’t you pleased to be away from the frontier of the Krell War, Sergeant? This facility has gravity, heat and air. That’s more than you had on Seigel IV.”

  “I suppose,” I answered. The truth was more complex. The absence of war was disconcerting: I had become used to explosions in the distance, used to the ground trembling with the aftershock of another artillery barrage. “You get used to war. It becomes a way of life. On Seigel IV, you learn to hate the quiet.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The quiet comes after the bombardments. If your ears aren’t ringing, then it means you’re already dead.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “That’s just it – you don’t understand. No disrespect, but what is this all about?”

  She smiled. She had high cheekbones, but a rounded face, with a small, animated mouth.

  “I’ve been asked to conduct a specialist evaluation. May I call you Conrad?”

  “Call me whatever you like. Are you Sci-Div?”

  “Not quite Science Division, but somewhere between Sci-Div and the military.” Back on track: “Conrad – that’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Perhaps I should ask your parents about it. Are they still alive?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

  Elena continued smiling, and momentarily looked down at the data-slate. The light of the illuminated slate reflected onto the lenses of her glasses, concealing her dark eyes.

  “It says here that your mother was in the military. She served as an Alliance Navy ensign, under 301st Earth Defence Battalion. My notes indicate that she remained on a military contract even after you were born.”

  “Seems like you already know everything,” I grunted in disdain. No one talked about my mother. “This is bullshit. You can read this without me being here. I need to get back out there – to fight the war that keeps all of this rubbish,” I waved a hand at her and her data-slate, “safe and sound.”

  She pursed her lips. This assessment was going to go on regardless of my engagement, it seemed.

  “It says here that your father was an Army man. That he reached the rank of master sergeant.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  Gently needling the wound. Hot bile rose inside me. Elena didn’t even seem to have noticed.

  “It says that he fought in the Martian War. He was also involved in the repression of the Charon Mutiny. He earned the Purple Heart for his part in the operation. You must be very proud of him, and he must be very proud of you.”

  “If you know so much about him, then you’ll also know that he’s dead. He fought for twenty-five years against the Directorate.”

  “His record was impressive. I meant no offence.”

  I sucked my teeth
. I didn’t want to think about my father, about Earth, about the Directorate. “Neither did I, but he died a long time ago. Look – why don’t you cut to the chase? Try asking me something new – something that you don’t already have the answer to.”

  “Do you hate the Directorate?”

  “This isn’t about the Directorate. It’s about the Krell.”

  “The Directorate have indicated that they may send reinforcements to Seigel IV. How would you feel about that?”

  “There’s been talk of the Asiatic Directorate sending troops to the frontline for as long as I can remember, but it’s never happened.” The Directorate watched, with hungry eyes, as the Alliance fought the Krell: eager to see us fall, yes, but equally conscious that the Krell might break out of the Maelstrom and present an even bigger threat. “Humanity will always be at war, whether against each other or an alien race. I’m a soldier, so more than anyone I know that. It just so happens that the Krell War is more lethal than any other – because it’s a war for survival. The Krell want us dead and gone, blasted from existence.

  “If we decide to wipe ourselves out, then that’s our choice. It shouldn’t be down to the Krell, so far as I’m concerned. I’m just a believer in self-determination.”

  “Very well put. But you obviously think that Alliance personnel records are more extensive than they actually are. We don’t have complete data on all personnel, certainly not personnel from your parents’ era. How and when did your father die, Conrad?”

  I stood from the table abruptly, slammed a fist down onto it. My heart raced. I suddenly realised that I stank of days-old sweat. I could smell myself. In the race to get out here – for some dumb-shit psych-eval that could have been conducted by satellite link – I hadn’t even showered.

  “Have you ever seen the Krell up close?” I barked.

  A face appeared at the door, bobbing about to see inside: the guard, probably eager to enter the room and use that shock-rifle on me. Elena fixed my gaze. She must have been half of my body mass but she didn’t flinch. There was no fear or anxiety in those eyes. I already knew the answer to my question: of course, she had never seen a Krell. She had probably never been outside of the Core Systems, for a start.