The Lazarus War: Artefact

by Jamie Sawyer

  “I would suggest you study these files,” he said, his expression dropping. “I have done so. Dr Kellerman was once a great man, but things might have changed.”

  The Oregon moved on through the blackness. The ship gradually slowed as she fell under the gravitational sway of Helios Star, and I knew that although I couldn’t physically feel it. Moving by conventional propulsion methods now, rather than the exotic Q-drive system.

  Aboard, we readied for the imminent mission.

  Despite her size, there was nowhere really to hide aboard the Oregon. There was always noise and activity somewhere. Even in the quieter hallways, or more secluded cargo holds, the constant whirring of the atmosphere scrubbers reminded me that we were in space. It wasn’t the same background noise as the Point – I’d grown accustomed to that – and it mildly rattled me.

  The vessel didn’t have a dedicated gun-range, or even a simulation-booth that could emulate one. The mainframe had storage of almost all entertainment and sports programmes over the last decade, but I didn’t want to fill my head with banalities before the drop.

  Instead, I went to the ship’s gymnasium. That was well-equipped; most Alliance starships had one. I did some cardiac exercise on the anti-grav running wheel. The physical exertion was good for overcoming the freezer aches. Sweat-drenched and mildly fatigued, I realised that it wasn’t clearing my mind as well as I had hoped.

  So I did the rounds.

  The bridge room was crammed with view-screens, holo-displays and monitors, and despite its physical size it still managed to feel small. The blast-shutters were open, the view-ports displaying the vista of open space. The bridge sat at the very nose of the Oregon, allowing the best physical view of the path ahead.

  Although I wasn’t Navy, as mission commander I had almost complete autonomy over the ship and there was no way that the crew would interrupt my inspection. As I passed crew stations, staff officers nodded in informal recognition of rank. Captain Atkins was absent from the bridge, which I found somewhat surprising, but the rest of his command team were in attendance.

  I stopped behind one of the officers, chosen more or less at random. She was a small black woman, perhaps in her mid-forties by Earth-standard, with a shaven head. She was already jacked into the Oregon’s control suite, and her face occasionally twitched as she received a fresh result or interpreted a new data-stream. The woman’s crisp blue uniform was labelled with the name AMELIE PAKOS, the rank LIEUTENANT and the speciality COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Harris,” she said, in a perfunctory manner.

  An illuminated holo-display above the command console showed the ship’s time. The Oregon’s AI was running on universal meantime – based on an atomic clock somewhere on Earth – but that was largely irrelevant. A combat vessel, inside the Maelstrom, was always awake.

  “I guess it is,” I said. “The ship’s chronometer won’t matter soon.”

  Pakos nodded grimly. “I suppose that is so for the ground team. Helios’ local time will become more important.”

  “All in hand, Lieutenant?”

  “There are no issues to report.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Pakos gave me a stern look, as though she didn’t like my enquiry. Maybe she wasn’t used to being questioned by a simulant operator – no doubt she thought that I should stick to my own specialism, just as she stuck to hers.

  “The crew are running diagnostics,” Pakos said. “The Oregon is breaking into a new movement cycle, and we are still slowing from the Q-space to real-space conversion. Human eyes are double-checking calculations that have already been verified by the ship’s AI. There is no margin of error out here.” She paused, then coldly added: “I hope that addresses your concern.”

  I tapped a finger on the console in front of her. “But what are you doing? You’re a comms officer, and this is a deep-space communications terminal.”

  Pakos’ face flushed, and she gave me a stilted nod. “That’s right. Looks like you know something about starships.”

  “I’ve been in enough fleet actions in my time,” I said. I was being truthful about that: I had – in my simulant body – manned Naval vessels numerous times. Simulants were sometimes even used as marine forces. “Just give me a chance to use one of your railguns, and I can show you exactly what experience I have.”

  Pakos’ cold façade broke a little at that, and she reluctantly smiled. “I’m sorry, Captain Harris. We’ve seen a lot of Army men on this ship over the years. Most of them don’t know how a starship works. The Oregon has taken some knocks from careless commanding officers.”

  I shrugged. “Risk comes with the territory. Now, care to show me what you are doing?”

  Pakos nodded. “It’ll be easier if you listen.”

  She unjacked herself from the console, and manipulated the controls.

  A sudden analogue wail filled the room. I winced, and my instant reaction was to cover my ears. It sounded like pitched feedback; one second bordering on utter cacophony, then abruptly developing into a near melody. At first, I assumed that we were listening to the radioactive background noise caused by one of the local stars – Helios Primary or Secondary, or even one of their more distant cousins – but the noise was too regular, too cyclical. It pricked the back of my mind, beyond the rational: something darker. Piercing the veil of my subconscious.

  The bridge crew paused, listening. They had been jacked-in, had all been monitoring the signal.

  It sounds familiar, I realised. Not the whole sound, but an element of it. A forgotten memory; something long buried, rising to the surface—

  “Turn it off,” I ordered, waving a hand. I lurched forward, and used a nearby console to steady myself.

  Pakos did as requested, after a momentary pause. Something like disappointment crossed her face – a shadow behind her eyes.

  “We were monitoring the signal broadcast by the Artefact,” she said. “It also generates a background electrical power source. As though the Artefact is not at optimal performance.”

  “Keep that damned thing switched off,” I said. I trembled, angry not just at the effect that the signal had spontaneously had on me – but that I had shown it.

  “The noise is somewhat disconcerting at first,” Pakos said. “Ensign Sebas reported that she felt nauseous after the initial interception. But the sensation passes.”

  “I hope that it does. Why can’t the AI monitor it?”

  Pakos jacked herself back into her console. A spectral analysis of the sound projected in front of her, jagged peaks and random troughs. She pointed at the holo.

  “The signal doesn’t record well. Duplicates seem to degrade rapidly. We’re not sure why. Perhaps your Mr Olsen can assist.”

  “Just monitor it as remotely as possible.”

  “As you wish, Captain,” Pakos said, slightly bowing her head.

  I turned and paced out of the room, the transmission ringing in my ears. The bridge doors slid shut behind me, but before they did I swear that I heard the signal again – emitting from Pakos’ console, despite my order to the contrary.

  It’s just a noise, I told myself. Just a signal. Get on with what you know. Keep the familiar close.

  After the bridge, I went to see each member of my squad. They had their particular methods of preparing for a combat-drop.

  Kaminski was first, and I knew exactly where I would find him.

  The starship had a multi-denominational chapel, which was really nothing more than a small private chamber. Tucked neatly between Medical and the hangar deck; conveniently free of view-ports or view-screens to remind the occupants that they were in deep-space.

  The room was in shadow, lights dimmed to near dark, and Vinnie paced beyond the metal pews. He clutched a rosary, mouthing a prayer to himself. I watched him for a moment, lingering at the darkened door of the chapel.

  “Vinnie,” I eventually called.

  He started, dropping the rosary beads into his pocket as tho
ugh he was embarrassed to be found in this private moment.

  “As you were,” I said, nodding to his hand.

  He smiled feebly and wrapped the beads around his palm. He might not have seemed a religious sort, and he was certainly fast to jibe Martinez about his supposed faith, but he always went through the same process before a drop: an hour or so in the chapel, on his own, praying. I’d never asked him whether he was of some formal creed, but it seemed to me that he just wanted somewhere quiet to think before the operation. Right now, I could appreciate that. I wasn’t one for religion but the place had a strange calmness to it, and might be a remedy to my bizarre experience with the signal on the bridge.

  “Didn’t see you there, Cap.”

  “I’m checking up on everyone. All okay?”

  “Just fine, Cap. Just fine.”

  “Getting some private time before the drop?”

  Kaminski nodded. He didn’t look so bold in that moment. Just looked like a lost kid from Old Brooklyn, whose world was a single planet. Before he had taken on this job, and had become more than a man.

  “Can you do me a solid?” Kaminski asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t tell Martinez that I’m down here. He doesn’t know that I use the chapel.”

  “Consider it done.”

  I’d known Kaminski longer than anyone else on my team – twelve years, or thereabouts. He probably knew me better than anyone else, if the length of time we’d served together was any indicator. We’d been Spec Forces soldiers in our own skin long before I’d even heard of the Sim Ops Programme.

  “Do you remember what it was like, when we had to do this in our own bodies?” I found myself asking.

  Kaminski laughed, but the sound was hollow and dour. “Honestly? No, I don’t remember. This is all I remember now.” He tapped the back of his neck, indicating one of the data-ports that would allow him to make transition with his simulant. “Wouldn’t want to go skinless for love nor money.”

  “I still think about it sometimes. Recently, even more so. I had a dream, while we were in hypersleep.” I shook my head; thinking suddenly that this was inappropriate, sharing personal concerns with one of the team. Kaminski didn’t need to be burdened with my self-doubts.

  “I dreamt about her.”

  “You can say her name,” Kaminski said. “She selected me as well, don’t forget. We both knew her.”

  I sighed. Elena had chosen him as well, weeded him out from the mass of potential recruits. ’Ski had sat through a psych-eval, been identified as a potential candidate in exactly the same way as me.

  “It all started with six recruits,” he went on. “Down to three of us in the end.”

  I nodded, wistfully. “Pioneers.”

  “We never really talk about our history any more.”

  “Too painful,” I said. “It’s been a long time since I dreamt about her.”

  Kaminski nodded awkwardly, unsure of what to say. The truth was that there was nothing he could say – nothing anyone could say – to make the pain any easier. Her memory was my load to carry, and mine alone. For Kaminski, it always seemed easier to joke and jibe than really discuss these things. For me, it just seemed easier to move on to the next transition – to get into the next simulant body.

  “I’ll leave you to this,” I said, waving a hand at the chapel. “Whatever it is you’re doing.”

  Kaminski pursed his lips and nodded. “Copy that.”

  “You know where I am. Otherwise, assemble as briefed.”

  “Will do.”

  I paced off down the corridor. Behind me, I heard Kaminski mumbling the Spacefarer’s Prayer, his voice fading to a whisper as I went.

  Next, I visited the squad barracks. It contained faultlessly made-up cots, with footlockers for whatever meagre personal possessions the team had brought with them. The first three cots were empty but Martinez occupied the forth.

  It was surprising that he felt it necessary to sleep, given that he had been at rest – albeit artificially – for six months. But that was his method of dealing with our situation, our mission, and I allowed all of the squad their idiosyncrasies.

  Maybe it was his history as an Alliance Marine; maybe it was his Venusian blood. Either way, Martinez didn’t seem phased in the slightest by being in deep-space. I considered that he was a safe pair of hands to have on this op – that he was a fine choice for a mission like this.

  I didn’t wake him. I wished that I could be more like him, and that I could get some rest before the drop.

  At first, I couldn’t find Blake. He had tried to speak to me about something back at the Point – only a few days ago by my subjective body clock. I wanted my squad to have clear heads before the mission, and now seemed as good a time as any to talk privately.

  I asked about him of some of the starship crew. Red-faced, a girl-ensign told me that he was in her friend’s room.

  “I can send a message to her if you want, Captain,” the ensign said. She awkwardly added, “They won’t get into any trouble, will they?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No on both counts. It isn’t important.”

  Whatever he had wanted to talk to me about would have to wait. Sex was often Blake’s way of preparing for an operation and even though we were light-years out of human space, some things apparently hadn’t changed.

  Jenkins was last. I knew where she would be.

  The Oregon didn’t have a standing complement of Marines, although she maintained a shipboard armoury. Under normal circumstances, it was kept locked, but Jenkins had either persuaded or bullied someone into giving her access. This was her preparation custom, and much like Blake she didn’t like to vary it.

  The small chamber was crowded with weapon racks. I suspected that on a usual Naval run, these would be stocked with basic armaments such as shock-rifles and shipboard-use shotguns. Now, the chamber brimmed with M95 plasma rifles, PPG-13 plasma pistols, crates of grenades and power cells – real heavy ordnance. One wall had been given over to ominous-looking and empty combat-suits – immediately before transition, the simulants would be loaded into those suits.

  Jenkins was dressed in civilian clothes; a tight black jumpsuit, her hair wet from showering. Her sleeves were rolled up and her skin was slick with sweat. She grunted at me when I entered the armoury.

  “I wanted to check on you. To make sure you are prepared for the drop.”

  “All well here, Cap.”

  “Is weapons prep in order?”

  “That was finished hours ago. I’ve just rechecked the power cells on these plasma rifles.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “Can’t hurt to be sure,” Jenkins answered, with a shrug. “Anyway, someone had to mark up the suits as well.”

  She raised a thumb over at the combat-suits. Sure enough, she had stencilled each suit of armour with name-tags and appropriate insignia. The suits were completely expendable, despite their credit value, but even so Jenkins had painstakingly labelled each one. Merit badges, like Blake’s sniper honours or Kaminski’s technical rank, had also been copied onto the armoured shoulders. The suits rarely came back, and whatever went out with the sims probably wouldn’t be making a return journey.

  “Good work, Jenkins.”

  She gave another shrug. “It was my turn. Kaminski did it last drop.”

  I never had a turn at marking up the suits. That was a task for my squad, but I understood in that moment why they never complained about doing it: because it gave them focus. It gave them a task on which they could concentrate, so as to avoid thinking about dying. I saw that, now, in Jenkins’ haunted eyes.

  I paused when I reached the rack dedicated to my combat-armour. Each suit had been marked with the captain insignia, my name, but also another tag beneath: LAZARUS.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” I said, slightly irritated at Jenkins. She knew that I didn’t like the nickname; it was something used by others on the Point, and not by my squad.

&nb
sp; Jenkins continued working. “But I did, this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you always come back,” she said. She was making a deliberate effort not to make eye contact, I decided, by burying her head in a crate of plasma power cells. “And if you come back, then you’ll bring us back with you.”

  It’s just a name. Leave it for now, I thought to myself. Jenkins was obviously spooked.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “All good here. Olsen is sending some medics down at,” she paused, checking her wrist-comp, “oh-six-hundred hours. They’re going to start armouring up the sims.” She turned back to the nearest suit – one of her own – and continued with the stencilling. “I had better get on.”

  “I copy that.”

  I was on edge.

  The Artefact’s signal had been concerning, and I was irritated with Jenkins, but neither of those things were responsible for the anxiety building inside me. There was really no explanation for my condition.

  It wasn’t fear that was making me on edge; I’d done this far too many times to feel that. This was something worse, something deeper. I always got like this before a drop. I needed a drink badly, that was for sure. Ill-advised as it would have been, I would’ve liked a decent whiskey, or perhaps something even stronger, to calm my nerves. Much like Jenkins, I knew that I needed to find something to focus my mind.

  So I spent the time reviewing my materials for the mission. I retired to my quarters, sat alone in my room with the lights dimmed. Images and plans soon littered the floor; I digested every scrap of material available to me.

  I unpacked my few personal possessions – my collection of death-trophies, a copy of Elena’s photo. I always left the original back at the Point – that had an increased sentimental value to me, worn and tired, touched by her hands.

  My father’s old pistol was the last thing out of my away-bag. The pistol was big by today’s standards; a real hand cannon. Archaic, machined from a steel-plastic hybrid: worth a fortune to a collector on the gun market, although I would never even consider selling it. The weapon was suitably intimidating – with a long sleek barrel, heavy too – and it had tasted death. That made us comrades, I figured. The rotating barrel was etched with SMITH & WESSON – MODEL 913. I emptied a handful of ammo clips out onto my cot, assembled the gun holster as well.