by Jamie Sawyer
I noticed that Kaminski and Jenkins kept a professional distance from each other when the rest of the squad was around. In some ways, I felt I’d rather not know about their dalliance: that I was complicit in the deceit of the rest of the team.
A squad of Alliance Marines in full battledress – helmets, goggles, the full deal – trooped by. The unit was in formation around a sealed metal crate, transported on an anti-grav sled. Although I couldn’t see inside the crate, I immediately knew what it contained. The Key.
It wasn’t just me who could detect it, because Kaminski piped up: “Just think what the Directorate would do to get hold of that thing…”
“Way to go to give Martinez nightmares,” Jenkins muttered.
“Nothing’s going to give me nightmares,” said Martinez, with an almost accepting stare. “I’ll sleep like a baby. The Chino want to come kill me in my sleep? Then I’ll go happy. God’ll be my witness.”
I didn’t know whether that was meant as a joke, but no one laughed.
Professor Saul broke into an awkward run behind the Key’s entourage, and when he saw us he waved and dashed in our direction.
“I was conducting some last-minute diagnostics on the monitoring equipment,” he said, catching his breath. “The Key is endlessly fascinating…”
The ensign shook her head in dismay. “You’re all running very late. The Colossus is almost fully loaded. I need to get you boarded as quickly as possible.”
She pushed aside other queued personnel and led us down the docking tube into a waiting shuttle.
Together with a handful of last-minute Navy stragglers, we were ferried over to the UAS Colossus in a Wildcat APS. Near-space around the Point was full of commercial and military starships, a disparate variety of names and nationalities. Even though not all of these ships were for Operation Portent, I took the opportunity to soak in the detail of the Naval fleet. Mostly United American but there were also a couple of European and Antarctic Republic vessels.
But as we got nearer to the Colossus, it became increasingly difficult to focus on anything but the warship herself. The ship had the identifier UNITED AMERICAS STARSHIP COLOSSUS – ALPHA CENTAURI BATTLEGROUP, 3rd NAVAL SUPPORT ELEMENT printed on her armoured hull. American and Centauri flags sat beneath the ID tags.
Her name was appropriate: she was a titanic vessel. Numerous hangar bays lined her flanks, tiny shuttles and fighters coming and going – moving between the other fleet elements. Town-sized railguns sat atop the exterior landing stations. Deployed missile silos stood ready to fire. Communications, radar dishes and antennae sprinkled the outer hull. Even from this distance, it was plain that the vessel had a standing crew of several thousand personnel. The Colossus looked less like a starship, more like a living city. Not a city, I corrected, as we moved nearer: a fortress. She was indomitable – a true feat of Alliance engineering. She stirred a false sense of hope, of security, in me.
“You ever seen a ship so big?” Mason asked.
“Only in my pants,” Kaminski replied.
“Fuck you, ’Ski,” Jenkins said.
“Hey Major,” Kaminski said. He waved at the starship’s pocked hull. “Check out those drop-troop bays. Brings back memories, huh?”
“And not good ones,” I said.
The Colossus’ belly was pitted with tiny launch bays. Not much bigger than a man, each individual tube was capable of firing a drop-capsule: an old military tactic that had long fallen into disuse. The deck looked capable of firing a hundred drop-capsules at once. When the Colossus had been built, her makers had obviously bought into the old drop-troop tactical doctrine. Kaminski and I, during our time in Spec Forces, had used the drop-capsules. Looking at the empty black holes in the underside of the warship conjured the smell, the sense of confinement and the anxiety.
Just then, a squadron of Hornet space fighters flew past. The MSK-60 Hornets were long, sleek attack ships, made for ship-to-ship combat. The flight circled ahead of us, performing sudden but intricate manoeuvres.
Saul jumped as the Hornets passed us. Looked away from the view-screen.
“Don’t worry, padre,” Martinez said. “Those ones are on our side.”
“Still, that’s a hella lot of firepower,” Jenkins said.
“Made to breach starship armour,” Mason murmured, almost to herself. “Even military-class plating.”
“Will you check out New Girl?” Kaminski said. “She’s a regular bookworm. You Martians have always been proud of your navy.”
“Damn straight,” Mason said. “Best in the Alliance.”
Some of the ships performed a swift ballet, while two hovered near enough to our location that they could put us down if necessary.
“They’re just showing off,” I said.
The fighters adopted a fixed formation and approached the Colossus.
My team, together with the other passengers, marched out of the Wildcat’s aft ramp. The Colossus’ hangar bay was awash with deckhands and maintenance crew, feverishly working to prepare for launch. Utility robots began to decant rows of cargo crates from the Wildcat’s belly, carefully lining them up for onward processing.
A group of soldiers immediately approached us on our arrival.
“Attention on deck!”
The speaker was an officer, dressed in the shipboard uniform of the Alliance Army. Captain’s rank insignia on his shoulder patch, Sim Ops Programme badge on his lapel.
“Captain Lance Williams,” the officer said, eyes forward and salute held, in a motion that seemed entirely unnatural to him. “Commanding officer of Williams’ Warfighters. Reporting for duty, sir.”
“At ease,” I said.
Williams looked relieved to drop out of the salute and grinned boyishly. He was tall and lanky, with ruffled sandy hair, like he would be more at home on a surfboard than a starship. When he spoke, it was with a familiar Californian twang, the same dialect of Standard as Jenkins. Whereas she was a disciplined and motivated trooper, Williams looked anything but.
“Welcome aboard the Colossus,” Williams said. “I wanted to ensure your successful docking before I ordered the Warfighters into the sleepers.”
“This your team?” I asked.
Williams nodded. “Yeah, sir. These are the Warfighters.”
I heard Kaminski cluck his tongue from somewhere behind me.
Williams’ Warfighters were a ragtag bunch – young and bullish. The first was of proper Martian heritage; a big bastard, both tall and wide. He had a beard and a mohawk of hair that reached down to the nape of his neck. One side of his face was covered in Martian Clan tattoos – from before the Unification. He was trying too hard, I decided. The other two were young women, almost identical: slim but muscled, with shaven heads and blunt features.
Williams’ team was line infantry and the troopers were in their real, hardcopy bodies. Cole wasn’t wrong when he said that the Warfighters were no Lazarus Legion, I thought to myself. I hoped that they’d look a little more organised in their simulants, because right now they didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.
“Captain Williams,” I said, “meet the Legion, and our adviser on this mission.”
I commenced a round of introductions with my squad and Saul. When I got to Jenkins, she slightly faltered. Williams’ face illuminated.
“Keira Jenkins?” he asked. “That really you?”
“Yes, Lance,” she said, begrudgingly; a lukewarm and very unconvincing smile on her face. “Nice to see you.”
“Same here,” Williams said. “It’s been such a long time.”
“It has,” Jenkins said. “Years, in fact.”
“Too long! We should catch up, Sergeant, if your CO will allow it. Chew the fat and all that.”
Jenkins gave a curt nod. There was something of substance to their connection; I parked that knowledge and reminded myself to find out about their history later. Right now, on the cargo deck, Jenkins shot me a frosty glare that clearly told me don’t ask.
Before I c
ould say anything more, a small woman in an oversized Sci-Div smock made herself known.
“Welcome aboard the ship,” she said. “I’m Dr Marie West, lead researcher assigned to the Colossus and aide to Admiral Loeb.”
Late fifties, West had pale skin, brilliant blue eyes and wispy grey hair.
“Will I have the opportunity to see Admiral Loeb before we set off?” I asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Dr West said. “You are running rather late. Our launch window is less than an hour away.”
Maybe last night hadn’t been such a good idea. I’d missed out on preliminary briefings with Admiral Loeb and Captain Williams. I guessed they would have to wait until we reached Damascus Space.
“Is the relic present?” Dr West said.
“It’s called the Key,” Saul replied. “It should be on our Wildcat. Please ensure that it is properly secured in the main laboratory.”
“Certainly,” Dr West said.
From nowhere, a dog started to bark: loud enough that it could be heard over the industrial din of the cargo deck. A black and brown animal pushed between the crowded personnel, slid across the polished metal tiles.
“Here boy!” Mason said, brushing past me to see the dog.
He was big, and I immediately recognised him as a genetic crossbreed – German shepherd and husky maybe. He barked some more, almost exclusively in the direction of Professor Saul, who positioned himself behind me, grimacing at the animal. The dog seemed to settle a little as Mason ruffled the fur behind his ears.
“This is Lincoln,” Williams said. “Admiral Loeb’s dog, retired from the combat division. Dumb mutt.”
None of the Colossus’ crew paid any attention to the dog.
“Last call for sleepers!” an officer yelled across the deck.
The Colossus had numerous hypersleep suites – each a vault big enough to house hundreds of sleepers – and we were led into one of them. Multiple rows of freezer units lined the bay: sometimes piled atop one another to make use of every possible space. Robot lifters were already stacking filled freezers; the canopies frosting, vacant human faces peering out. The hiss and churn of mechanical movers filled my ears; the crisp, cold smell of active cryogenics units filled my nose.
As I lay in my hypersleep capsule, hooked up to the device by intravenous drip and my data-ports, it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually been into the sleep since Helios. We’d been on other operations since our return but none of those had required a long journey time. Expectant anxiety crept into my bones; the idea that anything could happen once I’d fallen asleep.
You might never wake up.
Or you might wake up in ten years.
Maybe the war will be over.
Fat fucking chance.
The Legion lay in their own capsules, dressed in medical gowns and attached to machines. Martinez had already fallen asleep, whereas Mason was nervously fidgeting.
“First cold sleep for you, Mason?” I asked.
“Second,” she said. “I was frozen between Mars and the Point. How many times for you?”
“Too many, but you never get used to it.”
Mason fell silent. A pretty blonde medtech approached my capsule, with a placatory smile.
“Major Conrad Harris?” she asked. “You’ll be going into the sleep in a few minutes. Are there any travel requests?”
“Such as?”
She tapped the capsule lid with a fingernail. “These are new hypersleep capsules. They can assess brainwaves, encourage REM-sleep. It’s all very advanced. I can create an artificially induced dream for you.”
And you don’t need to know how it works, the smile on her face explained. Lousy grunts.
“I can download a dream-sequence, if you’d like. It’s non-intrusive; the system engages with your data-port—”
“I’ll have the Fortuna deluxe package,” Kaminski said. “And you can join me if you like. Something wet and wild.”
Jenkins scowled at him.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the medtech said, continuing that painted smile. “But you’d be surprised how many passengers make the same request.”
“Jog on, girl,” Jenkins ordered. “We’ll all take the same – a beach holiday, something simple.”
“Nothing for me,” I said. I don’t want to dream.
The medtech busied herself about the procedure.
Whatever she did was happening in the dormant psyche – on a level not consciously appreciable, at least until we were under. But I could feel the cryogen being pumped into me; the gentle throb of the fluids entering through the IV.
“See you in nine months,” Jenkins said.
“Sooner,” Kaminski replied, “if something goes wrong.”
“Fuck you, ’Ski. Fuck you.”
CHAPTER TEN
BADDEST GANG
Thirty-four years ago
“What was I supposed to do?” I asked.
“What were we supposed to do, don’t you mean?” Carrie replied.
She was pissed with me.
Pissed big time.
It had stopped raining a couple of hours ago. The sidewalks were still glazed with a layer of moisture, not yet cooked off by the cloud-wrapped sun, but the cloying warmth that had come to define the Metro had returned.
Carrie paced the storm drain. She shook her head. Crossed her arms over her chest, rubbed her elbows. Such adult affectations. She looked a lot like my mother. Hard to believe that she was not yet twelve.
I sat on the bank of the storm drain, watching the circus develop around us. It was interesting – made a change from the usual daily tedium, if nothing else.
“I can’t believe that you called them,” she said again. “It’s fucking embarrassing, Connie. Embarrassing, you know?”
I sighed. “I…I don’t get what the problem is.”
“You called them, Con. That makes us rats.”
The nearest spinner sat further up the storm drain. The vehicle was a deep blue with white panelling; the words DETROIT POLICE printed in bold lettering on the flank. The motto AUTOMOTIVE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD: MAKING DETROIT A SAFER PLACE TO LIVE, WORK AND VISIT had been painted over, but scratches to the bodywork allowed the forgotten lettering to show through. When it had landed, the cops aboard had used the siren. Now the roof-mounted cherry light flashed soundlessly. It was hypnotising; and for a kid like me it was exciting. They had even brought along a robot. Clad in the same blue-and-white livery as the spinner, it was much bigger than a man and stood stock-still, watching the proceedings with electronic eyes.
“I remembered the number,” I said, “and I phoned them. They can deal with him.” I swallowed. “With it.”
“That was our thing,” Carrie scolded. “Don’t we deal with our own shit round here? We should’ve told Adelia. She always says: anything goes wrong, come tell me. I’ll get it sorted. This is something going wrong, isn’t it?”
I played with a piece of grass I’d torn up from the drain floor.
“Adelia isn’t cops,” I said. “Adelia is a hooker.”
“Yeah, but she knows people. Knows the people who run this sector. Who do you think the cops are, Con? Another damned gang. Just a bigger gang than the rest, is all.”
“I wanted to tell Dad – but, you know…”
“Fat lot of good Jonathan would do,” Carrie replied. “Worse than the fucking cops.”
“This needed biggers. This needed cops. The baddest gang.”
“Baddest is right,” Carrie said.
It was a pretty big deal. For starters, it was the first dead body I had ever seen in person. The neutrality – the loss of any emotional response – to seeing the dead would come later.
“I’ve seen them on the viewer,” I said. “On the tri-D.”
“Who hasn’t? They’re everywhere, except the Metro.”
“So what was it doing in the drain?”
Carrie frowned at me angrily. She had probably been talking about police, I realised; whereas
I’d been talking about the dead soldier. At the time, there was no reason I could imagine why a uniformed Directorate soldier would possibly be in a Detroit storm drain.
“Maybe they’re invading,” I suggested.
“Shut up, Con. Just shut up.”
It wasn’t as though there were ranks of enemy soldiers in the downtown. They had never landed in New York, Washington, San-Angeles: only dropped their terrible bombs.
“That’s why I called them,” I offered. “Because I can’t figure it out.”
“And they’re going to?”
There were lots of cop and other cars I didn’t recognise. At least six spinners – air-cars, designed for low-altitude flight. A couple of ambulances as well – throwing their own flashing lights over the walls of the storm drain. In the distance, beyond the multi-coloured light arcs, street people had gathered. They peered on with undisguised curiosity.
I was just as intrigued. I watched as the men and women milled around the sub-drain, flitting in and out of the tiny chamber in which we’d found the Directorate soldier. Some were in padded white forensic suits: faces covered with masks and goggles. Others were in blue flak-vests, POLICE printed over the chests. One wore a long brown trench coat, pulled up around his dusky unshaven chin. He was pointing things out to people, nodding a lot; telling them what to do. I decided that he was probably the boss.
“You ever see a cop this close up before?” I asked as I looked on. “They never come this far into the Metro.”
“No, and I damned well never want to,” she said.
“That robot is kind of cool.”
“It’s stupid.”
The cop-leader looked down at a data-pad, then up at us. Carrie shirked back – withering under the gaze of the law man. The cop only smiled at us: a tired but pleasant expression.
“Don’t go anywhere, kids,” he called. “I’ll have some questions for you later. Be with you as soon as I can, all right?”
“Now you’ve fucking done it…” Carrie muttered under her breath, quiet enough so that only I could hear it.
