The Lazarus War: Legion

by Jamie Sawyer

  “Open up!” I shouted.

  With a mechanical whine, the canopy began to rise.

  There was no soldier above me and there never had been.

  I was surrounded by capsules. Some of those were opening now as well; the sleepers rising from their temporary caskets. Pale from the long sleep, all exchanging confused glances. Some of those turned to angry scowls now, responding to the alarm. The ship’s crew, I realised, were waking as well. That was something else to add to the list of things wrong with this picture: the Navy crew were almost uniformly awoken before ground troops.

  Holy shit. Something is very wrong here.

  A message was being repeated over and over, broadcast through the ship’s public address system. It took me a few tries to follow what was being said – to understand the message.

  “This is not a drill. Emergency awakening in progress. All hands report to the bridge.”

  I forced myself awake, shook out the freezer chills. I pulled out the attachments to my arms and legs – broke the connection to the hypersleep machinery. Climbed out of the capsule.

  Martinez appeared over me. Clutched my shoulders.

  “You okay, Major?”

  “Yeah. I’m awake.”

  Checking that the old man hasn’t died in his sleep?

  Unplugged, I felt reality suddenly take on a new dimension: the absence of the hypersleep preservative had an immediate effect. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done – waking from the cold sleep was supposed to be a long and gradual process. A sudden awakening carried with it risks, carried with it the possibility of serious side-effects or even death. I swivelled my legs and slammed my feet down on the metal plate flooring.

  Kaminski, Jenkins and Mason were doing the same.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Kaminski shouted above the alarm.

  The ship’s PA shifted loop.

  “There is a hull breach in Sector Three.”

  I frowned. Stared up at the wall.

  Words were printed there.

  SECTOR 3: HYPERSLEEP CHAMBER.

  The bay wasn’t filled to capacity but there were sixty or so sleepers. Just as many personnel were still in the freezers, either fighting to wake up or still in hibernation. The AI was attempting to awaken us all and through some quirk of programming this was being done in reverse: ground troops first, then medical staff, finally Naval crew.

  Not everyone woke up. Perhaps that was a small blessing. Better, I told myself, that they passed sleeping than face what was about to happen. But I knew that this wasn’t how I’d want to go. Asleep in a capsule, somewhere in the Maelstrom, without a fighting chance. Snuffed out, just like that: regardless of what you’ve done with your life, who you are or were.

  I probably had that programming fault – the error that had caused the ground troops to awaken first – to thank for my life.

  The floor beneath me began to rumble gently. Heavy rain on a tin roof: pitter patter, pitter patter. I recognised the sound too well.

  “Jenkins!” I yelled. “Door – now!”

  Jenkins was nearest to the main bulkhead, thirty metres from our position. She stumbled towards it.

  There were two red emergency boxes located on the far wall. Those were sprinkled throughout the ship, labelled BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCY! Crammed with the sort of safety gear I’d normally ignore but which had suddenly become incredibly relevant. Martinez dashed for the nearest box. I went for the other, willing my legs to move-move-move.

  The floor continued to vibrate.

  “Everyone – get out!” I shouted.

  Confused faces stared back at me. Like geriatric patients, dressed in identical white robes: pale as ghosts.

  A whistling sound filled the chamber. Despite my order, most of the inhabitants stopped to listen. Stupid fucks, one and all. Small black dots appeared on the ground. A man next to me – rank and role unascertainable in the gown – leant over one of the dots, inspecting it. He looked down, then looked up at the ceiling.

  “Sweet Jesus…” he groaned.

  Some of the hypersleep capsules wouldn’t be opening at all. Those canopies were peppered with the same shotgun pellet pattern – flecked about with brilliant red blood.

  “We’re going to lose atmosphere in here very soon!” I shouted.

  “Move people!” Mason yelled. “Get to the other side of that bulkhead!”

  The hypersleep suite was about to become depressurised; provided that the corridor outside hadn’t been hit as well, we could use the bulkhead to seal off the area.

  I smashed a hand into the emergency supply box, yanking out a vacuum-packed emergency environment suit. It was a brilliant yellow, condensed down to a package the size of my hand. I hit the USE button and the suit began to pop up.

  Not a moment too soon. More peppershot hit the deck. Harder now: holes the size of my thumb appeared in the floor, reciprocal damage to the ceiling.

  Meteor shower.

  The Maelstrom was replete with meteor and asteroid bands – constantly shifting due to the gravimetric storms and stellar winds. They came in all shapes and sizes, capable of causing minor damage to a ship or completely hulling it. There was no telling how severe this storm was until we’d weathered it and from inside the hypersleep vault there was little to nothing that I could do to evaluate the threat.

  “We’re being hit in every direction!” Martinez yelled. He was half-dressed in his own suit.

  I caught sight of Kaminski and Jenkins hustling sleepers towards the door. A man exploded in a bright red haze, punched through by a piece of debris no bigger than my little finger. People were screaming now.

  The vac-suit was ready for use and I stuffed a leg inside. I clipped the hood into place, sealing myself in. It had a face-shield that inflated immediately, but also fogged with each breath. This wasn’t how I was used to operating: the tech wasn’t battle hardened. I was a blunt instrument and I needed my tools to withstand proper punishment. Inside the vac-suit, I was also out of communication with the rest of my team.

  Jenkins reached the exit to the chamber. She looked increasingly pale, had started to tremble.

  I knew that we had to get out of the chamber and we had to do it now.

  Martinez nodded at me, starting off towards the bulkhead door as well.

  Jenkins slammed her hand onto the control.

  Nothing.

  Another handful of scattershot hit the ship.

  Fuck.

  She hit the control again.

  Nothing.

  The door sat resolutely shut, an emergency lamp overhead flashing red. From my position it looked like her face was covered in blood – like she was weeping from the eyes.

  Maybe she is, I thought.

  I reached the door, bounding along on the spongy soles of the built-in vac-suit boots.

  “Won’t open,” Jenkins gasped.

  “Try it again!” I shouted, exaggerating the formation of my words: hopeful that Jenkins would see what I was saying even if she couldn’t hear.

  The control console flashed with a red light.

  LOCKED.

  Kaminski, Jenkins and Mason stood at the door, all dressed in those ridiculous medical gowns.

  “Nice knowing you!” Kaminski mouthed.

  The nearest sleeper to me had started to asphyxiate. Atmosphere was almost gone from the room.

  I pushed past the group, slammed my hand onto the control panel again and again.

  LOCKED.

  LOCKED.

  LOCKED.

  “Martinez! Get a tool from the emergency box! Anything!”

  Martinez frowned at me and I motioned to him with my hands – pointed at the control panel. Maybe we could overload the unit, force the door open. If Kaminski was in a suit, he might be able to hack the box: fool the AI into opening the lock.

  But he wasn’t. I was, and my team was about to die in that chamber unless I could get them out.

  Around me, sleepers were wailing, bashing fists
against the door. It would do them no good: probably use up what little reserve of stamina they had left.

  Martinez bounced to the door, holding a powered wrench. He tossed another to me and I caught it. Activated the tool with a stud on the shaft and began working on the box.

  “Please hurry!” someone shouted.

  The whistling from the punctured hull had become a wailing now. The room lights were flashing erratically.

  Something had gone so very, very wrong.

  I hit the box, watched it spark momentarily. In the depleted atmosphere any ignition from the device was passing.

  Why haven’t the null-shields protected us?

  I hit the box again.

  Martinez was doing the same; faster and faster. Rage built up behind his face-plate, spittle flecking the inside—

  Both controls shorted.

  The lights overhead flashed off.

  Everyone seemed to pause for a moment.

  Then the door gave an enormous rumble and started to lift into the ceiling.

  The human wave poured through into the corridor beyond.

  There were four Alliance Marines outside the room, in full vac-proofed battledress. Not sims: hardcopy soldiers. They hurried all of the survivors out of the chamber. When no one else came out, they sealed the doors shut.

  At least they’re Alliance, I thought, remembering my dream of the Directorate invasion.

  The sleepers variously fell against the corridor walls, passed out on the floor, or fell to their knees. There were gasped prayers and thanks to a variety of deities; even some puking.

  I tore off the vac-hood. Underneath, I was pouring with sweat. My hands were shaking; not from the effects of oxygen-deprivation but with plain anger.

  “Clear,” the lead Marine said. He spoke into a communicator, one hand to his ear. “All survivors are out the chamber.”

  “What the fuck just happened?” I yelled, my voice ringing in my ears and down the corridor.

  “Hold on a second, sir,” the Marine said. He nodded. “Fine. Purge the chamber.”

  “There could still be survivors in there,” I shouted.

  “Hold on, sir!” the Marine yelled back at me. “We’re dealing with an emergency right now.”

  Jenkins sat at my feet, wiping blood from her nose.

  “You okay, Jenkins?”

  “I feel like shit.”

  “Better than being dead, I guess.”

  “It’s a close run thing right now.”

  I took in my squad. All four were alive, but a sudden panic gripped me.

  “Saul! Where’s Saul?”

  The Marine sergeant cocked his head, gave me a disapproving look.

  “He’s on the bridge. Admiral Loeb wants to see you when you’re feeling up to it.”

  I grabbed an oxygen bottle from one of the soldiers and clipped it to the harness of my vac-suit. The whole ship seemed to be awakening: lights and recycling units whirring to life, not just in the hypersleep chamber but the adjoining rooms. The alarm continued; unexplained and intrusive.

  “Stay here,” I ordered. “Jenkins, you’re in charge.”

  “Affirmative,” Jenkins said, still sitting on the floor, back rigid against the wall. “For all the good it’ll do.”

  Still wearing the ridiculous vac-suit, I stormed onto the bridge.

  On a smaller Naval starship, the command centre and bridge were often combined. The Colossus was so big that division was not only possible but necessary. There were dozens of stations but most stood empty, with only a handful of crew working. Those crewmen looked as though they were not long out of the freezers.

  I found Loeb at the helm. Dressed in simple shipboard uniform, he was yelling orders at the crew. But there was a calm coldness in his voice, and something in his eyes that I hadn’t noticed during the briefing back at Liberty Point.

  “Bring us point-five port side!”

  “Aye, aye!”

  The ship’s view-screens were dominated with the same image: a field of bright white lines, sparks thrown across near-space. A billion rock particles struck the null-shield, aerating the energy field. We were still travelling at an insane, Einstein-denying speed: the minuscule rocks were punching against the ship’s armour, acting as kinetic rounds. It was inevitable that some of the debris would get through, even if the null-shield was at maximum polarity.

  Saul sat beside Loeb, in the same attire I’d seen him wearing back on the Point. He was strapped into a station and gripped the armrests with enough force that his tanned knuckles had gone an unhealthy white.

  “Point-defence lasers firing, sir!” another officer called to Loeb.

  “Shields holding, XO?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Are we clearing the field?”

  I watched the view-screens for activity and breathed a sigh of relief. The storm was slowly subsiding; impacts becoming less regular, particulate striking the null-shield and not the ship herself.

  “All clear,” an officer declared.

  Loeb held his rigid position for a moment, eyes fixed on space outside. Then, slowly, he grasped at the data-cables jacked to each of his forearms, yanked them free and tossed them aside.

  “Sweet Mother Earth,” Saul groaned. “That was too close.”

  “We’re through,” Loeb said. “The course correction will take us well out of the field.”

  “What just happened?” I asked. “The hypersleep suite is a damned mess – you have multiple casualties.”

  Loeb sneered at me from the command console. “We hit a meteor field. One of the many – and unavoidable – hazards of this fool’s errand.” He jabbed at a terminal in front of him and the alarm abruptly ceased. “For your information, only two of the hypersleep bays were hit. We managed to make an evasive manoeuvre, which saved a number of other decks from serious harm.”

  “It appears that the navigational AI developed a fault,” Saul said. “We were thrown off course by a storm in Ypress Sector. I’ve tried to repatch the ship’s AI. Yes, yes – not my specialty, but I’ve done what I can.”

  “That easy, huh?” I quivered with anger. “Tell that to the dead.”

  Loeb ignored my protestations. “Some of the cargo holds weren’t included in the course profile. Cargo holds six and nine are carrying a full load of military equipment. The course projections allowed for empty modules.”

  Such a simple error, such enormous ramifications. Making Q-jump – technically translating from Q-space into real-space – required a precise calculation of weight and mass. The specifics were arcane, usually computed by highly advanced AIs. A minor error was enough to send a ship off course. In well-plotted Alliance space, that was bad enough: you could end up translating into a moon or find that the screwed-up dynamics of Q-space cost you a decade of real-time. Stories about these errors were commonly traded among Alliance space forces – usually anecdotally. In the Maelstrom, as with everything, the consequences could be so much worse. We’d made translation off course and the result had been we’d strayed into a meteor storm. Looking down at a holo-map of the surrounding sector, there was at least one black hole and the remnant of solar storm within a parsec of our position.

  “This is the first time that the Colossus has suffered such a fault,” Loeb said. He nodded at a nearby officer. “XO, I need an immediate assessment of the damage. It looks like we’ve maintained structural integrity, but I want a sitrep on the rest of the Operation Portent fleet.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Better yet, get me visuals,” Loeb corrected.

  “I can do that, sir.”

  The holo filled with ten or so glowing icons: the Northern Pledge, the San-Ang’s Finest, and the Midwest, among others. I recognised those names as American ships, from the briefing back on the Point. There were other multinationals among the flotilla, and I noted that the Antarctic Republic and the Pan-African Union vessels had made it through as well.

  “No damage reported, sir,” an officer respond
ed. “Looks like it was only us that got hit. We’re still waiting for three further ships to make translation from Q-space.”

  “When are we expecting complete battlegroup conversion?” Loeb asked.

  The same officer paused, reading from his terminal screen. “Within the next hour.”

  “Good. Maintain course vector to the rendezvous point.”

  “Aye, sir,” the XO replied.

  “Is the battlegroup still mission able?” I asked.

  “Preliminary indications are positive,” Loeb said. He sounded almost dismissive of my question.

  “Another of the perils of the Maelstrom…” Saul added. “Praise the Divine Earth Mother that we got away so lightly.”

  “What about our sims and tanks?” I asked.

  I recalled what had happened on Helios: losing my sims, the damage to the tanks, going into battle in my own skin. I dreaded that happening again.

  “Only the hypersleep suite has been hit,” Loeb growled. “Your equipment was stowed in cargo bay fifteen – it’s fine.”

  I nodded, tried to hide my relief. Despite Loeb’s reassurance, I knew that I’d take the first opportunity to check on the gear myself – to see the simulants with my own eyes.

  Loeb shook his head. “Get a clean-up crew down to the damaged bays. I want confirmation that those hull breaches are sealed within the next fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll make it so, sir,” another junior officer said, scuttling off the bridge.

  Loeb turned to me. “I want to see you in my chambers before we reach Damascus Space. You should probably have breakfast, see the medtechs. I’ll let you know when I’m available.”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” I said.

  I can’t wait, I thought, and stalked out of the chamber.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IN ENEMY TERRITORY

  Despite Dr West’s objections, I skipped the medical evaluation. Instead, I hit the showers and got dressed. By now the whole ship was awake: corridors flooded with crewmen, the ship’s systems running as though the incident in the hypersleep suite had never happened.