by Jamie Sawyer
I took a step towards Elena. I wanted so desperately to touch her – to feel her in my arms, even if those were only simulated. Despite her condition, she looked barely any older than when I’d last seen her. Maybe that was some trick of the Rift, caused by the localised distortion of time-space—
If she is here at all, the voice of reason muttered.
“Why would they send you?” she asked. “Is this a trick?”
“It’s me,” I repeated. “Have you been here all this time?”
She gave me a hard look. “How do I know that you haven’t been compromised?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“How did you get here?”
Just as Elena seemed to doubt me, I needed some validation; some evidence that she was real. I took another step towards her and reached for her. Her eyes burnt with anger and she backed away again.
“They sent me back. To bring help. I have – or at least had – a shuttle in the moon-fields.”
“I’ve got to get you out of here—”
She cut off my words. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Like I said: I need to know that you haven’t been compromised.” She pursed her lips. “The others were.”
“What do you mean?”
I had so many questions – wanted to ask a million things.
“I need to know that I can trust you,” Elena started. Her entire body was taut as a coiled spring. “I need to know that it’s really you—”
For just a second Elena looked beyond me.
I felt the Reaper’s presence in the room. I just knew that it was in there with us.
“Go!” I shouted. “Go!”
Elena moved fast. Stepped back – running before I had even turned.
The chamber came alive.
Something black and nightmarish exploded from above.
The Reaper was suddenly everywhere, and I had nowhere to run.
I grabbed another EMP from my suit-harness, and thrust the grenade into the dark mass. My gloved hands came into contact with the living metal and it flowed around me. Even in my sim, I cringed as I made contact with the material.
I plunged my fist into the Reaper. My shoulder-lamp wildly skittered over the shimmering entity – like a searchlight on an oil spill.
The grenade activator stud flashed a cool blue.
“Fuck yeah!” I roared.
Soundlessly, the EMP went off.
The Reaper froze.
I pulled my hand free. The blast radius was small, and Saul was right – the suit systems were barely touched by the EMP. But none of that mattered: instead, I searched for some sign of Elena – some indication that she had been real, and that she was safe. Have to make sure that she makes it away from here! Protective instinct drove me on. The rifle was in my hands and I jammed it into the Reaper’s underside. I fired. Plasma pulses hit the entity, sent flickering electric discharge all over the dark metal – a miniature lightning storm.
The construct shrieked a devastating sonic wail. I staggered back, ready to fire again—
The Reaper rebooted.
A hundred spear-tips reached from the dark: weapons formed from the living metal of the alien construct.
It punched a multitude of barbs through my chest.
It was over.
In the blink of an eye, I made transition back into my real body. This time, I ignored the simulated pain that exploded across my body. Without pause, I fumbled with the interior tank controls. My hands were numb and unresponsive to my commands, but I tried to jam a finger onto the COMMENCE TRANSITION control.
I expected that buzz of transition – the plunging sensation as I inhabited the new sim, readied for launch in the drop-bay.
Instead: nothing.
“I have to go back!” I shouted. “I have to go back! Get me out there!”
I was vaguely aware of a medtech outside my tank. Hands open, palms up, defensive: repeating something again and again. Someone was trying to talk to me through my ear-piece.
“I saw her!” I shouted into my respirator. I wanted the whole damned ship to hear what I had to say – no one was going to stand in my way any more. “Elena is in there!”
The viewer above my tank displayed COMMAND OVERRIDE: TRANSITION CANCELLED.
“We need to go back,” I said. “Elena is in there.”
The Legion looked on sceptically and the room was silent.
“I’m going back.”
Williams laughed under his breath. “Whatever, man.”
“Shut the fuck up, Williams,” Kaminski muttered.
Williams had dismissed the Warfighters for the day, and everyone else sat around the SOC. Professor Saul was hunched over the bank of monitor screens. He had set up the system to display all nine streams from the Legionnaires and the Warfighters. The combat-suits were set to broadcast from the moment we left the Colossus. They collected and broadcast more data than I was capable of assimilating in a simulant – streaming the encrypted material for later analysis.
Jenkins pulled a tight smile. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress. The number of transitions we’ve made, in such a short period of time: it’s messing with our heads.”
“Yeah,” Martinez followed. “The Reaper isn’t like anything we’ve ever seen before. Maybe it’s, you know, affected you?”
“We’ve all got limits,” Mason added.
Three transitions – coupled with three violent extractions – over a couple of days was exceptional. Our bodies might’ve been intact but we were all showing the strain. The argument was logical and considered: but I wasn’t thinking with that part of my brain any more.
“You’re not hearing me,” I said, as firmly as I could. “I saw her. She’s real, and she’s inside the Artefact.”
“Maybe Professor Saul can assist,” Dr West said, in her usual placatory tone. “Your combat-suit would have broadcast your feeds—”
“I turned my suit-feeds off.”
“And why did you do that?” Williams asked.
“Because Elena told me to. She said that the Reaper follows our transmissions. It’s using them to track us.”
Williams laughed again. “Christo. This is unbelievable.”
“What about before you switched the feeds off?” Dr West offered. “Maybe there is some evidence of the bio-sign you’ve described.”
I remembered then that I had seen the bio-sign before I’d cancelled the feeds. It had probably only been a few seconds’ worth of data but it was better than nothing.
“Yes, yes,” Saul said. “Perhaps that is possible, ah, validation.”
We all watched as Saul operated the SOC system. Nine video-feeds filled the screens. There was nothing exceptional about the earlier parts of the recordings. I watched myself fall from the Colossus, land on the Artefact. Saul sped through these parts, watched them at double speed.
Then all nine operators were inside the Artefact.
The Reaper arrived shortly afterwards. It appeared as a flurry of motion, without a distinct shape.
The Warfighters died first.
Then the simulated Mason died. She tried to toss a couple of EMPs but the Reaper was faster. Spike through the face-plate. Jesus. That had to hurt.
I watched the real Mason’s reaction. She clutched a hand to her chest, gasping for breath in synchronicity with the simulated death on the vid-screen. She had taken it hard: one of her eyes was so bloodshot that it had almost turned black. That was the stigmata – the overspill of physical reaction from the simulant to the real operator.
Maybe she’s reaching her limit as well, I thought. Or maybe she already has.
Jenkins was next.
Then Kaminski.
Martinez went last.
The Reaper was everywhere. I watched it at multiple angles, from the cameras of the dead troopers.
Just me left.
Saul spoke over the recordings. “At this point, Captain Williams and Sergeant Jenkins had been
the two simulants nearest to your location.” He pointed to a wireframe map of the explored portions of the Artefact; to flashing indicators. “You were making good progress towards the Hub. The sergeant died here, and the captain died there.”
“What about our feeds?” Jenkins asked.
“The broadcast degraded as you made your way deeper into the Artefact. Captain Williams’ feeds actually became unreadable in this corridor here.”
Saul turned back to the screen, pointed out the location. The vid-streams were crippled with interference, had become infuriatingly difficult to decipher. The bio-scanner-feeds were no better.
“This is immediately before Major Harris cancelled his feeds,” Saul continued. He shook his head in dismay. “The transmission quality isn’t sufficient to reach any conclusion.”
Jenkins sighed uncomfortably. “We don’t know what the Artefact is capable of. The Shard technology might be causing hallucinations.” She looked to Saul. “What about the Rift? Maybe this is a by-product of cosmic rays?”
Saul shrugged. “I can’t rule it out.”
Jenkins was taken with the idea. “Finding Elena is something that you want to happen. You really want to see her. Maybe the Rift or the Artefact is causing you to see things—”
I slammed a fist onto a nearby table. “Will someone listen to me? I’m Lazarus. I don’t need scanner-feeds or transmission to prove anything. I know what I saw, and I saw her. Dr Elena Marceau is alive in there.”
“It’s impossible,” Williams added. “Dr Marceau vanished years ago. So she’s been hanging out on this Artefact for all that time? On her own? We’ve all seen the Reaper – seen what it does to simulant bodies. We can’t survive in there – how the hell is she doing it?”
“I don’t have all the answers. Not yet.”
“And where is her ship? How did she get aboard the Artefact?”
“She said that she had a shuttle; in the moon-fields.”
“Which Loeb hasn’t found from ship-scans?” Williams added. “It just doesn’t make sense, Major. I agree with Jenkins.” He smiled in her direction; the exchange didn’t go unnoticed by Kaminski. “You’re seeing what you want to see.”
I looked between Jenkins and Williams. There was a difference in their positions, even if Williams wanted to present a united front. Jenkins didn’t believe what I’d seen; but she wanted to. Williams, on the other hand, was only interested in discrediting me: wanted this whole thing for himself.
“Still smarting because I didn’t let you board the Artefact first?” I asked.
Williams frowned at me. “That has nothing to do with it. You’re losing it, Major.”
I stood, paced towards my simulator-tank. It was impassive and cold: patiently waiting for the next transition. My data-ports ached and I yearned to get back out there. I almost clambered back into the tank.
“Elena insisted on something,” I whispered, looking at my reflection in the glass canopy. “She wanted to know whether I was real.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?” Williams asked.
“I’m going to find out. I’m going back out there.”
“Not tonight you aren’t,” came a voice from the entrance to the SOC. “Listen up!”
Loeb filled the doorway, chest puffed up with self-importance. Lincoln slinked around his feet, never taking his eyes off Saul. The professor seemed to wither, his enthusiasm dwindling, whenever the dog was around.
“The Damascus Rift is acting up,” the Buzzard said. “A localised ion storm has developed out past the moon-fields. I want additional safety protocols in place. Until the storm passes, I’m suspending any further expeditions.”
The sense of relief from the others was palpable. Mason’s shoulders sagged, tension draining.
“And in case anyone has missed it, today is Alliance Day. Ship’s universal clock confirms it.” Loeb glared in my direction. “I’ve read today’s debrief. A little downtime probably wouldn’t go amiss.”
He turned and left, his dog in tow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ALLIANCE DAY
Alliance Day marked not only the founding of the Alliance, but through engineered coincidence also the end of the Martian Rebellion. When I was a kid, the annual celebration had been a big deal – a chance for disparate and often fractured communities to come together in a common cause. I could still remember the street celebrations. Fireworks, hot food, a late night: such simpler times. The few fond memories I had of the Metro seemed to revolve around Alliance Day.
This was a pitiful affair in comparison. It was held in the mess hall; the room cleaned out for the event. Tables were pushed to the edge of the room, lights dimmed, some music piped in through the ship’s PA. Loeb had issued an open invite to the Colossus’ officers and all off-duty personnel but few had attended. Those that had were in a sombre and withdrawn mood. Ordinarily it would’ve been an easy trip between the Colossus and the other ships in the battlegroup – a short shuttle ride – but the storm had locked down inter-fleet transport. I’d heard that similar gatherings were being held across the fleet, and couldn’t help wondering whether those parties were any better than this.
The only positive aspect of the gathering was alcohol. The last supply run had ferried some crates of alcohol as well as the usual food rations. A few thousand cans of Alliance-issue beer, together with some stronger spirits: enough to take the edge off.
James and Scorpio Squadron had opened up the adjoining rec room. That was a small, cramped chamber, with a holo-pool table in one corner and a very amateur-looking bar in the other. A deckhand was playing the role of bartender; mixing ad hoc cocktails and distributing bottles of beer.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Elena.
Did I really see her? I wanted to believe that she had been real. But even I could appreciate that there were so many unanswered questions, too many improbabilities. I had to make another transition. This time, I told myself, I’ll know for certain. But I couldn’t make transition without arousing suspicion. I had to pick my moment.
So I did what I do best: I got drunk.
I sat at a table in the rec room. Lieutenant James perched at the bar beside me.
“Credit for your thoughts?” he asked.
“I don’t feel like talking.”
“I heard about what happened.”
I changed the train of the conversation. “You ever change that flight-suit?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said, taking a deep swig from his beer.
“I thought that you said that alcohol didn’t affect you?”
James smiled. “I said that I filter out the good stuff before it can act. But there are ways around that.” He indicated to the line of empty bottles on the bar top. “Namely: speed. If I drink a lot, and I do it fast, then it’ll work for me. Just don’t tell Dr West.”
I laughed. The lieutenant popped off his barstool, pulled up a chair at my table.
“Like I said: I heard about what happened.”
“I’ll bet everyone has. I guess that it’s the talk of the ship.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. You saw what you saw; nothing else to be said.”
Above James, an ancient two-D viewer played a speedball match. Although it had probably finished a decade ago in real-time, the flyboys were oblivious to the party going on around them and were intently viewing the game.
“This place is getting to us all,” James went on.
“You seeing things then?”
“No,” James said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“I’m a soldier without a job,” he said, letting the words roll out slowly.
“You’re a pilot, James. Not a soldier.”
“Same difference. It’s just that, what with your new approach plans – using the drop-capsules – there isn’t much room for the Aerospace Force any more.”
“I guess,” I said.
James looked dejected; now that we knew the Artef
act’s defence plan involved taking out space fighters, his squadron was without a proper role. The mission had moved on and James had become redundant.
“Be thankful for the downtime,” I said.
“I’d rather be in the saddle, killing bad guys. The Legion gets all the best jobs.”
I took in the Legion, dispersed around the room. Kaminski sat in another corner of the rec hall, alone. His eyes were red and he looked tired; today had taken its toll. He was quiet – very unlike Kaminski – looking over at Jenkins. She wore a cling-film green dress, exposing her chest in a decidedly more feminine fashion than usual. How she had acquired the dress was beyond my alcohol-blunted brain: I was sure that she hadn’t brought it out here. As she danced, Jenkins occasionally looked over in Kaminski’s direction, making fleeting eye contact, grinding against Mason, or swinging the younger girl around in a circle. They were all pretending to enjoy themselves, doing impressions. The Legion was haunted. Mason’s face was a ruddy mess of lacerations; that one eye still filled with black blood, a warped reflection of Saul with his milky blind eye.
But James wanted to talk, and he kept going. “Nine years in the Force, Harris. I’ve seen it all: been to Ipcress Quadrant, fought the Krell in the Van Diem Straits. But this is different. It’s not just dying on that approach to the Artefact. I’ve seen your vid-feeds of the Reaper. This thing – whatever it is – gets to me.”
“Well,” I said, “if you’ve seen our feeds, you’ll know that this op is a bit more complicated than just killing a bad guy. Even our plasma rifles are bouncing off that son of a bitch.”
“At least you’re doing something,” James said. “Even dying on the Artefact is better than sitting around here and waiting for new orders.”
I finished my beer. James nodded at the bartender, passed me another. As I took it, I noticed that my hands were shaking – almost uncontrollably. Fuck; I need to make transition so bad. James saw it too but gave me a weak smile and pretended not to notice.
“I got a wife and kid,” he said. “On Alpha Centauri.”
“Good for you.”
James ignored the sarcasm. “Not so much. I haven’t seen my wife in what feels like for ever. I’ve been away for so long, I’m not sure how old my daughter’d be in real-time.” For a moment, I was afraid that he was going to get the family photo out; impress on me that his child really was the cutest in the township. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t think about them every night. Anyone ever threatened them, I don’t know what I’d be capable of doing.”
