by Ken MacLeod
In a futile attempt to shake out of it, I ordered, “Let’s get stripped and mounted in two; I want transition in three.” I began to undress myself, and a medtech came to activate my tank. As I worked, I called over to Zero, “Give me a summary of the briefing packet. What’s the op?”
“Command believes that it’s going to be an effective drop,” Zero said, reading from her data-slate.
“A combat drop?” Riggs asked. He was half-undressed now. The callsign JOCKEY was stencilled onto his tank; a particularly literal name the rest of the team had thought up as a result of his background as a rocket jockey. Yeah, it had to be said that the callsigns left something to be desired.
“There’s a ninety per cent probability of combat,” Zero said. “Daktar Outpost stopped reporting two days ago. The reason for this failure has since been confirmed as a hostile takeover by the Black Spiral.”
“Told you so,” Riggs said to me.
“There are no prizes for being an asshole,” I said, cutting Riggs down. I didn’t want the rest of the Jackals getting wind of any private conversations I might be having with Riggs. “Then what’s our assignment, Zero?”
“Captain Heinrich has assigned us to scout duty,” Zero said. Her use of the word “us” was telling. Although she wasn’t going anywhere, Zero’s command console—from which she would remotely handle the squad, and would be our eyes and ears—sat in the middle of our SOC bay.
“Scout duty again?” asked PFC Gabriella Lopez. “Our last scout drop was a complete waste of time.”
“It was a waste of time for everyone, Lopez,” I said. “No one got any action on Praidor.”
“At least the rest of the strike team got to conduct search-and-seizure,” Lopez said. “All we got to do was freeze our asses off. That’s scout duty for you.”
Lopez had been recruited into the Jackals straight out of Army Basic training, assigned to the team by the battalion’s supervising officer, Colonel Draven himself. Twenty-something, and from a lifetime of privilege on Proxima Centauri. The callsign SENATOR had been stencilled onto her tank. Lopez was far from happy about that, but like I said: these guys were literal in their descriptions, if nothing else.
“You think they trust you with real combat-suit?” asked Leon Novak. He spoke Standard with a blunt Slavic accent, forming the words slowly and with intent. “And what do you mean ‘again’? You have no deaths yet.”
“Transitions,” Lopez said. “The word is transitions, idiot. And I have six, just like the rest of you.”
“Am not idiot,” Novak countered. “Do not call me that.”
“I’d say that was a pretty accurate description,” Riggs joined in. “But you’re wrong about one thing, Lopez. I have ten, actually. Let’s not forget that.”
“Those weren’t combat extractions,” Feng added. “So they don’t count.”
“You’re all idiots,” Lopez said.
She stumbled out of her fatigues, putting a hand to her breasts as though we hadn’t seen all this before. Lopez was slight bodied and beautiful; with a perfect golden complexion that suggested her South American heritage, and long dark curly hair that I couldn’t recall ever having seen out of place. All of that was ruined by her personality. Lopez had a hell of a mouth on her, and she was hard work.
Novak sneered. “Whatever. Deaths, transitions, extractions. Is all same.”
A small disc-shaped security-drone, silver and chrome, a couple of foot across, hovered at his shoulder.
“Security protocol suspected during operation,” the drone bleated.
Novak’s callsign was CONVICT, and he was just that: a convicted felon and a life-termer, given a chance of reprieve out in the void. I wasn’t sure of exactly what Novak had done to earn his term, but I knew that it must’ve been bad. So many military bases had been hit during the Krell War that the Alliance had found themselves with a serious shortage of simulant operators. They’d trawled the prisons for compatible recruits, had offered prisoners the opportunity to commute life terms to a period of military service. That was how Novak had earned himself a lifetime spot on the Programme, each extraction knocking a little time off his sentence.
Novak was an enormous, bear-like man, shoulders dominated by a winged skull tattoo that stretched across the blades. The word BRATVA was stencilled beneath in faded blue ink. The choice of word was a particularly bad joke, because this man didn’t even know the meaning of the word “brotherhood.” He was nothing more than an outcast from the Siberian prison-hubs; a killer that even the Russian Federation had been glad to disown. Whatever Command thought they had made Leon Novak into, this was the real man.
“Can the negative jive,” I said. “We’ve got a mission, and that’s enough.”
“But it’s a shit detail,” Lopez complained.
“Someone has to do it,” I said, “and we’re the greenest team on this bucket.”
“I am ready for this …” Feng said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I am so ready for this!”
Only Feng had any real soldier in him, and he wasn’t even a free citizen. Technically, Feng was former Asiatic Directorate property. South Asian features, smooth-skinned save for the data-ports, covered in barcodes and serial numbers—dark-eyed and -haired, muscled in an unnaturally precise way. He was a man-child: born into puberty, direct from the clone-vats. The location of his “birth” in the Asiatic Directorate—Crèche Three, Crema Base—was stamped across the small of his neck, like a brand. He had been liberated by Allied forces from the same planet, and in many ways he was a poster-child for the new Alliance; a super-state willing to forgive the transgressions of the Directorate’s political and military elite, and to strive towards a lasting peace for all humanity.
But whatever Feng’s political heritage, right now he just looked like an over-excited kid. Granted, a kid who was about to be skinned with the absolute best in bio-technology, and about to be equipped with cutting edge arms and armour, but still a child. He bobbed anxiously, nervously, as he was readied to mount the tank.
“Cool your jets,” I said to the bay but really directed at Feng. “Just keep calm and we’ll get through this.”
Medtechs descended on the squad, and began plugging us into the simulators. I let the staff work but I knew the drill in my sleep.
Zero read more from the briefing. “All entrances to the outpost are locked down. You’ll be supported dropside by the fire teams and heavier combat-suits. I’ve uploaded your objectives to the suit network; you’ll have them as soon as you make transition. The Jackals’ destination is Tower Three, located on the outer aspect of the base.”
“This is real, people,” Feng said, pumping his fists. “This is happening!”
“I hear that,” Riggs added.
Zero gave me a watery smile, and I felt a pang of disappointment for her. I knew that she wished it was her going into the tanks, but we both knew that would never be the case. Zero’s name was a joke, because she was less than that. She was a “negative,” her physiology incompatible with the implants necessary to operate a simulant. As she watched us going through the procedure, there was something almost melancholy about her expression.
“Command expects the Black Spiral to be present in significant number,” Zero said, continuing to read. “Captain Heinrich says that this is going to be hot. You should be aware that this is a joint—”
“More sorry-ass terrorists,” Feng said. “I am on this!”
“We’re doing what we do when we have no one left to fight,” Lopez said. “We’re killing each other.”
“Those daddy’s words, or yours?” Novak said.
“Fuck you, lifer,” Lopez responded.
Zero seemed more agitated that usual, which in her case was saying something. “Ma’am,” she said, “I really need to make you aware that this is—”
“No time, Zero,” I said. “Tell me when I get back.”
A respirator was snapped over my face, and a tech popped a bead into my ear. All that was left t
o do now was to get into the tank. It was already half-filled with blue amniotic fluid, quickly warming. My own callsign, CALIFORNIA, was stencilled in bold letters onto the tank’s outer canopy.
“All good?” a medico asked.
“Affirmative,” I said. I turned to check on the rest of my squad. Thumbs up all round. “Seal us in. You’ve got the formalities, Zero.”
“Copy that, ma’am,” she said. “Transition commencing in three … two … one …”
if you enjoyed
THE CORPORATION WARS: EMERGENCE
look out for
SIX WAKES
by
Mur Lafferty
A space adventure set on a lone ship where the clones of a murdered crew must find their murderer—before they kill again.
It was not common to awaken in a cloning vat streaked with drying blood.
At least, Maria Arena had never experienced it. She had no memory of how she died. That was also new; before, when she had awakened as a new clone, her first memory was of how she died.
Maria’s vat was in the front of six vats, each one holding the clone of a crew member of the starship Dormire, each clone waiting for its previous incarnation to die so it could awaken. And Maria wasn’t the only one to die recently.…
THIS IS NOT A PIPE
DAY 1
JULY 25, 2493
Sound struggled to make its way through the thick synth-amneo fluid. Once it reached Maria Arena’s ears, it sounded like a chain saw: loud, insistent, and unending. She couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t sound like a situation she wanted to be involved in.
Her reluctance at her own rebirth reminded her where she was, and who she was. She grasped for her last backup. The crew had just moved into their quarters on the Dormire, and the cloning bay had been the last room they’d visited on their tour. There they had done their first backup on the ship.
Maria must have been in an accident or something soon after, killing her and requiring her next clone to wake. Sloppy use of a life wouldn’t make a good impression on the captain, who likely was the source of the angry chain-saw noise.
Maria finally opened her eyes. She tried to make sense of the dark round globules floating in front of her vat, but it was difficult with the freshly cloned brain being put to work for the first time. There were too many things wrong with such a mess.
With the smears on the outside of the vat and the purple color through the bluish fluid Maria floated in, she figured the orbs were blood drops. Blood shouldn’t float. That was the first problem. If blood was floating, that meant the grav drive that spun the ship had failed. That was probably another reason someone was yelling. The blood and the grav drive.
Blood in a cloning bay, that was different too. Cloning bays were pristine, clean places, where humans were downloaded into newly cloned bodies when the previous ones had died. It was much cleaner and less painful than human birth, with all its screaming and blood.
Again with the blood.
The cloning bay had six vats in two neat rows, filled with blue-tinted synth-amneo fluid and the waiting clones of the rest of the crew. Blood belonged in the medbay, down the hall. The unlikely occurrence of a drop of blood originating in the medbay, floating down the hall, and entering the cloning bay to float in front of Maria’s vat would be extraordinary. But that’s not what happened; a body floated above the blood drops. A number of bodies, actually.
Finally, if the grav drive had failed, and if someone had been injured in the cloning bay, another member of the crew would have cleaned up the blood. Someone was always on call to ensure a new clone made the transition from death into their new body smoothly.
No. A perfect purple sphere of blood shouldn’t be floating in front of her face.
Maria had now been awake for a good minute or so. No one worked the computer to drain the synth-amneo fluid to free her.
A small part of her brain began to scream at her that she should be more concerned about the bodies, but only a small part.
She’d never had occasion to use the emergency release valve inside the cloning vats. Scientists had implemented them after some techs had decided to play a prank on a clone, and woke her up only to leave her in the vat alone for hours. When she had gotten free, stories said, the result was messy and violent, resulting in the fresh cloning of some of the techs. After that, engineers added an interior release switch for clones to let themselves out of the tank if they were trapped for whatever reason.
Maria pushed the button and heard a clunk as the release triggered, but the synth-amneo fluid stayed where it was.
A drain relied on gravity to help the fluid along its way. Plumbing 101 there. The valve was opened but the fluid remained a stubborn womb around Maria.
She tried to find the source of the yelling. One of the crew floated near the computer bank, naked, with wet hair stuck out in a frightening, spiky corona. Another clone woke. Two of them had died?
Behind her, crewmates floated in four vats. All of their eyes were open, and each was searching for the emergency release. Three clunks sounded, but they remained in the same position Maria was in.
Maria used the other emergency switch to open the vat door. Ideally it would have been used after the fluid had drained away, but there was little ideal about this situation. She and a good quantity of the synth-amneo fluid floated out of her vat, only to collide gently with the orb of blood floating in front of her. The surface tension of both fluids held, and the drop bounced away.
Maria hadn’t encountered the problem of how to get out of a liquid prison in zero-grav. She experimented by flailing about, but only made some fluid break off the main bubble and go floating away. In her many lives, she’d been in more than one undignified situation, but this was new.
Action and reaction, she thought, and inhaled as much of the oxygen-rich fluid as she could, then forced everything out of her lungs as if she were sneezing. She didn’t go as fast as she would have if it had been air, because she was still inside viscous fluid, but it helped push her backward and out of the bubble. She inhaled air and then coughed and vomited the rest of the fluid in a spray in front of her, banging her head on the computer console as her body’s involuntary movements propelled her farther.
Finally out of the fluid, and gasping for air, she looked up.
“Oh shit.”
Three dead crewmates floated around the room amid the blood and other fluids. Two corpses sprouted a number of gory tentacles, bloody bubbles that refused to break away from the deadly wounds. A fourth was strapped to a chair at the terminal.
Gallons of synth-amneo fluid joined the gory detritus as the newly cloned crew fought to exit their vats. They looked with as much shock as she felt at their surroundings.
Captain Katrina de la Cruz moved to float beside her, still focused on the computer. “Maria, stop staring and make yourself useful. Check on the others.”
Maria scrambled for a handhold on the wall to pull herself away from the captain’s attempt to access the terminal.
Katrina pounded on a keyboard and poked at the console screen. “IAN, what the hell happened?”
“My speech functions are inaccessible,” the computer’s male, slightly robotic voice said.
“Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” muttered a voice above Maria. It broke her shock and reminded her of the captain’s order to check on the crew.
The speaker was Akihiro Sato, pilot and navigator. She had met him a few hours ago at the cocktail party before the launch of the Dormire.
“Hiro, why are you speaking French?” Maria said, confused. “Are you all right?”
“Someone saying aloud that they can’t talk is like that old picture of a pipe that says, ‘This is not a pipe.’ It’s supposed to give art students deep thoughts. Never mind.” He waved his hand around the cloning bay. “What happened, anyway?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “But—God, what a mess. I have to go check on the others.”
“Goddammit, you just
spoke,” the captain said to the computer, dragging some icons around the screen. “Something’s working inside there. Talk to me, IAN.”
“My speech functions are inaccessible,” the AI said again, and de la Cruz slammed her hand down on the keyboard, grabbing it to keep herself from floating away from it.
Hiro followed Maria as she maneuvered around the room using the handholds on the wall. Maria found herself face-to-face with the gruesome body of Wolfgang, their second in command. She gently pushed him aside, trying not to dislodge the gory bloody tentacles sprouting from punctures on his body.
She and Hiro floated toward the living Wolfgang, who was doubled over coughing the synth-amneo out of his lungs. “What the hell is going on?” he asked in a ragged voice.
“You know as much as we do,” Maria said. “Are you all right?”
He nodded and waved her off. He straightened his back, gaining at least another foot on his tall frame. Wolfgang was born on the moon colony, Luna, several generations of his family developing the long bones of living their whole lives in low gravity. He took a handhold and propelled himself toward the captain.
“What do you remember?” Maria asked Hiro as they approached another crewmember.
“My last backup was right after we boarded the ship. We haven’t even left yet,” Hiro said.
Maria nodded. “Same for me. We should still be docked, or only a few weeks from Earth.”
“I think we have more immediate problems, like our current status,” Hiro said.
“True. Our current status is four of us are dead,” Maria said, pointing at the bodies. “And I’m guessing the other two are as well.”
“What could kill us all?” Hiro asked, looking a bit green as he dodged a bit of bloody skin. “And what happened to me and the captain?”
He referred to the “other two” bodies that were not floating in the cloning bay. Wolfgang, their engineer, Paul Seurat, and Dr. Joanna Glass all were dead, floating around the room, gently bumping off vats or one another.
