It was the black jellybeans that did it.
Jared saw them as he was browsing at a Phoenix Station commissary candy stand, and passed them over, more interested in the chocolates. But his eye kept going back to them, a small container segregated out from the rest of the jellybeans, which were in a mixed assortment. "Why do you do that?" Jared asked the vendor, after his eyes tracked back to the black jellybeans for the fifth time. "What makes the black jellybeans so special?"
"People either love 'em or hate 'em," the vendor said. "The people who hate 'em—that's most people—don't like having to pick them out of the rest of the jellybeans. The people who love 'em like to have their own little bag of 'em. So I keep some on hand but in their own space."
"Which sort are you?" Jared asked.
"I can't stand them," the vendor said. "But my husband can't get enough. And he'll breathe on me while he's eating them, just to annoy me. I kicked him right off the bed, once, for doing that. You've never had a black jellybean?"
"No," Jared said. His mouth was watering slightly. "But I think I'll try some."
"Brave man," the vendor said, and filled a small clear plastic bag with the candies to hand to Jared. Jared took it and fished out two jellybeans while the vendor rang up the order; being in the CDF, Jared didn't pay for the jellybeans (they, like everything else, were gratis on what CDF soldiers lovingly referred to as their all-inclusive package tour of hell), but vendors kept track of what they sold to soldiers and billed the CDF accordingly. Capitalism had made it to space and was doing reasonably well.
Jared took the pair of jellybeans and popped them into his mouth, crushed them with his molars and then held them there as his saliva suffused the licorice flavor over his tongue, vapors of its scent moving beyond his palate and expanding in his sinus cavity. His eyes closed, and he realized that they were just as he remembered. He took a handful and crammed them into his mouth.
"How are they?" the vendor said, watching the enthusiastic consumption.
"They're good," Jared said, between jellybeans. "Really good."
"I'll tell my husband there's another on his team," the vendor said.
Jared nodded. "Two," he said. "My little girl loves them too."
"Even better," the vendor said, but by this time Jared had I stepped away, lost in thought, heading back toward his office. Jared took ten steps, completely swallowed the mass of jellybeans in his mouth, reached to get more and stopped.
My little girl, he thought, and was hit with a thick knot of grief and memory that made him convulse, gag and vomit his jellybeans on the level walkway. As he coughed the last fragment of the candies from his throat, a name formed in his head.
Zoe, Jared thought. My daughter. My daughter who is dead.
A hand touched his shoulder. Jared recoiled, almost slipping on the vomit as he twisted away, bag of jellybeans flying from his hand. He looked at the woman who had touched him, a CDF soldier of some sort. She looked at him strangely and then there was a short, sharp buzz in his head like a human voice accelerated to ten times speed. It happened again and once more, like two slaps on the inside of his head.
"What?" Jared yelled at the woman.
"Dirac," she said. "Calm down. Tell me what's wrong."
Jared felt disoriented fear and quickly stepped away from the solider, clipping other pedestrians as he heaved away.
Jane Sagan watched Dirac stumble away and then looked down at the dark splash of vomit and the splay of jellybeans on the floor. She looked back toward the candy stand and stalked over.
"You," she said, pointing to the vendor. "Tell me what happened."
"The guy came over and bought some black jellybeans," the vendor said. "Said he loved them and shoved a bunch into his mouth. Then he takes a couple of steps and throws up."
"That's it," Sagan said.
"That's it," the vendor said. "I made small talk about how my husband likes black jellybeans, he said his kid likes them too, he took the jellybeans and he walked off."
"He talked about his kid," Sagan said.
"Yeah," the vendor said. "He said he had a little girl."
Sagan looked down the walkway. There was no sign of Dirac. She starting running in the direction she last saw him going and tried to open a channel to General Szilard.
Jared reached a station lift as others were exiting, jabbed the button for his lab's level and suddenly realized his arm was green. He retracted it with such violence that it smacked hard against the lift wall, bringing into sharp, painful focus that it was, in fact, his arm, and that he wasn't going to get away from it. The other people in the lift looked at him strangely, and in one case with actual venom; he'd almost hit a woman when he drew back his arm.
"Sorry," he said. The woman snorted and performed the forward-looking elevator stare. Jared did the same and saw a smeary reflection of his green self in the brushed metal walls of the lift. Jared's confused anxiety by this point was peaking toward terror, but one thing he did know was that he didn't want to lose his shit in an elevator filled with strangers. Social conditioning was, for the moment, stronger than panic over confused identity.
If Jared were to have taken a moment to question who he was, standing there silently in the lift and waiting for his level, he would have come to the startled realization that he wasn't exactly sure. But he hadn't; on a day-to-day basis people don't question their identity. Jared knew that being green wasn't right, his lab was three levels down from where he was, and that his daughter Zoe was dead.
The lift reached Jared's level; he stepped out to a wide hallway. This level of Phoenix Station had no candy stands or commissaries; it was one of the two levels of the station given over primarily to military research. CDF soldiers stood every hundred feet or so, monitoring hallways that led deeper into the level. Each hallway was fronted by biometric and BrainPal/brain prosthesis scanners that scanned every individual who approached. If that person was not allowed down the hallway, the CDF guard would intercept them before they made it to the hallway itself.
Jared knew that he was supposed to have access to most of these hallways, but doubted that this strange body would have clearance for any of them. He set down the hall, walking as if he had a purpose, toward the hallway he knew held his lab and his office. Maybe by the time he got there he'd figure out what to do next. He was almost there when he saw every CDF guard in front of him in the hallway turn and look at him.
Crap, Jared thought. His hallway was less than fifty feet away. On impulse he sprinted toward it and was surprised at how fast his body took off toward his goal. So was the soldier guarding it; he whipped up his Empee but by the time it was up Jared was on him. Jared shoved the soldier, hard. The soldier bounced off the hallway wall and fell. Jared sprinted past him without breaking his stride and ran to his lab door, two hundred feet down the corridor. As Jared ran, sirens blared and emergency doors slammed shut; Jared barely passed the threshold of the one that would have separated him from his goal when it shot out from the corridor sides, sealing the section in less than half a second.
Jared reached the door to his lab and thrust it open. Inside were a CDF military research technician and a Rraey. Jared was struck immobile by the cognitive dissonance of having a Rraey in his lab, and through the confusion came a knife-like frisson of fear, not of the Rraey, but from having been caught doing something dangerous and terrible and punishable. Jared's brain surged, looking for a memory or explanation to attach to the fear, but arrived at nothing.
The Rraey wiggled its head and came around the desk at which it had been standing, and moved toward Jared.
"You're him, aren't you?" the Rraey said, in strangely pronounced but recognizable English.
"Who?" Jared asked.
"The soldier they made to trap a traitor," the Rraey said. "But they couldn't do it."
"I don't understand you," Jared said. "This is my lab. Who are you?"
The Rraey wiggled its head again. "Or maybe they did, after all," the Rraey said. It pointed to itself. "Cainen. Scientist and prisoner. Now you know who I am. Do you know who you are?"
Jared opened his mouth to answer and realized he did not know who he was. He stood there dumb and open mouthed until the emergency doors flew open a few seconds later. The woman soldier he had talked to earlier stepped through, raised a pistol, and shot him in the head.
::First question,:: General Szilard said. Jared lay in the Phoenix Station infirmary, recovering from his stun bolt, with two CDF guards stationed at the foot of his bed and Jane Sagan standing by the wall. ::Who are you?::
::I'm Private Jared Dirac,:: Jared said. He did not ask who Szilard was; his BrainPal ID'd him as he entered the room. Szilard's own BrainPal could have as easily ID'd Jared, so the question wasn't a matter of mere identification. ".I'm stationed on the Kite. My commanding officer is Lieutenant Sagan, who is over there.::
::Second question,:: General Szilard said. ::Do you know who Charles Boutin is?::
::No, sir,:: Jared said. ::Should I?::
::Possibly,:: Szilard said. ::It was his lab we found you standing in front of. It was his lab that you told that Rraey was yours. Which suggests that you thought you were Charles Boutin, at least for a minute. And Lieutenant Sagan tells me that you wouldn't respond to your name when she tried to talk to you.::
::I remember not knowing that I was me;: Jared said. "But I don't remember thinking I was anyone else.::
::But you got to Boutin's lab without ever having been there before,:: Szilard said. ::And we know you didn't access your BrainPal for a station map in order to find it.::
::I can't explain it,:: Jared said. "The memory of it was just in my head.:: Jared saw Szilard glance over at Sagan at that.
The door opened and two men walked through. One of the men stalked over to Jared before his BrainPal could identify him.
"Do you know who I am?" he said.
Jared's punch sent the man to the floor. The guards raised their Empees; Jared, already coming down from his sudden surge of rage and adrenaline, immediately put his hands up.
The man stood up as Jared's BrainPal finally identified him as General Greg Mattson, head of Military Research.
"That answers that," Mattson said, holding his hand to his right eye. He stalked off toward the room's lavatory, to check out the damage.
"Don't be so sure," Szilard said. He turned to Jared. "Private, do you know the man you just struck?"
"I know now he's General Mattson," Jared said. "But I didn't know that when I struck him."
"Why did you strike him?" Szilard asked.
"I don't know, sir," Jared said. "It just…" He stopped.
"Answer the question, Private," Szilard said.
"It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time," Jared said. "I can't explain why."
"He's definitely remembering some things," Szilard said, turning to Mattson. "But he's not remembering it all. And he doesn't remember who he was."
"Crap," Mattson said, from the lavatory. "He remembered enough to punch me in the head. That son of a bitch has been waiting to do that for years."
"He could be remembering it all and trying to convince you that he doesn't, General," the other man said to Szilard. Jared's BrainPal identified him as Colonel James Robbins.
"It's possible," Szilard said. "But his actions so far don't seem to suggest it. If he really were Boutin, it wouldn't be in his interest to let us know he remembered anything at all. Punching out the general wouldn't have been very smart."
"Not smart," Mattson said, coming out of the lavatory. "Just cathartic." He turned to Jared and pointed to his eye, ringed in gray where the SmartBlood had been smashed out of blood vessels, causing a bruise. "Back on Earth, you'd have hung this shiner on me for a couple of weeks. I should have you shot just on principle."
"General," Szilard began.
"Relax, Szi," Mattson said. "I buy your theory. Boutin wouldn't be stupid enough to punch me, so this isn't Boutin. Bits of him are coming out, though, and I want to see how much we can get."
"The war Boutin tried to start is over, General," Jane Sagan said. "The Enesha are going to turn on the Rraey."
"Well, that's wonderful, Lieutenant," Mattson said. "But in this case two out of three won't do. The Obin may still be planning something, and since it looks like Boutin is with them, perhaps we shouldn't go declaring victory and calling off the search just yet. We still need to know what Boutin knows, and now that the private here has got two people rattling around in his skull, perhaps we can do a little more to encourage the other one to come out and play." He turned to Jared. "What do you say, Private? They call you guys the Ghost Brigades, but you're the only one with a real ghost in your head. Want to get it out?"
"With all due respect, sir, I have no idea what you're talking about," Jared said.
"Of course you don't," Mattson said. "Apparently, other than where his lab is, you don't know a goddamn thing about Charles Boutin at all."
"I know one other thing," Jared said. "I know he had a daughter."
General Mattson touched his hand gingerly to his black eye. "That he did, Private." Mattson dropped his hand and turned to Szilard. "I want you to give him back to me, Szi," he said, and then noticed Lieutenant Sagan shoot Szilard a glance; no doubt she was sending him one of those rat-a-tat mental messages Special Forces used instead of speech. "It's only temporary, Lieutenant," he said. "You can have him back when we're done. And I promise I won't break him. But we're not going to get anything useful out of him if he gets shot dead on a mission."
"You didn't have a problem with him getting shot dead on a mission before," Sagan said. "Sir."
"Ah, the vaunted Special Forces snotty attitude," Mattson said. "I was wondering when it would become obvious you were six."
"I'm nine," Sagan said.
"And I'm one hundred and thirty, so listen to your great-great grandfather," Mattson said. "I didn't care if he died before because I didn't think he was useful. Now he may be useful, so I'd rather he didn't die. If it turns out he's not useful, then you can have him back and he can die all over again for all I care. Regardless, you don't get a vote. Now shut up, Lieutenant, and let the grown-ups talk." Sagan stewed but shut up.
"What are you going to do with him?" Szilard asked.
"I'm going to put him under the microscope, of course," Matt-son said. "Find out why he's leaking memories now and see what it takes to leak a few more." He jerked a thumb back to Robbins. "Officially, he'll be assigned to Robbins as an assistant. Unofficially, I expect he'll be spending a lot of time down at the lab. That Rraey scientist we took off your hands has been coming in useful down there. We'll see what he can do with him."
"You think you can trust a Rraey?" Szilard asked.
"Shit, Szi," Mattson said. "We don't let him turd without a camera up his ass. And he'll die in a day without his medicine. He the only scientist I have that I absolutely know I can trust."
"All right," Szilard said. "You gave him to me once when I asked. You can have him now. Just remember he's one of ours, General. And you know how I am about my people."
"Fair enough," Mattson said.
"The transfer order is in your queue," Szilard said. "As soon as you approve it, it's done." Szilard nodded to Robbins and Sagan, glanced over to Jared, and left.
Mattson turned to Sagan. "If you've got any good-byes to make, now's the time to do them."
"Thank you, General," Sagan said. ::What an asshole,:: she said to Jared.
::I still don't know what's going on or who Charles Boutin is,:: Jared said. ::I tried accessing information on him but it's all classified.::
::You're going to find out soon enough,:: Sagan said. "Whatever you learn, I want to you to remember one thing. At the end of it all, you're Jared Dirac. No one else. No matter how you were made or why or what happens. I sometimes forgot that about you, and I'm sorry for it. But I want you to remember it.::
".I'll remember it,:: Jared said.
::Good,:: Sagan said. ::When you see this Rraey they're talking about, his name is Cainen. Tell him that Lieutenant Sagan asked him to look out for you. Tell him I would consider it a favor.::
::I've met him,:: Jared said. -.-.I'll tell him.::
::And I'm sorry for shooting you in the head with the stun bolt,:: Sagan said. ::You know how it is.::
::I do,:: Jared said. "Thank you. Good-bye, Lieutenant.::
Sagan left.
Mattson pointed to the guards. "You two are dismissed." The guards left. "Now," Mattson said, turning to Jared. "I'm going to work under the assumption that your little seizure earlier today is not going to be a frequent occurrence, Private. Just the same, from now on your BrainPal is set to record and locate, so we have no surprises from you and we always know how to find you. Change the setting just once and every CDF soldier on Phoenix Station will get the go-ahead to shoot you dead. Until we know exactly who and what's in your head, you don't get any private thoughts. Do you understand me?"
"I understand you," Jared said.
"Excellent," Mattson said. "Then welcome to Military Research, son."
"Thank you, sir," Jared said. "And now, will someone please finally tell me what the hell is going on?"
Mattson smiled, and turned to Robbins. "You tell him," Mattson said, and left.
Jared turned his gaze to Robbins.
"Uh," Robbins said. "Hello."
"That's an interesting bruise you have there," Cainen said, pointing to the side of Jared's head. Cainen was speaking his own language; Jared's BrainPal provided the translation.
"Thanks," Jared said. "I was shot." Jared spoke his own language as well; after several months, Cainen's English proficiency was quite good.
"I remember," Cainen said. "I was there. As it happens, I was once stunned by your Lieutenant Sagan too. We should start a club, you and I." Cainen turned to Harry Wilson, who was standing nearby. "You can join too, Wilson."
"I'll pass," Wilson said. "I'm reminded of a wise man who once said that he would never want to join a club that would have him for a member. Also, I'd rather not get zapped."
"Coward," said Cainen.
Wilson bowed. "At your service."
"And now," Cainen said, bringing his attention back to Jared. "I trust you have some idea of why you're here."
Jared recalled the awkward and not especially forthcoming conversation with Colonel Robbins the day before. "Colonel Rob-bins told me that I had been born for the purpose of transferring this Charles Boutin's consciousness into my brain, but that it didn't take. He told me that Boutin had been a scientist here but that he'd turned traitor. And he told me that these new memories that I'm sensing are actually Boutin's old memories, and that no one knows why they are coming out now instead of earlier."
"How much detail did he give you about Boutin's life or research?" Wilson asked.
"None, really," Jared said. "He said if I learned too much from him or from their files, it might interfere with my memory coming back naturally. Will it?"
Wilson shrugged. Cainen said, "Since you're the first human to whom this has happened, there's no history to go on as to what we should do next. The closest thing to this are certain types of amnesia. Yesterday, you were able to find this lab and recall the name of Boutin's daughter, but you don't know how you knew it. That's similar to source amnesia. What makes it entirely different is that the problem isn't your own memory, it's someone else's."
"So you don't know how to get any more memories out of me, either," Jared said.
"We have theories," Wilson said.
"Theories," Jared said.
"Hypotheses, more accurately," Cainen said. "I remember many months ago telling Lieutenant Sagan that the reason I thought Boutin's consciousness didn't take in you was that his was a mature consciousness, and when it was put into an immature brain that hadn't had enough experiences, it couldn't find a grip. But now you have those experiences, don't you? Seven months at war will season any mind. And perhaps something you experienced acted as a bridge to Boutin's memories."
Jared thought back. "My last mission," he said. "Someone very important to me died. And Boutin's daughter is dead as well." Jared didn't mention the assassination of Vyut Ser to Cainen, and his breakdown as he held the knife that would kill her, but it was in his mind as well.
Cainen nodded his head, showing his understanding of human language included nonverbal signals. "That could have been the moment, indeed."
"But why didn't the memories come back then?" Jared asked. "It happened when I was back on Phoenix Station, eating black jellybeans."
"Remembrance of Things Past," Wilson said.
Jared looked at Wilson. "What?"
"Actually, In Search of Lost Time is a better translation of the original title," Wilson said. "It's a novel by Marcel Proust. The book begins with the main character experiencing a flood of memories from his childhood, brought on by eating some cake he dipped in his tea. Memories and senses are closely tied in humans. Eating those jellybeans could easily have triggered those memories, especially if the jellybeans were significant in some way."
"I remember saying that they were Zoe's favorites," Jared said. "Boutin's daughter. Her name was Zoe."
"That might have been enough," Cainen agreed.
"Maybe you should have some more jellybeans," Wilson joked.
"I did," Jared said, seriously. He had asked Colonel Robbins to get him a new bag; he was too embarrassed from his earlier vomiting to ask for one himself. Jared had sat in his new quarters, bag in hand, slowly eating black jellybeans for an hour.
"And?" Wilson asked. Jared just shook his head.
"Let me show you something, Private," Cainen said, and pressed a button on his keyboard. In the display area of his desk, three small light shows appeared. Cainen pointed to one. "This is a representation of Charles Boutin's consciousness, a copy of which, thanks to his technological industriousness, we have on file. This next one is a representation of your own consciousness, taken from during your training period." Jared looked surprised. "Yes, Private, they've been keeping tabs on you; you've been their science experiment since you were born. But this is just a representation. Unlike Boutin's consciousness, they don't have yours on file.
"This third image is your consciousness right now," Cainen said. "You're not trained to read these representations, but even to an uninformed eye it is clearly different than either of the other two representations. This is—we think—the first incident of your brain trying to meld what it's received of Boutin's consciousness with your own. Yesterday's incident changed you, probably permanently. Can you feel it?"
Jared thought about it. "I don't feel any different," he said, finally. "I have new memories, but I don't think I'm acting any differently than I usually do."
"Except for punching out generals," Wilson pointed out.
"It was an accident," Jared said.
"No, it wasn't," Cainen said, suddenly animated. "This is my point to you, Private. You were born to be one person. You became another. And now, you're becoming a third—a combination of the first two. If we continue on, if we're successful, more of who Boutin was will come through. You will change. Your personality could change, perhaps dramatically. Who you will become will be something different from what you are now. I want to make sure you understand this, because I want you to make a choice about whether you want this to happen."
"A choice?" Jared asked.
"Yes, Private, a choice," Cainen said. "Which is something you rarely make." He pointed to Wilson. "Lieutenant Wilson here chose this life: He signed up for the Colonial Defense Forces of his own accord. You, and all your Special Forces kind, were not given that choice. Do you realize, Private, that Special Forces soldiers are slaves? You have no say in whether you fight. You are not allowed to refuse. You're not even allowed to know that refusal is possible."
Jared was uncomfortable with this line of reasoning. "We don't see it that way. We're proud to serve."
"Of course you are," Cainen said. "That's how they've conditioned you since you were born, when your brain was turned on and your BrainPal thought for you and chose particular branches on the decision tree instead of others. By the time your brain was able to think on its own, the pathways that turn against choice were already laid down."
"I make choices all the time," Jared countered.
"Not big ones," Cainen said. "Through conditioning and a military life, choices were made for you all your short life, Private. Someone else chose to create you—no different than anyone else, that. But then they chose to imprint someone else's consciousness on your brain. They chose to make you a warrior. They chose the battles you would face. They chose to hand you over to us when it was convenient for them. And they would choose to have you become someone else by cracking your brain like an egg and letting Charles Boutin's consciousness run out all over yours. But I am choosing to have you choose."
"Why?" Jared asked.
"Because I can," Cainen said. "And because you should. And because apparently no one else will let you. This is your life, Private. If you choose to proceed, we'll suggest to you the ways we think will unlock more of Boutin's memories and personality."
"And if I don't?" Jared said. "What happens then?"
"Then we tell Military Research that we refuse to do anything to you," Wilson said.
"They could find someone else to do it," Jared said.
"They almost certainly will," Cainen said. "But you'll have made your choice, and we'll have made ours too."
Jared realized that Cainen had a point: In his life, all of the major choices that affected him had been decided by others. His decision-making had been limited to inconsequential things or to military situations where not choosing something would have meant he was dead. He didn't consider himself a slave, but he was forced to admit that he'd never considered not being in Special Forces. Gabriel Brahe had told his training squad that after their ten-year term of service they could colonize, and no one ever questioned why they were made to serve the ten years at all. All the Special Forces training and development subsumed individual choice to the needs of the squad or platoon; even integration— the Special Forces' great military advantage—smeared the sense of self outside of the individual and toward the group.
(At the thought of integration, Jared felt an intense pang of loneliness. When his new orders came through, Jared's integration with the 2nd Platoon was switched off. The constant low-level hum of thought and emotion from his platoon mates was cavernous in its absence. If he had not been able to draw on his first isolated experiences of consciousness, he might have gone a little mad the moment he realized he could not sense his platoon anymore. As it was, Jared had spent most of the intervening day in a solid depression. It was an amputation, bloody and raw, and only the knowledge it was likely only temporary made it bearable.)
Jared realized with a growing sense of unease just how much of his life had been dictated, chosen, ordered and commanded. He realized how ill-prepared he was to make the choice Cainen had offered him. His immediate inclination was to say yes, that he wanted to go on: to learn more about Charles Boutin, the man he was supposed to be, and to become him, in some way. But he didn't know if it was something he really wanted, or merely something that was expected of him. Jared felt resentment, not at the Colonial Union or the Special Forces, but at Cainen—for putting him in a position to question himself and his choices, or lack thereof.
"What would you do?" Jared asked Cainen.
"I'm not you," Cainen said, and refused to speak any more about it. Wilson was likewise notably unhelpful. Both went about their work in the lab while Jared thought, staring into the three representations of consciousness that were all him, in one way or another.
"I've made a choice," Jared said, more than two hours later. "I want to go on."
"Can you tell me why?" Cainen said.
"Because I want to know more about all of this," Jared said. He motioned to the image of the third consciousness. "You tell me that I'm changing. I'm becoming someone else. I believe that. But I still feel like me. I think I'll still be me, no matter what happens. And I want to know."
Jared pointed to Cainen. "You say we Special Forces are slaves. You're right. I can't argue that. But we were also told that we are the only humans born with a purpose: To keep other humans safe. I wasn't given a choice for that purpose before, but I choose it now. I choose this."
"You choose to be a slave," Cainen said.
"No," Jared said. "I stopped being a slave when I made this choice."
"But you're choosing the path those who made you a slave would have you follow," Cainen said.
"It's my choice," Jared said. "If Boutin wants to harm us, I want to stop him."
"That means you might become like him," Wilson said.
"I was supposed to be him," Jared said. "Being like him still leaves room to be me."
"So this is your choice," Cainen said.
"It is," Jared said.
"Well, thank Christ," Wilson said, clearly relieved. Cainen also appeared to relax.
Jared looked at the two of them strangely. "I don't understand," he said to Cainen.
"We were ordered to bring out as much of Charles Boutin in you as possible," Cainen said. "If you had said no, and we refused to follow our orders, it probably would have been a death sentence for me. I'm a prisoner of war, Private. The only reason I'm allowed what little freedom I have is because I've allowed myself to be useful. The moment I stop being useful is the moment the CDF withdraws the medicine that keeps me alive. Or they decide to kill me in some other way. Lieutenant Wilson here is not likely to be shot for disobeying the order, but from what I understand CDF prisons aren't very nice places to be."
"Insubordinates check in, but they don't check out," Wilson said.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Jared said.
"Because then it wouldn't have been a fair choice for you," Wilson said.
"We decided between us that we would offer you this choice and accept the consequences," Cainen said. "Once we made our own choice on the matter, we wanted to be sure you had the same freedom we did in making your choice."
"So thank you for choosing to go on," Wilson said. "I nearly crapped myself waiting for you to make up your damn mind."
"Sorry," Jared said.
"Think on it no more," Wilson said, "because now you have another choice to make."
"We've come up with two options we think will spark a larger cascade of memories from your Boutin consciousness," Cainen said. "The first is a variation of the consciousness transfer protocol used to put Boutin in your brain in the first place. We can cycle the protocol again and embed the consciousness a second time. Now that your brain is more mature, there's an excellent chance more of the consciousness would take—indeed, that it could all take. But there are some serious possible consequences."
"Like what?" Jared asked.
"Like that your consciousness would be entirely wiped out as the new one comes in," Wilson said.
"Ah," Jared said.
"You can see how it's problematic," Cainen said.
"I don't think I want to do that one," Jared said.
"We didn't think so," Cainen said. "In which case, we have a rather less invasive plan B."
"Which is?" Jared said.
"A trip down memory lane," Wilson said. "Jellybeans were only the beginning."
Colonel James Robbins looked up at Phoenix, hovering over him in the sky. Here I am again, he thought.
General Szilard noticed Robbins' discomfort. "You don't really like the general's mess, do you, Colonel?" he asked, and jammed more steak in his mouth. "I hate it," Robbins said, before he quite knew what was coming out of his mouth. "Sir," he added, quickly.
"Can't say that I blame you," Szilard said, around the beef. "The whole thing of barring non-generals from eating here is six kinds of stupid. How's your water, by the way?"
Robbins glanced down at the sweating glass in front of him. "Delightfully refreshing, sir," he said.
Szilard motioned with his fork to encompass the entire general's mess. "This is our fault, you know," he said. "The Special Forces, I mean."
"How so?" asked Robbins.
"Special Forces generals would bring anyone in their command structure in here—not just officers, but their enlisted too. Because outside of combat situations, no one in Special Forces really gives a shit about rank. So you had all these Special Forces troops in here, eating the nice steaks and ogling Phoenix overhead. It got on the other generals' nerves—not just that there were enlisted in here, but that they were Ghost Brigade enlisted. This was in the early days, when the idea of soldiers less than a year old gave you realborn the creeps."
"It still does," Robbins said. "Sometimes."
"Yeah, I know," Szilard said. "But you people hide it better now. Anyway, after a while the realborn generals let it be known that this was their own playpen. And now all anyone else gets in here is one of those delightfully refreshing glasses of water you've got there, Colonel. So on behalf of the Special Forces, I apologize to you for the inconvenience."
"Thank you, General," Robbins said. "I'm not hungry anyway."
"Good for you," Szilard said, and ate some more of his steak. Colonel Robbins eyed the general's meal. In fact, he was hungry, but it wouldn't have been politic to note it. Robbins made a mental note for the next time he was summoned to a meeting in the general's mess: Eat something first.
Szilard swallowed his steak and turned his attention back to Robbins. "Colonel, have you heard of the Esto system? Don't look it up, just tell me if you know it."
"I'm not aware of it," Robbins said.
"How about Krana? Mauna Kea? Sheffield?"
"I know the Mauna Kea on Earth," Robbin said. "But I assume that's not the one you're talking about."
"It's not." Szilard motioned again with his fork, waving it to indicate some point past the eastern limb of Phoenix. "Mauna Kea system is that way, just short of Phoenix's Skip Drive horizon. New colony there."
"Hawaiians?" Robbins asked.
"Of course not," Szilard said. "It's mostly Tamils, from what my data tell me. They don't name the system, they just live there."
"What's so interesting about this system?" Robbins said.
"The fact that less than three days ago a Special Forces cruiser disappeared in it," Szilard said.
"It was attacked?" Robbins asked. "Destroyed?"
"No," Szilard said. "It disappeared. No contact once it arrived in the system."
"Did it hail the colony?" Robbins asked.
"It wouldn't have done that," Szilard said, in a flat tone that suggested to Robbins that he shouldn't pursue the details.
He didn't. "Maybe something happened to the ship when it reentered real space," he said instead.
"We skipped in a sensor done," Szilard said. "No ship. No black box. No debris along the projected flight path. Nothing. It's gone."
"That's weird," Robbins said.
"No," Szilard said. "What's weird is that it was the fourth Special Forces ship this has happened to this month."
Robbins stared at Szilard blankly. "You've lost four cruisers? How?"
"Well, if we knew that, Colonel, we'd be off stomping on someone's neck," Szilard said. "That fact that what I'm actually doing is eating this steak in front of you should be an indication we are as in the dark as anyone."
"But you do think someone is behind this," Robbins said. "And it's not just an issue with the ships or their Skip Drives."
"Of course we do," Szilard said. "Having one ship disappear is a random incident. Having four disappear in a month is a fucking trend. This is not a problem with the ships or the drives."
"Who do you think is behind it?" Robbins said.
Szilard set down his utensils, irritable. "Christ, Robbins," he said. "Do you think I'm talking to you because I don't have friends?"
Robbins smiled wryly, in spite of himself. "The Obin, then," he said.
"The Obin," Szilard said. "Yes. The ones who have Charles Boutin tucked away somewhere. All the systems our ships disappeared from either are close to Obin space or are planets the Obin contested for at one point or another. That's a slender thread, but it's what we have at the moment. What we don't have is the how or why, and that's where I was hoping you might be able to shed some light."
"You want to know where we are with Private Dirac," Robbins said.
"If you don't mind," Szilard said, and picked up his utensils again.
"It's slow going," Robbins admitted. "We think the memory breach happened because of stress and sensory input. We can't put the same sort of pressure on him that combat did, but we have been introducing him to parts of Boutin's life one piece at a time."
"His records?" Szilard asked.
"No," Robbins said. "At least not the reports and files on Boutin that were written or recorded by other people. Those aren't from Boutin himself, and we don't want to introduce an outside point of view. Cainen and Lieutenant Wilson are working with primary sources—Boutin's recordings and notes—and with Boutin's things."
"You mean things Boutin owned?" Szilard asked.
"Things he owned, things he liked—remember the jellybeans— or things from other people that he knew. We've also taken Dirac to the places where Boutin lived and grew up. He was originally from Phoenix, you know. It's just a quick trip down by shuttle."
"It's nice he gets field trips," Szilard said, only a little dismissively. "But you said it was slow going."
"More of Boutin is coming out," Robbins said. "But much of it seems to be in personality. I've read Private Dirac's psychological profile; up to now he's been something of a passive character. Things happened to him rather than him making them happen. And for the first week or so he was with us he was like that. But over the last three weeks he's been becoming more assertive and more directed. And that's more in line with who Boutin was, psychologically speaking."
"So he's becoming more like Boutin. Fine," Szilard said. "But is he remembering anything?"
"Well, that's just it," Robbins said. "There's very little memory coming back. What's coming back is mostly about his family life, not his work. We'll run him recordings of Boutin making voice notes of his projects and he'll listen to them blankly. Show him a picture of Boutin's little girl, and he gets twitchy for a minute, and then he'll tell you about what was going on in the picture. It's frustrating."
Szilard chewed for a moment, thinking. Robbins took advantage of the pause to enjoy his water. It wasn't quite as refreshing as he'd previously suggested.
"The memories of his little girl don't lead to any tangential memories coming up?" Szilard asked.
"Sometimes," Robbins said. "A picture of Boutin and his daughter at some research base he was stationed at reminded him of some of the work he'd been doing there. Some early research on consciousness buffering, before he came back to Phoenix Station and started working on it using the technology we'd gotten from the Consu. But he didn't remember anything useful, in terms of why Boutin would decide to turn traitor."
"Show him another picture of Boutin's daughter," Szilard said.
"We showed him all we could find," Robbins said. "There aren't that many. And there aren't any of her physical things around—no toys or drawings or anything like that."
"Why not?" Szilard asked.
Robbins shrugged. "She died before Boutin came back to Phoenix Station," he said. "I guess he didn't want to bring her things with him."
"Now that's interesting," Szilard said. His eyes looked like they were focused on something at a distance, a sign he was reading something off his BrainPal.
"What?" Robbins said.
"I pulled Boutin's file while you were talking," Szilard said. "Boutin's a colonial, but his work for the Colonial Union required him to be stationed at Military Research facilities. The last place he worked before coming here was at Covell Research Station. Ever hear of it?"
"It sounds familiar," Robbins said. "But I can't place it."
"Says it was a zero-g-capable research facility," Szilard said. "They did some biomedical work, which is why Boutin was there, but it was mostly weapons and navigation systems. This is interesting: The station was actually positioned directly above a planetary ring system. It was just a klick above the ring plane. Used the ring debris to test their close-quarter navigation systems."
Now Robbins got it. Rocky planets with ring systems were rare, and ones with human colonies rarer still. Most colonists preferred not to live where stadium-sized chunks of falling rock plunging through the atmosphere were a common occurrence rather than a once-in-a-millennium sort of thing. One with a Military Research station orbiting overhead—that was pretty singular.
"Omagh," Robbins said.
"Omagh," Szilard agreed. "Which we no longer own. We could never prove that the Obin originally attacked the colony or the station. It's possible the Rraey attacked the colony, and then the Obin attacked them when they were weakened from fighting us and before they could be reinforced. Which is one reason we never went to war with them over it. But we know they decided to claim the system for their own pretty damn quickly, before we could mount a force to take it back."
"And Boutin's daughter was on the colony," Robbins said.
"She was on the station, from what the casualty lists say," Szilard said, sending over the list for Robbins to view. "It was a large station. It would have had family quarters."
"Jesus," Robbins said.
"You know," Szilard said, casually, forking the last bite of steak into his mouth, "when Covell Station was attacked, it wasn't entirely destroyed. In fact, we have reliable data that suggest the station is largely intact."
"Okay," Robbins said.
"Including the family quarters."
"Oh, okay," Robbins said, the light coming on. "I can already tell you I don't like where this is going."
"You said that Dirac's memory responds most strongly to stress and sensory input," Szilard said. "Taking him to the place where his daughter died—and where all her physical things are likely to be—would qualify as a significant sensory input."
"There is the minor problem that the system is now owned and patrolled by the Obin," Robbins said.
Szilard shrugged. "That's where the stress comes in," he said. He set his utensils into the "done" position on his plate and pushed it away from him.
"The reason General Mattson took over Private Dirac is because he didn't want him to die in combat," Robbins said. "Dropping him into Omagh space seems rather counter to that desire, General."
"Yes, well, the general's desire to keep Dirac out of harm's way has to be tempered by the fact that as of three days ago, four of my ships and more than a thousand of my people have up and disappeared, as if they never even existed," Szilard said. "And at the end of the day, Dirac is still Special Forces. I could force the issue."
"Mattson wouldn't like it," Robbins said.
"Neither would I," Szilard said. "I have a good relationship with the general, despite his patronizing attitude toward Special Forces and me."
"It's not just you," Robbins said. "He's patronizing to everyone."
"Yes, he's an equal opportunity asshole," Szilard said. "And he's aware of it, which he thinks means it's okay. Be that as it may, as much as I don't want to get on his bad side, I will if I have to. But I don't think I will have to."
A waiter came over to take Szilard's plate; Szilard ordered dessert. Robbins waited until the server left. "Why don't you think you'll have to?" he asked.
"What would you say if I told you we already had Special Forces at Omagh, making preparations to take back the system?" Szilard asked.
"I'd be skeptical," Robbins said. "That sort of activity would be noticed sooner or later, and the Obin are ruthless. They wouldn't tolerate their presence if they found out about it."
"You're right about that," Szilard said. "But you'd be wrong to be skeptical. Special Forces have been at Omagh for over a year now. They've even been inside Covell Station. I think we can get Private Dirac in and out without raising too much attention."
"How?" Robbins asked.
"Very carefully," Szilard said. "And by using a few new toys."
The waiter returned with the general's dessert: Two large Toll House cookies. Robbins stared at the plate. He loved Toll House cookies. "You realize that if you're wrong, and you can't sneak Dirac past the Obin, they'll kill him, your secret Omagh reclamation project will be exposed, and any information Dirac has about Boutin will die with him," Robbins said.
Szilard took a cookie. "Risk," he said. "It's always in the equation. If we do this and we botch it, then we are well and truly fucked. But if we don't do it, we risk Dirac never recovering Boutin's memories, and then we're vulnerable to what the Obin have planned next. And then we'll be well and truly fucked then. If we're going to be fucked, Colonel, I prefer to get fucked on my feet instead of on my knees."
"You have a way with mental imagery, General," Robbins said.
"Thank you, Colonel," Szilard said. "I try." He reached over, took the second cookie, and offered it to Robbins. "Here," he said. "I saw you coveting it."
Robbins stared at the cookie, then looked around. "I can't take that," he said.
"Sure you can," Szilard said.
"I'm not supposed to eat anything here," Robbins said.
"So what?" Szilard said. "Screw 'em. It's a ridiculous tradition and you know it. So break it. Take the cookie."
Robbins took the cookie and stared at it glumly.
"Oh, good God," Szilard said. "Do I have to order you to eat the damn thing?"
"It might help," Robbins said.
"Fine," Szilard said. "Colonel, I'm giving you a direct order. Eat the fucking cookie."
Robbins ate it. The waiter was scandalized.
"Behold," Harry Wilson said to Jared, as they walked into the cargo hold of the Shikm. "Your chariot."
The "chariot" in question consisted of a carbon fiber basket seat, two extremely small ion engines of limited power and maneuverability, one on each side of the basket seat, and an office-refrigerator-sized object positioned directly behind the seat.
"This is an ugly chariot," Jared said.
Wilson chuckled. Jared's sense of humor had improved over the last few weeks, or at the very least it had become more to Wilson's liking—it reminded him of the sarcastic Charles Boutin he knew. Wilson felt both pleasure and wariness about this: pleasure that his and Cainen's work was making a difference; wariness because Boutin was, after all, a traitor to humanity. Wilson liked Jared enough not to wish that fate on him.
"It's ugly but it's state-of-the-art," Wilson said. He walked over and slapped the refrigerator-looking object. "This is the smallest Skip Drive ever created," he said. "Hot off the assembly line. And not only is it small, but it's an example of the first real advance we've had in Skip Drive technology in decades."
"Let me guess," Jared said. "It's based on that Consu technology we stole from the Rraey."
"You make it sound like a bad thing," Wilson said.
"Well, you know," Jared said, tapping his head. "I'm in this predicament because of Consu technology. Let's just say I'm not neutral on its uses."
"You make an excellent point," Wilson said. "But this is sweet. A friend of mine worked on this; we'd talk about it. Most Skip Drives require you to get out into flat time-space before you can engage them. You have to get far away from a planet. This one is less picky: it can use a Lagrange point. So long as you've got a planet with a reasonably large moon, you've got five nearby spots in space where it's gravitationally flat enough to engage this drive. If they can work out the kinks, it could revolutionize space travel."
"'Work out the kinks'?" Jared said. "I'm about to use this thing. Kinks are bad."
"The kink is that the drive is touchy about the mass of the object it's attached to," Wilson said. "Too much mass creates too much of a local warp on the time-space. Makes the Skip Drive do weird things."
"Like what?" Jared asked.
"Like explode," Wilson said.
"That's not encouraging," Jared said.
"Well, explode is not quite the accurate word," Wilson said. "The physics for what really goes on are much weirder, I assure you."
"You can stop now," Jared said.
"But you don't have to worry about it," Wilson continued. "It takes about five tons of mass before the drive gets wobbly. That's why this sled looks like a dune buggy. It falls well under the mass threshold, even with you in it. You should be fine."
"Should be," Jared said.
"Oh, stop being a baby," Wilson said.
"I'm not even one year old," Jared said. "I can be a baby if I want. Help me get into this thing, would you."
Jared negotiated his way into the sled's basket seat; Wilson strapped him in, and stowed his Empee in a storage box to the side of the seat. "Do a systems check," Wilson said. Jared activated his BrainPal and connected with the sled, checking the integrity of the Skip Drive and the ion engines; everything was nominal. The sled had no physical controls; Jared would control it with his BrainPal. "The sled's fine," Jared said.
"How's the unitard?" Wilson asked.
"It's fine." The sled had an open cockpit; Jared's unitard was formatted for hard vacuum, including a cowl that would slide down completely over his face, sealing him in. The nanobotic fabric of the unitard was photosensitive and passed visual and other electromagnetic information directly to Jared's BrainPal. As a result Jared would be able to "see" better with his eyes covered by the cowl than he could if he were using them. Around Jared's waist was a rebreather system that could, if necessary, provide breathable air for a week.
"Then you're good to go," Wilson said. "Your coordinates are programmed in for this side, and you should also have them to get back from the other side. Just put them in and sit back and let the sled do the rest. Szilard said that the Special Forces recovery team will be ready for you on the other side. You'll be on the lookout for a Captain Martin. He's got a confirmation key for you to verify his identity. Szilard says to follow his orders to the letter. Got it?"
"Got it," Jared said.
"Okay," Wilson said. "I'm out of here. We're going to start cycling out the air. Suit up. As soon as the bay doors open, activate the nav program and it will handle it from there."
"Got it," Jared repeated.
"Good luck, Jared," Wilson said. "Hope you find something useful." He walked out of the bay to the sound of the Shikra's life-support system sucking the air out of the bay. Jared activated his cowl; there was momentary blackness followed by a rather impressive gain in Jared's peripheral awareness as the unitard's visual signal kicked in.
The rushing noise of air thinned into nothingness; Jared was sitting in vacuum. Through the metal of the ship and the carbon fibers of the sled, he could feel the bay doors sliding open. Jared activated the sled's navigation program; the sled lifted from the floor of the bay and slid gently out the door. Jared's vision included the visual track of his flight plan, and its destination more than a thousand klicks away: the L4 position between Phoenix and its moon Benu, currently unoccupied by any other object. The ion engines kicked in; Jared felt his weight under the engines' acceleration.
The Skip Drive activated as the sled intersected the L4 position. Jared noted the sudden and impressively disconcerting appearance of a broad system of rings less than a klick above his point of view, girding the limb of a blue, Earth-like planet to his left. Jared's sled, which had been previously moving forward at an impressive rate of speed, was motionless. The ion engines had stopped firing just before the Skip translation and the inertial energy of the sled did not carry forward after it. Jared was glad about this. He doubted the tiny ion engines would have been able to stop the sled before it would have wandered into the ring system and squashed him into a tumbling rock.
"Private Dirac,:: Jared heard, as a verification key pinged his BrainPal.
::Yes,:: he said.
::This is Captain Martin,:: Jared heard. ::Welcome to Omagh. Please be patient; we're coming to get you.::
::If you send me directions, I could come to you,:: Jared said.
".We'd rather you didn't,:: Martin said. ::The Obin have been scanning the area more than usual recently. We'd prefer not to give them anything to see. Just sit tight.::
A minute or so later, Jared noticed three of the rings' rocks moving slowly his way. ::It looks like I've got some debris headed toward me,:: he sent to Martin. "I'm going to maneuver out of the way.::
::Don't do that,:: Martin said.
::Why not?:: Jared asked.
::Because we hate chasing after shit,:: Martin said.
Jared directed his unitard to focus on the incoming rocks and magnify. Jared noticed the rocks had limbs, and that one of them was dragging what looked like a tow cable. Jared watched as they approached and finally arrived at the sled. One of them maneuvered itself in front of Jared while the other two attached the two cables. The rock was human-sized and irregularly hemispherical; up close it looked like a turtle shell without an opening for a head. Four limbs of equal length sprouted in quadrilateral symmetry. The limbs had two joints of articulation and terminated in splayed hands with opposable thumbs on either side of the palm. The underside of the rock was flat and mottled, with a line that went down the center, suggesting the underside could open. Across the topside of the rock were flat, glossy patches that Jared suspected were photosensitive.
::Not what you were expecting, Private?:: said the rock, using Martin's voice.
::No, sir,:: Jared said. He accessed his internal database of the few intelligent species that were friendly to (or at least not openly antagonistic toward) humans but was coming up with nothing that was even remotely like this creature. ::I was expecting someone human.::
Jared felt a sharp ping of amusement. ::We are human, Private,:: Martin said. ::As much as you are.::
::You don't look human,:: Jared said, and immediately regretted it.
::Of course we don't,:: Martin said. ::But we don't live in typical human environments, either. We've been adapted for where we live.::
::Where do you live?:: Jared asked.
One of Martin's limbs motioned around him. ::Here,:: he said. ::Adapted for life in space. Vacuum-proof bodies. Photosynthetic stripes for energy.:: Martin tapped his underside. ::And in here, an organ that houses modified algae to provide oxygen and the organic compounds we need. We can live out here for weeks at a time, spying on and sabotaging the Obin, and they don't even know we're here. They keep looking for CDF spaceships. It confuses the hell out of them.::
::I'll bet,:: Jared said.
::Okay, Stross tells me we're good to go,:: Martin said. "We're ready to reel you in. Hang on.:: Jared felt a jolt and then felt a small vibration as the tow cable was reeled in, dragging the sled into the ring. The rocks kept pace, manipulating small jet packs with their hind limbs.
::Were you born this way?:: Jared asked.
::I wasn't,:: Martin said. ::They created this body type three years ago. Everything new. They needed volunteers to test it. It was too extreme to drop a consciousness into without testing. We needed to see if people could adapt to it without going insane. This body is almost entirely a closed system. I get oxygen, nutrients and moisture from my algae organ, and my waste gets dumped back into it to feed the algae. You don't eat and drink like people are supposed to. You don't even pee normally. And not doing things you're hardwired to do will make you nuts. You wouldn't think that not peeing could prey on your mind. But trust me, it does. It was one of the things they had to find a way around when they went into full production.::
Martin pointed toward the other two rocks. "Stross and Pohl, now, they were born in these bodies,:: Martin said. ::And they're perfectly at home in them. I tell them about eating a hamburger or taking a dump, they look at me like I'm insane. And trying to describe regular sex to them is just a complete loss.::
::They have sex?:: Jared asked, surprised.
::You don't want to screw with the sex drive, Private,:: Martin said. "That's bad for the species. Yes, we have sex all the time.:: He motioned to his underside. ::We open up here. The edges of our cowl can seal with someone else's. The number of positions we can perform are a bit more limited than the ones you can. Your body is more flexible than ours. On the other hand, we can fuck in total vacuum. Which is a neat trick.::
"I'd say so,:: Jared said. He felt the captain was veering into "too much information" territory.
::But we are a different breed, no doubt about it,:: Martin said. ::We even have a different naming scheme than the rest of Special Forces. We're named after old science fiction writers, instead of scientists. I even took a new name, when I switched over.::
::Are you going to switch back?:: Jared asked. ::To a normal body?::
::No,:: Martin said. ::When I first switched over, I would have. But you get used to it. This is my normal now. And this is the future. The CDF made us to give them an advantage in combat, just like they made the original Special Forces. And it works. We're dark matter. We can sneak up on a ship and the enemy thinks we're debris, right until the pocket nuke we stuck on their hull as we scraped by goes off. And then they don't think about anything anymore.
::But we're more than that,:: Martin continued. ::We're the first people organically adapted to living in space. Every body system is organic, even the BrainPal—we've got the first totally organic BrainPals. That's one improvement that's going to be passed down to the general Special Forces population the next time they do a new body edition. Everything we are is expressed in our DNA. If they can find a way to let us breed naturally, we'll have a new species: Homo astrum, who can live between the planets. We won't have to fight anyone for real estate then. And that means humans win.::
::Unless you don't want to look like a turtle,:: Jared said.
Martin sent a sharp ping of amusement. ::Fair enough,:: he said. ::There is that. And we know it. We call ourselves the Gamer-ans, you know.::
Jared fuzzed a moment until the reference came into his head, from back in the evenings at Camp Carson, watching science fiction films at ten times speed. "Like the Japanese monster?::
::You got it,:: Martin said.
::Do you shoot fire too?:: Jared asked.
::Ask the Obin,:: Martin said.
The sled entered the ring.
Jared saw the dead man almost as soon as they slipped through the hole in the side of Covell Station.
The Gamerans had informed Special Forces that Covell Station was largely intact, but "largely intact" clearly meant something different to troops who thrive in hard vacuum. Covell Station was airless and lifeless and gravityless, although some electrical systems remarkably still had power, thanks to solar panels and hardy engineering. The Gamerans knew the station well; they had been in it before, retrieving files, documents, and objects that had not already been destroyed or looted by the Obin. The one thing they didn't retrieve was the dead; the Obin still came to the station from time to time and might notice if the number of the dead dramatically reduced over time. So the dead remained, floating cold and desiccated through the station.
The dead man was wedged up against a corridor bulkhead. Jared suspected he hadn't been there when the hole in the hull they slipped through was made: The explosive decompression would have sucked him right out into space. Jared turned to confirm this with Martin.
::He's new,:: Martin confirmed. ::To this section, anyway. The dead drift a lot around here, along with everything else. Is that someone you're looking for?::
Jared drifted toward the dead man. The man's body was parched and dried, all the moisture long since boiled away. He would have been unrecognizable even if Boutin had known him.
Jared looked at the man's lab coat; the name tag claimed him to be Uptal Chatterjee. His papery skin was green. The name was right for a colonist, but he'd clearly been a citizen of a Western nation at one point.
::I don't know who he is,:: Jared said.
"Come on, then,:: Martin said. He grabbed the railing with both left hands and propelled himself down the corridor. Jared followed, letting go of the railing on occasion to get past a dead body bumping through the corridor. He wondered if he might find Zoe Boutin floating in the corridors or other part of the station.
No, a thought said. They never found her body. They found hardly any colonist bodies.
::Stop,:: Jared said to Martin.
::What is it?:: Martin said.
::I'm remembering,:: Jared said, and closed his eyes, even through they were behind his cowl. When he opened them, he felt sharper and more focused. He also knew exactly where he wanted to go.
::Follow me,:: Jared said.
Jared and Martin had entered the station in the weapons wing of the station. Coreward lay navigation and biomedical research; in the center was a large zero-g lab. Jared led Martin coreward and then clockwise through the corridors, pausing occasionally to let Martin pry open deactivated emergency doors with a jack-like piston. Corridor lights, fed by the solar panels, glowed feebly but more than enough for Jared's enhanced vision.
::Here,:: Jared said, eventually. ::This is where I did my work. This is my laboratory.::
The laboratory was filled with detritus and bullet holes. Whoever had come through was not interested in preserving the technical work of the lab; they had just wanted everyone dead. Blackened, dried blood was visible on tabletops and down the side of a desk. At least one person had been shot here, but there was no body.
Jerome Kos, Jared thought. That was the name of my assistant. He was originally from Guatemala but immigrated to the United States when he was a kid. He was the one to solve the buffer overflow—
::Crap,:: Jared said. The memory of Jerry Kos floated in his! head, looking for context. Jared scanned the room, looking for computers or memory storage devices; there was nothing. ::Did your people take the computers from here?:: he asked Martin.
::Not from this room,:: Martin said. "Some of the labs were missing computers and other equipment before we ever got a chance to swing through. The Obin or whoever must have taken them.::
Jared pushed himself over to a desk he knew was Boutin's. Whatever had been on the top of the desk had long since floated away. Jared opened the desk drawers to find office supplies, hanger folders and other, not particularly useful things. As Jared was closing the drawer with the hanger folders, he saw the papers in one of them. He stopped and pulled one out; it was a drawing, signed by Zoe Boutin with more enthusiasm than precision.
She drew me one a week, in Wednesday art period, Jared remembered. I would take the new one and hang it with a pushpin, and take the old one and file it. I never threw any away. Jared glanced up at the corkboard above the desk; there were pushpins in it, but no picture. The last one was almost certainly floating somewhere in the room. Jared had to fight off the urge to look for it until he found it. Instead he pushed off from the desk toward the door, slipping out into the corridor before Martin could ask him where he was going. Martin raced to keep up.
The work corridors of Covell Station were clinical and sterile; the family quarters worked hard to be the opposite. Carpeting— albeit of the industrial sort—covered the floors. Children in art classes had been encouraged to paint the corridor walls, which featured suns and cats and hills with flowers in pictures that were not art unless you were a parent and could be nothing but if you were. The debris in the corridor and occasional dark smear against the wall worked against the cheer.
As a research head with a child, Boutin received larger quarters than most, which still meant it was almost unbearably compact; space is at a premium in space stations. Boutin's apartment lay at the end of C corridor (C for cat—the walls were painted with anatomically divergent cats of all sorts), apartment 10. Jared pulled himself down the corridor toward apartment 10. The door was closed but unlocked. Jared slid the door open and let himself in.
As everywhere, objects floated silently in the room. Jared recognized some things but not others. A book that was a gift from a college friend. Some picture in a frame. A pen. A rug he and Cheryl bought on their honeymoon.
Cheryl. His wife, dead from a fall while hiking. She died just before he left for this posting. Her funeral was on the second-to-last day before he came here. He remembered holding Zoe's hand at the funeral, listening to Zoe ask why her mother had to leave and making him promise he would never leave her. He promised, of course.
Boutin's bedroom was compact; Zoe's, one room over, would have been uncomfortable for anyone who wasn't five. The tiny child's bed was shoved along one corner, so securely wedged there that it hadn't floated away; even the mattress stayed stuck. Picture books, toys and stuffed animals hovered. One caught Jared's eye, and he reached for it.
Babar the Elephant. Phoenix had been colonized before the Colonial Union stopped accepting colonists from wealthy countries; there was a large French population, from which Boutin was descended. Babar was a popular children's character on Phoenix, along with Asterix, Tintin and the Silly Man, reminders of childhoods on a planet so distant from Phoenix that no one thought much about it. Zoe had never seen an elephant in real life—very few of them ever made it into space—but she had nonetheless been delighted with the Babar when Cheryl gave it to her on her fourth birthday. After Cheryl died Zoe made Babar a totem; she refused to go anywhere without it.
He remembered Zoe crying for it while he was dropping her off at Helene Greene's apartment, as he prepared to travel to Phoenix for several weeks of late-stage testing work. He was already late for the shuttle; he had no time to get it. He finally settled her down by promising to find her a Celeste for her Babar. Placated, she gave him a kiss and went into Kay Greene's room to play with her friend. He then promptly forgot about Babar and Celeste until the day he was scheduled to return to Omagh and Covell. He was thinking of some reasonable excuse to explain why he was coming home empty-handed when he was pulled aside and told that Omagh and Covell had been attacked, and that everyone on the base and on the colony was dead, and that his daughter, best beloved, died alone and frightened, and far away from anyone that ever loved her.
Jared held Babar while the barrier between his consciousness and Boutin's memories crumbled, feeling Boutin's grief and anger as if it were his own. This was it. This was the event that set him on the path to treason, the death of his daughter, his Zoe Jolie, his joy. Jared, helpless to guard against it, felt what Boutin felt: the sick horror of unwillingly picturing his child's death, the hollow, horrible ache standing in that place in his life where his daughter had been, and mad, acidic desire to do something more than mourn.
The torrent of memory wracked Jared, and he gasped as each new thing hit his consciousness and dug in. They tumbled in too fast to be complete or to be completely understood, the broad strokes of memory defining the shape of Boutin's path. Jared had no memory of his first contact with the Obin; only a sense of release, as if making the decision freed him from a lingering sense of pain and rage—but he saw himself making a deal with the Obin for a safe haven in exchange for his knowledge of the Brain-Pal and consciousness research.
The details of Boutin's scientific work eluded him; the training they required to comprehend required pathways of understanding Jared simply didn't have. What he had were the memories of sensual experience: the pleasure in planning to fake his death and make his escape, the pain of separation from Zoe', the desire to leave the human sphere and start his work and create his revenge.
Here and there in this cauldron of sensation and emotion, concrete memories winked like jewels—data repeated across the memory field; things to be remembered from more than one incident. Even then some things still flickered in memory, but just out of reach—knowing Zoe was the key to Boutin's defection but not knowing exactly why the key turned, and feeling the answer sway from his grasp as he reached for it, tantalizing and torturous.
Jared turned away to focus on the nuggets of memory that were hard, solid and within reach. Jared's consciousness circled one of these, a place name, roughly translated from a language spoken by creatures that didn't speak like humans.
And Jared knew where Boutin was.
The front door to the apartment slid open and Martin clambered through. He spotted Jared in Zoe's room and pushed over to him. ::Time to go, Dirac,:: he said. ::Varley tells me Obin are on their way. They must have bugged the place. Stupid of me.::
::Give me a minute,:: Jared said.
::We don't have a minute.:: Martin said.
::All right,:: Jared said. He pushed out of the room, taking Babar with him.
::Now's not the best time for souvenirs,:: Martin said.
::Shut up,:: Jared said. ::Let's go.:: He pushed out of Boutin's apartment without looking back to see if Martin was keeping up.
Uptal Chatterjee was where Jared and Martin had left him. The Obin scout craft hovering outside the hull breach was new.
::There are other ways out of this place,:: Jared said, as he and Martin huddled by Chatterjee's body. The scout was visible at an angle, but it apparently hadn't spotted them yet.
::Sure there are other ways,:: Martin said. ::The question is can we get to any of them before more of these guys show up. We can take one of them if we have to. More, there's going to be a problem.::
::Where is your squad?:: Jared asked.
::They're on their way,:: Martin said. ::We try to keep our movements outside the rings to a bare minimum.::
::A fine idea any other time but this,:: Jared said.
::I don't recognize that ship,:: Martin said. ::It looks like a new type of scout. I can't even tell if it has weapons. If it doesn't, between the two of us we might be able to take it out with our Empees.::
Jared considered this. He grabbed Chatterjee and gently pushed him in the direction of the hull breach. Chatterjee slowly floated across the breach.
::So far, so good,:: Martin said, when Chatterjee's body was halfway across the breach.
Chatterjee's body shattered as the projectiles from the scout craft blasted through his frozen body. Limbs twirled violently and then were shattered themselves as another volley coursed through the breach. Jared could feel the impact of the projectiles on the far wall of the corridor.
Jared felt a peculiar sensation, like his brain being picked. The scout's position shifted slightly. r.Duck,:: Jared tried to say to Martin, but the communication didn't make it through. Jared dug in his heel, grabbed Martin and yanked him down as a fresh volley ripped through the corridor, shredding the hull breach wider and passing dangerously close to Jared and Martin.
Bright orange blazed outside and from his position Jared could see the scout tilt wildly. From below the scout, a missile arced its way up and impacted on the scout's underside, cracking the scout in two. Jared noted to himself that the Gamerans did indeed shoot fire.
::—was sure a lot of fun,:: Martin said. ::Now we'll get to spend a week or two in hiding while the Obin scour around looking for whoever blew up their ship. You've made our lives very interesting, Private. Now, time to go. The boys have shot up the tow rope. Let's get out of here before any more show up.:: Martin scrambled up and over and then launched himself out of the breach, toward the tow cable hovering five meters beyond it. Jared followed, grabbing the cable with one hand and holding on for dear life, while Babar stayed clenched in the other.
It was three days before the Obin stopped hunting for them.
"Welcome back," Wilson said, as he approached the sled, and then stopped. "Is that Babar?"
"It is," Jared said, sitting in the sled with Babar secured in his lap.
"I'm not sure I even want to know what that's about," Wilson said.
"You do," Jared said. "Trust me."
"It has something to do with Boutin?" Wilson said.
"It has everything to do with him," Jared said. "I know why he turned traitor, Harry. I know everything."
One day before Jared returned to Phoenix Station, clutching Babar, the Special Forces cruiser Osprey skipped into the Nagano system to investigate a distress call sent by Skip courier from a mining operation on Kobe. The Osprey was not heard from again.
Jared was supposed to report in to Colonel Robbins. Instead he stomped past Robbins' office and into General Mattson's before Mattson's secretary could stop him. Mattson was inside and looked up as Jared walked in.
"Here," Jared said, thrusting Babar into the hands of a surprised Mattson. "Now I know why I punched you, you son of a bitch."
Mattson looked down on the stuffed animal. "Let me guess," he said. "This is Zoe Boutin's. And now you've got your memory back."
"Enough of it," Jared said. "Enough to know you're responsible for her death."
"Funny," Mattson said, putting Babar down on his desk. "Seems to me that either the Rraey or the Obin are responsible for her death."
"Don't be obtuse, General," Jared said. Mattson raised an eyebrow. "You ordered Boutin here for a month. He asked to bring his daughter with him. You refused. Boutin left his daughter and she died. He blames you."
"And you do too, apparently," Mattson said.
Jared ignored this. "Why didn't you let him bring her?" he asked.
"I'm not running a day care, Private," Mattson said. "I needed Boutin focused on his work. Boutin's wife was already dead. Who was going to take care of the girl? He had people at Covell who could do it for him; I told him to leave her there. I didn't expect that we'd lose the station and the colony and that the girl would die."
"This station houses other civilian scientists and workers," Jared said. "There are families here. He could have found or hired someone to watch Zoe while he worked. It wasn't an unreasonable request, and you know it. So, really, why didn't you let him bring her?"
By this time Robbins, alerted by Mattson's secretary, had entered the room. Mattson twisted uncomfortably. "Listen," Mattson said. "Boutin was a top-flight mind, but he was a goddamned flake. Especially after his wife died. Cheryl was a heat sink for the man's eccentricities; she kept him on an even keel. Once she was gone he became erratic, particularly where his daughter was involved."
Jared opened his mouth; Mattson held up a hand. "I'm not blaming him, Private," Mattson said. "His wife was dead, he had a little girl, he was worried about her. I was a parent too. I remember what it's like. But that topped with his own organizational issues created problems. He was behind on his projects as it was. It's one of the reasons I brought him back here for the testing phase. I wanted him to be able to get work done and not be distracted. And it worked; we finished testing ahead of schedule and things went so well that I gave the go-ahead to have him bumped up to the director level, which was something I wouldn't have done before the test phase. He was on his way back to Covell when it was attacked."
"He thought you turned down his request because you're a pissant tyrant," Jared said.
"Well, of course he did," Mattson said. "That's Boutin all over. Look, he and I never got along. Our personalities didn't mesh. He was high maintenance, and if it weren't for the fact he was a fucking genius, he wouldn't have been worth the trouble. He resented the fact that I or one of my people was always looking over his shoulder. He resented having to explain and justify his work. And he resented that I didn't give a shit if he resented it. I'm not surprised he thought it was just me being petty."
"And you're saying it wasn't," Jared said.
"It wasn't," Mattson said, and then threw up his hands when Jared gave him a skeptical look. "Okay. Look. Perhaps our history of bad blood played a small role. Maybe I was less willing to cut him a break than I would be someone else. Fine. But my main concern was getting work out of him. And I did promote the son of a bitch."
"But he never forgave you for what happened to Zoe," Jared said.
"Do you think I wanted his little girl dead, Private?" Mattson said. "Do you think that I wasn't aware that if I had just said yes to his request, she'd be alive now? Christ. I don't blame Boutin for hating me after that. I didn't intend for Zoe Boutin to die, but I accept I bear a part of the responsibility for the fact she is dead. I said as much to Boutin himself. See if that is in your memories."
It was. Jared saw in his mind Mattson approaching him in his lab, awkwardly offering his condolences and sympathy. Jared recalled how appalled he felt at the fumbled words, and their implicit suggestion that Mattson should be absolved of the death of his child. He felt some of the cold rage wash over him now, and had to remind himself that the memories he was feeling were from another person, about a child who was not his own.
"He didn't accept your apology," Jared said.
"I'm aware of that, Private," Mattson said, and sat there for a moment before he spoke up again. "So, who are you now?" he asked. "It's clear you have Boutin's memories. Are you him now? In your gut, I mean."
"I'm still me," Jared said. "I'm still Jared Dirac. But I feel what Charles Boutin felt. I understand what he did."
Robbins spoke up. "You understand what he did," he repeated. "Does that mean you agree with it?"
"His treason?" Jared asked. Robbins nodded. "No. I can feel what he felt. I feel how angry he was. I feel how he missed his daughter. But I don't know how he got from there to turning on all of us."
"You can't feel it, or you don't remember it?" Robbins asked.
"Both," Jared said. More memory was returning after his epiphany at Covell, specific incidents and data from all parts of Boutin's life. Jared could sense that whatever happened there had changed him and made him more fertile ground for Boutin's life. But the gaps were still there. Jared had to keep himself from worrying about them. "Maybe more will come the more I think about it," he said. "But right now I've got nothing on that."
"But you know where he is now," Mattson said, bringing Jared back from his reverie. "Boutin. You know where he is."
"I know where he was," Jared said. "Or at least I know where he was going when he left." The name was clear in Jared's brain; Boutin had focused on the name like a talisman, burning it indelibly into memory. "He went to Arist."
There was a brief moment while Mattson and Robbins accessed their BrainPals for information on Arist. "Well, crap," Mattson said, eventually.
The Obin home system housed four gas giants, one of which— Cha—orbited in a "Goldilocks zone" for carbon-based life and had three planet-sized moons among several dozen smaller satellites. The smallest of the large moons, Saruf, lay in orbit just outside the planet's Roche limit, and was wracked by immense tidal forces that turned it into an uninhabitable ball of lava. The second, Obinur, was half again the size of Earth but less massive due to a metal-poor composition. This was the Obin home world. The third, of Earth size and mass, was Arist.
Arist was thickly populated with native life-forms but largely uninhabited by the Obin, with only a few outposts of any size on the moon. Nevertheless, its close proximity to Obinur would make it almost impossible to assault. CDF ships wouldn't be able to simply sneak in; Arist was only a few light-seconds from Obinur. Almost as soon as they appeared the Obin would be moving in for the kill. Nothing short of a large assault force would stand a chance of extracting Boutin from Arist. Extracting Boutin would be declaring war, a war the Colonial Union wasn't ready to commit to even with the Obin standing alone.
"We're going to have to talk to General Szilard about this," Robbins said to Mattson.
"No shit," Mattson said. "If there was ever a job for Special Forces, this is it. Speaking of which"—Mattson focused on Jared—"once we drop this in Szilard's lap, you're going back to Special Forces. Dealing with this is going to be his problem, and that means you're going to be his problem too."
"I'm going to miss you too, General," Jared said.
Mattson snorted. "You really are sounding more like Boutin every day. And that's not a good thing. Which reminds me, as my last official order to you, get down to see the bug and Lieutenant Wilson and let them get another look at your brain. I'm giving you back to General Szilard, but I promised I wouldn't break you. Being a little too much like Boutin might qualify as 'broken' by his standard. It does by mine."
"Yes, sir," Jared said.
"Good. You're dismissed." Mattson picked up Babar and tossed it to Jared. "And take this thing with you," he said.
Jared caught it and set it back down on Mattson's desk, facing the general. "Why don't you keep it, General," Jared said. "As a reminder." He left before Mattson could protest, nodding at Rob-bins as he left.
Mattson stared glumly at the stuffed elephant and then up at Robbins, who appeared about to say something. "Don't say a goddamned thing about the elephant, Colonel," Mattson said.
Robbins changed the topic. "Do you think Szilard will take him back?" he asked. "You said it yourself: He's sounding more like Boutin every day."
"You're telling me this," Mattson said, and waved in the direction of where Jared had gone. "You and the general were the ones who wanted to build this little bastard from spare parts, if you'll recall. And now you've got him. Or Szi's got him. Christ."
"So you're worried," Robbins said.
"I've never stopped being worried about him," Mattson said. "When he was with us I kept hoping he'd do something stupid so I would have a legitimate excuse to have him shot. I don't like that we've bred a second traitor, especially one with a military body and brain. If it were up to me I'd take Private Dirac and put him in a nice big room that features a toilet and a food slot, and keep him there until he rots."
"He's still technically under your command," Robbins said.
"Szi's made it clear he wants him back, for whatever damn fool reason he has," Mattson said. "He commands combat troops. If we go to the mat on it, he'll get the decision." Mattson picked up Babar, examined him. "I just hope to holy fuck he knows what he's doing."
"Well," Robbins said. "Maybe Dirac won't actually be as much like Boutin as you think he will be."
Mattson snorted derisively, and wiggled Babar at Robbins. "See this? This isn't just some goddamned souvenir. It's a message straight from Charles Boutin himself. No, Colonel. Dirac is exactly as much like Boutin as I think he is."
"There's no question about it," Cainen said to Jared. "You've become Charles Boutin."
"The hell I have," Jared said.
"The hell you have," Cainen agreed, and motioned to the display. "Your consciousness pattern is now almost entirely identical to what Boutin left us. There's still some variation, of course, but it's trivial. For all intents and purposes, you have the same mind as Charles Boutin had."
"I don't feel any different," Jared said.
"Don't you?" Harry Wilson said, from the other side of the lab.
Jared opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. Wilson grinned. "You do feel different," he said. "I can tell it. So can Cainen. You're more aggressive than you were before. You're sharper with the retort. Jared Dirac was quieter, more subdued. More innocent, although that's probably not the absolute best way to put it. You're not quiet and subdued anymore. And certainly not innocent. I remember Charlie Boutin. You're a lot more like him than like who Jared Dirac used to be."
"But I don't feel like becoming a traitor," Jared said.
"Of course you don't," Cainen said. "You share the same consciousness, and you even share some of the same memories. But you had your own experiences, and that has shaped how you look at things. It's as with identical twins. They share the same genetics, but they don't share the same lives. Charles Boutin is your mind twin. But your experiences are still your own."
"So you don't think I'll go bad," Jared said.
Cainen did a Rraey shrug. Jared looked over to Wilson, who did a human shrug. "You say you know Charlie's motivation for going bad was the death of his daughter," he said. "You have the memory of that daughter and her death in you now, but nothing you've done or that we've seen in your head suggests that you're going to crack because of it. We're going to suggest they let you back into active duty. Whether they take our recommendation or not is another thing entirely, since the lead scientist on the project is one who until about a year ago was plotting to overthrow humanity. But I don't think that's your problem."
"It certainly is my problem," Jared said. "Because I want to find Boutin. Not just help with the mission, and absolutely not to sit it out. I want to find him and I want to bring him back."
"Why?" Cainen asked.
"I want to understand him. I want to know what it takes to make someone do this. What makes them a traitor," Jared said.
"You would be surprised at how little it takes," Cainen said. "Something even as simple as kindness from an enemy." Cainen turned away; Jared suddenly remembered Cainen's status and his allegiance. "Lieutenant Wilson," Cainen said, still looking away. "Would you give me and Private Dirac a moment." Wilson arched his eyebrows but said nothing as he left the lab. Cainen turned back to Jared.
"I wanted to apologize to you, Private," Cainen said. "And to warn you."
Jared gave Cainen an uncertain smile. "You don't need to apologize to me for anything, Cainen," he said.
"I disagree," Cainen said. "It was my cowardice that brought you into being. If I had been strong enough to hold out against the torture your Lieutenant Sagan put me through, I would be dead, and you humans would not have known of the war against you or that Charles Boutin was still alive. If I had been stronger, there would have never been a reason for you to have been born, and to be saddled with a consciousness that has taken over your being, for better or for worse. But I was weak, and I wanted to live, even if living was as a prisoner and a traitor. As some of your colonists would say, that is my karma, which I have to grapple with on my own.
"But quite unintentionally I have sinned against you, Private," Cainen said. "As much as anyone, I am your father, because I am the cause of the terrible wrong they have committed against you. It's bad enough that humans bring soldiers to life with artificial minds—with those damned BrainPals of yours. But to have you, born only to carry the consciousness of another is an abomination. A violation of your right to be your own person."
"It's not as bad as all that," Jared said.
"Oh, but it is," Cainen said. "We Rraey are a spiritual and principled people. Our beliefs are at the core of how we respond to our world. One of our highest values is the sanctity of self—the belief that every person must be allowed to make their own choices. Well"—Cainen did a neck bobble—"every Rraey, in any event. Like most races, we're less concerned about the needs of other races, especially when they are opposed to our own.
"Nevertheless," Cainen continued. "Choice matters. Independence matters. When you first came to Wilson and me, we gave you the choice to continue. You remember?" Jared nodded. "I must confess to you that I did that not only for your sake but for my own. Since I was the one who caused you to be born without choices, it was my moral duty to give one to you. When you took it—when you made a choice, I felt some of my sin lift away. Not all of it. I still have my karma. But some. I thank you for that, Private."
"You're welcome," Jared said.
"Now my warning to you," Cainen said. "Lieutenant Sagan tortured me when we first met, and at the end of it I broke and told her almost everything she wanted to know about our plans to attack you humans. But I told her one lie. I told her I never met Charles Boutin."
"You've met him?" Jared asked.
"I have," Cainen said. "Once, when he came to talk to me and other Rraey scientists about the architecture of the BrainPal, and how we might adapt it for the Rraey. A fascinating human. Very intense. Charismatic in his way, even to the Rraey. He is passionate, and we as a people respond to passion. Very passionate. Very driven. And very angry."
Cainen leaned in close. "Private, I know you think that this is about Boutin's daughter, and to some extent, maybe it is. But there is something else motivating Boutin as well. His daughter's death may simply have been the discrete event that caused an idea to crystallize in Boutin's mind, and it's that idea that fuels him. It's what made him a traitor."
"What is it?" Jared asked. "What's the idea?"
"I don't know," Cainen confessed. "Revenge is the easy guess, of course. But I've met the man. Revenge doesn't explain it all. You would be in a better position to know, Private. You do have his mind."
"I have no idea," Jared said.
"Well, perhaps it will come," Cainen said. "My warning is to remember that whatever it is that motivates him, he has given himself to it, entirely and completely. It's too late to convince him otherwise. The danger for you will be that if you meet him, you will empathize with him and with his motivation. You are designed to understand him, after all. Boutin will use this if he can."
"What should I do?" Jared asked.
"Remember who you are," Cainen said. "Remember that you're not him. And remember that you always have a choice."
"I'll remember," Jared said.
"I hope you do," Cainen said, and stood. "I wish you luck, Private. You can go now. When you leave, let Wilson know he can come back in." Cainen wandered over to a cabinet, intentionally choosing to put his back to Jared. Jared stepped out the door.
"You can go back in," Jared said to Wilson.
"Okay," Wilson said. "I hope you two had a useful conversation."
"It was," Jared said. "He's an interesting fellow."
"That's one way of putting it," Wilson said. "You know, Dirac, he feels very paternal toward you."
"So I gathered," Jared said. "I like it. Not exactly what I was expecting in a father, though."
Wilson chortled. "Life is full of surprises, Dirac," he said. "Where are you off to now?"
"I think I'll go see Cainen's granddaughter," Jared said.
The Kestrel flicked on its Skip Drive six hours before Jared returned to Phoenix Station and translated to the system of a dim orange star that from Earth would be seen in the Circinus constellation, but only if one had a proper telescope. It was there to pick through the remains of the Colonial Union freighter Handy; the black box data sent back to Phoenix via emergency Skip drone suggested that someone had sabotaged the engines. No black box data was ever recovered from the Kestrel; nothing of the Kestrel was ever recovered.
Lieutenant Cloud looked up from his lair in the pilots lounge, a table laid out with enticements to trap the unwary (namely, a deck of cards), and saw Jared in front of him.
"Well, if it isn't the jokester himself," Cloud said, smiling.
"Hello, Lieutenant," Jared said. "Long time, no see."
"Not my fault," Cloud said. "I've been here this whole time. Where have you been?"
"Out saving humanity," Jared said. "You know, the usual."
"It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it," Cloud said. "And I'm glad it's you instead of me." Cloud kicked his leg to push out a chair and picked up the cards. "Have a seat, why don't you. I'm due to the prelaunch formalities of my supply run in about fifteen minutes; that's just enough time to teach you how to lose at Texas hold 'em."
"I already know how to do that," Jared said.
"See? There's one of your jokes again," Cloud said.
"I actually came to see you about your supply run," Jared said. "I was hoping you'd let me deadhead down with you."
"I'll be happy to have you," Cloud said, and began shuffling the cards. "Ping me your leave clearance, and we'll be able to continue this game on board. The supply transport's on autopilot most of the way down anyway. I'm just on board so that if it crashes, they can say someone died."
"I don't have leave clearance," Jared said. "But I need to get down to Phoenix."
"What for?" Cloud asked.
"I need to visit a dead relative," Jared said. "And I'm going to be shipping out soon."
Cloud chuckled and cut the deck of cards. "I'm guessing the dead relative will be there when you get back," he said.
"It's not the dead relative I'm worried about," Jared said. He reached his hand out and pointed to the deck. "May I?" Cloud handed over the deck; Jared sat and began shuffling it. "I can see you're a gambling man, Lieutenant," he said. He finished shuffling and put the deck in front of Cloud.
"Cut it," Jared said. Cloud cut the deck a third of the way down. Jared took the smaller portion and placed it in front of himself. "We'll pick a card from our decks at the same time. I get the high card, you take me to Phoenix, I go see who I need to see, I'm back before you lift."
"And if I get the high card we try for two out of three," Cloud said.
Jared smiled. "That wouldn't be very sporting, now would it. Are you ready?" Cloud nodded. "Draw," Jared said.
Cloud drew an eight of diamonds; Jared drew a six of clubs. "Damn," Jared said. He pushed his cards over to Cloud.
"Who's the dead relative?" Cloud asked, taking the cards.
"It's complicated," Jared said.
"Try me," Cloud said.
"It's the clone of the man whose consciousness I was created to house," Jared said.
"Okay, so you were absolutely correct about this being complicated," Cloud said. "I haven't the slightest idea what you just said."
"Someone who is like my brother," Jared said. "Someone I didn't know."
"For someone who is just a year old, you lead an interesting life," Cloud said.
"I know," Jared said. "It's not my fault, though." He stood up. "I'll catch you later, Lieutenant."
"Oh, stop it," Cloud said. "Give me a minute to take a leak and we'll go. Just keep quiet when we get to the transport and let me do all the talking. And remember if we get in trouble I'm going to blame it all on you."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Jared said.
Getting past the transport bay crew was almost ridiculously simple. Jared stuck close to Cloud, who ran through his preflight check and consulted his crew with businesslike efficiency. They ignored Jared or assumed that since he was with Cloud he had every right to be there. Thirty minutes later the transport was easing its way down to Phoenix Station, and Jared was showing Cloud that he wasn't actually very good at losing at Texas hold 'em. This annoyed Cloud greatly.
At the Phoenix Station ground port, Cloud consulted with the ground crew and then came back to Jared. "It's going to take them about three hours to load her up," he said. "Can you get to where you're going and be back before then?"
"The cemetery is just outside Phoenix City," Jared said.
"You should be fine then," Cloud said. "How are you going to get there?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," Jared said.
"What?" Cloud said.
Jared shrugged. "I didn't actually think you'd take me," he confessed. "I didn't plan this far ahead."
Cloud laughed. "God loves a fool," he said, and then motioned to Jared. "Come on, then. Let's go meet your brother."
Metairie Catholic Cemetery lay in the heart of Metairie, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Phoenix City; it was around when Phoenix was still called New Virginia and Phoenix City was still Clinton, before the attacks that leveled the early colony and forced humans to regroup and reconquer the planet. The earliest graves in the cemetery dated back to the early days, when Metairie was a line of plastic and mud buildings, and proud Louisianans had settled there with the pretensions of its being Clinton's first suburb.
The graves Jared visited were on the other side of the cemetery from the first line of the dead. The graves were marked by a single headstone, upon which three names were engraved, each with their separate dates: Charles, Cheryl and Zoe Boutin.
"Jesus," Cloud said. "An entire family."
"No," Jared said, kneeling down at the headstone. "Not really. Cheryl is here. Zoe died far away, and her body was lost with many others. And Charles isn't dead. This is someone else. A clone he created so it would look like he had killed himself." Jared reached out and touched the headstone. "There's no family here."
Cloud looked at Jared kneeling by the headstone. "I think I'll take a look around," he said, trying to give Jared some time.
"No," Jared said, and looked over. "Please. I'll be done in just a minute and then we can go." Cloud nodded in assent but looked toward the close-by trees. Jared returned his attention to the headstone.
He lied to Cloud about who he had come to see, because who he wanted to see wasn't here. Outside of a bit of pity, Jared found himself at an emotional loss regarding the poor nameless clone Boutin killed to fake his own death. Nothing in the still-emerging bank of memories Jared shared with Boutin featured the clone in anything but the most clinical of settings, emotional or otherwise; the clone wasn't a person to Boutin, but a means to an end—an end that Jared, naturally enough, had no memory of since the recording of his consciousness was done before Boutin pulled the trigger. Jared tried to feel some sympathy for the clone, but there were others here he had come for. Jared hoped the clone indeed had never woken up and left it at that.
Jared focused on the name Cheryl Boutin and felt muted, conflicted emotions echo back from his memory. Jared realized that while Boutin had affection for his wife, labeling that affection as love would have been overstating the case. The two married because they both wanted children and they both understood and liked being around the other well enough, although Jared sensed that even that emotional attachment had been tamped down by the end. Their mutual joy of their daughter kept them from separation; even their cooled relationship was tolerable and preferable to the mess of a divorce and the trouble it would cause their child.
From some crevasse in Jared's mind came an unexpected memory about Cheryl's death, that on her fatal trip she had not been hiking alone; she had been with a friend who Boutin suspected was her lover. There was no jealousy that Jared could detect. Boutin didn't begrudge her a lover; he had one of his own. But Jared felt the anger Boutin felt at the funeral, when the suspected lover had lingered over the grave too long at the end of the funeral ceremony. It took time away from Boutin's final farewell to his wife. And Zoe's to her mother.
Zoe.
Jared traced her name on the gravestone, and said the name in the place she should have rested but did not, and felt again the grief that spilled from Boutin's memories into his own heart. Jared touched the gravestone once more, felt the name engraved into stone, and wept.
A hand rested on Jared's shoulder; he looked up to see Cloud there.
"It's all right," Cloud said. "We all lose the people we love."
Jared nodded. "I know," he said. "I lost someone I loved. Sarah. I felt her die and then I felt the hole she left inside me. But this is different."
"It's different because it's a child," Cloud said.
"It's a child I never knew," Jared said, and looked up at Cloud again. "She died before I was born. I didn't know her. I couldn't know her. But I do." He gestured to his temples. "Everything about her is in here. I remember her being born. I remember her first steps and her first words. I remember holding her here at her mother's funeral. I remember the last time I saw her. I remember hearing that she was dead. It's all here."
"No one has anyone else's memories," Cloud said. He said it in a way to soothe Jared. "It just doesn't work that way."
Jared laughed, bitterly. "But it does," he said. "It does with me. I told you. I was born to hold someone else's mind. They didn't think that it worked, but it did. And now his memories are my memories. His life is my life. His daughter—"
Jared stopped talking, unable to go on. Cloud kneeled down next to Jared and put an arm around his shoulder and let him mourn.
"It's not fair," Cloud said eventually. "It's not fair you have to mourn this child."
Jared gave a small laugh. "We're in the wrong universe for fair," he said, simply.
"That we are," Cloud agreed.
"I want to mourn her," Jared said. "I feel her. I can feel the love I had for her. That he had for her. I want to remember her, even if that means I have to mourn her. That's not too much to bear for her memory. It's not, is it?"
"No," Cloud said. "I guess it's not."
"Thank you," Jared said. "Thank you for coming with me here. Thank you for helping me."
"That's what friends are for," Cloud said.
::Dirac,:: Jane Sagan said. She was standing behind them. ::You've been reactived**.::
Jared felt the sudden snap of reintegration, and felt Jane Sagan's awareness wash over him, and felt mildly revolted by it even as other parts of him rejoiced at coming back into a larger sense of being. Some part of Jared's brain noted that being integrated wasn't just about sharing information and becoming part of a higher consciousness. It was also about control, a way to keep individuals tied to the group. There was a reason why Special Forces soldiers hardly ever retired—being retired means losing integration. Losing integration means being alone.
Special Forces soldiers were almost never alone. Even when they were by themselves.
::Dirac,:: Sagan said again.
"Speak normally," Jared said, and stood up, still looking away from Sagan. "You're being rude."
There was an infinitesimal pause before Sagan responded. "Very well," she said. "Private Dirac, it's time to go. We're needed back on Phoenix Station."
"Why?" Jared said.
"I'm not going to talk about it in front of him," Sagan said, indicating Cloud. "No offense, Lieutenant."
"None taken," Cloud said.
"Tell me out loud," Jared said. "Or I'm not going."
"I'm giving you an order," Sagan said.
"And I'm telling you to take your orders and shove them up your ass," Jared said. "I'm suddenly very tired of being part of Special Forces. I'm tired of being shoved around from place to place. Unless you tell me where I'm going and why, I think I'm just staying right here."
Sagan audibly sighed. She turned to Cloud. "Believe me when I tell you that if any of this passes your lips, I will shoot you myself. At very close range."
"Lady," Cloud said. "I believe every word you say."
"Three hours ago the Redhawk was destroyed by the Obin," Sagan said. "It managed to launch a Skip drone before it was totally destroyed. We've lost two other ships in the last two days; they've entirely disappeared. We think the Obin tried to do the same with the Redhawk but weren't able to do it for whatever reason. We got lucky, if you want to call this lucky. Between these three ships and four other Special Forces ships that have disappeared in the last month, it's clear the Obin are targeting Special Forces."
"Why?" Jared said
"We don't know," Sagan said. "But General Szilard has decided we're not going to wait until more of our ships get attacked. We going in to get Boutin, Dirac. We move in twelve hours."
"That's crazy," Jared said. "All we know is that he's on Arist. That's an entire moon to look at. And no matter how many ships we use, we'll be attacking the Obin home system."
"We know where he is on Arist," Sagan said. "And we have a plan to get past the Obin to get him."
"How?"
"That I'm not saying out loud," Sagan said. "It's the end of discussion, Dirac. Come with me or don't. We've got twelve hours until the attack begins. You've already caused me to waste time coming down here to get you. Don't let's waste any more time getting back."
Goddamn it, General, Jane Sagan thought, as she tracked through the Kite, heading toward the landing bay control room. Stop hiding from me, you officious prick. She took care not to actually send the thought in the conversational mode of the Special Forces. Because of the similarity between thinking and speaking for Special Forces members, nearly every one of them had had a "did I say that out loud" moment or two. But that particular thought spoken aloud would be more trouble than it was worth.
Sagan had been on the hunt for General Szilard since the moment she had gotten the order to retrieve Jared Dirac from his AWOL adventure on Phoenix. The order had come with the notice that Dirac was once again under her command, and with a set of classified memos from Colonel Robbins detailing the latest events in Dirac's life: his trip to Covell, his sudden memory dump and the fact that his consciousness pattern was now definitively that of Charles Boutin. In addition to this material was a note forwarded by Robbins, from General Mattson to Szilard, in which Mattson strongly urged Szilard not to return Dirac to active duty, suggesting he be detained at least until the upcoming round of hostilities featuring the Obin was settled one way or another.
Sagan thought General Mattson was a jackass, but she had to admit he'd hit the nail on the head. Sagan had never been comfortable with Dirac under her command. He'd been a good and competent soldier, but knowing he had a second consciousness in his skull waiting to leak down and contaminate the first made her wary, and aware of the chance that he'd crack on the mission and get someone killed besides himself. Sagan considered it a victory that when he did crack, that day on the Phoenix Station promenade, he was on shore leave. And it wasn't until Mattson swooped in to relieve her of further responsibility toward Dirac that she allowed herself to feel pity for him, and to recognize that he had never justified the suspicion she held him in.
That was then, Sagan thought. Now Dirac was back and he was certifiably around the bend. It had taken most of her will not to tear him a new asshole when he had been insubordinate on Phoenix; if she had had the stun pistol she used on him when he originally cracked, she would have shot him in the head a second time just to make the point that his transplanted attitude didn't impress her. As it was she could barely remain civil to him on the ride back, this time by fast courier shuttle, directly to the Kite's bay. Szilard was on board, conferring with Kite commander Major Crick. The general had ignored Sagan's earlier hails when she was on the Kite and he was on Phoenix Station, but now that the two of them were on the same ship, she was prepared to block his path until she had her say. She marched herself up the stairwell, two steps at a time, and opened the door to the control room.
::I knew you were coming,:: Szilard said to her, as she entered the room. He was sitting in front of the control panel that operated the bay. The officer that operated the bay could do nearly all his tasks via BrainPal, of course, and usually did. The control panel was there as a backup. When it got right down to it, all the ship controls were essentially BrainPal backups.
::Of course you knew I was coming,:: Sagan said. ::You're the commander of the Special Forces. You can locate any of us from our BrainPal signal.::
::It wasn't that,:: Szilard said. ::I just know who you are. The possibility of you not coming to find me once I put Dirac back under your command didn't even cross my mind.:: Szilard turned his chair slightly and stretched out his legs. ::I was so confident you were coming that I even cleared out the room so we'd have some privacy. And here we are.::
::Permission to speak freely,:: Sagan asked.
::Of course,:: Szilard said.
::You're out of your goddamned mind, sir,:: Sagan said.
Szilard laughed out loud. ::I didn't expect you to speak that freely, Lieutenant,:: he said.
::You've seen the same reports I have,:: Sagan said. ::I know you're aware of how much Dirac is like Boutin now. Even his brain works the same. And yet you want to put him on a mission to find Boutin.::
::Yes,:: Szilard said.
"Christ!" Sagan said, out loud. Special Forces speak was fast and efficient but it wasn't very good for exclamations. Nevertheless, Sagan backed herself up, sending a wave of frustration and irritation toward General Szilard, which he accepted wordlessly. ::I don't want responsibility for him,:: Sagan said, finally.
::I don't remember asking you if you wanted the responsibility,:: Szilard said.
::He's a danger to the other soldiers in my platoon,:: Sagan said. ::And he's a danger to the mission. You know what it means if we don't succeed. We don't need the additional risk.::
::I disagree,:: Szilard said.
::For God's sake,:: Sagan said. "Why?::
::"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,":: Szilard said.
::What?:: Sagan said. She was suddenly reminded of a conversation with Cainen, months before, when he had said the same thing.
Szilard repeated the saying, then said, ::We have the enemy as close as he can possibly get. He's in our ranks, and he doesn't know he's the enemy. Dirac thinks he's one of us because as far as he knows he is. But now he thinks like our enemy thinks and acts like our enemy acts, and we'll know everything he knows. That's incredibly useful and it's worth the risk.::
::Unless he turns,:: Sagan said.
::You'll know it if he does,:: Szilard said. "He's integrated with your whole platoon. The minute he acts against your interests you'll know about it and so will everyone else on the mission.::
::Integration isn't mind reading,:: Sagan said. ::We'll only know after he starts doing something. That means he could kill one of my soldiers or give away our positions or any number of other things. Even with integration he's still a real danger.::
::You're right about one thing, Lieutenant,: Szilard said. "Integration isn't mind reading. Unless you have the right firmware.::
Sagan felt a ping in her communication queue: an upgrade to her BrainPal. Before she could give assent it began to unpack. Sagan felt an uncomfortable jolt as the upgrade propagated, causing a momentary flux in her brain's electrical patterns.
::What the hell was that?:: Sagan asked.
"That was the mind-reading upgrade,:: Szilard said. "Usually only generals and certain very specialized military investigators get this one, but in your case, I think it's warranted. For this mission, anyway. Once you're back we're going to yank it back out, and if you ever speak about it to anyone we'll have to put you somewhere very small and distant.::
::I don't understand how this is possible,:: Sagan said.
Szilard made a face. "Think about it, Lieutenant,:: he said. ::Think about how we're communicating. We're thinking, and our BrainPal is interpreting that we are choosing to speak to someone else when we do so. Outside of intent, there is no significant difference between our public thoughts and our private ones. What would be remarkable is if we couldn't read minds. It's what the BrainPal is supposed to do.::
::But you don't tell people that,:: Sagan said.
Szilard shrugged. ::No one wants to know they have no privacy, even in their own heads.::
::So you can read my private thoughts,:: Sagan said.
::You mean, like the one where you called me an officious prick?:: Szilard asked.
::There was context for that,:: Sagan said.
::There always is,:: Szilard said. "Relax, Lieutenant. Yes, I can read your thoughts. I can read the thoughts of anyone who is in my command structure. But usually I don't. It's not necessary and most of the time it's almost completely useless anyway.::
::But you can read people's thoughts,:: Sagan said.
::Yes, but most people are boring,:: Szilard said. ::When I first got the upgrade, after I was put in command of the Special Forces, I spent an entire day listening to people's thoughts. You know what the vast majority of people are thinking the vast majority of the time? They're thinking, I'm hungry. Or, I need to take a dump. Or, I want to fuck that guy. And then it's back to I'm hungry. And then they repeat the sequence until they die. Trust me, Lieutenant. A day with this capability and your opinion of the complexity and wonder of the human mind will suffer an irreversible decline.::
Sagan smiled. ::If you say so,:: she said.
::I do say so,:: Szilard said. ".However, in your case this capability will be of actual use, because you'll be able to hear Dirac's thoughts and feel his private emotions without him knowing he's being observed. If he is thinking of treason, you'll know it almost before he does. You can react to it before Dirac kills one of your soldiers or compromises your mission. I think that's a sufficient check to the risk of bringing him along.::
::And what should I do if he turns?:: Sagan asked. ::If he becomes a traitor?::
::Then you kill him, of course,:: Szilard said. ::Don't hesitate about it. But you be sure, Lieutenant. Now you know that I can get inside your head, so I trust you'll refrain from blowing his head off just because you're feeling twitchy.::
::Yes, General,:: Sagan said.
::Good,:: Szilard said. "Where is Dirac now?::
::He's with the platoon, getting ready, down there in the bay. I gave him our orders on the way up,:: Sagan said.
::Why don't you check in on him?:: Szilard asked.
::With the upgrade?:: Sagan asked.
::Yes,:: Szilard said. "Learn to use it before your mission. You're not going to have time to fiddle with it later.::
Sagan accessed her new utility, found Dirac, and listened in.
::This is nuts,:: Jared thought to himself.
::You got that right,:: Steven Seaborg said. He'd joined 2nd Platoon while Jared had been away.
::Did I say that out loud?:: Jared said.
::No, I read minds, you jerk,:: Seaborg said, and sent a ping of amusement Jared's way. Whatever issues Jared and Seaborg had had disappeared after the death of Sarah Pauling; Seaborg's jealousy of Jared, or whatever it was, was outweighed by their mutual feeling of the loss of Sarah. Jared would hesitate to call him a friend, but the bond they had was more amicable than not, now reinforced by their additional bond of integration.
Jared glanced around the bay, at the two dozen Skip Drive sleds in it—the total fleet of Skip Drive sleds that had been produced to that point. He looked over at Seaborg, who was climbing into one to check it out.
::So this is what we're going to use to attack an entire planet,:: Seaborg said. ::A couple dozen Special Forces soldiers, each in their own space-traveling gerbil cage.::
::You've seen a gerbil cage?:: Jared asked.
::Of course not,:: Seaborg said. :.I've never even seen a gerbil. But I've seen pictures, and that's what this looks like to me. What sort of idiot would ride in one of these things.::
::I've ridden in one,:: Jared said.
::That answers that,:: Seaborg said. ::And what was it like?::
::I felt exposed,:: Jared said.
::Wonderful,:: Seaborg said, and rolled his eyes.
Jared knew how he felt, but he also saw the logic behind the assault. Nearly all space-faring creatures used ships to get from one point to another in real space; planetary detection and defense grids, by necessity, had the resolution power to detect the large objects that ships tended to be. The Obin defense grid around Arist was no different. A Special Forces ship would be spotted and attacked in an instant; a tiny, wire-frame object barely larger than a man would not.
Special Forces knew this because it had already sent the sleds on six different occasions, sneaking through the defense grid to spy on the communications coming off the moon. It was on the last of these missions that they heard Charles Boutin on a communication beam, broadcasting in the open, sending a voice note toward Obinur asking about the arrival time of a supply ship. The Special Forces soldier who had caught the signal chased it down to its source, a small science outpost on the shore of one of Arist's many large islands. He'd waited to hear a second transmission from Boutin to confirm his location before he returned.
Upon hearing this fact, Jared had accessed the recorded file to hear the voice of the man he was supposed to have been. He'd heard Boutin's voice before, on voice recordings that Wilson and Cainen had played for him; the voice on those recordings was the same as the one on this one. Older, creakier and more stressed, but there was no mistaking the timbre or cadence. Jared was aware just how much Boutin's sounded like his own, which was to be expected and also more than a little disconcerting.
I've got a strange life, Jared thought, and then glanced up to make sure the thought hadn't leaked. Seaborg was still examining the sled and gave no indication of having heard him.
Jared walked through the collection of sleds toward another object in the room, a spherical object slightly larger than the sleds itself. It was a piece of interesting Special Forces skullduggery called a "capture pod," used when Special Forces had something or someone they wanted to evacuate but couldn't evacuate themselves. Inside the sphere was a hollow designed to hold a single member of most midsized intelligent species; Special Forces soldiers shoved them in, sealed the pod, and then backed off as the pod's lifters blasted the pod toward the sky. Inside the pod a strong antigravity field kicked in when the lifters did, otherwise the occupant would be flattened. The pod would then be retrieved by a Special Forces ship located overhead.
The capture pod was for Boutin. The plan was simple: Attack the science station where they had located Boutin, and disable its communications. Grab Boutin and stuff him into the capture pod, which would head out to Skip Drive distance—the Kite would pop in just long enough to grab the pod and then get out before the Obin could give chase. After Boutin's capture, the science station would be destroyed with an old favorite: a meteor just large enough to wipe the station off the planet, which would hit just far enough away from the station that no one would get suspicious. In this case it would be a hit in the ocean several miles off the coast, so the science station would be obliterated in the ensuing tsunami. The Special Forces had been working with falling rocks for decades; they knew how to make it look like an accident. If everything went to plan, the Obin wouldn't even know they had been attacked.
To Jared's eye, there were two major flaws in the plan, both interrelated. The first was that the Skip Drive sleds could not land; they wouldn't survive contact with Arist's atmosphere, and even if they did, they wouldn't be steerable once they were in it. The members of 2nd Platoon on the mission would pop out into real space on the edge of Arist's atmosphere and then perform a near-space skydive down to the surface. Members of 2nd Platoon had done it before— Sagan had done it at the Battle of Coral and was none the worse for wear—but it struck Jared as asking for trouble.
The method of their arrival created the second major flaw in the plan: There was no simple way to extract the 2nd Platoon after the mission was completed. Once Boutin was captured, the 2nd's orders were ominous: Get as far away from the science station as possible, so as not to die in the scheduled tsunami (the mission plan had thoughtfully provided a map to a nearby high point that they figured should—should—stay dry during the deluge), and then hike into the uninhabited interior of the island to hide out for several days until Special Forces could send a clutch of capture pods to retrieve them. It would take more than one round of capture pod retrievals to evacuate all twenty-four members of the 2nd that would be on the mission, and Sagan had already informed Jared that he and she would be the last people off the planet.
Jared frowned at the memory of Sagan's pronouncement. Sagan had never been a big fan of his, he knew, and he knew that was because she was aware from the start that he'd been bred out of a traitor. She'd known more about him than he had. Her farewell when he was transferred to Mattson seemed sincere enough, but since he'd seen her at the cemetery, and been returned to her command, she'd seemed genuinely angry with him, as if he actually was Boutin. On one level Jared could sympathize—after all, as Cainen noted, he was more like Boutin now than he was like his older self—but on a more immediate level Jared resented being treated like the enemy. Jared wondered darkly if the reason Sagan was having him stay behind with her was so she could take care of him without anyone knowing.
Then he shook the idea out of his head. Sagan was capable of killing him, he was sure. But she wouldn't unless he gave her a reason. Best not to give her o reason, Jared thought.
Anyway, it wasn't Sagan he was worried about, it was Boutin himself. The mission anticipated some resistance from the small Obin military presence at the science station, but none from the scientists or from Boutin. This struck Jared as wrong. Jared had Boutin's anger in his head and knew the intelligence of the man, even if the details of all his work remained unclear to him. Jared doubted Boutin would go without a fight. This didn't mean Boutin would take up arms—he emphatically wasn't a warrior— but Boutin's weapon was his brain. It was Boutin's brain formulating a way to betray the Colonial Union that had put them all in this position to begin with. It was a bad assumption that they would simply be able to snatch and stuff Boutin. He almost certainly had a surprise in store.
What that surprise would be, however, eluded Jared.
::You hungry?:: Seaborg asked Jared. ::Because thinking about how insane a mission is going to be always makes me want to eat.::
Jared grinned. ::You must be hungry a lot.::
::One of the benefits of being Special Forces,:: Seaborg said. "That and skipping the awkward teenage years.::
::Studying up on teenagers?:: Jared asked.
::Sure,:: Seaborg said. "Because if I'm lucky I'll get to be one one day.::
::You just said we get to skip the awkward teenage years,:: Jared said.
::Well, when I get there they won't be awkward,:: Seaborg said. "Now come on. It's lasagna tonight.::
They went to get something to eat.
Sagan opened her eyes.
::How did it go?:: asked Szilard, who had been watching her as she listened in to Jared.
::Dirac's worried that we're underestimating Boutin,:: Sagan said. ::That he's planned for being attacked in some way we've missed.::
::Good,:: Szilard said. ::Because I feel the same way. That's why I want Dirac on the mission.::
Arist, green and cloudy, filled Jared's vision, surprising him with its immensity. Popping into existence at the bare edge of a planet's atmosphere with nothing but a carbon fiber cage around you was profoundly disturbing; Jared felt like he was going to fall. Which was of course exactly what he was doing.
Enough of this, he thought, and began disconnecting himself from his sled. Planetward, Jared located the five other members of his squad, all of whom translated before him: Sagan, Seaborg, Daniel Harvey, Anita Manley and Vernon Wigner. He also spotted the capture pod, and breathed a sigh of relief. The capture pod's mass was just short of the five-ton mark; there was a small but real concern it would be too massive to use the mini-Skip Drive. All of Jared's squad had pulled themselves from their sleds and were free-floating, slowly drifting from the spidery vehicles that had brought them this far.
The six of them were the forward force; their job was to guide down the capture pod and secure a landing area for the remaining members of 2nd Platoon, who would be following quickly behind. The island Boutin was on was carpeted with a thick tropical forest, which made any landing difficult; Sagan had chosen a small meadowed area about fifteen klicks from the science station to land at.
::Keep dispersed,:: Sagan said to her squad. "We'll regroup when we get through the worst of the atmosphere. Radio silence until you hear from me.::
Jared maneuvered himself to look at Arist and drank it in until his BrainPal, sensing the first tenuous effects of the atmosphere, wrapped him in a protective sphere of nanobots that flowed from a pack on his back and secured him in the middle, to keep him from making contact with the sphere and crisping himself where they intersected. The inside of the sphere let in no light; Jared was suspended in a small, dark private universe.
Left to his own thoughts, Jared returned to the Obin, the implacable and fascinating race whose company Boutin kept. The Colonial Union's records of the Obin went all the way back to the beginning of the Union, when a discussion over who owned a planet the human settlers had named Casablanca ended with the settlers removed with horrifying efficiency, and the Colonial Forces charged with taking back the planet likewise utterly routed. The Obin wouldn't surrender and would not take prisoners. Once they decided they wanted something they kept coming at it until they had it.
Get in their way enough and they would decide it was in their interest to remove you permanently. The Ala, who had fashioned the diamond dome of the general's mess at Phoenix, were not the first race the Obin had methodically wiped out, nor the last.
The one saving grace about the Obin was that they were not particularly acquisitive as starfaring races went. The Colonial Union would start ten colonies in the time it took the Obin to start one, and while the Obin were not shy about taking a planet held by another race when it suited them, it didn't suit them all that often. Omagh had been the first planet since Casablanca that the Obin had taken from humans, and even then it appeared that it was more of a case of opportunism (taking it from the Rraey, who presumably had fought to get it from the humans) than genuine expansion. The Obin reluctance to unnecessarily expand the race's holdings was one of the primary reasons the CDF suspected someone else had initiated the attack. If, as was suspected, it had been the Rraey who attacked Omagh and then managed to keep it, the Colonial Union would almost certainly have retaliated and attempted to take back the colony. The Rraey knew when to quit.
The other interesting thing about the Obin—which made their putative alliance with the Rraey and the Enesha so puzzling to Jared—was that in general, unless you were in their way or trying to get into their face, the Obin were utterly uninterested in other intelligent races. They kept no embassies nor had official communication with other races; as far as the Colonial Union was aware never once did the Obin ever formally declare war or sign a treaty with any other race. If you were at war with the Obin, you knew it because they were shooting at you. If you weren't at war with them, they had no communication with you at all. The Obin were not xenophobes; that would imply they hated other races. They simply didn't care about them. That the Obin, of all races, would align with not one but two other races was extraordinary; that they would align against the Colonial Union was ominous.
Underneath all of the data about Obin's relations—or lack thereof—with other intelligent races was a rumor about the race that the CDF did not give much credence to, but noted due to its widespread belief among other races: The Obin did not evolve intelligence but were given it by another race. The CDF discounted the rumor because the idea that any of the fiercely competitive races in this part of the galaxy would take the time to uplift some rock-banging underachievers was unlikely to the point of ridiculousness. The CDF knew of races who had exterminated the near-intelligent creatures they had discovered on the real estate they wanted, on the grounds that it was never too early to eliminate a competitor. It had known of none that did the opposite.
If the rumor were true, it would rather strongly imply that the intelligent designers of the Obin were the Consu, the only species in the local neighborhood with the high-end technological means to attempt a species-wide uplift, and also the philosophical motive, given that the Consu's racial mission was to bring all other intelligent species in the area into a state of perfection (i.e., like the Consu). The problem with that theory was that the Consu's method of bringing other races closer to Consu-like perfection usually involved forcing some poor hapless race to fight them, or pitting one lesser race against another, as the Consu did when they matched humans against the Rraey for the Battle of Coral. Even the species most likely to have created another intelligent species was more likely to destroy one instead, directly or indirectly, the race a victim of not meeting the Consu's high and inscrutable standards.
The Consu's high and inscrutable standards were the primary argument against the Consu creating the Obin, because the Obin, unique among all intelligent races, had almost no culture to speak of. What few xenographical studies of the Obin had been done by humans or other races discovered that aside from a spare and utilitarian language, and a facility for practical technology, the Obin produced nothing of creative note: No significant art across any of their perceivable senses, no literature, no religion or philosophy that xenographers could recognize as such. The Obin barely even had politics, which was unheard of. The Obin society was so bereft of culture that one researcher contributing to the CDF file on the Obin suggested quite seriously that it was an open question whether Obin performed casual conversation—or indeed were even capable of it. Jared was no expert on the Consu, but it seemed unlikely to him that a people so concerned with the ineffable and eschatological would create a people incapable of concerning themselves with either. If the Obin were what happened with intelligent design, it was an affirming argument for the value of evolution.
The sphere of nanobots surrounding Jared flung away and behind. He blinked furiously in the light until his eyes adjusted, and then sensed around for his squad. Tightbeams found him and highlighted the others, their bodies almost invisible thanks to their input-sensitive unitards; even the capture pod was camoed. Jared floated toward the capture pod to check its status but was warned away from it by Sagan, who checked it herself. Jared and the rest of the squad grouped closer together but not so close they would get in each other's way when they deployed their chutes.
The squad deployed chutes at the lowest possible height; even camouflaged, parachutes could be seen by an eye that knew what to look for. The capture pod's parachute was immense and designed to support dramatic air-braking; it made impressive snapping sounds as the nanobot-created canopy formed, filled with air and then violently tore apart, only to form again a second later. Finally the capture pod slowed enough that its parachute held.
Jared turned to the science station, several klicks to the south, and upped the magnification on his cowl to see if there was any movement at the science station that would suggest they had been seen. He saw nothing and had his observation confirmed by Wigner and Harvey. Moments later they were all on the ground, grunting as they moved the capture pod past the edge of the meadow and into the woods, and then moving quickly to augment its camouflage with foliage.
::Everyone remember where we parked,:: Seaborg said.
::Quiet,:: Sagan said, and appeared to be focusing on something internal. ::That was Roentgen,:: she said. ::The others are getting ready to deploy chutes.:: She hoisted her Empee. ::Come on, let's make sure there aren't any surprises.::
Jared felt a peculiar sensation, like his brain being picked.
::Oh, shit,:: Jared said.
Sagan turned to look at him. ::What?:: she said.
::We're i::n trouble, Jared said, and halfway through saying it Jared felt his integration with his squad violently cut off. He gasped and clutched his head, overwhelmed by the feeling of having one of his major senses ripped out of his skull. Around him Jared saw and heard the other squad members collapsing, crying out and vomiting from the pain and disorientation. He fell to his knees and tried to breathe. He retched.
Jared struggled back to his feet and stumbled over to Sagan, who was on her knees, wiping her mouth from vomiting. He grabbed her arm and tried to pull her up. "Come on," Jared said. "We have to get up. We have to hide."
"Wha—" Sagan coughed and spat, and looked up at Jared. "What's going on?"
"We're cut off," Jared said. "It's happened to me before, when I was at Covell. The Obin are blocking us from using our BrainPals."
"How?" Sagan yelled the question, too loudly.
"I don't know," Jared said.
Sagan stood up. "It's Boutin," she said, groggily. "He told them how. Must have."
"Maybe," Jared said. Sagan wobbled slightly; Jared steadied her and came around to face her. "We have to move, Lieutenant," he said. "If the Obin are blocking us, that means they know we're here. They're coming for us. We have to get our people up and moving."
"We have more people coming," Sagan said. "Have to…" She stopped, and straightened, as if something cold and horrible had just washed over her. "Oh, my God," she said. "Oh, my God." She looked up into the sky.
"What is it?" Jared asked, and looked up, scanning for the telltale subtle ripples of camouflaged parachutes. It took him a second to realize he didn't see any. It took him another second to realize what it meant.
"Oh, my God," Jared said.
Alex Roentgen's first guess was that he managed to lose his tight-beam connection with the rest of the platoon.
Well, shit, he thought, and shifted his position, spread-eagling and spinning a few times to let the tightbeam receiver seek out and locate the other members of the platoon, letting his BrainPal extrapolate their positions based on where they had been on their last transmission. He didn't need to find them all; just one would do nicely and then he would be reconnected, reintegrated.
Nothing.
Roentgen pushed his concerns away. He'd lost tightbeam before—only once, but once was enough to know it happened. He had reconnected when he made it to ground then; he'd do it again this time. He didn't have any more time to waste on it anyway because he was coming up on deployment altitude; they were deploying as low as possible to cover their tracks, so when to deploy was a matter of some precision. Roentgen checked his BrainPal to determine his altitude and it was then he realized that for the last minute he'd had no contact with his BrainPal at all.
Roentgen spent ten seconds processing the thought; it refused to process. Then tried again and this time his brain not only refused to process it but pushed back against it, expelling it violently, knowing the consequences of accepting the thought as truth. He attempted to access his BrainPal once, and then again and then again and then again and then again, each time fighting back a sense of panic that fed on itself exponentially. He called out inside his head. No one answered. No one had heard him. He was alone.
Alex Roentgen lost most of his mind then, and for the rest of his fall twisted and kicked and tore at the sky, screaming with a voice he used so rarely that some small, disassociated part of his brain marveled at the sound of it in his skull. His parachute did not deploy; it, like nearly every physical object and mental process Roentgen used, was controlled and activated by his BrainPal, a piece of equipment that had been so reliable for so long that the Colonial Defense Forces had simply stopped thinking of it as equipment and considered it as a given, like the rest of the brain and the soldier's physical body. Roentgen plummeted past the deployment line unknowing, uncaring, and insensate to the implications of passing through that final barrier.
It wasn't the knowledge that he was going to die that had driven Roentgen insane. It was being alone, separated, unintegrated for the first time and the last time in the six years he had been alive. In that time he'd felt the lives of his platoon mates in every intimate detail, how they fought, how they fucked, every moment that they lived, and the moment when they died. He took comfort in knowing he was there in their final moments and that others would be there for him in his. But they wouldn't be, and he wouldn't be there for them. The terror of his separation was matched by the shame of not being able to comfort his friends who were plunging to the same death as he was.
Alex Roentgen twisted again, faced the ground that would kill him, and screamed the scream of the abandoned.
Jared watched in dread as the pinwheeling gray dot above him appeared to gain speed in the final few seconds and, revealed as a screaming human, ground into the meadow with a sickening, splashy thud, followed by a horrifying bounce. The impact shocked Jared out of immobility. He shoved Sagan, screaming at her to run, and ran toward the others, hauling them up and shoving them toward the tree line, trying to make them get out of the way of the falling bodies.
Seaborg and Harvey had recovered but were staring at the sky, watching their friends die. Jared pushed Harvey and slapped Seaborg, yelling at both of them to move. Wigner refused to move and lay there, seemingly catatonic; Jared picked him up and handed him to Seaborg and told him to move. He reached down for Manley; she pushed him away and began crawling toward the meadow, screeching. She picked herself up and ran as bodies tore apart on impact around her. Sixty meters out she stopped, turned around rapidly and screamed away the rest of her sanity. Jared turned away and missed seeing the leg of the body that fell next to her clip her on the neck and shoulder, crushing arteries and bones and driving shattered ribs into her lungs and heart. Manley's scream clipped off with a grunt.
From the first hit, it took only two minutes for the rest of 2nd Platoon to hit the ground. Jared and the rest of his squad watched from the tree line as they fell.
When it was over, Jared turned to the four remaining members of the squad and took stock. All of them seemed to be in varying stages of shock, with Sagan being the most responsive and Wigner the least, although he finally seemed aware of his surroundings. Jared felt sick but was otherwise functioning; he'd spent enough time out of integration that he could function without it. For the moment, at least, he was in charge.
He turned to Sagan. "We need to move," he said. "Into the trees. Away from here."
"The mission—" Sagan began.
"There is no mission anymore," Jared said. "They know we're here. We're going to die if we stay."
The words seemed to help clear Sagan's head. "Someone needs to go back," she said. "Take the capture pod. Let the CDF know." She looked directly at him. "Not you."
"Not me," Jared agreed. He knew she said it because she was suspicious of him, but he didn't have time to worry about it. He couldn't go back because he was the only one who was entirely functional. "You go back," he suggested to Sagan.
"No," Sagan said. Flat. Final.
"Seaborg, then," Jared said. After Sagan, Seaborg was the next most functional; he could tell the CDF what had happened, and tell them to prepare for the worst.
"Seaborg," Sagan agreed.
"Okay," Jared said, and turned to Seaborg. "Come on, Steve. Let's get you in this thing."
Seaborg wobbled over and began removing foliage from the capture pod to get to the door, moved to open the entry and then stopped.
"What is it?" Jared said.
"How do I open this?" Seaborg said, his voice squeaky from non-use.
"Use your.. fuck," Jared said. The capture pod opened via BrainPal.
"Well, this is just fucking perfect," Seaborg said, and slumped angrily next to the pod.
Jared moved to Seaborg, and then stopped and cocked his head.
In the distance, something was coming closer, and whatever it was was not worried about sneaking up on them.
"What is it?" Sagan said.
"Someone's coming," Jared said. "More than one. The Obin. They've found us."
They managed to elude the Obin for half an hour before they were cornered.
The squad would have been better off separating, drawing the pursuing Obin in several directions and opening up the possibility of one or more of its number slipping away at the sacrifice of the others. But they stayed together, compensating for the lack of integration by staying in each other's sight. Jared led the way at first, Sagan taking up the rear to drag along Wigner. Somewhere along the way Jared and Sagan traded roles, Sagan taking them largely north, away from the Obin pursuing them.
A distant whine became louder; Jared looked up through the tree canopy and saw an Obin aircraft pacing the squad and then heading north. Ahead, Sagan skipped to the right and headed east; she'd heard the aircraft as well. A few minutes later a second aircraft appeared and paced the squad again, dropping down to about ten meters above the canopy. There was an immense rattle and branches fell and exploded around them; the Obin had opened fire. Sagan skidded to a stop as huge-caliber slugs blew up dirt directly in front of her. That was that for going east; the squad turned north.The aircraft turned and paced them, offering bullets when they lagged or when they deviated too far to the east or west. The aircraft wasn't giving chase; it was herding them efficiently toward an unknown destination.
That destination appeared ten minutes later when the squad emerged into another, smaller meadow, this one with the Obin who had been in the first aircraft waiting for them. Behind them the second aircraft was preparing to land; behind that the initial group of Obin, who had never been far behind, was now becoming visible through the trees.
Wigner, still not entirely recovered from the mental trauma of being unplugged, pushed away from Jared and raised his Empee, apparently determined not to go out without a fight. He sighted in at the group of Obin waiting for them in the meadow and yanked at the trigger. Nothing happened. To keep the Empee from being used against CDF soldiers by their enemies, the Empee required a BrainPal verification to fire. It got none. Wigner snarled in frustration, and then everything above his eyebrows disappeared as a single shot took off the top of his head. He collapsed; in the distance Jared could see an Obin soldier lowering a weapon.
Jared, Sagan, Harvey and Seaborg came together, drew their combat knives and put their backs to each other, each facing a different direction. Drawing their knives was a futile gesture of defiance; none of them pretended to imagine that the Obin needed to get within an arm's reach to kill them all. Each took some small comfort in knowing they'd die within arm's reach of each other. It wasn't integration, but it was the best they could hope for.
By this time the second aircraft had landed; from inside the craft six Obin emerged, three carrying weapons, two with other equipment, and one empty-handed. The empty-handed one swayed over to the humans in the Obin's peculiarly graceful gait, and stopped a prudent distance away, its back covered by the three weapon-wielding Obin. Its blinking multiple eyes appeared to fix on Sagan, who was closest to it.
"Surrender," it said, in sibilant but clear English.
Sagan blinked. "Excuse me?" she said. As far as she knew, the Obin never took prisoners.
"Surrender," it said again. "You will die if you do not."
"You will let us live if we surrender," Sagan said.
"Yes," the Obin said.
Jared glanced over to Sagan, who was to his right; he could see her chewing over the offer. The offer looked good to Jared; the Obin might kill them if they surrendered, but they would definitely kill them if they didn't. He didn't offer the opinion to Sagan; he knew she didn't trust him or want to hear his opinion about anything.
"Drop your weapons," Sagan said, finally. Jared dropped his knife and unslung his Empee; the others did likewise. The Obin also had them remove their packs and belts, leaving only their unitards. A couple of the Obin who had been in the original group pursuing them came over and picked up the weapons and equipment and hauled them back to the airship. When one walked in front of Harvey, Jared could feel him tense up; Jared suspected Harvey was trying very hard not to kick it.
Their weapons and equipment removed, Jared and the others were made to stand apart from each other while the two Obin bearing equipment waved said equipment over each of them, searching, Jared suspected, for hidden weapons. The two Obin scanned the other three and then came to Jared, only to cut their examination short. One of them offered up a fluty comment to the head Obin in its native language. The head Obin came over to Jared, two armed Obin trailing it.
"You come with us," it said.
Jared glanced over at Sagan, looking for clues on how she wanted him to play this and getting nothing. "Where am I going?" Jared asked.
The head Obin turned and trilled something. One of the Obin behind him raised his weapon and shot Steve Seaborg in the leg. Seaborg went down screaming.
The head Obin swiveled its attention back to Jared. "You come with us," it said again.
"Jesus fuck, Dirac!" Seaborg said. "Go with the fucking Obin!" Jared stepped out of line and allowed himself to be escorted to the aircraft.
Sagan watched Jared step out of line and briefly considered lunging and snapping his neck, depriving the Obin and Boutin of their prize and assuring that Dirac wouldn't have the opportunity to do anything stupid. The moment passed, and besides, it would have been a long shot anyway. And then they would all almost certainly be dead. As it was now they were still alive.
The head Obin turned its attention to Sagan, whom it recognized as the squad's leader. "You will stay," it said, and gamboled off before Sagan could say anything. She stepped forward to address the retreating Obin, but as she did three Obin came forward, brandishing weapons. Sagan put her hands up and backed away, but the Obin continued forward, motioning to Sagan that she and the rest of the squad needed to move.
She turned to Seaborg, who was still on the ground. "How's your leg?" she asked.
"The unitard caught most of it," he said, referring to the uniform's ability to stiffen and absorb some of the impact of a projectile. "It's not too bad. I'll live."
"Can you walk?" Sagan asked.
"As long as I'm not required to like it," Seaborg said.
"Come on, then," Sagan said, and held out her hand to help Seaborg up. "Harvey, get Wigner." Daniel Harvey walked over to the dead soldier and picked him up in a fireman's carry.
They were being herded into a depression slightly off-center from the middle of the meadow; the small spray of trees within it suggested the bedrock below had eroded away. As they arrived at the depression, Sagan heard the whine of an airship departing and a second whine of one arriving. The arriving craft, larger than the other two had been, landed near the depression, and from its guts rolled a series of identical machines.
"What the hell are those?" Harvey asked, setting down Wigner's body. Sagan didn't answer; she watched as the machines positioned themselves around the perimeter of the bowl, eight in all. The Obin who had come with the machines scrambled to the top of the machines and retracted the metal coverings, revealing large, multibarrel flechette guns. When all the covers had been retracted, one of the Obin activated the flechette guns; they powered up ominously, and began to track objects.
"It's a fence," Sagan said. "They've locked us in here." Sagan took an experimental step toward one of the guns; it swung toward her and tracked her movement. She took another step forward and it emitted a painful, high-pitched squeal, which Sagan assumed was designed to serve as a proximity warning. Sagan imagined that another step toward the gun would result in her foot being shot off at the very least, but she did not bother to test the proposition. She backed away from the gun; it turned off its siren but did not stop tracking her until she had retreated several steps.
"They had those here just waiting for us," Harvey said. "Very nice. What do you think are the odds?"
Sagan stared back up at the guns. "The odds are bad," Sagan said.
"What do you mean?" Harvey said.
"These are from the science station," Sagan said, motioning to the guns. "They have to be. There's no other sort of installation anywhere close to here. These aren't the sort of things a science station would just have lying around. They've used them here before to hold people in."
"Yeah, okay," Seaborg said. "But who? And why?"
"We've had six Special Forces ships disappear," Sagan said, omitting the one the Obin attacked and destroyed. "Those crews went somewhere. Maybe they were brought here."
"That still doesn't answer why," Seaborg said.
Sagan shrugged. She hadn't figured out that part yet.
The air was filled with the sound of the airships lifting off. The noise of their engines attenuated away, leaving nothing but the ambient sounds of nature behind.
"Great," Harvey said. He chucked a stone at one of the guns; it tracked the rock but didn't fire on it. "We're out here with no food, water or shelter. What you think the odds are that the Obin are never coming back for us?"
Sagan thought those odds were very good indeed.
"So you're me," Charles Boutin said to Jared. "Funny. I thought I'd be taller."
Jared said nothing. On arrival at the science station he had been confined to a creche, tightly secured, and wheeled through the high, bare hallways until he arrived at what he assumed was a laboratory, filled with unfamiliar machines. Jared was left there for what seemed like hours before Boutin entered and strolled right up to the creche, examining Jared physically as if he were a large and really interesting bug. Jared hoped Boutin would come up far enough to receive a head butt. He did not.
"That was a joke," Boutin said to Jared.
"I know," Jared said. "It just wasn't funny."
"Well," Boutin said. "I'm out of practice. You may have noticed the Obin are not the sort to crack wise."
"I noticed," Jared said. During the entire trip to the science station, the Obin were utterly silent. The only words the head Obin had said to Jared were "get out" when they arrived and "get in" when they opened the portable creche.
"You can blame the Consu for that," Boutin said. "When they made the Obin, I guess they forgot to drop in a humor module. Among the many other things they apparently forgot."
Despite himself—or because of whose memories and personality he held in his head—Jared's attention focused. "Then it's true?" he asked. "The Consu uplifted the Obin."
"If you want to call it that," Boutin said. "Although the word uplift by its nature implies good intentions on the part of the up-lifter, which is not in evidence here. From what I can get from the Obin, the Consu one day wondered what would happen if you made some species smart. So they came to Obinur, found an omnivore in a minor ecological niche, and gave it intelligence. You know, just to see what would happen next."
"What happened next?" Jared said.
"A long and cascading series of unintended consequences, my friend," Boutin said. "That end, for now, with you and me here in this lab. It's a direct line from there to here."
"I don't understand," Jared said.
"Of course you don't," Boutin said. "You don't have all the data. I didn't have all the data before I came here, so even if you know everything I know, you wouldn't know that. How much of what I know do you know?"
Jared said nothing. Boutin smiled. "Enough, anyway," he said. "I can tell you have some of my same interests. I saw how you perked up when I talked about the Consu. But maybe we should start with the simple things. Like: What is your name? I find it disconcerting to talk to my sort-of clone without having something to call you."
"Jared Dirac," Jared said.
"Ah," Boutin said. "Yes, the Special Forces naming protocol. Random first name, notable scientist last name. I did some work with the Special Forces at one time—indirectly, since you people don't like non-Special Forces getting in your way. What is that name you call us?"
"Realborn," Jared said.
"Right," Boutin said. "You like keeping yourself apart from the realborn. Anyway, the naming protocol of the Special Forces always amused me. The pool of last names is actually pretty limited: A couple hundred or so, and mostly classical European scientists. Not to mention the first names! Jared. Brad. Cynthia. John. Jane." The names came out as a good-natured sneer. "Hardly a non-Western name among them, and for no good reason, since Special Forces aren't recruited from Earth like the rest of the CDF. You could have been called Yusef al-Biruni and it would have been all the same to you. The set of names Special Forces uses implicitly says something about the point of view of the people who created them, and created you. Don't you think?"
"I like my name, Charles," Jared said.
"Touche," Boutin said. "But I got my name through family tradition, where yours was just mixed and matched. Not that there's anything wrong with 'Dirac' Named for Paul Dirac, no doubt. Ever heard of the 'Dirac sea'?"
"No," Jared said.
"Dirac proposed that what vacuum really was, was a vast sea of negative energy," Boutin said. "And that's a lovely image. Some physicists at the time thought it was an inelegant hypothesis, and maybe it was. But it was poetic, and they didn't appreciate that aspect. But that's physicists for you. Not exactly brimming over with poetry. The Obin are excellent physicists, and not one of them has any more poetry than a chicken. They definitely wouldn't appreciate the Dirac sea. How are you feeling?"
"Constrained," Jared said. "And I need to piss."
"So piss," Boutin said. "I don't mind. The creche is self-cleaning, of course. And I'm sure your unitard can wick away the urine."
"Not without talking to my BrainPal about it," Jared said. Without communicating with the owner's BrainPal, the nanobots in the unitard's fabric only maintained basic defensive properties, like impact stiffening, designed to keep the owner safe through loss of consciousness or BrainPal trauma. Secondary capabilities, like the ability to drain away sweat and urine, were deemed nonessential.
"Ah," Boutin said. "Well, here. Let me fix that." Boutin went to an object on one of the lab tables and pressed on it. Suddenly the thick cotton batting in Jared's skull lifted; his BrainPal functionality was back. Jared ignored his need to piss in a frantic attempt to try to contact Jane Sagan.
Boutin watched Jared with a small smile on his face. "It won't work," he said, after a minute of watching Jared's inner exertions. "The antenna here is strong enough to cause wave interference for about ten meters. It works in the lab and that's about it. Your friends are still jammed up. You can't reach them. You can't reach anyone."
"You can't jam BrainPals," Jared said. BrainPals transmitted through a series of multiple, redundant and encrypted transmission streams, each communicating through a shifting pattern of frequencies, the pattern of which was generated through a onetime key created when one BrainPal contacted another. It was virtually impossible to block even one of these streams; blocking all would be unheard of.
Boutin walked over to the antenna and pressed it again; the cotton batting in Jared's head returned. "You were saying?" Boutin said. Jared held back the urge to scream. After a minute Boutin turned the antenna back on. "Normally, you are right," Boutin said. "I supervised the latest round of communication protocols in the BrainPal. I helped design them. And you're entirely correct. You can't jam the communication streams, not without using such a high-energy broadcasting source that you overwhelmed all possible transmissions, including your own.
"But I'm not jamming the BrainPals that way," Boutin said. "Do you know what a 'back door' is? It's an easy-access entrance that a programmer or designer leaves himself into a complex program or design, so he can get into the guts of what he's working on without jumping through hoops. I had a back door into the BrainPal that only opens with my verification signal. The back door was designed to let me monitor BrainPal function on the prototypes for this last iteration, but it also allowed me to do some tweaking of the capabilities to factor out certain functions when I saw a glitch. One of the things I can do is turn off transmission capabilities. It's not in the design, so someone who is not me wouldn't know it was there."
Boutin paused for a second and regarded Jared. "But you should have known about the back door," he said. "Maybe you wouldn't have thought to use it as a weapon—I didn't until I got here—but if you're me you should know this. What do you know? Really?"
"How do you know about me?" Jared asked, to derail Boutin. "You knew I was supposed to be you. How did you know?"
"That's actually an interesting story," Boutin said, taking Jared's bait. "When we decided to make the back door a weapon, I made the code for the weapon like the code for the back door, because it was the simplest thing to do. That meant that it has the ability to check the function status of the BrainPals it affected. This turned out to be useful for a lot of reasons; not the least was letting us know how many soldiers we were dealing with at one time. It also gave us snapshots of the consciousness of the individual soldiers. This also is turning out to be useful.
"You were very recently at Covell Station, were you not?" Jared said nothing. "Oh, come now," Boutin said, irritably. "I know you were there. Stop acting like you are giving away state secrets."
"Yes," Jared said. "I was at Covell."
"Thank you," Boutin said. "We know there are Colonial soldiers at Omagh and that they come into Covell Station; we've placed detection devices there that scan for the back door. But they never go off. Whatever soldiers you have there must have different BrainPal architecture." Boutin glanced over to see Jared's reaction to this; Jared gave none. Boutin continued. "However, you tripped our alarms because you have the BrainPal I designed. Later on I got the consciousness signature sent to me, and as you might imagine I was floored. I know the image of my own consciousness very well, since I use my own pattern for a lot of testing. I let the Obin know I was looking for you. We were collecting Special Forces soldiers anyway, so this was not difficult for them to do. In fact, they should have tried to collect you at Covell."
"They tried to kill me at Covell," Jared said.
"Sorry," Boutin said. "Even the Obin can get a little excited in the thick of things. But you can take comfort in knowing that after that point they were told to scan first, shoot second."
"Thanks," Jared said. "That meant a lot to my squad mate today, when they shot him in the head."
"Sarcasm!" Boutin said. "That's more than most of your kind can manage. You got that from me. Like I said, they can get excitable. As well as telling them to look for you, I also told the Obin they could expect an attack here, because if one of you was running around with my consciousness, it was only a matter of time before you found your way here. You probably wouldn't risk a full-scale attack, but you'd probably try something sneaky, like you did. We were listening for this sort of attack, and we were listening for you. As soon as we had you on the ground, we threw the switch to disable the BrainPals."
Jared thought of the members of his platoon falling from the sky and felt sick. "You could have let them all land, you son of a bitch," Jared said. "When you blocked their BrainPals, they were defenseless. You know that."
"They're not defenseless," Boutin countered. "They can't use their Empees, but they can use their combat knives and their fighting skills. Ripping away your BrainPals causes most of you to go catatonic, but some of you still keep fighting. Look at you. Although you're probably better prepared than most. If you've got my memories, you know what it's like not to be connected all the time. Even so, six of you on the ground was more than enough. And we only needed you as it is."
"For what?" Jared asked.
"All in good time," Charles Boutin said.
"If you only need me, what are you going to do with my squad?" Jared asked.
"I could tell you, but I think you've deflected me long enough from my original question, don't you?" Boutin smiled. "I want to know what you know about me, and about being me, and about what you know of my plans here."
"Since I'm here, you already know we know about you," Jared said. "You're not a secret anymore."
"And let me just say that I'm very impressed about that," Boutin said. "I thought I had covered my tracks well. And I'm kicking myself for not formatting the storage device I stored that consciousness imprint on. I was in a rush to leave, you see. Even so, it's no excuse. It was stupid of me."
"I disagree," Jared said.
"I imagine you would," Boutin said. "Since without it you wouldn't be here, in many senses of the word here. I am impressed they were able to make a transfer back into a brain, however. Even I hadn't figured that out before I had to go. Who managed that?"
"Harry Wilson," Jared said.
"Harry!" Boutin said. "Nice guy. Didn't know he was that smart. He hid it well. Of course, I did do most of the work before he got to it. To get back to your point about the Colonial Union knowing I'm here, yes, it's a problem. But it's also an interesting opportunity. There are ways to make this work. Back to it, now, and let me cut short any further deflections by telling you that how you answer will help determine whether what remains of your squad lives or dies. Do you understand me?"
"I understand you," Jared said.
"Perfect," Boutin said. "Now, tell me what you know about me. How much do you know about my work?"
"Broad outlines," Jared said. "The details are difficult. I didn't have enough similar experiences to let those memories take root."
"Having similar experiences matters," Boutin said. "Interesting. And that would explain why you didn't know about the back door. How about my political views? What I felt about the Colonial Union and the CDF?"
"I'm guessing you don't like them," Jared said.
"That'd be a pretty good guess," Boutin said. "But that sounds like you don't have any first-hand knowledge of what I thought about any of that."
"No," Jared said.
"Because you don't have any experience with that sort of thing, do you?" Boutin said. "You're Special Forces, after all. They don't put questioning authority into your lesson plan. What about my personal experiences?"
"I remember most of it," Jared said. "I had enough experience for that."
"So you know about Zoe," Boutin mused.
Jared felt a flush of emotion at the child's name. "I know about her," he said, voice slightly husky.
Boutin picked up on it. "You feel it too," he said, coming up close to Jared. "Don't you? What I felt when they told me she was dead."
"I feel it," Jared said.
"You poor man," Boutin whispered. "To be made to feel that for a child you didn't know."
"I knew her," Jared said. "I knew her through you."
"I see that," Boutin said, and stepped away to a lab desk. "I'm sold, Jared," he said, regaining his composure and conversation. "You are sufficiently like me to officially be interesting."
"Does that mean you'll let my squad live?" Jared asked.
"For now," Boutin said. "You've been cooperative and they're fenced in by guns that will shred them into hamburger if they get within three meters of them, so there's no reason to kill them."
"And what about me?" Jared said.
"You, my friend, are going to get a complete and thorough brain scan," Boutin said, eyes to the desk, where he worked a keyboard. "In fact, I'm going to take a recording of your consciousness. I want to get a very close look at it indeed. I want to see how much like me you really are. It seems like you're missing a lot of detail, and you've got some Special Forces brainwashing to get over. But on the important things I'd guess we have a lot in common."
"We're different in one way I can think of," Jared said.
"Really," Boutin said. "Do tell."
"I wouldn't betray every human alive because my daughter died," Jared said.
Boutin looked at Jared, thoughtfully, for a minute. "You really think I'm doing this because Zoe was killed on Covell," Boutin finally said.
"I do," Jared said. "And I don't think this is the way to honor her memory."
"You don't, do you," Boutin said, and then turned back to the keyboard to jab at a button. Jared's creche thrummed, and he felt something like a pinch in his brain.
"I'm recording your consciousness now," Boutin said. "Just relax." He left the room, closing the door behind him. Jared, feeling the pinching increase in his head, didn't relax one bit. He closed his eyes.
Several minutes later Jared heard the door open and close. He opened his eyes. Boutin had come back and was standing by the door. "How's that consciousness recording working for you?" he asked Jared.
"It hurts like hell," Jared said.
"There is that unfortunate side effect," Boutin said. "I'm not sure why it happens. I'll have to look into that."
"I'd appreciate that," Jared said, through gritted teeth.
Boutin smiled. "More sarcasm," he said. "But I've brought you something that I think will ease your pain."
"Whatever it is, give me two of them," Jared said.
"I think one will be enough," Boutin said, and opened the door to show Zoe in the doorway.
Boutin was right. Jared's pain went away.
"Sweetheart," Boutin said to Zoe, "I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Jared. Say hello to him, please."
"Hello, Mr. Jared," said Zoe, in a small, uncertain voice. "Hi," Jared said, hardly risking saying any more because he felt like his voice could break and shatter. He collected himself. "Hello, Zoe. It's good to see you."
"You don't remember Jared, Zoe," Boutin said. "But he remembers you. He knew you from back when we were on Phoenix."
"Does he know Mommy?" Zoe asked.
"I believe he did know Mommy," Boutin said. "As well as anyone did."
"Why is he in that box?" Zoe asked.
"He's just helping Daddy with a little experiment, that's all," Boutin said.
"Can he come over to play when he's done?" Zoe said. "We'll see," Boutin said. "Why don't you say good-bye to him for now, honey. He and Daddy have a lot of work to do."
Zoe turned her attention back to Jared. "Good-bye, Mr. Jared," she said, and walked out of the doorway, presumably back to where she came from. Jared strained to watch her and hear her footfalls. Then Boutin closed the door.
"You understand that you're not going to be able to come over and play," Boutin said. "It's just that Zoe gets lonely here. I got the Obin to put a little receiver satellite in orbit over one of the smaller colonies to pirate their entertainment feeds to keep her amused, so she's not missing out on the joys of Colonial Union educational programming. But there's no one here for her to play with. She has an Obin nanny, but it mostly makes sure she doesn't fall down any stairs. It's just me and her."
"Tell me," Jared said. "Tell me how she can possibly be alive. The Obin killed everyone at Covell."
"The Obin saved Zoe," Boutin said. "It was the Rraey who attacked Covell and Omagh, not the Obin. The Rraey did it to get back at the Colonial Union for their defeat at Coral. They didn't even actually want Omagh. They just picked a soft target to attack. The Obin found out about their plans and timed their arrival for just after the first phase of the attack, when the Rraey would still be weak from their fight with the humans. Once they pried the Rraey off Covell, they went through the station and found the civilians jammed into a meeting room. They were being held there. The Rraey killed all the military staff and scientists because their bodies are improved too much to make for good eating. But the colonist staff—well, they were just fine. If the Obin hadn't attacked when they did, the Rraey would have slaughtered and eaten them all."
"Where are the rest of the civilians?" Jared asked.
"Well, the Obin killed them, of course," Boutin said. "You know the Obin don't usually take prisoners."
"But they saved Zoe, you said," Jared said.
Boutin smiled. "While they were going through the station, the Obin did a tour of the science labs to see if there were any ideas worth stealing," he said. "They're excellent scientists, but they're not very creative. They can improve on ideas and technology they find from other places, but they're not very good at originating the technology themselves. The science station is one of the main reasons they were interested in Omagh at all. They found my work on consciousness, and they were interested. They found out I wasn't on the station, but that Zoe was. So they kept her while they were looking for me."
"They used her as blackmail," Jared said.
"No," Boutin said. "More as a goodwill gesture. And I was the one who demanded things from them."
"They held Zoe, and you demanded things from them," Jared said.
"That's right," Boutin said.
"Like what?" Jared asked.
"Like this war," Boutin said.
Jane Sagan edged closer to the eighth and final gun emplacement. Like the others it tracked her and then warned her the closer she got to it. As near as she could tell if she got closer than about three meters, the gun would fire. Sagan picked up a rock and threw it directly at the gun; the rock struck and bounced off harmlessly, the gun's systems tracking but otherwise ignoring the projectile. The gun could differentiate between a rock and a human. That's some fine engineering, Sagan thought, not very charitably.
She found a larger rock, stepped up to the edge of the safe zone, and chucked it to the right of the gun. It tracked the rock; farther to her right another gun trained on her. The guns shared targeting information; she wasn't going to get past them by distracting one of them.
The bowl they were in was shallow enough that Sagan could see over the lip; as far as she could see there weren't any Obin soldiers in the area. Either they were hiding or they were confident the humans weren't going anywhere.
"Yes!"
Sagan turned and saw Daniel Harvey coming toward her with something squirmy in his hand. "Look who's got dinner," he said.
"What is that?" Sagan asked.
"The hell if I know," Harvey said. "I saw it slithering out of the ground and caught it before it went back in. Put up a fight, though. I had to grab its head to keep it from biting me. I figure we can eat it."
By this time Seaborg had limped over to look at the creature. "I'm not eating that," he said.
"Fine," Harvey said. "You starve. The lieutenant and I will eat it."
"We can't eat it," Sagan said. "The animals here aren't compatible with our food needs. You might as well eat rocks."
Harvey looked at Sagan as if she had just taken a dump on his head. "Fine," he said, and bent down to let the thing go.
"Wait," Sagan said. "I want you to throw that."
"What?" Harvey said.
"Throw that thing at the gun," Sagan said. "I want to see what the guns will do to something living."
"That's kind of cruel," Harvey said.
"A minute ago, you were thinking about eating the damn thing," Seaborg said, "and now you're worried about cruelty to animals?"
"Shut up," Harvey said. He cocked his arm back to throw the animal.
"Harvey," Sagan said. "Don't throw it directly at the gun, please."
Harvey suddenly realized that the trajectory of the projectiles would lead directly back to his body. "Sorry," he said. "Stupid of me."
"Throw it up," Sagan said. "Way up." Harvey shrugged and launched the thing high into the air, in an arc that took the thing away from the three of them. The creature writhed in midair. The gun tracked the creature as far up as it could, roughly fifty degrees up. It rotated and shot the thing apart as soon as it came back into its range, shredding it with a spray of thin needles that expanded on contact with the poor creature's flesh. In less than a second there was nothing left of the thing but mist and a few chunks falling to the ground.
"Very nice," Harvey said. "Now we know the guns really work. And I'm still hungry."
"That's very interesting," Sagan said.
"That I'm hungry?" Harvey said.
"No, Harvey," Sagan said, irritated. "I don't actually give a damn about your stomach right now. What's interesting is that the guns can only target up to a certain angle. They're ground suppression."
"So?" Harvey said. "We're on the ground."
"Trees," Seaborg said, suddenly. "Son of a bitch."
"What are you thinking, Seaborg?" Sagan asked.
"In training, Dirac and I won a war game by sneaking up on the opposing side in the trees," he said. "They were expecting us to attack from the ground. They never bothered looking up until we got right up on them. Then I almost fell out of the tree and nearly got myself killed. But the idea worked."
The three of them turned to look at the trees inside their perimeter. They weren't real trees, but the Aristian equivalent: large spindly plants that reached meters high into the sky.
"Tell me we're all having the same bugshit crazy thought," Harvey said. "I'd hate to think it was just me."
"Come on," Sagan said. "Let's see what we can do with this."
"That's insane," Jared said. "The Obin wouldn't start a war just because you asked them to."
"Really?" Boutin said. A sneer crept onto his face. "And you know this from your vast, personal knowledge of the Obin? Your years of study on the matter? You wrote your doctoral thesis on the Obin?"
"No species would go to war just because you asked them to," Jared said. "The Obin don't do anything for anyone else."
"And they're not now," Boutin said. "The war is a means to an end—they want what I can offer them."
"And what is that?" Jared asked.
"I can give them souls," Boutin said.
"I don't understand," Jared said.
"It's because you don't know the Obin," Boutin said. "The Obin are a created race—the Consu made them just to see what would happen. But despite rumors to the contrary, the Consu aren't perfect. They make mistakes. And they made a huge mistake when they made the Obin. They gave the Obin intelligence, but what they couldn't do—what they didn't have the capability of doing—was to give the Obin consciousness."
"The Obin are conscious," Jared said. "They have a society. They communicate. They remember. They think."
"So what?" Boutin said. "Termites have societies. Every species communicates. You don't have to be intelligent to remember—you have a computer in your head that remembers everything you ever do, and it's fundamentally no more intelligent than a rock. And as for thinking, what about thinking requires you to observe yourself doing it? Not a goddamned thing. You can create an entire starfaring race that has no more self-introspection than a protozoan, and the Obin are the living proof of that. The Obin are aware collectively that they exist. But not one of them individually has anything that you would recognize as a personality. No ego. No 'I.'"
"That doesn't make any sense," Jared said.
"Why not?" Boutin said. "What are the trappings of self-awareness? And do the Obin have it? The Obin have no art, Dirac. They have no music or literature or visual arts. They comprehend the concept of art intellectually but they have no way to appreciate it. The only time they communicate is to tell each other factual things: where they're going, or what's over that hill or how many people they need to kill. They can't lie. They have no moral inhibition against it—they don't actually have any real moral inhibitions against anything—but they can no more formulate a lie than you or I could levitate an object with our mind power. Our brains aren't wired that way; their brains aren't wired that way. Everybody lies. Everybody who is conscious, who has a self-image to maintain. But they don't. They're perfect."
"Being ignorant of your own existence is not what I'd call 'perfect,' " Jared said.
"They are perfect," Boutin insisted. "They don't lie. They cooperate perfectly with each other, within the structure of their society. Challenges or disagreements are dealt with in a prescribed manner. They don't backstab. They are perfectly moral because their morals are absolute—hardcoded. They have no vanity and no ambition. They don't even have sexual vanity. They're all hermaphrodites, and pass their genetic information to each other as casually as you or I would shake hands. And they have no fear."
"Every creature has fear," Jared said. "Even the non-conscious ones."
"No," Boutin said. "Every creature has a survival instinct. It looks like fear but it's not the same thing. Fear isn't the desire to avoid death or pain. Fear is rooted in the knowledge that what you recognize as yourself can cease to exist. Fear is existential. The Obin are not existential in the slightest. That's why they don't surrender. It's why they don't take prisoners. It's why the Colonial Union fears them, you know. Because they can't be made afraid. What an advantage that is! It's so much of an advantage that if I'm ever in charge of creating human soldiers again, I'm going to suggest stripping out their consciousness."
Jared shuddered. Boutin noted it. "Come now, Dirac," Boutin said. "You can't tell me that awareness has been a happything for you. Aware that you've been created for a purpose other than your own existence. Aware of memories of someone else's life. Aware that your purpose is nothing more than to kill the people and things the Colonial Union points you at. You're a gun with an ego. You'd be better off without the ego."
"Horseshit," Jared said.
Boutin smiled. "Well, fair enough," he said. "I can't say I'd want to be without self-awareness, either. And since you're supposed to be me I can't say that I'm surprised you feel the same way."
"If the Obin are perfect I don't see why they would need you," Jared said.
"Because they don't see themselves as perfect, of course," Boutin said. "They know they lack consciousness, and while individually it might not matter much to them, as a species, it matters a great deal. They saw my work on consciousness—mostly on consciousness transference but also my early notes on recording and storing consciousness entirely. They desired what they thought I could give them. Greatly."
"Have you given them consciousness?" Jared asked.
"Not yet," Boutin said. "But I'm getting close. Close enough to make them desire it even more."
"'Desire,'" Jared repeated. "A strong emotion for a species who lacks sentience."
"Do you know what Obin means?" Boutin asked. "What the actual word means in the Obin language, when it's not being used to refer to the Obin as a species."
"No," Jared said.
"It means lacking," Boutin said, and cocked his head, bemusedly. "Isn't that interesting? With most intelligent species, if you look back far enough for the etymological roots of what they call themselves, you'll come up with some variation or another of the people. Because every species starts off on their own little home world, convinced they are the absolute center of the universe. Not the Obin. They knew right from the beginning what they were, and the word they used to describe themselves showed they knew that they were missing something every other intelligent species had. They lacked consciousness. It's just about the only truly descriptive noun they have. Well, that and Obinur, which means home of those who lack. Everything else is just dry as dust. Arist means third moon. But Obin is remarkable. Imagine if every species named itself after its greatest flaw. We could name our species arrogance."
"Why would knowing they lack consciousness matter to them?" Jared asked.
"Why did knowing that she couldn't eat from the tree of knowledge matter to Eve?" Boutin said. "It shouldn't have mattered but it did. She was temptable—which, if you believe in an all-powerful God, means God intentionally put temptation into Eve. Which seems like a dirty trick, if you ask me. There's no reason the Obin should desire sentience. It'll do them no good. But they want it anyway. I think it's possible that the Consu, rather than screwing up and creating an intelligence without ego, intentionally created the Obin that way, and then programmed them with the desire for the one thing they could not have."
"But why?"
"Why do the Consu do anything?" Boutin said. "When you're the most advanced species around, you don't have to explain yourselves to the rock bangers, which would be us. For our purposes, they might as well be gods. And the Obin are the poor, insensate Adams and Eves."
"So this makes you the snake," Jared said.
Boutin smiled at the backhanded reference. "Maybe so," he said. "And maybe by giving the Obin what they want, I'll force them out of their egoless paradise. They can deal with that. In the meantime, I'll get what I want from this. I'll get my war, and I'll get the end of the Colonial Union."
The "tree" the three of them looked at stood about ten meters high and was about a meter in diameter. The trunk was covered with ridges; in a rainfall these could funnel water into the inner part of the tree. Every three meters, larger ridges sprouted a circular array of vines and delicate branches, decreasing in circumference as they increased in altitude. Sagan, Seaborg and Harvey watched as the tree swayed in the breeze.
"It's a pretty light breeze to make the tree sway this much," Sagan said.
"The wind's probably faster up there," Harvey said.
"Not by that much," Sagan said. "If at all. It's only ten meters up."
"Maybe it's hollow," Seaborg said. "Like the trees on Phoenix. When Dirac and I were doing our thing, we had to be careful which of the Phoenix trees we walked across. Some of the smaller ones wouldn't have supported our weight."
Sagan nodded. She approached the tree and put weight on one of the smaller ridges. It held for a reasonable amount of time before she could snap it off. She looked up at the tree again, thinking.
"Going for a climb, Lieutenant?" Harvey asked. Sagan didn't answer; she gripped the ridges on the tree and hoisted herself up, taking care to distribute her weight as evenly as possible so as not to put too much strain on any one ridge. About two-thirds of the way up, with the trunk beginning to taper, she felt the tree begin to bend. Her weight was pulling down the trunk. Three-quarters of the way up, and the tree was significantly bent. Sagan listened for the sounds of the tree snapping or cracking, but heard nothing except the rustle of the tree ridges scraping against each other. These trees were immensely flexible; Sagan suspected that they saw a lot of wind as Arist's global ocean generated immense hurricanes that lashed over the planet's relatively tiny island continents.
"Harvey," Sagan said, moving slightly back and forth to keep the tree balanced. "Tell me if the tree looks like it's going to snap."
"The base of the trunk looks fine," Harvey said.
Sagan looked over to the nearest gun. "How far do you think it is to that gun?" she said.
Harvey figured out where she was going with that. "Not nearly far enough for you to do what you're thinking of doing, Lieutenant."
Sagan wasn't so sure about that. "Harvey," she said. "Go get Wigner."
"What?" Harvey said.
"Bring Wigner here," Sagan said. "I want to try something." Harvey gawked in disbelief for a moment, and then stomped off to get Wigner. Sagan looked down at Seaborg. "How are you holding up?" she asked.
"My leg hurts," Seaborg said. "And my head hurts. I keep feeling like I'm missing something."
"It's the integration," Sagan said. "It's hard to focus without it."
"I'm focusing fine," Seaborg said. "It's just that I'm focusing on how much I'm missing."
"You'll make it," Sagan said. Seaborg grunted.
A few minutes later Harvey appeared with Wigner's body in a fireman's carry. "Let me guess," Harvey said. "You want me to deliver him to you."
"Yes, please," Sagan said.
"Sure, hell, why not?" Harvey said. "Nothing like climbing a tree while you've got a dead body over your shoulder."
"You can do it," Seaborg said.
"As long as people don't distract me," Harvey growled. He shifted Wigner and began to climb, adding his weight and Wigner's to the tree. The tree creaked and dipped considerably, causing Harvey to inch along to keep his balance and to keep from losing Wigner. By the time he got to Sagan, the trunk was bent at nearly a ninety-degree angle.
"What now?" Harvey said.
"Can you put him between us?" Sagan said. Harvey grunted, carefully slid Wigner off his shoulder, and positioned his body so it was prone on the tree. He looked up at Sagan. "Just for the record, this is a pretty fucked-up way for him to go," Harvey said.
"He's helping us," Sagan said. "There are worse things." She carefully swung her leg over the trunk of the tree. Harvey did the same in the other direction. "Count of three," Sagan said, and when she reached three they both jumped out of the tree, five meters to the ground.
Relieved of the weight of two humans, the tree snapped back toward perpendicular and then beyond it, flinging Wigner's corpse off the trunk and arcing it toward the guns. It was not an entirely successful launch; Wigner slipped down the trunk just prior to launch, compromising the total energy available and positioning him off-center just before he became airborne. Wigner's arc dropped him directly in front of the closest gun, which pulverized him instantly as soon as he fell into firing range. He dropped as a pile of meat and entrails.
"Christ," Seaborg said.
Sagan turned to Seaborg. "Can you climb with that leg?" she asked.
"I can," Seaborg said. "But I'm not in a rush to get all shot up like that."
"You won't," Sagan said. "I'll go."
"You just saw what happened to Wigner, right?" Harvey asked.
"I saw," Sagan said. "He was a corpse and he had no control over his flight. He also weighs more, and it was you and me in the tree. I'm lighter, I'm alive and the two of you mass more. I should be able to clear the gun."
"If you're wrong, you'll be pate," Harvey said.
"At least it'll be quick," Sagan said.
"Yes," Harvey said. "But messy."
"Look, you'll have plenty of time to criticize me when I'm dead," Sagan said. "For now, I'd just like all of us to get up this tree."
A few minutes later Seaborg and Harvey were on either side of Sagan, who was crouched and balancing on the bent trunk.
"Any last words?" Harvey said.
"I've always thought you were a real pain in the ass, Harvey," Sagan said.
Harvey smiled. "I love you too, Lieutenant." He nodded to Seaborg. "Now," he said. They dropped.
The tree whipped up; Sagan adjusted and fought against the acceleration to keep her position. When the tree reached the apex of its swing Sagan kicked off, adding her own force to the force of the tree launch. Sagan arced impossibly high, it seemed to her, easily clearing the guns, which tracked her but could not fire. The guns followed her until she was beyond the perimeter and rapidly arcing toward the meadow beyond. She had time to think, This is going to hurt before she balled up and plowed into the ground. Her unitard stiffened, absorbing some of the impact, but Sagan felt at least one rib crack from the hit. The stiffened unitard caused her to roll farther than she would have otherwise. She eventually came to a stop and, lying in the tall grass, tried to remember how to breathe. It took a few more minutes than she expected.
In the distance, Sagan heard Harvey and Seaborg calling for her. She also heard a low drone from the other direction, growing higher in pitch the longer she listened. Still lying in the tall grass, she shifted her position and tried to see over it.
A pair of Obin were coming, riding a small armed craft. They were coming right toward her.
"The first thing you have to understand is that the Colonial Union is evil," Boutin said to Jared.
Jared's headache had returned with a vengeance, and he longed to see Zoe again. "I don't see it," he said.
"Well, why would you," Boutin said. "You're a couple years old at most. And all your life has been made up of doing what someone else has told you to do. You've hardly made choices of your own, now, have you."
"I've had this lecture already," Jared said, recalling Cainen.
"From someone in Special Forces?" Boutin asked, genuinely surprised.
"From a Rraey prisoner," Jared said. "Named Cainen. Says he met you once."
Boutin furrowed his brow. "The name isn't familiar," he said. "But then I've met quite a few Rraey and Eneshans recently. They all tend to blur. But it makes sense a Rraey would tell you this. They find the whole Special Forces setup morally appalling."
"Yes, I know," Jared said. "He told me I was a slave."
"You are a slave!" Boutin said, excitedly. "Or an indentured servant, at the very least, bound to a term of service over which you have no control. Yes, they make you feel good about it by suggesting you were born specially to save humanity, and by chaining you to your platoon mates through integration. But when it comes right down to it, those are just ways they use to control you. You're a year old, maybe two. What do you know about the universe anyway? You know what they've told you—that it's a hostile place and that we are always under attack. But what would you say if I told you that everything the Colonial Union told you was wrong?"
"It's not wrong," Jared said. "It is hostile. I've seen enough combat to know that."
"But all you've seen is combat," Boutin said. "You've never been out where you weren't killing whatever the Colonial Union tells you to. And it's certainly true that the universe is hostile to the Colonial Union. And the reason for that is, the Colonial Union is hostile to the universe. In all the time humanity has been out in the universe we've never not been at war with nearly every other species we've come across. There are a few here or there the Colonial Union deems useful as allies or trade partners but so few as to have their numbers be insignificant. We know of six hundred and three intelligent species inside the Colonial Union's Skip horizon, Dirac. Do you know how many the CU classifies as a threat, meaning the CDF is able to preemptively attack at will? Five hundred and seventy-seven. When you're actively hostile toward ninety-six percent of all the intelligent races you know about, that's not just stupid. It's racial suicide."
"Other species are at war with each other," Jared said. "It's not just the Colonial Union that goes to war."
"Yes," Boutin said. "Every species has other species it competes with and goes to war against. But other species don't try to fight every other species they come across. The Rraey and the Enesha were longtime enemies before we allied them, and who knows, maybe they will be again. But neither of those species classifies all the other races as a permanent threat. Nobody does that but the Colonial Union. Have you heard of the Conclave, Dirac?"
"No," Jared said.
"The Conclave is a great meeting between hundreds of species in this part of the galaxy," Boutin said. "It convened more than twenty years ago to try to create a workable framework of government for the entire region. It would help stop the fighting for real estate by apportioning new colonies in a systematic way, rather than having every species run for the prize and try to beat off whoever tries to take it away. It would enforce the system with a multispecies military command that would attack anyone who tried to take a colony by force. Not every species has signed on to the Conclave, but only two species have refused even to send representatives. One is the Consu, because why would they. The other is the Colonial Union."
"You expect me to take your word for that," Jared said.
"I don't expect anything from you," Boutin said. "You don't know about it. The rank-and-file CDF doesn't know about it. The colonials certainly don't know about it. The Colonial Union has all the spaceships, Skip drones and communication satellites. It handles all the trade and what little diplomacy we engage in on its space stations. The Colonial Union is the bottleneck through which all information flows, and it decides what the colonies learn and what they don't. And not just the colonies, it's Earth too. Hell, Earth is the worst."
"Why?" Jared asked.
"Because it's been kept socially retarded for two hundred years," Boutin said. "The Colonial Union farms people there, Dirac. Uses the rich countries there for its military. Uses the poor countries for its colonial seed stock. And it likes the arrangement so much that the Colonial Union actively suppresses the natural evolution of society there. They don't want it to change. That would mess up their production of soldiers and colonists. So they sealed Earth off from the rest of humanity to keep the people there from knowing just how perfectly they're being held in stasis. Manufactured a disease—they called it the Crimp—and told the people on Earth it was an alien infection. Used it as an excuse to quarantine the planet. They let it flare up every generation or two just to maintain the pretense."
"I've met people from Earth," Jared said, thinking of Lieutenant Cloud. "They're not stupid. They would know if they were being held back."
"Oh, the Colonial Union will allow an innovation or two every couple of years to make them think they're still on a growth curve, but it's never anything useful," Boutin said. "A new computer here. A music player there. An organ transplant technique. They're allowed the occasional land war to keep things interesting. Meanwhile, they have all the same social and political structures they had two hundred years earlier, and they think it's because they've reached a point of genuine stability. And they still die of old age at seventy-five! It's ridiculous. The Colonial Union has managed Earth so well it doesn't even know it's being managed. It's in the dark. All the colonies are in the dark. Nobody knows anything."
"Except you," Jared said.
"I was building the soldiers, Dirac," Boutin said. "They had to let me know what was going on. I had top-secret clearance right until the moment I shot that clone of mine. That's why I know the Conclave is out there. And that's why I know if the Colonial Union isn't killed, humanity's going to get wiped out."
"We seem to have held our own up to this point," Jared said.
"That's because the Colonial Union takes advantage of chaos," Boutin said. "When the Conclave ratifies its agreement—and it will in the next year or two—the Colonial Union won't be able to found colonies anymore. The Conclave's military force will kick them off any planet they try to take. They won't be able to take over anyone's colonies, either. We'll be bottled up, and when another race decides to take one of our worlds, who will stop them? The Conclave won't protect races that won't participate. Slowly but surely we'll be whittled back to one world again. If we're left with that."
"Unless we have a war," Jared said, not hiding his skepticism.
"That's right," Boutin said. "The problem isn't humanity. It's the Colonial Union. Get rid of the Colonial Union, replace it with a government that actually helps its people instead of farming them and keeping them ignorant for its own purposes, and join with the Conclave to get a reasonable share of new colonial worlds."
"With you in charge, I presume," Jared said.
"Until we get things organized, yes," Boutin said.
"Minus the worlds that the Rraey and the Enesha, your allies in this adventure, take for their own," Jared said.
"The Rraey and the Enesha weren't going to fight for free," Boutin said.
"And the Obin taking Earth," Jared said.
"That's for me," Boutin said. "Personal request."
"Must be nice," Jared said.
"You continue to underestimate how badly the Obin want consciousness," Boutin said.
"I liked this better when I thought you were just trying to get revenge for Zoe," Jared said.
Boutin reared back, as if he'd been slapped. Then he leaned in close. "You know what the thought of losing Zoe did to me," Boutin hissed. "You know it. But let me tell you something that you don't seem to know. After we took back Coral from the Rraey, the CDF Military Intelligence office predicted the Rraey would make a counterattack and listed the five most likely targets. Omagh and and Covell Station were right at the top of that list. And you know what the CDF did about it?"
"No," Jared said.
"Not a goddamn thing," Boutin spat the words. "And the reason for that was that the CDF was spread thin in the aftermath of Coral, and some general decided what he really wanted to do was try to grab a colony world from the Robu. In other words, it was more important to go after some new real estate than to defend what we already had. They knew the attack was coming, and they did nothing. And until the Obin contacted me, all I knew was that the reason my daughter died was because the Colonial Union didn't do what it's supposed to do: keep safe the lives of those in its protection. To keep safe my daughter. Trust me, Dirac. This has everything to do with Zoe."
"And what if your war doesn't go the way you want it to?" Jared asked, softly. "The Obin are still going to want their consciousness, and they'll have nothing to give you."
Boutin smiled. "You're alluding to the fact that we've actually lost the Rraey and the Eneshans as allies," he said. Jared tried to hide his surprise and failed. "Yes, of course we know about that. And I have to admit it worried me for a while. But now we have something that I think puts us back on track and will allow the Obin to take on the Colonial Union by itself."
"I don't imagine you'll tell me what that is," Jared said.
"I'll be happy to tell you," Boutin said. "It's you."
Sagan scrabbled on the ground, looking for something to fight with. Her fingers wrapped around something that seemed solid, and she pulled at it. She came up with a clod of dirt.
Aw, fuck it, she thought, and then sprang up and flung it at the hovercraft as it went past. The clod connected with the head of the second Obin, sitting behind the first. It tilted in surprise and fell off its saddle seat, tumbling to the ground.
Sagan bolted from her place in the grass and was on the Obin in an instant. The dazed creature tried to raise its weapon at Sagan; she stepped to the side, yanked it out of its hand, and clubbed the Obin with it. The Obin screeched and stayed down.
In the distance the hovercraft was wheeling around and looking to make a run at Sagan. Sagan examined the weapon in her hand, trying to see if she could make sense of the thing before the hovercraft came back her way, and decided not to bother. She grabbed the Obin, punched it in the neck to keep it subdued, and searched it for an edged weapon. She found something like a combat knife hanging from its waist. Its shape and and balance was all wrong for a human hand but there was nothing she could do about that now.
The hovercraft had now turned around completely and was bearing down on Sagan. She could see the barrel of its gun spinning up to fire. Sagan reached down, and with the knife still in hand grabbed the fallen Obin and with a grunt heaved it into the path of the hovercraft and its gun. The Obin danced as the flechettes sliced into it. Sagan, covered by the dancing Obin, stepped to the side but as close as she dared to the craft and swung the knife as the Obin flashed by. She felt a shocking wrenching of her arm and was spun hard into the ground as the knife connected with the Obin's body. She stayed down, dazed and in pain, for several minutes.
When she finally got up she saw the hovercraft idling a hundred meters away. The Obin was still sitting on it, its dangling head held on to the neck by a flap of skin. Sagan pushed the Obin off the hovercraft and stripped it of its weapons and supplies. She then wiped the Obin's blood off the hovercraft as best she could and took a few minutes to learn how the machine worked. Then she turned the thing around and flew it toward the fence. The hovercraft crested the guns easily; Sagan set it down out of their range, in front of Harvey and Seaborg.
"You look terrible," Harvey said.
"I feel terrible," Sagan said. "Now, would you like a ride out of here, or would you like to make some more small talk?"
"That depends," Harvey said. "Where are we going?"
"We had a mission," Sagan said. "I think we should finish it."
"Sure," Harvey said. "The three of us with no weapons, taking on at least several dozen Obin soldiers and attacking a science station."
Sagan hauled up the Obin weapon and handed it to Harvey. "Now you have a weapon," she said. "All you have to do is learn to use it."
"Swell," Harvey said, taking the weapon.
"How long do you think until the Obin realize one of their hovercraft is missing?" asked Seaborg.
"No time at all," Sagan said. "Come on. It's time to get moving."
"Looks like your recording is done," Boutin said to Jared, and turned to his desk display. Jared knew it before Boutin said it because the vise-like pinching had stopped mere instants ago. "What do you mean that I'm the thing to get you back on track against the Colonial Union?" Jared said. "I'm not going to help you."
"Why not?" Boutin said. "You're not interested in saving the human race from a slow asphyxiation?"
"Let's just say your presentation does not leave me entirely convinced," Jared said.
Boutin shrugged. "So it goes," he said. "Naturally, you being me, or some facsimile thereof, I would have hoped you'd come around to my way of thinking. But in the end, no matter how many of my memories or personal tics you may have, you're still someone else, aren't you? Or are for now, anyway."
"What does that mean?" Jared said.
"I'll get to that," Boutin said. "But let me tell you a story first. It will make some things clear. Many years ago, the Obin and a race called the Ala got into a go-around over some real estate. On the surface, the Ala and the Obin were well-matched militarily, but the Alaite army consisted of clones. This meant they were all susceptible to the same genetic weapon, a virus the Obin designed that would lie dormant for a while—long enough to be transmitted— and then dissolve the flesh of whatever poor Ala it was living in. The Alaite army was wiped out, and then so were the Ala."
"That's a lovely story," Jared said.
"Just wait, because it gets better," Boutin said. "Not too long ago, I thought about doing the same sort of thing to the Colonial Defense Forces. But doing that is more complicated than it sounds. For one thing, Colonial Defense Forces military bodies are almost entirely immune from disease—the SmartBlood simply won't tolerate pathogens. And of course neither the CDF or Special Forces bodies are actually cloned bodies, so even if we could infect them, they wouldn't all react in the same way. But then I realized there was one thing in each CDF body that was exactly the same. Something I knew my way around intimately."
"The BrainPal," Jared said.
"The BrainPal," Boutin said. "And for it, I could create a time-release virus of its own—one that would embed itself in the Brain-Pal, replicate every time one CDF member communicated with another, but would stay dormant until a date and time of my choosing. Then it would cause every body system regulated by the BrainPal to go haywire. Everyone with a BrainPal instantly dead, and all the human worlds open for conquest. Quick, easy, painless.
"But there was a problem. I had no way to get the virus in. My back door was for diagnostics only. I could read out and shut down certain systems, but it wasn't designed to upload code. In order to upload the code I would need someone to accept it for me and act as a carrier. So the Obin went looking for volunteers."
"The Special Forces ships," Jared said.
"We figured the Special Forces would be more vulnerable to their BrainPals locking up. All of you have never been without it, whereas regular CDF would still be able to function. And it turned out to be correct. You eventually recover, but the initial shock gave us lots of time to work with. We brought them here and tried to convince them to be carriers. First we asked, and then we insisted. Not one cracked. That's discipline."
"Where are they now?" Jared asked.
"They're dead," Boutin said. "The way the Obin insist is pretty forceful. I should amend that, though. Some of them survived and I've been using them for consciousness studies. They're alive, as much as brains in a jar can be."
Jared felt sick. "Fuck you, Boutin," he said.
"They should have volunteered," Boutin said.
"I'm glad they disappointed you," Jared said. "I'll be doing the same."
"I don't think so," Boutin said. "What makes you different, Dirac, is that none of them had my brain and my consciousness already in their heads. And you do."
"Even with both, I'm not you," Jared said. "You said it yourself."
"I said you're someone else for now," Boutin said. "I don't suppose you know what would happen to you if I transferred the consciousness that's in here"—Boutin tapped his temple—"and put it in your head, do you?"
Jared remembered his conversation with Cainen and Harry Wilson, when they suggested overlaying the recorded Boutin consciousness upon his own, and felt himself go cold. "It'll wipe out the consciousness that's already there."
"Yes," Boutin said.
"You'll kill me," Jared said.
"Well, yes," Boutin said. "But I did just make a recording of your consciousness, because I need to fine-tune my own transfer. It's everything you are as of five minutes ago. So you'll only be mostly dead."
"You son of a bitch," Jared said.
"And when I've uploaded my consciousness into your body, I'll serve as the carrier for the virus. It won't affect me, of course. But everyone else will get its full strength. Then I'll have your squad mates shot, and then Zoe and I will head back to Colonial Union space in that capture pod you've so thoughtfully provided. I'll tell them that Charles Boutin is dead, and the Obin will lie low until the BrainPal virus strikes. Then they'll move in and force the Colonial Union to surrender. And just like that, you and I will have saved humanity."
"Don't put this on me," Jared said. "I have nothing to do with this."
"Don't you?" Boutin said, amused. "Listen, Dirac. The Colonial Union is not going to see me as the instrument of its demise. I'll already be dead. They're going to see you, and you alone. Oh, you'll be a part of this, my friend. You don't have a choice."
"The more I think about this plan the less I like it," Harvey said to Sagan. They and Seaborg crouched at the line of the forest edging the science station.
"Try not to think so much," Sagan said. "That should be easy for you, Harvey," Seaborg said. He was trying to lighten the mood and doing a poor job of it.
Sagan glanced down at Seaborg's leg. "Are you going to be able to do this?" she asked. "Your limp's gotten worse."
"I'll be fine," Seaborg said. "I'm not going to sit here like a turd while you two are completing the mission."
"I'm not saying that," Sagan said. "I'm saying that you and Harvey could switch roles."
"I'm fine," Seaborg repeated. "And anyway, Harvey would kill me if I took his gig."
"Goddamn right," Harvey said. "This shit is what I'm good at."
"My leg hurts, but I can walk on it and run on it," Seaborg said. "I'll be fine. But let's not just sit here and talk about this anymore. My leg's going to tighten up."
Sagan nodded and turned her gaze back to the science station, which was a rather modest collection of buildings. On the north end of the compound were the Obin barracks, which were surprisingly compact; the Obin either did not want or need anything approaching privacy. Like humans the Obin collected together at mealtimes; many of them would be in the mess hall adjacent to the barracks. Harvey's job was to create a distraction there and draw attention to himself, leading the Obin in other parts of the station toward him.
On the south end of the compound was the energy generator/regulator, housed in a large, shed-like building. The Obin used what were essentially huge batteries, which were constantly charged by windmills placed at a distance from the station. Seaborg's job was to cut the power, somehow. He'd have to work with what he found there to make it happen.
Between the two was the science station proper. After the power dropped, Sagan would enter, find Boutin and extract him, pounding him unconscious if need be to get him to the capture pod. If she came across Dirac, she would need to make a quick determination whether he was useful or if he had gone traitor like his progenitor. If it was the latter, she would have to kill him, clean and quick.
Sagan suspected she was going to have to kill Dirac no matter what; she didn't really think she would have enough time to decide whether he was trustworthy or not, and she didn't have her BrainPal upgrade to read his thoughts on the matter. Sagan allowed herself a moment of mirthless amusement at the fact that her mind-reading ability, so secret and classified, was also completely useless to her when she really needed it. Sagan didn't want to have to kill Dirac, but she didn't see that she had a whole lot of options in the matter. Maybe he's already dead, Sagan thought. That would save me the trouble.
Sagan shook the thought out of her head. She didn't like what that particular line of thought was saying about her. She would worry about Dirac when and if Dirac showed up. In the meantime, the three of them had other things to worry about. In the end, what really mattered was getting Boutin to that capture pod.
We do have one advantage, Sagan thought. None of us really expects we're going to survive. That gives us options.
"Are we ready?" Sagan asked.
"We're ready," Seaborg said.
"Fuck, yes," Harvey said.
"Let's do it then," Sagan said. "Harvey, you're on."
Jared woke from a brief nap to find Zoe staring up at him. He smiled. "Hello, Zoe," he said.
"Hello," Zoe said, and frowned. "I forgot your name," she said.
"I'm Jared," he said.
"Oh, yeah," Zoe said. "Hello, Mr. Jared."
"Hello, sweetie," Jared said, and once again he found it hard to keep his voice even. He glanced down at the stuffed animal Zoe carried. "Is that Celeste the elephant?" he asked.
Zoe nodded, and held it up for him to see. "Uh-huh," she said. "I used to have a Babar, but I lost it. Do you know Babar?"
"I do," Jared said. "I remember seeing your Babar too."
"I miss my Babar," Zoe said in a little voice, but then perked up. "But then Daddy got me Celeste, after he came back."
"How long was he away?" Jared asked.
Zoe shrugged. "A long time," she said. "He said he had things he had to do first. But he said he sent the Obin to protect me and watch out for me."
"And did they?" Jared asked.
"I guess so," she said. She shrugged and said in a low voice, "I don't like the Obin. They're boring."
"I can see that," Jared said. "I'm sorry you and your dad were kept apart for so long, Zoe. I know he loves you very much."
"I know," Zoe said. "I love him too. I love Daddy and Mommy and all the grandparents I never met and my friends from Covell too. I miss them. Do you think they miss me?"
"I'm sure they do," Jared said, and willfully avoided thinking about what happened to her friends. He looked back at Zoe and saw her being pouty. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked.
"Daddy says that I have to go back to Phoenix with you," Zoe said. "He says that you're going to stay with me so he can finish up some work here."
"Your daddy and I talked about that," Jared said, carefully. "Do you not want to go back?"
"I want to go back with Daddy," she said, plaintively. "I don't want him to stay."
"He won't be gone very long," Jared said. "It's just the ship that we brought here to take you home is really small, and there's only going to be room in it for you and me."
"You could stay," Zoe said.
Jared laughed. "I wish I could, honey. But we'll have fun while we wait for your daddy, I promise. Is there anything you'd like to do when we get to Phoenix Station?"
"I want to buy some candy," Zoe said. "They don't have any here. Daddy says the Obin don't make any. He tried to make me some once, though."
"How was it?" Jared asked.
"It was really bad," Zoe said. "I want jawbreakers and butterscotch and lollipops and jellybeans. I like the black ones."
"I remember that," Jared said. "The first time I saw you, you were earing black jellybeans."
"When was that?" Zoe asked.
"It was a long time ago, sweetie," Jared said. "But I remember it like it was yesterday. And when we go back, you can have any candy you want."
"But not too much," Zoe said. "Because then my stomach will hurt."
"Exactly right," Jared said. "And we really couldn't have that. A stomachache just wouldn't do."
Zoe smiled up at Jared and broke his heart. "You're silly, Mr. Jared," she said.
"Well," Jared said, smiling back. "I try."
"Okay, I'm going to go," Zoe said. "Daddy's taking a nap. He doesn't know I'm here. I'm going to go wake him up because I'm hungry."
"You go do that, Zoe," Jared said. "Thank you for visiting, Zoe. I'm really glad you came by."
"Okay," Zoe said, turned around, and waved back to him as she went. "Bye, Mr. Jared! See you later."
"See you later," Jared said, knowing he wouldn't.
"Love you!" Zoe said, in that casual way that kids do.
"Love you too," Jared whispered, as a parent. He waited until he heard a door close down the adjoining hall before he let himself release the ragged, tearing breath he had been holding in.
Jared looked at the lab, his eyes flitting over the console Boutin had brought in to manage the consciousness transfer, and lingering on the second creche Boutin had brought in, the one in which he would place himself before sending over his consciousness to Jared's body, wiping out Jared's existence as if he were simply a placeholder, something put there to mark time until the body's true owner could take possession.
But then, Jared thought, wasn't that actually the case? It was Boutin who was intended to be in this body. That was why it was created. Jared was allowed to exist only because Boutin's consciousness refused at first to take up residence. It had to be coaxed in to share the mindspace Jared had created as caretaker. And now, irony of ironies, Boruin wanted it all, wanted to push Jared aside entirely. Damn it, Jared thought crazily. I just got this brain set up the way I like it! He laughed, and the laugh sounded shaky and weird to his ears. He tried to calm himself, bringing himself into a more rational state breath by breath.
Jared heard Boutin in his head, describing the wrongs of the Colonial Union, and heard the voice of Cainen, whom he trusted more to be honest about these things, echoing the sentiments. He looked into his own past as a member of the Special Forces, and the things they had done in the name of making the universe "safe for humanity." The Colonial Union did straddle every line of communication, directed every course of action, kept every aspect of humanity under tight control, and fought nearly every other race they knew of with persistent ferocity.
If the universe was as hostile as the Colonial Union said, perhaps this level of control was justified, for the overarching racial imperative of holding ground and making a place for humans in the universe. But if it wasn't—if what was fueling the Colonial Union's constant wars was not competition from the outside but paranoia and xenophobia from the inside—then Jared knew that he and everyone he'd known inside the Special Forces and out of it could have, in one way or another, led to the slow death of humanity that Boutin assured him was out there. He would have chosen to refuse to fight.
But, Jared thought, Boutin isn't reliable. Boutin labeled the Colonial Union as evil, but Boutin also chose to do evil things. He caused three separate races—two with long-standing issues—to come together to attack the Colonial Union, exposing billions of humans and billions of other intelligent creatures to the threat of war. He had experimented upon and killed Special Forces soldiers. He was planning to kill every single member of Special Forces and every other CDF soldier with his BrainPal virus, something akin to a genocide, considering the numbers and the unique makeup of the Colonial Defense Forces. And in killing the Colonial Defense Forces, Boutin would leave the colonies and Earth defenseless against any race who chose to claim one of the colonies as its own. The Obin couldn't stop the land rush from these other races—and probably wouldn't even if they could. The reward for the Obin was not land but consciousness.
The unprotected colonists would be doomed, Jared realized. Their colonies would be destroyed and there would be nowhere for them to go. It wasn't in the nature of the races in this part of the galaxy to share their worlds. Earth with its billions might survive; it would be hard to displace billions of humans without a fight. The more sparsely populated and less ecologically burdened colony planets would be far more attractive. But if someone decided to attack Earth, and the Earth had indeed been held back by the Colonial Union for its own purposes, it wouldn't be able to fully defend itself. It would survive, but the damage would be immense.
Doesn't Boutin see this? Jared asked himself. Perhaps he did, but chose to believe that it wouldn't happen that way. But maybe he simply never considered the consequences of his actions. When the Obin contacted him, perhaps all Boutin saw was a people so desperate for the thing he could give them that they would do anything to get it. Maybe Boutin asked for the moon and didn't give a thought to what he would do with the moon once he had it. Maybe Boutin didn't really think the Obin would really, truly give him the war he asked for.
Interlaced within all of this, Jared felt a sick-making worry for Zoe: What would happen to her if Boutin failed or was killed; what would happen to her if he succeeded? Jared felt guilty for worrying about what would happen to one small child when billions of lives would be altered or ended, but he couldn't help himself. As much as anything, he was looking for a way where Zoe lived through all of it.
Jared felt overwhelmed by the choices he needed to make, and underwhelmed by the information he had to make them with, and utterly bereft at how little he would be able to do about any of it. He felt like he was probably the last person in the world who should be wrestling with all of this. But there was nothing to be done about it now. He closed his eyes and considered his options.
An hour later Jared opened his eyes as Boutin came through the door, trailed by an Obin. "You're awake," Boutin said.
"I am," Jared said.
"It's time for me to make the transfer," Boutin said. "I've programmed in the process and run the simulations; it looks like it's going to run perfectly. There's no point in putting it off anymore."
"Far be it from me to stop you from killing me," Jared said, casually.
Boutin paused; Jared saw that coming right out and mentioning his incipient murder disturbed Boutin. Good, Jared thought.
"About that," Boutin said. "Before we do the transfer, I can run a directive that will put you to sleep, if you want. You wouldn't feel a thing. I'm offering that to you. If you want."
"You don't seem to want it," Jared said.
"It makes the transfer more difficult, from what I can see from the simulations," Boutin said. "The transfer will take more securely if you're conscious as well."
"Well then, by all means I'll stay awake," Jared said. "I wouldn't want to make this more difficult for you."
"Listen, Dirac," Boutin said. "This isn't something personal. You have to understand that you offer a way to make this all happen quickly and cleanly, with the least amount of bloodshed on all sides. I'm sorry you have to die, but the alternative is far more death."
"Murdering every Colonial Defense Forces soldier with your virus doesn't strike me as the least amount of bloodshed," Jared said.
Boutin turned and told the Obin to start the preparations; the Obin went to the console and went to work.
"Tell me," Jared said. "After you've killed all the Colonial Defense Forces, who is going to protect the human colonies? They won't have defenders anymore. You'll have killed them all."
"The Obin will protect them in the short run," Boutin said. "Until we can create a new defense force."
"Are you sure about that?" Jared said. "Once you give them consciousness, why would they need to do anything for you anymore? Or do you plan to withhold consciousness until after they give you your next demand?"
Boutin gave a quick glance back at the Obin in the room, and then faced Jared. "I'm not withholding anything," he said. "They'll do it because they've agreed to it."
"Are you willing to bet the life of Zoe on it?" Jared asked. "Because that's what you're doing."
"Don't lecture me on my daughter," Boutin spat at Jared, and turned away. Jared gave a sad shudder, thinking of the choices he was making.
The Obin nodded over at Boutin; it was time. Boutin looked over to Jared one more time. "Anything else you want to say before we get started?" he asked Jared.
"I think I'll save it for later," Jared said.
Boutin opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but before he could, a noise erupted from outside the station. It sounded like a very large gun going off very rapidly.
Harvey lived for this sort of shit.
His chief worry as they approached the science station was that Lieutenant Sagan would do one of her patented thoughtful, methodical approaches; something sneaky that would require him to tiptoe around like a goddamn spy or something. He hated that crap. Harvey knew what he was and what he was best at: He was a noisy son of a bitch and he was good at making things fall down and go boom. In his few introspective moments, Harvey wondered if his progie, the guy he was mostly made from, hadn't been something really antisocial, like a pyromaniac or a professional wrestler, or maybe had done time for assault. Whoever or whatever he was, Harvey would have been happy to give him a nice big smack on the lips. Harvey was absolutely at peace with his inner nature, in the sort of way that Zen Buddhist monks could only dream about. And so when Sagan told him his job was to draw attention to himself so she and Seaborg could do their jobs, Harvey did a little dance on the inside. He could definitely draw attention to himself.
The question was how.
Harvey was not especially introspective, but this didn't mean he was stupid. He was moral, within his lights; he understood the value of subtlety even if he wasn't much for it himself, and one of the reasons he could get away with being loud and obnoxious was that he was a fair stick at strategy and logistics. Give him a job and he'd do it, usually in the most entropy-producing way possible, yes, but also in a way that achieved exactly the aim it was supposed to. One of Harvey's guiding lights in terms of strategies was simplicity; all things being equal, Harvey preferred the course of action that let him get into the middle of things and then just buckle down. When asked about it, Harvey called it his Occam's razor theory of combat: The simplest way of kicking someone's ass was usually the correct one.
It was this philosophy that had Harvey taking the hovercraft Sagan had stolen, mounting it, and, after a few moments to glean the fundamentals of navigating it, rocketing on it toward the door of the Obin mess hall. As Harvey approached, the door to the mess hall opened inward; some Obin heading to duty after dinner. Harvey grinned a mad grin, gunned the hovercraft, and then braked it just enough (he hoped) to jam that fucking alien right back into the room.
It worked perfectly. The Obin had enough time for a surprised squawk before the hovercraft's gun struck it square in the chest, punching backward like it was a toy on a string, hurling down nearly the entire length of the hall. The other Obin in the room looked up while Harvey's victim pinwheeled to the ground, then turned their multiple eyes toward the doorway, Harvey, and the hovercraft with its big gun poking right into the room.
"Hello, boys!" Harvey said in a big, booming voice. "The 2nd Platoon sends its regards!" And with that, he jammed down the "fire" button on the gun and set to work.
Things got messy real fast after that. It was just fucking beautiful.
Harvey loved his job.
From the other side of the compound, Seaborg heard Harvey start in on his happy work, and had just a little bit of an involuntary shudder. It's not that Seaborg disliked Harvey, but after a couple of combat drops with the 2nd Platoon one got the sense that if you didn't like things to explode unnecessarily around you, you would want to stay well clear of Daniel Harvey.
The crash and bang did exactly what it was supposed to—the Obin soldiers at the generator abandoned their posts to help out those of their number who were being cheerfully massacred on the other side of the compound. Seaborg did a modified sprint to the generators, wincing as he did so, and surprised what he guessed were some Obin scientists as he came through the door. Seaborg shot one with one of those weird Obin weapons, and then snapped the other one's neck. That was more disturbing than Seaborg would have expected; he felt the bones or whatever they were give way as he struck. Unlike Harvey, Seaborg was never a natural with violence; he wasn't much of a natural in anything. This was something he sensed early and hid with overcompensation, which is why so many of his training squad members thought he was an asshole. He got over it—someone is going to push you off a cliff if you don't—but what he never got over was the idea that when it came right down to it, Special Forces was not a good fit for him.
Seaborg went into the next room, which took up the majority of the shed and which housed the two massive forms Seaborg assumed were the batteries he had to destroy. Harvey's distraction was going to work only so long as Harvey managed to keep himself alive, which Seaborg doubted would be very long at all. Seaborg looked in the room for controls or panels that could help him or at least give some indication how he could shut down the power. He saw nothing; all the panels and controls were back in the room he left the two dead Obin in. Seaborg briefly wondered if he should have left one of them alive and tried to convince it to shut down the power station, but he doubted he would have been very successful at all.
"Fuck," Seaborg said out loud in frustration, and for lack of anything better coming to mind, raised the Obin weapon and shot at one of the batteries. The projectile embedded in the metal skin of the huge battery, momentarily raising sparks, and then Seaborg heard a high-pitched whine, like air whistling out of a very small hole. He looked up at where he shot—a high-pressure stream of some green gas was spurting out. Seaborg looked at it.
What the hell, Seaborg thought, raising his weapon and aiming at the hole from which the stream was emanating. Let's see if that shit's flammable.
It was.
The power generator blast knocked Jane Sagan right on her ass and blinded her for a good three seconds; she recovered sight just in time to see large chunks of the power generator's room hurling through the sky in her general direction. Sagan backtracked enough to avoid the debris and instinctually checked her integration to see if by some miracle Seaborg had managed to survive. There was nothing there, of course. You don't survive a blast like that. She could feel Harvey, though, shocked for a moment out of his orgy of violence. Sagan turned her attention to the science station itself, its windows shattered and parts on fire, and it took her several seconds of formulating a plan before she realized that she had integration once more. Knocking out the power somehow brought back her BrainPal.
Sagan took an entirely inappropriate two seconds to revel in the return of her integration and BrainPal before she wondered if she were still integrated with someone else.
The blast knocked both Boutin and the Obin to the floor; Jared felt his creche shake violently. It managed to stay upright, as did the second creche. The lights went out, to be replaced a second later by the soft green glow of lights running on emergency power. The Obin got up and went to the wall to activate the lab's backup generator. Boutin picked himself up, cried for Zoe and ran out of the room. Jared watched him go, his own heart in his mouth.
::Dirac,:: Jane Sagan said. "Answer me.:: Integration flowed over Jared like golden light.
::I'm here,:: Jared said.
::Is Boutin still alive?:: Sagan asked.
::Yes,:: Jared said. ::But he's no longer the target for the mission.::
::I don't understand you,:: Sagan said.
::Jane,:: Jared said, using Sagan's first name for the first time either could remember. ::Zoe's alive. Zoe's here. His daughter. You need to find her. You need to get her away as fast as you can.::
There was an infinitesimal hesitation from Sagan. ::You need to tell me everything, now,:: Sagan said. "And you'd better hurry.::
As quickly as he could, Jared dumped everything he learned from Boutin to Sagan, including the recordings of the conversations he'd begun to create as soon as Boutin restored his BrainPal capacity, hoping against hope that some of his squad might have survived and would have found a way in to him. Sagan wouldn't have time to go through all the conversations, but they were there, for the record.
::We should still take Boutin back,:: Sagan said, after Jared finished.
::NO,:: Jared sent the word as strongly as possible. ::As long as he's alive the Obin will come for him. He's their key to the thing they want the most. If they were going to go to war because he asked them to, they would go to war to get him back.::
::Then I'll kill him,:: Sagan said.
::Get Zoe,:: Jared said. "I'll take care of Boutin.::
::How?:: Sagan said.
::Trust me,:: Jared said.
::Dirac,:: Sagan began.
::I know you don't trust me,:: Jared said. "And I know why you don't trust me. But I also remember what you once told me, Lieutenant. You told me, no matter what, to remember that I was Jared Dirac. I'm telling you now, Lieutenant. I know who I am. I am Jared Dirac of the Colonial Union Special Forces, and my job is to save humanity. I am asking you to trust me to do my job.::
An infinitely long pause. From the hallway, Jared heard Boutin heading back to the lab.
::Do your job, Private,:: Sagan said.
::I will,:: Jared said. ::Thank you.::
::I'll find Zoe,:: Sagan said.
::Tell her you're a friend of Mr. Jared, and that he and Daddy both said it was okay to go with you,:: Jared said. ::And don't forget her stuffed elephant.:: Jared sent information on where he thought Zoe would be, just down the hall from the lab.
::I won't,:: Sagan said.
::I need to break integration with you now,:: Jared said. ::Goodbye, Lieutenant. Thank you. Thank you for it all.::
::Good-bye, Jared,:: Sagan said, and before she broke integration sent him a wave of something that resembled reassurance. And then she was gone.
Jared was alone.
Boutin reentered the lab and yelled at the Obin, who snapped some switches. The lights came back up in the lab.
"Let's get going," Boutin said to the Obin. "We're under attack. We need to get this done now." Boutin looked over to Jared briefly. Jared just smiled and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the Obin tapping on the panel, Boutin opening and entering his creche, and the low thrum of Jared's own creche powering up for the consciousness transfer.
Jared's primary regret at the end of his life was that there had been so little of it. Just a year. But that year, so many people and experiences. Jared walked with them in his mind and felt their presence a final time: Jane Sagan, Harry Wilson, Cainen. General Mattson and Colonel Robbins. The 2nd Platoon, and the closeness they shared in integration. The strangeness of Captain Martin and the Gamerans. The jokes he shared with Lieutenant Cloud. Sarah Pauling, best beloved. And Zoe. Zoe who would live, if only Sagan could find her. And she would.
No, Jared thought. No regrets. Not one. Not for anything.
Jared heard the soft tap as the Obin initiated the transfer sequence. He held on to himself as long as he could. Then he let go.
Zoe screamed when there was a big roar that shook her room so hard she fell right off her bed and her TV came off the wall. Nanny came over to see if she was okay, but Zoe pushed it away. She didn't want Nanny, she wanted Daddy, and sure enough in just a minute he came through the door, sweeping her up in his arms and reassuring her and telling her that everything was going to be all right. Then he set her down and said to her that in just a few minutes Mr. Jared would be coming for her and she had to do what Mr. Jared said, but for now to stay in her room and with Nanny, because she would be safe there.
Zoe cried again for a minute and told Daddy that she didn't want him to leave, and he said that he would never leave her again. It didn't make sense because Mr. Jared was coming to get her in just a minute to take her away, but it made her feel better anyway. Then Daddy spoke to Nanny and left. Nanny went into the living room and came back holding one of those guns the Obin used. This was weird because as far as Zoe knew Nanny never used a weapon before. There were no more explosions but every once in a while Zoe could hear gunfire, going pop pop pop somewhere outside. Zoe got back on her bed, clutched Celeste and waited for Mr. Jared.
Nanny gave out a shriek and raised the weapon at something Zoe couldn't see and then ran out from the doorway. Zoe screamed and hid under the bed, crying, remembering what it was like at Covell and wondering if those chicken things were going to come get her again like they did there. She heard some thumping in the next room and then a scream. Zoe covered her ears and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again there were a pair of feet in the room, coming over to the bed. Zoe put a hand over her mouth to be quiet, but couldn't help a whimper or two. Then the feet became knees and hands and arms, and then a sideways head appeared and said something. Zoe squealed and tried to back out from underneath the bed, clutching Celeste, but as soon as she popped out the woman grabbed her and held her. Zoe kicked and screamed, and it was only after a while that Zoe realized that the woman was saying her name over and over again.
"It's all right, Zoe," the woman was saying. "It's all right. Shhhh. Shhhh. It's all right."
Zoe eventually stopped trying to get away and turned her head around. "Where's my daddy?" she said. "Where's Mr. Jared?"
"They both really busy right now," the woman said, still holding Zoe. "They told me to come get you and make sure you were all right. I'm Miss Jane."
"Daddy said I had to wait here until Mr. Jared came to get me," Zoe said.
"I know he did," Miss Jane said. "But right now they both have things they have to do. There's a lot going on right now, and it's keeping both of them from coming to find you. That's why they sent me, to keep you safe."
"Nanny keeps me safe," Zoe said.
"Nanny was called away," Miss Jane said. "It's really busy here right now."
"I heard something really loud," Zoe offered.
"Well, that's one of the things keeping everybody busy," Miss Jane said.
"Okay," Zoe said, doubtfully.
"Now, Zoe," Miss Jane said. "What I want you to do is put your arms around my shoulders, and your legs around my waist, hold on to me real tight, and keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them. Can you do that?"
"Uh-huh," Zoe said. "But how will I hold Celeste?"
"Well, let's put her in between you and me right here," Miss Jane said, and put Celeste between her tummy and Zoe's.
"She'll get squished," Zoe said.
"I know," Miss Jane said. "But it'll be all right. Are you ready?"
"I'm ready," Zoe said.
"Then close your eyes and hold on real tight," Miss Jane said, and Zoe did, even though when they walked out of her bedroom Zoe's eyes hadn't closed yet and as they came into the living room Zoe saw what looked like Nanny sleeping on the floor. Then Zoe closed her eyes all the way and waited for Miss Jane to tell her to open them again.
The Obin Sagan had encountered in the science building largely avoided her, leading her to believe they were mostly specialized as scientists, but every now and again one of them would try to engage her with a weapon or try attacking her physically. The quarters were too close to wield the awkward Obin rifle with any sort of accuracy; Sagan stuck with the knife and being quick. This approach failed her when the Obin babysitting Zoe nearly took off her head; Sagan threw the knife at the Obin to distract it and then launched herself at it, fighting it out hand to hand. Sagan knew she was lucky that while they were rolling on the floor the Obin got a leg caught up in the furniture; it gave her just enough time to squirm out of its grip, get on top of it and strangle the thing to death. With Zoe collected and held in the crook of her arm, it was time to get out. ::Harvey,:: Sagan said.
::Kind of busy right now,:: Harvey said. Through her integration Sagan could see him fighting his way toward a new hovercraft; he crashed his previous one into an airship that was trying to get off the ground and kill him from above.
::I've got the target and I need support. And a ride.::
::Five minutes and you'll have both,:: Harvey said. ::Just don't rush me.::
:.Tm rushing you,:: Sagan said, and then stopped the conversation. The hallway in front of Boutin's apartment led north, past Boutin's lab, and east, into other parts of the building. The lab hallway would connect her quicker to where Harvey could pick them up, but Sagan didn't want to risk Zoe seeing either her father or Jared as they went by. Sagan sighed, went back into the apartment, and retrieved the Obin weapon, felt it balance awkwardly in her grip. It was a two-handed weapon, and the hands were meant to be Obin, not human. Sagan hoped that everyone had abandoned the building or would be busy going after Harvey, and that she wouldn't have to use it.
She had to use it three times, the third time using it to batter an Obin when the ammunition ran out. The Obin screamed. So did Zoe, each time Sagan had to use the weapon. But she kept her eyes shut, like she promised.
Sagan reached the place where she came into the building, a blown-out window on the first floor of a stairwell. ::Where are you?:: she said to Harvey.
::Believe it or not, the Obin aren't keen to give me their equipment,:: Harvey sent. "Stop bugging me. I'll be there soon.::
"Are we safe yet?" Zoe asked, her voice muffled from her head being buried in Sagan's neck.
"Not yet," Sagan said. "Soon, Zoe."
"I want my daddy," Zoe said.
"I know, Zoe," Sagan said. "Shhh."
From the floors above Sagan heard movement.
Come on, Harvey, Sagan thought. Get moving.
The Obin were really beginning to piss Harvey off. Mowing down a couple dozen of them in the mess hall had been a uniquely satisfying experience, to be sure—cathartic, particularly in light of how the Obin bastards killed off most of the 2nd Platoon. And ramming the little hovercraft into that airship had held its own special pleasures. But once Harvey was on foot, he began to realize just how many of those damn Obin there were, and how much more difficult it was to manage them when one was hoofing it. And then here was Sagan—integrated again, and that was a good thing—but telling him she needed a ride. As if he weren't busy.
She's the boss, Harvey said. Getting one of the parked hovercraft was proving to be difficult; the Obin had them in a yard with only one way in. But there were at least two of them out and around, looking for him.
And look, Harvey said, as one zoomed into view, here comes one now. Harvey had been crouched down and trying to be inconspicuous, but now he stepped out where he could be seen and waved his hands broadly. "Hey!" Harvey yelled. "Asshole! Come get me, you creepy fuck!"
Whether by hearing him or seeing him move, the Obin operating the hovercraft turned toward Harvey. Okay, Harvey thought. Now what the fuck do I do?
The first order of business, it turned out, was jumping clear of the stream of flechettes that blasted out of the hovercraft's gun. Harvey rolled, came out of the roll prone and lined up his Obin weapon to shoot at the now-receding Obin. Harvey's first shot wasn't even close; the second took off the back of the Obin's head.
That's why you wear a helmet, jackass, Harvey thought, and went to retrieve his prize and then retrieve Sagan. Along the way a number of Obin on foot tried to do to Harvey what he had done to the Obin previously driving the hovercraft. Harvey preferred to run them down rather than shoot them, but he wasn't picky.
::Ride's here,:: Harvey said to Sagan, and then was more than a little surprised to see what Sagan was carrying. -That's a kid,:: he said.
::I know that,:: Sagan said, positioning Zoe securely on the hovercraft. "Get to the capture pod as fast as you can.:: Harvey accelerated to full speed and fled straight. There didn't seem to be any immediate chase.
::I thought we were supposed to bring back Boutin,:: Harvey said.
-Change of plans,:: Sagan said.
-Where's Boutin?:: Harvey asked.
"Dirac's taking care of him,:: Sagan said.
::Dirac,:: Harvey said, surprised again. ::I figured he was dead.::
::I'm pretty sure he is,:: Sagan said.
::Then how is he going to take care of Boutin?:: Harvey said.
::I have no idea,:: Sagan said. ::I just know he will.::
Boutin opened his eyes in a brand-new body.
Well, not brand-new, he corrected. Gently used.
His Obin assistant opened his creche and helped him out of it; Boutin took a few tentative steps and then a few non-tentative ones. Boutin looked around the lab and was fascinated to see how much more vibrant and engaging it was; it was if his senses had been at low volume all his life and then were suddenly cranked up to full. Even a science lab looked good.
Boutin looked over to his old body, which was brain-dead but still breathing; it would die of its own accord in a few hours or a day at most. Boutin would use this new body's capabilities to record its death and then take the evidence with him to the capture pod, along with his daughter. If the pod's still there, he quickly amended; it was clear that the Special Forces squad they had captured had somehow escaped. One of them might have taken it back. Well, Boutin thought, that's fine. He was already spinning an alternative story in his head, one in which he—as Dirac—killed Boutin. The Obin, denied their prize of consciousness, would stop the war and give Dirac permission to leave with Boutin's body and Zoe.
Hmmmm, that's not quite believable, Boutin thought. He'd have to work out the details. Whatever story he thought of, however—
Boutin suddenly became aware of a small image flitting across his field of vision. It was a picture of an envelope.
You have a message from Jared Dirac, read a block of text that appeared in the bottom of his field of view. To open it, say "open."
"Open," Boutin said out loud. This was curious.
The envelope opened and then faded. Rather than a text message, it was a voice message.
"Hello, Boutin," it said, in a simulated voice that sounded just like Dirac—sounded just like him now, actually, Boutin corrected. "I see that you have gone ahead and taken this body. But before I go, I thought I'd just leave you some final thoughts.
"A wise creature once told me that it was important to make choices," the voice continued. "Through much of my short life I made no choices at all, or at least no choices of consequence. But now at the end of my life, I am faced with a choice. I can't choose whether to live or die—you have made that choice for me. But when you told me that I had no choice but to help you with your plans, you made a mistake. I do have a choice, and I've made it.
"My choice is not to help you. I can't judge whether the Colonial Union is the best government for humanity; I didn't have the time to learn everything I should have learned about it. But I choose not to risk the deaths of millions or even billions by helping you engineer its overthrow. It may be that this will ultimately be the wrong decision to have made. But it is my decision, the one I think that best allows me to do what I was born to do. To keep humanity safe.
"There is some irony here, Boutin, in that you and I share so many of the same thoughts, share a common consciousness, and perhaps share the same goal of doing the best for our people— and yet with all we have in common, we have reached opposite conclusions on how to do that. I wish we had had more time between us, that I had been able to meet you as a friend and a brother instead of what I became to you, a vessel to pour yourself into. It's too late for that now. Too late for me, and although you don't realize it, too late for you also.
"Be that as it may, I want to thank you. For better or for worse, I was alive because of you, and for a brief time, I was able to experience the joys and sorrows this life has to offer. And I was able to meet and love Zoe, who I pray now will find a way to be safe. I owe you my life, Charles, just as I owe you my death.
"Now, allow me a digression, which I promise will come around to a compelling point. As you may or may not know, one of the interesting properties SmartBlood has is the ability to instantly oxidize—to combust. I can't help but think someone encoded that property into SmartBlood as something of a cruel joke, because I first saw it being used to kill insects that were trying to suck SmartBlood out of a Special Forces soldier. But it turned out to be useful too—it once saved my life in combat.
"Charles, you have engineered a virus that you plan to use to conquer the Colonial Union. Since you know about viruses as they relate to computers, maybe you've heard of the term Trojan horse as well. This message, my friend and brother, is a Trojan horse. When you opened the letter, you also executed a small program I created. The program instructs every nanobot in my SmartBlood to combust simultaneously on my command. I estimate it's taken exactly this long for the program to propagate through all of my SmartBlood.
"Let's find out."
Sagan received a message as she was placing Zoe into the capture pod. It was from Jared Dirac.
::If you're reading this, Charles Boutin is dead,:: it said. ::I had this message scheduled to be sent right after my former BrainPal executed a program to combust my SmartBlood. If the combustion doesn't kill him—and it will—he'll be dead of asphyxiation in just a few minutes. Either way, he's gone and so am I. I don't know if you'll get it but I hope you do, and that you are safe and well. Good-bye, Lieutenant Sagan. I'm glad to have known you. And if you see Cainen again, tell him I listened to him and made my choice.::
Sagan shared the message with Harvey. "Very nice,:: Harvey said. ::He was Special Forces through and through.::
::Yes, he was,:: Sagan said, and motioned Harvey toward the capture pod. "Get in, Harvey::
::You're joking,:: Harvey said.
"Someone needs to go back with Zoe',:: Sagan said. ::I'm commanding officer. I stay behind.::
"Lieutenant,:: Harvey said. "That kid doesn't know me. You're the one who pulled her out of there. You're the one who needs to go back with her. And besides, I don't want to go back yet. I'm having too much fun. I'm guessing that between now and the time the Colonial Union drops a rock on this place I can clean it out. And when I'm done with that maybe I'll go in and see if there's anything worth salvaging. So you go ahead, Sagan. Have them send a capture pod for me in a couple of days. I'll be fine, or I'll be dead. Either way I'll enjoy myself.::
::All right,:: Sagan said. ::If you do go into the compound again, try to get the storage devices from the transfer module in Boutin's lab. Make it a priority.::
::What's on them?:: Harvey said.
::It's not what,:: Sagan said. ::It's who.::
There was a hum in the distance. "They're on to us,:: Harvey said. "Get in, Lieutenant::
"Are we safe now?" Zoe asked, a few minutes after launch.
"Yes, Zoe," Sagan said. "I think we are."
"When is Daddy coming to see me?" Zoe said.
"I don't know, Zoe," Sagan said, and stroked Zoe's hair. "I don't know."
In the cramped confines of the capture pod, Zoe put her arms up to be held. Sagan held her.
"Well, Szi, you were right," General Mattson said. "Jared Dirac came in handy after all."
Mattson, General Szilard and Colonel Robbins were in the general's mess, eating lunch. All of them, this time: General Mattson had been the one to formally break the tradition of not letting subordinates eat by ordering Rob-bins a huge plate of spaghetti Bolognese, and responding to another outraged general's reaction by saying, clearly and loudly, "Shut the fuck up, you dried-up turd. This man deserves some goddamned pasta." Since then, other generals had begun to bring in their staffs as well.
"Thank you, General," Szilard said. "Now, if you don't mind, what I want to know is what you're doing to fix these problems with our BrainPals. I lost seven ships because your people left a back door wide open."
"Robbins has the details," Mattson said. They both turned to Robbins, who had a mouthful of beef Wellington. Robbins swallowed carefully.
"In the short run, we pulled out that back door, obviously," Robbins said. "We've propagated the fix on a priority upgrade to the BrainPals. That's fixed. In the slightly longer run, we're going through all the BrainPal programming looking for legacy code, back doors and other code that could represent a security issue. And we're also instituting virus checks for messages and information sent between BrainPals. Boutin's virus transmission wouldn't work now."
"It shouldn't have worked at all," Szilard said. "There have been virus blockers since right near the dawn of computing and you didn't implement it for BrainPals. You could have killed us all because you forgot to program in basic computer hygiene."
"It was never programmed in because there was never a need for it," Mattson said. "BrainPals are a closed system, totally secure from outside attacks. Even Boutin's attack ultimately didn't work."
"But it came damn close," Szilard said.
"Yes, well, it came damn close because someone at the table wanted to create a body we could stuff Charles Boutin's consciousness in," Mattson said. "Not that I'm going to name names."
"Hmmmm," Szilard said.
"The current series of BrainPals are coming to a close anyway," Robbins said. "Our next generation of BrainPals have been tested by the Gamerans and they're ready to be implemented across the CDF population. It's a completely different architecture, fully organic, and the code is optimized, without the legacy issues of earlier BrainPal code. The window is closing on this sort of attack, General."
"At least by anyone who worked on the previous generation," Szilard said. "But what about those who are working on the current generation? You need to find out whether any of them are going to go off the ranch."
"We'll look into it," Robbins said.
"See that you do," Szilard said.
"Speaking of off the ranch," Mattson said. "What are you going to do about Lieutenant Sagan?"
"What do you mean?" Szilard said.
"Not to put too fine a point on it, she knows too much," Matt-son said. "Through Boutin and Dirac, she knows about the Conclave and she knows how tightly we're keeping that information bottled up. She doesn't have clearance for that information, Szi. That's dangerous stuff."
"I don't see why it's dangerous," Szilard said. "If for no other reason than it's the truth. The Conclave is out there. And if it ever gets its act together, we're going to find ourselves up the proverbial creek."
"It's dangerous because it's not the whole truth, and you know that, Szi," Mattson said. "Boutin didn't know anything about the Counter-Conclave and how deeply we're involved with that, and how we've been playing one side against the other. Things are moving fast. We're getting to the point where alliances have to be formed and choices will have to be made. We won't be able to formally stay neutral anymore. We don't need Sagan out there telling people half the story and starting rumors."
"Then tell her the whole damn story," Szilard said. "She's an intelligence officer, for God's sake. She can handle the truth."
"It's not up to me," Mattson said. Szilard opened his mouth; Mattson put up both hands. "It's not up to me, Szi. If the Counter-Conclave formally breaks with the Conclave, you know what that's going to mean. The entire goddamn galaxy is going to be at war. We won't just be able to rely on our recruits from Earth anymore. We're going to have to ask the colonies to pony up as well. We may even have to start conscription. And you know what that's going to mean. The colonies will riot. We'll be lucky if we avoid a civil war. We're keeping the information from the colonies not because we want to keep them ignorant but because we don't want the whole fucking Union to fly apart."
"The longer we wait, the worse it's going to get," Szilard said. "We're never going to find a good way to break it to the colonies. And when they do find out, they're going to wonder what the hell the CU was doing keeping it from them for so long."
"It's not up to me," Mattson said.
"Yes, yes," Szilard said, testily. "Fortunately for you there's a way out. Sagan is close to the end of her term of service. She has a few months left, I think. Maybe a year. Close enough that we can retire her. From what I understand she was planning to leave the service when her time was up anyway. We'll put her on a brand-new colony and there she can stay, and if she talks to the neighbors about some Conclave, who the hell cares. They'll be too busy trying to get a crop in."
"Do you think you'll get her to do it?" Mattson said.
"We can entice her," Szilard said. "A couple of years ago, Sagan became quite attached to a CDF soldier named John Perry. Perry's a few years behind her in his term of service, but if we needed to we could spring him early. And it seems like she's become quite attached to Zoe Boutin, who is an orphan and who needs to be placed. You see where I'm going here."
"I can," Mattson said. "You should make it happen."
"I'll see what I can do," Szilard said. "And speaking of secrets, how are your negotiations with the Obin going?"
Both Mattson and Robbins looked at Szilard warily. "There are no negotiations with the Obin," Robbins said.
"Of course not," Szilard said. "You're not negotiating with the Obin to continue Boutin's consciousness program for them. And the Obin are not negotiating with us to knock down whichever of the Rraey or Eneshans is still left standing after their upcoming little war. No one's negotiating with anyone about anything. And how are these non-negotiations not going?"
Robbins looked at Mattson, who nodded. "They're not going surprisingly well," Robbins said. "We probably won't reach an agreement in the next couple of days."
"How not wonderful," Szilard said.
"I want to get back to Sagan," Mattson said. "When do you think you'll be able to get an answer from her?"
"I'll put it to her today," Szilard said. "And I'll tell her to be ready in a week. That should give her time to take care of things that need to be done."
"Like what?" Mattson said.
"Good-byes and closure, of course," Szilard said. "And a few other decisions I am going to ask her to make."
Jane Sagan peered into what looked like a miniature light show. "What is this?" she asked.
"It's Jared Dirac's soul," Cainen said.
Sagan glanced over to him. "I remember you once told me that Special Forces soldiers didn't have souls," she said.
"That was another place, and another time," Cainen said. "And I am not so very foolish now. But very well, it's his consciousness, then," Cainen said. "Retrieved by one of your soldiers, I believe, and from what I understand recorded by Charles Boutin. And I understand it is your job to decide what to do with it."
Sagan nodded. Szilard had come to her, offering her discharge, the discharge of John Perry and the custodianship of Zoe Boutin, on the condition that she keep her mouth shut about the Conclave and that she make a decision about what to do with Jared Dirac's consciousness.
::I understand about the Conclave,:: Sagan said. ::But I don't understand about Dirac.::
::I'm just curious what you'll do,:: Szilard said, and refused to explain it any further than that.
"What will you do with it?" Cainen asked.
"What do you think I should do?" Sagan asked.
"I know precisely what you should do with it," Cainen said. "But I am not you and I will not tell you what I would do with it until I hear what you would do with it first."
Sagan looked over at Harry Wilson, who was watching with interest. "And what would you do, Harry?"
"Sorry, Jane," Wilson said, and smiled. "I plead the Fifth as well. This is your call."
"You could bring him back," Sagan said to Cainen.
"It's possible," Cainen said. "We know more about it now than we did before. It's possible we could condition the brain better than they conditioned Dirac's brain to accept Boutin's personality. There's some risk of the transfer not taking, and then you'd have a situation like what happened with Dirac, where another personality would grow instead, and the other personality would slowly impinge. But I think it's less of a risk now, and in time, it won't be a serious risk at all. I think we could bring him back, if that's what you wanted."
"But it's not what Jared wanted, is it?" Sagan said. "He knew his consciousness had been recorded. He could have asked me to try to save it. He didn't."
"No, he didn't," Cainen agreed.
"Jared made his choice," Sagan said. "And it was his choice to make. Erase the recording, please, Cainen."
"And now you see why I know you have a soul," Cainen said. "Please accept my apology that I ever doubted it."
"Apology unneeded," Sagan said. "But apology accepted."
"Thank you," Cainen said. "And now, Lieutenant Sagan, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you. Or perhaps it's not so much of a favor as calling due a debt between us."
"What is it?" Sagan asked.
Cainen looked past Sagan to Wilson, who looked suddenly very uncomfortable. "You don't have to stay for this, my friend," Cainen said to Wilson.
"Of course I'll stay," Wilson said. "But let me reiterate: You're a damn fool."
"Noted," Cainen said. "And I appreciate the thought."
Wilson crossed his arms and looked vexed.
"Tell me," Sagan said.
"I wish to die, Lieutenant," Cainen said. "Over the last several months, I have begun to feel the effects of the antidote you provide lessen. Every day I am in increasing pain."
"We can give you more," Sagan said.
"Yes, and perhaps that would work," Cainen said. "But I am in pain, beyond the mere physical aspect. I am far away from my people and my home, and far from the things that bring me joy. I cherish the friendships I have with Harry Wilson and with you— you! of all people—but every day I feel the part of myself that is Rraey, the part that is truly me, grow colder and smaller. Not too long from now there will be nothing left of it and I will be alone, absolutely alone. I will be alive, but I'll be dead inside."
"I can talk to General Szilard about releasing you," Sagan said.
"That's what I told him," Wilson said.
"You know they'll never release me," Cainen said. "I've done too much work for you now. I know far too much. And even if you did release me, do you think the Rraey would welcome me back? No, Lieutenant. I am far from home, and I know that I can never go back to it."
"I'm sorry I did this to you, Cainen," Sagan said. "If I could change this for you I would."
"Why would you?" Cainen said. "You've saved your people from war, Lieutenant. I am merely part of the cost."
"I am still sorry," Sagan said.
"Then repay that debt to me," Cainen said. "Help me die."
"How would I do that?" Sagan said.
"In my studies of human culture I've learned about seppuku," Cainen said. "Do you know it?" Sagan shook her head. "Ritual suicide, from your Japanese people. The ritual includes a Kaishakunin, a second—someone who eases the pain of the person committing seppuku by killing them at the moment of their greatest agony. I would choose to die from the disease you inflicted on me, Lieutenant Sagan, but I fear that when the agony is greatest
I would cry for mercy, as I did the very first time, shaming myself and setting myself in motion on the path that led us here. A second would keep me from that shame. I ask you to be my second, Lieutenant Sagan."
"I don't think the Colonial Defense Forces will allow me to kill you," Sagan said. "Outside of combat."
"Yes, and I find that ironic beyond belief," Cainen said. "However, in this case they will. I've already asked General Mattson for permission, and he has granted it. I've also asked General Szilard for permission for you to be my second. He has granted it."
"What will you do if I refuse?" Sagan asked.
"You know what I will do," Cainen said. "When we first met you told me that you believed that I wanted to live, and you were right. But as I said earlier, that was a different place and a different time. In this time and place, I want to be released. If it means I do it alone, than I will be alone. But I hope that will not be the case."
"It won't," Sagan said. "I accept, Cainen. I will be your second."
"From the depths of my soul I thank you, Lieutenant Sagan, my friend." Cainen looked to Wilson, who was crying. "And you, Harry? I asked you to attend me before and you refused. I ask you again."
Wilson nodded, violently. "Yes," he said. "I'll do it, you lousy son of a bitch. I'll be there when you die."
"Thank you, Harry," Cainen said, and once again turned to Sagan. "I need two days to bring things to a close here. Will you come to visit me on the third day, in the evening?"
"I'll be there," Sagan said.
"Your combat knife, I think, should be sufficient," Cainen said.
"If that's what you want," Sagan said. "Is there anything else you would have me do for you?"
"Only one other thing," Cainen said. "And I'll understand if you can't do it."
"Name it," Sagan said.
"I was born on the colony of Fala," Cainen said. "I grew up there. When I die, if I can, I'd like to return there. I know it will be a difficult thing to manage."
"I'll manage it," Sagan said. "Even if I have to take you there myself. I promise it, Cainen. I promise that you'll go home."
A month after Zoe and Sagan returned to Phoenix Station, Sagan took Zoe on a shuttle to visit the gravestone of her parents.
The shuttle pilot was Lieutenant Cloud, who asked after Jared. Sagan told him that he had passed on. Lieutenant Cloud was quiet for a moment and then began telling Sagan the jokes that Jared had told him. Sagan laughed.
At the gravestone, Sagan stood while Zoe knelt and read the names of her parents, clearly and calmly. Over the month, Sagan had seen Zoe change from the tentative girl she'd first met, seemingly younger than she really was, asking plaintively for her father, to someone happier and more talkative and closer to the age she was. Which was, as it happened, only a little younger than Sagan.
"My name is here," Zoe said, tracing the name with her finger.
"For a while, when you were first taken, your father thought you were dead," Sagan said.
"Well, I'm not dead," Zoe said, defiantly.
"No," Sagan said, and smiled. "No, you definitely are not."
Zoe put her hand on her father's name. "He's not really here, is he?" Zoe asked. "Here under me."
"No," Sagan said. "He died on Arist. That was where you were before we came here."
"I know," Zoe said, and looked over to Sagan. "Mr. Jared died there too, didn't he?"
"He did," Sagan said.
"He said he knew me, but I didn't really remember him," Zoe said.
"He did know you, but it's hard to explain," Sagan said. "I'll explain it to you when you're older."
Zoe looked at the tombstone again. "All the people who knew me have gone away," she said, in a small, singsong voice. "All my people are gone."
Sagan got down on her knees behind Zoe and gave her a small but fierce hug. "I'm so sorry, Zoe."
"I know," Zoe said. "I'm sorry too. I miss Daddy and Mommy and I even miss Mr. Jared a little, even though I didn't know him very much."
"I know they miss you too," Sagan said. She came around to face Zoe. "Listen, Zoe, soon I'm going to be going to a colony, where I'm going to live. If you want, you can come with me."
"Will it just be you and me?" Zoe said.
"Well, you and me and a man I love very much," Sagan said.
"Will I like him?" Zoe asked.
"I think so," Sagan said. "I like him, and I like you, so it stands to reason you would like each other. You, me, and him."
"Like a family," Zoe said.
"Yes, like a family," Sagan said. "Very much like one."
"But I already have a daddy and a mommy," Zoe said.
"I know, Zoe," said Sagan. "I would never want you to forget them, ever. John and I would just be the two grown-ups who will be very lucky to get to live with you."
"John," Zoe said. "John and Jane. John and Jane and Zoe."
"John and Jane and Zoe," Sagan repeated.
"John and Jane and Zoe," Zoe said, standing up and moving to the rhythms of the names. "John and Jane and Zoe. John and Jane and Zoe! I like that," Zoe said.
"I like it too," Sagan said.
"Well, okay then," Zoe said. "And now I'm hungry."
Sagan laughed. "Well then, let's get you something to eat."
"Okay," Zoe said. "Let me say bye-bye to Mommy and Daddy." She ran to the headstone and planted a kiss on it. "I love you," she said, and then raced back to Sagan, and took her hand. "I'm ready. Let's eat."
"Okay," Sagan said. "What would you like?"
"What do we have?" Zoe said.
"There are lots of choices," Sagan said. "Pick one."
"All right," Zoe said. "I'm very good at making choices, you know."
"Well," Sagan said, hugging the girl close. "I'm so very glad to hear it."