Shadow on the Sun (6 page)

 

Chapter √-1

The Gulag

Terminal: MUSEcommand — bash — 122x36

Last login: 239.x.xx.xx:xx 12:12:09 on ttys0067

 

>...

 

AdjutantNod04:~ user_MUSE$

SCREEN CRAWL: [root@mmiminode ~]

SCREEN CRAWL: WARNING! VIRUS DETECTED! Node1666; kernal compromised (quarantine subroutine (log=32)....FAILED!

 

SCREEN CRAWL: External host access...GRANTED

 

::new host$

 

AdjutantNod13:~ user_MIMT$

 

$ run StuffHisEarsWithWax.exe

 

/**

The bootstrapping code below blocks shell access to user Stringfellow$”

And deletes user_MUSE$ permanently from boot partition

*/

 

#!/usr/bin/xperl

define(‘ROOT',getcwd().DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR);

define(‘INCLUDES',ROOT.'includes'.DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR);

define(‘CONFIG',ROOT.'config'.DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR);

include_once(CONFIG.'base.inc.rphp');

define(‘STATUS','production');

switch (STATUS) {

case ‘production': {

ini_set(‘display_errors','Off');

}

 

RewriteEngine On

 

RewriteCond %{REQUEST_FILENAME} !-f

RewriteCond %{REQUEST_FILENAME} !-d

 

# Rewrite all other INCs to index.rphp/INC

RewriteRule ^(.*)$ index.rphp/$1 [PT,L]

 

SCREEN CRAWL: Press Y to delete User MUSE

SCREEN CRAWL: Y

 

So long, Dolly. That puts an end to your siren song. From now on, my cowboy rides alone.

CHAPTER 9

The Hive

Olympus Mons

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 12. 14:17

 

 

High above the base of Olympus Mons, Hellbender One returns to the Hive with me in the cargo hold. As the copter comes in for a landing, its rotor wash scatters the clouds from the air, and the deep throttle hum of the engines rattles in my chest.

After the pilot cuts the engines, the cargo bay opens. Alpha Team covers the exits—two at either side of the copter and two on the bay. Their boots hit the icy deck with a metallic thunk that echoes up to the observation deck, where Lyme and his aide-de-camp, Riacin, stand observing.

I watch Sarge jump from our sister Hellbender and slide across the platform. The case—the high-value target—is tucked under his arm.

Sarge blows through the cargo bay door, knocking a corpsman aside. I imagine him running up the stairs and sprinting down the hallway until he reaches the Nursery, where he bursts in—

Right on time. He appears in the observation window, and he drops to one knee, presenting the stolen treasure to Lyme like an offering to a god. But Lyme just turns his back. Riacin steps in to take the case. Poor guy. Being the good soldier is never what it's cracked up to be.

“You do not sound that sympathetic,” Mimi tells me.

“I'm trying to be,” I say. “Sarge isn't so bad, once you get past the fact that he's a homicidal sociopath who would sell his own mother to Scorpions for a chance to lead Alpha Team.”

“Everyone has flaws.”

“Some bigger than others.”

After the rest of Alpha Team have reported to their cradles, two gunners grab me under the arms and drag me out onto the platform, the surface of which is coated with ice. The cold burns through my boots where my feet touch the metal. Normally, Mimi would make my symbiarmor thicken to provide insulation.

“Sorry about that, cowboy,” Mimi says. “With Dolly monitoring your activity so closely, I dare not manipulate the functions of your suit.”

My teeth chatter, even subvocalizing. “I r-read you.”

Mimi isn't the only one playing possum. The crewmen are operating under the assumption that the somarin nerve gas has left me incapacitated. What they don't know is that over the last couple of weeks, Mimi has been analyzing the properties of somarin and has figured out how to counteract them. The gas acts as a nerve impulse inhibitor. She has developed a method to chemically inhibit the inhibitor, and with practice, she's trained the nanobots in my system to perform the process faster and faster each time, lessening its effect and shortening its duration.

“You have a gift,” Mimi says, “for taking complex biochemical processes and making them sound like a recipe for yam pudding.”

“Thank you,” I say as the gunners deposit me on a gurney and return to the velocicopter to secure it for dock. Now my whole body is shaking from the cold.

“I did not mean it as a compliment.”

“That's because you don't love yam pudding like me.”

The containment crew, both of them wearing exoskeleton blast armor and carrying electric lances, converges on me. Carefully, they unstrap the armalite from my shoulder and place it between my legs for safekeeping. The armalite is a highly specialized weapon, each one handmade and customized for a single user and equipped with a chip that is programmed with a unique algorithmic cipher. When the weapon is touched, the chip looks for a corresponding code in the user's palm. If the cipher is not passed, not only will the gun refuse to fire, but a thimble-sized but powerful explosive will blow the firing chamber apart, taking the shooter along with it.

“Like I,” Mimi says.

“Like I what?”

“The grammatically correct way to end your sentence would have been ‘yam pudding like I.' ”

“That sounds stupid.”

“To the uneducated ear, perhaps,” she says, “but how stupid would it sound if you completed the entire thought in the sentence. If so, then you would have said, ‘You don't love yam pudding like me do.' ”

“Me do.”

“Me do what?”

“Me do like yam pudding. Ow!” I feel a sting in my side. “No fair zapping me over a joke.”

“That was not me,” she says. “It was the lance in the corpsman's hand. You would have seen him if your head were not lolling about like an infant's.”

“Carking lances.”

Symbiarmor has two inherent weaknesses—a vulnerable spot at the base of the skull that allows the nanobots to interface with the fabric of the armor and a reliance on electromagnetic impulses to command the fibers. A blow to the back of the skull will scramble the nanobots, knocking the wearer unconscious. An EMP pulse will scramble the electromagnetic impulses, making the suit rigid for a few seconds before it turns slack. To control Alpha Team, Lyme's scientists created a handheld device they call an EMP lance. Instead of affecting my whole suit, it has a limited effect on an area about the size of a palm. Anytime they want to inject me or take a sample, they hit me with the lance. It's not one of my favorite things, especially when the temperatures are minus twenty Celsius.

“Ow!”

The lance fires in my thigh, and my symbiarmor freezes. Arms slapped against my sides, legs drawn together, I become an I beam, rigid as steel.

“More like rigid as aluminum,” Mimi says. “You are still quite pliable.”

“Can you not at least give me the illusion of massiveness?”

“The word you are looking for is
delusion
, not
illusion
.”

“Whatever! Just throw me a bone. Ow!”

A medic tries to slam an epinephrine syringe into my thigh. The needle breaks on the armor.

“Try it again.” The crewman flips up the blast shield that protects his face and then presses the EMP lance directly against my symbiarmor. Another pulse, and my body convulses. My symbiarmor goes slack, and the corpsman says, “Before he stops twitching.”

“Three times?” I shout. “Three carking shocks?”

“Affirmative,” Mimi says. “If it makes you feel better, you may be as delusional as you like.”

The medic sinks another syringe into my thigh. “He's down for the count. Let's get him inside.”

They unlock the gurney, check my armalite, then wheel me away.

“I wonder what happened on the mission?” the medic says.

“Don't,” the corpsman warns him.

“Don't what?”

“Wonder. It's a sure way to get yourself executed.”

When they reach the Hive, Lieutenant Riacin, a crane of a man with an overlong neck and spokelike fingers, is there to greet them. “The Prodigal Son has returned,” he says.

Then I see that Lyme has also joined the greeting party. As the containment crew wheels my gurney along the corridor, fluorescent lights flashing in my eyes, I watch Lyme blow his nose into a handkerchief. “Is that some failed attempt at humor, Lieutenant?” he asks.

“I meant it as irony, sir.”

“Another failure,” Lyme says. “It is becoming a habit.”

Lyme steadies himself by putting a hand on the gurney but doesn't break stride. “Your medical team is ready?”

“Of course, General,” Riacin answers. “We are always ready to serve.”

“Spare me the false promises,” he says as my gurney rolls down the corridor. “This time, make sure your team doesn't fail me. As you can tell, I have no patience for the little ironies of life. Get Alpha Dog inside.”

“As you wish, General.” Then Riacin shouts, “Doors! Coming through!”

Two armed guards push the doors open, and I'm home. Project MUSE. The place where, a long time ago, I was nursed back to health after a genetically engineered insectoid almost killed me. Here, I got a prosthetic bionic eye, fancy new armor, and a set of upgraded nanobots.

“Are you not omitting something from the list?” Mimi asks.

And an artificial intelligence that would be the envy of all my friends if they only knew about her.

“I only have eyes for you, cowboy.”

“Bet you say that to all the cyborgs,” I reply.

The medics wheel the gurney to its hoist. They hook up the neuronal cables. Machines hum. Monitors start beeping.

After they leave the lab, the automatic lamps dim and the room goes dark. The only light is the blue glow inside the gurney that bathes my face through the view screen. Above me, the multinet blinks on. Dolly looks down at me from the screen, her face unnaturally serene. She's no Mimi, that's for sure.

“Thank you very much,” Mimi says. “The adage states that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I believe the original is always superior.”

I close my eyes and try to relax. Soon, the effects of the gas will fade, and I'll be my old self again. Well, not my old, old self, but the now old self that I've become.

“Even I have trouble following that train of thought,” Mimi says.

“That's because—” I start to say but am cut off by the sound of someone slamming through the doors.

“Shut up!” Lyme bellows as he enters the lab. “Do not mock my ideas!”

“General, please,” Riacin says. “I know that you fear he is unstable, but what you're suggesting could destroy all the work my team has done.”

My head lolls to the side, and I see Lyme shove Riacin. “Of course we know what he's capable of. We set out to make him a killing machine.”

“I—I—” Riacin hesitates. “My team thinks that—”

“You and your teams are out of chances!” Lyme yells. “I gave you every opportunity to fix him, but my faith in your ability was unfounded. From now on, I'm taking matters into my own hands. Alpha Dog is my personal project. I will do with his brain as I see fit.”

Brain? Uh-oh. I don't like the sound of that.

“Me, either,” Mimi says.

Riacin tries to block him. “But sir.”

“No buts!” Spittle flies from Lyme's mouth. “Get out of my way! Never get in my way again!”

Stunned, Riacin retreats. “Yes, General, I understand,” he says. “I understand completely.”

Lyme stands next to the gurney, panting, trying to catch his breath. A wicked series of coughs racks his body and knocks him to the floor. He rests on hands and knees, wheezing bloody phlegm onto the tile.

“Dolly,” he says, “I need you.”

Her face reappears on the multinet screen behind him. “Yes, General?”

As I watch, he wipes the blood with a fingertip and holds it up. “Explain . . . this.”

“General,” Dolly says, “it is obvious from the analysis of readings from your most recent bioscans that the disease has progressed more rapidly than previous test data suggested.”

“See?” I tell Mimi, and feel a twinge of guilt. “He's getting sicker.”

“That hussy,” Mimi huffs, “has no idea what she is talking about.”

Lyme pulls himself up on the side of my gurney, obviously unaware that I'm watching him. “I have no hope of recovery. Is that what you're telling me?”

“In layman's terms,” Dolly replies, “affirmative.”

“And also in layman's terms, you're telling me that my death is imminent.”

“Affirmative. All you can do is delay it.”

“I cannot, will not die,” Lyme says. “My work here is not done. My son is not the prince of Mars that I envisioned. His brain is damaged, and he will never be a man, just a monster. If only I could have combined my superior mind with his physical abilities . . .”

“Mimi?” I say. “What is he talking about? He sounds way too desperate for my liking.”

“I will not hazard a hypothesis,” she says. “The workings of Lyme's brain have always been beyond my understanding.”

Lyme stands, lifted by a sudden burst of inspiration. He laughs, shaking his head. “Why did I never think of this before?”

“I do not understand the context of your query, General,” Dolly says.

“That's because it was a rhetorical question, and you aren't capable of understanding that sort of nuance,” he says. “Tell Riacin to clear the Nursery of personnel, then prepare Cradle One for brain wave extraction and storage.”

“Affirmative,” Dolly says. “Which subject should I inform Lieutenant Riacin to prepare?”

“Is it not obvious?” he says. “If my son can't reach his destiny, then I will reach it for him.”

Right. I think I've heard enough. “Mimi, is he thinking what I'm thinking he's thinking?”

“Which would be?”

“He wants to eat my brain.”