Terminus (Fringe Worlds #1) (10 page)

Again, it was the Augman who answered the question. “In simple terms, it reads electromagnetic waves – like light. When those waves strike an object, a number of things can happen. They can be absorbed, reflected, what have you.”

“My oculi observe what happens to the waves,” Loyola said, “and a computer chip in here” – she tapped the side of her head with a forefinger – “interprets that data and sends an image to my brain.”

“So it’s like a visual version of radar or sonar,” Wayne concluded.

“In essence,” Loyola agreed.

“Alright, now that we’ve satisfied everyone’s morbid curiosity about your eyes, why don’t you tell us your specialty?” Adames asked.

“Precision weapons and tactics,” Loyola replied. “Primarily long-range marksmanship combined with apatetic dissimulation.”

Adames frowned, letting her words roll around in his head, and then his eyes bulged as realization hit.

“You’re a sniper?” he asked incredulously.

“I prefer the term markswoman,” Loyola said somewhat mischievously, causing the Augmented Man to briefly give a barely-noticeable grin.

“Okay, what’s your story?” Adames asked him.

All eyes turned towards the Augman, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the attention.

“I’m an experienced physician, newly commissioned as a warrant officer,” he said. “My name is Batch Four-Seven-Two-Five Locus Deoxyribonucleic…”

Adames’ eyes almost glazed over as the Augmented Man spouted what sounded like a continuous stream of scientific jargon for about thirty seconds.

“Wait a second,” Adames said when the Augman finally finished speaking. “That’s your name?”

“Yes,” the Augman replied. “Even though Augmented Men are officially citizens and genetically classified as human beings, we are – for cognominal purposes – required by law to be identified by our autochthonous ancestor and the original genetic material from which he was created.”

“What?” Adames asked, his brow creasing as he attempted to process what he’d just heard.

“His name tells you which of the original Augmen he’s descended from,” Loyola said. “It identifies the batch of genetic stock used, the DNA sequence that was targeted, the molecular recombination–”

“Alright, alright,” Adames said, cutting her off. He shifted his gaze back to the Augman, noting for the first time that the fellow didn’t have a nametag. “So what do they call you?”

The Augman looked unsure of himself for a moment. He cleared his throat, and then replied, “Batch Four-Seven-Two-Five Lo–”

“Stop,” Adames said, raising a hand palm-outward. No wonder the guy didn’t have a nametag; with a moniker like that, it would cover the entire front of his uniform.

“I’m not going to rip my tongue to shreds trying to say your name every time I want to talk to you,” Adames continued. “You’re getting a call sign.”

Adames frowned in concentration for a moment, trying to think of something appropriate. The problem with Augmen was that their nature was completely contrary to their intended purpose. With almost superhuman strength and incredible stamina, they were created to be super-soldiers, bred for battle. Moreover, their faces were intentionally made to be monstrous so as to terrify the enemy.

Unfortunately, despite their physical gifts and basically being born to kill, there was one problem with these genetically-engineered warriors that no one could have predicted: Augmen refused to fight. They rejected combat and war in all forms, on all levels. Some flaw in their DNA coding made them all pacifists. Furthermore, it didn’t matter what kind of environment that they were raised or nurtured in – whether warm and loving or harsh and brutal, the end result was the same: no Augmented Man would embrace physical violence – not even to save his own life.

All of which was a shame, Adames thought, as he looked at the Augman seated in front of him. Just that face alone was completely intimidating…

And just like that, it hit him. “From now on,” Adames said with a smile, “your call sign is ‘Fierce.’ You’re Fierce Augman from this day forward.”

“Fierce,” clearly not taken with his new moniker, started to sulk and was on the verge of making his displeasure known when one of his new squad mates spoke up.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Wayne said. “If he gets a call sign, I want one, too.”

Adames rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Look, our medic gets a call sign because I’m not going to spend all day saying his name every time I want his attention,” he said. “Moving on, does anyone know where your missing squad member is?”

There was silence as the four people sitting at the table exchanged glances, almost daring one another to speak.

“Still in the barracks,” Wayne said after a moment. “He mentioned something about unearned deference – that he needed the situation resolved before he reported for duty.”

“We’ll deal with him later,” Adames said, suddenly feeling vexed. “For now, listen up. I’m Master Sergeant Hector Adames. You’ve all been selected as part of a special squad being led by Lieutenant Arrogant Maker. He is your new commanding officer, but make no mistake. For all intents and purposes, I’m in charge of you clowns for the foreseeable future, and that includes keeping you alive. The el-tee will be in here shortly to brief you on the–”

Adames stopped in mid-sentence as the door to the briefing room slid open and Maker stepped in, accompanied by Erlen.

Adames snapped to attention. “Room, ten-hut!” he bellowed.

The four people at the table all jumped up, coming to attention.

“As you were,” Maker said, coming over to stand next to Adames, who went from standing at attention to parade rest, with his hands behind his back. The four Marines at the table all sat back down.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Lieutenant Arrogant Maker,” he said. He pointed to the Niotan. “This is Erlen. He’s not a pet, so if you value your health don’t treat him like one.

“Now, some of you may have heard of me, or heard me referred to as Madman Maker or Maniac Maker. You may have also been privy to certain stories about me. Whatever you heard, you are free to assume that it’s true. I don’t care what people say about me. I don’t care what tales you’ve heard about me. I don’t care what you think you know about me. All I care about is the mission, and if you make that your priority, you and I will get along just fine.

“As to what that mission is, we are ostensibly being dispatched to one of the Fringe Worlds. There’s a hostile force there of unknown size that we’re being asked to locate. Everything about the assignment is explained in greater detail in the official briefing, which has already been securely downloaded to your p-comps. Any questions?”

Silence reigned for a moment. Marines always had questions after a mission briefing; the issue was whether anyone would be bold enough to actually ask them.

It was Diviana who finally spoke up. “Just one: why us?”

Maker seemed to reflect on the question for a moment before responding.

“All of you have had problems adjusting to life in the service,” he said, “despite, on average, being in the military for several years. Whether it be gross insubordination, almost killing members of your own units, or some other reason, you’ve shown an inability to fit in. That said, you’ve got skills – all of you – and if anyone can find a way to make use of those talents, it’s the Marines. Trust me on this, I’m a prime example.

“As I said, some of you may have heard my story. If you haven’t, you will, so I won’t bother telling it. But the long and short of it is that I’ve had my own issues adjusting, so you’re in good company. Moreover, with me, you get a clean slate. Nobody’s past follows them here. But make no mistake: you’re Marines, and I’ll expect you to act like it. I can’t promise you fame. I can’t promise you fortune. I can’t even promise you that you’ll survive the first few minutes of this mission. But what I can and will promise is that I will always be in your corner, and I will always be looking out for you to the best of my ability.”

With that, Maker turned and left the room, Erlen dogging his heels. Adames called the room to attention as he left, then went to at ease as the door slid shut.

“Alright, you all heard the el-tee,” Adames said. “You’ve got the mission briefing on your p-comps. It will purge itself from your computer systems in three hours. I would suggest you use that time – and this room – to get extremely intimate with the details of our task and your roles in it.”

Satisfied that everyone knew what they had to do, Adames promptly departed.

Chapter 11

Silence reigned in the briefing room for about two minutes after Adames’ exit, with all four of those at the table studiously looking over the information on their p-comps.

“So what happens if we finish the briefing before the three hours is up?” Wayne suddenly asked of no one in particular.

At first it seemed that his question would go unanswered, but then – without looking up from her p-comp – Diviana responded. “Since this is the only time you’ll have access to the mission specifics, I’d suggest you use any extra time to review them twice.”

“And if we still finish early?” Wayne asked, before meekly adding, “I’m typically a quick study.”

“Have at it a third time,” Diviana said.

“And if there’s still time on the clock?”

Diviana irritably jerked her head in his direction, giving Wayne an unusual look – a weird mixture of exasperation and incredulity.

“Sorry,” Wayne said, withering under her glare. “I was just trying to be sociable.”

Diviana let out a sigh of frustration.

“Maybe he’s right,” Loyola chimed in. “If we’re going to be working together, maybe we should break the ice.” She pushed her p-comp slightly away from her on the tabletop, then turned in Wayne’s direction. “Where are you from?”

“Frugulon III,” Wayne answered, as if it were the most popular destination in the universe.

Loyola made an odd gesture – shrugging her shoulders while turning her palms outward and slightly tilting her head – which seemed to convey both the sentiment of that’s-all-you-can-say-about-it? as well as never-heard-of-it.

“It’s a high utility outpost,” Wayne went on. “We have long-term contractual arrangements with various partners that allow us access to merchandise and commodities that others have mis-appraised in terms of fiscal worth.”

Both Loyola and the newly-named Fierce frowned, obviously trying to find meaning behind Wayne’s words. Diviana, on the other hand, chuckled in derision.

“It’s a trash world,” Diviana declared. “Other planets pay you to dump their rubbish on your doorstep, which you then dig through to try to find things worth salvaging. You’re nothing but galactic garbage men.”

“No,” Wayne said defensively. “We’re a planet that has developed the ability to extract value from things that most people overlook.”

“At least now we understand why you were looking in the trash bin when Sergeant Adames came in,” Fierce said. “How’d you end up here?”

“That’s easy enough,” Wayne said. “Some of the most salvageable items we ever found on my homeworld were military cast-offs – things the Marines, Navy, and such had gotten rid of for some reason. I figured that enlisting was a great way to find out about the process employed when the services decide to scrap a product – and maybe develop some contacts, so that when I got out I’d have a pipeline and first dibs on anything the military discarded.”

“No,” Fierce said, shaking his head. “I mean, how’d you end up
here
, with us? The lieutenant said that everybody here has had issues, trouble fitting in. What landed you here?”

Wayne seemed to reflect for a moment, then took a deep breath and began speaking. “There was a guy in my prior unit with sticky fingers. He developed a nasty habit of taking things that didn’t belong to him. Not just personal things, like snacks and medicine, but also things you needed to do your job – tools and such.

“I’m very good at improvising, building something out of nothing. Where I come from, we all are. I rigged my footlocker with an aerosol-jet that I built from things lying around the barracks. It sprayed a chemical agent into the thief’s face the next time he tried to steal from me and he almost died as a result.”

“So, you’re the one the el-tee mentioned who almost killed a member of his own unit,” Loyola noted.

“Hey, if I’d wanted him dead, he’d
be
dead,” Wayne said defensively. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle finger before going on. “The spray only contained some chemical irritants – just something to make his skin itch like crazy, maybe give him a coughing fit if any got into his mouth. He ended up having an extreme allergic reaction it. Among other things, his lungs seized up and his throat constricted.”

“But you said he survived, right?” Fierce asked.

“Ultimately, he spent about two weeks in the hospital,” Wayne answered. “Because it wasn’t intentional, my superiors were willing to overlook the incident, as long as I promised never to jury-rig anything else.”

“What did you say?” Loyola asked.

“What could I say?” Wayne responded. “Tinkering with crap is part of who I am. What they wanted was the same as asking me to cut off my arm or give myself a lobotomy. I refused, so I got a letter of reprimand in my file and was removed from all duties. Until now.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Loyola spoke up. “Well, I’m more than happy to keep things rolling, although it’s not hard to guess how I got here. A soldier with no eyes who insists on firing a weapon – I turned down the offer of a desk job – is bound to have problems being accepted.”

“And you?” Wayne said, looking at Fierce. “What lands you in this sideshow?”

“I would think it was obvious,” the Augmented Man said. “I’m a soldier who refuses to fight or kill.”

“It certainly ranks way up there as an odd career choice,” Wayne said. “I’d take your guidance counselor off the Christmas list if I were you.”

That got a chuckle out of Loyola and a short-lived smile from Fierce. All eyes then swiveled towards Diviana, who didn’t seem particularly eager to open up.

“Alright,” she finally said after a pregnant pause. “My story is pretty straightforward. I was part of a special unit. On our last mission, everybody died except me.”

Diviana spoke with a sense of finality, as if there were nothing more to say on the subject. Wayne, however, didn’t seem to be satisfied.

“That can’t be all,” he said skeptically. “That’s not enough to earn you a place with this crew.”

Diviana scowled, clearly not comfortable saying more than she already had.

“It’s okay,” Loyola said empathetically, in a woman-to-woman tone. “We’re going to be trusting our lives to one another in the field. Surely that merits a little faith in here.”

Diviana merely stared at her for a moment, and then let out a ragged sigh. “My shields collapsed in the middle of the mission.”

“Your shields?” Loyola repeated. “You mean like on some kind of armor?”

“No,” Diviana said, shaking her head. She then tapped her temple with a forefinger. “My
mental
shields. I usually keep a strong buffer between my mind and those of other people, but on that occasion it failed.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in with her companions, then Wayne almost jumped out of his seat.

“Wait a minute,” he said, eyes bulging. “Are you saying you’re psychic? That you can read minds?”

“You don’t have to be a mind reader to know what you’re thinking every time you look at her,” Loyola said.

Wayne began to visibly turn red. “That’s not…” he sputtered. “No…I mean, I’d never…”

Loyola laughed. “Take it easy, tiger. I was just joking.”

Wayne appeared somewhat relieved, although he still looked a bit flushed.

“No, I’m not really psychic,” Diviana said, getting the conversation back on track. “I don’t read minds. However, I
can
sense thoughts.”

“What do you mean?” Fierce asked.

“I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I can detect the presence of other people by their thoughts,” Diviana said. “It’s a lot like hearing someone speak outside a room that you’re in. You can’t see the person, and their speech is muffled so that it’s just sounds rather than distinct words you can pick out. However, you know there’s someone out there, and even if they move you have an idea of where they are, as long as they keep talking.”

“So basically, no one can sneak up on you,” Wayne said.

“That’s one effect,” Diviana agreed. “It helped during the first phase of my career in Intel, which basically consisted of data gathering and compilation – usually in a person-to-person format.”

“Espionage?” Fierce asked. “You were a spy?”

Diviana shrugged. “More or less. But – when my superiors found out what I could do – I was transferred to a different unit. At that juncture, my talents became a critical part of my new job – to keep others from sneaking up on us out in the field.”

“You said it was
part
of your job,” Loyola noted. “What was the other part?”

Diviana looked down, preferring to stare at the table rather than meet anyone’s eyes, as if ashamed of what she was about to say. “In addition to my own personal buffer, I also have the ability to project mental shields around other people – their minds, rather. That was the other part of my job. And because of my particular skill set, I was part of a unit that took on ‘special’ assignments that involved a high level of interaction with opposing forces.

“We were highly successful for the most part. I could pinpoint the location of enemy combatants, giving us a tremendous advantage in almost any engagement. I suppose, in the end, we started getting cocky, which in turn led to us getting sloppy – me included. On our last mission, my shields – the ones around my own mind – just seemed to snap.”

“Snap?” Wayne asked. “Snap how?”

“Snap’s probably the wrong word,” Diviana said. “It’s more like they just dissolved. One second they were there, and the next – poof. Without my shields…”

Diviana trailed off, lost in thought. After a few seconds she blinked, and then continued.

“You have to understand,” she said. “I don’t just sense thoughts; I feel them. It’s like walking through a crowd and continuously getting bumped by other people – sometimes lightly, sometimes forcefully. Without my shields, eventually I get knocked down, mentally trampled.

“When my shields vanished, it was a shock, almost like losing a limb. But what came over the next few minutes was worse. The rest of my unit was killed…and I felt every one of their deaths.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Loyola, her brow furrowed, asked, “Felt them how?”

Diviana seemed to reflect for a moment before responding. “When I shield another person mentally, it’s not so much that I put a protective coating around them, but more like I take them into the shelter of my own mind. Being that close, I sense a lot of things that the person does, even though I don’t know what they’re thinking. So, on that last mission, when the others in my unit started dying…”

“You felt it,” Fierce finished, a moment after she trailed off.

Diviana nodded, eyes watery and looking almost forlorn. “My squad basically walked into a trap. I survived, but experiencing their deaths –
feeling
them intimately – unhinged me, so to speak. I spent most of my time after that crying, with barely enough energy to move, constantly trying to forget.

“It took me a long time to become functional again, emotionally stable. It was at that point that I realized what had affected my shields – another psychic. From that moment forward, I focused solely on one thing: making them pay. To be honest, it was the thought of going after them that really gave me the strength to pull myself back together. But by that time, I had been a shambling wreck for so long that I wasn’t considered fit for field work – or anything else for that matter. It just seemed like a matter of time before the military shuffled me out the door.”

“Then fate intervened, and you found yourself here,” Fierce said. “With a clean slate and a new mission.”