The Lazarus War: Artefact (22 page)

I was just passing time until dawn, until Kellerman’s expedition. Then I would have access to Operations, and could at least update Command.

Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw Elena’s face. If I stayed awake, I thought that I could hear voices in the corridors: Atkins and Pakos, yelling commands to the bridge staff.

“
All hands – prepare to abandon ship. Initialising emergency evacuation procedure
.”

Just the wind
.

I didn’t want to revisit any more painful memories, didn’t want to remember, but I really wanted – needed – to get some sleep. So I used the remainder of the painkillers. They felt chalky and dry in my mouth. Took enough so that my consciousness would be sufficiently blunted to avoid dreaming.

Eventually, I collapsed into a dead man’s bunk.

Dead woman’s bunk
, I corrected myself.

There was a wrinkled two-D photograph tacked to one of the walls, beside the unmade bed. It showed two women embracing – not the clinch of lovers, but a tender moment between friends or sisters – against a blue-and-green backdrop. The two looked alike; one younger than the other, both blonde-haired and blue-eyed. The older was familiar. The tech from the hangar bay, I realised. Tyler, that was her name.

I hoped that her sister wouldn’t mind me taking the bed. She was dead, probably, and undoubtedly didn’t need it any more. The two smiling women looked down at me as I tried to sleep, their eyes full of promise and hope.

Helios didn’t have either of those properties.

When it was quiet, when everyone else was gone, that was when I felt the Artefact’s signal most. Kellerman hadn’t told me anything about the effects on the human mind, not in his chamber today, but I remembered that his broadcasts back to Command had noted it.

I had chosen not to mention it to the others. They would surely think that I was mad, that I was going down the same path as Kellerman.

Maybe he hears it too
.

Maybe I should ask him about it, when I get the chance. Or maybe I should hide it away, keep it buried inside
.

Perhaps I
am
going mad
, I reasoned.
There’s already so
much buried away. There’s hardly room for anything else
.

Two pairs of eyes watched me as I lay in the dark. The smiles were mocking me, I decided.

I need a drink. I really need a drink
.

No you don’t. This is something different
.

Finally, I slept a drug-induced sleep.

We met in the hangar bay, the next morning. I’d managed a few hours’ sleep – desperate, fitful – but I felt better for it. The ache in my ribs had reduced and my head felt almost normal.

Kellerman assembled Deacon, a driver called Ray, a meteorologist who introduced himself as Farrell, and a couple of his researchers. Kaminski and Blake accompanied me.

A sand-crawler was packed with supplies; enough to last us a few days on the outside, I reckoned, but Kellerman insisted that we would be back by late afternoon. The researchers appeared enthused by the idea of going off-station, but Deacon was the opposite. He grunted a greeting at me, then went about running operational checks on the crawler.

“Be more careful, Christo-damn it!” Kellerman shouted from across the hangar. “I’m a man, not an animal. You people treat me worse than the Krell!”

We watched the scene playing out. Two of Kellerman’s researchers had lifted him out of his hover-chair, and were holding him by the arms to support his weight. They were trying – unsuccessfully – to guide his legs into the lower half of a hostile-environment suit.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” one of the researchers mumbled.

The suit exterior had been grafted with a complex arrangement of attenuators and pistons. The design looked archaic and barely serviceable, an exo-suit cobbled together from a variety of different sources. As Kellerman was finally lowered into the suit and interfaced with it, his legs began to twitch. He stood up on his own. He swore at another of his researchers, who fussed about him to ensure he was properly connected. The exo-suit gave an angry hiss as Kellerman flexed each leg. Researchers continued plugging wires into data-ports on Kellerman’s neck, while he struggled into the upper half of the exo-suit. His people bolted a Y-rack onto his back, between the shoulder blades, then added other components to his arms. He rotated each arm, shrugged his shoulders.

Whenever a researcher touched him, or went to assist in some way, he angrily threw them off. His face grew red with something approaching rage, as he stomped around the hangar bay. His pace was awkward and irregular. It was not a combat-suit by any stretch, but the exo was capable of interpreting whatever spinal capacity Kellerman retained.

“I apologise that you had to see that,” he shouted over to me. “My idiot researchers do not appear to recognise that my condition causes me gross humiliation.”

Nothing that I had seen suggested that Kellerman’s people were treating him with disrespect, but that wasn’t what his comment was really about. He was angry that he had to depend on others, that his legs had been taken from him. I recalled the images I’d seen back on the
Oregon
– of Kellerman lying in that hospital bed, undergoing psych-eval post whatever incident it was that had claimed the use of his legs. That anger hadn’t dissipated much, despite the passage of years.

“Impressive kit,” was all I said.

“It was custom-made for me after my accident. It enables me to continue field studies in a way that the hover-chair would not. It is based, in fact, on the same technology as the combat-armour that your simulants wear.”

Was that just a throwaway comment, or does he really know about the simulants?
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me, really – Kellerman was a member of the Alliance scientific community – but even so, I was mildly disturbed by it. I didn’t want Kellerman to know the strategic value of the simulant bodies, for some reason that I couldn’t really justify.

“Everyone get suited up,” said Deacon. “Although the atmosphere outside is breathable, there’s a lot of airborne particulate. Better to be safe than sorry.”

We were issued with mismatched environmental wear – real old tech. I struggled into an oversized H-suit; completely unpowered, lined with protective padding. Something like the EVA suits worn by starship maintenance personnel – like an ancient astronaut’s vac-suit. It had once been white but was now stained a dirty beige.

“I wouldn’t want to use this in real vacuum,” I muttered, as I suited up. The H-suit was patched with emergency taping at the wrists, holes amateurishly stitched at the knees.

“Looking good there, Captain,” Blake said.

“Like you’re any better, Kid?”

Both of my team wore similar ill-fitting protective suits, and grinned sheepishly as they got dressed.

“We have to make do with what we have out here,” Kellerman called over.

Each suit carried a personal oxygen tank and breathing kit, enough for hours of extra-vehicular activity in the event that the atmosphere turned hostile. Kaminski, Blake and I were equipped with backpack-mounted kits, very large and bulky. The weight of the pack was immediately demanding; I didn’t relish the idea of carrying it on a protracted op.

“You okay with that?” Blake asked me. “Do you want some help?”

I wriggled into the harness, drawing the straps tight over my chest and shoulders. I made an effort to avoid pulling my ribs. I didn’t want help, didn’t want to admit that I was struggling.
Just like Kellerman
, I thought with annoyance.

“I’ll manage.”

“Watch the packs,” Deacon warned. “These are strictly civilian models. The oxygen tanks are not shielded. You breach the tank – it goes up.”

He tapped the exposed oxygen tank on my pack – chipped and battered, a hazardous materials warning sticker so faded that it was barely visible.

“We’re military. We’ve done this before.”

Deacon gave a dour nod.

“You have communicators,” Kellerman added, pointing to wrist-mounted computer devices, “but the range is very limited. They are isolated to reduce the danger of Krell interception, and they are strictly suit-to-suit. Keep communications to a minimum. Although it is highly unlikely that we will encounter the Krell, use caution.”

“Do we have weapons?” Blake asked.

“There will be no need for heavy weaponry on this expedition,” Kellerman said, frowning. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “It is no more than an exploratory survey. I assure you, we will be quite safe. Deacon and Ray are carrying enough firepower to protect us all.”

“More important than guns,” Farrell said, “is water. Outside, you’ll need to keep hydrated. The suits carry enough water for several hours, but watch your supply.”

Farrell was an older man; hunched over, with burst blood vessels across his big nose. I made a mental note: perhaps alcohol wasn’t banned on the station. Maybe I should see whether Farrell could get me some.

“Where exactly are we going?” I asked.

“We will be examining an archaeological site of great interest,” Kellerman said. “There is virtually no possibility of encountering a Krell patrol when the weather is this clear.”

“Doc is right,” Farrell chipped in. “Clear weather allows the Artefact to broadcast over most of this continent. With the signal obtaining such clarity, the xenos will be congregating around the Artefact.”

“And I have weapons,” Deacon said, flashing a rare smile. “We won’t be going anywhere near the Artefact.”

“I don’t trust this at all,” Blake murmured softly.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” I said. “Any sign of trouble, and we’ll bail out to the crawler. Simple as that.”

Eventually, all safety protocols recognised, we mounted the sand-crawler. Kellerman and Deacon sat in the passenger cabin with my men and me. Ray drove, and Farrell acted as navigator.

With an ominous engine rumble, the crawler rolled out of Helios Station and into the darkness of Helios’ dawn. Helios Primary provided a guiding light, just breaking the cloud cover. With practised ease, Ray drove the vehicle out into the desert. We went through the same procedure to sign out as we had on our arrival, with Tyler approving our departure. The ancient laser batteries traced our progress.

Kellerman stood and peered into the driver cabin, his legs whirring and clicking as he went. He was unsteady on his feet.

“Is the radio mast muted?” he asked.

“All radio contact is suspended per protocol, Doctor,” Farrell said, absently.

“Have you checked for any signal leakage? Please do so. We can’t afford to be traced out here.”

“All checked, no bleed,” Farrell said.

Obviously happy with that response, Kellerman sat down and buckled himself into the crawler safety harness.

We travelled for hours.

Through ravines and gullies, brutal architecture created by a world of endless dry seasons and baked by two alien suns. We were well out of the reach of Helios Station, which was a psychological burden as much as a geographical one. There would be no help for us out here. Thankfully, the route was largely deserted: the world outside still and quiet.

“I’ve done this run lots of times,” Ray bragged from the driver section. “Too many to count.”

I wasn’t sure whether Ray was a researcher or a station maintenance tech. He was swarthy, with mousy-coloured and unkempt hair. A sagging paunch of a belly stretched at his jumpsuit, but he didn’t seem mean or vindictive like most of Deacon’s people. If anything, he appeared eager to impress us with his knowledge of Helios’ topography.

“Watch him,” I quietly said to Kaminski, indicating to the driver cab. I was wary of his apparent self-assurance.

Both Kaminski and Blake nodded.

I sat back in the passenger cabin, and took the opportunity to question Deacon and Kellerman.

“So where exactly is this site?” I asked Kellerman.

“It isn’t far from the station. You will find it most interesting.”

“We’ve been driving for hours.”

“The terrain is not conducive to land travel.”

“Is the site linked to the Artefact?”

“Just be patient,” Kellerman said. Then, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, “I am most intrigued by your simulant technology. I have inspected the simulant bodies that we recovered from your landing craft. The technology was developed, as I understand it, to specifically counter the Krell threat. Let me make sure I have this right: you are able to enter a state of suspended … ah, consciousness … in the simulators, and thereby interface with the simbodies?”

“That’s about the size of it,” I said – again, keen not to give away too much.

“The goal being that the operator is exposed to limited risk. The sim-body dies, but the operator is unharmed. These simulants, what mental capacity do they have?”

“None. They are grown for the job. They have an adapted neural interface that allows us to inhabit the body. No higher brain function.”

“Advanced bio-technology and gene-engineering, coupled with mechanics. So you intended to remain on your starship, and conduct the rescue operation remotely?”

“That’s right. It didn’t work out.”

“Where the Krell are involved, it rarely does. Could you make transition to another simulant body – perhaps one of those grown for use by another squad-member?”

I shook my head. “The bodies are individually encoded for use by a specific trooper. I couldn’t make transition to a sim grown for use by Kaminski or Blake, or any of the others.”

Kellerman frowned. “It appears that some of the simulants were damaged, Captain.”

“That’s right. My sims were destroyed during the landing.”

“The simulator-tanks were also damaged. While we are away, I have asked my researchers to attempt to repair them. Your Mr Olsen is assisting.”

“We don’t need the tanks. My squad and I – we’re still soldiers, even without the simulators.”

“Of course. I simply felt that it might be prudent to repair them as a contingency.” Kellerman shrugged. The exo-suit shoulders buzzed when he moved. “It may be some time before the Alliance sends assistance. We have such limited security personnel on-station; the extra manpower of an operational simulant would be much appreciated.”

“I don’t think that even Olsen can repair those tanks,” I said, lying as best I could. “The technology is very advanced, very specialised.”

I didn’t want Kellerman to have use of the simulators. Hunched in the safety harness as he was, wrapped in the exo-suit, he appeared to be a spent force – old, weak, harmless. And his words were always sensible, reasoned. But his eyes revealed the real spirit of the man: and when he caught me in his glare, I knew the truth. Here was a man capable of potential depravity for his cause.
Two thousand staff disappeared, with no explanation
.

Then there was the fact that my simulants were all dead. Even with the tanks fixed, I couldn’t make transition. I suddenly felt the nagging ache in my injured leg. I felt vulnerable. I had not been to war in my own body for many years and right now it felt incredibly fallible. Physically, I was about as much use as Kellerman.

“Anyone who fights the Krell is okay by me,” Deacon interjected. “Y’all just don’t do it the old-fashioned way. Up close and personal, that’s what I’m all about. Fucking hate those fish heads.”

“I hear that, brother,” Kaminski chanted, knocking fists with Blake.

“I apologise for Mr Deacon’s crudity,” Kellerman said. “Mr Deacon, please check on our progress.”

Deacon reluctantly unbuckled and stalked into the driver cabin, using overhead handholds to steady himself as he went. He had stripped to the waist, out of his H-suit, and had a series of messy scars over his shoulder blades and neck. He had a tattoo on his back: “Death from the stars – XXth Division.”

“He is a Rim War veteran,” Kellerman said, looking after Deacon as he went. “He fought the Asiatic Directorate on Epsilon Ultris. Honourably discharged. This placement was a reward, if you will, and he acts in a civilian capacity. Difficult to believe that such resources were consumed by a war between two human factions. But then these are harder times.”

“Weren’t you on Ultris?” I asked. The personnel records, I remembered, stated that he received the spinal injury on Epsilon Ultris.

Kellerman paused and frowned. “Why yes, I think that I was. So many planets, so many postings – difficult to remember them all.”

Is he seriously having trouble remembering?
I wondered. I didn’t believe that someone like Kellerman would forget the location of such a pivotal event. He gave no other reaction to my question, and I decided not to press it any further, but his response struck me as strange.