The Lazarus War: Artefact (12 page)

Atkins reeled off orders to his crew. The
Oregon
shuddered momentarily, and I felt myself drifting upwards. The gravity well was malfunctioning.

“Secondary hostile is about to take further action,” Pakos said.

The
Great White
had stopped moving, and the pores lining her flank started to flex rhythmically. Smaller flying vessels were being ejected from the ship and forming up as tight attack wings.

“I told you we needed Hornets,” Jenkins said to me. During the bombardment, she and my team had assembled around my weapon station.

“Identifying multiple inbound hostiles,” Pakos called out. “Less than twenty seconds until they reach optimal firing distance. They’re trying to get inside the shield.”

The disembarking fighters were sleek and needle-like. While obviously of the same mould as the bigger Krell warships, these were much faster and more manoeuvrable. Engines ignited to close the distance between them and us, leaving bright tails of plasma across space.

I scanned the area for targets. The railgun automatically tracked the incoming fighters, but didn’t fire. The railgun rounds were slow; the weapon would be no use against these new threats.

“Damn it!” I yelled.

But the
Oregon
responded in force. I felt the tug of torpedoes firing from bays somewhere beneath us, and watched on the holo as they met the oncoming fighter wing. Multiple ships exploded before they had even reached our position, disappearing from the scanner. There were a series of vivid flashes – each marking the death of a fighter. Each was extinguished almost instantly in the cold of space.

Returning fire raked the
Oregon
though. Energy beams impacted our null-shield, and it was inevitable with this volume of enemy fire that some shots would get through. Something popped deep within our ship, and this time I felt and heard the explosion.

This is real again
.

The battle in deep-space had been computer-controlled, sanitised. Silent explosions, fighting through machines, dispatching targets many kilometres away. The explosions sounding around me, as the
Oregon
fell under heavy enemy fire: they were
real
.

I pulled at the jack-cables, immediately breaking the connection with the
Oregon
’s weapon systems. The other dimension of awareness was suddenly gone. That same wave of uncertainty washed over me and I shook my head; concentrating on reality.

“Stay bolted down!” Kaminski yelled. “More incoming!”

The deck shook uncontrollably, then gravity cancelled altogether. This time, I took immediate evasive action, and grabbed onto the armrests of the weapon station. My squad did the same with anything fixed to the deck. It felt like all of my internal organs were suddenly loose inside me. For the first time in a long time, I was glad that I hadn’t drunk recently. Nausea overcame me, and I just managed to hold down the contents of my stomach.

The comms blurted with traffic, as maintenance reported damage across the ship. A crewman was screaming about a fire on the lower deck. It was impossible to ignore the smell of smoke in the air.

No getting away from this
.

“Permission to vent decks three and five,” Lieutenant Pakos called out.

She was a damned comms officer – not responsible for maintenance or any other aspect of the ship’s running. From the corner of my eye, I spied another dead officer – spinning across the room in the failing gravity.
Looks like Pakos just got a promotion, whether she wants it or not
.

“Not unless absolutely necessary!” Atkins roared.

Gravity shifted again. I grabbed for the chair, missed it, and sailed towards the ceiling. At the last moment, I managed to put out my arms to soften my landing. Around me, the other occupants of the bridge were in the same condition.

“It really is,” Pakos shouted back to Atkins. Her voice broke. “It really is the only way.”

“So be it.”

I caught sight of Atkins’ face as I drifted above him. He scowled angrily. While opening decks to deep-space would certainly solve the fire hazard, it also meant that anyone who had not taken protective measures would be sucked into space. Pakos was taking the hard choice – expending whoever was left on those decks for the good of the rest of us. It wasn’t a decision I would’ve wanted to make.

“Where is the worst damage?” Atkins queried.

“Life support has taken a hit,” someone answered.

We’re finished
, I thought to myself. Life support was the most heavily shielded area of the ship. If we were taking hits there, then our oxygen and heat supply would be next.

Then, as suddenly as the gravity lapse had started, it finished. I thumped down to the ground hard. Kaminski landed next to me, groaning to himself.

Atkins bobbed his head, considering something in the
Oregon
’s operating system. For the first time since the battle had begun, he appeared to consider that we might actually lose: that we might actually die out here.

“We’re haemorrhaging cryogen from one of the rear supplies,” he declared morosely.

“Which means?” Jenkins asked, steadying herself as another impact hit the
Oregon
.

“That we can expect to lose our atmosphere in approximately twenty-five minutes.”

“We must be able to do something!” I shouted, scanning the faces of my crew and looking to Atkins.

“The damage is external,” Atkins said. “Unless you can get outside, under that fire,” he pointed at the view-port, “then there isn’t anything that can be done.”

I smiled at Jenkins but she was already staggering towards the bridge door.

“Keep firing on that bitch,” I ordered, “and we’ll take care of the damage. Comm Olsen and tell him to power up the tanks.”

We took the shortest route to Medical. The ship’s gravity generator was working only intermittently, and as a result we were deprived of the simple act of forward motion. The dash through open corridors became a three-dimensional affair. The deck swayed and shuddered constantly, and it felt as though we were being attacked from every direction. One moment we were dashing along on the ground, the next we were forced to crawl along the ceiling. I lurched forwards, using ladder rungs as handholds and propelling myself through closing bulkheads. The lighting flickered and flashed, then briefly we were plunged into absolute darkness. I passed a maintenance team feverishly spraying a chamber with fire extinguishers. The air tasted smoky but paradoxically the temperature was dropping rapidly. Panic hung like a miasma; about as breathable as the vacuum outside.

The
Oregon
was dying and only we could save it.

“Next junction,” Martinez shouted, taking point, pushing himself off a wall to generate some onward momentum.

The ship PA hissed with static.

“This is Captain Atkins,” came a voice. “Science Officer Olsen says your tanks are a go. Get moving!”

Medical was a hive of activity. Wall-mounted monitors showed the
Oregon
’s continued assault on the
Great White
, but now we were firing less often and less successfully.

The simulator-tanks were primed and ready. Olsen’s medical techs had been whipped into shape by the threat of the failing life-support system, and reacted with commendable speed.

“Get me into that tank
now
!” I bellowed. I didn’t care who I offended, didn’t care what procedure was cut short.

“I – I’m hurrying!” a medtech replied, checking me over.

“Leave me – I’ll do it myself,” I said. I pushed the tech aside. “Help Blake.”

I slid my father’s pistol from its holster on my leg, and hung it beside my tank. A medic frowned at me, went to examine the gun, but I waved him away.

“Leave it and do your job.”

Each of us was attached to the simulators. Olsen oversaw the procedure. Jacked cables to the spinal ports, into the limbs, the same as the procedure on the bridge. Respirator masks in place.

I was lowered into the amniotic fluid of the simulator. An operational tank would be full of steaming hot, conducive amnio-fluid; now the stuff was tepid, but increasing in temperature. The respirator mask pumped my lungs with cold oxygen. My pulse raced: I wanted the connection so badly. The simulators were delicate pieces of equipment, not made for manhandling in zero-gravity or under fire, but we had no other choice. There was no time for formality.

The jacks ached in my arms.
Like a drug addict, taking the needle
. But in much the same way, I knew that it was a good pain.
It means you’re alive
, I told myself. That ache also meant that the ultimate euphoria wasn’t far off: that soon I would have the exhilaration of transition.

Come on! Come on! Do this already!

I had a bead in my ear, allowing me to communicate with Medical and the rest of my team.

“Fuck yeah!” Kaminski roared from inside his mask. “Let’s do this shit.”

Jenkins, Blake and Martinez howled like dogs. Some of the medics flinched back from the sim-tanks.

“Are the sims ready?” I asked of Olsen.

Everything outside the tank was a blue haze. Olsen stood in front of me, clutching a clipboard or data-slate, and nodded his head.

“Yes, Captain Harris,” he mumbled. “After transition, you will need to follow the path pre-set by Captain Atkins. Your suits have been loaded with tactical maps of the interior and exterior of the
Oregon
.”

Olsen stood back and indicated the far wall of Medical. There, opposite my tank, were five gods of war. Five statues, cast from grey flesh; wrapped in the best Alliance military tech. Five hungry, empty vessels: eyes lightly shut behind semi-mirrored face-plates. Hung on hooks like joints of meat. Plasma rifles magnetically locked to the back-plates of each suit.
It’s close. Soon – it’ll happen soon
.

Another enormous boom sounded somewhere deep in the
Oregon
, echoing through the empty metal corridors. Red emergency lighting illuminated Medical. A tech scrambled over to my tank and sealed me in.

“This sector of the ship has access to the emergency power reserve,” Olsen said. “Unless the ship goes down, we’ll have power in Medical until the end.”

“Good to hear,” I said. “Now get on with it, and get us out there.”

The same tech double-checked the other simulator-tanks.

“Good luck,” Blake yelled. “See you all on the other side.”

The words were repeated by each of us like a chant.

“Establishing remote link with the simulant bodies,” a tech called out. “Link is good, repeat link is good.”

“Are the sim operators ready for transition?” Olsen asked.

One by one, we motioned from our tanks that we were ready. Olsen watched each of us in turn, then raised a hand and spoke into his communicator.

“All operators confirm readiness. We are good to go, repeat good to go. Commence transition.”

It couldn’t come soon enough.

This was like my connection with the
Oregon
, but it was also different.
So much better
.

I looked out of my tank, watching Olsen and the scurrying medics. For a split second, two realities were superimposed on one another. I was in two places. Two biological entities vied for dominance, commanded by a single mind. My real heartbeat and that of the simulant fell in step; slowing down.

Strength sapped from my limbs. I tried to move them, to lift an arm in the syrupy blue fluid.

I am in control of every aspect of my body. I lift both arms, but must be careful not to over-react: my strength is amplified by my suit and knows no bounds
.

I was forty years old, Earth-standard.

I am just born
.

My every sense was sharpened, hyper-alert. It was so disorienting that it was almost painful.

But not for me. I am alive again
.

I wasn’t inside the simulant. I
was
the simulant.

The hooks holding the previously inert body in place gave way and I stood for the first time. The body was newborn but I felt no shakiness, no uncertainty.

My real body was curled inside the tank in front of me.
Weak, human and fallible
. So easily destroyed. It had been replaced by something else, something better. I flexed my arms and legs. I rolled my head, felt taut muscles in my neck. I breathed deep. Everything worked exactly as it should.

“Transition confirmed,” I said.

My tactical combat helmet activated. The interior of my face-plate flushed with systems diagnostics for a second, then it was flooded with real-time battle data from the
Oregon
. The rest of my combat-armour came online.

“Everyone ready?” I roared into the comm.

“Finally!” Kaminski yelled. “We are a five-man army.”

There was a round of “affirmatives” from the others.

“Let’s do this.”

Olsen and the rest of the science team parted before us and we stormed off through the
Oregon
.

The nearest primary airlock was through Medical, past Storage, then back through Communications. In our real bodies this would’ve been an arduous journey. Now we handled it easily. Gravity continued to fluctuate: we had magnetic locks integrated into the soles of our boots for that. The atmosphere was fouled by smoke and other pollutants: we had internal atmosphere supplies for that.

We occasionally passed crew and other staff. Despite the panic, despite the danger of immediate extinction, they stopped to stare at us. The Simulant Operations Programme was no secret but even the Alliance Navy rarely got to see a simulant up close like this. From the expressions on the faces of the Naval staff, I doubted that this was something they’d want to see again.

Ahead, a handful of crewmen wearing emergency respirators were fumbling with a bulkhead door. Two slabs of six-inch-thick metal were being held open by a fire extinguisher; the door motor was whining in protest. A warning light set in the ceiling bathed the area in yellow light. The crew were shouting to one another. As we approached, the bulkhead sounded again – that nerve-jangling screech of metal on metal – and the extinguisher hissed as it ruptured.

“Get out of the way,
now
!” I bellowed over my combat-suit external speakers. My voice was a deep, ribcage-rumble – amplified now.

Six men were flagged on my HUD; glowing icons, broadcasting bio-signs. Elevated heart-beats, dangerous levels of carbon dioxide consumption.

I led my squad, and the crew turned to respond to me as one. Their faces were masks of pure dread; horror that someone in the Alliance could’ve devised something so precisely honed for the art of war. The crew were like mites to me – had I wished, they could be so easily extinguished. I waded through them all. The only thing that mattered was reaching the airlock.

I am doom
, a voice in my head said.
And I like it
.

“Y-yes, sir!” one of the maintenance crew managed, stumbling back from the door.

I bolted forward and caught the bulkhead as it was about to close. I prised open the two metal slabs with my fingers. The metal squealed again but gave way. The hissing extinguisher fell to the floor, still pumping foam. I forced the door panels into the wall, leaving the access clear.

“The airlock is that way,” I indicated to the others. “Double-time it.”

“Affirmative, Cap,” Jenkins said over the comms channel, with a snigger, as she jogged on past the terrified crew.

I didn’t bother reprimanding Jenkins. That was the worst part of all this: glancing down at those men, I enjoyed their reaction.

I wasn’t like them any more.

I was something better.