The blood was pounding tiny hammers in the back of my head, tapping out some crazy rhythm. It felt like my head was about to explode, falling apart, unable to keep up with the galloping.
A naked man stood against the wall, leaning on the muddy white plastic with his hand. The body moved from side to side, but by some miracle, the lonely inhabitant of the half-empty room managed to keep his balance, frozen for a moment, then everything continued in a circle: a wave of trembling ran, shaking the body; his feet stepped over, slapping on the linoleum floor; his palm moved a couple of centimeters to the left or right, allowing him to remain in an upright position.
The door's expansion joint hissed, and in the doorway stepped two people who looked like cartoon embodiments of the mad doctor comics popular last summer: a skinny young genius with a disheveled hair and a phlegmatic big guy who had spent at least fifty credits on a haircut.
“Oh, I told you we'd got an upbeat client. No sooner had he come out of his adjustment than he was wandering around.”
“We should have been fixing it, not talking about medicated sleep. You see, the material reacts differently to drugs.”
“It's nothing, my friend, nothing... But you can put a check mark on completing the primary adaptation cycle.”
Pulling a tiny flashlight in a magician's gesture, the shaggy genius shone in the eyes of the naked patient, felt his hands, tapped his finger on the sternum, and grinned instead grinning:
“I've always said that the opening series was the most successful. Unadapted material is the key to success!”
“Where... I am?..” The man hissed, struggling to keep his balance.
The wearer of the starched robe marveled:
“Charlie, did you see that? He's already mastered basic motor skills and activated the signaling system! What a successful progress!”
“I'd better put him in a wheelchair and strap him in. I don't want the client to get violent.”
“Where...”
“I don't think this information will help you, but if you insist... We're at the Air Force Reserve Academy Medical Center, Unit 5. How's that sound?”
Big Charlie, meanwhile, pulled a wheelchair from behind the plastic curtain and tried to unpack the pile of protruding tubes, gathered into a compact clump. As he fiddled with the engineering problem, his partner continued gibbering, clipping tiny beads of sensors onto the shaven-haired man's chest and back:
“For the first 24 hours, dizziness, nausea, and loss of spatial orientation are possible. However, I do not observe this. So, residual effects of identity implantation and hormonal correction. But, all in all, a very good start to the process, I would say. Very.”
“You... didn't... answered...”
“What do you mean?” The lab technician was surprised, finishing collecting data on a small tablet.
“I realized... that this... hospital... But I... didn't understand... how I... ...got here...”
There was a rumble in the corner of the room-the wheelchair flew under the bed, refusing to make any sense. Charlie seemed to have given up and decided to take a drastic approach to the problem:
“The hell with it; he'll walk. You hear that, Carlos? Walk. If Doddy thinks you're settled t and adapted, you can walk down the hall.”
“Carlos? My name is... Carlos?”
“Don't mind him,” the shaggy-haired keyboard genius waved his hand, completing the checkboxes in the long list that flew across the display. “My esteemed colleague can't stand his former college roommate. So he borrowed two hundred credits to settle in and dropped out the first semester. Along with the money, I might add. So now anyone who annoys him gets the name Carlos. By the way, not a bad name, if you ask me.”
“I'm his... annoying...”
“So, diction is not very good yet, and imagery is lame, but overall performance is above average and without stressful breakdowns... I'm done... Oh, about the name. Well, think about it, we were up at three in the morning, pulled out without any explanation, and hurried to prepare the box to complete the experiment. Some kind of endless rush, and those boneheads from the inner security at every turn. It would be strange for Charlie to treat you with a smile. Hear that, Charlie, the customer wants to know...”
“Cut the crap, Doddy; your head's already pounding. Sign the activation protocol, and it's time to pass it on.”
The naked man gently touched the button of his robe and whispered:
“Please... I'm all like... in a fog... Where am I? What day? What city?”
“Yes, the adaptation is going smoothly. Great reaction; who'd have thought... City? Garleston, United States of America. February 24th, 2105. Great time for winter, by the way. Storm season's still two months away; no heat yet. The ocean is a little cold, but it's almost velvet season.”
“Two thousand... What?!”
The airlock hissed, and a camouflage-clad soldier, covered with weapons like a Christmas tree, stepped into the room. You could hear a few more men rattling their ammunition in the corridor.
“Are you finished? It's about three minutes past when we were scheduled to move out.”
“Yes, Corporal, the client is ready to be picked up!” Doddy bowed mockingly. “We ran the tests and gathered the statistics. Report just sent to the colonel. The subject is able to move on his own. Excellent adaptation.”
“It's a breach of protocol. He's supposed to be immobilized and moved in a specially prepared chair.”
Stepping toward the bed, Charlie lifted the sheet and kicked the aluminum tubes squeamishly:
“In this one, is it? Since the whole program block went under, we've had nothing but scraps from the city hospitals instead of the equipment we're supposed to have. So regular handcuffs would be more valuable than wheelchairs.”
“Yes?" The corporal's face flashed doubtfully, but then he shrugged and said, "Are you finished? Our orders were to take the object to the garage, then transport it to the bunker. Finally, to take all the paperwork to the control room, where the lab equipment has already been sent.”
“Everything is ready, of course. You are new on the project, my colleague and I have been here for six years.”
“All right. Your communicator, please," ignoring Doddy's surprised exclamation, the man in camouflage deftly picked up a small tablet and slipped it into a sizeless pouch on his belt.
“Hey, wait a minute! That's my personal ‘Torgus’! I bought it with my own...”
“Get it from the front desk tomorrow. Security service will clean up the clearance information and bring it back.”
“Yeah? I don't think they will. It's all crooks in there, always trying to get their hands on something.”
But the corporal was no longer paying attention to the disgruntled lab assistants, placing wide ribbons of plastic handcuffs on the wrists of the naked man. Making sure that the shackles held firmly, he turned the subject around and commanded:
“Go ahead. Move on command. Any attempt to resist will be stopped by force of arms. Understood?”
“Aye, aye," said ‘Carlos’, taking the first step cautiously. He had just reached the door when a soldier walking to his right slowed down for a moment, turned around, and fired two shots. The movements were so fast and practiced that it seemed as if the short-barreled pistol itself materialized in the palm of his hand. Clap-clap, and the two bodies in white coats slowly fell to the floor. Charlie didn't have time to remove the mask of a snob who was always unhappy with life from his face, and Doddy's face didn't leave his smile. Death took them in the images they were accustomed to displaying in public. Though death doesn't care how we leave this world, in whole or in part, with a smile or a rage on his face.
A leather-gloved hand slapped the button, then nudged the patient across the aisle.
“Forward.”
And already in the corridor, the corporal gave orders to the escort team:
“Put the bodies in bags, and load them with the material. The Chemical Cleaning Service should sanitize the room. We leave in ten minutes.”
Slowly walking down the corridor, the naked prisoner (apparently - still a prisoner otherwise a man without a name or any clear memories could not identify himself) carefully looked around, trying not to show interest in his surroundings. Of course, if it was so unexpected to start the work day here and write off the staff, then it was pointless to hope for the best. But he didn't want to die, so ‘Carlos’ paddled down the corridor next to the corporal, feeling at least two other armed soldiers moving behind him.
In the elevator that was coming down quickly, the man tried to strike up a conversation:
“Unusual weapons you have. The gunshots usually sound much louder indoors.”
“- Are you looking for trouble?”
“Excuse me...”
“You're going to drive quietly, not trying to get me in trouble. If you open your mouth again without an order, you'll get a taser. You don't want to get a hole in your skin, but I can fry your side anytime. Understood?”
“That's right, I understand.”
“That's good. Shut your mouth and move.”
Walking on the cold concrete floor of the underground garage, ‘Carlos’ managed to hear one of the guards whispering to his partner from behind:
“Did you hear that? ‘That's right!’ through the word. It sounds like the guy served in the military before the conservancy.”
“Come on, these civilians are always in over their heads. They pick up all kinds of crap from soap operas and start acting out. When's the last time you did that?”
The doors creaked open, exposing the guts of a white minivan on wide wheels, and the polished iron of the floor rattled. Having arranged the prisoner on the bench, the corporal gestured inside a couple of escorts, and got into the cabin, muttering one last word:
“No talking! They'll fill up the second board with the rest; then we'll move out. Check your headsets. If anything, call me immediately.”
Slammed the door, cutting off the tightly closed body of the blue light from the garage lights. A light bulb under the ceiling, which was covered in a fine grid, flashed on. Looking at the crouched ward, one of the soldiers stuck his hand under his feet and pulled out a dirty rag:
“Here, put it on, or you'll freeze to death before you know it.”
“Thank you.”
While ‘Carlos’ tried to wrap up his hands and keep the shivers away from his body, the other guard muttered to himself:
“If you give the corporal a hard time when he arrives, you'll owe me weekend duty. You're making it a kindergarten, you know.”
“Come on, we're not animals. If you get sick from the habit, you'll have to answer for it later.”
“Well, well...”
The sluggish exchange was interrupted by a faintly audible noise from outside. There was a clatter of iron, slamming of doors, and a whine from the electric motors. The van jerked and rolled toward the exit. Swaying in time with the motion, the prisoner tried to convince himself that the sound of falling he heard had nothing to do with the bodies of the dead lab technicians, but the self-infusion worked poorly.
“What the hell is going on here?” That was the only thought that went through his mind the whole way, echoing the tedious howl of the engines.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
***
“Corporal, do you know what you're doing?”
In the past three days, Joe Swift has managed to develop a lot of activity, having occupied an entire floor next to the experimental transport unit for the upcoming operation. Now he stood at the transparent armored glass, looking at the ‘material’ wrapped in a cloth.
“Laboratory evacuated, personnel disposed of.”
“Yes, I heard your report, do not tell me like a parrot the same thing! I'm asking - why is it not without a power lock? Where is the frame, and where are the straps for securing?”
“The hospital had no means of transportation. I allocated an escort team and...”
“Corporal. This is a cyborgized clone with military specialization. He can tear you and your escorts apart with his bare hands in two seconds. Understand? Send him after the staff, then use the captured weapons to cause local doomsday. You're lucky that he's disoriented and doesn't realize what kind of situation he's in.”
The corporal's face had lost its usual equanimity. He seemed to realize only now that the operation could have gone quite differently.
“I was not informed, Mr. Swift. It's a violation of the pro...”
“You may file a report. To your top command. And don't forget to point out that you've committed grave safety violations that may have resulted in personnel casualties. And I'll be happy to put in a sentence or two of my own.” After a moment of silence, the extra-authority holder reduced his pressure a little and continued conciliatorily: “Okay, everyone's nerves are shaken from the evening. Emergency situation and all that... Let's finish with the pickup without excesses, and I'll talk to the colonel about a bonus. Make sure the selected weapons and equipment are delivered to the hall and let's get started.”
For the next half hour, Joe was frankly bored, occasionally fighting an attack of yawning. Soldiers hauled green plastic boxes, blocks of medical equipment, and a pile of incomprehensible equipment. The dismantled lab ended up taking up most of the vast hall, letting the crates of weapons, food, and marching gear occupy only a tiny patch in the corner.
Swift almost fell out of his chair when he heard a slight cough:
“Damn! Stefan, where did you get this habit of stupid jokes?! You show up like a ghost; you stutter!”
The fat man just grinned and moved closer to the window. He admired the bustle behind the glass, poked his finger at the switches, then looked around the empty room and asked:
“Did you disperse the staff?”
“Why are they here? They prepared the plant in the evening; now, I had to do was pull the switch.”
“Yes? Though the fewer people know, the better... What do you think of the client? Will it work as a distraction?”
Standing beside his friend, a thin black pillar, John snorted:
“Where did you dig up?... I don't know what to call him - a moral castrate? I've watched him so long, and he looks like he's stoned. Doesn't even scratch himself once.”
“Why did I dig it up right away? No, I grew it. The same methodology they use to make beef steaks nowadays. General synthetic matrix, clone a stable line of human stem cells, then specialize according to parameters. Plus carbon plastic for bones, a little elastide in the muscles, and a modified signaling system. And the little things: sensory sputtering matrixes on eyeballs, some radiation tolerant chips, nano-filters in liver and kidneys. Stable, proven over thirty years of technology. Too bad they didn't go into circulation; the reject rate was too high. Out of ten bodies, only one passed military standards; the rest had to be destroyed. And the main problem with the head.”
“I can see that.”
“What did you want? The bright future of consciousness transplantation never came. We learned how to read encephalograms; we can even record a personality on a disk. But only basic instincts and fragments of the last five to seven years of life are preserved as memories. This garbage is written back onto the cloned brains somehow. Wasteful to use a lot of resources for such an unstable result, don't you think?”
Settling down on the wide windowsill, Stefan got a mint from his pocket and dropped it in his mouth. Then, periodically glancing at the quieting commotion below the high armored control room, he continued:
“You know, I regret the wasted years. Perhaps if, instead of a series of energy and economic crises, mankind had continued to grow, we would now have not only had a base on Mars but colonized the entire solar system. And after digging out the found ruins of the Precursors, we would even step to the stars.”
“Do you need it?”
“New technology would have pulled us out of the ass we've been sitting in for a long time. So how did the ‘Constellation Project’ begin? The United Nations, fighting for the right to be the first to assemble the transport unit, deciphering the route map to Dead End. The first launch, first cargo run. First visit to the Outpost. And how did it all end? Splat!”
Puffy hands depicted an amorphous explosion. Then its twin brother followed the first lollipop.
“United humanity shit all over itself. The ruins turned out to be one of the malfunctioning repeaters, which was miraculously tossed precisely to us. The channel is an unstable gut, limited in size and mass. Every couple of months, we clog the repeater's mirror with toxic debris and dump it on the Dead End. Neither reproduce someone else's equipment nor punch in a new channel. Not only that, we can't even be sure of decoding the accumulated data. Maybe it wasn't the Precursors who launched the atomic genocide of the planet. Perhaps they did it themselves. How much can you learn from a tiny room fenced off from the rest of the alien station?”
“Groups were thrown in with equipment and communications. They conducted reconnaissance and even managed to spot-check a few areas.”
“Yeah. They found traces of the chemical, bacteriological and atomic weapons. And a wild ecosphere on top of that, from mutated animals to mechanized military systems.”
Joe jerked his shoulder irritably, returned to the chair he'd been used to, and threw his feet up on the console:
“What do you want me to do? Fund research out of my pocket? I have nothing else to do. The embargo on misuse of the budget was put in place before I was born. It was never lifted.”
“Exactly. We're still farting around with a pittance left over after we've used up all the oil. Localized starvation on half of the Earth, a polluted territory and a barely alive Mars program with half a hundred astronauts as the peak of intellectual development.”
“Cry some more about humanity in general and the unfortunate personnel of Project ‘Shiva’ in particular. There they are, stacked next to the hardware. You gave the sanction for cleansing without regret, didn't you?”
“Yes,” Stefan didn't deny it, chewing candy. “That's the job; you can't get away with it. But I strongly feel that the wrong planet called Dead End is wrong ... By the way, I've been working on my business since this morning. So what are you waiting for?”
The head of the ‘rescue operation’ explained:
“Eggheads have calculated the next ‘window’ for landing. It won't be long now.”
“Have you prepared equipment and weapons?”
“Of course. Everything was done on the payroll so that no one would complain that the expedition was doomed to failure.”
“Only on the payroll, or did you get something in reality?”
A hand with manicured nails waved toward the corner of the blocked hall:
“They got it from the stockpile, don't you worry. More than enough, I'd say. What's all the fuss?”
Stefan shook off his hands and stood up, turning to face the figure frozen below:
“It's the final chord. I want it to be beautiful. I even brought the instructor an hour of training, will check the assimilation of laid-down information ... Look how closely he's looking, the bastard! And they complained that English does not go well with other people's linguistic culture. They must have been lying. Everyone's trying to trick the management.”
“Looking? Looking where?”
Joe stood up, looked at the flashing lights, and hissed in a fury:
“Did you turn on the microphones?!”
“Relax,” the fat man chuckled, pulling out a thin plate of a communicator. “There are no recording devices there. It's just a half-finished test-tube with the beginnings of consciousness. Our conversations are like a stop signal to a hare. A couple more hours, and it's a one-way trip... So, where's my specialist? He should be here by now.”
***
“Put the cage here until it clicks. Do you hear that? Keep in mind that the sound is disconcerting in covert operations, but the model is reliable, without the extra expense of electronic stuffing and other junk. Pressed powder for the cartridges; if it jams, you pull the bolt, and the next one goes in...”
The instructor looked like a bulldog, riddled with wrinkles and sun-bleached; short hands with sausage fingers blackened by endless fiddling with weapons; and stingy, economical gestures. Critical information on every piece of hardware was demonstrated, including the strengths and weaknesses of the next specimen that came into his hands.
The apprentice was unexpectedly close in spirit to the old specialist. He listened attentively and occasionally interrogated. Then, repeated disassembly and assembly with the same precise movements as if he was not mastering a new rifle but only remembering what he had forgotten before. Assault rifle, light machine gun, multiple grenade launcher, radio-controlled mines, and more than thirty more items of deadly iron, capable of giving an extra couple of minutes in a possible bloody mess.
After two hours, the instructor left, leaving ‘Carlos’ alone in the brightly lit hall. Stefan, who had disappeared, came back and grimaced painfully as he received an abusive tirade from his friend:
“...! How am I supposed to clean all this up now?”
“What's the matter with you, Joe? All the preparations are completed, and our client is ready for the task. All that's left to do is to orient him to the task at hand and pull your switch.”
“We're still ten minutes away from the drop. That's number one. And while you were clowning around with the microphones, I almost managed to get the project to Kurt's group. That's two. The guys saw the money and resources I was given, and now they're working their asses off to get the development for themselves. So all that's left to do is carefully hand over the reins, and we can watch the others steal the lot. Along with a pulled check to go with it.”
“All the more reason. But I say we give the guy a chance... Why are you looking so surprised? I'm talking about Livshitz's kid. We've added a broadband scanner capable of picking up a personal beacon. So there's a good chance our hastily trained rescuer will find the student's remains. Earn extra points in front of Senator.” A fat finger hovered over the tumbler: “Do you mind?”
A loud voice rang out sharply under the high ceiling:
“Fighter! To your left is a box with an orange stripe on the side. Open it.”
‘Carlos’ squinted at the stranger behind the armored glass, slowly crawled off the table, and executed the command. A rectangle glowed in the lid of the opened fat-bottomed suitcase, displaying a string of small lines, accompanied by a cursory mechanical shorthand:
“Task: locate the object, secure it, and transport it to the evacuation zone. Points of possible return... Photo of object... Emergency communication frequencies and emergency beacon activation codes...”
Waiting for the briefing to end, Stefan tapped lightly on the glass and continued:
“Clothes and shoes are in the trunk under the desk where you've been sitting your ass off. Get dressed and check your gear. We were literally minutes away from disembarking.”
But the naked man with the shag thrown over his shoulders only squinted at the bag. Then he fixed his heavy gaze on the fat man and asked:
“Who am I? Who and where from?”
“... What kind of questions do you ask? How can I tell you...”
“Tell it like it is. I only remember the last three hours. The rest is a black spot. And a headache to boot.”
Stefan rustled with the wrapper, gave the candy back, and sighed:
“I'm constantly gaining weight when I'm busy... Well, to make a long story short, you are a reconstructed psycho-matrix of a military man, taken from the original almost seventy years ago. Unfortunately, I don't know the details of the technology. Neither do I know your name - there's only a twenty-digit number in the paperwork.”
“What's the point?”
“The crafty guys at the Pentagon managed to fool many people back then. The newly created United States of America needed excellent soldiers, managed to get the first stable clones of animals, and imposed the previously recorded mentograms. It seemed - one more step, and we would have a test-grown army.”
“Seventy years ago?”
“Yeah. But the technology never made it out of the lab. Recordings were made in a bunch of countries, and the selection was tough. The best of the best in exchange for money and crumbs of technology. Europe, Asia, Latin Union. You were recorded in Russia, by the way. That's all I know. And general information on recovery: within a month, mental connections should be formed anew, and you will regain about the last five years of your prototype's life. Motor skills will manifest as soon as the matrix is applied. Plus, you have a few chips with general knowledge of new weapons and military disciplines.”
The man with a number instead of a name gently tapped himself on his chest and listened:
“Am I a robot? There seems to be no iron.”
“Iron did not justify itself. Over the years, they had tried everything: mechanized cyborgs, amplification of some key body feature to the detriment of others. They tried everything! And all in vain: a rejection of implants, disruption of programs, morons instead of soldiers... That is why you were restored according to one of the first methods: your general parameters were slightly improved, and the minimum of additives and modifications. You are faster, smarter, and tougher. But that's all. But with the weapon you've been given, you've got a good chance of success. All right, let's wrap it up. Get dressed; the corporal and his escorts are here. Get your gear on, and let's go meet success.”
“Success? Somebody's been talking about a one-way trip lately...”
Joe, who had frozen by Stephan's side, grinned:
“A fine specimen indeed. How'd he cut you off, huh?”
The fat man snorted grudgingly, wearing a fake smile on his face, and turned off the microphone:
“Nothing, just as long as it's good for the cause. If he's a teetotaler, it means his brain activity is fully restored. He'll be able to ask questions and shoot anything that moves. By the way, will you give him someone to back him up? The senator wouldn't appreciate a loner.”
Joe went over to the console and carefully typed in the command with his forefinger:
“That's what I'll give them. You said it yourself - we're closing the ‘Shiva’ with the staff. There they go in one list: the experimental specimen soldier and the "green beret" squad. A great team, not some criminals. And the corpses, along with the dismantled laboratory and weapons in addition. We'll dump the whole project in one fell swoop on Dead End.”
Stefan looked at his friend in amazement, then turned his gaze to the people huddled in the hall:
“All of them? So that's it. That's it!”
Swift took his finger off the keyboard and put a dial tone to his ear, listened to the message and put it back in his pocket.
“And mind you - I haven't had anything to do with it for an hour. Kurt got permission, and now he's in charge of everything. Even the launch. At least his visa is on the transport order... So why are you making such a fuss? Honestly, I don't believe in burning at work.”
“What burning! I bet a hundred dollars with the deputy that the client would last 24 hours. That's why I'm trying to help out within my budget and possibilities.”
“You're cheating, Stefan. You're cheating.”
A manicured finger flicked a button, and the room lit up in a bright green flash. When eyes could see clearly again, there was nothing behind the armored glass.
“See, just now, Kurt had finally written off the ‘Shiva’ and thrown a rescue team into the drop zone.”
The fat man rushed to the window, groaning delightedly:
“Wow! Is it always like this? One minute it's there?”
“Yep. But before that, they've been counting channel parameters, weights, and stuff for a couple of months. And the only thing that works is someone else's mirror, where they built the building. They never built a second one. By the way, get a hundred ready for the helper.”
Stefan returned to the console and quickly looked through a string of brightly lit numbers on the screens:
“Why should I? We'll wait for word from the beacons first; the Outpost surveillance team will have to report back at the end of their shift, they've been warned.”
Back in his chair, Joe grinned wearily:
“Well, I have to have insurance, too. To make sure the crew really stays on Dead End. Corporal wasn't just cleaning up after you.”
“And?”
“Landing on the plain, away from the ruins of settlements. Flat as a table. Just as my successor's report said... Only I've tweaked the point a bit. And your seventy-year-old man and his attendants fell out over the canyon. And from the zero point above the level of the plain to the rocks below, another three hundred meters. Three hundred and ten, to be quite precise. So, get your money ready, Stefan. There will be no radio report and no selfies with the natives...”
***
The ringing in head, the sensation of the impact that knocked the air out of lungs-and the blinding, staring light. It was all in a split second, tossing the body into the cold, compressed fog, bursting with the oncoming wind.
And the whistling in his ears. And the gray cliffs below. And the steep walls at the sides of his body, gathering speed. And a scream, tearing at the throat:
“Oh, you are bastar...!!!”