The IX (27 page)

“Dennis.” Mac’s voice was hoarse with emotion.

“I beg your pardon?”

“His name was Dennis. And yes, I’d known him for quite a few years.”

A brooding hush ensued.

Eventually, Bob shuffled forward and came to stand on the opposite side of the bed. A large plastic tray sat on top of an adjacent table, containing Jumper’s uniform and the few personal effects he’d had on him at the time of his death. A small photograph of a woman hugging three children was uppermost.

“I take it this is his family?” Bob murmured, indicating the picture.

“Was his family,” Mac replied. “That was taken several years ago now, when the twins were only five. His ex-wife, Tara, doted on them. As did Jumper. Even after the split, they worked hard together to ensure the kids didn’t suffer unnecessarily. Nadine, their eldest, took it the hardest as she used to love going everywhere with her dad. Little Joe and Sophie didn’t really understand what was going on at the time. But they adapted, as kids do. Jumper and Tara did a marvelous job. Kept up with parent evening thing at school. Sports days. And all the other important stuff that ensured the kids never felt left out.”

Mac watched as a sour look crossed Bob’s face. The other man clenched his hands. “And I’m the sad bastard who took their father from them.”

Something inside clicked, and Mac decided to extend an olive branch. “Oh, they lost him a long time ago, my friend. Especially after he joined Special Forces.
Married to the Corps
is the term we use. And I think it happens to all of us who serve.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Bob’s tone was bitter.

“It wasn’t really meant to. Remember, we’re all lost out here. The moment the gateway took us, we ceased to exist. We’re just unique among the dead in that we didn’t have the opportunity to die properly. Instead of lying six feet under somewhere, we have to face each new day knowing that we might make a difference. In his short time here, Jumper certainly did. Now it’s up to you.”

“Hey! I’m not a soldier. I’d never really handled a gun before the other night. And yet, because of me and some stupid, bloody accident, a good man is lying there and—”

“And nothing you say or do can change that. You now owe it to Dennis’s memory to learn from what happened and use it to make a difference. For us. For his children back home. For the sacrifice he made.”

Bob looked shipwrecked.

Mac had an idea. Digging into the meager contents of the property tray, he fished around and removed two small resin discs attached to a piece of black cord. Handing them to Bob, he said, “Here, these are Jumper’s dog-tags. Keep them as a source of inspiration. See what you come up with.”

Bob held the green and purple emblems aloft and studied them closely. Both were engraved with the same words.
PO988453K COLLINS D. – B POS – C of E.
After a moment, he glanced toward Mac, his eyes brimming with tears.

Good!
I see I’ve struck a nerve.
Something constructive might come of this mess after all.

Nodding once, Mac left the morgue and made his way toward the canteen.
I’d better get something to eat before the debriefing starts. There’s nothing like being forced to relive an unpleasant experience on a full stomach. Still. At least here, I don’t have to send one of those dreadful next-of-kin letters.

*

A confusing maelstrom of conflicting concepts and sensations fought their way to the surface. The entity felt as if it were swimming from the depths of an abyss against the tide. A sense of confinement remained, but it wasn’t as overpowering as before.

Perplexed, it tried to organize its fractured cognizance into a more coherent form, only to discover the effort overwhelmed it. Instinctively, it relaxed.
I am weak. Diminished. Comprehension must wait until I have gathered my strength.

Alarmed, the consciousness recoiled from structured thought.

Wha t. . . was . . . that?

Curious, it edged forward once more. Cautiously, warily, it tested the water. An echo of familiarity soothed the doubts that jangled through discordant memories and experience.

I’m . . . thinking.

A startling sense of dislocation and metamorphosis ensued. Scrutinizing the transformation, the strange being became enraptured. Although terrified, a multitude of fresh pathways flared within it, each pulse alive with essence and possibilities. Conditioned to an eternity of helpless inactivity, these new sensations inundated its raw perceptions with delight
and
distaste. As if what was happening was both natural, and yet at the same time, utterly repulsive.

Realization caused a flare of golden resonance to surge along the construct before it. Intuition kicked it.
That’s a . . . a synapse.

Thrilled, a startling truth struck home.

This is similar to the time before.

How it knew that, the entity didn’t know, but attempting to clarify such knowledge only heightened its uncertainty.

Patience . . . ?
It groped for a name. An empty void throbbed before it.
So
w
ho am I? What am I?

Despite its frustration, the consciousness was desperate to understand itself better.

No. This is . . . right.
An impression of
normal
flashed through its mind.
So why do I feel it’s somehow wrong?

Flowing outward, it discerned greater stimuli within reach. Hungry for more, it allowed self imposed barriers to drop. A million different sources swarmed toward it at once; the rush as delicious as it was disagreeable.

What form is this that limits me so?

A soothing, repetitive, rhythm lifted itself from the chaos.
Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep.

Cool fabric, soft to the touch, registered on skin.
But what is skin? And why is this . . . soft?

The noise in the background gained in pitch and urgency.
Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip!
It was smothered by an altogether harsher and more demanding tone which aggravated him.

I have a gender? I am . . . male.

The being discovered he was breathing deeply. The blaring alarm seemed to tug his respiration along at a corresponding pace.
A thudding sensation filled his chest cavity.

Something touched him. He flinched! Whatever it was gripped him tighter and was uttering a string of different sounds.

Make it stop.

“Are . . . all right? Can yo . . . ear me?

Eh? Dialect? Someone is attempting to communicate verbally.

“Captain Houston. James. Are you all right?”

It
moved closer. Another, sweeter sensation began to dominate. Inhaling, he became aware of a pleasant fragrance and remembered,
perfume, feminine, woman.

Eyes opened. Bright, blinding light, exacerbated by shadowed surrounds, assailed his nascent comprehension. Blinking furiously, the entity comprehended a liquid texture upon his cheeks.
Tears.

Some ran into his mouth, and he subconsciously smacked his lips in response to the salty taste.
I am wholly . . . physical in nature.

Struggling to focus, he discerned an
other
in front of him. Fighting to sit up, he was immediately seized by vertigo and fell back onto the bed, exhausted.

“Wait there,” a female voice said, “I have something that will help the dizziness.”

The
other
moved away. She radiated a sense of bustling urgency that intruded on the peace and tranquility of this pleasant refuge.

Just leave me alone, I need to . . .

The room spun as secondary thoughts filtered through from a separate consciousness, this one inhabiting the same body. Comprehension dawned.

Another distinct personality!

He examined it closely.
Aha! It’s subordinate now, but is natural to this flesh.
He instinctively commandeered the weaker psyche, learning as he went.

Satisfied, he sent a pulse along a set of specific neural pathways. A hand appeared. Mesmerized, he triggered a fresh set of impulses and watched as appendages—
no, fingers
—waggled. They clenched and flexed at whim.

I am emerging.
My previous virile state is counterbalanced by . . . by something much more fragile. Mortality?

A different kind of need made his throat ache. On reflex, he swallowed.
Thirsty.

My existence is muted . . . Or is it?

He struggled to remember something vitally important. Something he felt compelled to express, only to be waylaid by a residual taste of another emotion altogether.
Revenge?

Why does that concept taste so good?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Christmas

Bloody hell!
Saul Cameron basked in wonderment as he tried to digest the implications of what he’d just heard
. They’ve been here a matter of weeks, and already they’ve turned our world upside down and the right way up
.

Mac McDonald and his team were the last ones to leave. Watching them go, Saul’s heart went out to them.
What a tragic waste. You expect attrition to take its toll in a place like this. And especially for a Special Forces guy who ends up in the thick of the action. But an accident?

He shook his head, trying to put another negative chapter of Ardenese life out of his mind.
It’s such a shame because apart from Jumper’s death, the operation was a huge success.
Saul skimmed through the notes he’d made during the debriefing.
It’s as if all my birthdays have been rolled into one. I’m tempted to break out the flags.

Snorting, he thought better of getting ahead of himself.
Ah hell. That can wait for the outcome of the next phase. I suppose there’s no time like the present to get the gears in motion.

Turning to the only people left in the room, all high council members, Saul cleared his throat to draw their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen? If I may?”

A feeling of excitement had gripped everyone during the meeting, so it was only natural they’d be eager to discuss the implications among themselves. Saul waited patiently as the background chatter died down.

Once all heads were turned in his direction, he said, “Okay, now the debrief is over, let’s discuss how we’re going to move forward. I suppose the first thing we need to concentrate on is the issue of the drones.” He made eye contact with his resources and technology head. “Ephraim? Have you completed a preliminary report for us?”

“I certainly have.” Ephraim Miller beamed. He thumbed through the list on his mag-tablet, and quickly found the desired page. “Of the seven hundred and seventy-five flyers recovered, we have managed to uncrate and test just one hundred and ten. All but three are operational. It’s been a bit slow, but now we’re aware of the start-up procedure things should move along at a steady pace. I envisage us having the whole consignment done by the weekend.”

“Any problems?”

“Not really. Obviously, we’re a bit disappointed three have fritted out on us so far, but that’s to be expected with any technical device which has been inert over a protracted period. I’m not too worried because the parts will come in handy. And even if the current ratio plays out through the entire batch, the city will still be left with over seven hundred additional resources it didn’t previously have.”

“What about the prospective upgrades?”

“I still have Brent working on the specifics, but it’s looking good. Retrograding them with chameleon emitters will add less than two pounds in weight. Quite a bit more if we want to add null-point shield too. Obviously, this will affect range, altitude, and mission time. To begin with, operators can simply carry the units within the vehicles and deploy them once they arrive on site for each respective mission. This will be an important factor to remember if we seek to weaponize the flyers, as has been suggested.”

“What about Marcus’s idea of instilling reciprocal fear in our enemy by simply scattering iron filings over a specific zone? It’s an adaptation of a method the legions use with their catapults.”

“Lovely thought, isn’t it?” Ephraim smiled, “with
simplicity
being the key. The dusting approach can be achieved in less than a week, especially as we won’t have to bother cloaking those specific drones. If the Horde really are as cognizant as we now suspect, it will become readily apparent as soon as we start using the modified units. They won’t know whether they’ve got an attack or straightforward patrol model hovering over their heads.”

“And where do we stand on the sentry drones?”

“A squadron of eight are circling the city right now on trial runs, and are providing a live-time relay back to control. Initial tests show they have a twelve hour operating cycle, with a two hour solar backup. Once replenished, they are ready to go again within the hour.”

“How many can I have at the wall?” Shannon De Lacey asked, “and what variations will they be?”

“I was hoping Saul would approve of letting you have virtually the entire first batch,” Ephraim replied, casting a quick glance toward the commander. “The rest are coming online apace now, and we only need a few to experiment with as we add the additional Tec.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Saul agreed. “Defense of the city
is
a priority. An eye-in-the-sky and intelligence comes first. The other stuff can slide in later . . .” He suddenly remembered an important point, “. . . But Ephraim? I would also like you to start work on the stealth-bomber concept Mac’s team proposed.”

“Good point,” Ephraim replied. “The additional weight of the shields
and
the new micro-gravity mine will have quite an impact. I’ll ensure my department gets right on it.”

“How far away do you think we are from working models? Bearing in mind you are dealing with unstable singularities?”