The Lazarus Particle (23 page)

“Wait, wait, wait. She’s the one who
caught
you?”

“Oh,” Fenton said, waving away the obvious concern. “Water under the bridge. Morgenthau-Hale are the real assholes. Anyway, as I was saying, it was six months after I injected the nans that they had any real reason to kick into gear. I don’t think it will take that long, though. In my tests back in the lab, they worked incredibly fast. Of course, that was under direct prompting on a much smaller scale. Nothing as serious as what Dell or I had to go through but, still.”

“I understand.”

Dr. Perry spoke up first. “The two of you can go back to the recovery room if you’d like. We’ll monitor his progress and inform you of any developments.”

Looking to Torrey first, Alexia shrugged and shook her head. “Neither of us could sleep. We’re okay for now.”

“Maybe you could show us to your galley?” Roon offered. “We don’t really know the way yet, and we’d enjoy the company.”

“Okay, yeah,” Alexia said. “Might as well get to know each other, right?”

Torrey nodded. “Better than just twiddling our thumbs here.”

Together, the four of them claimed the last unoccupied table in the far corner of the galley. With hostilities on hold, the place had become a bit more popular than usual. The best part was that in celebration of their victory, someone had broken out the booze. They were each rationed two drinks of their choice from a limited menu, but no one was complaining for a lack of variety. Drinks were drinks, after all, even horribly watered down as they were.

“So,” Alexia started. “You two… what’s your story?”

Roon nodded. “I was Fenton’s advocate when he was in custody. Let’s just say I had some issues with the way he was treated, to say nothing of my service to the company. I had to do something.”

“She hired Xenecia to help break me out after they denied her the bounty and life premium she earned by bringing me in alive.” Fenton grinned, underscoring how much he appreciated the irony.

“Wow. That’s a pretty good story.”

“No more than any of you, from what we hear. Nobody’s been too specific, but apparently some wild stuff went down right before we arrived. Were you two part of it?”

Alexia shivered. “Too much.”

Roon leaned forward sympathetically. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, it’s okay.” She reached up, thumbing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I, ah, I kind of got mixed up in a counterinsurgency conspiracy, then a counter-counterinsurgency, then I was captured and… well, that’s when things started to get away from me.”

“
Started
to get away from you?”

Torrey nodded, leaning forward over the table. “She was trying to free Commander Harm and his command staff from the immersion chambers when we caught her thanks to a tip-off from this sadistic shit Vron. We storm in, take control without firing a shot, so, no harm, no foul, right? Wrong. Gatz and Poe decide Vron deserves a reward for being such a fantastic and vigilant patriot. Anything he wants.” Lifting a brow, Torrey inclined his head just so to indicate Alexia.

“Wait, they
gave
you to him?” Roon asked, looking aghast.

Alexia made a vague gesture encompassing the whole of her impressive collection of facial bruises. “As you see. He’d been trying to get in my pants for nearly a year, even tried earlier that night. After I told him it wasn’t going to happen he went and tattled to Gatz and Poe, only he couched it in some crap about me acting suspiciously. Which, I guess in retrospect, I was. Still.”

Roon reached across the small table to cover Alexia’s hand with her own. “My parents died when I was twelve. It wasn’t long before my godfather started visiting my bedroom at night. It didn’t stop until I was sixteen.”

“Her godfather also happens to be the man who poisoned me,” Fenton put in dryly.

“Yeah, he was a real prince. Anyway, if you want to just go somewhere and talk for a while sometime…”

“Thank you,” Alexia said, sincerely. “It didn't actually get that far, though, and besides, I’ve got a pretty great support system.” She smiled over at Torrey.

Roon smiled, too, nodding understandingly. “So,” she said, looking to Torrey. “What happened next?”

“Let’s just say we had a conflict of command after Gatz and Poe handed her over to Vron. Afterward our NCO ordered my partner and I to get her back. That’s our specialty, extractions and rescues. Only she didn't need it. By the time we got there, she'd kneed the bastard in the balls and cracked him upside the head with an empty whiskey bottle.” Torrey sounded downright proud as he relayed this piece of information to their new friends.

“Only after he did all this,” she added, meaning her face.

“The good news,” Torrey said, “is that's all he managed to do. And here we are, celebrating victory in the company of new recruits, good friends—”

“And the ones we love,” Alexia said as she edged in closer to Torrey.

“And the ones we love,” he echoed to nods of agreement from Fenton and Roon.

“If that doesn’t call for a toast, I don’t know what does,” Fenton declared, producing a brushed silver flask bearing the Morgenthau-Hale crest. A souvenir from their stolen ride, no doubt.

They chatted and shared the flask for nearly an hour before the public address system pinged shrilly three times, alerting the gathered masses in the galley to an incoming message. Almost instantly all the boisterous clamor died away.

“Attention, Specialist DeCoud, report to Medical on the double. Repeat: Attention, Specialist DeCoud…”

Alexia and Torrey were out of their seats at the sound of her name, already booking it for Medical with Fenton and Roon hot on their heels. Behind them, calls of “
Good luck, Lexi
!” and “
Gold Wing leads the way
!” echoed down the halls amid the renewed chatter, filling Alexia with an unreasonably inflated sense of hope. She wasn’t the only one who had heard it, then; the optimistic inflection of the voice over the address system.

The four of them burst into Medical to a swarm of medics and doctors hovering near or about Dell. Glancing over her shoulder, Dr. Perry hurriedly gestured them over.

Alexia gasped as she looked down at her brother’s face, automatically detecting the frenzied twitching of his eyes beneath their lids. “Oh my god! Is that… is that normal?!”

“Not at all.” Dr. Perry quickly corrected herself. “Well, normally, yes, but in this case, absolutely not. It started about fifteen minutes ago, the tiniest flutter of brain activity. We wanted to make sure it wasn’t an anomaly, but it’s been spiking exponentially upward ever since. It’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen. The eye movement alone…”

“Please, Doc,” Torrey said, “just spell it out.”

Dr. Perry swallowed, suddenly quite aware of the leap she was about to take. “In my professional opinion? I’ve seen this before. In reverse. Deterioration down to death. What I’m seeing here, though… the only thing that makes sense—and I say that in the loosest possible connotation of the phrase—is that Dell’s brain is reconstituting itself.”

Alexia gripped Torrey’s hand so hard the press of her nails actually made him flinch. “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly.

“It’s okay. I understand. Let’s just all settle in and see what happens.”

Hours passed. They talked to Dell, shared stories and jokes, anything to keep the conversation going. Eventually, though, like dominos falling, each drifted off one after another.

Roon was the first to hear it. Years and years of her godfather’s footfalls treading the hall to her room had conditioned her to be a light sleeper, ready to prepare for the worst at a moment’s notice.

“Alexia!” she said, giving her new friend a gentle prod. She awoke immediately, which brought Torrey up with her. In a matter of seconds the entire group had roused and gathered around Dell’s bedside.

And then, like one of Oviddia’s beautiful breaking dawns, Dell DeCoud opened his eyes. Glassy, unfocused, searching eyes, but eyes nonetheless. After an extended bout of coughing, Dell suddenly found his voice.

“Where am I?” he croaked hoarsely. His eyes suddenly snapped into focus. The next few words came much more easily for him. “Who…? Alexia? Is that you?”

Alexia tried to gulp back her laughter but it came anyway, a sharp bark of pure, unmitigated joy. Hot tears sprang forth, pouring unbidden down her face as she threw her arms around her formerly dead brother.
 

“Alexia?” Dell asked, dumbfounded. “Lexi, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

PART III

25 • FALLOUT

Station Commander Knolan Orth frowned. Scrolling through the after-action report on his flexpad, he caught himself grinding his teeth as he searched the details of Fenton Wilkes’ escape for the
context
that simply wasn’t there. He forced himself to stop. Taking a measured, steadying breath, he composed himself and continued.

Barely two minutes passed before the grating sound of enamel on enamel filled the cabin anew.

He set the flexpad down upon his desk. In its place, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed a drink. Instead he stood, stretching his legs as he took a few thoughtful laps around the perimeter of his too-small office.

The comm on his desk pinged.
 

“Answer.”

“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Garrity for you.”

Orth sighed resignedly. It had to be done, he reminded himself. Resuming his previous place of authority behind the desk, he said, “Send him in.”

Garrity entered. Assuming the official posture, he stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. “Commander.”

Orth gestured him forward with considerably less verve. “Have a seat, Harlan.”

Garrity relaxed. He assumed an easy, familiar demeanor as he sat. He had taken the gesture to mean he was sitting not with his commander, but with his old friend and brother in arms.

“How does a splash of Belatrozin rum sound?”

Garrity smiled. “Sounds like you just about read my mind, Knolan.”

Orth forced a wan smile in return. From the bottom drawer of his desk he produced an untapped bottle of the prized hooch. Two etched crystal tumblers followed, along with two fingers of rum for each.

Garrity sniffed the glass appreciatively before raising it to his lips. Orth followed suit. Together they drained their glasses with a single draft. Garrity regarded his glass with an approving shake of his head. “That has got to be damn near the best rum I’ve ever tasted,” he said, the liquid warmth of it expanding agreeably within his chest.

“Nearly one hundred years old.” Orth poured them each another drink.

“I stand corrected. That
is
the best damn rum I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’d been saving it for a special occasion,” Orth said. He swirled the rum in his tumbler idly, watching the eddies of dark black liquor wheel about the inside of the glass. “Granted, this is hardly the type I had in mind. Given the circumstances, I feel it qualifies nonetheless.”

“It’s hard to fathom, I’ll give you that.”

Orth’s eyes lifted from the tumbler, locking with Garrity’s as if guided by precision targeting software. “I take it you understand why you’re here, then?”

“Of course I do, Knolan,” Garrity said. He shifted in his seat just a touch defensively. “We’ve had a major breach of security.”

Orth threw back his two fingers with half a swallow, exhaling deeply. “This goes well beyond just a major security breach. We’re talking about the loss of corporate fugitive number one, a huntrex known to have conspired in the abduction of Morgenthau-Hale employees, a decorated flight officer, and a civilian advocate all assumed to have gone rogue. All of that is to say nothing of the theft of a command courier vessel invaluable to our corporate strategic advantage. Taken together, Harlan, that is a clusterfuck of proportions previously unbeknownst.” He leveled the man with a telling stare. They were back to commander and subordinate once more. “Careers will be terminated because of this.”

Garrity’s face fell bit by bit as Orth enumerated all the failures that had occurred on his watch. “Knolan… what are you—”

“As Lieutenant Commander, station security falls under your purview, does it not?”

“Commander…”

“I’m sorry, Harlan. It has been an honor to serve with you. I’ll put in a good word for you at your hearing.”

Before his former XO could object, two security officers arrived to escort Harlan Garrity from the office. Orth followed them as far as the door.

“Knolan! What is this?! You can’t… this can’t… no!”

“This is the price of failure,” he said as Garrity was unceremoniously escorted down the corridor.

With that unpleasant episode behind him, Orth paced across the office portion of his quarters to the suite’s washroom. He ran the water, cupping his hands beneath the reclaimed stream and bringing them up to his face. “The price of failure,” he reminded himself as he patted his face dry with a tastefully monogrammed hand towel.

Garrity had paid the price. Now, the question remained, what price would
he
pay?

Setting the towel aside, he regarded his reflection for several moments. The angled, incurvate prow of his cheekbones; the worried pleats tugging at the corners of his eyes; the skewed slope of his hawkish nose. In so many ways he considered that last to be his finest feature. He could have had it corrected; Jenner could have fixed it up in a matter of minutes. In and out, just like that. Yet he chose to leave it as his foe had rearranged it so many years previous. In an era where any minor physical imperfection could be corrected, altered, and enhanced, he felt it distinguished him as a man who chose not to whitewash evidence of his failures and defeats. Rather, he stared them hard in the face each morning, always looking to glean something new from what they had to teach him. It was among his many responsibilities as station commander, he felt, to cultivate the same quality in the men and women who served under him. To that end, the nose helped sell it better than any speech or program.

The comm pinged as if to remind him he had other, far more pressing responsibilities.

“Answer.”