Originally published in The Expanding Universe Volume 5
-1-
The pneumatics in Synder’s legs hissed, sending him over the enemy burrow. He dumped two grenades down a hole. “Bullseye,” he whispered. He hit hard, shaking the ground. Targeting vectors danced across his faceplate. He winked them away. Synder leaped again, knowing that to stand still was to make himself an easy target. His arc of descent carried him over another hole, and he lobbed a grenade into it. The ground thundered with an explosion of smoke and dirt and wet, rotting vegetation as he came down again, knees bent. A portion of the ground caved in behind him.
A series of quick, sharp cries echoed across the dense growth, and Synder spun around as the enemy, the Jacarandans, came swarming out of their smoke-filled tunnels like angry ants. They raised their weapons—simple slug-throwers—and fired.
Synder let them waste their ammo. The bullets bounced off his chameleon armor and diamond-hard skin like a gentle rain off a tin roof. As they paused to reload, Synder hefted his rail rifle and fired, putting a titanium-jacketed rail spike through the head of each one. Synder reloaded and regarded the dead at his feet. Another nest of the warlord’s minions had been neutralized.
The Jacs were human, but smaller than the people of the Consortium. They wore no armor, their only uniform a tough green fabric made from a hearty species of plant native to this world. But the Jacs were vicious and sneaky, moving about through underground tunnels and hiding in tree cities. The warlord’s forces were going to be harder to take out than Synder first thought when he arrived here, but he had been human then.
Synder scanned the area one last time, peepers on the lookout for more burrows or the heartbeat of a single survivor. Detecting nothing, Synder turned his head to the east. It would be dawn soon, and he would lose the cover of the shadows. Time to reach a secure location, recharge and await extraction.
He activated his chameleon armor, and it became an almost perfect mirror, reflecting the surrounding jungle. If he was very still, the enemy wouldn’t see him until it was too late. He turned from the carnage and melted back into the green.
-2-
Synder spent his next-to-last day of life aboard a Consortium vessel on its way to Jacaranda. This was his first conflict, and he was eager to prove himself. He only had a vague notion of the cause of the conflict and didn’t really care. His was not to reason why, his was but to do or die, as the ancient soldier’s mantra went. He only knew that he had a mission to complete and he was going to do it. Synder came from a proud military tradition in the Consortium Intersolar Navy. Both grandfathers, his father, and two uncles had served with distinction. It was expected that he would follow suit.
The ship, a big, bulbous transport, the Agamemnon, buzzed with nervous energy. Three full squadrons of soldiers stacked asshole to elbow with hundreds of support personnel and a whole convoy of reporters and holo journalists from every info feed in the Consortium.
Synder tried to get some rest in his tiny bunk. It was easier for him to sleep under thrust gravity, but he was too nervous. After half an hour he gave up and wandered the ship looking for a distraction. That’s when he saw the pretty woman.
He wandered into a crew lounge filled with bored-looking ship personnel nursing watered-down faux scotches. She sat at the end of the bar, fixing him with a coquettish smile. Her curly brown hair was cropped short, and she wore a form-fitting green coverall emblazoned with the Argus news feed logo. “What’s your name, soldier?”
Synder felt himself blush as he sidled over. “Private Matthew Synder. Call me Matt.”
“Eureka Kincaid. My friends call me Reka.” She looked over his fatigues. “So, you’re with the Thirty-Fourth?”
Synder smiled. The Fighting Thirty-Fourth would be boots on the ground before anyone else.
“I’m going to be embedded with the Thirty-Fourth, covering the conflict.” Reka said. “I’m a journalist with Argus.”
Argus was one of the largest news feeds in the Consortium of Worlds, but beyond that he knew nothing about it. Nor did he care. He considered all these civilians in the way a liability, but he kept that to himself. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No,” she said, and Synder blushed again. “But how about I buy you one?”
He nodded and she flagged down the bartender. When they had placed their drink orders she said, “You’re green, aren’t you?”
Synder scowled, preparing to protest. Instead he said, “Is it that obvious?” He realized he had been smiling nonstop since she mentioned his combat unit.
Reka laughed. “You’re just a little too chipper.”
“Guilty,” he said. “I graduated basic twelve standard months ago. I’ve been on the spin up here from Valhalla ever since.”
The lights from the bar danced in her green eyes. “I thought so. You seem a little too cocksure to have seen much action. Most guys who have been at this awhile are more… contemplative about what they’re getting into. More nervous.”
Synder arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying I should be nervous?”
Reka held up a hand. “No. Not at all. It’s just that… I’m sorry. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I guess it’s made me a bit cynical.”
Synder shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a little cynicism.”
Reka downed her faux gin and tonic and winced. “I hope Jac hooch is better than this swill.”
“I heard they drink blood down there,” Synder said with a chuckle.
“You want to get out of here?” Reka asked.
Synder nodded. Reka paid the tab with a swipe of her finger and he followed her out of the bar.
They went to her quarters and made love beneath a hologram of the Horsehead Nebula. They laid there staring up at it for a long time afterward. Reka’s berth was small, but vast compared to the tiny closet he slept in. The Argus logo—an immense holographic eye—burned on the wall over the bed. “This is my editor’s suite,” Reka said. “Reserved for Argus’s top reporters. I guess tomorrow I’ll be sleeping in a hole in the ground with you guys.”
Synder chuckled. The Agamemnon would arrive in the Jacarandan system in a few hours and begin the slow process of getting people and supplies down to the surface. Synder wondered if the Jacs knew the hell that was coming for them out of the sky.
“When do you hit dirtside?” Reka asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Me too. We’re setting up near the Jacarandan capital. From there I’ll head with some unit or other into the jungle.”
Synder regarded her in the simulated starlight. He wondered if he would ever see her again. “Dangerous work,” he said.
She turned toward him. “You mean for a woman.” It wasn’t a question.
“I mean for a civilian.”
They watched the ersatz stars some more. Reka lifted herself up on an elbow and looked Synder in the eye. “Do you know anything about this conflict?”
Synder shrugged. “What’s to know? The Jacs are the descendants of human colonists who arrived by generation ship three hundred standard years ago and evolved in isolation since then. We want them to join the Consortium, but there’s a warlord down there making trouble, committing atrocities. His regime is killing the Jac people.”
“Uh huh,” said Reka. “And none of that sounds fishy to you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Warlords? The Jacs have no such thing. They are a peaceful people, at one with their jungle, which according to our scientists may be sentient.”
Synder laughed. “I don’t know where you’re getting your intel.”
“I’m serious. They don’t even have weapons more advanced than spears. They only have slug-throwers because the Grendel clan sold some to them. If the Jacs are resistant to anything, it’s to the Daedalus clan burning their jungle to look for ore.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“I’m on the side of truth.”
“You should write holo operas for one of the entertainment feeds.” Synder got up to look for his clothes.
“Look, Matt, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to think about why you’re fighting. That, and be careful down there.”
Synder shrugged into his fatigues, then regarded her. “You too.”
“Maybe I’ll see you dirtside,” she added.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
-3-
On the last day of his life, Synder took part in a pre-dawn raid of a Jacarandan jungle outpost. It was almost invisible, set high up thick, stumpy trees that stretched into the sky to form a lush canopy. Synder watched their objective, feeling sticky inside his armor.
Their CO, Lieutenant Stone, gave the signal, barely a whisper over comms. They moved in a dark mass, striking hard and fast. Synder thumbed the tab off a grenade, tossed it onto a bridge suspended overhead. Synder flinched from the concussion it made. The Jacs spilled out of their hovels, shouting. More grenades went off, turning the surrounding verdure to flame.
There was movement everywhere. Targeting vectors in his visor told him friend from foe. He saw a red false-color smear crashing toward him and his rail rifle hissed, bringing it down. Comms buzzed with shouts, orders, screams.
Synder fired again and again, not always sure if he was hitting anything, as they moved in a tightening circle toward the ring of tree houses. The Jacs ran, and Synder noticed that there were women and children among them. It didn’t matter. He had his orders. He saw a Jac running across a flaming bridge stretching over his head, and sighted through his rifle. He was about to squeeze the trigger when he saw it was a small boy. He let him pass.
Shots from low caliber slug-throwers pelted off his armor. He ignored them. He couldn’t stop until this jungle outpost had been burned to the ground and the warlord’s soldiers were dead.
A large dark shape moved among the flames, stopping Synder’s advance. He blinked sweat from his eyes and checked his scanners. Nothing on the thermal. But he had seen something. An armed Jac exploded from the bushes, running toward him. Synder brought him down with a head shot.
“Get those sonsabitches!” he heard Stone bark over comms.
Synder coughed, his throat burning from the smoke, and waded in deeper.
He emptied his rail rifle, reloaded, and started again.
Blood spattered his face, his armor. Bullets whizzed by his head. He kept advancing.
The tree houses were directly overhead now. He fired a few shots into them and waited. A few more Jacs spilled out, shouting their quick speech. He heard a woman crying.
They were on him before he knew they were there; five of them.
They ripped his rail rifle from his hands and smashed something heavy and sharp across his chestplate.
Synder staggered backwards, arms raised defensively. The shadow appeared again. It picked up the Jac who had attacked him, lifting him high in the air and cracking his spine like a toothpick before tossing the body into the bush.
Synder scrambled on the ground for his weapon, bringing it up just in time to see the shadow grip another Jac’s head in its titanic fist, twisting it like it was opening a jar. Synder heard bones snap.
The enemy soldier slumped to the ground. The other three ran away, shouting in their language. Synder looked up at his savior.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. “You’re a golem.”
It stood stiff in the firelight like a walking statue, dark against the burning backdrop. Synder had heard about the berserker golems, but he had never actually seen one. It was seven feet tall, its graphite-colored face regarding him, a caricature of human features. Its matte black armor became a mirror, reflecting the flaming jungle, and Synder’s sweaty and blood-flecked face, within its smooth contours. Then the golem turned and leaped and was gone. As it disappeared, Synder’s world fell out from under him.
He clawed at damp earth as he plummeted, tumbling down an incline and into a greater darkness. He switched on his armor’s lights. He was in one of the Jac tunnels. He heard shouts from his squad up ahead. They had found it too. This tiny jungle outpost was an even bigger prize than they had been told. Synder gripped his rail rifle and ran toward the sound of his fellow soldiers.
The tunnel network was narrow. Synder had to bend over to move through it. It was cooler down there, but only slightly. He killed several more Jacs before reaching a short, wide dead-end stacked with familiar plastic crates. They belonged to the Intersolar Navy. They contained weapons and ammunition. Synder remembered a report a few days ago. A supply convoy had been attacked, its cargo stolen.
That’s why the golem is here, Synder thought. This was big. Synder grinned, patting the case. How many lives had he saved by finding it?
Synder heard running feet and dove behind the weapons case. It was a group of Jacs. One of them fired, a crude slug slamming into Synder’s left shoulder like a sledgehammer, knocking him to the ground and tearing his weapon from his grasp. His armor tightened around the wound and injected a painkiller. Synder screamed in protest. He needed his head clear if he was going to get out of this. He scrambled for his weapon, but another shot struck the ground near his outstretched hand, and he pulled it back. “It’s here!” he shouted over comms. “The weapons cache. I found it. Send the golem.”
He didn’t know if anyone heard him under the hundred feet of soil. But he had to try. Another shot struck him in the left leg, and he screamed as his armor tightened around the wound. He looked around. He was already dead. But the weapons—if they escaped with the weapons.
Synder fumbled with the combat webbing on his armor. He had one grenade left. He yanked it off, thumbed the tab. He held it aloft. The Jacs backed away.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” He lifted himself up with the last of his strength and slapped the grenade down onto the weapon crate’s lid. He laughed as the Jacs backed out and ran up the main tunnel. “Run, you little fuckers,” Synder called after them. “Run while you still can.”
Synder was still laughing when the grenade exploded, sending a hot wave of pain into him, pushing him toward the end of the tunnel. There was nothing but fire, followed by nothingness.
-4-
Synder floated in warm darkness. Was this what heaven was like? If so, he didn’t want it to end. But he made the mistake of opening his eyes. An icy light shined down on him, cold and harsh. He felt as if he was seeing everything through a haze. Disembodied voices moved around him. He felt something tight around his head, and pain began lancing through his body.
“Did we get him? Is he there?” said a male’s voice.
“Copy and upload successful,” said a female’s.
A face swam up out of the haze, close to him.
“He’s awake. Good. Can you hear me, Private Synder? My name is Director Arsenault.”
The man was bald, with cold blue eyes. His skin was the fleshy pink of someone who had had one too many rejuvenation treatments. As the haze resolved itself, Synder could see he was lying in a hospital bed.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” the director asked.
“Yes, the Jacs–” Synder started. His voice came out ragged. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his throat burned.
Arsenault nodded. “Good enough. You had quite an ordeal. But you were brave. Bravest I’ve seen. And because of that, we’re going to make you a deal. You were burned over sixty percent of your body. You’ve lost both legs and your left arm.”
Synder’s eyes went wide. The grenade hadn’t killed him like he’d hoped, only reduced him to a slab of meat.
“These machines are keeping you alive,” the director said. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing else we can do for you. But we can give you a second chance.”
“Second. Chance?” Synder murmured.
The director nodded. “We can upload your consciousness into one of our golems. I know you know about them. You’ll be an unstoppable, one-man fighting force. You can get back in the field and help us win this one. What do you say? Per Consortium law I have to get a verbal consent.”
Synder was in searing pain. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep. But he was afraid if he did so he wouldn’t wake up. His military career had ended before it began. With a second chance…
“Yes,” he said.
“All right. That’s all I needed. Thank you, soldier. Welcome back to the Fighting Thirty-Fourth.”
-5-
The Jacarandan sun was midway overhead when Synder heard the chime. A new mission. He had been halfway through episode eight of Ring Three, a holo drama about life aboard a Consortium station. He paused the stream right as Sumit was about to tell Lilith how he really felt, though Synder cared less about that than the ongoing machinations of the group of anarcho-socialists called Black Cell wreaking havoc aboard the fictional station. An uploaded mind is deprived of a lot of physical stimuli. So, in their infinite wisdom, the overseers gave their golems plenty of downtime entertainment options to choose from. In life Synder had never cared for holo dramas, but as an upload he found he couldn’t get enough of them.
He closed the stream and brought up his self-diagnostics. Everything read green, fully charged and ready to go. He downloaded the encrypted mission specs and reviewed them.
His target was a convoy seven kilometers from his current location. He was to assist a fire team in taking them out, and he needed to get moving; the fire team was almost there, and he liked to get there first and show them up. He homed in on the convoy’s transponder beacon and leapt into the air, thrashing through the canopy as he moved to intercept.
The road ran like a jagged scar through the endless green. The “convoy” was only one vehicle. Odd, Synder thought. He had never received spotty intel before. He scanned the area, but sure enough, this vehicle was the only one present. What was even stranger was that it didn’t belong to the Jacs, but one of the corporate clans. He zoomed in on the logo on the driver’s side door and saw the red three-headed dog logo of Cerberus, a private security outfit. Synder came down in a bend in the road, the hum of the vehicle’s engine getting closer. Maybe the Jacs commandeered it, he thought as the vehicle came around the bend.
Synder mirrored his armor and fired, a cloud of rail spikes striking the front of the vehicle, flattening the left front tire and cracking the engine block. Most Consortium vehicles weren’t that heavily armored, considering the limited firepower the Jacs had. The vehicle veered to the left and slammed into a tree at the edge of the road, billowing smoke and sending up dust.
Synder leapt again, landing near the driver’s side door, which was opening. He slammed the door into the figure trying to get out. The driver dropped his weapon with a groan. Synder wrenched the door off its hinges and grabbed the man, sending him sprawling. Before he could recover, Synder put a rail spike between his eyes, then took out his partner on the passenger side with a volley of well-placed flechettes.
Synder accelerated, his body becoming a blur as he moved toward the rear of the transport. More men spilled out, in the green coveralls and insignia of Argus journalists. Another red flag, but Synder had his orders.
He smashed one across the face with the butt of his rail rifle, shattering the bridge of his nose. The man fell in a dead heap. Synder crushed the skull of another with his bare hand. The last two slammed into him as he came around the rear of the vehicle, his supernormal speed sending them flying backwards into each other. He emptied his magazine into them, and they sputtered and died atop each other.
With his free hand, Synder gripped the top of the vehicle and heaved himself up into it. Inside was a lone woman, rail rifle raised to her shoulder. She fired several shots that bounced off his armor. “Stay away from me, you son of a bitch. I’m a neutral journalist.” She fumbled out her press credentials and threw them at Synder. He didn’t bother picking them up. He knew who she was. It was Reka Kincaid. Her hair was longer, but it was her. He just needed to convince her of who he was.
“Eureka Kincaid,” Synder said, his gravelly, metallic voice echoing in the confined space of the vehicle. “Your friends call you Reka.”
“Yes,” she said, lowering her weapon somewhat. “How did you know?”
“This was supposed to be an enemy convoy.”
“Wrong,” Reka said. “Imagine that. Now who the fuck are you?”
Synder opaqued his armor.
“You’re one of those golems, aren’t you? Shit, I saw them decant some of you guys at Haldeman Base.”
“My name is Synder.”
“Synder,” she said slowly. Her eyes widened. “No. You can’t be.”
“Synder,” he repeated. “Private Matthew J. We met aboard the Agamemnon.”
Reka shook her head. “This can’t be happening. I heard you died six months ago. But… tell me something about me only Matt would know.”
He thought for a long moment. “You hoped the Jac hooch was better than the fake swill they served on the ship.”
“It is you! Holy shit. But what the hell? Why did you kill my news crew?”
“I was instructed to do so. Orders said this was an enemy convoy.”
“Well it isn’t. They weren’t even armed. We had two soldiers driving us. That was it. They only let me carry because I know how to shoot.”
“I am confused,” said Synder. “I need to call the base.”
Reka held up her free hand. “Wait. Don’t. I think I know why they sent you.” She reached into an inner pocket of her coverall and pulled out a small data stick. “I’ve got proof on here that this whole fucking conflict is a sham. One of the commanders must have found out I had this. This info will kill careers. This is why you were sent to kill me.”
Synder turned and looked out the rear of the transport, his peepers alerting him to movement in the distance.
“We’ve got company,” Synder said.
“More soldiers?”
Synder turned to look at her. “Yes.”
They heard the low hum of another transport slowing to a stop behind them. The fireteam. They were late. As usual.
Synder felt a burning compulsion to obey his orders, but he ignored it. Something about this wasn’t right. And until he figured out what it was…
He grabbed a section of the transport’s inner wall, wedging his titanic fingers in behind it and wrenching it free, shoving it in front of Reka. “Get behind this,” his voice boomed. “Wait here.”
Synder turned and leaped from the transport, holding up his arms in surrender. “Wait,” he broadcasted. “There has been a mistake.”
The transport doors opened and four heavily armed men and one woman climbed out, weapons raised.
“This is not an enemy vehicle. Our intel was incorrect.”
A dark-haired corporal took point, his weapon aimed at Synder’s head. “Stand down, Private Synder. We’ll take it from here.”
“But you don’t understand,” Synder said. “These were Consortium civilians.”
The human soldiers looked at each other. “Take a walk, Private,” said the corporal. “We’ll clean up here.”
Something deep within Synder compelled him to obey, some innate programming. He thought of Reka, scared and alone in the back of the transport. “No.”
“What did you say, soldier?”
Synder accelerated, his body becoming a motion blur as he covered the distance between him and the fireteam in the space of a few seconds. He slowed down right in front of the corporal, sending the startled soldier falling backwards. “I said no.”
It was over in a heartbeat. He didn’t want to kill them, but in this body, he could do nothing else. Synder stared down at the bodies. “What have I done?” he murmured.
He returned to the transport. Reka cowered behind the heavy hunk of metal, clutching her weapon.
“We’re clear,” Synder said.
“We are miles away from clear,” she said. “Now tell me what the hell is going on.”
“We need to leave. They will send other teams to look for us.”
Reka looked toward the fallen fire team. “Are they? . . .”
“Yes,” said Synder. “Just as we will be if we stay here. Come.”
-6-
They ditched the transport near a ragged strip of jungle. They had gone as far as they could; now they had to proceed on foot. They loaded up all the weapons, ammunition and survival gear for Reka they could carry and marched into the thick vegetation. After walking for an hour, Reka stopped and sat on a fallen tree. “OK,” she said, sipping water from a pilfered canteen. “You were sent to kill me?”
Synder paused and looked down at her. “That is correct. My orders stated that you were part of an enemy convoy. When I got closer, I thought you were a group of Jacs who had stolen a Consortium vehicle and uniforms.”
Reka nodded. “And then you saw me.”
“Yes. That’s when I realized my orders were a lie.”
“So you’re saying that if we hadn’t met, I’d be dead by now?”
“Yes.”
“Saved by casual sex.” Reka swallowed more water. “Take off your helmet.”
“Why?”
“I want to see what you look like now.”
Synder hesitated, then reached up and disconnected his helmet from his armor. She gasped when she saw him. Easily seven feet tall, he looked like a graphite statue, square, formidable, expressionless. Black camera eyes peered from between a low, hooded brow and a squared nose.
“Jesus. You look like an Easter Island head. But I guess they make all of you guys identical.”
She poked at the ground with a stick. “Thank you for sparing me, and for saving my life. That fireteam was there to clean up, yes?”
“Correct,” said Synder, peepers scanning the immediate area for any signs of movement. He wasn’t programmed to remain in one place for very long. It made him uneasy. Control would know of his betrayal by now. There would be a kill team dispatched to find them and take them out.
“I’ve really gotten into the shit now, as my editor would say.”
“We should keep moving,” Synder said.
Reka tossed the stick away and stood. “I need to get the data stick to my editor.”
Synder shook his head. They were in the middle of nowhere, on a planet with no Vine access. And if he reconnected to his network, they’d know their location. “Too dangerous. And we cannot return to base.”
“My editor isn’t at the base. He’s on an Argus ship in orbit.”
“That’s even more dangerous.”
“I don’t have a choice. I have to file this story. People are trying to kill me for it to cover up atrocities.”
Synder assessed their situation. He had gone off-book and disobeyed orders, in the process killing innocent journalists as well as fellow soldiers. They were behind enemy lines and had to reach a ship high in orbit before they could get to safety. All for a woman he’d slept with the day before he died.
“Please,” Reka said. “Will you help me? You’re my only way out of this.”
Synder regarded her. “Show me your data.”
“OK. Do you have an external data port?”
Synder indicated a spot on his neck. A tiny port irised open at his touch. He took the stick from Reka and inserted it. A file tree superimposed itself over his vision, and he started with the top file and worked his way down. Most of it was video of different sites across the planet’s war-torn jungle. Haggard-looking men, women, and children fleeing burning ruins. They were all unarmed, clearly not soldiers.
“This is the location of the alleged warlord?” Synder asked.
“Yes. As you can see, there is no such warlord. The Intersolar Navy destroyed that patch of jungle and displaced those people. See the Consortium-issue mining equipment? There’s tons of platinum and other precious metals under the jungle floor, and the Consortium wants it. Badly.”
Synder zoomed in on an image of equipment that was beyond the Jacs’ abilities to produce. And they would never destroy their jungle to get to the metals underneath. It was too precious to them. They had an almost spiritual connection to it. Or so his one intelligence briefing on the subject had stated.
“The Consortium is guilty of vast human rights violations,” Reka said. “The reasons for this conflict are entirely false. The Jacs refused to allow the Consortium to carve up their jungle to mine for minerals. That’s all this is about. The story that the Jacs have a warlord committing atrocities against his own people was fabricated so that they’d be allowed down here to cause trouble.”
Synder finished going through the files and disconnected the data stick, handing it back to Reka. He placed his helmet back upon his head. “Yes. I will help you.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I know this can’t be easy for you.”
Synder took the lead, moving into the dense foliage, his peepers sensitive to any movement. They had to be wary of the Jacs as well as their own forces. It wasn’t going to be easy to slip through. He mirrored his armor.
“So what’s the plan?” Reka asked.
“There is a supply depot ten miles due east,” said Synder. “The last report I received indicated two shuttles parked there capable of taking us into orbit.”
“The last report. Could your intel be out of date?”
“It could. I disconnected myself from the military network so we could not be tracked.”
“Fair enough. Assuming they’re still there, can you fly one of them?”
As a golem, he was programmed to operate a wide range of military and civilian vehicles, including shuttles. “I can.”
“Good, because my piloting’s a little rusty. Ten miles though. That’s quite a trek.”
“And we are being hunted every step of the way,” Synder added.
“You’re a real glass half full type.”
“Optimism has nothing to do with it,” Synder said. “I was merely commenting on the reality of the situation.”
“Whatever. Let’s get moving. We’re going to spend the night out here, and we need a good place to do it.” Reka stepped around him, her long strides putting her in the lead.
-7-
They found a small clearing between four of the planet’s spindly tree analogs, their feathery fronds blocking most of the sunlight that filtered through the perpetual green. Reka ate field rations while Synder scanned the area.
“You hungry?”
Synder removed his helmet and looked at her. “No.”
“Right. Sorry. I forgot.”
Synder leaned against one of the trees, rail rifle slung across his barrel chest. He stared across the clearing at her. “What were you doing in that vehicle?”
“We were headed to another village. I wanted to speak with one of the tree priests there. They only gave us those two soldiers as armed escorts. I guess now I know why.”
Reka sipped water and ate a protein bar, regarding him. It was getting dark. “I still can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you. You died. I knew the Navy uploaded the minds of some soldiers to use in their golem program, but it was just rumors—hearsay. Yet here you are.”
“Yes,” said Synder. He set his peepers on maximum. They would alert him to any movement within fifty yards, whether it be a mosquito or a human being. Then he called up another episode of Ring Three.
“You’re just gonna stand there all night? No sleep?”
“This body does not require sleep.”
“Don’t you get bored?”
Synder paused the episode. “No. There are entertainment options. Books, audio recordings, films. Whatever we would like. Before I went into the field I downloaded every episode of Ring Three.”
Reka giggled. “You watch that crap?”
“It isn’t crap. It’s interesting.”
“OK. I won’t give you too hard a time. I watched the whole series on the way out here. Nothing else to do. The show has a lot of twists and turns. What episode are you on?”
“Nine.”
Reka grinned. “It gets really good after that one. Wait until you see which one of the group is a member of Black Cell.”
“Stop!” Synder ordered.
Reka laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t ruin it for you. Good night, soldier.”
Synder was halfway through the final episode of Ring Three when his peepers alerted him to movement. The soft light of dawn illuminated the tree canopy. He glanced to where Reka still slept, curled atop a blanket from her pack. Synder primed his rail rifle and stepped to the edge of the clearing. The ground sloped away down a gradual incline that wasn’t as thick with vegetation as most of the jungle. He scanned the perimeter and locked onto movement heading up the hill. He heard their casual speech and understood it. They weren’t Jacs.
Synder spun around and went to Reka’s side. “Get up.”
She stirred quickly, knuckling sleep from her eyes as she grabbed her rail rifle and struggled into her pack. “How many?” she whispered.
“Six.” Synder wondered how many he could take out from here before they topped the hill and found them. He calculated two, maybe three at most. He’d never get a clear shot amid all the vegetation. And he’d lose the element of surprise. Besides, he didn’t relish the thought of killing more of his fellow soldiers, even though they had no such compunction about killing him. They would not be able to elude them. They were simply too close.
“What’s the plan?” Reka asked.
“Hide.” Reka glared at him for a second before hurrying to the other side of the clearing and stepping into the same dense growth they had passed through the day before. Synder settled into a crouch, mirrored his armor, and waited.
The six soldiers entered the clearing three minutes later, and it was immediately apparent that Synder wouldn’t be able to mask his presence from them. They spotted him almost instantly, thanks to the thermal imaging visors they wore. They were keyed to detect a golem’s unique biosignature. Synder accelerated, slamming into the squad’s leader with enough force to break the man’s nose. Blood splattered on Synder’s mirrored armor as he snapped the soldier’s rail gun in half, lifted him off his feet and sent him flying into one of the trees that marked the edge of the clearing.
It was over in seconds, before they could fire a shot or call for help. Reka stepped out of hiding and looked around wide-eyed at the carnage Synder had wrought.
“Holy shit. I’ve covered plenty of atrocities, but this.” She waved her arms around, indicating the dead soldiers.
Synder understood. She meant that this was more personal. “They were going to kill us. Kill you.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s just…dead people. At the end of the day, dead people are always sad. This conflict is wrong. The powers that be want to kill me before I can tell everyone else.”
“I will help you get your story out,” said Synder. “But we must hurry. There will be others.”
-8-
They had been traveling for hours, avoiding at least three fire teams that Synder detected from a distance and skirted far from their planned course to avoid. It had cost them hours of precious time, but it also kept their position hidden. Synder knew the best defense was to avoid engagement unless it was necessary. Besides, he wanted to avoid harming his fellow soldiers.
They moved quietly, stopping only when Synder detected someone was near. They almost came upon a group of Jacs who moved cautiously through the thick brush to avoid the same assault teams that hunted Synder and Reka. Synder mirrored his armor and let them pass.
Reka proved herself capable. She would have made a good soldier. She knew her way around a rail rifle, and appeared ready to use it if necessary. Synder hoped it wouldn’t come to that. War, he’d come to realize, was an ugly business. It was his job, not hers.
The jungle thinned out, and Synder and Reka found themselves on the edge of a vast, flat stretch of tarmac. There was a clump of small buildings, a stack of plastic crates, and a high tower, in which a lone guard stood watch. In the distance, a pair of shuttles glimmered in the afternoon sun.
“We made it,” said Reka, a look of relief on her face.
“Not yet,” said Synder. “We’re just getting started.”
“Ever the optimist,” she said. “OK, Mr. Optimist. What’s the plan?”
“This.”
Synder lifted his rail rifle, targeted the soldier in the tower, and brought him down with a single shot to the head. Quick, clean, no suffering. Synder scanned the perimeter, peepers on full power. He detected no other movement or bio signs. “I don’t like this. We’re still close to Jac-controlled territory. There should be more people here than this.”
Reka shrugged. “So, what do we do?”
Synder looked at her. “We get to the nearest shuttle as fast as possible. Stay behind me.”
Synder could accelerate and cover the distance to the shuttles in under a minute, but Reka couldn’t move that fast. He stepped out of the jungle and mirrored his armor, looking like a shimmer of heat haze as the two of them hurried across the sweltering tarmac. They made it halfway to the nearest shuttle when all hell broke loose.
The assault team came out of nowhere, and Synder saw why he couldn’t detect them; they were wearing stealth suits that masked their biosignatures. He had heard rumors of such tech back when he was alive, but he had never seen any of it used in the field. They were pulling out all the stops to take them down.
Their flechettes pinged harmlessly off Synder’s armor, but he was worried about Reka. “I’ll cover you,” he shouted in his deep, inhuman voice. “Get to one of the shuttles.”
“But I can’t fly.”
“I’ll catch up. Go!”
Reka sprinted across the tarmac while laying down a little cover fire of her own, catching one of the soldiers in the leg. He screamed a hail of epithets as he went down.
Synder accelerated, slamming into a beefy corporal so hard he sent the man careening into the assemblage of crates, knocking them over. The soldier Reka had wounded tried to get another shot at her, but Synder put a flechette in his skull before closing with the three remaining members of the assault team as they sprinted toward Reka.
Synder accelerated after them, but something hot struck him in the right calf. Synder staggered and fell, his rail rifle sliding across the pavement. Warning sigils flashed in his vision, and he winked them away. He glanced to his right to see a tall black form standing atop the small white metal building, a hatch open in the structure’s roof. It was an Obsidian Series golem. Experimental. Deadly. Stronger and faster than him. It held a rail cannon. Usually mounted onto vehicles or aircraft, this one had been retrofitted so the golem could carry it.
Synder heard Reka scream amid the barely perceptible hiss of rail fire and looked out across the tarmac. She had reached the shuttle, but the remaining soldiers had her pinned down under it. Flechettes pinged off the little vessel’s hull. The obsidian golem fired again, catching Synder in the right hip. His synthetic flesh exploded from the impact, and pain sensors flared as dark fluid leaked from the wound. He knew the hydraulics in that leg were shot. It was now useless. Damage alerts danced in front of his eyes again, but he ignored them. Crawling forward, he grabbed his rifle. There was only one thing left for him to do now.
Another rail spike struck, embedding itself in his midsection. He aimed as best he could, and fired, striking one of the soldiers tormenting Reka in the ankle. When the man fell, Synder put another flechette between his eyes. He did the same to the second soldier. A spike as long as Reka’s arm slammed into Synder’s back, almost impaling him to the tarmac. His vision filled with a million myriad data points that his human body would have interpreted as pain. His uploaded mind reeled from the physical onslaught. But he had to push through. He had a mission to complete. His last. He twisted and rolled onto his side, facing the Obsidian Series and emptying his rail rifle in its general direction, driving the synthetic soldier from his perch. Synder wondered idly who the man inside had been in life as he ejected his magazine, slapped in another and opened fire again. Powerful electromagnets in the gun accelerated each flechette to four kilometers per second. They impacted with the obsidian golem as he approached Synder for a kill shot.
“You can’t hurt me with that,” the golem broadcasted as he approached.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Synder said, his targeting array getting a bead on the rail cannon. He fired the rest of his magazine into it, shredding the golem’s weapon. Fail-safes within the gun malfunctioned, and the huge weapon gave off a short, brief electromagnetic pulse that fried both it and the golem’s consciousness. The giant collapsed onto the tarmac.
“I wasn’t sure that would work,” said Synder, returning his attention to Reka.
The remaining soldier, a sweaty young lieutenant, was dragging her out from under the shuttle by her hair. He threw her down onto the tarmac and shot her in the left shoulder. Reka screamed in pain, then kicked him squarely in the balls.
Synder moved to intercept, hop-crawling on his one functioning leg. Vital fluids gushed out of him. In a few more minutes he wouldn’t be able to move at all.
“Where is it?” the soldier squeaked when he had recovered himself. He kicked Reka in the head before crouching in front of her, checking her pockets for the data stick. She lolled there, dazed from the blow. “I need to destroy it and kill you.”
Reka stared up at him, tears in her eyes. “Why?”
“You’re a terrorist agitator assisting the Jac warlord’s militia. My orders are to destroy the data you carry and neutralize you.” He ripped open the front of her coverall and found the data stick in the interior pocket, snapping it in half with one hand.
Synder was on him before he saw the golem’s shadow looming. He wrapped his huge hand around the man’s head and twisted it like a bottle cap, just as he had seen the golem do the night he died. He heard bones snap, felt the life leak out of him. Synder released him and let him fall.
He braced himself against the shuttle with his right arm, and with his left reached down and hoisted Reka to her feet. She cried out, her left arm dangling, useless.
“Are you all right?”
“My arm,” she said, staring at it. The shoulder of her coverall was stained dark red. Synder scanned the injury. The flechette had shattered bone, torn muscle tissue. An artery had been severed, and he didn’t have the tools needed to cauterize it. It was non-life-threatening provided she got medical attention soon. Or so he hoped. He was programmed to end life, not save it.
“Let’s get you out of here.” His peepers scanned the perimeter. More were coming. Golems. Men. Vehicles.
“No! We failed. He destroyed my evidence. My story. It’s all gone.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Synder, tapping his left temple. “You showed it to me, remember? I recorded it.”
-9-
Reka nodded and opened the shuttle door. It extruded a gangplank and the two of them hobbled up into it, Synder leaning as much of his now useless bulk as he dared against her.
He helped her into the copilot’s chair and strapped her in, then tore a length of fabric from the leg of her coverall and tied it tightly around her wounded shoulder. He sat in the pilot’s chair and initiated the launch sequence. The shuttle hummed to steady life as the small depot swarmed with soldiers, ground crawlers and skimmers vectoring in on the tiny craft.
“Here we go.” Synder throttled the fusion engine up to full, and the shuttle shot high and fast into the air. He maneuvered the nose of the craft forward and gave it more power. They had to reach the upper atmosphere before any aircraft could be sent to intercept them.
Reka must have been thinking the same thing. “Does this tub have any weapons?”
“No.”
“Great.”
Synder glanced at her. “Don’t worry. We’re almost in orbit.”
The planet’s blue-green sky gave way to black.
“Can we find the Agamemnon?” Reka asked.
Synder programmed the tight-beam relay to start searching for the ship’s transponder code. “It might take a minute. It’s probably in high orbit somewhere.”
All around them swarmed the dark specs of ships, looking like splinters in the glow from Jacaranda’s host star. Reka gasped. They were looking for a needle amid needles.
The tight-beam dinged. “We’ve got a signal,” said Synder. “And a lock. Hold on.”
Synder gunned the engine again, taking it on a course that brought it up and out of Jacaranda’s gravity well and toward a line of ships. Synder wondered how they would get permission to dock with the Agamemnon. He glanced at Reka. She slumped in her seat, her eyes closed, passed out from her injury.
Synder felt his right leg go numb as he banked toward the Agamemnon. Pain sigils once again flashed in his vision. He felt his other systems starting to shut down. He reached over and squeezed Reka’s right shoulder. She jumped, awake.
“What?”
“I’m not going to make it,” Synder said. “You’ll need to figure out a way to convince the Agamemnon to let us dock.”
They had lost their pursuers, but only momentarily. They were small enough amid the chaos of the conflict to go mostly unnoticed, a dust mote amid much larger dust motes. But that wouldn’t last. Word would get out and these ships would soon be firing on them. Best not to worry her with such details.
“I can’t do this without you, Matt,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “You got me this far. You can get me a little farther. It’s right there, see?”
Reka pointed through the spun diamond viewscreen at the silvery lozenge that was the Agamemnon growing larger in front of them.
Synder shook his head. “This is the end of the line for me.”
“But the data. I need it.”
Synder reached into his belt and brought up a lethal-looking knife. He snapped it open and gave it to her. “Cut into my forehead. There’s a black cube inside. Your data is stored there.”
“But you’re in there too, right? I can’t do it. You’ll die.”
“Matthew Synder is already dead. He died six months ago. I’m just a copy. Besides,” he said, waving his left hand over his body, “This isn’t living. I thought I was getting a second chance. Instead, I’m just a tool used for murder and death. I see that now, thanks to you. Whatever you might think of me, of the original Matt Synder, I didn’t sign on for this.”
Reka took his big gray hand in hers and gave it a little squeeze.
The tight-beam squawked. “Unidentified shuttle. You are invading Consortium spacecraft airspace. Identify yourself and state your purpose or be destroyed.”
The Agamemnon was mostly a civilian transport, but it was armed with a row of particle cannons, which the shuttle alerted them were now powering up.
“Uh, this is Eureka Kincaid of Argus 7 Newsfeed. I am carrying information vital to the conduct of this conflict that I need to get to my editor immediately. Do you copy? This is Eurek—”
“That’s a negative, unidentified shuttle. Landing is not permitted without authorization from–”
“Listen, fuck stick. I am hot, tired, pissed off, and in need of medical attention. People are trying to kill me. I’m not asking to dock, I’m telling you we’re docking. We can do it with or without a shuttle-shaped hole in your docking bay door. It’s up to you.”
A pause, then, “Standby.”
After half a minute, the ship’s AI gave them coordinates, and Synder, his systems failing, swung the craft around toward the rear of the vessel. A portal irised open amidships, and he pushed the shuttle toward it. Force beams grabbed the craft and pulled it in safely.
Synder quieted the shuttle’s systems. Dark fluid had leaked out of him and all over the controls. Reka winced in pain, holding the knife shakily. “Do it now,” he told her. “This body has had it.”
“What will happen to you?”
“Nothing. I’m already dead, remember? The real Matthew Synder died down on Jacaranda, doing what he thought was right.”
“I’ll never forget you.” There were fresh tears in her eyes as she brought the knife closer.
-10-
Reka’s story went out over the Vine within the hour, and five standard days later, public outcry from every corner of the Consortium was enough to halt the conflict. Stock values plummeted, and Daedalus, Proteus and several other of the largest clans pulled out, blaming the private security firm Cerberus for the dust-up. Press releases and public statements of apology were issued, all with boilerplate, passive voice “mistakes were made” language. A motion was passed in the Consortium senate to pay the Jacs full reparations immediately. Now if the Consortium wanted mineral rights, it was going to cost them. In private, criminal charges were brought against several Consortium higher-ups. No one knows what happened to them, but they will probably spend the rest of their days working in an asteroid belt penal colony mining the same precious metals they tried to steal from the Jacs.
Eureka Kincaid lost the arm. The damage was too extensive, the wait for medical attention too long—she had insisted on filing her story first. But she refused regrowth, opting instead for a cybernetic prosthesis. It was more expensive, but her Argus insurance covered it. She sat in her berth aboard the Agamemnon as it pulled out of Jacarandan orbit and headed for the next Consortium outpost, the next story. She flexed her new arm, hearing the slight whir of the servos. It was a beautiful piece of engineering. Transparent, diamond-hard acrylic, filled with intricate snooping gear. Near the shoulder joint was a conspicuous black cube that had nothing to do with the arm’s operation. She looked at it and smiled, then got out her slate and brought up her dictation software. It was time to file her next article.
“I’d like to tell you a story about the hero of the Jacarandan conflict,” she began as the Agamemnon slid off into the black. “A man named Private Matt Synder.”
Going Rogue
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