All copyrights belong to the original creators . . .
but I own up to Teresa and Keefer
Lively times
No problem with my napping in the back room, eh? It had sounded too good to be true. And walking through the door and getting my first real look at the place, I knew that it had been. No problem? No furniture either. No padding on the floor. Just a second half-oval room, smaller than NCC’s main one, with walls just as cluttered with equipment. The only incongruity was in the corner near the door, a funny little free-standing wall like a low box without bottom or top and with a gap in one of the sides. 1-Rover-1’s beloved wrench lay on the floor a few feet away. I blinked stupidly at the juxtaposition for a few seconds before settling against the dividing wall with a grunt and a sigh, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. I let my head thump back against the wall and surveyed the place through drooping eyelids.
The Tin Can had described this room as a sort of catchall for equipment that didn’t get used on a daily basis. Memory One and its sibs took up over half the available wall space, a smooth plasteel monolith with recessed keyboards and enormous screens like windows into a black hole. All of the controls were positioned so as to be convenient to guess who. I was going to really need that chair, no doubt about it: I suspected that my "assistance" around here was going to consist mainly of splicing video footage and similar gruntwork, things that would free up the Tin Can’s more able hands and brain for tasks of more consequence.
Reassignment. What a joke! I folded my arms across my chest, squeezing the front of my tunic into wrinkles that would have to be pressed out tonight. In all his chattering on Day One, the Can had never managed to come up with a genuine reason for me to be here. Well, it was Center Neptune’s money: if they wanted to squirrel me away in NCC and basically pay me for standing around, I shouldn’t be griping about it. But hell . . . I clenched my arms tightly, feeling a wave of depression building . . . I’d wanted to be useful around here. Well, no. What I’d really wanted was to knock their socks off with my performance.
There’s no more prestigious position for a scientist in Earth Defense than to be one of Center Neptune’s own little herd of specialists . . . even if it does mean Zoltar will do his best to nail you if you ever leave the Center. I sneered, remembering how ecstatic I’d been to learn that I’d been selected for the Center’s trial run of new personnel. Even though I’d be starting at the bottom of the heap--a ruddy Tech 4! Just an educated, paid drudge, and they made sure they got every millicredit’s worth of work out of me--I’d been so sure of making a good impression and rising up the hierarchical ladder. I went and hung everything on that. And--contrary to everything they ever taught us in Strategics--I never set a backup plan. I scowled and drove my nails into my elbows. It never occurred to me that I might be moving down. If I screw up here, at the absolute top of the pyramid, I’ve had it. Center Neptune’ll never take me back, and I’ll end up working for CD or worse. Stupid, Teresa, really stupid.
It shouldn’t have turned out this way. Molecular bioscience has always been like second nature to me, and everyone knows how high the demand for that is during wartime. I squirmed, seeking a more comfortable position on the cool alloy plates, and weighed events. Granted the graduate work had been a trial, but the Specialist in Defense program was designed to be a weeding-out process. Ditto for the extra semesters of training with Civil Defense and ISO, which I’d survived mainly through sheer cussedness. I’d gotten through every major obstacle: the interviews, the intense background screening, the physicals . . . dammit, they hadn’t said a thing about bad ankles or knees there! So why, why, why had that come up now? And as for the other, the only thing I could tag as a real personal failure--I locked my arms around my knees and buried my face behind them. Why was the loss of that data such a big deal? It was a preliminary project, for crying out loud, just research into a more effective neuroblocking agent. Why did they think they had to assign projects to us anyway; extra work on the side, as if we didn’t have enough to do just keeping our stations running!
I raised my head and stared fiercely across the room. My vision was blurring at the edges and I fought it back. Damn. It just doesn’t make sense. I can understand not getting the lab position--Dr. Miller has more seniority--and let's face it, the man’s brilliant. But for them to just chuck me into the most back-of-the-beyond section of the Center . . . why didn’t they just sack me and get it over with? It’s not as if I’m In Possession of Sensitive Information about this place, or something. But here I am. I don’t get it!
Nothing made sense at this point: not my job, not my still being in the Center, definitely not my boss. I felt a small, unsummoned quirk cramping one side of my mouth. Well, at least things are being consistent. Let’s face it: this won’t last forever. It’s just some administrative blooper that’ll get discovered in a week or two, and I’ll be back on the mainland looking up teaching positions or something equally titillating. A sigh worked its way up and I leaned my head back against the wall, letting my eyelids droop. I don’t have to make sense of any of this. I can’t fix it. It’s not my concern.
"Baii!"
I jerked, slamming my head against the wall behind me. My eyes opened painfully, dry lids rasping across the corneas, to quiver half-shut again under the assault of overhead lighting. I turned my head and surveyed the small yellow demon at my elbow with bleary focus as my pulse began its inexorable rise, roaring in my ears, from "slow" to "adrenaline panic".
"What?"
"Baii ba-baii baii baii baii," 1-Rover-1 retorted, head jerking with the force of each emission. At this range it was enough to drive my head back against the wall, hands flying up to stopper my ears. The moment Rover shut up, I planted one hand against the gemsor on its chest and dealt it a firm shove.
"Listen, doggy, when you address me from a distance of less than three feet, you adjust your bloody volume control. How much use d’you think I’m going to be to your master if I can’t hear what he’s bloody well saying?"
1-Rover-1’s red eyes had flashed brightly when I pushed it away; now they flickered rapidly. The huge muzzle tilted awkwardly as the robot considered. You look like a freakin’ Scotty in plate armor, I thought sourly, looking at it. German Shepherd head on the body of a dachshund, saints, it’s a wonder you can even stand up without falling forward. Couldn’t they have designed you after something a little better-engineered, say a basset hound?
1-Rover-1’s trapdoor mouth swung open again, and I flinched. "Baii baii," the robot said agreeably, and clanked in a small half-circle to face the door. I lurched to my feet, trying to yank my uniform into some semblance of order.
"Ah, Doctor," 7-Zark-7 greeted me perkily. "Did you have a nice nap?"
"I had one, anyway," I mumbled, squinting at the quad-screen. "Update?"
"It’s starting to get hot," the robot replied. "In a figurative sense, of course, not meteorological. Spectra has dropped out of time warp near the orbital path of Saturn. They’re still on their anticipated course and schedule." He sounded smug about it.
"How nice."
"At their current velocity they should be arriving at Mars in about an hour," the Tin Can went on. I coughed, going a little bug-eyed.
"One hour? Tell me they’re redlining their engines to manage that!"
"I’m sorry, Doctor, but I can’t do that. Their exhaust profile clearly indicates that their engines are running at no more than eighty percent of maximum output."
"That’s fast!"
"Oh. I see what you mean." The Tin Can’s head swivelled to consider the screen. "Yes, Spectran ships do put on a good turn of speed, but don’t worry, Doctor. Nothing they have produced has been able to outstrip the Fiery Phoenix effect."
"Gods." I stared at the realscript data, rubbed angrily at eyes that still wanted to fall out of focus. Saturn to Mars in an hour meant . . . hell, that was impossible. They’d have to be moving at about 1.11c and that just couldn’t be done with realtime drive.
"7-Zark-7--"
"Yes?"
"Tell me how they manage to ignore Einsteinian physics."
"Oh, that. It’s really quite simple, although it must make for an uncomfortable trip. They’ll be executing periodic shifts into timewarp--picojumps, as it were."
"Shifts. In-system." I cast my eyes to the ceiling. "Do they care that some thirty percent of their crew is going to be hamburger on the rear bulkheads?"
"From what I’ve observed," the Can said tartly, "no, Zoltar wouldn’t care one bit; he’d just bring extra troops to compensate. But really, the risk isn’t as high as that. All hands will be safely secured during this stage."
"What about the flight crew?"
"No flight crew," the robot said cheerfully. "Everything is automated."
"Huh." Well, there was a weakness right there. From what I’d been told at Civil Defense, Zoltar didn’t particularly trust robots or self-aware computers. With Zoltar, if a design failed once it was suspect; if it failed twice it was scrap. He couldn’t completely get away from using mechanobrains in his operations because of the physical limitations of a live crew, but that didn’t mean that he had to like it. Over the years he’d moved more and more to computers of Spectran manufacture (which had about as much self-sense as a potato) and gotten almost entirely away from hiring off-world robots to supplement his troops. Except . . . I frowned. Except for whatever the hell the Black Hawks are. Their stats don’t read as entirely organic.
"So they’ll be switching to live crew when they’re just outside Mars’s defense range?"
"Very good, Doctor!" The Tin Can beamed up at me. "Yes, that’s exactly what they’ll do. Live crew are better at responding to attacks than their onboard computer would be."
Yeah, no kidding. Computers programmed to Spectran standards might be able to process quickly, but without the ability to think for themselves they were completely unable to handle surprises. G3 could make a Spectran security system stand on one leg and sing "Yellow Rose of Texas" while the rest of the team waltzed in and blew everything up.
"I’ll just notify the Team that Spectra is in-system," the Tin Can was saying now, reaching out to a large switch set beneath a microphone pickup. I stood very still and tried not to breathe too loudly as the robot flipped the switch, bringing the mike live with a pop and hum.
"Attention, G-force. Hot scan, repeat, hot scan. Report to Chief Anderson’s office immediately. We have a Situation setting up on Mars." He thumbed the switch off. "‘Hot scan’ is my code phrase for Spectra presence confirmed on in-system scanners," he explained. "It gives the Team some idea of the urgency of the--"
Something whistled shrilly on the com board, cutting the Can off instantly.
"We read you, Zark," came the reply. "Fortunately you’ve caught us all in one spot. We were just getting breakfast at Princess’s place."
" . . . son of a naked mole-rat . . ." somebody else was snarling in the background. G2, sounded like. "If there’s one thing I hate, it’s heading out on an empty stomach . . . ."
"Barrippipp . . . got a candy bar in buggy." G4. "Rrrootoot . . . give you half."
Another snarl. G1’s voice came back on, sounding a little bemused. "We’ll move out now, Zark. Standard onshore protocol. Tell the Chief to expect us in about fifteen." The connection zapped out and I lost whatever point G3 was trying to make about proper nutrition.
"They’re all in town. Good." 7-Zark-7 turned, tapped busily at yet another keyboard. "I’ll just set matters in motion, give Chief Anderson their ETA and . . . there. Now we have another little wait before things get lively again." He glanced at me, one antenna riding higher than the other. "The Commander said fifteen minutes, but I’d bet they’ll be here in twelve. They’ve really gotten that scramble down to a science."
I hope that choice of words was accidental, I groaned inwardly, but my heart wasn’t in it. Something else had been nagging at me for several minutes now. I folded my arms and stared at the floor, bent on dragging it out into the open. At last I had it.
"Something’s really wrong about this approach, 7-Zark-7."
"I beg your pardon?" The robot’s head rotated quickly to check the bank of vidscreens linked to the Phoenix’s cameras, which were still dark. "Whose approach?"
"Spectra’s. Why didn’t they stay in warp longer? We can’t track them there. They could’ve just as easily popped out halfway between the asteroid belt and Mars." I moved forward and traced the alien’s course. "This is just plain stupid. If they’re willing to go and do a string of in-system jumps to get there anyway, why didn’t they just take the single harder transition deeper in the gravity well and gain the element of surprise?"
7-Zark-7’s voxbox lights fizzed furiously as he stared at the course plot. "I--I don’t know, Doctor! Could this be a decoy? The only advantage to such a flight plan is . . . oh no!" He spun around, rocking on his footpads, and punched furiously at the com board. "Chief Anderson! This is 7-Zark-7."
"Go on," came the reply. I stiffened automatically.
"We may not have much time to prepare the Team, sir! Spectra’s course indicates that they may be planning a breakaway and re-vectoring during one of their picojumps. If they do, there’s no telling what their objective may be!"
Tense pause. "Understood. Thank you." The connection cut.
"Oh, he’s pissed," I muttered. The Can cocked an antenna, still tapping at the board.
"I’m afraid so." He snapped on the mike. "Attention, G-force. You may not have much time for a briefing. The Spectran ship is entering the system in a series of picojumps and may at any time alter its course."
"What?" The voice was difficult to hear over the howling of an engine in the background. "Now you tell us." Then, the voice even more distant, "This day is going to hell in a hurry."
"Read you, Zark," came a different voice, clearer. "Any change in plans?"
"None so far, Commander," the robot answered. "I’ll keep you posted."
"Hey, Zark?" This time the noise in the background sounded like a washing machine being struck regularly with a two-by-four. "Tell the techs downstairs t’ throw an extra box of rations into the outfitting room. I got a feelin’ this’s gonna be a long day."
"Brrrt rrt . . . better hold on," someone singsonged in the background. The washing machine cut out abruptly, to be replaced by a tearing roar.
"Will do," 7-Zark-7 said blithely. "7-Zark-7, out."
"Hate to be in their shoes," I muttered. "Matter of fact, I’m not too happy to be in our shoes at the moment."
"I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Doctor." 7-Zark-7 rotated his head to give me the rim of one eye.
"Well, we had more than four hours’ warning." I gestured disgustedly at the screen. "If we’d gotten the alert out sooner, G-force wouldn’t be dashing in at the last moment and Chief Anderson wouldn’t be sounding like a bear with a sore head."
7-Zark-7 looked at me more fully. "He isn’t angry with us, Doctor. We were merely following standard protocols. Chief Anderson is a reasonable man."
I eyed him sidelong. All I personally knew of the Chief was that stern, somewhat gravelly voice that rapped out over the comlines, seeming to know everything that happened in Center Neptune. There was plenty of conjecture and rumor among the lower ranks: almost as much as there was about G-force itself, Chief Anderson being another one who made a point of not gracing too many with his presence. "Reasonable" was one of the words I’d never heard used to describe him.
"I’m glad that somebody is taking into consideration the need for human fuel." The Can had tuned back to his board and was banging away at it once more. "I’ll send a notice down directly. Really, the Team would push themselves to the point of collapse if not for Tiny. He’s such a balancing influence."
I grunted, not really paying attention. The Spectran ship had just vanished in another mini-jump, leaving behind a flashing red GONE TO WARP next to Current Position. I watched it worriedly for a full minute before the ship popped back into view. Still on course. Thank God.
There were a lot of Thank Gods over the next several minutes. I caught myself gnawing on a nail I’d snagged yesterday and stuffed that hand in a pocket. During the next picojump I pulled it out and began chewing again. I needed some kind of distraction. Watching that ship bip in and out of sensor range was slowly but surely pushing me over the edge. At one point one of 7-Zark-7’s colorpoint displays developed small green circles; I jerked and eyed them with suspicion. The realscript screens had not changed.
"Ah, good," the robot said. "They’re all safely on-station and heading for Chief Anderson’s office."
"At least they’re here, not scattered all over the ocean . . ." I frowned. "Hey. How did G2 get here? That car’s not submersible as far as I know."
"Correct. It isn’t by itself." 7-Zark-7 extended an arm and rattled away at a side board. The small screen above it lit up with a schematic of some sort of vehicle and some lines of text. I moved closer, recognized it as a mecha file.
"This is a special submersible shell designed for transporting ordinary cars to and from Center Neptune," the robot explained. "It has rockets and a hydrofoil hull that permit rapid transit along the surface, plus ballast tanks and underwater engines. The car literally wears it like you would wear a glove."
"Wow." I paged through the file, fascinated. "When did this little beauty hit production?"
"A few years ago." 7-Zark-7 chuckled. "Originally, Chief Anderson intended it for his personal use only. However, once Jason found out about it, he insisted on having one built for the G-2."
My head came around. "Jason? That’s his real name?"
"Didn’t you know that?" The robot sounded quite surprised.
"You kidding?" I jerked a thumb at my chest. "I’m new here, remember? I can’t access anything about G-force yet. They say my clearance will improve in a year, but I dunno. Some of the crew down in Weapons have been here four years and they say they still don’t know a darn thing."
"I don’t understand." 7-Zark-7’s antennae rose and fell uncertainly. "Have I committed a breach of security? Excuse me." His eyes dimmed and the voxbox lights went berserk. I watched him nervously, waiting for the smoke to start curling out his auditory sensors.
"No." The Can was back abruptly, as if nothing had happened. "There’s nothing in my files that says you can’t at least know their names. What could possibly be the harm in that?"
"You got me." I shrugged. "I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks it’s ridiculous."
"Well, then." 7-Zark-7 reached out and nixed the file, replacing it with an image of G1. "This is Mark, the Commander. I’m afraid I really can’t show you their pictures out of uniform. That is against the rules."
"OK, whatever." The blued glassteel of the visor did a fairly good job of rendering G1’s features indistinct, but still . . . it didn’t hide them all that well. "Doesn’t he ever smile?"
"Of course," the robot said staunchly. "But being Team Leader is a very serious job. Mark never loses sight of that."
Yeah. And it doesn’t look like he sees anything but that. I shrugged. His track record was pretty free of disaster, and what did I know about leadership anyway? Damn you, Dr. Gast. If that was your opinion of me, why didn’t you just keep it to yourself and let me be a happy little follower for the rest of my life?
"Jason--or G2, as you may know him." The picture changed. A wry grin spread over my face as I looked at the glowering dark-toned figure. Yup, this was the guy who’d just about spread that nosy photographer over half a city block a few months ago. It had made headlines in a few of the rags; supposedly Anderson himself had placed a few phone calls and the news services had gone mysteriously stupid about the whole affair. Served that jackass right. He should’ve known better than to approach any of them right after wrapping up a mission. Especially G2.
"Princess, or G3. She’s the Team’s electronics expert, you know. So brilliant." 7-Zark-7 let out a happy little sigh.
Huh? I eyed him sharply, but there weren’t any facial expressions to help me . . . unless that slight rise and fall of his antenna bobbles was significant. Good Lord. The Tin Can has some kind of thing for G3? Eeew. I faced the screen again, taking in G3’s deceptively gentle expression. I hope I’m just imagining things. Nobody deserves that.
Although she could probably take him apart in about five seconds. I shot the Can a second look as a horrifying notion hit me. Ohshit. Let’s hope he didn’t pick up some S&M tendencies in all his reprogramming.
"Keyop. G4." Oblivious (thank God yet again), the Can had flipped the image again. "I should warn you, he has a rather obvious speech impediment. Please don’t bring it up in his hearing; he’s very sensitive about it."
"Mister ‘root twoop twoop’." The yellow visor was shallow from top to bottom, like G3’s, overhanging a huge bucktoothed grin. I found myself grinning back. "Looks like he enjoys life."
"Oh, he does," the Can agreed. "Be careful, though, he’s a bit of a mischief-maker."
"Now that I knew about." Security or no, word had gotten out. Keefer had been ready to set up an altar of worship after the incident of "The Scotsman" at 0500 on the PA. A pity that after process of elimination had been applied, G4 had proved to be the only one with a copy of the song in his possession.
"And last but not least, this is Tiny. G5 and pilot of the Phoenix."
"Hasn’t missed any meals, has he."
"Oh, you’re looking at solid muscle," the Can assured me. "I have noticed that he eats a good deal more than the others, but his physicals always come up all lights green. He must have a remarkable metabolism."
Well who’s going to argue with him? It wasn’t going to be me. G5 was, quite loudly and vociferously at times, the only guy the mechtech crew down in Space Center were willing to trust the Phoenix to on a regular basis. They still talked about the time G1 had piled the simulator’s Phoenix full into the side of K-2. "I forgot I wasn’t in the G-1," he’d protested afterwards. G2 had promptly suggested that signs reading "This Is Not the G-1" be hung on the bridges of both simulator and actual Phoenix. ("You’re the one always saying ‘Be prepared’. You oughta go be an Eagle Scout.")
G1 reportedly had chased him from the room, trying to clobber the Second with the simulator flight manual.
"I’m glad we had time to go through that," 7-Zark-7 said happily, retracting his arm and turning full attention back to his quad-screen. "Hmm. I see that Spectra is still on course. If they are planning a vector change, they’re certainly taking their time about it."
"Maybe they’re trying to give us a false sense of security." I moved away from the files screen and eyeballed the plot. The Spectran ship was now nearly halfway along and still popping in and out of warp at regular 82-second intervals according to the stats. I scowled at it. Sods. You’ve got to be enjoying this little psych-out of yours.
"Well, Spectra does depend quite heavily on psychological warfare tactics." The Tin Can might have been reading my mind. He folded his arms across his thorax, staring up at the screens as he went on. "Perhaps you’ve noticed that their ship designs frequently mimic animals or mythological creatures which a portion at least of the human population hold in fear or dislike."
"Now that you mention it . . ." I rubbed my chin. "So where’s the center of the peacock-phobia group?"
"Ah, well." The Can gave that snicker of his again. "Even the most careful xeno-research turns up a false lead from time to time. But as I was saying. Zoltar uses humanity’s fears against them, and he also makes use of natural phenomena such as waterspouts, earthquakes, and storms. It was a novel approach at the beginning, you know. He came close to winning the war simply because nobody knew quite how to counter such tactics."
"History." But I hadn’t heard it quite like this before, from one who had liv--well, existed--through much of it. And had the ISO’s own record files to draw upon, hmm. "So what about . . . ."
"Excuse me!" The Can jolted upright, antennae sproinging to attention. "Oh, dear. There they go."
"Who go where go huh?"
"Spectra, I’m afraid." The Can hit a few keys, surveyed the writhing colorpoint in evident dismay. "They are ten seconds overdue to re-emerge from their most recent jump. I think they’ve made their move."
"A whole ten seconds . . ." I shut up. The Can had experience on his side, and anyway Spectra had been maintaining regular jumps like clockwork up until now. Unless this was just another fake-out.
If it was a fake-out, it was a long one. The seconds dragged into one minute, then two. I glared at the screen. All right, you bastards. Where are you going to come out?
"Unfortunately, we can’t do anything until we see where they reappear." The Tin Can began drumming his fingers clackily on the rim of the keyboard.
Will you stop doing that? I glared at him. You’re creepy enough without this answering my questions before I ask them! Then I jumped as something sharp-edged and chilly pressed up against the side of my lower leg. 1-Rover-1 wedged its way in beside its master, shouldering me aside a step. Gods and saints, this freakin’ place is a freakin’ zoo. If I ever get my hands on the joker who assigned me up here I’ll . . . .
The board beneath the Can’s idling fingers pinged sharply, all four screens shifting into a roil of activity. Numbers and script poured past on the left screens, but already the Tin Can was grabbing for the com switch.
"Attention G-force! Spectra has just reappeared from warp and is on heading zero-zero-eight by minus ten, arbitrary zee long minus zero point three three. Their target appears to be the ore-refinery center on asteroid Ceres. At their current speed they will be within attack range in five minutes."
The quad-screen emitted a loud hum. I jumped back as the entire display altered, both screens and their black frames fading out. On the single large screen remaining an image of G1 formed, with the bridge of the Phoenix in the background.
"We read you, Zark. Keep an eye on them." Behind him the other members of the team were reacting with grimaces. An indistinct curse emerged from behind G4’s chair; part of a blue cape-wing flicked out and a faint beep-boop sounded, ending in a swat.
"There they are, Mark. Nowhere near Mars."
"We’ll catch up," G1 said grimly. "Keep us posted if anything else turns up, Zark. Phoenix out."
"Big ten, Commander. Good hunting." 7-Zark-7 cut the connection and the quad-screen display restored itself. I eyed it suspiciously. I’d never actually confirmed the presence of the "frames" by touch, but they looked perfectly solid. Unable to help myself, I reached out and pushed a finger right through the nearest. Hologram. Or holographic enhancement. Fan-cy. He’s the only robot I know who would use a frippery intended to soothe organic eyes.
"This is a daring strategy on Spectra’s part," 7-Zark-7 commented, poking swiftly at the keyboard below the quad. "If they are making a play for the refinery, they’ll have to move in quickly or the miners themselves will take action to defend their ships and facility. I wouldn’t care to stand up against them, myself."
"Sounds like you think calling out the team might be unnecessary." I leaned against the bulkhead.
"Mmm . . . no, I wouldn’t say that. The Team is used to dealing with Zoltar. They’re the most familiar with Spectran tactics and they’ve always been able to rout the enemy. That counts considerably, you know. Just the sight of the Phoenix will strike terror into the hearts of the veterans aboard that ship."
"Veterans mean survivors." I’d been wanting to ask about that for some time. "If they’re dumb enough to keep coming back, why does G-force allow any Spectrans to escape?"
7-Zark-7’s head snapped around, round red eyes fixing on me. "Wh . . . wh . . . you . . . ." His voxbox fluttered madly. I got off my rear, thinking apprehensively that I’d managed to push one of his TILT buttons. Several seconds later, the Can finally got his wires straightened out and resumed his work, typing with rather more force than before. "You amaze me, Doctor," he said stiffly. "The Team does not enjoy killing. If you had any idea what it has cost them, to train as highly efficient fighters and yet retain their humanity . . . ." He let his words trail off, but I could practically feel the chilly disapproval washing my way.
"Hey, I didn’t know," I protested. "I would’ve thought they’d want to make sure of as many of the enemy as they could. I mean, if they’re just going to come back and attack again, cause more harm to more people and property, it seems like the responsible thing to do. It’s not as if they have to kill each one with their bare hands."
"Have you ever killed a sentient being, Doctor?" The Can kept his eyes trained on the screens.
"No."
"We may resume this conversation when you have."
And just who died and made you Supreme Court Justice? I glared at the side of his head. So I haven’t killed anyone. It’s not for want of inclination, I can tell you. These guys are the ones trained to kill: if it bothers them that much, somebody didn’t do their job right. And I still think it’s stupid to let fifty to seventy percent of the attack force scoot away in their escape craft when, dammit, G-force knows perfectly well they’ll be back!
Silence stretched for a good five minutes or more, and I spent it staring out the porthole and thinking further dark thoughts. All of a sudden, the Tin Can sighed, actually managing to sound old and tired.
"Doctor, the reason the Team was not conditioned to become casual about killing is because it would have endangered them greatly."
What, it would have damned their souls? I clipped my tongue between my teeth until I could persuade it to say instead, "How, exactly?"
"In the early days of the war, Chief Anderson was not the known and respected figure he is today." The Can still sounded subdued. "His Project Aves was considered by half the Defense Council to be nothing but a clever hoax. The other half thought the Chief was moving to create his own personal army, a force with which he could drive Spectra back and then use to establish himself in a position of ultimate power."
"Typical politicians."
"No, no: remember, Chief Anderson refused to make public the how and when of his plans, and he wouldn’t share the technical details with anyone. There were too many Spectran infiltrators around. But his precautions made it difficult to prove to them that he had only the defense of planet Earth in mind. The Council spent weeks disputing over whether or not he was to proceed."
"Seems to me I remember he was already proceeding on the sly," I said. "If the dates I learned in school were correct."
"The public account is close enough. By the time Chief Anderson received permission to execute his plans, the members of the Team had already been training intensely in secret for eight years."
"What exactly was the Council so freaked out about?" I cut in bluntly.
"The prospect of cerebonic augmentation." Now the Can stopped working and swivelled his head to regard me again. Without the constant clatter of the keys, an eerie sort of stillness descended upon the room. The Can’s quiet voice seemed to strike and jostle against the walls. "Never before had anyone proposed changing the human body and mind to such a radical degree. The plan involved molecular restructuring of bones, muscle, ligaments, tendons, even skin; modification of internal organ function; crafted-tissue plugs to produce tailored enzymes and proteins . . . these were controversial enough. But it was the cerebonic brain implants which frightened everyone the most."
I held my breath. Was he actually going to spill about the AEIs? I hardly knew anything about those.
"Chief Anderson couldn’t avoid the implants--naturally." The Can made a small dismissive gesture. "They were central to the entire project. How anyone could expect the Team to control their cape-wings without their AEIs is beyond me. Flying is such a complex activity! And to expect them to be able to fight on the wing . . . Chief Anderson had no choice. But at the same time he knew that there would be considerable fear and rumor surrounding the Team from the very beginning. He had a very narrow line to walk. The Team had to be able to fight better than anything Earth had sent onto the field to date, or they would certainly be killed by Spectra. Yet if they earned a public image as being cold, ruthless, and bloodthirsty, they would be in danger from elements on Earth itself."
"Didn’t G-force have some say in this?"
"Oh, of course that was a major consideration right from the beginning. They wanted to be able to fight and drive Spectra back more than anything, but none of them were willing to sacrifice their personal morals. And who can blame them? The prospect of having one’s very personality reprogrammed is enough to upset anyone!"
Including you? I wondered. Mr. Mucks-Around-Regularly-With-His-Head. How much of what you’re telling me is hard fact and how much is nice-sounding fluff?
"That’s about all there is to tell." The Tin Can shrugged. "There was no brainwashing and as little desensitization as possible. The Team members each had to come to grips with their own feelings about injuring and killing Spectrans. I must say that although it was very hard for them for a while, I think it was the best way to go about it."
You do. I stared off into space. You’re trying to tell me that G-force is just a bunch of regular folks: they come home from work, wash the blood off, and step out for a cuppa and a game of cards before calling it a day. Yeah, well what kind of ordinary people can go out and blow a few dozen sapients away and not be affected by it? This is their job we’re talking about here: they go out on missions all the time, and they usually end up in a fight against Spectra or its operatives. It would’ve been kinder to brainwash ‘em to hate Spectrans.
And safer. Suppose G1 wakes up one morning and decides he’s had enough of all the killing? Happens all the time in the history books, troops going AWOL or retreating into shock. What’s to keep G-force fighting day after day, until the war’s over one way or another?
Unless . . . .
"7-Zark-7? Do the members of G-force have . . . um . . . personal reasons for hating Spectra?"
"I am sorry, Doctor." No he wasn’t. "You don’t have clearance for that information."
You son of a wrecking ball.