Читать книгу The Complete Legacy Trilogy: Star Corps, Battlespace, Star Marines - Ian Douglas, Matthew Taylor - Страница 16

24 JUNE 2138

DI’s Office, Company 1099

U.S. Marine Corps Recruit Training Center

Parris Island, South Carolina

0920 hours ET

“Garroway! Center yourself on the hatch!”

Garroway leaped into the DI’s office, moving at the dead run that had been demanded of him and all of his fellow recruits in Company 1099 since the day they’d arrived at Parris Island.

“Sound off!” Gunnery Sergeant Makowiecz barked without looking up from his desk display.

“Sir!” Garroway snapped back as the toes of his boots hit the white line painted on the deck and he came to rigid attention, eyes locked firmly on an ancient water stain on the cinder-block bulkhead above and behind the DI’s left shoulder. “Recruit Garroway reporting to the drill instructor as ordered, sir!”

“Recruit,” Makowiecz said, his voice still as razor-edged as a Mamaluk sword, “your indoctrination classes are complete and you are about to enter phase one of your training. Are you fully aware of what this entails?”

“Sir! This recruit understands that he will be required to surrender all technical and data prostheses still resident within his body, sir!”

“Well quoted, son. Right out of the book. Stand at ease.”

The sudden change in his DI’s manner was so startling that Garroway nearly fell off his mark. Almost reluctantly, muscle by muscle, he relaxed his posture.

“Why do you want to be a Marine, son?” Makowiecz asked.

“Sir, this recruit—”

“Belay the third person crap,” Makowiecz told him. “This is off the record, just you and me. You’ve seen enough of boot camp now that you must have an idea of how rough this is going to be. You are about to go through twelve weeks of sheer hell. So … why are you putting yourself through this?”

Garroway hesitated. He felt like he was just starting to get the hang of automatic recitations in the third person—“this recruit”—and it somehow didn’t seem fair for the DI to suddenly come at him as though he were a normal, thinking human being. It left him feeling off balance, disoriented.

“Sir,” he said, “all I can say is that this is what I’ve wanted ever since I heard stories from my mother about my great-grandfather.”

Makowiecz placed his palm on a white-lit panel on his desk, accessing data through his c-link. “Your great-grandfather is one of the Names of the Corps,” he said. “Manila John Basilone. Dan Daly. Presley O’Bannon. Chesty Puller. Sands of Mars Garroway. That’s pretty good company. His name is a damn fine legacy.

“But you know and I know that there’s more to being a Marine than a name …”

He paused, waiting expectantly, and Garroway knew he was supposed to say something. “Sir … this recruit … I mean, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I can’t go back to what I was. Sir.”

“You have an abusive father.”

The change of topic was so sudden, Garroway didn’t know how to respond. “Uh, it’s not that bad, sir. Not sexual abuse or anything like that. He just—”

“I’m not interested in the details, son. But hear me, and hear me loud and clear. All abusive behavior by parents or stepparents or line-marriage parents—or by anyone else in authority over a kid, for that matter—does incalculable damage. Doesn’t matter if it was sexual abuse or physical abuse with routine beatings or ‘just’ emotional abuse with screaming fits and head games. And it doesn’t matter if the adult is alcoholic or addicted to c-link sex feeds or is just a thoroughgoing abusive asshole. It’s really impossible to say which is worse, which kid gets hurt the most, because every kid is different and responds to the abuse in different ways.”

“My father yelled a lot,” Garroway said, “but he never hit me. Uh, not deliberately, anyway.” He didn’t add that Carlos Esteban had hit his mother, frequently, and threatened more than once to do the same to him, or that he was an alcoholic who’d disabled the court-appointed cybercontrols over his behavior.

“Doesn’t matter. It says here your mother has filed for divorce. She’s out of the house?”

“Yes, sir. She’s staying with a sister in California now.”

“Good. She’s better off out of this guy’s way, and you’ll be better off knowing she’s okay.” He got a faraway look in his eyes as he scrutinized the data feed flowing through his link. “It says here you were hospitalized once with a dislocated shoulder after a domestic altercation.”

“That was an accident, sir.”

“Uh-huh.” The sergeant didn’t sound at all convinced. “Your father has been cited seven times … domestic violence … disturbing the peace … assault … This bastard should have been locked away and rehabbed a long time ago.”

“There are … political factors, sir. He’s a pretty big man in Sonora, where we live. He’s good friends with the local sheriff and with the governor.”

“Shit. Figures.”

“Sir … I don’t understand where this is going. Are you saying I’m not qualified to be a Marine because my father—”

“You’re qualified, son. Don’t worry about that. What we’re concerned about right now is your c-link. Your implant is a Sony-TI 12000 Series Two Cerebralink.”

“Uh, yessir. It was a birthday present from my parents.”

“Do you have a resident AI?”

“A personality, you mean? No, sir.” Most cerebralinks had onboard AI, for net navigation if nothing else. He didn’t have one with a distinct personality, though. His father hadn’t believed in that sort of thing.

“Cybersex partner?”

“Uh … no …” He’d linked into a number of sex sites, of course, for a few hours of play with various fantasy partners. Everyone did that. But he didn’t have a regular playmate.

“Cyberpet?”

“No, sir.” His father had been pretty insistent about his not having any artificial personalities—a waste of time and money, Carlos had said, and a threat to his immortal soul—and he’d done a lot of e-snooping to make sure his orders were obeyed.

“What did you do for companionship?”

“Well … there’s my girlfriend. …”

“Lynnley Collins. Yes. You’re pretty close with her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A fuck buddy? Or something closer?”

“She’s a friend. Sir.” He had to bite back his rising anger. This kind of cross-examination was the sort of thing his father did, stripping him of any semblance of privacy.

Of course, he’d known he would be surrendering most of his privacy rights when he signed up. But this prying, this spying into his private life … damn it, it wasn’t right.

“I know, son,” Makowiecz said gently, almost as if he was reading Garroway’s mind. “I know. This is as intrusive, as downright abusive, as anything your old man ever did to you. But it’s necessary.”

“Sir, yes, sir. If you say so, sir.”

“I do say so. Does it surprise you that we pay pretty close attention to a recruit’s private life here? We have to.” He pulled his hand off the contact panel on the desk and leaned back in his chair. Outside, clearly audible through the thin walls of the DI’s barracks office, a boot company jogged past, sounding off to a singsong cadence to the beat of footsteps thundering together.

“Am I right or am I wrong?

Each of us is tough and strong!

We guard the ground, the sea, the sky!

Ready to fight and willing to die!”

“It’s a damned paradox, Garroway,” Makowiecz said as the chanting faded away across the grinder. “Lots of kids join the Marines who had bad childhoods. For a lot of ’em, the Corps is their mother and father put together. I know. That’s the way it was for me. And we have to put you through six kinds of hell, have to break you in order to build you up into the kind of Marine we want. If that’s not abuse, I don’t know what is.”

“A history feed I downloaded once said that it used to be that Marine DIs couldn’t even swear at the recruits. Sir.”

Makowiecz nodded. “True enough. That was back, oh, 150 years ago or so. We couldn’t lay hands on recruits then either. A number of Marine DIs were discharged, even court-martialed and disgraced, for not following the new guidelines. They’d grown up in the old Corps, after all, and they thought that harassment and even physical abuse toughened the recruits, made them better Marines.

“We know better now. Still, the rules have relaxed a bit since then, because it was discovered that we couldn’t make Marines without imposing discipline … and sometimes some well-placed profanity or grabbing a recruit by the stacking swivel and giving him a shake is just what is needed to get the message through his damned thick recruit skull. You copy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have to invade each recruit’s private life, right down to his soul—if he has one. We need to know what makes him tick. How he’ll react under stress. And how we can transform him into a U.S. Marine.”

“I understand that, sir.” And he did, reluctantly … and with a few reservations.

“Good. You understand too that we have to remove your cerebralink.”

“Yes … sir.”

“You don’t sound so sure of that.”

“Well, it’s kind of scary, thinking about being without it. I’ll be getting a Marine Corps model, right?”

“That’s affirmative. Eventually. But first you will learn how to function without any electronic enhancement at all.”

“Without … any? …” The thought wasn’t scary. It was terrifying.

“Right. Look … you know the cerebralink is nothing but a tiny set of parallel computers nanotechnically grown inside your head and connecting to certain parts of your nervous system, like the linkpads in the palm of your hands. It lets you link head-to-head with others with compatible hardware, lets you connect with the WorldNet and pull down the answer to any question, gives you a whole library just a thought-click away. You can see anything, call anyone, make reservations, even download the whole history of the Corps just by thinking about it. The thing is, too many kids nowadays rely on the net, know what I mean?”

“I guess so. But … are you saying it’s wrong to link on?”

“Wrong? Hell no. Direct net access is one of the great cornerstones of modern technology and culture. But you as a Marine need to learn that you can get along without any technic prosthesis whatsoever … not just learn it, but know it right down to your bones. Our ancestors went a long way without implants or c-links. You can too.

“However, we’ve found a special problem with kids coming from families with major dysfunctions. Alcoholism. Net addictions. Violence. Kids who don’t get the love and care they need at home tend to grow up relying on surrogates, like AI companions, cyberpets, or e-mates. When they’re separated from their comfort-of-choice, whatever it is, it can be pretty rough.”

“Why don’t you just keep them from enlisting, then?” Damn it, if they were going to kick him out of boot camp for this …

“If we did that, son, we’d have to exclude the majority of our volunteers. And some of our best people came from bad home situations. Myself included. But we do take them aside first, like I’m doing with you, and give them a final chance to think about it, think about what they’re in for. When we pull your hardware, you’re going to feel more alone, more lost, more isolated than you’ve ever felt in your life. It’s going to be hell. And you’re going to have to ride it out. Eventually, you will be issued with a Marine Corps implant. If you make it through.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, the government will stand you to a replacement, though I’m afraid it won’t be as fancy as a Sony-TI 12000. Government issue, IBM-800 series. But you can upgrade that for anything you want later.”

“What … what are my chances, sir?”

“Oh, pretty good, actually. We lose maybe fifteen percent of our recruits at this stage. But the proportion is higher for kids from dysfunctional families, like yours. We could lose, oh, maybe thirty, thirty-five percent. A lot of kids have formed attachments they can’t get along without. You have an edge, because you haven’t bonded with an AI construct yet.”

“I can handle it, sir.”

“Good. Because our best Marines are fighters, the ones who’ve had bad shakes and had to fight to make it through. Tough. Survivors. We want that in our people. But we need to give you the chance to back out now, before we yank your plug-in.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You have twenty-two hours to think it over. Tomorrow, at zero-seven-thirty, you will report to recruit sick bay for processing. You may, at any time until then, refuse the treatment. At that time you may opt either for a full discharge or transfer to one of the other military or government services. One less demanding than the U.S. Marine Corps. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” He paused, and his voice hardened again. “Back to the routine. Dismissed!”

That, Garroway knew, was his cue to slip back into his recruit persona. “Sir! Aye aye, sir!”

He pulled a sharp about-face, then fairly lunged from the compartment, on the run.

Headquarters, PanTerra Dynamics

New Chicago, Illinois

United Federal Republic, Earth

1545 hours CT

A scarlet-uniformed attendant ushered Dr. Traci Hanson into the briefing chamber on the 540th floor of the PanTerra Dynamics Building in New Chicago and toward her seat at a large, crystalline-topped conference table. A viewall behind the table showed the gold, scarlet, and purple panorama of Ishtar, the vast orb of Marduk hanging low in the sky above clustered pyramids, obelisks, and the low, rounded domes of native habitations.

She was still having some trouble getting around on Earth, three weeks after her return from Mars, but she waved off the proffered arm and made the final walk to her seat on her own. She wore an earth-return EW suit, a utilitarian-looking green jumpsuit with an exoskeleton walker frame invisibly woven into the fabric. It helped her stand without falling, and supported the weight that, to her, still felt three times greater than normal. At least now she could stand. For the first few days after her return, she’d been all but confined to a wheelchair. Now she could get around pretty well without any artificial aid at all, resorting to the EW suit only when she knew she was going to be standing or walking for long periods.

Rising with solemn formality, Allyn Buckner introduced himself and the others already seated.

“Dr. Hanson,” he said in a raspy voice. “So good of you to come. May I present Gavin Norris … Clarence Rafferty … Lee Soong Yi … Mary Pritchard … and I believe you already know Conrad Robinson and Marine Colonel Thomas Jackson Ramsey.”

She nodded to each in turn. Conrad Robinson was her department head at the American Xenoarcheological Institute, though she barely knew him. And Ramsey …

“Colonel Ramsey,” she said. “Yes. We shared the packet hop back to Earth.” She noted with a small stab of irritation that Ramsey was wearing a dress Marine uniform, with no sign of the braces at neck or wrists indicating that he was wearing a walker.

“Hello again, Dr. Hanson,” Ramsey said with a grin. “Gotten your Earth legs yet?”

“More or less,” she replied brusquely, in no mood for casual talk. She looked at Buckner as she sank into her seat, grateful to be off her feet. “So. I understand you want me to go out-system. Why? Or perhaps I should say, ‘Why me?’”

“Because you are one of our best xenoarcheologists, and an expert on the An or Ahannu or whatever they call themselves.”

“An,” she replied in a clipped, offhand manner, “is what primitive humans in the Mesopotamian region called the species when they first arrived on Earth, some ten to twelve thousand years ago. Their name for themselves is Ahannu, which means, approximately, ‘the Holy People.’”

“Er, yes. Exactly,” Buckner said.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen,” Robinson said quickly, “why I said Dr. Hanson would be perfect for this mission.”

“But you haven’t asked me if I want to go,” she said. “I am flattered, Mr. Buckner, but I am not prepared to sacrifice twenty years or more of my career … not when there is so much yet to do here and on Mars.”

“Sacrifice? Who said anything about sacrifice? Upon your return, you will only be some five years older, not twenty … and thanks to cryohibertechnics, you’ll experience none of the actual voyage. And you will be able to study the Ahannu in person, on their homeworld.”

“Not their homeworld,” she said, correcting him. Damn the netnews media. With sloppy reporting and sheer carelessness, they’d perpetuated the popular misconception that Ishtar was the world where the An had originally evolved. “The world we call Ishtar was an An colony world, like Earth. The Hunters of the Dawn appear to have overlooked Ishtar when they—”

“Yes, yes, as you say. In any case, the chance to meet the Ahannu face-to-face would have to be the chance of a lifetime for a dedicated research scientist such as yourself.”

“A dedicated research scientist such as myself,” she said, “depends on the timely publishing of papers to stay current and to stay known in a highly competitive field. I will not waste twenty years sleeping while my colleagues are continuing to publish in my absence!”

“Not even for, say … fifty million newdollars, plus the chance at royalties from discoveries this corporation may make on Ishtar?”

She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut again. Had she heard right? “Fifty … million?”

“I would think, Doctor, that that much money might go a long way toward paying you back for any professional … inconvenience. And upon your return, you will, of course, be the expert on the Ahannu. I expect we could promise you a position with PanTerra Dynamics, in fact.”

“What happened to Nichole Moore?”

“Eh?”

“Nichole Moore is the xenoculturalist assigned to the Terran Legation on Ishtar,” she said, “working under a government grant for the Smithsonian Institute. She’s been in the New Sumer compound for five years now. She would be the leading expert on the Ahannu at the moment, unless …”

“We have … lost touch with Dr. Moore,” Buckner told her. “We are assembling an expedition to go to Ishtar, rescue any survivors, and reestablish a Terran presence in the Llalande system. Since it will be ten years before the relief mission can arrive, we must assume that Dr. Moore and the rest of Emissary’s people are all dead or will be dead by the time you arrive.”

She nodded slowly. “I see.” She’d suspected as much, of course, both from what she’d picked up at the Cydonian complex and from her conversations with the Marine women on board the Osiris. Geremelet’s Destiny Faction had won considerable power among the Ahannu, and there’d been growing danger of a coup or at least of a civil war on Ishtar, one that would threaten the tiny human contingent stationed at New Sumer. “They killed Dr. Moore, and now you’re sending me?”

“You’ll have considerably more firepower behind you than Dr. Moore did,” Buckner said. “A full Marine Expeditionary Unit, in fact. One of its primary tasks will be to protect you.”

“No,” she said. “Find another victim.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked at her boss. “Mr. Robinson, the institute is largely funded by the federal government, but we are not soldiers to be ordered about! They can’t just pack me off to another goddamn star for twenty years!”

“Actually, Dr. Hanson,” Robinson said, “I put your name in the running. You will be ideal for this mission. And you must admit that the financial remuneration package is, well, quite generous.”

“I don’t care about that! You can’t transfer me eight light-years! What about my work here?”

“Carter and Jorgenson will be more than able to fill in for you at Cydonia, Dr. Hanson.”

“Carter and Jorgenson! Carter is a second-rate hack who can’t see beyond his fringie religious beliefs! And Jorgenson is so determined to try and prove that some mythical ancient human culture was the Hunters of the Dawn that—” She stopped, eyes widening. So that was it. Jorgenson was her chief rival within the institute. She’d crossed academic swords with the man more than once, and was convinced that he owed his current power and prestige more to the people he knew in government than to any real ability in his field. He’d also failed more than once to get her into his bed, and had taken to twisting her words whenever he had the opportunity, as if in petty revenge. Hell, he’d delivered one paper that had made her look like the fringie nutcase, by misrepresenting her contention that the An had introduced the concept of religion to the early native population of Earth.

He’d been silent ever since she threatened to expose him as a fraud. Was this his way of getting even?

“If I were you, Doctor,” Robinson went on, “I would give some thought to my future with the institute and where else you might be able to apply your considerable talent and experience.”

She blinked. “Is that a threat?”

“There are no threats here, Dr. Hanson,” Buckner said gently. “Think of it as … an incentive.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Fifty million newdollars?” Buckner chuckled. “Compounding interest at ten percent over ten years? Or … let’s make it seventy-five million. And a contract with PanTerra Dynamics naming you research director of your own exostudies department upon your return to Earth. You will be extraordinarily rich … and able to apply your talents toward any area of research you might desire. Who knows? Working with the Ahannu directly … you might open up whole new, undreamed of areas of study. …”

Traci felt light-headed, almost dizzy. This was everything she could ever have dreamed of. Freedom of research, and the money to let her pursue that research wherever it took her. No longer dependent on the institute, or anyone else. It seemed almost too good to be true. …

Which in her book meant that it was too good to be true.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Wait just a damned minute. How can you afford to throw money around like that? Fifty million, seventy-five million. What’s your annual salary, Buckner? About ten, maybe twenty million, at a guess? Hell, I don’t care if seventy-five million is nothing but loose credit chips to you, even a company as big as PanTerra has to show a profit. And you won’t show a profit spraying newdollars around like water.”

“Believe me, Dr. Hanson, when I say that there is a great deal of profit to be made in a new market, an entire new world market, for this company. I can offer you, oh, let’s say an even one hundred million. That’s five million per objective year, and I assure you that the profit potential for an entire world is many times greater than that.”

“That is an interesting point, Mr. Buckner,” Ramsey, the Marine colonel, said. His hands were clasped together on the desk before him, and his eyes were like gray ice. “A fascinating point. What is it about a planet that makes it so worth PanTerra’s attention?”

“What do you mean? An entire planet. Do you have any idea what the gross domestic product of the Earth is right now, Colonel?”

The Marine showed a cold smile. “Large. But that’s not the point. I’ve done some research, sir, into the economics of interstellar trade. I think both Dr. Hanson and I would be most interested in just what it is you expect to find in the Llalande system that could be worth such a whopping big investment on your part.”

“Well, the trade alone with the Ahannu—”

“Isn’t enough, sir. The Llalande system has no raw materials that our own system doesn’t have in vast abundance. We’ve barely begun to tap the raw material resources of our own asteroid and Kuiper belts, and the nickel, iron, and heavy metals we find right here in our own backyard are just as good as anything we could haul back across eight light-years, and a hell of a lot cheaper. Native products? The Ahannu are primitives, millennia behind us in technology. There would certainly be a market for Ahannu artwork and crafts … but nothing worth the cost of shipping them eight light-years.”

“There is one commodity, Colonel, that always pays in the long run,” Buckner said. “Knowledge. Information. You’re right, of course. We may never have merchant ships plying the galactic trade routes. But the knowledge we could pick up from an entire new, alien culture is staggering, and literally incalculable.

“Consider. Knowledge of the fact that there has already been contact between the Ahannu and humans, in our own prehistory, has utterly transformed the way we think about ourselves, how we think about our place among the stars. The new philosophical insights, the new religions—”

“Have already been more trouble than they’re worth,” Traci put in. “I’ll grant you that knowledge is the one transportable resource that might make interstellar trading worthwhile. But you can send information by FTL comm or even laser or old-fashioned radio. Why do you need to send people out there?”

“To get the information, of course.” Buckner sighed, crossing his arms. “AIs are still limited in what they can do, especially in a situation involving an alien species. If you don’t want the job, there’s nothing more we can do about it. I have other contacts, other agencies. Perhaps we could approach Dr. Chaumont, at the Institute Française Xenobiologique. …”

“Damn it, Dr. Hanson,” Robinson said, half rising from his chair. “Consider what you’re doing!”

Traci could see that her department head had a pretty hefty stake in this affair as well. If PanTerra went to the EU, the institute might lose grant money … or worse, prestige.

She still didn’t like it. Colonel Ramsey had a point: PanTerra was being just a little too free with their money, and she had the feeling there was more to the corporate giant’s interest in Ishtar than they were willing to admit.

On the other hand … a hundred million newdollars, and the chance to write her own ticket when she returned? There was such a thing as too good to be true … and such a thing as too good to pass up. This was literally the chance of a lifetime.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Don’t get your underwear in a twist. I can hardly pass this one up, can I?”

“Excellent,” Buckner said. “I knew we could count on you, Dr. Hanson. You won’t be sorry.”

Traci smiled as she shook his hand, but the smile was forced. She found herself trusting Buckner about as far as she could throw him in a ten-g field.

Just how long would it be before she was sorry?