|
Captive Skin
by Eric Del Carlo
AFTER THREE HUNDRED eighteen hours of drift in the bad black,
Jankovic’s combat
skin came back to full life. He had trained
for this very thing: two weeks in minimally functional skin, floating
in sim space, recycle working so waste was managed, you had food and
water. But no communication, no way to physically move the skin.
The experience
turned minds inside out. Everyone who underwent it said they were
sure they’d been forgotten and would never be retrieved from
the
training tank. Jankovic had felt that way. But his eval afterward
gave him high marks. He’d maintained a mental and emotional
equilibrium. Of course, no matter how bad it got, you still knew on
some level that it was a drill.
It was different
when shit was real.
Something had
fired on the troop transport, and decompression had blown him clear
just as the ship erupted. No other troops made it out. His combat
skin had taken serious damage, but he had made it through with
bruising and a concussion. The skin’s reserves would sustain
him in a conscious condition for some time, but he also still had
manual
access to his hibernation dose. If and when he took it, however, that
would be it. This was hostile space, the bad black. He could
go under and stay under for years. Chances of friendlies finding him
in his dead skin were none wishing for slim.
But all that
changed when the higher systems popped back up, and the interface
crackled with animation for the first time in nearly two weeks.
“Cat?”
he yelped hoarsely. “Catty!”
He had been to
the psychological precipice, the final jumping off point for sanity.
Drifting with nothing but his own thoughts for so long had damn near
broken him. And yet he was sure he wasn’t hallucinating this.
The
thick combat skin flowed with power again. It shouldn’t be
possible,
what with the damage to its energy core, but full sensory and
positioning had suddenly gone hot. He could see! He knew his
coordinates. Cattywampus should be able to send a focused recall code
without tipping off any local hostiles.
It meant he had a
chance—better than slim, hell of a lot better than
none—of getting
out of here.
“Cat!”
“Â Ã
É.”
Jankovic clamped
his mouth shut, though words longed to burst forth. He had of course
tried many times, nearly to the point of delirium, to communicate
with his skin’s AI, which he had code-named Cattywampus. But
with
communications back up, this wasn’t Cat speaking to him.
These
weren’t words—or even
sounds—he’d ever heard
before.
Humankind had
found a lot of enemies these past hundred years. Or those enemies had
found them. The galaxy was at war. Had been at war, for eons.
Evidently it would go on being at war with itself for a long time to
come. Only now, star-faring humans were caught up in the goo-shed
(because not every species had blood) and fighting valiantly for
their survival.
Staying silent,
Jankovic gazed out at the stars. His eyes devoured the sight.
He’d
been starved for visual stimulation, with little but the combat
skin’s internal standby lights to look at.
“×
Ú Ê.”
Could these
sounds coming through the interface be the result of damage?
Farfetched. The bizarre noises seemed to have a phonological basis.
This might be language. But it wasn’t an outside
communication. This was Jankovic’s combat skin talking to
him.
He had been
soldiering for five years, and he liked it. He would probably stay in
the service for the rest of his days. The preservation of humanity
was a good cause to fight for, after all. He’d been in a
combat skin
for over two years now, and he liked that a lot. Or at least he was
one of those who could handle a skin.
The battle suits
were advanced technology and fantastically powerful. They needed to
be, considering the foes humans faced. Dvluvians, Milpoids,
Faarazkii, and half a dozen other spaceflight-capable species, would
fire on an Earth vessel on sight (which was no doubt what had
happened to the troop transport) or engage in ground combat on any of
the contested worlds. That was where skin units like
Jankovic’s came
in. His had been on its way to reinforce a human position on the
planet Carbock.
But wearing a
skin was about more than just knowing how to use the particle
weaponry and grenades and flechettes, or how to maneuver in the
hulking armor using the manipulators. Each skin needed an AI to
operate, and that “brain” had to interface
successfully
with the human occupant.
The relationship
between a skin and its wearer was vital, unique and...intimate. The
AI learned your likes, your weaknesses and tendencies, your responses
down to the microsecond. It came to anticipate you, and augment you,
and support you in a way which only made you a better soldier. AIs
developed personalities to fit yours. They became, frankly, friends.
And right now
Jankovic’s friend was silent, and a new disturbing voice had
replaced
it. He didn’t dare give it a response.
But all the
systems were suddenly, miraculously back up. He could work the skin
manually, without using the interface. It would be a joy to be able
to move again, though the skin provided enough room inside it
to shift around and stretch muscles, thus avoiding atrophication.
Yet when he
touched the manual controls that had so long lain dormant, they would
not respond. He was locked out. That shouldn’t be. Only the
AI could
do that, and Cat wouldn’t lock him out.
So ... something
other than Cattywampus was controlling the combat skin.
Once he’d “said”
it, his predicament became both obvious and something his soldierly
psyche could deal with, despite how extreme and frightening a
development this was. He tried controls other than the physical
manipulators, but he had no access to any of the systems which were
now registering as operative.
But a functional
skin could get him out of this whole mess. He could arrange retrieval
from the bad black. Like the human species he was fighting to
protect, he too could survive. He damned well deserved to, what with
the effort he’d given the cause these past five years.
So, how to get
control back from the outside—presumably
hostile—force which had
invaded the skin and evidently repaired it? It was a hell of a
quandary, but it gave his mind something substantial to work on. Like
his eyes, his brain responded positively to the stimulus.
After several
minutes he became aware of a light blinking. It was inside the skin,
not out among the starscape. Just one of the operations lights,
winking an irregular but somehow orderly pulse.
Morse!
He couldn’t
believe it, but the not-believing part of him was free to wallow in
incredulity while the combat-trained rest of him deciphered the
message.
JANK. His name.
More than that, the pet name Cat used when talking to him. Could this
little flickering light somehow be Cat? And how should he
answer?
His skin’s AI
should have a total awareness of him. The winking light was near eye
level. He decided to blink back his reply, which was CAT?
YES. WE ARE IN TROUBLE.
He already knew
there was serious trouble, but the presence of his longtime friend
injected him with happiness. Under other circumstances he would have
started crying.
Cat continued,
ALIEN HAS TAKEN CONTROL, EFFECTED REPAIRS.
He had deduced
this. He asked the next question, what kind of alien?
UNCATALOGUED. I THINK IT IS AI.
An alien machine?
Before his mind could reel too far, he asked, CAN YOU GET
CONTROL?
NO. IT THINKS I AM A LOWER SYSTEM.
Normally Cat spoke in a sardonic
feminine tone, a
voice they’d discovered through trial and error that he
responded to
best. He missed its sound now as the little light blinked on. it is
unaware of you.
He caught himself
before he blinked in surprise. HOW CAN THAT BE?
he asked.
IT SEEMS TO REGARD YOU AS SOME MINDLESS BIOLOGICAL
COMPONENT.
BUT— he started.
Cat cut him off.
DON’T BE OFFENDED. He could
almost hear the dripping sarcasm.
SOMETIMES I THINK OF YOU THAT WAY.
It was worth all
those Morse dots and dashes just to experience her personality again.
He’d missed her so badly these past two weeks.
She could blink
this light. What else could she do? He said, CAN YOU UNDO
MY LOCKOUT?
NO CHANCE. IT IS TOO POWERFUL.
WHAT CAN YOU DO?
If he’d been speaking aloud to her, he probably would have
poured on
the sarcasm himself. Well, what can you do? It was the
relationship they had, mockery disguising affection.
She listed the
lower systems she’d apparently been limited to when the alien
AI had
rebuilt the skin’s network. Jankovic couldn’t see
how he could make
use of anything she had access to. He gnashed his teeth in
frustration.
He looked again
at his position. It had felt like he’d drifted vast distances
these
past thirteen days, but he was still within the retrieval sphere of
his launch base. They would have registered the destruction of the
troop carrier, but without a recall code indicating survivors they
wouldn’t send a rescue.
It made him want
to scream. He wished he could wring a neck, preferably that of this
alien—machine or not—that had hijacked his precious
skin.
With a great
effort of will he brought his emotions under control, reminding
himself he’d just withstood two weeks of sensory deprivation
without
losing his mind. Soldiering was about more than going into combat.
Your demeanor mattered. Your fortitude. Your capacity to look a
hopeless situation in the eye and say, Fuck you, I refuse to
accept this on your terms.
The light by his
eyes wasn’t winking. It was as if Cat, still tuned into his
familiar
mental processes, were giving him time to think. So he thought,
coolly, clearly. He asked himself what, besides a retrieval code,
would bring friendlies to his position? Again his brain chewed on the
problem.
He asked, WHO ATTACKED THE CARRIER? Cat had
been automatically linked to the troop
transport’s system. Hopefully it had analyzed the assault
before the
ship blew.
CUSPAULDIANS.
They were a nasty bunch.
THIS AI ISN’T
CUSPAULDIAN? Jankovic asked.
DEFINITELY NOT.
The glimmer of an
idea came into his head. Even as a basic concept it was terrifying.
Before he thought further on it, he said, WHAT
IS AI’S PLAN?
He meant
its long-term goal, and trusted that Cat would understand his
connotation.
UNKNOWN. CAN'T BE GOOD.
No. No, it
couldn’t. An uncatalogued alien machine intelligence had
taken over
his skin. It was so unfamiliar with his species it didn’t
even
recognize him as the operator. He was just some dumb organic system
that hadn’t responded to its language. What would it do with
this
combat skin? It was an immensely powerful tool in the right hands.
This AI would know its rebuilt systems intimately.
Though still
locked out, he examined activity among the higher systems to see if
he could figure out what it might be up to. Suddenly the hot weaponry
went live, and a particle stream laced out among the starscape, then
winked out.
Shit!
he
thought. The meaning of this seemed clear: the invader was testing
out the toys it had discovered. What would be next? But he
experienced a clairvoyant twinkling even as he asked the question. An
instant later, as he watched helplessly, the long-range
communications sent out a focused retrieval code, just as
he’d
feared. The launch base would send a rescue.
But they wouldn’t
be rescuing him. They would be taking in a hostile alien
intelligence, armed to the teeth with state-of-the-art human military
tech. He would be impotent inside, unable to give any warning, just
as useless a blob of protoplasm as this AI evidently thought he was.
There wasn’t any way to make a visual ID of him while he wore
a skin.
Once aboard the
retrieval ship the AI could open fire on the unsuspecting crew,
doubtlessly killing everyone. Or, worse, it could carry on the
masquerade and be transported back to base. There it could wreak a
greater havoc. Mass casualties, maybe cripple the site.
Jankovic would
only be able to watch it happen.
That made up his
mind. His terrifying idea was the way to go—the only way.
The AI had fired
the particle weapon. That helped. It would be a flare out here in the
bad black, where numerous enemy ships traveled. He considered the
Cuspauldians. They were a thorough species. The fact that they
didn’t
seem to know when a fight was finished was a weakness the human high
command was exploiting.
Cuspauldians had
destroyed the troop carrier. They might still be in the area, even
after two weeks. They might have seen the particle beam. But Jankovic
intended to hedge those “mights.” Military
intelligence had
discovered that the Cuspauldians had a rudimentary visual
communications tradition similar to Morse code.
Cat had control
of the combat skin’s exterior lights. It was a lower system.
He said
to her, CAN YOU BLINK A MESSAGE IN CUSPAULDIAN CODE WITH
OUTSIDE LIGHTS?
He wasn’t sure he remembered the actual code himself,
but she
would know it.
WHAT MESSAGE? He
could almost hear the skeptical tone she would be using if she could
speak to him.
He grinned. say:
FIGHT ME.
The combat skin
was equipped with penetrating exterior lights for ground actions.
They flashed now in the skittering cadence of Cuspauldian code. Cat
was already repeating the message.
The AI invader
might not even be aware of the light show. Or else Cat might be
disguising it as a routine operation. How did she feel, he
wondered, having her systems taken over by an outside force? In their
two years together she had adapted to him, but she had also gained in
personality, taking on characteristics which were more and more
human. He had a sneaking suspicion this hijacking pissed her off as
badly as it did him.
The black flashed
blindingly with the skin’s lights. He would be a beacon out
here
drifting. An irresistible target. Hopefully.
“½
¿ Ë.”
The interface
again, the sounds as alien and incomprehensible as before. Only now,
there seemed a new urgency to them, as if the invader were angrily
searching for the cause of the flashing lights. Cat must be
frantically rerouting the command to keep the message going.
“
½
¿ Ë!” Yes, definitely
a tone of outrage now, recognizable even in an alien machine. The
grin tightened on Jankovic’s face. If the invader decided the
“mindless biological component” inside the skin was
troublesome, it could kill him in a number of ways. The quickest
would be to simply vent the battle suit.
Come on,
Cuspauldians! he thought. Show me you can’t walk
away from a
fight!
The F-I-G-H-T M-E
message continued to flash for several more seconds, then went dark.
He started to blink a question for Cat. But before he could get a
letter or two into it, the skin’s sensories went wild. He
looked out,
saw the craft looming in the starry black. It wasn’t the
human
retrieval vessel. That would take longer to get out here. These were
the Cuspauldians.
The skin’s
particle beam lanced outward. The suit twisted and turned for better
combat position, and he was tossed about carelessly inside it. It was
as helpless a feeling as he ever hoped to experience in this or any
other life.
The Cuspauldian
ship retaliated. This was the terrifying part of the plan. If
Jankovic and Cat couldn’t retake control of the combat skin,
then
this enemy vessel would have to destroy it before human retrieval
could be effected. The sacrifice was necessary.
Jankovic just
hoped he could come through it alive somehow. Goddamnit, he wanted to
live!
Cuspauldian
plasma sizzled toward him through the bad black.
He had waited
anxiously at aid stations and aboard hospital ships for news of a
comrade’s condition after a battle. Some pulled through, some
died.
But this was different. He was waiting to find out if Cattywampus was
going to live.
It was already a
miracle that he was still alive. The alien AI controlling the skin
and the Cuspauldian war boat had gone toe to toe out there, tearing
it up with their weaponry. The black had flashed with deadly energy.
A single combat skin was a difficult target for a vessel. The
particle beam had cut the Cuspauldians’ hull, but they had
delivered
catastrophic damage of their own.
As the plasma
burst had torn into the skin, rendering it combat useless, Jankovic
had hit himself with his hibernation dose. He’d been all out
of
options. They told him, later, that it had saved him. The retrievers
had found his hibernating core intact, still enough meat on his bones
to regrow all the damaged bits. After two months he had climbed out
of the rejuvenation vat, good as new. With doctors for company and
even vids to watch, it was a far more pleasant sojourn than his two
weeks of drift.
It wasn’t so easy
for Cat. Not that goading an enemy ship into battle and then taking
his lumps for it had been easy. But Cat had to be
extricated
layer by layer from the invader AI.
Jankovic’s skin
was a total loss, but he didn’t care. He could stink up a new
combat
suit easily enough. But he wanted Cat back. He’d had two
years with
her. She had come through for him. She too deserved to survive.
Of course, the
brass wanted to know everything about the alien machine intelligence.
The remains were in full lockdown, and every day some new specialist
arrived to join the investigative team. Jankovic didn’t know
what
they were finding out. He didn’t even how the alien had
glommed onto
his skin in the first place, if it had a physical presence or if its
essence had been beamed into the skin from a remote location. He
didn’t know if it constituted a new enemy (a race of deadly
alien
machines?; that was just what humankind needed) or if the one he had
encountered was an outlier, something that had evolved on its own.
All he wanted to
know was if he could have Cat back.
So he hung around
the base, still part of the investigation, though the experts had
fewer and fewer questions for him. He waited.
Then one day a
harried-looking technician called him into a room. He entered.
“Holy shit,
how can you still be alive, Jank?”
He jerked to a
halt in the middle of the room. It was her. Her voice, her sarcasm.
Her. There was a simple module on a table
before him, with an
audio hookup. He said to it, “I had to stay alive to give
them
something to retrieve. They wouldn’t have just rescued you,
you
know.” He felt a happiness that once again threatened to
provoke
tears.
They could
install her in his new combat skin, whenever it was issued to him.
The technician was explaining as much, but Jankovic could hardly
hear. There was too much laughter in the room all of a sudden, both
his and Cat’s.
|
Johann
and his partner Axel, agents in the anti-terrorist agency
Ansvar,
have been rooting out deeply concealed spies in Nyscandia for a
decade.
But a long-planned open war breaks out when the Catholic States
Alliance
invades Nyscandia, and they find themselves in a desperate race to
find
the terrorists before they sabotage vital production facilities.
If
Nyscandia falls, theocracy rules the world.
Battle suits were advanced technology and fantastically powerful. They needed to be, considering the foes humans faced. Dvluvians, Milpoids, Faarazkii, and half a dozen other spaceflight-capable species.
|