CHAPTER THREE
Beyond an ancient stone building came the sound of crashing storm waves, visible when lightning flashed. Win grabbed his head and screamed.
The old man, Zhelnikov, stood next to him and smiled while sucking at the end of a cigar. He blew smoke into the darkness and Zhelnikov’s cloak flapped in the gale, its draped material shining under lightning at the same time its hood obscured the man’s face. Sheets of rain pelted them both. Win stopped screaming and the old man straightened, stretching his back and pulling the hood off so water soaked his white hair. It ran into crevices crossing his face—a mixture of wrinkles and scar tissue.
He waved a holo-readout to life and watched the data scroll. “This is the beginning; your brain is already changing.”
“I’m long past that,” said Win.
Zhelnikov drew on his cigar again and exhaled. “Nonsense. I wish you could see what’s in store for you. Your father, Maung, would be proud. There was a warrior.”
Win opened his eyes. Rain threatened to blind him but he ignored it, blinking as if he wasn’t there while the storm shouted meaningless threats in lightning and thunder. A thirty-foot wave crested on the beach below then boomed against a cliff, the ground under them vibrating when Win turned to look at the old man.
“My father means nothing. Meant nothing, even when alive. And I can see much, even now, while my biochemistry shifts so I can feel it, Zhelnikov. The headaches are a sign that brain-structure changes are taking hold and pressing against my skull. It has opened my eyes and once the changes progress past a certain point I will see everything. You have no idea what you’ve created.”
“That . . . that’s impossible,” Zhelnikov stammered. “We’ve just started the treatments. Significant structural changes will take weeks, maybe months.”
“You’re scanning the data; see for yourself. The path is open to me now and I see the things you’ve done; your past is a roadmap unfolded.”
Win’s mind raced. Without warning, he drifted into a waking dream where Zhelnikov’s plans took shape like a web, upon which he traced with a finger to expose lines of plots and schemes. Some he thought ingenious. Others ended in nothingness, stillborn elements drawn by an organism with no ability to see the future: a man. A sick man, with a mind sharpened and specialized for killing on a strategic level, so that part of Win admired Zhelnikov’s skill and realized that among normal humans, he was a separate thing—a super genius in the death trade. At the center of his web lay their enemy.
The Sommen, Win thought. That way was still blocked, which meant that Zhelnikov was right that this was the beginning, and Win sensed it would take time for new neurons to arrange themselves in the proper pattern—one that would allow him to see them. Upon the web, the Sommen and their warships resembled one of the black thunderclouds now shooting lightning toward the sea. They were an opaque mass without form or definition. He peered for what felt like hours while diffuse clouds shifted into different shapes, all of which were meaningless and without sharp lines. Then the picture changed. Win glimpsed through the haze for a second and saw the concentrating faces of Sommen; they pointed at something: a seaport far to the east. The picture faded almost as soon as it had formed but before it disappeared, Win felt a pulsation of rage and urgency from the Sommen. They wanted him to act.
“I am decaying,” Win said. “My mental abilities multiply and my muscles erode.”
Zhelnikov nodded. “It’s part of the treatment. A side effect that we knew would be a problem but there was no way around it; the Sommen formula and manuals are very clear on this, and we think muscular deterioration is even worse for their priests. We will have to put you in a full combat suit, with a neural-linked servo harness so you can walk.”
“You will turn me into a freak. A mechanical thing, which our troops will fear and hate. Mostly flesh suspended in a robotic frame to move in fits and starts across your battlefields. You enjoy the thought; I can see it. You’re afraid of what I’m becoming and making me a mechanical curiosity gives you hope—that you’ll regain control.”
“Are you reading my mind?” Zhelnikov asked.
Win glanced at the old man again. He picked up small muscle twitches, heard the change in Zhelnikov’s breathing patterns, and watched the shifts in diameter of his pupils. Together it formed a pattern.
“No. I’m not a mind reader. Not yet. We must attack any remaining Chinese before it’s too late. The Sommen are on the verge of coming back to Earth early if we do not.”
“The Chinese left Earth years ago,” Zhelnikov said. “What remains of their population and nation . . . it’s a complete wasteland.”
Win looked into the rain again. He put his arm across the old man’s shoulder and together they hobbled toward a tiny oak door at the base of the closest stone wall.
“There are pockets of survivors that your systems couldn’t detect. Flesh and metal hybrids. The Sommen see this, and are ready to strike.”
“You communicate with the Sommen?”
The door slammed shut to muffle the sound of waves and thunder behind five inches of solid oak. Servos slid locks into place. Win felt safer in the structure, and he could almost feel the age of the molecules from which it had been constructed, their atomic bonds so old that almost all vibration had ceased, the lack of energy palpable and comforting. It made him feel a part of history. Hover lights flicked on overhead, following them as they shuffled, and humming as superconducting magnets followed along a tracking strip set into ceiling beams.
“Not the way you’re thinking. They sent me a message. They can see me, but I can’t see them.”
“You’re barely a man, Win. We can’t possibly send you into combat now; you’re not ready. First we have to fit you into a servo harness and construct a custom frame. And we have to operate. To relieve the pressure inside your skull.”
“A ceramic expansion shell.”
Zhelnikov nodded. “It’s the only way. We can make more room and grow jack-skin over it so that it looks real. Normal.”
“Normal.” Win shook his head. “A bald man with an elongated jack-skinned head, suspended inside a modified combat suit and robotic harness with cables connected to my brain. Who will follow that freakish creature, Zhelnikov?”
“We will make them follow.”
Win thought while stumbling forward, finding himself outside the medical station. Through thick glass he saw his empty bed. Surgical bots surrounded it, their long spidery arms waving in response to electrical stimuli that he felt against his skin even at this distance. Large vials of standard masker—a code name for the drug responsible for changing him—hung from a metal frame, the pale green fluid reminding him of drying grass, half dead.
“You must start now. Continue the standard masker doses and make me the servo harness and frame. Condition the troops however you can. I will take five minutes now to draw up the plans and will send them to you when finished.”
“Five minutes?” Zhelnikov asked.
“You doubt me?”
The old man blew smoke against a stone wall, filling the corridor with an acrid smell. “I’ll take a look at the plans when you finish, and then I will decide if this is worth doing. Where will we first land?”
“The Sommen pointed toward Hong Kong. We will slaughter what remains so there are no Chinese left. You are an accomplished killer, Zhelnikov. This should be second nature to you.”
Zhelnikov closed his eyes. “Prepare yourself. I had anticipated the need for a servo harness and the armorer will need to perform a fitting. Altering your skull will be . . . painful, Win. We can’t use sedatives for fear they will interact with the standard masker.”
“Do it.”
The glass door rumbled open. Win shuffled toward his bed and rolled into it, then waited while the surgical bots arranged themselves and Zhelnikov’s footsteps faded. He winced at the touch of cold metal. A bot cradled him off the bed, rotating him to face downward through a gap in the mattress to give Win a clear view of the floor. Sandstone tiles, hundreds of years old, formed a pattern that reminded him of the desert and his eyes lost focus, their vision fixed on nothing when a picture took shape of the old man. I cannot control this; it is like having one foot in this world, one stuck in a place of shadow.
Win watched as Zhelnikov moved through the corridor. The man arrived at a steel door, where he waved his hand at a sensor to send the slab upward into the ceiling, revealing a labyrinth of tight passageways beyond. Zhelnikov passed one security door after another, weaving his way through an arched stone tunnel where in places he had to duck when the ceiling got low, until he arrived at a spot where the corridor widened into a large room. A small army of bots sprang to life. After scanning the old man, their mechanical arms removed his rain poncho and then the rest of his clothes; two of them began spraying him in a fine mist, forcing him to close his eyes while it coated his face. Zhelnikov then slipped into paper coveralls. He squeezed into a plastic suit, which the bots zipped to encase the man from head to toe in clear plastic, a hose dangling off his side.
Zhelnikov moved into an airlock, where another mist sprayed from jets that sprang from the walls and he held his arms up, rotating in place so that his suit coated evenly. When it was done, the other airlock door opened. Zhelnikov connected his hose to a jack that hung from the ceiling, his source of air travelling with him along a track while its guide wheels clicked.
Something filled the vast open area around Zhelnikov. At first Win couldn’t make it out, but then hundreds of hover lights snapped on and lit a football-field-sized cavern, each square meter of it taken by hospital beds. Win studied their occupants: children. Not children, he corrected himself, barely men, young warriors that hadn’t reached twenty years of age. Each had a cable socket at the top of his bald head, into which had been jacked a thick black cord, and Win watched as they squirmed in agony. Zhelnikov touched one on the shoulder. The young man moaned and wouldn’t stop, only going quiet after a medbot scooted in and injected him with clear liquid.
Troops, thought Win. A special army, not the ones normally trained by Fleet. He recalled Zhelnikov’s schemes, trying to fit the vision within the man’s web of plans. I am not whole, he thought. My vision has blind spots and gaps, traps within which I can destroy myself if not careful; this place is not in the schemes.
Win’s vision blanked; he winced when a surgical bot injected him with something, making him go stiff, and the whine of a microsaw erupted from nearby, filling his thoughts with the promise of pain. Even knowing what was about to happen, it didn’t prepare him for the burning agony when a laser cut into his scalp, followed by the sensation of metal grinding through skull.
The last thing he had heard from Zhelnikov echoed, trailing Win into unconsciousness: “Slaughter and dispose of all subjects operating under ninety-five percent combat efficiency. I need them perfect.”
Win felt water on his forehead and a blast of cold air, compelling his eyes to blink open; it took a moment to see Zhelnikov, who hunched over his bed and began a laser scan of Win’s retinas.
“The operation went well. So far the bone is fusing with the ceramic carapace and the artificial lining is in place.”
“Won’t I have to be careful?”
“About what?” Zhelnikov asked.
“The empty space. There’s nothing to support my brain matter toward the back of my skull unless it grows enough to fill the void.”
Zhelnikov straightened and Win saw on his face a mixed look of pride and arrogance. “It’s packed with a gelatin my staff developed. There is no empty space. As your brain tissue pushes out and expands, there’s a tiny hole where the gel will escape, pressed out by your gray matter. You should see yourself. You look like those ancient Egyptian pharaohs—the ones with elongated heads. We are out of jack-skin but more is on the way and I can do that procedure on the way to Hong Kong. Enough skin is on hand for your spinal-insertion operation, to install the head servo and actuator rod. Are you ready for another procedure?”
Win tried to sit up. He lost balance and almost slipped from the bed but two bots sped in to keep him from falling. Win reached up to feel his new skull and traced it, an oblong protrusion that made his head jut backward at least twelve inches. No matter how hard he struggled, the weight was too great for his wasting muscles and he gave up trying to lift his head, panting from the effort.
“Your brain growth is proceeding as rapidly as your muscle deterioration,” said Zhelnikov. “Both faster than predicted. We’ll have to equip you with an artificial heart because it won’t be long; your smooth muscles are on the verge of failing. The mechanical, servo-driven actuator rod will hopefully take care of all your necessary head movements.”
“I’m not human anymore.”
“Win. You are something greater.”
Win tried to see again, concentrating and closing his eyes to read Zhelnikov the way he had when they’d been outside during the storm, but this time nothing came. When he opened his eyes the old man was cutting the end off another cigar.
“Those visions of yours. You are going to be a priest,” he said, “similar to the Sommen in many ways.”
Win nodded. “I know.”
“The Sommen gave us vast amounts of data on their ways of combat; it’s a religion to them, Win. Their priests are the strategists. One priest per invasion. Always. They keep this priest in a bunker in the rear, as far from the action as possible so that it remains safe while the warriors exterminate. Then the priest surveys what’s left, and orders the murder of the last remaining enemy. Total eradication.”
Even without the visions, Win sensed that Zhelnikov held something back. “The purpose of religion is to worship a higher being or group of beings. How can their religion be just about combat?”
“It isn’t. It’s about a search. The Sommen believe there is a higher being who watches over the universe, and they have a prophecy—that their warriors will see God only after meeting a race they can’t conquer. So they attack, they invade, and they haven’t lost a war yet. Not one.”
“With such a record, it’s no wonder they continue with a singular strategy.”
Zhelnikov chuckled. “That’s not what’s interesting. What’s interesting is the irony: They want to lose.”
Win listened to the medical bots hiss, their servos whining as they made minor movements to adjust monitors or wipe the sticky droplets off the back of his head. He tried to recall the early lessons Zhelnikov had given: The Sommen had conquered every planetary system they invaded, waiting for the proper time to expand further. The just-conquered system became home. Construction of cities and factories went into overdrive, the Sommen-subjugated alien races forming work crews and engineers while warriors garrisoned and prepared themselves for what came next: reproduction. Half the Sommen force would enter their nests, hibernating and multiplying like insects, forming the basis of a new invading force.
Earth had been off their path. The Sommen never would have come close to Earth but for a signal, their invasion coming just after Allied forces tested a prototype interstellar communications system decades ago . . .
“Why were they afraid of Fleet’s communications experiment—at the beginning of it all?” he asked.
“It’s complicated. They are afraid of a certain type of communications, anything that involves taking advantage of the multiple universes that surround us. I proved this technique with the first communicator and then perfected it using an alternate universe to send quantum particles at faster than light speed to distant spots in our space time.”
“A wormhole,” Win said.
“Kind of. An atom-sized doorway into a universe that’s not ours. For a brief period of time I had access to the Sommen religious texts; they warn of something dark that can sense when these doorways are opened so upon detecting our test transmissions, the Sommen attacked us—partly because of their faith, but also to keep us from attracting attention. The attention of what they never explained. And their texts said nothing.”
“Do you believe all the texts they left us?”
Zhelnikov nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t get to read the religious texts, which cover what we’re doing to you. Sommen technical manuals only partially reference it; they describe the transformation of a candidate and what is to be done at certain stages. When your brain reaches an advanced state, you will be able to access visions at will, and, maybe, the ability to communicate over interstellar distances; it’s the only way that the Sommen could possibly coordinate their military operations. And, you will be given a new drug. Translated, I think it’s called Numbers from Clouds, but the team that isolated the active ingredients calls it the serum. It’s plant derived.”
“How did you get one of their plants?”
“The Sommen left them behind at their ground stations. We found one in Charleston where your father first defeated a Sommen warrior so long ago. Our teams cloned them and are growing a small crop in an ammonia atmosphere.”
Win closed his eyes when the bots grabbed hold of him again, flipping him to face the floor. His father. He dug into memories and his expanded brain mass picked them out, one by one, all the way to the day he was born. Win settled on an old image, when he’d lived in a tiny hut in Charleston’s spaceport ghetto: the last time he’d seen his father, who had cried when he left.
“My father was a fool.”
Zhelnikov said something but Win ignored him, instead getting ready for the pain. The bots lased his back. Win smelled burning flesh as they cut through the thin layer of skin over his spine and he was glad for the paralytic because the sound of a high-speed microdrill filled the room and made him want to run. The drill bit into each disc. One by one the bots bored hundreds of tiny holes, and then fished thin platinum wires through, bonding them with artificial nerve endings to the main portion of his spinal cord. They felt like tiny spears, each one adding a new layer of agony. With the pain came a sliver of his vision and he floated above everything, near the ceiling, where he looked down and saw a forest of metal porcupine quills that protruded from his back.
The bots then joined the wires to a narrow, plastic slab, one side consisting of jack-skin. They coated the underside of with bioadhesive to make it look shiny and salmon colored, pressing the assembly against his back so it encased the wires and his spine under a strip of black polymer and metal, to which they affixed a telescoping rod and universal joint. A bot grabbed hold of the rod with thin pincers. It extended it just enough to reach the base of Win’s new ceramic skull where it squirted a droplet of adhesive, then held the rod against the ceramic and lit the area with ultraviolet light. When they finished, Win saw that a monopod—a black arm with servos that whined when he turned—now propped up his head.
“That was fast,” said Zhelnikov.
Win couldn’t respond. His back felt as though someone had taken a red-hot piece of metal and rested it along the center of his spine, invoking a level of pain that forced his breaths to come in ragged gasps.
“The pain.”
“Yes, I know; it must be excruciating to undergo these procedures without the aid of anesthesia.”
“No. The pain. For now it’s what makes me able to see things. Causes a change in brainwave patterns and conduction to create a favorable set of circumstances for having visions. Does the serum cause pain?”
Win couldn’t see Zhelnikov; paralytic drugs took effect, immobilizing him so he remained facing downward; he heard the man’s neck pop when he nodded.
“Yes. Incredible pain. They have a ritual to go with it but we aren’t there yet, Win. You will become addicted to suffering but first there’s a long road of learning. I’m sorry, son; if there was any other way to prepare for the Sommen, I’d take it, but we now have less than eighty years. When they return, it will be a war we’ve never seen.”
“Stop,” Win whispered. “I understand the logic. I don’t require your apologies or sympathy.”
“None of us really understand, Win. Not even you. Not yet. Do you know what the Sommen concentrated on during all those years they occupied Earth? Before they left and gave us a hundred years to prepare for war?”
Win tried to shake his head, soon realizing the attempt was futile. “No.”
“The Catholic Church. Its history, its artifacts, everything. They took over the Vatican and razed Jerusalem entirely, scraping everything down to the dirt and rock from about A.D. 30.”
“Why not Judaism or Islam, or any of the others? What’s so special about Catholicism?”
Zhelnikov lit his cigar. The smell comforted Win, who had now spent so much time with the man that breathing smoke had become second nature, something that invoked a Pavlovian response equating the smell of burning tobacco with a sensation of security. He had never known his father. All Win had known was Zhelnikov.
“We don’t know. They reviewed all of them, for sure, but their main examination revolved around the Catholic faith and some think it’s because the Church’s teachings and prophecies match the Sommen’s. Those bastards actually think we are the race to defeat them. In a way, I guess you could say the Sommen love the human race, a love affair that started when some random Ukrainian slave refused to become a Sommen merchant twenty-something years ago, and which their review of our religions only strengthened.”
“For our sake,” said Win, “I hope they’re correct.”
Zhelnikov stood, and the leather of his calf-high boots creaked. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we begin construction of your servo harness and frame, and you need to send me your plan for Hong Kong. If what you said is true then we need to move fast against the remaining Chinese.”
Win recalled his visions and remembered the level of destruction that was about to come; there would be so much killing, he thought. Killing and murder will become my new religion. I will be known as the butcher of children and all men will fear me, their terror forcing them to follow me into darkness and death.