The Lazarus War: Artefact Read Online Free PDF

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    I had been operating a flesh-and-blood simulation of myself, manufactured from my body tissue. These were called simulants: simulated copies, genetically engineered to be stronger, bigger, faster. Based on the human genome, but accelerated and modified, the sims were the ultimate weapon – more human than human in every sense. Vat-grown, designed for purpose. Now, my simulant was dead. It had died on the New Haven . I was alive, safe aboard the Liberty Point .
    I was a soldier in the Alliance military – more specifically in the Simulant Operations Programme. Technically, the Programme was a special operation conducted by the Army. In truth, this was warfare on such a different level to anything that had come before, that the Programme was something separate from the other branches of the Alliance military.
    I settled on the floor of the tank, unjacking myself from the control cables. The neural-link had been severed when my simulant was killed by the Krell onslaught, but pulling the jack from the back of my neck still sent a brief stab of pain through me. My arms and legs felt baby-weak, ineffectual. Hard to believe that I was going to have to adjust to this all over again. I didn’t like this body much: the sim had been a much better fit.
    Once the fluid had drained, the tank door slid open. I wrenched the respirator mask from my face and tossed it aside, slowly stepping out. I shook fluid from my limbs, shivering. A medic wrapped a heat-preserving aluminium blanket around me. Another reached for the biometric dog-tags from around my neck, scanning them.
    “Successful extraction, Captain,” he said. “Well done.”
    My arms and legs ached dully. There were three red abrasions across my chest – stigmatic wounds caused by the Krell assault. Inflamed welts and whip-like abrasions also marked my limbs, reminding me of the punishment my sim had suffered. I probed my chest with numb fingers – almost expecting to find stinger-spines stuck there. My ears still rang with the shrieks of the dying Krell.
    All that had happened was a reality.
    Just not a reality for me, at least not physically.
    I was in the Simulant Operations Centre of the Liberty Point . As far as the eye could see, the chamber was crammed with identical bays – each housing a squad of troopers, operating simulants on missions out in the Quarantine Zone.
    Around me, my squad were similarly mounted in simulator-tanks. Each trooper was undergoing the same disconnection protocol.
    “Nice work, people,” I managed. I spoke with the slur of a day-long drunk; like my body wasn’t my own.
    I took in my crew. They looked like paler imitations of their simulants, or maybe the simulants looked like improved versions of the squad. They were athletic-bodied but with determined, disciplined physiques rather than the over-muscled stature of bodybuilders.
    They were all dedicated, honed troopers – mentally and physically. But we were not regular soldiers. There were important differences between a sim operator and a hardcopy soldier. Each of us was pocked with data-ports, around the base of the spine, the neck, the forearms, the thighs. Those allowed connection between the simulator and our physical bodies.
    “Let’s get this wrapped up,” Jenkins hollered to the rest of the team. “Out of the tanks, disconnected. Double-time it.”
    Although she tried hard not to show it, she looked good. She had a small, trim body; dark hair bobbed for ease inside the simulators. At thirty-odd standard years, Jenkins was a ten-year Army vet and gave no hint of embarrassment at standing naked among a group of male soldiers. They barely registered her appearance.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Kaminski parroted.
    “Fuck off, ’Ski. I’m a volunteer just like the rest of you.” Jenkins shook her hair dry. “Save that ‘ma’am’ shit until I get the promotion.”
    “Yeah, Kaminski,” Blake said. “How many years are you going to do as a PFC?”
    “I’m not