The Lazarus War: Artefact Read Online Free PDF Page B

listening,” Kaminski said.
    He stumbled out of his tank. He ran a hand over his buzz-cut hair – he was only thirty-two standard years, but he wore it short because he was receding. He’d spent most of his military career as a private: had been busted back to the rank so many times I’d lost count.
    Kaminski’s torso was covered in tattoos, from a stylised phoenix to a leering Grim Reaper. Resurrection imagery: death and rebirth, something that only sim operators got to experience. Across his shoulder blades, the newest addition to this flesh tapestry read FISH FOOD in cursive text. He had acquired that particular marking after a night of hard drinking and a dare from Jenkins, which Kaminski had evidently lost. He grinned inanely, pointing out a phantom injury on his head.
    “Hey Jenkins,” he said, “would it kill you to set the charges faster next time? Could’ve saved me a whole lot of pain from the fish heads.”
    “Whatever, ’Ski,” Jenkins said. “At least they went for your head. There’s not much in there you’d miss.”
    Martinez laughed. “Corporal’s got your number.”
    The sixth member of my team hadn’t taken it so well. Olsen was particularly shaken by the ordeal. The physical and mental disconnection between the simulant and operator wasn’t a pleasant experience, and he hadn’t been trained for it. That was why they only sent sim operators into the field: not everyone could do this. Olsen’s attachment to our squad had been an expensive experiment. The data-ports on his spine and forearms had only just taken; the flesh around them an angry red, out of place against his flabby white skin.
    “You’ll find walking difficult at first,” a medic explained to Olsen. “The simulant that you have just been operating was considerably larger than you. The difference in eye-level might be disorienting. Try to breathe slowly and deeply. Focus on this light …”
    Lieutenant Dyker appeared, consulting a data-slate. He was dressed in khaki fatigues, sleeves rolled up. Dyker was our handler; responsible for directing the op from the Point , feeding me intel.
    “Welcome back to Alliance space, Captain Harris,” he said, looking up at me with a worn-out smile. Dyker never looked rested: his face was caught in a perpetual tired crumple. “Barring the sixteen million credits of military hardware that was destroyed in that explosion, I’d say that was a successful op.”
    Dyker was referring to the loss of the simulants and the Wildcat APS. The rules of engagement were fluid, and the sims were expendable. That made them unique in modern military terms, because sims could undertake missions that would be suicide to regular troopers. Even so, our orders were to preserve the simulants if possible – every sim had a significant credit value attached to it.
    “What can I say?” I asked, rhetorically. I had time for Dyker; he gave me latitude to do what I needed to in the field. “The ship was brimming with Krell. They didn’t leave us with much of a choice.”
    Dyker shrugged. “No matter.” He threw a thumb in Olsen’s direction. “I don’t think that he will be trying that again.”
    “Best leave it to the professionals.”
    Dyker nodded. There was something sad in his expression. “I’ll report that back to Command. The op otherwise went well. The ship has been neutralised, all human cargo taken care of. We have the black box data.” He looked down at his slate. “That makes two hundred and eighteen trips out for you. You really are a stone-cold killer. Do you know what they are calling you down in the District?”
    “No idea,” I said, concentrating on towelling myself dry. It was a lie – of course I knew. I might not like it, but I’d heard plenty of operators call me by the name.
    “They’re calling you Lazarus,” Dyker said. “Because you always come back. Whatever happens, you always come back.” He sighed. An absent rub of the back of his neck. “Report to the medical