The Kepler Rescue Page 8

  “No, I really don’t, Doctor. What am I looking at exactly?” The warden was not a happy man when he first woke up, clearly.

  “That is a radiological map of one of the gene structures, you can see the RNA and DNA strands here in red and orange…”

  The warden made an interested, but exasperated, noise.

  “RNA can be thought of as read-only memory. Like a data-stick. You plug it in and use it, and when it’s done what it is supposed to do, you don’t need it anymore, right?” the doctor said. “Whereas DNA is the unchanging, permanent codes that actually dictate how the body can function. Meta-commands, if you will. The problem with most mammals is that there is no efficient way to dispose of RNA. You end up clogging the gene structure with what they call ‘junk’ DNA strands—mostly RNA—and it’s this, uh, genetic static that leads to minute failures of communication, which leads to eventual gene atrophy and misalignment.”

  “We’re not running a hospital here, Doctor. I didn’t hire you to find a cure for cancer.” The warden sighed.

  “Understood, Warden,” Palinov said tightly. “But it is pertinent. Junk RNA leads to such things as cancer, growth defects, diseases, and what have you. It’s the reason why we eventually age and die, as the DNA can no longer transmit its meta-commands out to the rest of the system.”

  “Like I said before, Doctor…” the warden warned.

  “But here, you can see the complex-strand variant 21, colored in green…” Palinov said quickly. “It was designed as a complementary string of genes, see? Ones that attached onto the double-helix. And here, you can see something very interesting: it is replacing the RNA with its own super-structure!”

  The warden grunted in confusion.

  “It’s… It’s…” Palinov was apparently at a loss for words. “What I am saying is that this is incredible. It’s also spreading at a much faster rate than otherwise thought possible. It means that we’ve essentially found a way to create a new breed of human. One that unlocks specific parts of the DNA structure—that we can target!” she said proudly.

  That seemed to get the warden’s attention, at least.

  “So, are you telling me that if I wanted a unit of infantrymen who are strong, tough, resilient, we could program it?” the warden asked.

  “We can tailor it, Warden!” Palinov said excitedly. “We can perform the work of twenty or even fifty thousand years of evolution overnight. Imagine this: Mars is roughly point-eight of Earth’s gravity. The moon is roughly point-four. Both are close enough so that humans can function, and our tactical suits mean that we can adjust for weight and mass, etcetera. But it still takes intensive training to get used to local gravity. That is why the colonists generally are better adapted to their environment. Their bodies have started to lose bone density with every generation, making them more adapted to moving around out there.”

  “Get to the point, Palinov,” the warden demanded, clearly losing patience again.

  “Well, in a few months, we would be able to create a special team of Outcasts perfectly suited to point-eight or point-four gravity, by tailoring their DNA. They would be able to perform better than any Marine ever has, with a fraction of the training!” Palinov stated.

  “That is…interesting.” Coates finally sounded impressed. “It would give us an upper hand against the separatists, at least.”

  “And of course, it will help against…” Palinov’s voice was a low murmur. She seemed hesitant to say just what the serum would be most useful for, and Solomon racked his brain to try and work out who she could mean. The space mercenaries who attacked freighters? Criminal gangs on earth?

  “Perhaps. We don’t know enough about that yet.”

  “Then take a look at this,” Palinov said, and there were more sounds of a keys being hit. “These are the physical performance results of all of the Outcasts who have survived the treatment.”

  A shuffle of feet, and a low whistle. “That is one hell of a performance spike, Doctor.”

  “Precisely. Their recovery rates are going through the roof. They need less time to rest. Their reaction times are getting quicker.”

  “What’s that one there? That spike?” The warden’s voice grew frighteningly close to Solomon as he must have leaned over to take a better look at the screen.

  “That, Warden, is Adjunct-Marine Cready,” Palinov said lightly, and Solomon could well understand her hesitation, as suddenly there was the scraping sound of a chair being pushed to one side, angrily.

  “Him! I don’t know what you and the colonels see in him!” Coates burst out irritably. “He’s a murderer. He’s arrogant. He doesn’t understand loyalty, or honor. And he has an attitude a lightyear wide!”

  Well, at least I made an impression, Solomon had to consider.

  “These results are what we see in him, Warden.” Palinov sounded…defensive, almost.

  “If he’s turning into such an amazing solider, then why aren’t his training exercises showing the same uptick in performance then, huh?” the warden stated angrily.

  “Well, most of these results are from his recovery rates and reaction times. But with Cready, there is something a lot more interesting going on. These results are his neurological response-times, the effectiveness that his neurons and dendrites in his brain transmit information.”

  “He’s becoming smarter, is that what you’re trying to tell me? That is all I need!” the warden stated, apparently miserably.

  Am I? Solomon thought, He didn’t feel smarter than he had ever been before—especially since all of his brainpower had led him to be currently wedged in a corner, trying not to make a sound at all.

  “Intelligence is always hard to measure. There’s so many kinds—working intelligence, data-retrieval, memory-storage, image-processing, emotional intelligence,” Palinov said in a tone that was the equivalent of a shrug. “But it means that he can think quicker than anyone I’ve ever known. He’ll make an amazing strategist or unit commander one day.”

  “Pfagh!” the warden scoffed. “I doubt that very much!”

  “Warden, with respect, this is exactly the sort of result that the general wanted to know about. Why she sanctioned the Outcasts program in the first place,” Palinov said.

  “We all know why she authorized the Outcasts program, Doctor. And why I was tasked with administering it!” the warden said. It appeared that Palinov had hit something of a raw nerve.

  “The Message,” Palinov agreed.

  What message? Solomon thought.

  “Yes. And as much as I admire what you have done here, Palinov, I cannot ever imagine a future where I put my faith in that schlub of a man Cready to deal with it when we have to!” The warden was worked up now.

  “But, Warden, do we really have a choice?” Palinov asked.

  “Choice?” Coates apparently flipped, his voice rising further. “Nothing here is about choice, Doctor! You of all people should know that. You do not have a choice, you carry out orders!”

  “Hgnh!” There was a sharp intake of pain, and the sound of shuffling bodies.

  Had Coates slapped her? Solomon thought, his fear tripping over into indignation. He might not like Palinov overmuch, but at least she was in his corner. He felt his chest tighten and his muscles tense as he tried to control his anger and stop himself from jumping up and smacking the Warden then and there.

  But no, the Warden hadn’t slapped Palinov.

  “Yes. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt the snap of the command chip, isn’t it, Doctor?” Coates said, as Palinov’s loud breathing started to ease.

  The warden must have shocked her. That meant that Doctor Palinov had one of the implanted chips just like all of the adjuncts, Solomon thought. Did that mean that everyone here in Ganymede—the Outcasts and the staffers—all could be shocked into submission at any time by the warden? Solomon started to reappraise the fate of all those around him a little.

  “I’m sorry for questioning you, Warden Coates.” Palinov sounded subdued, but
also sullen.

  “Apology accepted. Just no more mention of this to the general. Not until I say so, clear?” the warden stated.

  “Of course, sir.” Palinov’s voice was low and muted, followed by the sound of angered boots leaving the medical lounge.

  Solomon waited and held his breath. Should he make himself known? Now that he knew that she was under the thrall of the warden just as he was, he wondered if that meant she was more likely to become an ally. Would she tell him what his mutated genes meant? What would happen to him in the future? Or what this ‘Message’ was?

  “Prick,” he heard the Doctor mutter under her breath, clearly passing judgement on her superior officer, before there was the clatter of computer keys and the sound of things being moved around, tidied, and the hiss of the door as she exited the lounge.

  Solomon waited, counted to a hundred, and then a hundred again, before he was sure that she had in fact gone and wasn’t about to suddenly return. He let out a long sigh of relief and slowly unfolded his limbs, wondering if the fact that they hadn’t gone to sleep or gotten pins and needles was another sign of his apparently enhanced genetic structure.

  He cast a look at the terminals and the instrumentation. It was all dark now, and he considered for a moment staying around for a bit longer to try and ferret out more information. No. Don’t push your luck, his more criminal expertise told him.

  Maybe I am getting smarter, he thought as he sidled to the door to make his escape back into the Outcasts bunkrooms. Because now I’m even going to follow my own discerning advice.

  7

  Decisions

  The next day saw Jezebel Wen once again hitting the gymnasium at the crack of the day shift, running through her series of high-intensity exercises with a passion that she hadn’t exhibited before.

  Now I’m the angry one, she considered ruefully, as she dared any of the other combat specialists to spar with her. No one was eager to volunteer to be the first victim, it seemed, as Wen was radiating annoyance in her savage roundhouse kicks and fast jabs on the training mannequins.

  Unfortunately for the other adjunct-Marines, however, ‘choice’ was not a part of Ganymede vocabulary, and by the time the first two-hour shift had ended, at least three of the best fighters in their training circle were now walking with a limp or ringing ears from Wen’s furious blows.

  Get it together, Jezzie, the specialist thought as the green light flared over the door, signaling the end of their shift and the turnover for the next set of regular gymnasium Outcasts to arrive. It also meant that she and the other specialists would have an hour off to recuperate and wash, before everyone came together in an hour and a half’s time for the next set of study lessons.

  Jezebel knew why she was annoyed, of course, although she didn’t want to admit it to herself. The answer was unavoidable, however, as she saw that the next group of Outcast Marines—all there for standard gymnasium exercise—included her own Gold Squad Commander, Solomon Cready.

  The man that I’m supposed to kill.

  He arrived at the back of the group as usual, as Arlo Menier had already made it fairly clear that if any of the other Outcasts not in the Gold Squad were to make friends with his rival, there would be trouble. Not that everyone obeyed Arlo, but he was a big man in a very small world, and his word had enough weight to keep Solomon on his own most of the time.

  Solomon had lost that chip on his shoulder today, Wen saw. He looked almost reflective and thoughtful as he kept to himself and headed for the cross-trainer machines. She wondered if she should say something to him.

  But what exactly are you supposed to say to a man that you’re supposed to kill? This was the type of thought that she wasn’t used to having—not when she had been back on Earth, anyway. What was wrong with her? Was she growing a conscience? How messed up was she, that it took coming to a Confederate Marine bootcamp to grow one!?

  “Jezzie!” She was startled out of her twisted thoughts to see that it was none other than Solomon himself, having seen her by the lockers and hurrying over.

  Oh great. No, not now, Sol. She gritted her teeth and forced her face into a smile. Her previous meditative tranquility, the skill that she had exhibited so well last night, had apparently evaporated this morning. Don’t talk to me, Solomon. Don’t make me like you, for heaven’s sake!

  “Jezzie, I hoped I would see you in here. Look, it’s about the serum. The one I was telling you about.” Solomon looked almost excited, if a bit nervous, which just made Jezebel even angrier.

  “What is it? You mean that crazy conspiracy theory you have about us being secretly injected in the middle of the night?” Wen snapped. Maybe it would make this whole mission go easier if he remained an idiot, she considered.

  “It’s not a conspiracy theory!” Solomon didn’t even look hurt or taken aback by her vehemence. If anything, he looked excited. “Look, I’ve got proof. Well, I haven’t actually got any proof, but I know where some is, and…”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Sol,” she said, shaking her head. “Look. We’re here for twelve years. Twelve long years. Let’s just make sure we don’t go space-crazy before then, shall we?” she said irritably, walking past him and ignoring his surprised look.

  Jezzie couldn’t talk to that man’s face right now. She couldn’t even look at it for any longer than she had to. She was annoyed at Solomon. Annoyed at him for being the mark of her current mission, and annoyed that it wasn’t easier than this. Why couldn’t she just hate him? Why couldn’t the Boss have sent someone else to do it?

  I can’t kill Sol, she told herself once more. She had grown to, well, maybe not like him per se, but she had trained beside him and sparred with him and taken orders from him. She had argued and negotiated and listened—and all of that kind of built up empathy for someone, when you’ve both sweated together.

  No, I won’t do it, she decided. How could she, really? Solomon was her commander, after all. He was almost her friend, if anyone even had friends up here.

  But I have to! She thought about her family. Her hard-working engineer of a father she hadn’t seen for almost fifteen years. He worked as a fabricator in one of the northern province’s factories, churning out units for whichever mega-corp controlled the plant on a given week. He was a traditionalist, a conservative sort of a man who placed a lot of pride in the hard-working, straight and narrow life.

  Which was why he had been the one to kick her out of the family home when he found out just what she was getting up to—running around the streets of Tokyo, beating people up. That was before the Yakuza, of course, when Jezebel had been young and defiant.

  She had hated him back then, she considered as she made her way out of the gymnasium and back to the bunkrooms. She had hated him enough to spend the next fifteen years as a Yakuza executioner and hadn’t spoken to her father in all of that time.

  Her mother had died when Jezzie was still a baby, a fact that Jezzie had always assumed her father had blamed her for. She had died of the same colicky-sort of cough that a lot of workers got in the northern industrial towns, but Jezzie knew that her pregnancy had weakened her.

  Why should I care about him? Jezzie was thinking about her distant father, who had probably remarried by now, and probably had a whole new, better family than his first tragic one. Maybe he had even moved out of the Asia-Pacific Partnership altogether?

  No, not Dad, Jezzie thought. His pride meant that he would stay in the house that he had bought for his dead wife probably until the day that he died.

  What did she owe him, really, at the end of the day? Her loyalty? Her love? To a man who had done nothing but make her feel trapped, miserable, and ashamed—and then had kicked her out?

  But if Boss Mihashi gets his hands on him… She knew only too well the sorts of terrible things that Mihashi would do to her father. And the idea that Boss Mihashi might not be able to find her father or might spare him out of the goodness of his heart was, of course, ridiculous.

  If I don’
t kill Solomon Cready, then my father will die. Probably a very slow and agonizing death, Jezebel thought, over and over.

  “Wen.” Once again, a voice startled her from her torment. This time, it wasn’t her intended target, but it was none other than the staffer in the gray and blue jump-suit that she knew hid his winding dragon tattoo.

  The man that Wen was coming to think of as her Yakuza handler here on Ganymede was busy loading one of his service carts into one of the wall lockers. She could see an arrangement of cleaning products and ventilation pipes inside.

  Jezzie considered just ignoring him, but the image of that tiny command scroll sitting on her pillow made her stop. This guy was able to get to her any time he wanted, after all, so there was no point in avoiding him.

  “What do you want?” she muttered under her breath at him. Others of the Outcasts from her combat specialism session filed past her, completely ignoring them as they stood, apparently chatting.

  “You’re taking your time,” the man stated, not looking at her.

  So he knows just what my job was, she thought. That changed things. Usually only the higher-ups in the Yakuza knew everything about what the lower-down operatives should be doing, not the handlers. Does that mean that this guy is actually a captain of the Yakuza? He didn’t seem like one, though. Even despite his restrained and quiet menace, he didn’t swagger as they usually did. And no captain would ever deign to masquerade as a mere staffer, would they?

  But him knowing the job also meant that he might become compelled to see it through himself, if she failed or refused. Which meant that Solomon would still be in danger, even if she told the man to go frack himself.

  “I couldn’t do it last night,” she said lightly, remembering how she had waited for Solomon to return from whatever nefarious act he was up to last night. She still wasn’t sure if she had been waiting to kill him or simply talk to him. It was something that she hadn’t let her conscious mind work out yet. Unfortunately, she had been interrupted by none other than Warden Coates and Doctor Palinov, following after Solomon.