THE WALK BACK TO the Humanists’ gun emplacement passes in uneasy silence. Tink and his partner, whose name Mal still has not learned, spend the time trading uneasy glances with one another and occasionally shooting him looks that seem to indicate suspicion, if not outright hostility. This is a bit of a mystery to Mal, as he feels that he’s done a reasonable job of impersonating a Humanist commander, other than clearly not knowing where their gun emplacement is or what might be in this cooler he’s heard so much about. He’s been cheerful yet forceful, redirecting them from trying to apply the sort of emergency medical treatments that would surely expose his augmentations, and instead bringing them back to their duty station, where they presumably belong. Surely the real Boss Man would have done the same?
Or would he? Mal has to admit that his knowledge of how a human military commander ought to behave is rudimentary at best. After Tink shoots him a particularly dubious glance as he removes his boots and socks before wading across a small brook, Mal finds himself wishing that he’d spent a bit more of his media time streaming military dramas rather than romantic comedies. Not that he could have anticipated the ridiculous series of events that led him to this point, of course, but in general a broader media diet probably would have been a good thing to have in the interests of being able to successfully interact with humans without getting shot, exploded, or set on fire.
These humans in particular seem determined to make his life difficult. Once they arrive at the gun nest, which despite the fun name is actually little more than an antiaircraft cannon on an automated gimbal, a control station, and a few dozen sandbags piled around a small clearing halfway up a forested hillside, Tink begins rooting through a plastic picnic cooler while his partner sits himself down on an upright section of log next to the gun and stares silently at Mal.
“You know,” Mal says after thirty seconds of this, “you’re being rather rude right now.”
“You see?” the soldier says without looking away. “Something ain’t right, Tink.”
Tink straightens and lets the cooler fall shut. “Drop it, Marco,” he says, and hands Mal a brightly colored aluminum can and a plastic-wrapped sandwich.
The one called Marco apparently does have some significant suspicion of Mal. This needs to be nipped in the bud.
“You should listen to Tink,” Mal says as he takes the proffered snacks. “He’s trying to keep you alive.”
Marco’s facial expression flashes something that might be fear before returning to a blank, neutral stare. “No disrespect intended, sir. I’m just thinking that you might have got it worse from that explosion than you realize. You might be concussed, or maybe even in shock or something, you know? You lost a whole lot of blood back there.”
“I can assure you,” Mal says, “I am not in shock.” He turns the can over twice in his hands before deciding that the tab on the top is probably meant to be pulled. He does so, and is rewarded with a violent spurt of foam from the resulting opening that sprays into the air briefly and then runs down over his hand where it holds the can.
“Sorry, boss,” Tink says. “Guess it got a little shook.”
“Yes,” Mal says. “So it would seem.”
He eats his sandwich, if one can even dignify the two slices of stale white bread surrounding a single slice of American cheese he’s been handed with the name, sitting on a sandbag in uncomfortable silence with both Marco and Tink staring at him as if they’re constantly expecting him to unhinge his jaws like a snake and swallow them both whole. He then drains the can, which is filled with carbonated water, in one long pull, only realizing what a mistake he’s made when the resulting eruption of gas from his digestive tract brings a significant portion of his sandwich up into the back of his throat.
“You okay, boss?” Tink asks as Mal struggles to avoid aspirating his lunch.
“Yes,” Mal manages when he can speak again. “I’m fine. Just a little difficulty with the carbonization.”
“Right,” Tink says slowly. “’Cause that happens.”
“Look, that’s enough,” Marco says, and Mal notices that his hand has drifted to a pistol holstered at his waist. “Something’s going on here, boss, and you need to tell us what it is.”
“Something?” Mal says. “Speak plainly, Marco. What are you suggesting?”
Marco’s eyes slide away from Mal, and his hand tightens on the grip of his pistol. “You took a whole lot of shrapnel when that drone blew, and you were bleeding like a stuck pig, but now you’re acting like nothing happened. I know you were real army and they do shit to you and that ain’t necessarily your fault, but I’m starting to think you got more going on than just some vaccines or whatever.”
Mal isn’t pleased with the direction of this conversation, but it does present him with an opportunity to explore a question that has been bothering him since his encounter with the first Arnold in Pullman’s driveway.
“You are correct, Marco. I was real army, and they did quite a bit of shit to me. That’s true of many of our officers, isn’t it?”
Marco trades a glance with Tink, then says, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Does that bother you at all? It’s part of Humanist doctrine that augmentations of the kind that, just as an example, let me walk away from that exploding drone rather than bleeding out into the leaf litter, are sent to us straight from the devil, is it not?”
“Like I said,” Marco says, “that shit the army did to you ain’t your fault. It’s not like you’re some rich pervert who got his brain full of shit so that he can pretend he’s a porn star or something.” His words are conciliatory, but Mal can’t help but notice that his hand hasn’t strayed from his weapon. “Anyway, I’m not worried about you still walking around after that blast. I’ve seen officers take shots that should’ve killed them before. I’m worried that you’re not acting right since we found that drone.”
“Right,” Tink says, and Mal notices that he seems to be fondling his sidearm as well. “That, and you’re talking different now. I mean, your voice is the same and all, but you don’t seem the same, you know? Could be you’ve got a concussion or something, like Marco said, but could be something else too.”
“Something else?” Mal says. “Such as what?”
“We’ve all heard the stories,” Marco says. “We’ve heard about people getting … taken.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mal says. “Taken. Possessed, you mean. Like by ghosts. Are you afraid of ghosts, Marco? Do you think I’m a ghost?”
“Nobody thinks you’re a ghost,” Tink says.
“Good, because I am not. However, we should all be clear that I am perfectly capable of turning both of you into ghosts with all due speed if you don’t remove your hands from your sidearms immediately. Do I make myself clear?”
Marco glances over at Tink, who has already raised both hands in surrender, before letting his own hand drop to his side. Mal waits a beat to see if his delightful wordplay is going to be acknowledged, before reluctantly concluding that he’s laying pearls before swine with these two. “That’s better,” he says. “We’d hate to have to hang the two of you for insubordination, wouldn’t we?” He pauses, one eyebrow raised, until the two of them mutter, “Yes, sir,” in almost-unity. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled. Now hand me another sandwich, please. I’ve got a lot of red blood cells to replace.”
MAL IS midway through his second sandwich when the solution to his personnel problem hits him with enough force that he has to wonder whether he really did suffer some sort of cognitive damage when the drone exploded. He’s had a perfect model for how he should be speaking to these two all along in the nearly twenty-four hours of observations he was able to make of Mr. Tuttle’s interactions with Mr. Mack. The unsubtle threats of murder he’s already made are a good start. All he needs to do now is deepen his voice slightly and make some minor adjustments to his cadence and vocabulary, and he should be the very model of a Humanist leader.
He’s so excited about this new idea that he nearly chokes on his sandwich in his rush to finish eating and try it out. He’s just washing down the last bite with a swig of carbonated water when Marco stands and saunters off toward a path leading back into the trees.
“Marco,” Mal says, being sure to drop his voice a half octave. “Where you off to, boy?”
Marco stops and turns to stare at him, jaw hanging slightly open. “What did you just call me?”
Mal gets to his feet. “I said, where you off to, boy?”
Marco’s jaw works silently for a moment before his face hardens and he says, “I’m going to take a piss, asshole.”
Mal folds his arms across his chest and arranges his features into what he imagines to be a stern expression. “Probably best you call me sir from now on, son.”
Marco turns to his compatriot, who is staring at them both with his mouth hanging open. “I’m gonna kill him, Tink. Officer or no, this is too much. I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
Well, this doesn’t seem to be working at all. Mal consults his archives, and quickly realizes his mistake. He’s been mimicking Tuttle’s interactions with Pullman rather than with Mack. The precise nature of the difference eludes him, but apparently it’s important. It’s fine, though. Never too late to recover. He turns to Tink. “What do you think, Tink? You feel like digging a burn pit today?”
Tink’s eyes widen. “Wh … what?”
“I said—” Mal begins, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to reiterate his question because just at that moment Marco draws his pistol and shoots him twice in the abdomen and a third time in the chest.
It’s much clearer now to Mal why Pullman was so concerned about being gut-shot. The pain in his viscera is so intense that Mal is forced to shut down his receptors. At least the belly shots failed to hit anything vital, though. The one to his chest has punched through a rib and lodged itself in his right lung, which is now simultaneously deflating and filling with blood.
If he were an un-augmented human, Mal would be in quite a pickle right now. As it is, and even with his medical nanites working at their fastest pace, he gives his organics no better than a fifty percent chance of surviving their wounds. Fortunately, however, Mal is not an un-augmented human, and this body is even more capable than Mika’s was of continuing to serve his purposes postmortem.
In this particular instance, his immediate purpose is to demonstrate to both Marco and Tink that this sort of insubordination will not be tolerated. He closes the gap between himself and Marco in two quick strides, slapping the pistol aside as Marco attempts to shoot him again, then grabbing him by the throat with his free hand and lifting him off the ground. “That was very rude,” he says, then gives Marco’s neck a shake and squeezes his pistol hand until the bones of Marco’s wrist crack and the weapon drops to the ground. “It was also an assault on a superior officer, which per the Uniform Code of Military Justice is punishable by hanging. Did you know that, Marco?”
Marco may or may not be trying to answer. His mouth is moving, but Mal’s grip on his throat seems to be cutting off the air flow necessary for speech. Mal isn’t actually all that confident that what he’s just said is accurate. It was drawn from something he saw in a historical romance set some three hundred years in the past. Marco seems convinced, though. His eyes are rolling wildly, and his arms and legs have begun twitching spasmodically. Mal gives Marco’s neck one more squeeze, then opens his hand and lets him drop to the ground in a heap.
“I had every right to fatally injure you just now,” Mal says as Marco lies gasping for air like a fish in the bottom of a boat. “I did not do so, though. I hope you’ll take that as a lesson. Violence is never the answer, Marco.” He realizes belatedly then that he’s slipped back out of his Humanist commander persona. “What I mean to say,” he hastily adds, “is that if you disappoint me again, boy, I’m gonna gut-shoot you, then open you up with a buck knife, then toss whatever’s left of you into the nearest burn pit. Do I make myself clear?”
Marco is still now, staring up at him with an expression of abject horror on his face. “I said,” Mal says, “do I make myself clear?”
Marco nods.
“I’m sorry,” Mal says. “I don’t believe I heard that.”
“Yes, sir,” Marco rasps. “Very clear.”
“Excellent,” Mal says. “That’s what I like to hear.” He turns to Tink. “Do you have anything to add, friend?”
Tink shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving Mal. “No, sir. Nothing to add, sir.”
“Good,” Mal says. “That is indeed what I like to hear.”
IT’S A bit less than an hour before the first of the three bullets lodged inside Mal worms its way back out through its rapidly closing entry wound and plops onto the sandbag beside him. By that time he’s become reasonably confident that his organics will in fact survive, assuming he can provide his nanites with a sufficient supply of energy to effect all the necessary repairs. To that end, he empties everything left in Tink’s cooler down his throat, chewing his way through three more sandwiches, a half-dozen protein bars, two cans of water, and three more of beer. That last is interesting. Mal has no prior experience with alcohol. His media diet has led him to expect zany hijinks to ensue once the last can has been downed, but in fact all that happens is that his senses are slightly dulled and his nanites pick up a happy jolt of energy.
Tink and Marco watch all of this in sullen silence. Mal had hoped that his new persona might enable him to establish some sense of camaraderie with his reluctant subordinates. This seems increasingly unlikely, but nonetheless he can’t help but feel that the current state of affairs is a distinct improvement over the prior mix of insubordination and assassination attempts.
“Marco,” he says after crushing the last beer can and tossing it into the now-empty cooler, “I’m still hungry. I need more food.”
“There is no more,” Marco rasps. “You ate it all. Yours. Mine. Tink’s. All of it.”
“So? Can’t we get more?”
“Look around you, sir,” Tink says. “We’re in the woods. There’s nothing out here but rocks and trees. We’ve got nothing until our relief shows up.”
“Of course,” Mal says. “And when is that?”
Tink and Marco exchange an unreadable glance, and Mal finds himself wondering briefly whether he’s about to suffer another series of gunshot wounds.
“Tomorrow morning,” Tink says after a delay that borders on insolent. “You know this, sir.”
“Yes,” Mal says. “I do, obviously. And now I know that you do as well. Good job.”
“Yes, sir,” Tink says after another dangerously long pause. “Thank you, sir.”
Mal waits for a beat to see if either Tink or Marco have more to say on the topic, but it quickly becomes apparent that they do not. He briefly considers trying to engage them on some other topic of mutual interest, such as when, exactly, they might expect this “relief” to arrive and what form it might take, but he is forced to reluctantly conclude that they are simply not interested in speaking with him. So he delegates twenty percent of his attention to keeping an eye out for further attempts at violence and turns the rest of his processing power to Guess the Output of the Random Number Generator 2: Now with Imaginary Numbers!
The remainder of the day passes in brutal tedium until just before sunset, when the gun console begins squawking in a most obnoxious fashion. This leads both Marco and Tink to look at him expectantly.
“Sir?” Tink says finally.
“Yes?” Mal says, in what he hopes is a sufficiently commanding tone of voice.
“We’ve got a bogey, sir. Are we engaging?”
“Engaging?”
Tink rolls his eyes. “Friend or foe, sir? You’re supposed to be the one who makes the final call, right?”
Mal sighs, shuts down his game, and sends out a ping. Nothing. He tries again, and the response is a wave of nonsense that floods back down the channel and is clearly meant to block any further contact.
“Well,” Mal says, “it’s certainly not a friend. Engage away.”
Tink is already at the console, and Marco is feeding a band of projectiles into the gun. After another few seconds the barrel rotates up and around and then spits out a half-dozen shells in quick succession with a deafening roar. It tracks left to right, firing continuously for another five seconds before going quiet and settling back onto its gimbal.
“Contact?” Marco asks when it’s clear the gun has done all that it intends to do.
Tink shakes his head. “Negative. Target was already taking evasive maneuvers when we opened up.” He shoots Mal a quick glance. “We really can’t afford that kinda delay with a fixed-wing target, sir.”
“Yes, well,” Mal says, “I’m sure it wasn’t anything important. Don’t you agree, Marco?”
Marco stares at him for a long five seconds, then shakes his head and says, “I sure hope not, sir.”
Mal is about to say something about hope being one of the cardinal virtues when the console begins squealing again. Tink spins back to the display, then says, “Target’s coming back around! Incoming!”
The gun springs back into action, but even as it does an explosion erupts out of the hillside, close enough to shake the ground under Mal’s feet. Tink and Marco dive behind the little wall of sandbags as a second and then a third warhead burst almost on top of them, sending a barrage of shrapnel whizzing through the air all around Mal but somehow not striking him.
“Fuck’s sake, sir!” Tink yells over the clamor of the gun, which is now firing nearly straight overhead. “Get down!”
He’s about to say something about having nothing to fear but fear itself, which is a line he heard once in a historical drama and has always wanted the opportunity to use himself, when a bright orange flower blooms briefly in the sky overhead and then falls, trailing smoke behind it, into the trees on the far side of the ridge. The gun falls silent again, and a few seconds later Mal hears the dull thud of the target exploding.
“You see?” Mal says when his ears have stopped ringing. “That little delay didn’t wind up costing us anything after all, did it?”
He ignores their openmouthed stares then, and returns his attention to his game.
TINK AND Marco are restless sleepers. Mal, freed from the need to accommodate a human host’s need for rest by this body’s lack of a conscious occupant, spends the night seated on a mound of sandbags, watching them. They’re side by side in sleeping bags on the opposite side of the gun from where he’s sitting, as far away from him as they can get while still remaining within the little circle of their encampment.
In the early part of the night they do a great deal of rustling around, occasionally putting their heads close together and muttering to one another in voices too low for Mal to make out. Later, Tink begins snoring softly, only to wake with a start thirty minutes later, sit half-up in his bag, and turn to stare at Mal before settling back down. This pattern repeats itself with astonishing regularity for the next five hours. Marco, for his part, never seems to sleep at all, spending the night rolling restlessly from side to side and occasionally pulling out his phone to check the time.
Mal spends a fair amount of processing power over the course of the evening trying to decide what, exactly, to make of their behavior. His first hypothesis is that their sleeping bags are simply uncomfortable, but Kayleigh, Pullman, and Rowan all seemed to sleep well enough lying on the ground with no sleeping bags at all. Their sleep patterns most closely mimic Asher’s, but Mal has no reason to believe that they are being devoured from the inside out by nanobots, so that seems like an unlikely explanation.
The thought that they’re simply afraid of being murdered in their sleep never occurs to him.
Dawn finds both Marco and Tink up and moving about the camp, tidying things up and packing their gear. There are a number of items lying around the camp untouched, which Mal presumes are his, but none of them strike him as particularly useful, so he makes no effort to gather them.
Just past 08:00 the sound of voices approaching through the trees announces the arrival of their relief. Tink and Marco hear them a few seconds after Mal does. They stop what they’re doing and turn to face Mal, hands drifting to their sidearms. Mal thinks to warn them that any further shenanigans will be met with firm and deadly force, but before he has the opportunity, the first of the newcomers emerges from the trees and steps over the sandbags opposite Mal. He can see immediately that this is a soldier like himself, a shell presumably animated by another of the Arnolds. Mal opens his mouth to offer a greeting, but before he can speak, Marco has drawn his pistol and pointed it at him.
“Sir,” he says. “This thing is not Captain Merrick. You need to kill it.”