The Ghost Brigades Part 4

"Agreed," Szilard said. "If the transfer is a success, we'll know it sooner than later. If it's not, I know where I can put him. Just to be sure."

"Good," Mattson said, and looked up again at Phoenix, circling in sky. "Phoenix," he said, watching the world twirl above him. "A reborn creature. Well, that's that's appropriate. A phoenix is supposed to rise up from the flames, you know. Let's just hope appropriate. A phoenix is supposed to rise up from the flames, you know. Let's just hope this this reborn creature doesn't bring everything down in them." reborn creature doesn't bring everything down in them."

They all stared at the planet above them.

THREE.

"This is it," Colonel Robbins said to Lieutenant Wilson, as the body, encased in its creche, was wheeled into the decanting lab.

"This is it," agreed Wilson, who moved over to a monitor that would momentarily display the body's vital signs. "Were you ever a father, Colonel?"

"No," Robbins said. "My personal inclinations didn't run that way."

"Well, then," Wilson said. "This is as close as you'll probably get."

Normally the birthing lab would be filled with up to sixteen Special Forces soldiers being decanted at once-soldiers who would be activated and trained together to build unit cohesion during training, and to ease the soldiers' disorientation at being activated fully conscious but without any memory to speak of. This time, there was just one soldier: The one who would house Charles Boutin's consciousness.

It had been more than two centuries since the nascent Colonial Union, faced with its spectacular failure to defend the earliest of its colonies (the planet Phoenix was called so for a reason), realized that unmodified human soldiers were unable to get the job done. The spirit was willing-human history recorded some of its greatest doomed battles in those years, with the Battle for Armstrong in particular studied as a masterful example of how to turn an imminent rout by alien forces into a shocking and painful Pyrrhic victory for one's enemy-but the flesh was all too weak. The enemy, all all of the enemies, were too fast, too vicious, too pitiless and too many. Human technology was good, and weapon to weapon humans were as well-equipped as the vast majority of their adversaries. But the weapon that ultimately matters is the one behind the trigger. of the enemies, were too fast, too vicious, too pitiless and too many. Human technology was good, and weapon to weapon humans were as well-equipped as the vast majority of their adversaries. But the weapon that ultimately matters is the one behind the trigger.

The earliest modifications were relatively simple: increased speed, muscle ma.s.s and strength, endurance. Early genetic engineers, however, were hampered by the practical and ethical problems of engineering humans in vitro, and then waiting for them to grow sufficiently large and smart enough to fight, a process that took roughly eighteen years. The Colonial Defense Forces discovered to its intense chagrin that many of its (relatively) lightly genetically-modified humans were not particularly pleased to discover they were raised as a crop of cannon fodder and refused to fight, despite the best indoctrination and propaganda efforts to persuade them otherwise. Unmodified humans were equally scandalized, as the effort smacked of yet another eugenics effort on the part of a human government, and the track record of eugenics-loving governments in the human experience was not exactly stellar.

The Colonial Union survived the wracking waves of political crises that followed in the wake of its earliest attempts to genetically engineer its soldiers, but just barely. Had the Battle for Armstrong not emphatically shown the colonies what sort of universe they were up against, the Union would likely have collapsed and the human colonies would have been left in the position of competing against each other as well as against every other intelligent species they had encountered to date.

The Union was also saved by the near-simultaneous arrival of dual, critical technological discoveries: the ability to force-grow a human body to adult size in months, and the emergence of the consciousness transfer protocol that allowed the personality and memories of one individual to be transported into another brain, provided that brain had the same genetics, and had been adequately prepared with a series of pre-transfer procedures that developed some of the necessary bioelectrical pathways in the brain. These new technologies allowed the Colonial Union to develop a large, alternate pool of potential recruits: The elderly, many of whom would readily accept a life in the military rather than die of old age, and whose deaths, in any event, would not create the multi-generational demographic damage that ensued when large numbers of healthy young adults were blown out of the gene pool at the end of an alien's weapon.

Presented with this bountiful new pool of potential recruits, the Colonial Defense Forces found it had the luxury of making certain staffing choices. The CDF would no longer ask colonists to serve in the CDF; this had the salutary effect of allowing colonists to focus on developing their new worlds and making as many second-generation colonists as their planets could handle. It also eliminated a key source of political tension between the colonists and their government. Now that the young adults of the colonies were no longer extracted from their homes and families to die on battlefields trillions of miles away, the colonists were largely unconcerned with the ethical issues surrounding genetically modified soldiers, particularly ones who had, after all, volunteered to fight.

In the stead of colonists, the CDF chose to select its recruits from the inhabitants of humanity's ancestral home, Earth. The Earth held billions of people: More people on that single globe, in fact, than existed on all the human colonies combined. The pool of potential recruits was enormous-so large that the CDF further limited its pool, choosing to take its recruits from comfortable and industrialized nations whose economic circ.u.mstances allowed their citizens to survive well into their later years, and whose social blueprints created both an overemphasis on the desirability of youth and a parallel and profound national psychic discomfort with aging and death. These senior citizens were patterned by their societies to be excellent and eager recruits for the CDF; the CDF quickly discovered that these senior citizens would join up for a military tour even in the absence of detailed information about what such a tour entailed-and indeed, recruitment yields were higher the less the recruits knew. Recruits a.s.sumed military service in the CDF was like military service on Earth. The CDF was content to let the a.s.sumption stand.

Recruiting seniors from industrialized nations proved so successful that the Colonial Union protected its recruiting pool by banning colonists from those nations, selecting its colonist pool from nations whose economic and social problems encouraged the more ambitious of its young people to get the h.e.l.l out as soon as humanly possible. This division of military and colonist recruitment paid rich dividends for the Colonial Union in both areas.

The military recruitment of senior citizens presented the CDF with one unexpected problem: A fair number of recruits died before they could join the service, victims of heart attacks, strokes, and too many cheeseburgers, cheesecakes and cheese curds. The CDF, who took genetic samples from its recruits, eventually found itself stocked with a library of human genomes it wasn't doing anything with. The CDF also found itself with a desire and also a need to continue experimenting with the body models of the Colonial Defense Forces to improve their design, without cutting into the effectiveness of the fighting force it already had.

Then came a breakthrough: an immensely powerful, compact, semi-organic computer, thoroughly integrated with the human brain, which in a moment of profoundly inappropriate branding was lightly dubbed the BrainPal. For a brain already filled with a life's worth of knowledge and experience, the BrainPal offered a critical a.s.sist in mental ability, memory storage and communication.

But for a brain that was literally tabula rasa, tabula rasa, the BrainPal offered even more. the BrainPal offered even more.

Robbins peered into the creche, where the body lay, held into place by a suspension field. "He doesn't look much like Charles Boutin," he said to Wilson.

Wilson, who was now making last-minute adjustments on the hardware that contained Boutin's recorded consciousness, didn't look up from his work. "Boutin was an unmodified human," he said. "He was well into middle age when we knew him. He probably looked something like this guy when he was twenty. Minus the green skin, cat's eyes and other modifications. And he probably wasn't as fit as this body is. I know I I wasn't as fit in real life at age twenty as I am now. And I don't even have to exercise." wasn't as fit in real life at age twenty as I am now. And I don't even have to exercise."

"You have a body engineered to take care of itself," Robbins reminded Wilson.

"And thank G.o.d. I'm a doughnut fiend," Wilson said.

"All you have to do to get it is get shot at by every other intelligent species in the universe," Robbins said.

"That is the catch," Wilson noted.

Robbins turned back to the body in the creche. "All those changes won't mess with the transfer of consciousness?"

"Shouldn't," Wilson said. "The genes relating to brain development are unaltered in this guy's new genome. That's Boutin's brain in there. Genetically, at least."

"And how does his brain look?" Robbins asked.

"It's looks good," Wilson said, tapping the monitor of the creche controller. "Healthy. Prepared."

"Think this will work?" Robbins asked.

"Got me," Wilson said.

"Good to see we're br.i.m.m.i.n.g with confidence," Robbins said.

Wilson opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted as the door opened and Generals Mattson and Szilard stepped through, accompanied by three Special Forces decanting technicians. The techs went straight to the creche; Mattson went to Robbins, who saluted along with Wilson.

"Tell me this is going to work," Mattson said, returning the salute.

"Lieutenant Wilson and I were just talking about that," Robbins said, after a nearly imperceptible pause.

Mattson turned to Wilson. "And, Lieutenant?"

Wilson pointed to the body in the creche, being fussed over by the technicians. "The body is healthy, and so is the brain. The BrainPal is functioning perfectly, which is no surprise. We've been able to integrate Boutin's consciousness pattern into the transfer machinery with surprisingly few problems, and the test runs we've done suggest there won't be a problem with transmission. In theory, we should be able to transfer the consciousness like we do with any consciousness."

"Your words sound confident, Lieutenant, but your voice doesn't," Mattson said.

"There are a lot of uncertainties, General," Wilson said. "Usually the subject is conscious when he transfers over. That helps with the process. We don't have that here. We won't know whether the transfer is successful until we wake up the body. This is the first time we've tried a transfer without two brains involved. If it's not actually Boutin's consciousness in there, the pattern won't take. Even if it is is Boutin's consciousness in there, there's no guarantee it will imprint. We've done everything we can to a.s.sure a smooth transfer. You've read the reports. But there's still so much involved that we don't know about. We know all the ways it could go right, but not all the ways it could go wrong." Boutin's consciousness in there, there's no guarantee it will imprint. We've done everything we can to a.s.sure a smooth transfer. You've read the reports. But there's still so much involved that we don't know about. We know all the ways it could go right, but not all the ways it could go wrong."

"Do you think it will work or don't you?" Mattson said.

"I think it will work," Wilson said. "But we need to have a healthy respect for all the things we don't know about what we're doing. There's a lot of room for error. Sir."

"Robbins?" Mattson said.

"Lieutenant Wilson's a.s.sessment seems right to me, General," Robbins said.

The technicians finished their a.s.sessment and reported to General Szilard, who nodded and walked over to Mattson. "The techs say we're ready," Szilard said.

Mattson glanced at Robbins, then Wilson. "Fine," he said. "Let's get this over with."

The Colonial Defense Special Forces build soldiers using a simple recipe: First, start with a human genome. Then subtract subtract.

The human genome comprises roughly twenty thousand genes made from three billion base pairs, spread out over twenty-three chromosomes. Most of the genome is "junk"-portions of the sequence that do not code for anything in the final product of the DNA: a human being. Once nature puts a sequence into DNA it appears reluctant to remove it even if it does nothing at all.

Special Forces scientists are not nearly so precious. With each new body model they build, their first step is to strip out the redundant and switched-off genetic matter. What is left is a lean, mean, streamlined DNA sequence that is completely useless; editing the human genome destroys its chromosomal structure, leaving it unable to reproduce. But this is just a first step. Rea.s.sembling and replicating the new genome is several steps away.

The new, small DNA sequence features every gene that makes a human what he or she is, and this simply is not good enough. The human genotype does not allow the human phenotype the plasticity the Special Forces require, which is to say: Our genes can't make the superhumans Special Forces soldiers need to be. What is left of the human genome is now rent apart, redesigned and rea.s.sembled to build the genes that will code for substantially enhanced abilities. This process can require the introduction of additional genes or genetic material. The genes that come from other humans usually present little problem with their incorporation, since the human genome is fundamentally designed to accommodate genetic information from other human genomes (the process by which this is usually, naturally and enthusiastically accomplished is called "s.e.x"). Genetic material from other terrestrial species is also relatively easy to incorporate, seeing as all life on Earth features the same genetic building blocks and are related to each other genetically.

Incorporating genetic material from non-terrestrial species is substantially more difficult. Some planets evolved genetic structures roughly similar to Earth's, incorporating some if not all the nucleotides involved in terrestrial genetics (perhaps not coincidentally, the intelligent species of these planets have been known to consume humans from time to time; the Rraey, for example, found humans quite tasty). But most alien species have genetic structures and components wildly different from terrestrial creatures. Using their genes is not a simple matter of cutting and pasting.

Special Forces solved this problem by reading the DNA equivalent of the alien species into a compiler that then spat out a genetic "translation" in terrestrial DNA format-the resulting DNA, if allowed to develop, would create an ent.i.ty as close to the original alien creature in appearance and function as it was possible to get. Genes from the transliterated creatures were then wrought into the Special Forces DNA.

The end result of this genetic designing was DNA that described a creature based on a human, but not a human at all-inhuman enough that the creature, if allowed to develop from this step, would be an unholy agglomeration of parts, a monstrous creature that would have sent its spiritual G.o.dmother Mary Wollstonecraft Sh.e.l.ley far around the bend. Having pulled the DNA so far from humanity, Special Forces scientists now sculpted the genetic message to jam the creature they were forming back into a recognizably human shape. Among themselves the scientists brooded that this was the most difficult step; some (quietly) questioned its utility. None of them, it should be noted, looked any less than human themselves.

The DNA, sculpted to offer its owner superhuman abilities in human shape, is now finally a.s.sembled. Even with the addition of non-native genes, it is substantially leaner than the original human DNA; supplemental coding causes the DNA to organize into five chromosomal pairs, down substantially from an unaltered human's twenty-three and only one more than a fruit fly. While Special Forces soldiers are provided the s.e.x of their donor and genes related to s.e.xual development are preserved in the final genetic reduction, there is no Y-chromosome, a fact that made the earliest Special Forcesa.s.signed scientists (the male ones) vaguely uncomfortable.

The DNA, now a.s.sembled, is deposited into a vacant zygote sh.e.l.l, which is itself placed into a developmental creche, and the zygote gently prodded into mitotic division. The transformation from zygote to full-fledged embryo proceeds at a profoundly accelerated rate, producing metabolic heat levels that come close to denaturing the DNA. The developmental creche fills with heat-transferring fluid packed with nan.o.bots, which saturate the developing cells and act as heat sinks for the rapidly growing embryo.

And still Special Forces scientists are not done lowering the percentage of humanity in their soldiers. After the biological overhaul come the technological upgrades. Specialized nan.o.bots injected into the rapidly developing Special Forces embryo head to two destinations. Most head to marrow-rich bone cores, where the nan.o.bots digest the marrow and mechanically breed in its place to create SmartBlood, with better oxygen-carrying capacity than true blood, more efficient clotting and near-immunity to disease. The rest migrate to the fast-expanding brain and lay the groundwork for the BrainPal computer, which when fully constructed will be the size of an aggie marble. This marble, nestled deep in the brain, is surrounded by a dense network of antennae that sample the electric field of the brain, interpreting its wishes and responding through outputs integrated into the soldiers' eyes and ears.

There are other modifications as well, many experimental, tested within a small birthing group to see if they offer any advantages. If they do, these modifications are made more widely available among the Special Forces and hit the list for potential upgrades for the next generation of the Colonial Defense Forces' general infantry. If they don't, the modifications die with their test subjects.

The Special Forces soldier matures to the size of a newborn human in just over twenty-nine days; in sixteen weeks, provided the creche's adequate metabolic management, it has grown to adult size. CDF attempts to shorten the developmental cycle resulted in bodies that fried in their own metabolic heat. Those embryos and bodies that didn't simply abort and die suffered DNA transcription errors, giving rise to developmental cancers and fatal mutations. Sixteen weeks was pus.h.i.+ng the edge of DNA chemical stability as it was. At the end of sixteen weeks, the developmental creche sends a synthetic hormone was.h.i.+ng through the body, resetting the metabolic levels to normal tolerances.

During development the creche exercises the body to strengthen it and allow its owner to use it from the moment he or she becomes conscious; in the brain, the BrainPal helps develop general neural pathways, stimulate the organs' processing centers, and prepare for the moment its owner was brought to consciousness, to help ease the transition from nothing to something.

For most Special Forces soldiers, all that was left at this point was "birth"-the decanting process followed by the quick and (usually) smooth transition into military life. For one Special Forces soldier, however, there was still one more step to take.

Szilard signaled to his techs, who began their tasks. Wilson focused again on his hardware, and waited for the signal to begin the transfer. The techs gave the all clear; Wilson sent the consciousness on its way. Machinery hummed quietly. The body in the creche remained still. After a few minutes Wilson conferred with the techs, then with Robbins, who came over to Mattson. "It's done," he said.

"That's it?" Mattson said, and glanced over the body in the creche. "He doesn't look any different. He still looks like he's in a coma." doesn't look any different. He still looks like he's in a coma."

"They haven't woken him up yet," Robbins said. "They want to know how you want to do it. Normally with Special Forces soldiers they wake them up with their BrainPals switched to conscious integration. It gives the soldier a temporary sense of self until he can create one of his own. But since there may already be a consciousness in there, they didn't want to turn that on. It might confuse the person in there."

Mattson snorted; he found the idea amusing. "Wake him up without switching on the BrainPal," he said. "If that's Boutin in there, I don't want him confused. I want him talking."

"Yes, sir," Robbins said.

"If this thing worked, he'll know who he is as soon as he's conscious, right?" Mattson said.

Robbins glanced over to Wilson, who could hear the conversation; Wilson give a half shrug, half nod. "We think so," Robbins said.

"Good," Mattson said. "Then I want to be the first thing he sees." He walked over to the creche and placed himself in front of the unconscious body. "Tell them to wake up the son of a b.i.t.c.h," he said. Robbins nodded to one of the techs, who jabbed a finger at the control board she had been working from.

The body jolted, precisely the way people do in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep, when they suddenly feel like they are falling. Its eyelids fluttered and twitched, and flew open. Eyes darted momentarily, seemingly confused, and then fixed on Mattson, who leaned in and grinned.

"h.e.l.lo, Boutin," Mattson said. "Bet you're surprised to see me."

The body strained to move its head closer to Mattson, as if to say something. Mattson leaned in obligingly.

The body screamed.

General Szilard found Mattson in the head down the hall from the decanting lab, relieving himself.

"How's the ear?" Szilard asked.

"What kind of G.o.dd.a.m.ned question is that, Szi?" Mattson said, still facing the wall. "You get a screaming earful from a babbling idiot and tell me how it feels." get a screaming earful from a babbling idiot and tell me how it feels."

"He's not a babbling idiot," Szilard said. "You woke up a newborn Special Forces soldier with his BrainPal switched off. He didn't have any sense of himself. He did what any newborn would do. What did you expect?"

"I expected Charles f.u.c.king Boutin," Mattson said, and shook. "That's why we bred that little f.u.c.ker in the creche, if you'll recall."

"You knew it might not work," Szilard said. "I told you. Your people told you."

"Thanks for the recap, Szi," Mattson said. He zipped and moved over to the sink. "This little adventure has just been one big G.o.dd.a.m.n waste of time."

"He still might be useful," Szilard said. "Maybe the consciousness needs time to settle."

"Robbins and Wilson said his consciousness would be there as soon as he woke up," Mattson said. He waved his hands under the faucet. "G.o.dd.a.m.n automatic faucet," he said, and finally covered the sensor completely with his hand. The water kicked on.

"This is the first time anyone's done something like this," Szilard said. "Maybe Robbins and Wilson were wrong."

Mattson barked out a short laugh. "Those two were were wrong, Szi, no maybes about it. Just not in the way you suggest. Besides, are wrong, Szi, no maybes about it. Just not in the way you suggest. Besides, are your your people going to babysit a full-grown, man-sized infant while you're waiting for his 'consciousness to settle'? I'd be guessing 'no,' and I'm sure as h.e.l.l not going to do it. Wasted too much time on this as it is." Mattson finished was.h.i.+ng his hands and looked around for the towel dispenser. people going to babysit a full-grown, man-sized infant while you're waiting for his 'consciousness to settle'? I'd be guessing 'no,' and I'm sure as h.e.l.l not going to do it. Wasted too much time on this as it is." Mattson finished was.h.i.+ng his hands and looked around for the towel dispenser.

Szilard pointed to the far wall. "Dispenser is out," he said.

"Well, of course course it is," Mattson said. "Humanity can build soldiers from the DNA up but it can't stock a head with f.u.c.king paper towels." He shook his hands violently and then wiped the excess moisture on his pants. it is," Mattson said. "Humanity can build soldiers from the DNA up but it can't stock a head with f.u.c.king paper towels." He shook his hands violently and then wiped the excess moisture on his pants.

"Leaving the issue of paper towels to the side," Szilard said, "does this mean you're relinquis.h.i.+ng the soldier to me? If you are, I'm going to have his BrainPal turned on, and get him into a training platoon as soon as possible."

"You in a rush?" Mattson said.

"He's a fully developed Special Forces solider," Szilard said. "While I wouldn't say I am in a rush, you know as well as I do what the turnover rate for Special Forces is. We always need more. And let's just say I have faith that this particular soldier may yet turn out to be useful."

"Such optimism," Mattson said.

Szilard smiled. "Do you know how Special Forces soldiers are named, General?" Szilard asked.

"You're named after scientists and artists," Mattson said.

"Scientists and philosophers," Szilard said. "Last names, anyway. The first names are just random common names. I'm named after Leo Szilard. He was one of the scientists who helped to build the first atomic bomb, a fact that he would later come to regret."

"I know who Leo Szilard was, Szi," Mattson said.