The Lazarus War: Artefact by Jamie Sawyer Read Free Book Online Page A

stared down at him menacingly. Martinez was short, stocky and powerfully built: an imposing figure, especially in drink. The news-drone darted higher, detecting what the reporter seemed oblivious to.
    “I think it’s time you left,” Martinez growled. “The captain doesn’t like to talk about the Treaty, cuate .”
    He hauled the reporter by his shoulders and off his feet. The little man disappeared into the crowded bar.
    “Looks like Martinez will get his fight after all,” Jenkins said. “Never fuck with a Venusian.”
    “Go easy on him!” I called after them.
    “I’d better see to this,” Jenkins said, following Martinez.
    That left Blake and me alone. He was watching the dancer. She’d started another lap of the bar – keen to show Blake that she was still interested.
    “Captain,” Blake started, eyeing the woman as she passed by, “I need to talk to you.”
    I smiled. “But some other time, I guess?”
    “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”
    I nodded, and Blake was gone as well.
      
    I had promised Kaminski that I would only have a drink down in the District, but a drink after an experience like the New Haven was not something to be taken lightly. After the first day of drinking the rest was a blur.
    On the third day I was awoken early. My room door-chime sounded repeatedly. The fact that I was in my room and not the station brig was a good start. I had a vague recollection of the Point ’s MPs getting involved in something, but whatever had happened couldn’t have been serious enough to warrant detention.
    I rolled out of my cot and shook myself awake, clutching at some fatigues and stumbling into them. I punched at the door control console.
    A squat yellow utility robot sat outside, with tracks and clawed arms. The bot’s chest was taken up by a viewer-screen that showed an animated face. I squinted in the bright corridor lights, and the robot paused before speaking.
    “Captain Conrad Harris? Serial code 93778?”
    I nodded, baring my wrist. The bot extended a scanner and swiped my serial code tattoo, confirming my ID.
    “Is seven days up already?” I asked
    “You have been recertified for active duty. Your station-leave is cancelled with immediate effect.”
    The robot jabbed one of its claws at me, and slapped an envelope against my bare chest. I slowly took it, noting the Alliance military seal. The robot’s viewer shifted to display a smirking face.
    “New orders. General Cole wants you to report to his office at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. You have a new mission.”
    “Cole?” I asked, dumbly.
    “That’s what I said.”
    The robot backed away from the door. Its electronic face shifted into a frown.
    “You look like shit, buddy. I’m only saying it to be kind. Clean up.”
    “You don’t look so good yourself,” I muttered.
    The robot noisily rolled down the corridor. I stood in the doorway for a moment, turning over the envelope. A new mission is a good thing , I told myself. That ever-present urge to climb back into the simulator-tank – to make transition into my simulant – rose up inside of me.
    But orders direct from General Cole? That was unusual. Cole was serious business. This had to be something big, something special.
    Maybe Jenkins was right . There was a first time for everything.
    The pain in my head told me that now was not the time to think about it. I fell back onto my cot and allowed my pounding headache to subside a little.
    I turned, took in my room. It was a small officer’s cube – nothing flash, not a larger state room. As a captain, I would’ve been entitled to that, but I didn’t want it. I wasn’t one for material possessions, and my cubicle reflected that: austere, somewhere to sleep and not much more. But I kept a random jumble of personal articles beside my cot – just enough to remind me that I was still a member of the human race.
    A preserved Krell claw, taken from a combat-suit after a sim-op that ended with a live return to the Point