David Simpson - Post-Human Trilogy

A squinting figure strode toward them in the blinding sunshine. The figure rose his arm to salute before adding, “Captain Emilson, sir!”

“At ease,” Craig replied as he saluted in return.

The figure stuck out his hand to shake Craig’s and smiled warmly, his skin wrinkling around his cheerful eyes. “I’m Commander Wilson, the officer in charge of this mission, but you will be the ranking officer, sir.”

“Just call me ‘Doc’ for the duration of the mission, Commander. You’re the OIC here, and I defer to you completely.”

“Thank you, Doc.” Commander Wilson turned to Robbie. “I heard you’d be bringing one of those.”

Robbie saluted. “Commander Wilson, sir!”

Wilson laughed, tilting his head back. “That is something else. Will wonders never cease? Can I actually talk to it?”

Craig nodded. “Treat Robbie like another member of the team, Commander. He understands you and will respond appropriately.”

“Robbie? Ha!” Wilson saluted the MAD bot. “At ease, Robbie.”

Robbie lowered his arm and stood at ease.

“Well, you sure know how to make an entrance, Captain Emilson,” Wilson observed with a smile. He turned toward the hangar. “The rest of the team is already suiting up. Let’s go meet ’em, shall we?”

“Lead the way, Commander.”

As the two men and the MAD bot walked briskly toward the giant hangar, Craig’s eyes scanned the remarkable building. It was sleek, as though it had been designed in a wind tunnel, yet it appeared to have been constructed with a 1950s conception of a UFO in mind, its roof silver and smooth. It was as though it had been built with a rearview mirror—one eye on the future, while keeping the other on the past. There was something about it that made Craig uneasy—as though Spaceport America belonged outside of the bounds of normal time and space.

“Correct me if any of my information is inaccurate, Doc,” the commander began as they walked and talked, “but I understand you’ve completed the twenty-eight-week Special Forces qualification training and an abbreviated special ops combat medic course, in addition to your suspended animation professional development training. Is that right?”

“That’s right, Commander,” Craig replied.

“Ten HALO jumps too?”

“Right.”

“That experience will serve you well, Doc. HALOs are the best training for suborbital jumps, though nothing can really prepare you.”

“How many SOLOs have you done, Commander?”

“That’s classified, Doc. Needless to say, this won’t be the team’s first rodeo. There’s no such thing as a training suborbital jump, though. The logistics and expense—not to mention the fact that the military is trying to keep this tech secret—makes training jumps a luxury we can’t afford. You’re gonna have to pop your cherry the way the rest of us did—on a real mission.”

Craig considered Wilson’s words. He’d had the impression that his addition to the team was haphazard, as though it were highly irregular for a brand new special ops soldier to be participating on such an important mission. He found Wilson’s assertion of the opposite oddly comforting. “It’s actually nice to hear that I’m not the only one to have gone through this.”

Wilson laughed and shook his head. “Nah, Doc, you’re definitely the rookie of the group, but we were all rookies once. Besides, there’s no pressure. I think the addition the brass was really interested in was Robbie back there,” Wilson said, pointing his thumb in the direction of the robot as it walked behind them, a mechanical whir accompanying every step as it remained in Craig’s shadow.

Ironic , Craig suddenly thought. “That’s a good point, Commander,” he said, suddenly feeling far less important.

“I gotta warn ya,” Wilson began to confide, “the team isn’t exactly feeling the love for your robot friend.”

“Why’s that?” Craig asked, his eyebrow cocked inquisitively.

“Don’t get me wrong, Doc. These men are pros all the way, but the addition of a robot that specializes in heavy trauma suspended animation body bags doesn’t exactly fill anybody with confidence.”

“I understand,” Craig replied. “I’ll speak to the team about it.”

“I think they’d appreciate that,” Wilson replied as they entered the shade of the hangar, the temperature immediately dropping to a relieving degree.

Several feet away, in the shadow of WhiteKnight3’s ninety-two-foot wingspan, the three other members of the team came to attention and saluted.

Wilson returned their salute and addressed his team. “SOLO Team Three, this is Captain Emilson. He is our newest and highest-ranking team member!”

“Sir!” the three other members shouted in unison. Each man had been in the process of putting their SOLO suits on. Craig had never seen a SOLO suit before and was amazed at their intricacy. They were black, though the material had a brilliant sheen. Lining the suit appeared to be some sort of metal exoskeleton, the likes of which Craig had never seen, even during his days training at a DARPA facility with Robbie. The boots were reminiscent of those worn by astronauts on the moon, as were the gloves. He shook himself back into the moment and saluted the team.

“At ease. As I said to the commander, from now on, please don’t salute me. Refer to me simply as ‘Doc.’ I am here to learn from you and support you. I defer to each of you from this point forward.”

The men relaxed, and Wilson took Craig over to meet the team members individually.

“The assistant officer in charge on this mission is Lieutenant Commander Weddell,” Wilson said as he put his hand on the shoulder of a thin, but strong-looking young man.

Weddell appeared to be no older than twenty-five, and his face was fresh, but there was something in his eyes that revealed the confidence of experience. Craig couldn’t help but consider for a moment what a young man such as Weddell would be doing if WWIII hadn’t broken out. Would he be an accountant? A lawyer? A school teacher?

“It’s good to meet you, Doc,” Weddell said with a smile as he shook Craig’s hand.

“Likewise,” Craig replied, returning the smile.

Wilson turned to the other two members of the team. “These are Lieutenants Klein and Cheng.”

Craig shook the hands of both men, each of whom looked equally as unassuming as Wilson and Weddell. He felt he could just as easily have been walking into a PTA or neighborhood watch meeting. He’d expected giant, muscle-bound men, but instead he was meeting a group of highly trained, highly specialized regular Joes.

Klein’s and Cheng’s eyes fell on Robbie, each man sharing identical expressions of tentativeness.

“Listen, fellas,” Craig began to address the team, “the robot is here as an insurance policy, that’s all. His presence doesn’t reflect on the Joint Chiefs’ evaluation of your chances of coming back alive.”

“With all due respect,” Klein replied, “how do you know that? I mean, we’ve all been through this crap before, but we’ve never had our own personal robotic undertaker along for the ride.”

Craig’s spine stiffened with surprise at Klein’s morbid analogy. He smiled and shook his head. “Nah, it’s not like that, Lieutenant. Look. This is brand new technology. The only reason these robots aren’t included on every mission is because they just came online. When I started my training with Robbie here,” Craig continued, gesturing toward the robot, “it was still in the testing phase. He’s here because you guys are VIPs, not R.I.P.s, okay?”

Klein nodded. “Yeah, understood, Doc.,” he replied. “It’s all good.”

Craig felt he could detect dubiousness in Klein’s tone, hidden deep beneath the highly trained professionalism.