Jeffrey Carver - Eternity's End

“This would require far less in the way of organic change to your facial bones,” Com’peer said. “But we’re not sure that the change is sufficient to disguise you.” She hesitated. “At the risk of offending… I must confess that most human characteristics look universal to most Narseil. Even after considerable exposure. So we must depend somewhat on your judgment in the matter.”

Legroeder tried to look more offended than he actually felt, then realized that the expression was probably lost on the Narseil, anyway. “It would fool me,” he said. “You got any others?”

There was one more, which looked like his face molded from putty. Legroeder shook his head. “Nope. If it has to be one of these, give me the umbrella-head.”

Com’peer and several other Narseil conferred, then Com’peer said, “Very well. That is what we will do. Do you have any requirements before we begin the procedure?”

Besides packing my bag and leaving? Legroeder sighed heavily. “I guess not. You mean, now? Let’s get it over with, then.”

They put him back on the padded table, and this time put him under a light sleep. He started to protest—did he trust them to do this right without his oversight?—but it was already too late. The sleep-field slipped over his thoughts like a fine, downy comforter and his thoughts drifted away.

He dreamed of rows of corn growing on the top of his head, and the wind sighing through his hair.

He awoke feeling clear headed, and asked to see a mirror.

“Dear God, how long was I asleep?” he gasped, when they led him to a seeing wall. His face was white, and his hair had turned light grey and been shaped into a wide, snub-topped cone, extending about four inches out from the sides of his head. It was at least ten inches longer than it had been when he went to sleep. He touched it hesitantly; it felt synthetic. But it wasn’t; it tugged at his scalp roots as he moved his head from side to side.

“About fourteen hours,” said Com’peer, walking into the room. “How do you like it?”

Legroeder was having trouble breathing. “My skin! I’m bleach white!”

“Well, it’s not quite that—”

“Fish-belly white! You didn’t tell me you were going to do that to me!”

Com’peer waved her hands. “We felt that it was necessary.”

“For what? ”

“To ensure your anonymity. The other changes seemed insufficient, when we saw them.”

Legroeder patted his skin, scowling at himself and at the surgeon in the reflection. What the hell was wrong with this mirror, anyway? Then he realized that the surgeon, who was standing to his right, was also to his reflection’s right. It wasn’t a mirror; it was a projection of his image, without left and right reversal. Damned disorienting. He shut his eyes for a moment. “What else have you done?”

Com’peer made a husky sound. “Well… we did change your DNA slightly—just enough to fool a scan.”

Legroeder gulped. “You changed my—”

“Only in your gonads. According to our reports, that’s where the raiders like to do their testing.”

“What?” His hands went instinctively below his belt.

One of the other Narseil said, “Apparently it is more accurate there.”

“Not more accurate,” corrected Com’peer. “Just more humiliating. It is a method of theirs.” She lowered her gaze as she studied her human patient. “That is something you needed to be warned about, in any case. You must be ready.”

Legroeder stared at her, appalled.

Com’peer seemed to relax a little, having delivered the bad news. “We can change you back if—forgive me, when —you return safely. And we only changed genome segments listed as inactive or cosmetic. So it’s not really a big thing.”

Speak for yourself.

“Good,” said Com’peer. “Now, if we’re through with the inspection and everyone’s happy, let’s get started with your training. Shall we?”

Shaking his head, Legroeder followed the others out of the room.

If he thought they were going to give him time to acclimate to the changes, he was wrong. Before he could blink, he was being subjected to lectures on combat and undercover operations, interspersed with physical training in everything from hand-to-hand combat to deep-cyber penetration of shielded intelligence systems.

The basic plan of action was simple enough. Their ship, posing as a passenger liner, would put itself in harm’s way, in a region of space known to be patrolled by ships of a certain raider tribe. Upon contact with a raider ship, the Narseil would be prepared for a diplomatic encounter if it occurred—but if attacked, they would attempt to capture the pirate ship, and then use it as a cover to make their way to its home base. Once at the raider outpost, their goal was to gather intelligence through the local networks, contact the underground, and get out as quickly as possible.

It was a risky plan, obviously. They were counting on a combination of Narseil fighting skill and potential assistance from their contacts in the raider organization. Indirect messages received from this outpost had suggested a possible interest in opening lines of communication with the outside. The problem was, the messages were of uncertain reliability; however, it seemed possible that they represented a genuine underground movement within the Free Kyber organization.

To the Narseil Command, it had seemed a risk worth taking—especially if, in the long run, it might lead to a reduction of hostilities.

“Academic El’ken is more hopeful about that than I am,” Mission Commander Fre’geel said during one discussion. “I doubt we’ll find this particular leopard changing its spots, as you might say. If someone is looking for us and wants to talk, we’ll talk. But I am operating on the assumption that this will be an undercover intelligence mission, from beginning to end. We can hope that any underground element that wants to find us, will. But we have no way of looking for them; we must assume that we are on our own. If we’re in a fight, we intend to win it. And not just win, but take captives and a flyable raider ship. That could be the hardest thing of all.”

“Except, perhaps, getting out again afterward,” Legroeder pointed out.

“Well, yes—there is that. And that is why everyone, including you, Rigger Legroeder, must be trained in all phases of combat. We might have to fight our way out.”

It was hard to argue with that line of reasoning, and Legroeder threw himself wholeheartedly into the training. After two days of lectures, rigger-sims, and hands-on training with Narseil weaponry, he was brought to a large cavern the size of a sports arena. From a balcony, he looked down on Narseil commandos in training—in one corner storming an office complex, in another working their way through a jungle setting ( a jungle? ), and in still another making their way deck by deck through a mockup of a ship, opposed by holographic adversaries. At one end of the balcony, he peered through a window into an enormous zero-gee chamber, where spacesuited teams were rehearsing a ship-to-ship assault.

“This way, please!” his trainer called. Legroeder turned from the window and dutifully followed to the suit-up room. Having gear fitted to him took two hours—and for the next two, he ran and climbed and shot—and tried not to be shot—all with a heavy pack on his back, and holo-enemies popping up like targets on an arcade game. At the end of a long obstacle course, he found himself being urged into a pool for water-borne hand-to-hand combat training.

That was where he reached his limit.