The story of a shapeshifter
Bleak
The first mission
Ian Martyn
www.martynfiction.com
Copyright © 2015 by Ian Martyn.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Ian Martyn
www.martynfiction.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Bleak – The First Mission/ Ian Martyn. – 2nd ed.
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This 10,000 word novellette is the prequel to my book:
Bleak
The story of a shapeshifter
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My thanks to all those who take the time to enjoy my stories, it’s what keeps me writing.
One
Bleak studied the man in the cell. He was well within his abilities, he knew that, yet he was apprehensive. This was the first time. It was one thing knowing what you are capable of, the reality of it another. He had completed all the simulations, the training, but this was no drill. This was a living, breathing, human being.
‘You’re sure, Professor?’
Professor Morran placed a hand on Bleak’s shoulder. ‘Of course, Bleak, as you are. Your reserve is understandable. Trust me, it’s as natural to you as growing hair.’
Bleak nodded, he knew that. He was delaying, fear of the unknown. He knew that as well.
General Niias coughed. ‘I take it he is ready?’
The professor frowned. ‘He’s in the room, General. Why don’t you ask him?’
General Niias raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
Bleak picked up the cube. Almost everything the man was, had been, knew, were contained within it. He placed the finger and thumb of his left hand in the correct positions exposing his adapted nerve endings and opened the gate. As in the simulations he shunted the data into the adapted part of his brain. He could call upon it at any time, use it in exactly the same way as the man himself. When he was ready he would be Major Oldroyd.
‘So?’ General Niias said.
Bleak smiled. ‘It will not be a problem, general,’ he said. It wasn’t an imitation of the Major’s voice, it was the major’s voice.
Bleak entered his quarters and lay on the bed. His chest hurt every time he breathed, his jaw ached and his stomach churned. He forced down as much high protein food as he could without making himself sick, he needed to bulk out. The major was a few centimetres taller and fifteen kilos heavier than Bleak’s standard form. Having eaten, he slept. Deep, dreamless unconsciousness while his body reconfigured. He woke at two hourly intervals to consume more food. Ten hours later he hauled himself up, wincing as he did so and sat on the bed. There was a ring of bruising around his middle. He opened his mouth, testing. It was uncomfortable but not painful. He tried to stand, but his balance betrayed him and he flopped back down. He tried again. This time he remained upright. He took a deep breath and managed the three steps to the wall which he leaned against. Next five steps, these steadier as his brain adjusted. In the bathroom the mirror panned around his body. Some of the purple bruising was already turning yellow at the edges, testament to his powers of healing.
He focused on the face, now Major Oldroyd’s face, or very nearly. Bleak studied it. The eyes were brown with green flecks, the nose was wider than his own, the lips thinner. It was a mean face, he thought. As he stood there he delved into the Major’s thoughts and personality. Oldroyd had been a career officer before the rebellion. But, he’d been turned to the rebel cause early, after his home planet was attacked and his parents killed. Not that he’d seen a lot of them, or bore them much affection. He’d been only too glad to escape from that stinking backwater as he thought of it. However, a brief moment of righteous indignation against the lack of protection the Confederation had given his home world, and other more tangible inducements, had been enough to sway him for that first indiscretion. And once hooked there was no going back. Also, in his own mind, once he was committed to the rebels, why shouldn’t he take advantage of the situation to enrich himself along the way. After all, he was taking the risks.
Oldroyd was intelligent and emotionally cold, which meant he was careful and good. He’d spent five months in the general’s staff undetected. To sustain that situation also required some sophisticated hardware wired into his brain. Hardware the Confederation didn’t think the rebels had access to. Hence why they hadn’t looked for it. In the end it was personal greed that had given Major Oldroyd away. Stealing secrets is still stealing and once he was in that mind-set appropriating other objects of potential value had become hard to resist.
Two days later Bleak stood in front of the general and Professor Morran. The general walked round him nodding. ‘Remarkable.’ He turned to the professor. ‘The best yet and faster too. And the DNA markers?’
‘Of course,’ the professor said. ‘There would be little point in achieving this,’ he indicated to Bleak, ‘if we didn’t take care of the details. And what about your end, General?’
The general frowned at the implied rebuke in the professor’s voice. ‘Everyone’s been told Oldroyd was on a specific personal errand for me. Only I and my most trusted officers know the truth. So no one has any reason to suspect. If anything it might imply my increased trust in Oldroyd.’
‘It might,’ the professor repeated.
The general sniffed. ‘Fine, well, have him report to my office in the morning.’
‘You can tell him yourself, General,’ the professor said. ‘He’s still here.’
The general turned on his heel and marched out of the professor’s laboratory.
Bleak smiled. ‘I don’t think he likes me.’
The professor smiled in return as he handed Bleak Oldroyd’s SIMPA, Semi Intelligent Personal Assistant, standard naval issue. ‘Oh, he doesn’t like me either and the feeling’s mutual. No, Bleak, he doesn’t like what we represent. But it doesn’t stop him using either of us when it suits him.’
The SIMPA bleeped as it recognised Oldroyd. Bleak watched out of the corner of his eye as it went through its boot-up routine.
‘Everything functioning?’
Bleak nodded. ‘Connected.’
Two