“That’s right,” Robbins said. “It wasn’t until we got your report that we put two and two together, General Szilard.”
“I’m glad the information was useful,” Szilard said. “I wish you had put two and two together earlier. I find the idea that Military Research had a traitor in its ranks—and as the head of an extremely sensitive division—appalling. You should have known.”
Robbins said nothing to this; to the extent that Special Forces had any reputation at all beyond its military prowess, it was that its members were profoundly lacking in tact and patience. Being three-year-old killing machines didn’t leave much time for social graces.
“What was to know?” Mattson said. “Boutin never gave any indication he was turning traitor. One day he’s doing his work, the next we find him a suicide in his lab, or so we thought. No note. No anything that suggests he had anything on his mind but his work.”
“You told me earlier that Boutin hated you,” Szilard said to Mattson.
“Boutin did hate me, and for good reason,” Mattson said. “And the feeling was mutual. But just because a man thinks his superior officer is a son of a bitch doesn’t mean he’s a traitor to his species.” Mattson pointed to Robbins. “The colonel here doesn’t particularly like me, either, and he’s my adjutant. But he’s not going to go running to the Rraey or the Enesha with top-secret information.”
Szilard looked over at Robbins. “Is it true?” he said.
“Which part, sir?” Robbins said.
“That you don’t like General Mattson,” Szilard said.
“He can take some getting used to, sir,” Robbins said.
“By which he means I’m an asshole,” Mattson said, with a chuckle. “And that’s fine. I’m not here to win popularity contests. I’m here to deliver weapons and technology. But whatever was going through Boutin’s head, I don’t think I had much to do with it.”
“So what was it then?” Szilard said.
“You’d know better than we would, Szi,” Mattson said. “You’re the one with the pet Rraey scientist that you’ve taught to squeal.”
“Administrator Cainen never met Boutin personally, or so he says,” Szilard said. “He doesn’t know anything about his motivations, just that Boutin gave the Rraey information on the most recent BrainPal hardware. That’s part of what Administrator Cainen’s group was working on—trying to integrate BrainPal technology with Rraey brains.”
“Just what we need,” Mattson said. “Rraey with supercomputers in their heads.”
“He didn’t seem to be very successful with the integration,” Robbins said, and looked over to Szilard. “At least not from the data your people recovered from his lab. Rraey brain structure is too different.”
“Small favors,” Mattson said. “Szi, you have to have gotten something else out of your guy.”
“Outside of his specific work and situation, Administrator Cainen hasn’t been terribly useful,” Szilard said. “And the few Eneshans we captured alive were resistant to conversation, to use a euphemism. We know the Rraey, the Enesha and the Obin are allied to attack us. But we don’t know why, how or when, or what Boutin brings into the equation. We need your people to figure that one out, Mattson.”
Mattson nodded to Robbins. “Where are we with that?” he asked.
“Boutin was in charge of a lot of sensitive information,” Robbins said, pitching his answer to Szilard. “His groups handled consciousness transfer, BrainPal development and body-generation techniques. Any of that could be useful to an enemy, either to help it develop its own technology or to find weaknesses in ours. Boutin himself was probably the leading expert on getting minds out of one body and into another. But there’s a limit to how much of that information he could carry. Boutin was a civilian scientist. He didn’t have a BrainPal. His clone had all his registered brain prostheses on him, and he’s not likely to have gotten a spare. Prostheses are tightly monitored and he’d have to spend several weeks training it. We don’t have any network record of Boutin using anything but his registered prosthesis.”
“We’re talking about a man who got a cloning vat past you,” Szilard said.
“It’s not impossible that he walked out of the lab with a store of information,” Robbins said. “But it’s very unlikely. It’s more likely he left only with the knowledge in his head.”
“And his motivations,” Szilard said. “Not knowing those is the most dangerous thing for us.”
“I’m more worried about what he knows,” Mattson said. “Even with just what’s naturally in his head, that’s still too much. I have teams pulled off their own projects to work on updating BrainPal security. Whatever Boutin does know we’re going to make obsolete. And Robbins here is in charge of combing through the data Boutin left behind. If there’s anything in there, we’ll find it.”
“I’ll be meeting with Boutin’s former tech after we’re done here,” Robbins said. “Lieutenant Harry Wilson. He says he has something I might find interesting.”
“Don’t let us hold you up,” Mattson said. “You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Robbins said. “Before I go, I’d like to know what sort of time constraint we’re working under here. We found out about Boutin by attacking that base. No doubt the Eneshans know we know about their plans. I’d like to know how much time we think we have before a retaliation.”
“You have some time, Colonel,” Szilard said. “Nobody knows we attacked that base.”
“How can they not know?” Robbins said. “With all due respect to Special Forces, General, it’s difficult to hide that sort of assault. “
“The Eneshans know they’ve lost contact with the base,” Szilard said. “When they investigate, what they’re going to find is that a rocky chunk of comet the size of a football field hit the planet about ten klicks from the base, obliterating it and everything else in the immediate area. They can run all the tests they want; nothing will show anything but evidence of a natural catastrophe. Because that’s what it was. It just had a little help.”
“This is very pretty,” Colonel Robbins said, gesturing at what looked like a miniature light show on Lieutenant Harry Wilson’s holographic display. “But I don’t know what you’re showing me here.”
“It’s Charlie Boutin’s soul,” Wilson said.
Robbins pulled himself away from the display and looked up at Wilson. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
Wilson nodded toward the display. “It’s Charlie’s soul,” he repeated. “Or more accurately, it’s a holographic representation of the dynamic electrical system that embodies the consciousness of Charles Boutin. Or a copy of it, anyway. I suppose if you want to be philosophical about it, you could argue whether this is Charlie’s mind or his soul. But if what you say about Charlie is true, he’s probably still got his wits about him, but I’d say he’s lost his soul. And here it is.”
“I was told this sort of thing is impossible,” Robbins said. “Without the brain the pattern collapses. It’s why we transfer consciousness the way we do, live body to live body.”
“Well, I don’t know that it’s why we transfer consciousness the way we do,” Wilson said, “since I think people would be a lot more resistant to letting a CDF technician suck their mind out of their skull if they knew it was just going to sit in computerized storage. Would you do it?”
“Christ, no,” Robbins said. “I nearly wet myself as it was when they transferred me over.”
“My point exactly,” Wilson said. “Nevertheless, you’re right. Up until this”—he motioned at the hologram—“we couldn’t do it even if we wanted to.”
“So how did Boutin do it?” Robbins asked.
“He cheated, of course,” Wilson said. “Before a year and a half ago, Charlie and everyone else had to work with human-derived technology, or whatever technology we could borrow or steal from other races. And most other races in our part of space have more or less the same level of technology as we do, because weaker races get kicked off their lan
d and die off or get killed. But there’s one species who is light-years ahead of everyone else in the neighborhood.”
“The Consu,” Robbins said, and pictured one in his mind: large, crab-like and almost unknowably advanced.
“Right,” said Wilson. “The Consu gave the Rraey some of their technology when the Rraey attacked our colony on Coral a couple years back, and we stole it from them when we counterattacked. I was part of the team assigned to reverse-engineer the Consu tech, and I can assure you that most of it we still don’t understand. But one of the bits we could get our brains around we gave to Charlie to work with, to improve the consciousness transfer process. That’s how I came to work with him; I taught him how to use this stuff. And as you can see, he’s a quick study. Of course, it’s easy to get things done when your tools improve. With this we went from banging rocks together to using a blowtorch.”
“You didn’t know anything about this,” Robbins said.
“No,” Wilson said. “I’ve seen something like this—Charlie used the Consu technology to refine the consciousness transfer process we have. We can create a buffer now that we couldn’t before, which makes the transfer a lot less susceptible to failure on either end of the transfer. But he kept this trick to himself. I only found it after you told me to go looking through his personal work. Which was a lucky thing, since the machine I found this on was slated to be wiped and transferred to the CDF observatory. They want to see how well Consu tech models the inside of a star.”
Robbins motioned to the hologram. “I think this is a little more important.”
Wilson shrugged. “It’s actually not very useful in a general sense.”
“You’re joking,” Robbins said. “We can store consciousness.”
“Sure, and maybe that is useful. But you can’t do much with it,” Wilson said. “How much do you know about the details of consciousness transfer?”
“Some,” Robbins said. “I’m not an expert. I was made the general’s adjutant for my organizational skills, not for any science background.”
“Okay, look,” Wilson said. “You noted it yourself—without the brain, the pattern of consciousness usually collapses. That’s because the consciousness is wholly dependent on the physical structure of the brain. And not just any brain; it’s dependent on the brain in which it arose. Every pattern of consciousness is like a fingerprint. It’s specific to that person and it’s specific right down to the genes.”
Wilson pointed to Robbins. “Look at your body, Colonel. It’s been deeply modified on a genetic level—you’ve got green skin and improved musculature and artificial blood that has several times the oxygen capacity of actual blood. You’re a hybrid of your own personal genetics and genes engineered to extend your capabilities. So on a genetic level, you’re not really you anymore—except for your brain. Your brain is entirely human, and entirely based on your genes. Because if it wasn’t, your consciousness couldn’t transfer.”
“Why?” Robbins asked.
Wilson grinned. “I wish I could tell you. I’m passing along what Charlie and his lab crew told me. I’m just the electron pusher here. But I do know that it means that this”—Wilson pointed to the hologram—“does you no good as it is because it needs a brain, and it needs Charlie’s brain, in order to tell you what it knows. And Charlie’s brain has gone missing along with the rest of him.”
“If this is no damn use to us,” Robbins said, “then I’d like to know why you had me come down here.”
“I said it’s not very useful in a general sense,” Wilson said. “But in a very specific sense, it could be quite useful.”
“Lieutenant Wilson,” Robbins said. “Please get to the point.”
“Consciousness isn’t just a sense of identity. It’s also knowledge and emotion and mental state,” Wilson said, and motioned back to the hologram. “This thing has the capacity to know and feel everything Charlie knew and felt right up to the moment he made this copy. I figure if you want to know what Charlie’s up to and why, this is where you want to start.”
“You just said we needed Boutin’s brain to access the consciousness,” Robbins said. “It’s not available to us.”
“But his genes are,” Wilson said. “Charlie created a clone to serve his purposes, Colonel. I suggest you create one to serve yours.”
“Clone Charles Boutin,” General Mattson said, and snorted. “As if one wasn’t bad enough.”
Mattson, Robbins and Szilard sat in the general’s mess of Phoenix Station. Mattson and Szilard were having a meal; Robbins was not. Technically speaking the general’s mess was open to all officers; as a practical matter no one under the rank of general ever ate there, and lesser officers entered the mess only on the invitation of a general and rarely took more than a glass of water. Robbins wondered how this ridiculous protocol ever got started. He was hungry.
The general’s mess sat at the terminal of Phoenix Station’s rotational axis and was surrounded by a single shaped, transparent crystal that comprised its walls and ceiling. It gave an astounding view of the planet Phoenix, which circled lazily overhead, taking up nearly the entire sky, a perfect blue-and-white jewel whose resemblance to Earth never failed to give Robbins a sharp jab in the homesickness centers of the brain. Leaving Earth was easy when one was seventy-five and the option was death of old age within a few increasingly short years. But once you left you could never go back; the longer Robbins lived in the hostile universe the human colonies found themselves in, the more fondly he remembered the flabby but relatively carefree days of his fifties, sixties and early seventies. Ignorance was bliss, or at the very least was more restful.
Too late now, Robbins thought, and directed his attention back to Mattson and Szilard. “Lieutenant Wilson seems to think it’s the best chance we have of understanding what was going on in Boutin’s head. In any event, it’s better than what we have now, which is nothing.”
“How does Lieutenant Wilson know that it’s Boutin’s brain-wave he’s got in his machine? That’s what I want to know,” Mattson said. “Boutin could have sampled someone else’s consciousness. Shit, it could be his cat, for all we know.”
“The pattern is consistent with human consciousness,” Robbins said. “We can tell that much because we transfer hundreds of consciousnesses every day. It’s not a cat.”
“It was a joke, Robbins,” Mattson said. “But it still might not be Boutin.”
“It’s possible it could be someone else, but it doesn’t seem likely,” Robbins said. “No one else in Boutin’s lab knew he was working on this. There was no opportunity to sample anyone else’s consciousness. It’s not something you could take from someone without them noticing.”
“Do we even know how to transfer it?” General Szilard asked. “Your Lieutenant Wilson said it was on a machine adapted from Consu technology. Even if we want to use it, do we know how to do it?”
“No,” Robbins said. “Not yet. Wilson seems confident he can figure it out, but he’s not an expert in consciousness transference.”
“I am,” Mattson said. “Or at least I’ve been in charge of the people who are long enough to know about it. The process involves physical brains as well as the consciousness that’s carried over. For this we’re down one brain. Not to mention there are ethical issues.”
“Ethical issues?” Robbins said. He failed to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Yes, Colonel, ethical issues,” Mattson said, irritably. “Believe it or not.”
“I didn’t mean to question your ethics, General,” Robbins said.
Mattson waved it away. “Forget it. The point stands. The Colonial Union has a long-standing law against cloning non-CDF personnel, alive or dead, but especially alive. The only time we clone humans is to stuff people back into unmodified bodies after their term of service is done. Boutin is a civilian, and a colonist. Even if we wanted to, we can’t legally clone him.”
“Boutin made a clone,” Robbins said.
“If it’s all the same
we won’t let the morals of a traitor guide us in this, Colonel,” Mattson said, irritated again.
“You could get a research dispensation from Colonial law,” Robbins said. “It’s been done before. You’ve done it before.”
“Not for something like this,” Mattson said. “We get dispensations when we test weapons systems on uninhabited planets. Start messing with clones and some of the more reactionary types get a twitch in their skulls. Something like this wouldn’t even get out of committee.”
“Boutin’s a key to whatever the Rraey and their allies have planned,” Robbins said. “This might be a time to take a page from the U.S. Marines and beg forgiveness rather than ask permission.”
“I’d admire your willingness to hoist the Jolly Roger, Colonel,” Mattson said. “But you’re not the one they’ll shoot. Or not the only one.”
Szilard, who had been chewing a steak, swallowed and set down his utensils. “We’ll do it,” he said.
“Pardon?” Mattson said.
“Give the consciousness pattern to Special Forces, General,” Szilard said. “And give us Boutin’s genes. We’ll use them to craft a Special Forces soldier. We use more than one set of genes to make every soldier; technically, it won’t be a clone. And if the consciousness doesn’t take, it will make no difference. It will just be another Special Forces soldier. There’s nothing to lose.”
“Except that if the consciousness does take, we’ll have a Special Forces soldier with treason on his mind,” Mattson said. “That doesn’t sound appealing.”
“We can prepare for that,” Szilard said, and picked up his utensils again.
“You’ll be using genes from a live person, and a colonist,” Robbins said. “My understanding was that Special Forces only took the genes from CDF volunteers who die before they can serve. That’s why they’re called ‘the Ghost Brigades.’”