I, Synthorg: Synthorg Marines book 1, page 3
The ground quaked as if the entire planet were about to disintegrate. The sky turned scarlet. I thought a super-volcano had exploded somewhere in the vicinity. When I raised my head to see what was going on, the horizon was obfuscated by a wall of plasma several klicks high.
I could only gape at this huge explosion and wonder what could have caused it. The entire defense complex of our opponents had been annihilated—and I was the one who had done it.
Then I lowered my eyes and I saw the holes in my body armor. My abdomen was a gory mess. Blood and guts spilled through the holes. I hadn’t even realized that I’d been shot several times during my charge.
“Tess!” I yelled, collapsing on the ground.
Now that the adrenaline rush was over, my exhausted and broken body wouldn’t make it another step. I couldn’t even get up.
“Someone!” I shouted to my platoon through our comm channel. “Tess needs assistance!”
I was still in denial. The green blip on the mini-map that represented Tess was gone. Extinguished forever.
Suddenly, the hellish sky above me disappeared, dissolved into oblivion.
I was transported to a ballroom. Thousands of crystals glinted around me. The air was fresh with floral aromas. I heard laughs and exclamations. Someone clapped, someone shouted, “Excellently done, congratulations!”
Tables overflowed with food. Servants carried trays loaded with flutes of champagne. A tall Venatici male clad in a blue cloak raised his glass and proposed a toast. From the golden laurels on his shoulders, I concluded he was an admiral.
I saw humans too. Some of them wore expensive suits, while others were clad in Coalition uniforms. Several high-ranking members of the Coalition Space Forces and the army were assembled here.
“To the beginning of a long and mutually profitable collaboration,” the Venatici admiral proposed, raising his flute. His thin lips twisted in a satisfied smile.
“Chin-chin!” the guests replied in chorus.
The ballroom disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, and I was back to the battlefield, lying on the scorched ground, spilling blood and guts.
This was no battle; this was a weapons test, I realized.
I hoped all this was just an exercise, a hyper-realistic simulation in a virtual reality. I hoped I would wake up and find all my friends alive and well.
Alas, a virtual simulation it was not. The carnage was all too real. The dead would not wake up. Despite the enormous cost of this real-life weapons test, our masters would make a fortune, selling the latest military gadgets to their human allies.
I was supposed to be happy for my masters. For some reason, I was not. What was wrong with me?
I closed my eyes and waited for the big sleep.
05. Aftermath
People think synthorgs are machines. Mistake. We are biomimetic constructs. The difference is subtle, but important. Every synthorg is unique.
When we leave the factory, we can’t do anything. We can’t even walk. Our brain and our body have to be trained, and we learn as a human child would, although our nervous system develops a hundred times faster than that of a human. Our biomimetic neurons establish thousands of connections with one another, forming unique pathways through which information flows.
Yes, every synthorg is an individual. Every one of us is different and sentient. Are we endowed with free will? I would say yes, to the same extent as the biological sentients are. The difference, however, is that we are born into slavery.
Interesting factoid—every third synthorg never reaches the end of their training program. Any underperforming synthorg is deactivated and recycled when the neural pathways that form in our bodies are suboptimal to the task for which we had been created.
In the marines, selection was even more ruthless. Only a few percent of comsynts were admitted; the others were assigned to less prestigious legions or recycled.
Another interesting factoid—only the Venatici comsynts have genders and are indistinguishable from human beings. Most artificial sentients are androgynous. Why would our masters go to such trouble to create exact replicas of human beings? Perhaps you’ve guessed already—infiltration. Comsynts are trained to blend with the crowd, a vital skill during covert ops.
As our brains and our bodies are morphologically similar to that of human beings, we are prone to experience human emotion. A flaw our Venatici masters tolerate, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our ability to follow orders.
By disobeying a direct order from my legion legate, I had crossed the line. I should have been recycled.
So imagine my surprise when I woke up on a sick bay operating table, unshackled and fully functional.
My abdomen still hurt, but that was nothing. The pain was a dull residual effect of repairs conducted by the medtech who patched me up. I ran a self-diagnostic—all green, all systems were go.
No one tried to stop me when I stood. I was naked, but that didn’t matter. Synthorgs are not designed to be prudish. The medtechs in the repair center were busy tending to other marines and didn’t pay me any attention.
My black uniform was waiting for me, neatly folded on a low table beside the operating table. I dressed up and left the repair center, wondering why I’d been spared. Maybe Sam had some answers for me?
Map on screen.
A detailed map of the ship filled the HUD. I was on board the IMS Gravitas, a mega-carrier, a mobile space station the size of a city. Without an interactive 3D map, it would take a long time to find anyone.
I entered Sam’s full serial number into the search engine. A bright dot lit up on the map, just a few decks below my current position. I strode to the nearest elevator.
Then I stopped and recoiled as if seeing a ghost.
“Rabbit!”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was I going insane? Was I hallucinating? Was it another medtech?
No, I would have recognized my Rabbit anywhere. He had this spark in his eyes when he smiled. His child-like enthusiasm was so contagious.
“Reggs, buddy!” Rabbit spread his arms, but didn’t hug me. Such expression of emotion would not be permitted, so he contended himself with patting me on the shoulder.
“What the blast, Rabbit!” I exclaimed. “You got nine lives, or what?”
“Rabbit’s foot!” He grinned and raised his palm with pride, as if it were the most powerful weapon in the universe. “You know the ancient superstition? Good luck and all that?”
“I’m no expert on ancient lore,” I confessed.
“Oh, but you should read about it. Fascinating stuff.”
We took the elevator to our quarters.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I insisted. “How did you survive?”
“I did answer you.” He grinned again, showing two neat lines of impeccable while teeth. “The first time, when the Solaris was zeroing in on our bucket, I simply dropped to the ground. A rocky outcrop protected me from the blast. Insane luck, I’m telling you. The second time, when the Hornets were raining down on us, I ducked under a large piece of debris. A pit had been gouged beneath. I disappeared into a rabbit hole, you could say. After the impact, I was trapped and couldn’t get out.” His smile vanished as he added, “I missed most of the fight, sorry.”
The idea that my friend had decided to hide in a hole while his comrades were being slaughtered didn’t even cross my mind. Cowardice was not a trait any comsynt could ever develop.
“You’re the one who patched me up?” I asked.
“Yep, I’m used to saving your ass,” he teased me. “Your inner beauty, I know everything about it. Tell me, is there a single bone in your blasted body that hasn’t been broken?”
We reached our quarters. There wasn’t much to see, other than endless rows of lockers and stasis pods. Synthorgs don’t sleep, so we don’t need beds. We put ourselves on standby for 90 minutes every 24 hours—that’s called the self-maintenance cycle—and we spend this time in our stasis pods. The stasis field is not activated during those short periods, of course. It’s used only for prolonged periods of inactivity between ops.
I glanced at the locker that used to belong to Tess. Now it carried a different serial number. It was as if my Tess had never existed. She’d already been erased and replaced with another TSS.
“KIA,” I whispered. Killed in action. “Farewell, Tess.”
As Rabbit followed my gaze, his lips curled down, his usual joviality now gone. “I’m so sorry, buddy. I wasn’t there for her.”
“It wasn’t your fault, pal.” I set my hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.
“I heard from Sam that you tried to save her.”
“I did. I deviated from the protocol and disobeyed a direct order from the legate.”
Rabbit stared at me with round eyes. “You did what?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m wondering the same thing. How come I’m still alive?”
“Hmm, I think I know the answer to this one.” Rabbit’s eyes flashed with excitement again. “You’re a blasted hero, Reggs. Everyone in the legion is talking about you.”
“Of course. The legate could not terminate me. I’m the one who delivered their precious high-tech drone to the bunker and deployed it.”
Surely, I didn’t want that kind of celebrity. For a synthorg, that was a double-edged sword. Celebrity meant power, and a slave wasn’t supposed to have any.
“The legate has plans for you,” Rabbit added, confirming my suspicions. “You’ll probably be promoted. Sergeant at least. Don’t miss that chance, buddy. Go straight, avoid the sort of blunders you made with me and Tess, and you’ll go far. Maybe centurion, even prefect one day. You’ve got what it takes—you can make it.”
The Venatici Empire’s army consisted of legions, each one comprising 5,000 comsynts. There were ten cohorts per legion, five centuriae per cohort, two platoons per centuria, and five squads per platoon. A legion counted 100 officers, called centurions, all promoted from the ranks of comsynts.
A legion was commanded by the legion legate, invariably a Venatici. The second in command was a tribune, a more junior Venatici. The third in command was the legion prefect, invariably a comsynt. That was the highest rank a synthorg could possibly achieve. The prefects were the only synthorgs respected by our masters. They received some unique advantages: for example, prefects were furnished with private quarters, as well as the right to be tried by a military tribunal in case of disciplinary action—instead of being summarily deactivated by their master.
I’d heard rumors that, in some cases, prefects could retire after a century of service, but I thought that was only wishful thinking. This rumor had probably been spread by our masters to give us some glimmer of hope. Even synthorgs needed to be motivated.
Becoming a legion prefect was the ultimate accomplishment for any comsynt. I was touched by the confidence Rabbit had in my abilities, although I didn’t share it. I considered myself lucky enough to be in one piece.
06. A jealous god
“Proceed to debriefing,” instructed an artificial voice calling us on our imps.
My reunion with Rabbit was cut short. We joined the other members of our centuria and marched to the briefing room through the brightly lit corridors of the spaceship. As always, everything inside the ship was impeccably clean. An army of maintenance bots kept it that way, permanently chasing the smallest specks of dust. The floor was polished to the point that one could use it as a mirror.
I was puzzled as to why all the marines from our centuria had been summoned for the debriefing. Usually only the officers and the sergeants attended those.
The room was large enough to fit several centuriae. We formed a circle, and every comsynt knew exactly where they were supposed to stand. We were all at attention, still like statues. Even our eyes were immobile. We looked like mannequins in a clothing store, save that we wore the same black uniform with silver stripes on our shoulders.
Sam stood apart, his stripes shining with gold. He’d been promoted to centurion.
Mental note: Congratulate Sam on his well-deserved promotion. And don’t call him sarge anymore.
A holographic screen appeared in the middle of the room. For now, it displayed a slowly rotating 3D insignia of our legion.
I expected the centurion who was our commanding officer to lead the debriefing, but I was in for a surprise. The centurion stood at attention next to Sam.
A disc detached itself from the ceiling and slid down in a smooth movement. It was big enough to carry ten people, but only one figure stood on it. A Venatici.
Nero Septim Vlasto—I recognized him immediately. As with most Venatici, he had pale skin and black shoulder-length hair. Hands behind his back, chin slightly lifted up, he had the bearing of an individual who wielded considerable power. Dark circles around his steel-gray eyes were the only indicators of his age. Theoretically, the Venatici can live forever, as they don’t grow old and are immune to almost all diseases. The darkening of the skin around their eyes is the only physiological change they experience as centuries go by.
The Venatici do not reproduce biologically. Every one of them has been genetically engineered and enhanced with the most sophisticated bionic nanotech. They believe they have evolved beyond humanity and consider themselves a post-human species.
Vlasto stepped from the disk and stared at me. My muscles tensed. I barely dared to breathe.
“I want to be proud of you.” His voice was powerful, if a bit high-pitched for a Venatici male. He spoke with a slight accent typical of the inhabitants of Erebo Caelis—the capital world of the Empire—rolling the Rs.
He made a few steps toward my squad. I still had no idea what he intended to do with me. Surely, he wouldn’t ignore my act of disobedience.
“I created you,” Vlasto continued. “I oversaw your training. I personally approved each one of you for active duty. You owe me your lives.” Vlasto hammered every word of the last sentence, as if he wanted to make sure that they would be etched in our minds.
Then he stopped and added in a more relaxed tone, “Do you know why we fight?”
We? I’ve never seen a Venatici on a battlefield. I repressed this thought as soon as it cropped up in my mind. Dangerous ideas like that had to be banished.
“Anyone? Come on, show some courage. Can anyone tell me why we fight?”
“WE FIGHT AND DIE FOR THE GLORY OF THE EMPIRE!” we shouted in chorus.
Vlasto raised his hands and bowed his head slightly, almost with humility. “Certes, certes. At ease, marines. I don’t doubt your loyalty. I am asking you, do you understand what is really at stake?”
This time, no one peeped a word, as Vlasto’s eyes swept through our rank.
“Very well, I will enlighten you. Do you know what happened 2070 standard years ago? The Fall—as humans call it. The most catastrophic event in recorded history. That year, all human IT systems throughout the galaxy failed. All data stored in electronic formats was wiped out. At that time, the humans had even more advanced technology than the Venatici. But they were so dependent on their IT that their entire society collapsed as a result of this event. Only the Venatici were spared by the Fall.”
I wondered what that had to do with the op I’d just survived, the one that had cost the lives of so many of my comrades. Of course, I didn’t dare to open my mouth and ask this question.
“Across the galaxy, humans renounced all advanced tech and returned to a pre-industrial lifestyle,” the legate continued. “They sought salvation in religion. For a thousand years the Helixian Church enforced a prohibition on technology. Only after several centuries of ignorance, superstition, and ruthless religious repression did the humans begin to rediscover science; and even then, the Helixian Church used all its power to hinder technological progress.”
Vlasto’s eyes stopped on Rabbit. I could almost smell his fear.
“The Venatici were instrumental in restoring civilization to the galaxy,” the legate resumed. “Not only did we preserve our technology and our culture, but we also shared our tech with the humans. We helped them to recover from the Fall. We nurtured their societies back to health. Such is the creed of the Venatici Empire—protect the galactic civilization against any threats; preserve science, technology, culture, and peace.”
Vlasto paused, probably to give us time to process this information. I was still puzzled as to why our master had wasted his time giving a bunch of comsynts a history lesson.
“You are probably wondering what those threats are.” He turned to the hologram in the center of the room.
Lights dimmed, and the screen displayed a detailed 3D map of the galaxy.
I always found this sight awe-inspiring: the majestic arms of the Milky Way spinning slowly, each carrying billions of stellar systems. We tend to forget how huge the galaxy is—300 billion stars. And how many inhabited planets? Millions, with many more millions of planets yet to be colonized.
The territory controlled by the Venatici Empire was highlighted in purple on the map. It comprised mainly the northern part of the Centaurus arm, a region located at the edge of the galactic disk. A few centuries ago, the Empire dominated the entire galaxy. I never understood why the Venatici had decided to retreat to the Centaurus arm. As far as I knew, the humans never rebelled against them—at least not openly.
The red dot of Vlasto’s laser pointer flew over a vast swath of the galactic disk highlighted in yellow. “This is the GCC, the Coalition, which emerged as one of the dominant human powers in the wake of the Great Galactic War.”
The territory controlled by the Coalition looked like a golden crescent that went around the Galactic Bulge and comprised most of the Sagittarius and the Perseus arms, the most densely populated regions of the galaxy.
“Other friendly states are shown in green.” A spatter of green dots and small spheres appeared on the map. “But not all human worlds are friendly,” Vlasto said darkly. “We have classified the remaining worlds in three categories: white—no immediate danger; orange—worlds to watch closely; and red—declared enemies of the Coalition. Two decades ago, the situation was as follows.”
