This was frustrating. How could he say to them that the drone looked just like one that had haunted his childhood? They'd probably send him back to the medical unit for brain scans.
"I can't say that I'd seen many war drones here," he said.
Spencer studied him for a short while, then shrugged. "There aren't many."
"Where's it from… has it been here for a while?" Cormac grimaced. "Drone or otherwise I'd like to thank it for getting me out of there."
"Hagren?" Spencer enquired, her use of the planet's name indicating that the AI using the crab drone behind her was the main planetary runcible AI.
"Amistad is a free drone and merely answered the call I put out for assistance. He is now no longer connected to the planetary net and is not responding to calls. I have no idea where he is."
"Amistad," Cormac repeated. "Do you have any other information about him?" As he finished speaking he wished he'd kept quiet, for now both Spencer and Olkennon were studying him carefully.
"There's something more to this," Spencer observed.
"I'm sure I've seen this drone before," Cormac admitted.
"Where?"
"On Earth—over ten years ago."
"I see," said Spencer, abruptly looking irritated. "Might I suggest you utilize your free time to research the matter?" Cormac nodded. "Now, let's get back to where we were." Spencer glanced across at Olkennon. "Obviously you no longer have a unit."
The Golem dipped her head.
"And, I understand," Spencer continued, "you'll be heading for… Cheyne III to train further recruits?"
"Such seems to be my burden," Olkennon replied.
Spencer turned back to Cormac. "You, Cormac, lack training and experience, but it seems that our masters," she glanced back at the crab drone, "feel, after your recent heroic efforts, prepared to take a risk with you." She picked something up from the table before her and gazed at it for a moment. "Though your warning enabled us to get the main battalion out of Dramewood there were still plenty of casualties there beforehand. A unit working there, directly for me, lost one of its members. The remaining three members of that unit have been observing this briefing, and it has only been down to their approval whether or not you replace their missing comrade. Apparently they approve."
She tossed something to him, fast, then smiled approvingly when he snatched this object from the air with his right hand. He opened his hand and gazed at a badge fashioned out of gold and platinum. It depicted a round shield with spears crossed behind it, topped with an ancient Greek hoplite war helm, all on a disc of milky crystal.
"Welcome to the Sparkind, Cormac."
"This is standard issue," said the medic. "I'd advise you to stick with it."
Cormac gazed at the augmentation lying on the plastic tray affixed to the side of the pedestal-mounted autodoc. It looked like a two-inch-long broad bean rendered in chrome. The aug was optional for most of those in the military and he'd seen many soldiers wearing them, but he had not been inclined to try such an invasive technology himself. Perhaps it was silly, but he felt a deep aversion to anyone tampering with what lay between his ears. He did not know where this aversion came from, and he had not noticed it in others. However, to become one of the Sparkind, wearing one of these things was now compulsory.
"But I have sufficient funds to pay for something more sophisticated," said Cormac. He still didn't like the idea of this, not one bit, but if he was going to have an aug, then he intended to have the best available.
"I give that advice every time," said the medic, "and mostly it is ignored."
"Then explain to me why you advise so."
"You understand that the aug makes nanofibre synaptic connections inside your skull?"
"Who doesn't understand that?"
The man grimaced. "You'd be surprised how many but, be that as it may. Up until recent years it hasn't been possible to disconnect those fibres or remove them from the skull. It is of course possible to remove the aug itself, but the fibres remain in place. They don't cause any harm, well, not much. This also means that the only kind of upgrade possible has been to the aug itself, not the fibres."
"Then surely that's a good reason to get the best one you can?" suggested Cormac.
"You'd think so, but no." The medic sighed, obviously groping for the best way to explain something complicated to this stupid soldier. "Methods of extracting the fibres are just becoming tenable, and meanwhile the sophistication of aug technology is advancing very fast. Within a year it will be possible to completely remove an aug like this one, however, it won't be possible to remove one of the more advanced ones presently available."
"Yes," said Cormac, not entirely sure what the man was driving at.
"What I'm saying is that for military purposes, the standard aug is more than adequate. You don't need to do any sophisticated modelling or need to put together an assault plan for an entire army, and I'm presuming you're not conducting any genetic research or studies of U-space mechanics?"
"No," said Cormac, still not entirely sure what point was being made here.
"Well," said the medic, "what I'm driving at here is that if you have one of the more sophisticated augs now, it will be outmoded within a few months and you won't be able to replace it. If you have this aug, it will be possible to remove it completely when you have decided, having used an aug for some time, what your requirements are, what aug you want. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," Cormac replied, but what really decided him was that "possible to remove completely" since he still did not like the idea of these things. "Go ahead and fit me with that one."
"If you would," the medic gestured to the surgical table
He sat on the table, lifted his legs up and lay back, his neck coming down into a V-shaped rest with his head overhanging the end of the table where various clamps were ready to be engaged. The medic quickly tightened these clamps then stepped back and swung the autodoc above Cormac's face.
"I've got your medical record on file," he said, "but I want to confirm that stuff about the editing."
Editing?
The underside of the doc was a nightmare thing—like looking at the underside of a woodlouse fashioned from chrome and glass.
"Close your eyes." He did so, and felt an intense glare and warmth traversing his face from forehead to chin. "Okay, that's done."
Cormac opened his eyes. "Editing?"
"Yes," said the medic thoughtfully, probably while studying the scan result. "Obviously it was done while you were a child, which seems rather drastic, but then it wasn't an uncommon occurrence during the war."
Now the doc, down beside his head, stabbed out one of its many appendages. Something stung at the base of Cormac's skull and suddenly his head turned into a dead rock, his vision seemed to be down a dark tunnel, his hearing distant, both divorced from reality. He could no longer speak, no longer ask questions, but what more information could this man provide? He would know only that Cormac had received cerebral editing during his childhood.
When something crunched on the side of his head, Cormac expected some sort of explanation of the sensation, but none was forthcoming. Of course, this man was a military medic, so did not possess the bedside manner of those who fitted augs to civilians. Next the inside of his skull felt as if it were filling with ice-water, and something began hurting behind his ear. Then, nowhere he could precisely locate, a lid opened on the imaginary third eye he now possessed.
"Raise your hand when the status text appears," the medic instructed.
The pain started to fade, and as it faded blue text appeared in the vision of that third eye and blinked intermittently: STATUS >