Abyss Deep by Ian Douglas

Aguirre.
    â€œNegative, Doc,” he replied. “The station translators aren’t programmed for it, whatever it is.”
    Figured. The station AI could translate between us and the Brocs, but we couldn’t understand this group of humans. I studied them as my analyzer churned away. They weren’t Chinese, certainly. No epicanthic folds. Their skin was swarthy; Middle Eastern, possibly.
    I took samples from the rest of them, eliciting reactions that ran the gamut from bored indifference to angry ­hostility.
    A few minutes later, my analyzer started to send back data, scrolling it down through my in-­head in a sudden cascade of alphanumerics. I couldn’t follow it all; genetics is not my specialty. But I caught a ­couple of key indicators as they flicked by: macro-­haplogroup K . . . paragroup L . . . haplogroups R1a1 and R2 . . . mutation M198 . . .
    The analyzer popped up a series of possible answers: a 65 percent probability of Central Asia, 22 percent South Asia, lesser percentages for portions of western China, Siberia, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe.
    I looked at the first man, who was still scowling at me. “Kazakh?” I asked.
    His nostrils flared, and he barked at me in the same unknown harsh and vehement language. The others looked frightened.
    â€œWe know they speak English,” Aguirre told me. “Some of ’em, anyway.”
    â€œBetcha that’s Turkic,” I told him. “Kazakh. Kyrgyz, Uzbek—­one of those.”
    â€œDamned Cackies,” Aguirre said.
    I looked at the sullen prisoners. “We don’t know it’s the Caliphate, Sarge.”
    â€œAw, c’mon, Doc! Who the fuck else would it be?”
    He had a point. The Central Asian Caliphate—­the western name usually shortened to “CAC” and pronounced “cack”—­was the Islamic theocracy sprawling from Azerbaijan to Sinkiang, notoriously volatile, notoriously anti-­Western, notoriously anti-­technology. They were known to sponsor neo-­Ludd terror all over the world. Allah, after all, hates anything not found in the holy Qur’an, including nanomedical life extension, educational downloads, and anything at all that changes the eternal heavens.
    I opened a channel to operations HQ back at Synchorbit. They had access to more complete haplogroup records than I did through the Net, and would be able to confirm the results. As the results came back down then link, a call came through my in-­head from Major Lansky, the Battalion CO. “This is . . . who? Carlyle?”
    â€œHM2 Elliot Carlyle, sir,” I said. “Second Platoon Corpsman.”
    â€œWhat’s this stuff you’re uploading?”
    â€œDNA readouts from five prisoners, sir. They would appear to be Central Asian.”
    â€œShit. You’re sure of that?”
    â€œAbout sixty-­five percent, sir.”
    â€œOkay. I—­” The transmission cut off in mid-­sentence.
    I waited, wondering what was going on up-­El. Abruptly, a sign popped up in my in-­head: S ECURITY BREACH: CONV ERSATION TERMINATED.
    What the fuck? And then something queried my AI.
    Normally my in-­head software handles routine e-­queries, everything from sales pitches for masculine enhancement genetic prosthetics to calls from home. It’s got a fairly comprehensive response list that lets it act as my personal secretary. It can even imitate me—­audio and video—­if need be, and most incoming traffic is either flagged for my attention or spam-­slammed.
    The thing is, nothing should have queried my personal AI while I was in the middle of a mission. Bad operational security, that. The only things that should be able to get through are military traffic or . . .
    I slapped a trace on the query. I didn’t catch it . . . but I did get an ID.
    GNN.
    The Global News Network would have a