The Lazarus War: Artefact by Jamie Sawyer

awkwardly as the brass bitched over something on the holo-viewer – a tri-dimensional graphic of a planet, caught in the orbit of two ugly-looking stars. After a few moments, I coughed to try to get someone’s attention.
    The group looked up as one.
    Cole was the largest: a man-mountain, despite his years behind a desk at Liberty Point . His skin was light coffee colour and his hair had grown out to a curly fuzz. He was originally from Hawaii, or so they said. He wore a military smart-suit, holo-medals displayed on the chest.
    Everyone on the Point knew who Cole was and what he did, and even before he had risen to the rank of general he had carved out quite a reputation as a decent commanding officer. Ruthless at times, but with a sound tactical mind. His nickname “Old Man Cole” had a dual meaning – a hangover of ancient military tradition, but also meant ironically. Cole wasn’t particularly old for a general – that had been one of the criticisms levelled at him on his appointment to the role. He was a good enough senior officer, as far as I was concerned – but I had little respect, in general, for his sort.
    I moved into a salute, standing to attention. He waved me down.
    “No formalities, trooper,” Cole said, voice gravelly. He gave a broad smile. “At ease. We’ve been expecting you. We’ve met before, I think – back in seventy-seven, during the evacuation of Sigma Base?”
    I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
    Using formal military address – sir, general and the rest – felt stilted and unreal to me. On most sim teams formality was actively discouraged, and my unit was no exception.
    “You’ve met Mr Olsen already, I understand.”
    Olsen was one of the figures seated at the table. He was a big, flabby man in real life; well into middle-age, marked by a life of lab-work. He wore a white smock, buttoned to his fat neck. His greyed hair was thinning, swept over a balding pate. Despite his age, he beamed a smile with child-like enthusiasm. While I had some regard for Cole, I had none for Olsen or the rest of the scientific contingent on the Point . It was others like him who had suggested the Treaty and led us to this impossible impasse.
    “That was an illuminating experience out in the Quarantine Zone, Captain,” Olsen gushed. “I’ve never felt anything like it. Disconcerting, but interesting.”
    I remembered his shaking body both aboard the New Haven , during the Krell attack, and back on the Point , after our extraction. Olsen certainly didn’t look as though he had enjoyed the experience on either of those occasions. Maybe hindsight, or the gathered company, had altered his perceptions. His observational role on the Haven had been an opportunity to prove me wrong – to displace my preconceptions – but Olsen had failed dismally.
    “I’m glad you found it so,” I replied, and kept the rest to myself.
    “You’re a problem-solver, aren’t you Harris? A real problem-solver,” Cole interrupted. He mulled over the words for a moment. “We’ve got a problem that we need solving.”
    The third and fourth men at the table were both civilians. One of them was scanning a data-slate.
    “I’m Mr Jostin – a civilian adviser working with the current military operation. I’ve perused your file extensively. Well-versed in the War, aren’t you, Captain? Involved in over two hundred operations out there so far, many of key tactical importance. You’ve been into the Maelstrom on three occasions, as I understand it.”
    “I can neither confirm nor deny that,” I said. “If I have been involved in such operations, they would – strictly speaking – involve contravention of the Treaty. Any such operations would be classified.”
    He looked up over the slate and raised an eyebrow at that. “If they existed, of course.”
    “Would you prefer Captain Harris, or Lazarus?” said the fourth man, with a cultured but implacable accent. He didn’t wait for a reply; that was enough to let me know that