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A burst of dead jellyfish shattering. One lion called Yttrium leaps to protect her kill as one lion called Gadolinium and one lion called Zinc crash through the tin corpse-mounds. Their fur bristles. Their snarls drip saliva. They wrestle without play. Birds flee up to the tops of the tallest trees. Two lions land so heavy the steelveldt shakes. One lion called Yttrium searches for them in the watering hole. She finds them standing on either side of a warm flat stone. They do not move. They do not bristle. They do not wrestle or play.
“I don’t want you that way, Nikolai!” one lion called Gadolinium growls in the steelveldt. He has landed on top. He pants. His eyes shine.
“I’m sorry,” whimpers one lion called Zinc. “Oliver, come on, I’m sorry. It was stupid, I’m stupid.”
“I have a husband at home,” roars one green lion and the smallgod DRIVERMECHANIC inside him. “I have a home at home.”
“I know,” answers the smallgod INFANTRYMAN inside one lion called Zinc.
One lion called Gadolinium digs his claws into the chest of one lion called Zinc. “You don’t know anything. You’ve never stuck around with anyone longer than it took to fuck them. You swagger around like a cartoon and you think none of us can see what a scared little kitten you are, well, I got news for you—we can all see. I left more life than you’ll ever have.”
One lion called Zinc twists and springs free. Two lions face each other on steady paws. “You’re probably right. But it goes with the job. We never stay anywhere longer than it takes to drink a little and fuck a little and kill a little and pack it all up again, so from where I sit, you’re the idiot, making poor Andrew pine away his whole life back in whatever suburb of Nothingtown spat the two of you out. As for the swagger, I like swaggering. So fuck off. I was offering a little human contact, that’s all. It’s called comfort, you prig.”
Wracking dry sobs come coughing up out of the black mouth of one lion called Gadolinium. “I’m so fucking lonely, Niko. It sounds like the most obvious thing in the world to say. I’m surrounded by people all the time and I’m so fucking lonely. I do my job, I eat, I stand my watch, and all the time I’m just thinking I’m lonely I’m lonely I’m lonely over and over.”
“Everybody’s lonely,” purrs one lion called Zinc. His stripes gleam dark in the sun of the steelveldt. “You don’t volunteer for this job if you’re not already a lonely bastard who was only happy like four days in his entire dumb life. So stop being dumb and kiss me. Tomorrow we’ll probably get our faces burned off before breakfast.”
One lion called Yttrium returns to the dish of the sunspot lizard’s skull. She feels the sensation of worry. She remembers other days and nights when every lion hunted as a lion and she heard no sacred speech for evenings on top of evenings. Now her ears ache and the sacred speech fills her own mouth like soft meat. One lion called Yttrium thinks these things as she begins the journey to the steelveldt Szent Istvan for the birth of her young by one lion called Tellurium and one lion called Tungsten. She wonders if the lions in the steelveldt Szent Istvan speak so often as the lions of the steelveldt Vergulde Draeck.
The light of the watering hole washes one lion called Tantalum. She stands in the lagoon. Her fur ridge stands erect.
“Form up! Form up! Secure the perimeter!” the smallgod SQUADLEADER inside one lion cries.
This time, one lion called Yttrium listens. She must listen. Her body knows how to listen. How to form up. How to understand the idea of perimeter. She turns away from the road to the steelveldt Szent Istvan. She never takes her eyes from one lion called Tantalum in the watering hole as she crosses back into the steelveldt Vergulde Draeck. She crosses the part of the steelveldt where the million black dead snakes sprawl but never rot. The smallgod MEDICALOFFICER send the words electro-plasmic wiring into her skull like a twig into the brain pan of a lizard. In the watering hole one lion called Tantalum roars:
“Enemy will come in range at 0900!”
One lion called Yttrium crosses the part of the steelveldt where the wings of the billion dead butterflies lie shattered. The smallgod MEDICALOFFICER writes the words navigational arrays on the inside of her eyelids. In the watering hole, one lion called Radium approaches one lion called Tantalum. The smallgod GUNNERMAN inside one lion rumbles:
“Nathan, this is a shitty life and you know it. We should have majored in Literature.”
One lion called Tantalum roars another form up! before answering: “Yeah? You ever tried to write a poem, Izzie? You’d get two lines
into a damn haiku and quit because it didn’t shoot lasers of death and kickback into your teeth.”
One lion called Yttrium crosses into the part of the steelveldt where the hundred thousand dead silver scorpions lie barbed and broken. The smallgod MEDICALOFFICER wraps the words weapons hold around her heart.
One lion called Radium laughs so that her black teeth catch the heavy gold light of the endless dusk of the watering hole. “True. Drink?”
“Drink,” agrees the smallgod SQUADLEADER from inside one striped green male.
One lion called Yttrium crosses into the part of the steelveldt where the husks of giant redpaw fruit lie broken open. The smallgod MEDICALOFFICER pushes the words radioactive sludgepack engine core into her soft palate. Other lions stand in formation. All of them carry the smallgod MEDICALOFFICER. All of them crackle with the musk of aggression. Their mouths glow blue. One lion called Yttrium experiences the sensation of a door opening and closing in a wall of ice. The experience takes place in her chest and in her muzzle. One lion called Yttrium stops. She becomes six hundred lions.
Six hundred lions called Emma roar.
Progress Report: Project Myrmidion
Logged by: Dr. Pietro S. Aguirre, Senior Research Fellow, V.S.S. Szent Istvan
Attention: Captain Griet Hulle, V.S.S. Johannesburg
Captain Bernard Saikkonen, V.S.S. Vergulde Draeck
This is a classic good news/bad news situation. The good news is that the project has achieved an enormous measure of success and is ready to deploy in small trials. I foresee few to no field issues. We recommend Planetoid 94BR110 (Snegurechka) for initial mid-range testing. There is a small colony of about fifteen hundred on Snegurechka, enough that any transcription errors will quickly become apparent. I have great confidence. We should be able to disperse the sludgeware into the atmosphere and, within six to eight days, have a squadron of about fifteen hundred fully trained soldiers, networked into a cooperative and highly adaptive real-time engagement matrix, which will program itself to conform to the cultural expectations of the subject in order to create a seamless installation. The population should split, more or less equally, among the eight typoprints specified. No adverse medical effects are anticipated. The sludge works with the organic material at hand, enhancing and fortifying it. If anything, they should end up in better health than before.
Now, the bad news. It has not proved possible to separate the skillsets of the typoprints from the personalities of the personnel from whom we pulled the prints. In a way, this makes sense—the process of learning is a deeply personal and individualized one. We do not only retain facts or muscle memory, but private contextual sense-tags. The smell of the foxglove growing in the summer when we took fencing lessons for the first time. The smeared lipstick of our childhood algebra teacher. Arguing about the fall of Rome with a fellow student who later became a lover. We cannot separate the engineer’s understanding of propulsion from the engineer’s boyfriend leaving her in the middle of her course, the VR game she played incessantly to blow off steam that summer, the terrible coffee at the shop near her dormitory. We may yet find a way to isolate the knowledge without the person, but it won’t happen soon, and I understand that time is of the essence. At the moment, the process of print transfer suppresses the original personality to varying degrees, and, as time passes, the domination of the print approaches total.
It doesn’t have to be bad news. The original squad consisted of basically stable personalities. They grew very close over the series of brief but intense missions we devised in order to achieve and log a full typoprint. (Casualty reports attached. Unfortunately, the final mission proved to be poorly chosen for research purposes.) They functioned excellently as a unit—they screwed around a lot, but these kinds of small squads usually do. Besides, no one expects these sludgetroops to last all that long. They are the definition of fodder. What difference does it make if they miss some guy back in Aberdeen for a few minutes before taking a shot to the head?
