Shane-4 sat at a table, his metal hands folded on its surface. He gazed at them, rather than at Commander Zavala, who sat across from him, recording his report.
"Standard surveillance mission on Mars," Shane was saying. "Around the foothills of Arsia Mons. We'd scouted that area three days in a row with no mishap. Cabal were dug into a bunker there, not much movement. Fourth day, satellites said the Cabal were moving north. We moved to a position to scope them out. Halfway there, we passed beneath a cliff, about three meters high. The Cabal had planted two snipers targeting our ghosts."
The commander's frown deepened a fraction, but he said nothing.
"We were riding sparrows," Shane-4 went on, never lifting his gaze from his folded hands. "Maxim-5 was my wingman. We should have been impossible to hit. Both our ghosts were out, scanning, as usual on scouting missions. Maxim's ghost just ... vanished in a flash of light. He braked, and they shot him next. My ghost pinpointed the snipers, which I neutralized with two grenades."
"Was Maxim-5 dead?" Zavala asked.
Shane nodded. "The slug penetrated his armor and passed through his heart. His ghost was scattered over a three-meter radius. He never had a chance, sir."
Zavala gazed at his tablet, frowning. As a member of the Awoken race, his skin was pale blue, with shimmers of Light visible in the veins on his forehead. Shane had trained under him in the Titan fighting discipline, and was immensely proud to call Zavala his commander. But now, the loss of his friend felt like he'd lost his core batteries. It was a horrible failure he couldn't reconcile.
Zavala straightened in the chair with a sigh. "If the Cabal have learned to target our ghosts, future Guardians must take precautions in dealing with them. Ghosts will have to remain phased at all times whenever there's risk of engagement. You, Shane-4, report to Exo Psych for analysis."
Shane nodded and rose to his feet. He saluted his commander, who acknowledged with a nod. "Take care of yourself, soldier. There aren't many Guardians left."
"Yes sir." Shane-4 left the quiet room and headed downstairs to Exo Psych. The Tower, where the Guardians were headquartered in the outer wall of the Last City, was all ups and downs with lots of stairs.
Shane, himself, was an Exo, or a robot body with human intelligence uploaded into it. He supposed that he had been human at one point, but after four reboots, the memories were long gone. He wore Titan armor, still dusty from the Mars deserts, and all he wanted right now was a long oil bath and a couple of stiff drinks. The Exo body processed organic material as fuel to charge the internal batteries. Certain types of alcohol did funny things to the processor, and by extension, the synthetic brain.
Exo Psych had a whole floor to itself, and looked like a cross between a hospital and a machine shop. Cubicles with beds inside were enclosed in great racks of machinery, ready to repair and rebuild.
Shane checked in and reported his reason for seeing a doctor: battlefield trauma. His green eye-lights dimmed a little as he wrote the words. Trauma caused the human mind to slowly begin rejection of the Exo body. This eventually led to death unless the Exo accepted a reboot, refreshing the human mind's hold, but erasing memories at random.
Shane-4 had only rebooted four times in his life, which put him as a very young Exo. He had met others who had rebooted fifteen or twenty times. Beyond that, they became more and more unstable, with people giving Banshee-44 plenty of space.
Maybe a reboot would be best. He'd forget the sight of Maxim-5's ghost exploding. No more memory of kneeling over his friend and seeing coolant bubbling out of a hole in his chest plate.
The doctor escorted him to a cubicle with two chairs in it. Shane took one, the doctor took the other.
"I'm Cairn-9," the doctor said, his mouth lighting gold with every word, as all Exos did. "Is this your first visit, Shane-4?"
"No," Shane said, staring at his hands. "I was here for my last reboot. But I don't remember the details."
"You wouldn't," Cairn said, tapping his tablet's screen. "Ah, here you are. Records show that battlefield trauma got to you then, too. Hive, looks like."
Hive. Naturally. Shane suppressed a shudder. He didn't want to remember them, their cobbled-together thralls and screaming wizards.
He also had no idea where he had rebooted the other times, or why. It may have been before the battle of the Twilight Gap, when there had been enough Guardians to man all six towers. But the Last City wasn't so well defended today.
Cairn looked at him expectantly. "What kind of trauma brings you here?"
Shane repeated his report in the same words he had used with Commander Zavala. It was easier to talk about it in a series of distant facts, leaving out Maxim's scream as his ghost was severed from him forever, the stench of his vital fluids as they poured into the dust. The inarticulate cry that Shane's ghost had made as it witnessed the death of its brother ghost and companion Guardian. Shane's ghost had phased into him and had said nothing since.
Cairn listened closely, noting down details on his tablet. Then he gave Shane a long, critical look. "Let's see your ghost."
Shane held out a hand and silently summoned the little robot. It appeared, a little star-shaped thing the size of his fist, with a round core in the center with a single blue eye-light.
Cairn produced his own ghost, which had beautiful golden scrollwork painted on its outer shell. It scanned Shane's ghost first, then Shane, himself.
"Hm," Cairn muttered, studying his tablet as his ghost uploaded its readings. "Have you two talked since then?"
Shane glanced at his ghost, which didn't look at him. "No sir. It's been pretty quiet."
Cairn looked at Shane's ghost sternly. "I know you're grieving, too. But you can't treat your Guardian like this. He needs you."
Shane's ghost jumped in midair, as if Cairn had jolted him with electricity. "Y-yes sir," he stammered.
Cairn studied Shane. "If you experience any symptoms of rejection - nausea, detachment, unease, sleep loss - come to me at once."
"Yes sir." Shane hadn't slept since Mars, three days ago. He had another reboot coming up, all right. Soon he'd be Shane-5 and forget all about his best friend. How many best friends had he lost and forgotten already?
"I'm putting you in for two weeks of medical leave," Cairn said, typing this in. "You can't be out in the field if you need a reboot. Get some rest."
"Yes sir."
The doctor dismissed him. Shane went to his quarters in the east wing of the tower - a tiny little room, barely big enough for a bed and a locker for his belongings.
As he stripped off his armor and donned civilian clothes, his ghost said, "I want to apologize, Shane."
"Don't," Shane replied. "I know why you've kept quiet."
Ghost floated at shoulder level, his eye and four facets scrunched together in an expression of sadness. "I've never seen another ghost die before. I never thought it could happen ... like that."
Shane wrapped himself in a cloak, throwing it over one shoulder like a thick scarf. "I just want to forget it. The Chunky Cluck opens soon. What say we buy a few drinks with our combat pay?"
Ghost continued to look unhappy. "Fine for you. I can't drink anything."
"I'll drink it for you." Shane pulled on a pair of soft synthetic-leather boots. "Nothing like a bottle of klatch to make your cares go away."
Ghost groaned. "It won't hold off the reboot forever, Shane. You know it's coming. I can't heal it."
Shane didn't answer because he didn't want to think about it. He strode out of the room, one more dashing Exo, and headed downstairs to the city streets. His Ghost zipped along beside him.
As they reached the streets, Shane snapped his fingers. Ghost phased into him at once. When Shane went out drinking, he liked to pretend that he wasn't a Guardian, hadn't been resurrected with the Traveler's light powering his circuits. It was hard enough being an Exo among humans without being a Guardian, too.
At night, the Last City came alive with street lights, neon signs, and people moving to and fro on business. High overhead, the moon-like being called the Traveler reflected the city's permaglow, glowing a faint gold against the stars. Shane glanced up at it. It hadn't moved or given any other sign of life since the Darkness had ended humanity's golden age. Yet still it hung there, supported by nothing. It couldn't be entirely dead, or it would have crashed to earth.
Shane ignored the brightly-lit shops and the enticing smells of spiced meat and fried potatoes. He headed toward a small shop on a corner with no windows and a bouncer standing outside the door. He was a burly human as broad as any of the frog-like Cabal. He nodded at Shane as the Exo entered the bar.
The bar was lit with low yellow lights over the various tables, with most of the light coming from behind the counter itself. All three races mingled among the tables, eating, drinking, talking, looking at tablets. The atmosphere was calm and relaxed - just what Shane wanted. He secured a bar stool and ordered a bottle of klatch.
Inside his head, his ghost said, "You haven't eaten in nine point three hours."
"So?" Shane thought, pouring himself a glass of the neon-blue liquid.
"So," his ghost said hesitantly, "even Exos react badly to klatch on an empty stomach."
"Maybe that's what I want," Shane thought. He drank the glass to to the bottom, and refilled it. The liquor burned its way into his processor, where it raised his internal temperature by half a degree.
Nearby, someone swore in admiration, then laughed. Shane glanced around.
A human woman sat on the next stool, leaning her elbows on the polished counter. She had olive skin and long, curly hair that cascaded over one shoulder. She wore a simple crisscross tunic with a wide belt, and leggings tucked into high boots.
"What?" Shane said. The liquor wasn't working as fast as he wanted - he could still think straight.
"You downed that klatch like it was water," the woman said, still half-laughing. "If I tried that, I'd be missing an esophagus."
"Klatch was made for one thing," Shane said. "Getting Exos drunk." He tipped the bottle in her direction. "Want some?"
She held up both hands. "No thanks, I can't handle that stuff. By the way, I'm Cindra."
"Shane-4," he replied.
"Nice to meet you, Shane-4," Cindra replied. "If you're ever in need of my services, just ask."
Shane hunched his shoulders a little. While Exos were capable of intercourse, it wasn't what he wanted right now. Hell, it meant that all she wanted was his cash. No thanks.
Cindra correctly interpreted his body language. She laughed again. "I don't mean that. Here." She slid a business card in front of him.
Shane squinted at it. Travelers and Moons: Exo repairs and mods: best in the business since the Battle of Six Ways.
"You're a mechanic?" he asked.
Cindra smiled. "Been specializing in Exos since my stepdad got his arm blown off and I helped repair it."
A waitress appeared with a sizzling plate of hot wings. Cindra accepted it gladly, along with a light beer.
Shane tried to ignore the intoxicating aroma of spices. "You do mods, too?"
Cindra dipped a wing in a bowl of creamy sauce. "Sure! Guardian Exos get all the cool stuff - built-in guns, headlights, all those scans their ghost does. Exos on the street may not be full of Light, but they want the cool stuff, too. We've got a team of engineers who reverse-engineer Clovis Bray tech and install it into modern Exos."
Shane blinked, taken aback. "Is that ... legal?"
Cindra smiled. "Sure it is. It's only a matter of time before our brain-dead enemies attack us again. We need every advantage we can get."
Shane thought ruefully of the state-of-the-art Exo repair facility in the basement of the Tower. It had never occurred to him that non-Guardian Exos might appreciate upgrades, too.
His thoughts spiraled. If Maxim-5 had received better upgrades, would he have been able to protect himself and his ghost from the snipers? Once more, Shane knelt over his friend, watching the lights in his eyes flicker out.
He knocked back a second glass of klatch and poured himself a third.
Cindra watched this without a word. Instead, she pushed her plate of wings in his direction. "This order is way too big for me. Want some?"
In Shane's head, his Ghost whispered, "Yes, you do."
Shane shrugged. "Maybe a couple." The klatch was finally hitting him. The awful memories faded a little, taking the pain with them. The Chunky Cluck took on an ambient glow around each lamp.
Shane and Cindra polished off the wings. Shane wasn't sure if he felt better because of the food or the numbing effects of the klatch, but at least it would get his ghost off his back.
"So," Cindra said, "what do you do? I haven't seen you in here before."
Damn, just when he was feeling good. It'd be hard not to spill his guts right now. "Soldier. Out on medical leave."
"Medical leave?" Cindra's eyes raked him. "Damaged?"
He tapped his forehead. "Trauma."
"Oh." Her lips drew together. "I can't repair that. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
Suddenly Shane found that he did want to talk about it. He wanted to remember Maxim, the good times and laughter. "My best friend, Maxim-5, had a run-in with snipers."
Cindra winced. "That's terrible. I'm so sorry."
He nodded. "Hit me hard. Maxim was furious, too, but he couldn't do anything about it. He always was the driven type. If I was wrong, he let me know. If he disagreed with the commander's orders, our squad heard about it. But he knew when to let it go and laugh about it."
"Sounds like a great guy," Cindra said softly.
Shane talked about Maxim for the next hour, telling stories that sent Cindra into fits of laughter. The klatch lingered in his processor, warming and relaxing him, staving off the symptoms of rejection sickness.
When the bar closed at 2 AM, Cindra offered to walk him home. Shane froze. Even in his intoxicated state, he didn't want to admit that he was a Guardian. What Guardian went out and got drunk on their ass? They were supposed to be more noble than that.
"It's fine, I live close by," he told her. "Thanks for the company."
"Take care of yourself, Shane-4," Cindra said, and walked off down the street in the other direction.
Shane stumbled home to the Tower and crashed in his bunk. Sleep claimed him at once - another effect of the klatch.
During the night, his ghost phased out of him and went to his tablet. There it thoughtfully composed a tribute speech to Maxim-5, working through its grief in the only way it knew how.