Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

memes that threatened to wash him away, poison pills that burst in his mind. It turned out, they'd never intended to trust him. They'd never risked a rat escaping the maze. They'd shoved a wire in his skull and reformatted the drive.
Some part of him wondered if they did this to everyone. Was this standard training?
-nine weeks, followed by twelve weeks-
He screamed in protest, his denial intended like half-formed code, handed to a mask that could not answer. He defied the scalding light and clung to the rock of self, battered against the cliffside until blessed night and a needle's prick swept him away.
Darkness held for uncounted eternities.
Sweet and gentle light settled over him as a luminous cloud.
He awoke and found himself lying on a gurney in a room drawn by plastic white, sterile curtains. The light in his eyes was white-blue instead of piercing gold, and the song remained silent.
The light vanished, and he heard the doctor speak, "He's stable. Christ, colonel, I think they jammed half the national archive in there."
A second voice answered, calm and level, like a therapist guiding him through hypnosis, "Thank you, Cal. Just straighten him out. Delete anything that looks like a hitchhiker. Like hell, they're pulling this Franken-stunt on my op."
"Yes, sir." There came a hiss, and rubber sealed around his mouth. The air tasted sweet, and he sank back into darkness with the doctor's fading words, "It's barbarism, Bill. Just barbarism..."
Firenze opened his eyes in his study, the fireplace roaring at his feet. Waves of pleasant warmth spread through his robe, a thin barrier between his skin and the cold night air. The balcony door hung open, and the cold seawater breeze brushed over the gently-waving fibers of his blanket.
He was alive.
His hair was matted, salty streaks stained his face, his blankets were soaked through from fever, and every ounce of him hurt. But he was here, and he was himself.
His library was ransacked, books hurled about and torn, paintings stripped from denuded walls. He'd been robbed, vandalized, and beaten. He trembled from spasms he couldn't overmaster.
"But you stand." Lauren stated proudly. She sat on a pile of pillaged books, every bit the disheveled mess he must be. "They came, they saw, but they could not conquer. You are still you." She smiled from her perch, victorious.
He tried to sit, but his head swam, despite the cold compress on his brow. He forced out a single question, "How?"
"You're hooked into the assist right now. When the Agency tried to 'enhance' the imprint, I hopped the carrier and held the fort." She pointed to a new picture over the mantle, one of herself in ancient metal armor, beating away a dragon built from binary strings.
"Nice." He breathed.
"You can keep the painting."
He tried to laugh, but only coughed and fell back into termors.
She waited for him to stop shaking, watched his vitals until they'd stabilized. She advised, "The castle is secured. The enemy is routed, and the army is in pursuit."
"The army?" He asked.
"An army medic, at least, plus some amateur brain slicers. Their techniques are crude but effective, and if they're willing to scrub out the last of this malware, then I'm more than happy to hide until they're done. Although..." she trailed off.
He waited for the tic to pass.
"The medics are very fond of this 'memdope'. Near as I can tell, it's some sort of augmented-cognitive-behavioral therapy, complete with chem-blasting the PKM-zeta in your brain. It soothes trauma, but it has all the subtlety of a lorry bomb. You had a fond memory of a hovertrain, I believe. Something to do with balloons?"
"I did?" Firenze asked. It didn't sound familiar.
"Did. Past tense is important." She replied. "The Agency stuck you with a nasty worm. It buried itself in core functions so you wouldn't pluck it out. The army took it away, but I can't reason why. You should ask the old man when you wake up."
"When I wake up?" Firenze asked. "Am I dreaming?"
"Not for long. Brace for it, because here comes the pain."
The world dissolved into a wall of digital noise. The dream shattered with a shriek. The connection severed, his wire snapped. The code withered before him, and he surfaced.
He opened his eyes, again, arose from the recursive dream.
He was seated on a reclining chair- no, a hospital bed, tilted upwards. He was sore, but for the first time in – how long? – he felt human. There was no ringing, no tunnel, no chorus. He was alone and himself once more.
The old man stood across from him, arms crossed and waiting, with close-cropped gray-and-white hair, a bristly mustache, and an iron countenance. He was aged but solidly built, and his bearing enough to fill the room. Firenze immediately caught the silver eagles gleaming on the old man's shoulder straps.
A distant echo, near ghostly, whispered, 'Colonel, paygrade officer-six'.
The colonel caught his waking, and greeted, "Good morning, Mister Firenze. You had us a bit concerned." Unlike the agent, there was no mockery in his voice. The colonel pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down upon it. Every bit of him exuded natural confidence, no bravado or arrogance, but a simple, assured presence. The colonel set his hand on Firenze's arm and said, "I'm Colonel William Halstead, commander of this dog and pony show. Welcome."
From alien reflex, Firenze tried to salute. He was only spared by the spasm in his shoulder, muscles that seized against false memory.
Halstead must have seen the motion, because he grimaced and said, "There's no need for that. You're not military."
"Tell that to-" Firenze broke in a coughing fit. "Tell that to the assholes who turned my brain to soup."
"That was a... wrong decision." Halstead stated. He picked his words delicately as if to restrain some unprofessional outburst. "I assure you of this: I did not order, anticipate, or condone that decision, and I have done my damnedest to walk it back. You have every right to be furious. I am, too. Rest