Redemption: Area 51, #10

by Bob Mayer

  “Negative,” Yakov said.

  “I’m going to check.” Turcotte slid out of the pilot’s depression. “Something or someone made that flame.”

  “How?” Yakov asked. “There is no airlock.”

  Turcotte pointed at the empty regeneration tube. “You get in there. I use the TASC-Suit. When I get back. I’ll re-pressurize.”

  Yakov didn’t look pleased with the plan, but didn’t voice it.

  Turcotte went to the battered suit he’d worn during his drop onto Mars. TASC stood for Tactical Articulated Space Combat; the ‘bitch’ is what users had nicknamed it. It was seven feet long, from the top of the helmet to bottom of the feet. Black armor, with articulated joints, essentially an exo-skeleton. The helmet had no visor, just cameras, lights and sensors. The arms ended in flat plates, designed to take a variety of attachments, including the MK-98. For now he had hand extensions, five fingers each.

  As Yakov climbed into the regeneration tube, Turcotte entered the suit.

  It sealed shut and he waited for the nano-wire links to slide into the surface of his brain to allow him to control it. The screens inside the helmet came alive, giving him a 360 degree view and a dizzying array of data projected onto them.

  Turcotte stomped over to the regeneration tube and looked in. Yakov grimaced up at him. Turcotte gave a metallic thumbs up, made sure the tube was sealed, then went to the hatch. He grabbed hold of a stanchion with one hand while he hit the open button with the other. A red flashed a warning, telling him he was doing something stupid.

  He hit the over-ride and the hatch popped open.

  The atmosphere inside the Fynbar vented in an instant.

  Turcotte pulled himself outside, getting oriented. The Fynbar was relative to the wreckage. That spurred Turcotte to move faster. He mentally projected what he wanted to do and the nanolinks activated the proper small jets on the exterior of the suit.

  He went to the wreckage first, figuring the most likely survivor would still be inside. He grabbed hold of the edge of the blast-hole and pulled himself inside.

  It was obvious the man floating inside was dead.

  Turcotte quickly scanned the interior, then pulled out. He took a moment, located the slowly tumbling figure and jetted over to it. The first thing he noted was that the helmet was damaged. The visor had numerous cracks. The wristpad was flashing:

  0:00

  in bright red numbers.

  “Thermal enhance,” he ordered.

  Whoever was inside that spacesuit was still warm. Perhaps it meant the suit’s heaters were still producing—

  Turcotte looked more closely at the wristpad. While the oxygen reading had run down to zero, the small life-signs pulse in the lower right corner was green.

  Turcotte snatched the astronaut and jetted back to the Fynbar. He shoved the body through the hatch and followed. Sealed it. Initiated pressurization.

  As soon as the light was green, Turcotte was out of the suit. He went to the regeneration tube and hit the open. Yakov shoved the lid up.

  “I do not like that.” The Russian sat up. “Alive?” He indicated the space-suited body on the floor.

  Turcotte was kneeling next to the astronaut. He peered through the cracked visor. He tried unsealing the ring around the helmet’s neck. It opened, letting air in with an audible pop,

  Yakov knelt on the other side. “The readout says her oxygen ran out.”

  “She’s still breathing,” Turcotte said. “Deeper now,” he added, noting Kara’s chest rise and fall.

  Her eyelids flickered. The pupils were unfocused and she began to struggle, lashing out. Yakov grabbed one arm while Turcotte secured the other.

  “You’re safe,” Turcotte yelled, trying to be heard through the helmet. “You’re safe.”

  She stopped fighting and focused. She looked at Turcotte and then Yakov. Her voice was muffled: “Where am I? Who are you?”

  “Wait a moment,” Yakov said. He grabbed a power drill from the toolkit and quickly unscrewed the bolts for the helmet, removing it. The hair on top of her head was matted with blood. There were a trace of blood on her face and a wicked odor coming out of the suit.

  Kara pulled her gloves off and reached up, feeling the top of her head. “I almost got hit. It burned right through the Nimue. Killed Marcus.” She pulled her hand away and looked at it. “My plate.” She laughed, a bit uncontrollably. “I’ve got a plate in my head right there. Probably saved my life. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy” She didn’t seem to be in pain. Turcotte had seen this reaction before: shock.

  “I’m Mike Turcotte and this is Yakov.”

  That caught her attention. “The Turcotte? The Mars’ one? Oh, yeah. That makes sense.” She turned, looking about. “This is the Fynbar then? Right?”

  “Correct,” Yakov said.

  She stopped looking about and held up her wristpad. “But I ran out of oxygen. I saw it go zero. I blacked out. How did—“ then she started laughing again. “They lied. Redundancy. They had more oxygen in the reserve than indicated. SOP. Always preparing for the worst. I thought I was dead.”

  Turcotte glanced at Yakov. The Russian shrugged, accepting that coming back to life after accepting one’s death was sure to rattle anyone.

  But she gathered herself. “I’m Kara. Kara Moore. Pilot of the Nimue.”

  “’Nimue’?” Yakov asked. “That is a strange name.”

  “The Lady of the Lake,” Kara said. She sat up. Took a deep breath. “I stink. I puked.” A short edgy laugh. “Nimue is another name for the Lady of the Lake in Arthurian Legend. And the other ship, the Niviane, that’s the sorceress whom Merlin desired and taught his magic to. But she rejected him and cast a spell over him, entombing him. I think the Parrish’s had a thing for Arthur. Or legends. Whatever.” The words were tumbling out. She brought herself to an abrupt halt. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. Or doing.”

  Turcotte got to his feet. “Just relax. You’re okay.”

  “What do we do now?” Yakov asked. “She needs help.”

  “Let’s get her help,” Turcotte said as he slid into the pilot’s depression. “From her own people.”

  “Merlin,” Yakov muttered. “That is not good.”

  “No, it is not,” Turcotte agreed as he set course for the mothership.

  ENTERING THE KUIPER BELT

  The Trans-Neptunian region of the Solar System is where what used to be considered the 9th planet, Pluto, resides. Pluto had enjoyed its status as the 9th planet since its initial discovery in 1930, but was demoted in 2006 when the International Astronomical Union refined the definition of a planet and Pluto no longer qualified. Part of the reason was the discovery of other objects in that region outside of Neptune’s orbit that were similar in size, either in volume or mass to Pluto. The Kuiper Belt was christened in 1992 after the man who’s predicted there was more than just empty space and Pluto beyond Uranus. That year, astronomers who’d spent five years searching the region via the large telescope on top of Maui, revealed their discoveries.

  THE KUIPER BELT

  The disc shaped region extending from 30 to 55 AU from the sun, is full, relative to interstellar space, of objects, comparable to the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, except the Kuiper Belt is twenty times wider and a hundred times as massive in material. There are hundreds of thousands of large frozen bodies, larger than 62 miles across and an estimated trillion smaller comets. There are three plutoids, or dwarf planets: Pluto, Haumea and Makemake. Unlike the denser objects on the asteroid belt, objects in the Kuiper belt are composed mainly of frozen volatiles, mostly water, ammonia and methane.

  Even though the Core and attending warships were down to one-third light speed that was still 62,000 miles per second. The plutoids were easily located and could be avoided, as well as objects over 50 miles in diameter. For the rest, the Swarm was counting on the bow shield and the exoskeleton armor. The warships would have to take their chances.

  The Swarm was not letting the opport
unity go to waste. Hundreds of ships, designed in a wide variety, taken from conquered systems, were launched. Since almost every star system that held life had developed in a similar matter, they usually contained belts of material like this. These stellar ‘farming’ vessels had all been designed to gather raw materials. They began gathering in the crop, focusing on the fundamental of life: water.

  These ships would stay here, in the belt, mining it for resources. The Core would recover them and the bounty on the way out of the system.

  After they extinguished all Scale life.

  THE UNDEAD

  PARIS

  “Let’s kill them.” Nekhbet nodded toward a table in the corner of the restaurant where two men were pretending to be engaged in conversation.

  “That seems to be your solution to every problem,” Nosferatu said with a slight smile.

  “We are superior to them.”

  “Are we?” Nosferatu leaned forward, tracing his finger along his lover’s high cheekbone. “The humans have defeated the Airlia. We are half-Airlia. Doesn’t that mean we are less than?”

  Nekhbet reached up and took his hand. “I am the daughter of Osiris. You are the son of Horus. We are the undead. We are still here, even after the humans have defeated the Airlia. Even after Vampyr tried to kill both of us. Even with those cursed Watchers sitting there, following our every move. Why do they still care about us if they’ve won? I’ll tell you. They still fear us as they should.”

  “I would say, more accurately, we are the still undead,” Nosferatu said. “And Vampyr and Adrik and Tian Dao Lin are recently dead. Some of their spawn exist.”

  Nekhbet dismissed that with a wave of her delicate hand. “Quarters at best. Mongrels.”

  “It was hard for you, my love,” Nosferatu said. “The long sleeps you had to endure. Hundreds, thousands of years. Starvation.”

  “And I’m still hungry,” Nekhbet said. “So let me drain those two.” She smiled, a light dancing in her eyes, the pupils slightly elongated and reddish. Her skin was alabaster, un-natural. Those who saw her often assumed she was a model, with her height, over six feet, red hair, and slender frame. That, or an actress, whose name they couldn’t quite recall.

  Nosferatu was a bit taller than her, but also thin, red-haired, red-eyed, pale. One might think them brother and sister, rather than millennium old lovers, born in the First Age of Egypt, when the Airlia ruled after the destruction of Atlantis during the Civil War between Artad and Aspasia.

  “We are not immortal, my dead,” Nosferatu warned her.

  “Compared to these sheep, we are,” Nekhbet. “I can recall when the red capstone was on top of the Great Pyramid, while it was still sheathed in limestone. How bright it shone in the morning light.”

  “Yes,” Nosferatu allowed. “We have seen much. And I have seen more than you, my dear. Both good and bad. I am not so quick to judge humans as you. They can surprise you. That was one of Vampyr’s flaws. He always thought he was better than humans. There were times they made him pay the price. Long ago, the Spartans—“

  “Please, no stories of him,” Nekhbet said. “Vampyr is no more.”

  “We should go to the Louvre again later tonight,” Nosferatu said. “There’s so much more to see. It’s nice to visit it without the crowds.”

  “I’m hungry,” Nekhbet said.

  “You can order more.” Nosferatu indicated her plate, where a fine cut of mignon was half-consumed.

  “I want blood,” Nekhbet said in a petulant tone, loud enough that Nosferatu glanced about. Not nervously, but with concern. Given recent events, humans were on edge and his long experience portended that humans on edge were unpredictable and dangerous.

  But Nekhbet was worse at times. Unstable.

  “Darling,” Nosferatu said. He stood, moving smoothly to her side of the table and gently placing his hands on her shoulders. “We should leave.”

  “We should feed,” Nekhbet said. “It is our right!” She emphasized the last sentence by swinging her hand, knocking her wine glass to floor, shattering.

  Everyone within a five-table radius became still and stared at them. Including the two Watchers.

  Nosferatu’s grip on her shoulders went from gentle to iron. He pulled her up. “Come, darling. You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I haven’t had enough,” Nekhbet hissed as he pulled her face to his shoulder and began moving for the exit. Only the very observant could see that he had lifted her completely off her feet and was carrying her.

  The Watchers, by their very name, were observant.

  “You owe me,” Nekhbet said. “You owe me. All those years in darkness. All those years in that coffin while you had all those experiences you tell me stories of. I gave you my blood. You owe me.”

  Nosferatu hustled her outside, onto a brightly lit Parisian street. He moved quickly, although taking care not to go inhumanly fast. Finding a dark alley, he pulled the struggling Nekhbet into it.

  “Please stop,” he pleaded, finally letting go of her. Mostly. He kept one hand on her narrow shoulder, a precaution against the uncertainty of her mind.

  Nekhbet was glaring at him, breathing hard.

  Nosferatu let go and took a step back. He stared into her eyes. “Nekhbet. My love.”

  She reached, hands like claws, for his neck. He let her grab him, submitted to her hold. She pulled him forward, his head down, until her mouth was on his neck, her arms around his back in tight embrace. She bit, drawing blood. Drank.

  Nosferatu was compliant for five seconds, then he firmly grabbed her head on the sides with both hand and exerted pressure, except she didn’t stop.

  “Nekhbet!” He ordered. Finally he had to shove her away, his skin ripping from her teeth as she stumbled from him, twin tracks of blood on her chin.

  “Nekhbet?” Nosferatu whispered. “My love?”

  But she was looking past him.

  Nosferatu whirled, facing the two Watchers who’d run into the alley, daggers drawn, trying to take advantage of the distraction of Nekhbet feeding. Both men abruptly halted five feet away, almost having succeeded, and began backing up.

  Too late, as Nekhbet, strengthened by Nosferatu’s blood escaped his grasp and leapt high, twenty feet into the air, landing lightly on her feet behind them.

  Nekhbet was snarling, feral, as she advanced.

  Nosferatu moved fast, by the Watchers before they knew and next to Nekhbet. He put a hand out. “My dear. Please. I will deal with this. There is information we need.”

  Nekhbet halted. There was no other way out of the alley for the Watchers. The one on the right was tall, thin, almost cadaverous. His partner was short, powerfully built, a bowler hat pulled over his eyes. Nosferatu knew the type from the way he held the knife—a killer who knew how to use the blade.

  Nosferatu spoke to them. “I was made Nosferatu in the First Age of Egypt, before the dawn of history as recorded by the humans, the child of Horus the Airlia and a human High Consort. I have lived for over ten millennia and have killed more humans than you have ever met.”

  “We know,” Cadaver said. “Why do you think we’re following you? We mean you no harm.”

  “You have weapons in hand,” Nosferatu pointed out.

  “Just being careful,” Cadaver tried.

  “You lie,” Nosferatu said. “You were coming for us.”

  “We misjudged and thought we’d lost you,” Cadaver said.

  “Why don’t you leave us alone?” Nosferatu asked. “I killed Vampyr and Tian Dao Lin and Adrik. I rid the world of their scourge. We pose no threat to you.”

  “We know what you are,” Cadaver said. “As you said, you have killed many humans. How can you claim to not pose a threat when you have just threatened us?” He nodded at Nekhbet. “She’s killed humans since coming to France. You know that, correct? She sneaks out at night and feeds.”

  Nosferatu had known but not confronted her. “We did not ask to become what we are,” he said, but the power was gone from hi
s voice, putting more energy into holding Nekhbet back.

  “Yet you are what you are,” Cadaver said.

  “The war is over,” Nosferatu said. “Humans won.”

  “The war has just begun,” Cadaver said. “You have no idea what is happening.”

  “We’re not involved,” Nosferatu said. “We don’t want to be involved.”

  “You’re involved by your very nature,” Cadaver said.

  The man in the Bowler hat wasn’t a talker, but Nosferatu had observed him inching forward and wasn’t surprised when he suddenly slashed

  His blade touched only air.

  Nosferatu easily clamped down on the man’s arm, snapping it, and retrieving the dagger.

  But in doing so he had to let go of Nekhbet and she was on Cadaver, slamming him to the ground. Wasting no time, Nosferatu shoved the dagger into Bowler’s chest. He dove, grabbing Nekhbet before she could rip out the man’s throat. He rolled with her, pushing her away.

  She scrambled on hands and feet to the dying man, pulling the dagger out of his heart and drinking from the fountain of dark blood spurting from the fatal wound.

  Cadaver held his empty hands up. “We mean you no harm. We are just Watchers.”

  Keeping one eye on Nekhbet as she feasted, Nosferatu picked up the dagger, turning it in the dim glow of a distant streetlight. “An original from the Airlia. Where did you get it?”

  “Avalon,” Cadaver said, referring to Glastonbury Tor. Where the Watchers were founded by Lisa Duncan and her partner after the fall of Atlantis so many millennia ago; even before Nosferatu was made in the First Age of Ancient Egypt. Where, according to legend, King Arthur was born by his knights after the Battle of Camlann.

  “You should drink him,” Nekhbet said, done with Bowler, whose heart had finally stopped. She was at Nosferatu’s side, sounding reasonable, the fresh blood having restored her to who she had been when he’d fallen in love with her.

  Almost. Nosferatu knew there was damage to her mind that would never be repaired no matter how much blood she drank. The wounds on Nosferatu’s neck were already healing, the flow of blood staunched, the flesh knitting together.