by S. A. Tholin
"Oh God." She glanced over her shoulder. The nurse was unconscious again, her nose definitely broken. "I'm so sorry."
The door slid open, and a doctor hurried inside.
Finally, she had time to think, and then she saw the scalpel in his hand.
"Rhys!"
Rhys turned too slowly, and the blade slashed his face. He stumbled backwards, staggering into Valletta's bed. The doctor advanced.
Joy let go of the jacket – stay with us, Valletta – and charged at the doctor. She shoved him backwards and grabbed his hand to force the scalpel from him. But he was big and strong, very clearly augmented, and he shook her off like she was nothing. He drove the scalpel towards her. She raised her hands–
oh mercy this will hurt
–but the pain never came. The doctor stared at her. The blade quivered in his hand.
"Not her," he said, "not her not her not her."
And then he jabbed the scalpel at his own throat and cut a spine-scraping gash from side to side. He fell, and there wasn't a single spot in the room that wasn't covered in blood. It was red, it was all red, and it rained down from the ceiling in heavy droplets and coated her hair and–
"What the fuck is going on?" Rhys activated the door lock. That should've made her feel better, safer, but the lock glowed red too, and there was too much of that; far too much. "Your Tower friends decide to stage an outbreak on Scathach too?"
"No," she said, amazed that she could speak, amazed that she could manage coherent thought. "Their primers haven't been triggered. No blood on their faces, see? This is Skald."
"On Scathach? But how?"
"I don't know, but you heard what the doctor said. Not her. That's Skald's words in his mouth, Skald's voice guiding him."
"To what purpose? Skald doesn't know Valletta."
A scream echoed up from below. The patients and staff who'd been going about their business now stood as statues in the reception area. All of them still, all of them waiting. A man staggered out of an examination room. A nurse followed, her uniform drenched with blood. The man shouted at her, pressing one hand to his neck. A nearby BaseSec officer ran towards the scene.
As one, the people in the reception area lunged. The BaseSec officer stumbled as he was struck from behind, fell to his knees and disappeared in the crowd. The wounded man was overwhelmed by fists and kicking feet. A woman grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and smashed it into the back of his head, over and over again.
"Rhys, we have to–" Before Joy could finish her sentence, the crowd stilled, returning to their places. The two men lay dead on the floor.
"That's Macon," Rhys said. "One of Polmak's men."
Macon. She didn't recognise him – doubted that anyone could recognise him anymore – but she remembered the man. His team's comms specialist, which Hopewell had said was ironic because he never talked to anyone unless he had to. Maybe that was true, but when they had evacuated from the Host Fetter, he had helped carry the disoriented Rampart men into the shuttle, and when Polmak had ordered her to sit down and strap in as pursuing RebEarth ships fired, Macon had quietly set up a primer link between her and Constant so that they could be close even though he was on the other end of the ship.
He had been a good man. And...
"He was a banneret man. Like Valletta. Like you, Rhys." And like everyone else she loved. "That's the connection. Skald told me on the Host Fetter... he said that whatever comes next, it's Constant's fault. This is it. This is... retribution."
"Is a banneret man. He's still alive."
It was hard to see how he could be. So much blood, so much violence.
"Are you sure?"
"Banneret men hang in there."
"Then we have to help him." She grabbed a towel and wiped her face and hands as best she could. "We have to help everyone. There's antimicrobials in the pharmacy storeroom, right?"
"It's too dangerous, Joy. We can't–"
"We can't, but I can. You heard the doctor. I'm off-limits."
"You can't know that. What about the BaseSec officer? They killed him all the same. There's hundreds of people in the med-wing, too damn many. We need to stay put and wait for BaseSec."
"Everyone on the station just saw the report of a demonic outbreak on the news. What do you think the mood is like out there? Anyone who isn't under Skald's control will be terrified, and you know as well as I do that the only mercy for demons is death. Every second we spend waiting, people will be dying. We can't let Skald have this victory. We can't let him force Primaterre into killing Primaterre."
"All right. All right." Rhys looked sick underneath the blood on his face. Bastion's walls were quaking in a way that he had never experienced before. "I'll keep Valletta alive, but Joy, you damn well better keep yourself alive. I made those lungs of yours to last a century. Don't waste my good work."
* * *
There were at least thirty people in the reception area. She could see Macon, his fingers painting a scratchy pattern on the floor, but he was at least two hundred kilos of augmented banneret man. She'd need help, and she'd need transportation.
She slipped through the crowd, taking care not to touch anyone. Though they were standing still, they all trembled with tension. A med-tech wept, staring blindly ahead as tears trickled down his face.
Even on Cato, Skald hadn't pushed his slaves so hard. His control there had been more like the priming; a repeated soft nudge. On Scathach, he was employing an iron grip, forcing obedience. It would hurt them, perhaps leaving lasting damage.
A janitor stood in front of the door leading to the surgical wing. She waved her hands at him, and he followed her movement with his gaze. There was a glimmer of consciousness in his eyes, but he seemed far away, his own will suppressed by another's.
His clothes brushed against hers as she shimmied past. His breath puffed against her skin. He raised a hand, a shaking index finger running along the line of her collarbone.
"No," she said, and instantly regretted it, as every person in the reception area turned towards the sound of her voice. A man in civilian clothing, who had kicked Macon's head repeatedly, took a few tentative steps in her direction. He kicked as he walked, his blood-smeared shoes scuffing against the floor, leaving ugly streaks.
A blaring siren made him stop in his tracks. Shutters slammed down in front of elevators and doors, encasing the med-wing in a cage of steel. Reminders of purity were replaced with a bold declaration: STATION QUARANTINE IN EFFECT.
She hurried into the surgical wing, past a doctor whose hands clenched and unclenched, strips of Macon's fatigues wound around his fingers, and into the operating theatre corridor. The first room was empty, bare of anything useful, but when she pulled open the door to the second room, a med-tech yelped and staggered backwards.
Nurses. A surgeon. A patient on the operating table. An anaesthetist, dead on the floor. The nurse who had stabbed her still held the scalpel in his hands, weeping with terror and regret.
"It's okay." Joy held up her hands. "I'm not corrupted."
"Corrupted?" The surgeon gave her a distracted look. He was terrified too, but wasn't giving himself time to feel it. Still working on his patient, keeping him alive even as the room fell apart around him. "What is going on out there?"
"It's an outbreak," the med-tech said. "Like at Fox Chapel."
"Fox Chapel? What about it?"
"This isn't like that," Joy said. "This is the red lichen. The human houseplant. Skald – whatever you want to call it. It's taken control of the station. There's a banneret man in the reception. He's been attacked, and I think he's dying. I need you–" She pointed at the med-tech. "–to help me bring him here. And then I need the rest of you to help me break Skald's control."
"I'm not going out there." The med-tech tugged at his bloodied clothes. "Stars, did none of you see the news just now? Demons tore through Fox Chapel Pharmaceuticals. Took them all. Killed them all. We were watching it in the break room and Parbrook, he freaked out. I
mean, we were all upset, of course we were, but he was acting like he was having a heart attack. I told him to calm down, to perceive the moment, that fear opens the mind to corruption – and that's when he turned. That's when they all turned, everyone in the break room except for me and Carolina, and when she shook Parbrook to make him snap out of it, he... he..."
The med-tech broke down in tears. If demons really did exist and really did feed on fear, Joy had no doubt the room would be in a frenzy.
A wall display flickered on, and for a moment she wondered if she'd gone mad, because she had wanted Constant, and here he was. Dark-eyed and serious, so much more intimidating than the smiling version Bastion liked to promote.
"Scathach Station. We are under attack from an enemy who wants Primaterre to turn on Primaterre. The real corruption is not in the minds of the possessed, but in our fear. Our brothers and sisters who suffer in the demon's grip can be returned to the light of purity. It is our duty to guide them and to do so with clarity. There is only one mercy for demons, but endless mercy for our own. Do not kill. Do not fear. Primaterre protects us all."
The medical staff echoed his closing words, and Joy smiled.
"You heard him. Let's take back Scathach."
51.
CASSIMER
He looked into the eyes of the spitting, snarling thing that wore a BaseSec uniform and saw only ruin. Moonbeam roots had pried apart Scathach's hull, creeping into its halls and into its people. The officer's name tag read CHAMBERS, but the voice in her head was Skald's.
Only one mercy for demons. That was what training had taught him, what the Hecate had hammered home. His fist wanted to follow the instinct and crush the throat it held. His reason knew better, knew that this corruption could be undone, but it was hard to let go.
Hopewell was on the ground, Lucklaw pressing a pillow to her chest. Blood soaked through the pillow case, staining the Kepler Blackbirds logo. She tried to sit and cursed at Lucklaw when he wouldn't let her and cursed even louder at Rearcross when he came rushing in from his quarters across the hall.
"...don't need your help, I'm fine..."
"...help me get her on the bed..."
"...telling you, I'm fine..."
Hopewell wasn't fine. Cassimer's HUD informed him as much, showing him every slowing beat of her heart, every ounce of lost blood. Facts and figures detailed torn tissue and a bullet lodged in muscle, and he held onto those facts, letting truth lift him from the shadows. Chambers' eyes fluttered shut. He dropped her on the floor and opened his command channel, linking in every banneret man on the station.
Six men were in their quarters, an additional eighteen were scattered across the station. He alerted them all, calling the nearest medic to Hopewell's aid. Polmak shared his visual, and through the other commander's eyes, Cassimer saw two unconscious Bastion officers inside an elevator.
"They attacked me. Tried to kill me. I had to lay them out flat. I had to."
No doubt, but necessity made the transgression no easier to bear.
"It's the red demon, Polmak. It's got into the station."
"Earth have mercy. How many possessed?"
Scathach was home to twenty thousand, but most combat units had been deployed along with their support units, leaving around five thousand personnel on the station. Through the eyes of banneret men, Cassimer saw the med-wing, the gym, the kennels, the departures lounge – and in each of these places, he saw the corrupted. They pounded on glass doors that two gunners were barricading. They ran down a hallway, hot on the heels of Daneborg. They died in droves where a group of Polmak's men had taken a stand.
"Unknown. Potentially thousands."
"But not us."
"The red lichen needs time to corrupt its victims, and I'm told it can't control people with heightened immune systems. That should leave most banneret men unaffected and a handful of others too. Our priority must be to minimise casualties."
"Minimise casualties? My men are under attack."
"This demon's grip on the mind is physical. A dose of antimicrobials can cure the possession. It's our responsibility to keep all of Scathach safe."
Gunfire erupted as Appledore, one of Polmak's medics, darted across the common room, but he didn't stop, not even when a bullet winged him. He skidded into Hopewell's room, med-kit clutched to his chest, and a swarm of corrupted on his tail. BaseSec officers led the charge, followed by janitors and other support staff. Two dozen, at least.
Cassimer shut the door, locking it. "No quarantine in effect means that the station officers are among the corrupted. Polmak, find a security console and lock Scathach down. That'll give us some breathing room."
Hands hammered against the door. Gunshots echoed as they ricocheted down the corridor. Rearcross muttered mantras under his breath; the medic, too, as he pulled a slug from Hopewell's chest.
"What now, Commander?" Lucklaw still held the bloody pillow, kneading it in his hands.
"We follow protocol."
"There's protocol for this?"
"There's protocol for everything. Appledore, you carrying any antimicrobials?"
"Twenty doses, Commander."
Not enough, but it would do for a start.
"We'll need non-lethal weapons – anybody got any?"
They all shook their heads. His own personal arsenal was in his quarters, and besides, far from non-lethal.
"Actually, hang on a second." Hopewell got up from the bed, rolling her eyes at Appledore when he suggested she remain still until the DNAno had completed its repairs. She opened her wardrobe, shoved several pairs of boots aside, and grabbed a box from the back. It contained sports memorabilia, hair clips, an empty jam jar and a grenade. "Thunderflash. It'll disorient them long enough for us to manually disable them. There's a bunch of cable ties in that drawer you're leaning on, Rearcross."
"Lieutenant." Cassimer frowned. Keeping a pyrotechnic device in a shoe box was so out of line that it hurt to not reprimand her for it. But she had brought his team back from Hereward safely. She had safeguarded the primer samples, and she had come for him on the Host Fetter.
"Yes, Commander?"
"You're a difficult woman to be indebted to."
* * *
Hopewell's thunderflash worked. They restrained the station crew and dragged them into Hopewell and Rearcross's quarters, where Appledore set to work. The antimicrobials took instant effect, life returning to glassy eyes, will to empty minds. Most had no idea what was happening, but a few remembered. They wept as they spoke of a voice that was the hot whisper of a desert wind, the thick coiling of a serpent around their minds. It was the red demon, Appledore told them, but you are all right now. No, said Officer Chambers, it was the king of demons. It wears stars as a crown and grows in the void, and nothing will ever be all right again.
Mad words from a mad mind. Appledore sedated her, but her words lingered. Rearcross had collected his armour from his quarters and kept touching the sun on his cuirass, kept muttering mantras. His other hand brushed the butt of his sidearm every now and then.
"The Primaterre protects us all," Cassimer said. "Purity has been restored to these people. They will see with clarity again. They are our own, snatched back from the clutches of corruption."
All truth, but in his heart, it felt like a lie. And so it would to the other men and women on Scathach whose minds had been untouched. They would've been briefed on Skald and how it afflicted its victims, but no amount of briefing could undo a lifetime of doctrine and nightmares.
"Lucklaw, access the station-wide displays. I need to make an announcement."
He gave Scathach Station a brief speech, but despite his own words, he could feel the corruption's tendrils on his skin, erasing the lingering warmth of Joy. The nausea only grew when he saw what awaited in the banneretcy common room.
Fifty-three contacts had gathered there to surround the habitat as though it were a monolith. A young BaseSec officer lay slumped on the ground before it. Dragged there, he thought, like
a sacrifice.
Behind walls scrawled black with marker pen, the drifter paced in circles around Major Juneau. She stood, lips pursed, staring down at a tablet in her hands.
Juneau. Five o'clock.
She looked up, meeting Cassimer's gaze across the room, and shook her head.
Stay back, Commander. I'm handling it.
She tapped the tablet, and a voice came from the end of the corridor leading to the mess. Slightly tinny over the public announcement system, but unmistakably his own.
"I am not on their side. I am their side, their sword of truth and their shield of clarity."
The corrupted turned and marched out of the commons, following his voice. A janitor stood still as they passed him, whispering mantras, his eyes closed. As soon as the last corrupted filed into the mess, Juneau tapped the tablet again, and the mess door sealed shut.
"It took me a while to access the door systems," she said, blinking as her eyes turned from silver to black. "Captain Appledore, a dose of your antimicrobials, if you please."
Cassimer shook his head at the captain, instead requesting a sidearm from Rearcross.
"Step away from the door, Juneau. It's time to put your pet down."
"Quite the contrary, Commander." She pointed her index finger at the drifter, who stopped his pacing. "My studies of the locals on Cato determined that the newly-corrupted can barely process what's happening to them. Drifters, whose minds have been affected over years, even decades, have a more concrete connection to the demon. They are capable of communicating its commands and motives in ways that others can't. Those recently arrived on Cato could only describe what was happening to them as a whisper; sometimes as a heat or a colour. Bone will be able to tell us more."
* * *
Appledore injected the drifter with antimicrobials; Lucklaw pulled a cable tie tight about its wrists. It seemed to improve the instant it was outside the habitat, raising its head to smell the air. Sweeter, Cassimer knew, fresher on the other side of a prison door.
