Ancestor

by Scott Sigler

  “Andy,” Sara said, “shut the fuck up. Colding, I’ll take care of this once we’re in the air. For now, try not to bleed all over my plane.”

  She reached down to both of his sides, grabbed the restraints, buckled him in and tightened him up. Once finished, Sara walked back to the fore ladder and ascended.

  Seconds later, the C-5’s four giant TF39 turbofan engines hummed with raw power. Colding felt the massive plane start to inch forward. Steady thrust pushed him back into his seat. The plane rattled as it accelerated across the snowy airstrip, then much of the rattling dropped away as the wheels cleared the ground.

  NOVEMBER 8: TAKE IT

  THREE UH-60 BLACK Hawk helicopters came in low, just thirty feet above the night-darkened snow. The two lead choppers flew in a wide circle around the Baffin Island facility’s perimeter. The third Black Hawk hung back, stationary.

  Inside that third helicopter, Colonel Paul Fischer looked through binoculars, surveying the damage below. The ruins of a large sheet-metal building lay crumpled like a giant, stomped Pepsi can. Dying flames propelled tendrils of black smoke through the torn metal. The place looked like a war zone. Good thing he was going in with twenty-four soldiers.

  Paul wore a bulky, blue bodysuit. He felt ridiculous, but the Chemturion suit would protect him against any infectious agent. At least it would if he’d put on the helmet, which was now sitting at his feet in a tiny gesture of rebellion against strict orders based on ignorance, as issued by one Murray Longworth. Didn’t change the fact that Paul looked like a cross between a Smurf and the Stay Puft Marshmallow man.

  The eight armed men seated with him in the Black Hawk looked far meaner in their full Mission-Oriented Protective Posture gear. MOPP suits consisted of a mask and a hood that hung down over the neck and shoulders, along with a charcoal-lined bodysuit and gloves. The whole rig provided significant protection against chemical, biological, radiological and even nuclear hazards. Not as much protection as Paul’s smurfy Chemturion suit, were it properly worn, but what the MOPP suits gave up in total protection they made up for in mobility. He had no doubt these men could move fast and efficiently use their weapons—mean-looking M249 squad automatic weapons and compact Fabrique National P90s.

  Eight more MOPP-suited soldiers rode in each of the other two Black Hawks, sixteen men who would storm the facility and lock everything down. The eight with Paul were part backup, part babysitter. He, apparently, was the baby that needed sitting. He wasn’t part of the combat operation. When the men weren’t talking directly to him, they referred to him as “the package.”

  All of this gear was overkill anyway. The odds of another lethal transgenic virus breaking out right now were about as high as a cell phone store full of monkeys testing out the complete works of Shakespeare in the next twenty-four hours. But Murray Longworth’s orders had been both obnoxious and clear—go in with all due precaution.

  Colding had already evaded them once, made an entire research project vanish and eliminated any evidence of Genada wrongdoing. That was why Longworth wanted to go in fast, go in hard, make sure Colding couldn’t pull a repeat performance. Looking at the burning hangar, Paul had to wonder if they were already too late.

  “Colonel Fischer,” the copilot called back. “The outbuilding is destroyed, but the main facility looks intact. The teams are ready to land.”

  “Tell them to take it,” Paul said.

  In the distance, the two Black Hawks broke out of their circle and closed in on the facility.

  RADAR TRACKED THE distance of the approaching aircraft. One hundred and fifty meters and closing.

  Erika Hoel cried. Duct tape held her to the security room chair, the same chair in which Gunther Jones had cranked out two full novels and most of a third. She couldn’t slide her hands out of the thick, silver tape, and each time she tried her ribs raged with their stabbing-glass pain.

  … one hundred twenty-five meters …

  More of that same roll of duct tape was wrapped around her shins, where it held a fist-sized ball of soft putty against her skin. Magnus had calmly explained the putty was Demex, a kind of plastic explosive. He had walked her through the process, told her exactly what would happen when the incoming aircraft closed to one hundred meters.

  … one hundred fifteen meters …

  A coiled wire ran from the Demex to a small router he’d connected to the radar system. That router showed ten red lights, one light for each of ten wires. The other nine wires led out of the security room door, spreading throughout the facility where they connected to much larger balls of Demex.

  No one was going to save her. Her petty vindictiveness had killed Brady, and now it would result in her death as well. Cold acceptance finally settled in. She stopped crying. Erika made one final wish that Claus Rhumkorrf and Galina Poriskova would have long, happy lives.

  At exactly one hundred meters, the radar system sent a signal to the router.

  A COORDINATED EXPLOSION shattered the mostly cinder-block facility. Even though he was five hundred yards away, Fischer flinched back from the blossoming fireball that briefly lit up the night and reflected off the white snow. A solid building one second, a shattered, burning, smoking wreck the next.

  “Get clear! Get clear!” he heard the pilot say. Fischer’s Black Hawk didn’t move, but the other two zipped away from the facility in case there were more explosions or hostiles on the ground that might take potshots.

  Colding was a clever fucker, no question, but he wouldn’t have done that. Magnus Paglione. Had to be. Dammit.

  “Just stay away from the main facility,” Paul shouted to the copilot. “Tell the other Black Hawks to circle wide, look for people on the ground, and use extreme caution—some of Genada’s staff have special forces training.”

  Fischer knew the men would find nothing. No research, no evidence. Genada had slipped away again.

  NOVEMBER 8: PEEJ

  TWENTY MINUTES AFTER takeoff, Colding watched Sara descend the fore ladder. She smiled at her passengers and spoke with the mock hospitality of a flight attendant.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re under way. Please feel free to move about the cabin.”

  Tim was still out cold, but Jian and Rhumkorrf unbuckled. Rhumkorrf stood and walked slowly past the cattle stalls to the aft ladder, where he climbed up to his second-deck lab. Jian followed him, the petabyte drive still clutched in her arms like a stuffed animal.

  Gunther and Andy stood and stretched—for the rest of the flight, they wouldn’t have much to do.

  “Fucking Brady,” Gunther said. “All the garbage we’ve survived and he dies on this job.”

  “No shit,” Andy said, then grabbed Gunther’s shoulder in a rare display of camaraderie. “Remember that house outside Kabul?”

  Gunther looked away, then down. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember it. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Brady.”

  “You and me both, brother,” Andy said.

  Gunther looked up at Sara. Shadows of not-quite-suppressed memories clouded his eyes. “Hey, is there a workstation here or something with a word processor? Where I could plug in this?” He pulled a key ring out of his pocket. A silver flash drive with the red Genada label hung from the end.

  Sara looked at the drive. “What’s that? Work stuff?”

  “It’s his faggy novel,” Andy said. “That’s how Gun escapes memories of all the good times we used to have. Ain’t that right, Gun?”

  Gunther shrugged and looked down again.

  “We have a workstation,” Sara said quickly. “All of you, follow me. And Colding, I’m serious about you not getting blood on my plane. I’ll get you cleaned up. If any of you want to sleep, I’ll show you the bunk room.”

  Andy leered at Sara. “You want to join me for a nap? Maybe confiscate my weapon the old-fashioned way?”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, little man.”

  Andy laughed, his mouth twisting into a half-smile, half-sneer. He didn’t seem that torn up by his best bud
dy’s death, but then again Colding had little combat experience. Maybe the ability to move on quickly was part of what made someone a professional soldier.

  Instead of taking them up the fore or aft ladder, Sara pushed and held a button on the inside hull. Machinery whined as the ten-by-ten platform lowered via a telescoping hydraulic pole mounted at each corner.

  “We use this for heavy stuff,” Sara said. “Or when someone is gimpy and needs to go up to the infirmary.”

  They walked onto the platform’s metal-grate floor. Sara pushed and held a button mounted on one of the hydraulic poles and they rode up.

  When the platform reached the top, Colding looked aft at the thousand square feet of second-deck lab space. A large flat-panel monitor, eight feet wide by five feet high, dominated the rear bulkhead. Soft fluorescent lights illuminated gleaming metal equipment, black lab tables, small computer screens and white cabinets, all packed perfectly into the C-5’s arcing hull.

  Already lost in code, Jian sat in an exact copy of her seven-monitor computer station. Rhumkorrf moved from machine to machine, running his hands over the various surfaces, staring for a second, then nodding with satisfaction and moving on to the next. Colding felt a bloom of pride at seeing his design brought to life, and at seeing Jian and Rhumkorrf’s apparent approval.

  “You packed this baby tight,” Sara said. “I don’t know what any of this shit is for, but it sure looks expensive.”

  Colding nodded. “You have no idea.”

  “Come on,” Sara said. “Bunk room is between the lab and the cockpit.” She walked through a narrow hallway and pointed out the C-5’s features: a tiny galley, an infirmary with two beds, a bunk room with three bunks, and a small room that had two couches and a flat-panel TV mounted on the wall. A video game console and a rack of games sat in a small entertainment center on the floor below the TV.

  “Now we’re talking,” Andy said. He immediately sat down and fired up a game of Madden.

  “Damn,” Gunther said. “This plane is huge.”

  Colding nodded. “That’s why we picked it. With our payload it will do over thirty-five hundred miles without refueling. Gives us a massive range. And we’re encapsulated—we do all the work right onboard.”

  Sara pointed to a laptop sitting on a wall-mounted table. “If you want to write, Gunther, there you go.”

  “Actually, I’m beat,” he said. “Think I’ll get some sleep.”

  Maybe Andy could quickly forget Brady’s death, but Gunther looked haunted. How long had he known Brady? Five years? Ten? Colding felt the loss like a fist in his chest, but he’d known the man not even two years and they had never been tight friends. Gunther had to be hurting bad.

  “Gun,” Colding said. “I’m really sorry about Brady.”

  Gun nodded a silent thanks. He shuffled off to the bunk room.

  Sara gently grabbed the back of Colding’s right arm. “Come on.” She walked him the few feet to the small infirmary and pointed at one of the two metal beds. He sat. Without a word, she helped him out of his ruined parka. Bits of white down feathers escaped and floated in the air. She grabbed some surgical scissors and cut away his torn, bloody shirt.

  She wore no perfume, but this close the scent of her skin filled his nose. She smelled just like she had two and a half years ago.

  He craned his neck to get a good look at the wound. The edge of the axe blade had cut him from his left shoulder to his sternum. He’d been lucky. If the point had gone just a bit deeper, it would have sliced his pectoral in half. Sara cleaned the cut.

  “Do I need stitches?”

  Sara shook her head. “Basically a glorified scratch.”

  Her hands moved delicately across his skin, wiping away the still-oozing blood. She picked bits of white down feathers out of the cut before gently smearing antibiotic ointment on the wound. It hurt, but the touch of her fingertips felt relaxing. She quickly finished the job, wrapping gauze across the wound and around his chest, then sealing it in place with surgical tape.

  Despite her delicate touch, she radiated hostility. He had to talk to her, smooth things out. “Listen, Sara, I—”

  “Don’t bother. You got what you wanted—me, and through me, a crew for this plane.”

  Was that what she thought? That he’d just used her? “That’s not how it was.”

  “Oh?” She stood straight and looked him in the eye. With his ass sitting on the table, her head was just a little above his. “That’s not how it was? Then how was it, Peej?”

  Peej. That strange nickname she started calling him after they’d had sex. He’d thought the name cute then. Now he found it uncomfortable.

  “Call me P. J., please.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Uh … well, you know. The last time you called me Peej, we … uh …”

  She tilted her head and smiled the way you’d smile at some loudmouth in a bar right before you smacked him in the nose.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll give you a choice. I can call you Peej, or I can call you Mister Rotten Fucking Piece of Shit That Treated Me Like a Used-up Whore. How’s that?”

  Colding just blinked. “Uh … that’s not … I mean … that’s not what it was.”

  She crossed her arms. “Then what was it? Used your magic cock to get me to sign the contract?”

  He felt his face get all hot. Clarissa had never talked like that.

  “So,” Sara said. “Which name would you prefer?”

  He just wanted to end this conversation, and right now. “Peej will be fine.”

  “I thought so. Now go get some sleep. I’ll send someone to wake you when we get close to Black Manitou.”

  Sara strode out of the infirmary and turned left, toward the cockpit. Colding watched her go, watched the only woman—besides his wife—he’d slept with in the last six years.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe he deserved it. And then he remembered Brady’s dead body, remembered how he’d kicked in Erika Hoel’s ribs, remembered that Fischer would keep hunting for all of them. Those things were far more important than worrying about Sara Purinam’s feelings.

  He hopped off the bed and walked to the bunk room. Gunther was already snoring. The noise didn’t keep Colding awake for long.

  NOVEMBER 8: THE GANG’S ALL HERE

  “STOP IT, HANDS.”

  Jian’s bloody hands ignored her. They kept sewing. The needle pricks were worse this time, each one a piercing sting she felt clear down to the bone. Wet red dampened the panda body’s black-and-white fur.

  “Stop it, hands.”

  She finished sewing. Just like the time before, and the times before that, the mishmash creature’s big black eyes fluttered to life, blinking like a drunken man awakening to the noonday sun.

  Evil.

  Jian felt evil pouring off the thing like the acrid stench of a skunk. She wanted to move, to run, but her body obeyed no better than her possessed hands.

  Evil enough to kill her. And wasn’t that what she truly deserved?

  The creature looked at her. It opened its wide mouth.

  Jian started to scream.

  SARA AND ALONZO sat in the C-5 cockpit. The equipment-packed space smelled of artificial pine thanks to the green, tree-shaped car air freshener Alonzo had hung off the overhead systems panel.

  Sara could feel the tension pouring off her copilot, and she’d had just about enough.

  “Out with it, ’Zo,” she said. “You’ve been biting your tongue for hours. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

  He examined his instruments, making a show of looking very closely at everything in front of him. Sara let the silence hang. She just stared at him.

  The cockpit door opened. Miller and Cappy came in. Normally, they didn’t come up to the cockpit during a flight.

  “Well, well, well,” Sara said. “The gang’s all here. I bet you’re ready to talk now, hey ’Zo?”

  Alonzo nodded. “You actually need us to say it?”

  “Say wha
t, exactly?”

  Miller laughed a small laugh. “We’re sooooo reserved and mysterious. See if you can guess what we’re thinking.”

  “Yeah,” Cappy said. “See if you can guess and shit.”

  “Let’s see,” Sara said, rubbing her chin and looking up. “The spirits tell me … you’re concerned that we’re transporting a genetic experiment that we know nothing about?”

  “Bzzzz,” Alonzo said. “Wrong, but thanks for playing.”

  “Come on, guys, enough. Talk to me. Miller, sit your ass down and spill.”

  Miller took the observer seat, which was right behind the copilot seat. “Sure, the genetics stuff freaks me out,” he said. “But I signed up for that. I knew what I was getting into.”

  Cappy remained standing. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What we didn’t sign up for, chickee-poo, was flying Fred into a fucking combat zone, complete with burning buildings and dead bodies, then loading up casualties and flying out fast. A new Fred isn’t built for hot-zone operations like that, let alone a rebuilt one. You know this.”

  Fred was a nickname for the entire C-5 line—it stood for Fucking Ridiculous Economic Disaster. The planes normally required around sixteen hours of maintenance for each hour of flight time. Their modified version was updated with state-of-the-art gear top to bottom, so it was easier to maintain, but Miller was still dead-on: this plane was not designed for combat operations. But what could they do about it now? Sara shrugged, wondering if she looked as nonchalant as she hoped.

  Alonzo didn’t appreciate the attitude. “Sara, a man died back there. This is supposed to be a science experiment, not an action movie.”

  It was Sara’s turn to look away, to overly examine the instruments. She and the boys had been together for seven years. They’d been in her C-5 crew during their days in the air force. When they all got out, they’d pooled their money and bought a 747 that had been converted for pure cargo hauling. There had been plenty of shipping offers from drug smugglers, but Sara and the boys never took those jobs. Most of their income came from FedEx and UPS, when those companies had an overflow of cargo that absolutely, positively had to be there overnight.