Nan’s mind reverted back to their earlier comments about zombies. She pushed those thoughts away, feeling silly. “What about her vitals? Heart rate, temperature, that sort of thing.”
“Um, that’s not really my area, but I’ll check and get back to you in a few minutes.”
Nan brought her attention to the road ahead. She didn’t say anything aloud, but she’d noticed they hadn’t passed any cocoons for the last hour. She thought maybe Teardrop and Dewdrop had simply moved them out of the way, off the road, but why weren’t any lying on the sidewalks or atop cars as they’d seen earlier? Nan wondered if these molt weevils were following similar actions to those back in Washington—collecting the cocoons and stacking them into dark, confined places where they could be returned to later, for whatever purpose— maybe for food … or incubating pods for their offspring. Again, Nan had to mentally admonish herself for letting her imagination run wild.
The radio crackled and Nan grabbed it off the dashboard. “What’s happening, Reese?”
“Some weird shit. Can you send those two robots, those drones, up here? Oh, and have them follow orders … directly from me.”
Nan and Mollie swapped places. “Stay here, Mollie. Don’t go up there unless I say it’s okay. You understand?”
Mollie nodded. “I’ve contacted the drones.”
As soon as Mollie said the words, Nan saw the two drones pass overhead and lower into the truck bed. “Gus, probably best if you hold up here for a while.”
“I should go up there with you—” he offered.
“No, you stay here with Mollie. I’ll call down on the radio to give you an update.”
Nan made her way up to the truck bed and found Reese sitting on a pile of equipment, the shotgun lying across his lap. The sectional couch was broken into two separate seatings. Near the back, the sick were either throwing up off the back of the truck, or lying down on the couch. The two drones were by the back couch, hovering over two of them … one was Cindy.
When Calvin saw Nan arrive, he got up from the healthy-human couch section and came over to where Reese was perched—in between the two groups.
“Why can’t I be with my mom? Why do we have to be separated from the others?” he asked, clearly emotional about the situation.
“I’m sorry, kid … but I already told you. Your mother’s sick. We need to determine if she’s contagious.”
“I don’t care if she’s contagious!”
Nan put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and crouched down so she could look at him, eye-to- eye. “I know you want to be with her, Calvin. This is a difficult situation for you and for everyone else.”
Calvin looked to the back of the truck, where his mother was lying on a sleeping bag. She wasn’t moving and, to Nan’s untrained eye, looked to be in bad shape. One of the drones, Teardrop, hovered above her and then silently moved where Nan, Reese, and Calvin were huddled together.
“What’s Cindy’s condition, Teardrop?” Nan asked.
“She is alive, Nan Reynolds. But her brain activity levels are below human guidelines.”
Nan quickly wished she hadn’t asked the question in front of Cindy’s son; but, then again, he’d have to face his mother’s prognosis soon, one way or another. Perhaps this was best.
“Why have some folks gotten sick, but not others?” Reese asked the drone. “Tell us in terms we can understand.”
“Special Agent Nathan Reese, the only differentiating factor is blood type. Each one of the sick has either blood type A or blood type B. Approximately one-half of this planet’s inhabitants have blood type A or B … the rest, predominately, have blood type O. The prognosis for those with blood type A or B, placed within a molt weevil cocoon, is that they will ultimately undergo five stages of metamorphosis … cellular conversion, embryo, larva, pupa and imago. Each of those sick here has entered the cellular conversion stage.”
“And next they will enter into the other stages?” Nan asked.
“No. That would not be possible.”
Nan had always found communicating with the two droids frustrating. “Why not?”
“The other stages of metamorphosis require the organism to be shrouded within a cocoon. Survival past the cellular conversion stage, outside of the cocoon, is not possible.”
Calvin was listening, but that last bit of information didn’t seem to register on him—or he didn’t understand.
Nan put an arm around the boy. “I’m so sorry, Calvin. I don’t think your mom’s going to get any better.”
He looked confused, his eyes moving back and forth between her and Reese and then to Teardrop. “I don’t believe you. You’re lying!” He broke away from Nan’s arm and sprinted toward the back of the truck. “Mom! Wake up … Mom!” He dropped down next to her, pulling her rigid upper torso into his arms, and cried.
The radio lying next to Reese crackled. “We’ve got company!” came Gus’s baritone voice, followed by gunfire below.
Nan spun to see Teardrop and Dewdrop already in the air and engaging what seemed to be attacks from all sides. Plasma bolts erupted from the two drones as they spun around, darting up and down, while maneuvering around the outer perimeter of the truck bed.
How many of them are there? To her left, she spotted multiple long, tentacle-like legs coming over the edge of the truck. A molt weevil’s torso flopped down into the truck bed. Reese brushed past her, leveled both barrels of the twelve-gauge and fired. Nan looked away from the gory mess, lowering herself down onto hands and knees and spinning around, one way then the other, in case more creatures were landing around them.
As quickly as the attack came, it ended. The drones ceased firing and were silently circling the truck.
“That was close,” Nan said, sounding relieved. But Reese wasn’t listening to her. He stood staring toward the back of the truck. Turning, she saw where he was looking. More precisely, what he wasn’t looking at. Both Cindy and Calvin were gone. “Oh my God … how did the damn things even get up here?”
“How do you think?” he snapped. “We obviously needed to add some grease to the sides of the truck.” His voice sounded hollow.
She grabbed for the radio. “Gus! Gus! Is Mollie okay?” Nan waited—hearing only background hiss from the radio. “Damn it, Gus, will you answer me?”
“Mom, Gus can’t hear you. He’s outside kicking molt weevil carcasses off the deck.”
“Mollie! You’re okay?”
“I’m okay. I stayed in the cab.”
Nan let out a breath and held the radio to her chest, saying a silent thank you. “I’ll be down soon. Stay in the cab.” She looked over to Reese. He was taking the loss of Cindy and Calvin hard. She knew it was guilt that had driven him to snap at her.
“Reese?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There’s no way you can go down there and grease the sides of the truck. Can you work with the drones, have them do it?”
He looked at her for several beats before nodding. “That’s actually a really good idea. I’ll take care of it.”
Nan turned to see the four survivors nestled together on the couch. All were women and they looked terrified. She sat down next to them and did her best to appear calm.
“We’re going to be all right.”
A middle-aged, gray-haired woman wearing a floral print shirt was the first to speak up: “I heard what that robot thing said … about the blood types. I’m blood type O. We all are. Does that mean we’re safe? Not going to get sick?”
The other three women waited for Nan’s reply with anticipation.
“I think so. I think you’re all going to be fine.” Nan smiled and tried to look as confident as possible, but the truth was, she had no idea. No idea if they would be fine; if they would make it to safety—or anything else, for that matter. “The best thing for all of us is to stay busy. Why don’t the four of you get lunch going?”
The gray-haired woman glanced toward the body of the dead molt weevil with a disgusted expressio
n. “You can think about lunch right now?”
Nan shrugged. “Maybe we’ll wait a bit. Um, I’ll have Teardrop take care of … that.”
She stood and joined Reese, who was transferring two five-gallon buckets filled with grease from a large drum container. “Hey. You going to be all right there, Special Agent Reese?”
“I’m fine.” He stopped what he was doing and looked over to Nan. “Listen … I’m blood type B negative. If one of those things gets a hold of me, gets me wrapped up in a cocoon, don’t hesitate to shoot me in the head.”
Chapter 40
Ot-Mul had just settled in for the night, crawled beneath the covers of his bed, when a knock came at his chamber door. Irritated at being disturbed, he padded over to the door and opened it just enough to see who was there.
“I have urgent news, my Lord.”
“I’m sure it can wait until morning,” Ot-Mul said dismissively and began to shut the door. “It’s regarding the destruction of the Vanguard fleet, my Lord.”
Ot-Mul’s first reaction was one of disbelief. “You’re mistaken … that’s simply not possible,” he admonished the nervous high priest bowing before him in his ridiculous robe and tall pointy hat.
“It is true, my Lord. I am sorry.”
Ot-Mul let the information sink in as he glared at the priest and his pasted-on smile. The stupid old coot obviously didn’t get the gravity of this news. He should know that Ot-Mul’s crew was the elite of the elite. That they shared a superior bloodline, a unique heritage, that reached back more than a thousand years. Besting his mighty Vanguard in battle was unfathomable. “Tell me what happened … exactly,” Ot-Mul ordered, his voice cold and stern.
“The details are still unclear. What we do know is that one of the dreadnaughts was subversively boarded, yet all Allied ships were too far a distance away. It’s a mystery, my Lord.”
“Which vessel was boarded?”
“Which one?”
“Which dreadnaught was boarded, you idiot. Are you always this thick?”
“It was the replacement ship.”
Of course! The replacement dreadnaught was not Vanguard and it wasn’t crewed by his Vanguard brethren. This had been nothing more than incompetence, by those of inferior breeding. That’s what caused this new, devastating, personal defeat to him and the Craing.
Ot-Mul stared at the priest and felt his anger, his rage, continue to build. He knew exactly who had destroyed his fleet and how they’d done it. Captain Jason Reynolds. Reynolds, and that Caldurian phase-shift technology. Fists clenched, Ot-Mul screamed into the night. Without a second thought, he brought his right leg back, then quickly—and far more forcibly—kicked his bare foot up into the still-bowing priest’s face.
The old man went down like a bag of rocks, his cone headdress miraculously perched, if off-kilter, on his head. Ot-Mul closed the door to his suite. There’d be no time for sleeping this night. There was much to do.
* * *
Ot-Mul, now showered and dressed in an ornate flowing robe, walked quickly down the ancient, candle-lit stone passageway. His mind reeled. How could he have gotten so caught up in his newly appointed duties as emperor, the least of which was dealing with a populace on the verge of revolution, that he had underestimated his enemies in space. Fortunately, he’d had the forethought to hide their new headquarters.
A commander doesn’t survive, and certainly doesn’t become a great conqueror of worlds, without learning from those defeated in battle. For the most part, Ot-Mul’s enemies had fallen fast—quickly cowed into pathetic submission. Those who’d put up a valiant fight, showed some grit, at least earned some small measure of his respect. They’d still die, or be enslaved, but they had conducted themselves with honor. Ot-Mul had recently fought an adversary that nearly got the best of him. Their technology was inferior, their numbers few, but they’d hid their forces like none other. It was that same technology, one that emits a highly effective shield against attack, but also it’s a signal suppression mesh, which now made Ot-Mul’s new headquarters impossible to see and impossible to breach. Even phase-shift technology would not penetrate the dome barrier, for they had nothing to scan visually, and nothing to lock on to.
He turned down another, nearly identical, candle-lit passageway. His eyes took in one ornate inset alcove after another—each framing an ancient Craing warrior or high priest overlord, from centuries—maybe millennia, past. The vastness of Chrimguard, with its six, high-reaching obelisks, massive sand-colored stone walls and cobble-stone floors, was breath taking. It was a hallowed, peaceful place, one Ot-Mul was unaccustomed to—one where he wasn’t sure he rightfully belonged.
He heard distant chanting coming from the Grand Sacellum ahead. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise, he thought. It was time to go on the defensive. Time to finally take Captain Reynolds out of the equation—once and for all. To do that he’d need to be, for once, a step ahead. A smile spread across Ot-Mul’s face. When they came … and of course they would come … the trap would be set.
Chapter 41
Via NanoCom, Dira let Jason know they’d gathered in the back to speak with the small humans. He left Grimes in the cockpit and made his way down the aisle, stopping when he reached Traveler. Because of his sheer girth, the rhino was the only one sitting alone, taking up two seats side-by-side. Even with the extra seating, he looked scrunched and uncomfortable.
“How you holding up, Traveler?”
“I am fine. How much more of this mission involves me sitting on my ass?”
Jason smiled at Traveler’s way of saying things exactly as they were. “We’re working out the details now. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
Jason proceeded on, joining Billy, Dira and Ricket, who were seated on the deck, near the stern of the Streamline. Without seats, storage, or cubicles at this semi-circular section, the area was easily the most open interior space on the ship. Dira had taken six now empty enclosures and stacked them high, one atop the other, in front of them. Six of the small humans, the most vocal ones of all, stood approximately at Jason’s eye level upon the top enclosure.
“Why should we help you? We’re just as much prisoners here as we were before.”
Jason didn’t answer their designated leader, Tadd, for a full minute. Answer the question wrong, or continue to piss off the little humans, and it was game over. The tiny man looked to be about Jason’s age, shy of forty, and would probably be close in size and stature to Jason as well, prior to the events that shrunk him, and the other captives, to half the size of a G.I. Joe doll.
They’d learned the small humans were called the Rallm. Their planet was situated beyond the outer fringe of Allied space. Similar to humans on Earth, the Rallm had a diverse range of ethnicities and multiple races. From a technological standpoint, they were somewhat ahead of Earth, having progressed to FTL travel over one hundred years earlier.
Jason wanted to get things started on a positive note. He said, “What if I told you there was a possibility you and the others could be transformed back to your normal size? No guarantees … and first we’ll need more information … more details on what exactly happened. But it’s a distinct possibility.”
All six of the rowdy ones excitedly responded with raised voices. Eventually, Tadd held up a hand, shushing them to be quiet. He took a step closer to Jason. “From what we’ve been able to piece together it was some kind of space anomaly. There were two ships … both appeared at the same time in Rallm space, close to the environ-station where we lived. It was as if two competing wormholes tried to occupy the same physical space. Truth is, at the time we didn’t realize what had happened to us … to everything around us. That our area of space had somehow contracted. Over time we’ve come to accept our situation as irreversible.”
Jason looked at Ricket and raised his eyebrows.
Ricket said, “That piece of information helps … provides clues as to what happened. I have scanned your biometric readings and, while you are a fraction of your cu
stomary sizes, you look normal in every other way. The truth is, you shouldn’t be existing here. I’ve detected that the very atoms that comprise your bodies, your clothes, and everything that encountered that space anomaly, are out of place in this realm of physicality. Atoms are a fixed size, bound by the laws of physics … but your atoms are on a scale of their own … which means your molecular structure does not fit within this plane of existence. So it is my hypothesis that you have traded places with another version of yourselves. Somewhere within the vastness of the multiverse, there are virtual giants living amongst a world of tiny people. In essence, by some amazing fluke, you’ve swapped existences. What makes the situation worse is that your mere existence here, in this realm, causes problems … the very fabric of space and time here is affected in numerous ways. You must be returned to your own corner of the multiverse for your own sake as well as ours.”
Tadd stood with his hands on his hips, taking it all in. One of the men behind Tadd, a head shorter and totally bald, pointed a finger directly at Ricket. “You’re one of them. You’re a Craing, like the ones who strapped us into those wretched spheres, and made us play your ridiculous games. One by one we were senselessly slaughtered. Do you know how many of us were crushed with the wide end of a Gallopy bat? And you seriously think we would offer to help you?”
Jason was quickly losing patience and it took more than a little willpower to maintain an outwardly calm facade. “Hold on … It would be a mistake to judge Ricket by his appearance. Something I would think you’d be sensitive to also. Understand, we, including Ricket, are at war with the Craing Empire. Ricket is not one of them. If anyone can help you with your current situation, it’s our science officer, Ricket.”
Tadd turned and looked to the others in his group and then back toward Jason: “If you release the rest of us from these cages, we will discuss helping you.”
The Great Space (Scrapyard Ship Book 6) Page 21
