by S. A. Tholin
◆◆◆
"Well, I wasn't expecting this." Rhys panned his light across the bridge.
Half a mountainside weighed heavily on the creaking viewports. But for a single light at the navigational instruments, no systems were online. Both landslide and darkness seemed fitting, for the bridge was very much a grave. Five mummified corpses in all: three strapped into seats, a fourth slumped over by a control panel, naked where clothes had fallen from withered bones. The ship's captain, still identifiable though his uniform was stained with decay, lay dead in the centre of the bridge.
"With all due respect, Captain, after everything we've been through, I can't believe you're still expecting anything." Lucklaw prodded the body by the control panel with his rifle, shoving it aside in a puff of corpse dust.
"Cause of death?" Cassimer could see the bullet fragments littering the floor, and the familiar dark spatter on the walls, but Lucklaw was right. On worlds like Cato, one needed to keep an open mind until the facts were in.
Rhys bent over the captain's corpse, fishing out a gun from under the remains. A white .22 compact, loaded with frangible bullets. Old-fashioned and of significant value. On the gun collectors' market, rarity was second only to an interesting provenance, and this gun had both in spades.
"This little fella, if I'm not mistaken. Matches the bullets in the other three bodies. The captain, though, I'm not so sure about. Massive external trauma - not a bone left that wasn't broken. Died in the crash, maybe."
"This wasn't an accident." Joy's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "Somebody did this to us. On purpose." Her grief was giving way to anger, and Cassimer was glad. She needed that heat.
"Undoubtedly." Rhys stood and ejected the magazine from the gun before pocketing it. "Which makes me think somebody did the same thing to the Andromache. You were right, Commander."
"Secure the elevator, Rhys," Cassimer said, quietly sending the medic a reprimand for his slip of the tongue. Joy had already understood what their objective was, but blatant carelessness was unacceptable. It should go on the medic's record, but that would mean having to report Joy's awareness of the Andromache. The outcome of that would be worse than unacceptable.
A chirrup warned him that more mines were readying to detonate. "They're breaching the hangar. How's it coming, Lucklaw?"
"Five seconds, Commander."
Precisely five seconds later, the bridge filled with the low electrical hum of computers.
"Scraping the system for data. It'll take a few minutes." Lucklaw glanced anxiously at the door. Beyond that lay a corridor, leading to the elevator and nowhere else. "Do we have that long? Can we hold them? Even if we do - how are we going to get out of here?"
Cassimer supposed it was a testament to his leadership that the corporal hadn't worried about their exit strategy until now. None of the team had questioned his insistence on going deeper and deeper into the ship, even though they must've known that it was always going to come to this, that they were always going to end up trapped.
"You do your work, Corporal, and I'll do mine."
Exit strategy. He'd had one, of course, but as circumstances changed, so did his plans, mutating into new and increasingly dangerous plays.
Killing their way out was always an option. Twenty-odd RebEarthers in a tightly controlled environment? He'd faced worse odds.
Scarsdale had to be struggling. Joy's stunt with the tractor had badly impacted the suit's knee joints, and Cassimer had fired a dozen bullets into Scarsdale's jaw as well - a trick he'd learnt the hard way, when a RebEarther on another hellhole of a planet had got the drop on him. It wasn't enough to kill, but enough for the worst kind of headache. For Cassimer, it had been a fractured vertebra - trivial given the luxury of augments and Primaterre medical tech. Not so trivial for Scarsdale, and without full suit integration, even basic movement had to be a challenge.
"The ship's black box kept bridge camera logs. Looks like it recorded the crash," Lucklaw said. "Want me to play it?"
"Go ahead."
The bridge's central monitor blinked briefly, and then a video file began to play.
◆◆◆
Stars made streaks of light on the curving viewport. One of the crewmen tried to stop himself from throwing up, and failed. Another pulled out a bar of chocolate; something to chew on to keep the folding nausea at bay.
Folding wasn't like that anymore - ship technology had advanced enough that most of the adverse effects were neutralised - but the streaks of light were the same, weaving patterns across the inky void. Some people claimed the patterns to be portents that could be read like palms or tea leaves to predict the outcome of the journey. Impure superstition, of course, but if it weren't, Cassimer wondered, if these men had been able to read their fate writ in stars, would they have changed the ship's course?
Would he? Or would he always have come to Cato, no matter what? He thought so, and perhaps the captain of the Ever Onward had been a man after his own heart. They both had duties to uphold, missions to complete. A fate foretold in the skies changed nothing.
On the screen, the bridge door hissed open to allow a man entry.
Are we there yet? he asked, and the others groaned. The one with the chocolate bar balled up his wrapper and threw it at the newcomer.
Who thought defrosting you was a good idea? God, now we're in for it. A six-month rotation with you and stepping out the airlock'll start looking tempting.
The newcomer laughed and walked over to the console that hadn't yet been spattered with his blood.
Just wait 'til I get my guitar out of cargo.
Well, that's my cue to leave. The woman seated next to the captain undid her safety harness and stood, stretching her arms. See you in six months, boys. And Donegal, I swear, if I start my next rotation having to clean coffee out of the consoles again, somebody is definitely going out the airlock.
She stopped to give Donegal a peck on the cheek and then disappeared out the door.
So, Captain, fill me in - where the hell are we? Donegal asked.
Took us six months to complete pickups and pass quarantines, but we just exited the last Cascade. Say goodbye to civilisation and hello unknown space. It's all blind sailing from here. The captain sounded excited and Cassimer realised the man hadn't taken his eyes off the viewport. Motivated not by duty, then, but by a love for the stars.
Well, we're not quite clear of civilisation yet. That's Beatrix over there. Got a couple of cousins settled there working on the oil rigs. And we must be passing close to Cato, because I'm seeing a lot of signals. Some real weird ones, too. Must be some kind of crazy planet. Hey, Captain, mind if I hijack a sports stream? Might be our last chance to watch some decent footie for the next decade or so.
The captain didn't respond, and Cassimer would've treated Donegal's lack of respect with similar derision. The crew's demeanour in general was tiresome. Chocolate wrappers on the floor, uniform jackets slung over the backs of seats, unkempt hair and - was Donegal wearing fuzzy slippers? Unbefitting and inappropriate, considering the precious cargo they carried.
Captain?
Apparently, the crew didn't find their captain's silence normal, because they were glancing at each other, Chocolate Wrapper shrugging.
Hey, Cap, you get star struck or something?
The captain stood. Rigid, jerking, shoulders twitching like -
- like -
- like the air had been sucked from Cassimer's suit. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, frozen in his own cold sweat. The walls were pressing in on him again, and not just the walls. His suit, his skin, all closing around him like traps. He wanted to turn and run. He wanted to curl up on the floor and close his eyes. He wanted to put the Morrigan to his head and pull the trigger.
Because he knew. He knew what would come next.
The captain turned, coughing dark blood. It oozed from his mouth and from his ears and rolling white eyes. It glistened on contorting features and welled from gouges as he clawed h
is face.
What the fuck? Donegal's voice was shrill, the man shrinking backwards.
A shudder went through the captain's body. He hunched, bared his teeth, shedding humanity and purity. All that remained was feral; was corrupt.
Captain, are you -
Chocolate Wrapper began to unbuckle his safety harness, probably intending to finish his sentence with 'all right?' but the captain drew his gun. The first bullet shattered against the wall. The second interrupted Chocolate Wrapper's sentence with brutal force.
The other two crewmen died fast - it was their great fortune that the demons had found a good shot in their captain. Donegal was not so lucky. One shot to his shoulder, another to his hip. Neither fatal; neither a mistake. The killing had been put on pause, and now it was time for the hurting.
The captain pulled him from the floor, bent him over a nav console and -
- and his clothes had not fallen from his bones because of decay, but because -
"Enough," Cassimer said, or at least he thought he did. It was hard to speak, hard to hear, hard to see. The shadows leaned in, reaching from poorly-lit corners like cobwebs. Maybe he'd said nothing; maybe he'd shouted.
Lucklaw stopped the footage and gave his commander an anxious look. "Was that... what it looked like?"
"Yes."
"Can't be," Rhys said. "Check the time stamp - the Ever Onward crashed over a decade before the demonic outbreak on Xanthe. I don't think anybody had even set foot on Xanthe at that point. A virus, maybe, some kind of haemorrhagic fever -"
"That was no virus," Cassimer said. "The captain was possessed."
"Well," Rhys said, reluctantly, "I suppose you'd know, Commander."
"Yeah, I'd know." This time he knew he was if not shouting, then at least very close to it. The anger was hot on his breath, fuelled by churning fear. "I'd know, and we'll all fucking know if you won't accept the facts. Denial is impure, Captain."
"Easy, Commander." Rhys held up his hands in apologetic surrender. "It's hard to accept, is all. Because if the captain was possessed, you know as well as I do - it changes everything."
Yes. It meant that what little they'd thought they'd known about demons was wrong. It meant that Xanthe was not their world of origin, nor their first point of contact with humans. And if doctrine was wrong about these things, what else was it wrong about?
Perceive. Be aware.
The gentle reminders glowed on his visor, and he was trying, but the shadows in the corners were growing, reaching, and his own mind was no less dark a space.
"Skip ahead, Lucklaw." He tensed his jaw and tried to focus on the mission. "We need to see the crash."
He'd expected a system failure caused by the captain's wanton sabotage. When the possessed ran out of living toys, they would turn on objects, tearing and ripping until they had nothing left to destroy but their own bodies.
He had not expected to see the captain finish with Donegal, straighten his uniform jacket and calmly return to his seat as if nothing had happened.
Experienced hands darted across panels, ignored warning lights and wailing sirens, as the captain brought his ship into Cato's atmosphere. The descent continued until lightning took the place of stars and dust lashed the viewports. A mountain range appeared like a dark line on the horizon and the captain headed for it, flying an erratic course over the plains. He shuddered and shook in his seat, spewing blood on the instruments. The ship tossed from side to side, scraping glass peaks until its final impact. White-hot flames licked the Ever Onward. The captain was thrown from his seat, tumbling around, breaking bones against the nav systems and consoles. Alarms blared over the dull sound of explosions. Rocks rumbled down from above, sparking against dying force shields, then thudding into the viewports. Dust, mottled red with lichen and sharp-black with fulgurite, spilled down, sealing the bridge in darkness.
For a long while after that, nothing much happened, and Cassimer was about to tell Lucklaw to shut the footage off when, on-screen, the door to the bridge opened. Three men entered, two in workmen's overalls, one wearing a protective suit that shimmered silver.
Overshot the landing zone by half a continent, the man in silver said. The imprecision will cost decades. He kicked the captain's body and then clenched his gloved fists. Breathing, suppressing anger.
Deactivate the ship's beacon and anything else that might cause people to come looking.
What about them? The man next to him pointed to the dead bodies.
Leave them. I don't need those. Go and oversee the removal of the pods. The ones in the tail section will have to be abandoned, but the rest need to be transported to the hangar immediately.
The men did as asked, and once they'd left, the footage jumped choppily to show Lucklaw entering the bridge. Nothing else had activated the camera in over a century. But what had happened in the other parts of the ship? Cassimer pictured ten-thousand cryo pods opening to spew forth a horde of possessed, and his imagination seized on that idea - but it couldn't be true.
It couldn't be, because Joy had slept in one of those pods, and she was not demon-touched. Like Rhys had said, he'd know, and Joy's was not the kind of mind the demons would find easy to corrupt. She was optimistic (like the flight crew of the Ever Onward), she was hopeful (like the captain who'd loved the stars) and she -
- she hadn't said anything in a very long time.
"Joy?" He turned and saw her kneeling on the floor. For a moment, he was relieved, because no blood poured from her eyes, no violence darkened her face.
And then he saw how blue her lips were.
28. Cassimer
Death wore many faces.
Cassimer had seen it come in the form of a bullet, in the sharp edge of a knife, even in the bloody mask of possession. He'd never seen it like this - silent and sudden, a sneaking shadow that without notice reached in and stopped a heart from beating - but he recognized it nonetheless.
Joy struggled for breath, clawing at her chest until he took her arms and held her tight. He turned her wrist to activate her med-bracelet and saw the crack and the black screen.
"Hold her still." Rhys forced a length of tubing between her dark lips and shoved it deep into her throat. Joy made a choked sound of pain and turned her face towards Cassimer, her eyes seeking his, and she looked so frightened, so lost, that he didn't care that he was in the field or that the RebEarthers could breach at any moment.
He opened his visor, but too late. There was nothing in her honey-brown eyes anymore. No warmth, no trust, no fear. Her body contorted, feet kicking against a seat, but it was only reflex. The girl was gone.
"Rhys."
"She's going into cardiac arrest." The medic snapped a respirator to her face. Her hair caught in the straps, and Rhys brushed it out, his hand running across her cheek. "It'll be over soon enough."
"Commander." Lucklaw, anxiety raising his voice a pitch. "The RebEarthers are trying to access the elevator systems. They know we're here."
The chaos had reached its crescendo, and suddenly all the pieces fell into place with crystal clarity. A mad plan, born of mad circumstances, but not chaotic. It required precision and discipline, and for him to be both commander and cataphract; sword and shield.
"Do not let her die," he told Rhys, gently laying Joy down. "Lucklaw - the elevator system. Make them think they have a chance at cracking it, but make it difficult. And try to not let them know that you're in control."
"Stars," the corporal muttered, nervously pawing his face. "Okay. Got it, Commander."
The corridor between the bridge and the elevator was twenty metres of narrow, unobstructed view. A tactically unsound point of entry for the RebEarthers, but Cassimer could hear them through the elevator shaft, their hushed voices rising from the darkness. Tactically unsound or not, they were coming up.
Good.
"We're going to hold the bridge?" Lucklaw's voice rose another pitch. Warranted, and just enough on the right side of pathetic.
"Depends on how l
ong Rhys needs."
The medic raised a bushy eyebrow.
"Don't know what you're expecting here. The girl's dying, I told you as much before."
"Some sort of lung scarring. Yes. I remember. But you said it was slow. Manageable."
"To a point, and to be blunt, this is that point. She was never going to make it back alive - the silicosis is too far progressed. Even if her med-bracelet wasn't broken, it'd no longer be effective."
"You knew." Rhys had known all along and had said nothing, done nothing. The medic had smiled and joked with a woman he knew would not see the next morning and he had acted like it was nothing. The realisation turned hot in his chest, and he took a deep breath. Had to smother it, couldn't allow it to become a wildfire. "There must be something you can do."
"Done it. The only reason her heart's still beating is the massive dose of sedatives I gave her. A medical coma's the only way to keep her alive. I wake her up, she won't last two breaths."
"There has to be some way of curing her condition."
"Could give her another dose of sedatives." The medic already had the injector in his hand. "Let her go to sleep."
"No. You get that away from her, right now."
"We'd be doing her a favour, Commander. Her condition is painful. She'll have learnt to live with it, tuning it down to background noise, but imagine what that would be like. You can't, can you? When was the last time you actually felt pain that wasn't immediately dulled by drugs? This girl has been living in agony for nearly a year. Anyone else might've given up, but she had a mission. She had her brother. Now?" Rhys shrugged. "She's got nothing, Commander. No one. A girl out of time, in more ways than one."
"You're telling me you can piece my face back together but you can't fix a pair of bad lungs? Sounds like a lie, Rhys, and you do not want to lie to me."
"Hypothetically..." Rhys trailed off. "Look, if it were up to me, then yeah, I might be able to do something. But not here. The equipment I'd need is back at base and shit, you can't seriously intend to carry her all the way back there."
