Dead Space: Catalyst

by Evenson, Brian

  “Do we recommend it, sir?” asked Haley.

  “No,” said Grottor. A colony, even an illegal colony, wasn’t possible. Who knew what connection they might have to other people in other places, and when someone might come looking for relatives they had down there. No, it wasn’t secure.

  “So what do we do, then?” asked Haley.

  Grottor shrugged. “We keep looking,” he said.

  * * *

  When the vid sounded, it was one of the two men Blackwell had introduced him to, the one with cruel eyes and grayish skin. He cut right to the point. “I hear you’ve rejected Aspera,” he said. “Care to explain?”

  “There’s an uncharted colony there,” said Grottor. “It won’t do.”

  The man shook his head. “It’s not a colony,” he said.

  “No,” said Grottor. “Then what is it?”

  “A containment facility. We have a share in it. Apart from that, Commander, is everything else about the planet up to specification?”

  He referred to Haley’s notes, gave a rundown to the man. Yes, everything did seem to be right, everything else was fine.

  “Then we’ll move forward,” said the man. “You’re to contact Tim Fischer on Vindauga. He’s one of us, and very discreet. He supervises the shipping for the containment facility. He’ll arrange to have building supplies shipped out, ostensibly for the containment facility, but in actuality for you.” He looked more closely at Grottor. His eyes narrowed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Grottor said.

  “You can speak freely,” claimed the man.

  “It seems like a risk factor,” Grottor said. “Word of the project could get out through them or the guards in the facility. In addition, there’s the risk of what might happen if the project goes awry and there’s an outbreak.”

  “They’re prisoners and they’re in a secret containment facility,” said the man.

  “Yes?”

  “That means they’re expendable,” the man simply said.

  Grottor nodded curtly.

  “Besides,” said the man, “we might need human subjects.”

  For a moment Grottor was silent. Then “Yes, sir,” he finally replied.

  7

  No, thought Jensi on the way over. The rally’s more likely. I should go there. But it was only more likely, he realized, if it were he rather than Istvan doing the thinking. Stick with the plan, he told himself.

  But when he reached the port, he found that the EarthGov ambassador’s arrival was delayed, there having been a problem with the surface skimmer that had met his ship. There was hardly a crowd, only a dozen people, most of them there in an official capacity. He scanned over them quickly looking for Istvan’s face, but wasn’t surprised not to find it.

  There was still time, if he hurried, to go to one of the other sites. Rally or press conference? he asked himself. Which one? Both were roughly in the same direction. He started to run.

  He went down the wrong alley and got turned around, routed back in the other direction, but he realized his mistake quickly and worked his way back out. He was running faster by now, but still unsure where he was going. One or the other. Which was closest? The rally, but not by much. He could already hear the sound of it, the echo of the loudspeaker, the words so distorted that he couldn’t begin to make them out. He cut through a back alley and came out on the main avenue, and suddenly there he was, on the fringes of a crowd.

  On a platform down near the end of the street, David Vernaglia had just begun to speak, his voice booming from speakers all around the crowd. Jensi pushed his way forward, looking for his brother.

  “Now, I wouldn’t say that the current administration is doing a terrible job,” said Vernaglia. “But then again, I don’t have to say it, because you already know it. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

  The crowd erupted into applause and shouts. Jensi pushed further in, the people he pushed shoving back, giving him dirty looks. As he got closer, the crowd got tighter. He stood on his tiptoes and tried to peer around, looking for his brother in the sea of faces. It was hopeless—too many people.

  Now what? he wondered. Did I make the wrong choice?

  Vernaglia was still talking, really getting the crowd going now. Vernaglia was, at least, still alive, and the rally hadn’t been interrupted by anyone, which probably meant that this was the wrong place to be. Was there still time to make it over to the press conference?

  He pushed his way sideways through the crowd, ignoring the complaints of the people around him. If he could get to the edge, he could go back down the alley he’d come out of and take back streets to the press conference. It was worth a try.

  And then he noticed a man in a black suit pushing through the crowd at a little distance behind him, speaking into a headset. Someone official, part of the candidate’s security force probably. Another was there to his left, deeper in the crowd, but wading his way as well. Maybe my brother’s here after all, he thought, and glanced around a moment for him before suddenly realizing that, no, it wasn’t Istvan they were moving toward, but him.

  Suddenly he realized how he must have looked, pushing his way into the crowd, causing ripples, forcing his way toward the front, then swerving away, going sideways again.

  Oh my God, he thought. They think I’m a threat.

  The man behind was slowly gaining on him. The one to the side was in a thicker part of the crowd, and was having a little more difficulty. If he started pushing and running, Jensi knew, they’d be on him all the more quickly, and people in the crowd would probably start trying to catch hold of him as well. As long as he didn’t panic, didn’t give the game away, he hoped the two security guards would stay at the same pace, trying to slowly gain on him, but not wanting to panic the crowd.

  He kept moving roughly sideways, doing his best to follow the quickest, most open path.

  And then, suddenly, he saw his chance: a path opening up in two directions and a large, tall man there in front of him. He ducked and scooted around him, striking the man’s left leg as he did so, following the tightest of the path but moving as quickly as he could and as far as he could while still trying not to jar or knock the people in front of them and give his location away. He risked a glance backward and saw that the man he had struck in the knee on the way past had turned and bent to feel his leg, and in so doing effectively blocked the path.

  He could only go maybe three meters before the crowd thickened up again, but he hoped that would be enough.

  He stayed crouched and hunched over and out of sight for a moment, and then carefully raised his head, peering over the shoulder of the man behind him. He could only see one security guard, but the one he could see was stationary, staring all around him, trying and failing to catch sight of him. Jensi moved just a little and caught sight of the other one. The man had crossed over Jensi’s path without seeing it, was pushing toward the back of the crowd, scanning the people around him carefully but never looking back over his shoulder.

  Keeping his head down, Jensi began pushing forward again, more gently this time, trying not to attract the attention of the two security guards. In a few moments he was in a less populated section of the crowd. A few minutes more and he had darted down an alley and was away.

  * * *

  The press conference was only three or four minutes away—the rally must have been set up where it was partly to disrupt it and negate the colonial government’s attempts to smooth things over—but that was enough time for Jensi to realize that there was something he had overlooked, that maybe there had been a reason to favor the press conference over the other options after all. He remembered the strange moment when his brother and he had come across the children playing near the crack in the dome, daring one another to get close, remembered, too, Istvan’s obsession with the crack and when Istvan had rushed at the crack and struck the dome hard enough with his forehead to bloody it. The press conference was about a crack in a d
ome. That wasn’t much of a connection, but it was the only connection he’d been able to come up with so far.

  His heart was beating fast by this time, and he was short of breath. He ran along the street until he figured he’d passed the last of the rally, then cut back toward Luna Avenue.

  There, just a few hundred feet away, was the municipal hall. It was a much smaller crowd than the rally, the merest fraction of the number of people. Still, the steps were crowded, perhaps close to a hundred people, though as many people seemed to be looking back toward the rally as toward the man fielding questions up on the steps.

  Not wanting to be conspicuous, he slowed his run to a quick walk, then slowed further still. He drifted into the edge of the crowd and stopped, waited.

  “No,” said Councilman Tim Fischer, frowning. He stood flanked by two security guards, their faces expressionless. “The government can hardly have teams of wandering assessors moving from dome to dome, reporting on the integrity of each structure. We simply can’t afford it.”

  Jensi looked around. A first sweep didn’t reveal his brother.

  “But,” said a reporter, perhaps the same one who had asked whatever the initial question was, “how can you afford not to?”

  Fischer remained unruffled. “We can afford to do a little of it,” he said, apparently thoughtfully. “But we do not have endless resources and so we have to focus them. As most of you know, we do have a team for the dome we are in today. We felt that this dome, as the largest dome, should be a priority.”

  Jensi kept scanning the crowd, more slowly this time, moving from face to face.

  “It is also the richest dome per capita,” stated another reporter.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “But the poorer domes are not a priority,” said the second reporter. “That’s exactly the point.”

  “It is a sad thing,” said Councilman Fischer, “but we do have to make choices. We depend on citizens to let us know when they see signs of stress or potential indications of failure. Whenever they let us know, we do our best to correct the problem as quickly as possible. In this case, it’s not a governmental failure that’s the problem. It’s a failure on behalf of the citizenry. They should have been on this sooner.”

  A dull, dissatisfied rumble moved through the crowd, people turning to one another and whispering, and in that moment Jensi caught sight of Istvan. He was mostly hidden behind a large middle-aged woman, on the other side of the crowd, near the top of the steps, close to the councilman. He was standing motionless, his head down, and he remained that way even when the people around him were turning to one another to discuss something the councilman had said. But Jensi could tell by the tension of his neck and shoulders that he was as tautly wound as a spring.

  * * *

  Istvan was waiting for a sign, something that would tell him when to go, what to do next. He already knew what he would do, they had taught him, they had given him his purpose and explained to him what would happen when he did it, how funny it would be, but the question now was when. And they were not the ones that could tell him that. The world around him had to be the one to tell him that, a voice had to come, to signal to him, to show him its pattern and shape and draw him forward.

  They had suggested to him that there was no reason to hesitate. He had a purpose and so as soon as he saw his opportunity he should spring forward. But no, he was almost seeing a pattern but it wasn’t quite there yet. Something was missing. Someone had not felt it yet and was standing wrong, the lines could not be traced, the shadow man remained hidden, unspeaking. Or something else was just slightly out of place and needed to be adjusted. And yet it was not his task to adjust the pattern. No, his task was only to see it, and once he saw it, to let it call him forward to his purpose.

  He would wait. Would wait as long as he had to.

  Patience, he told himself. Patience.

  The man in front of him spoke on, answering questions but in ways that made no sense to Istvan. He pretended to be listening but he was not listening. He was watching and waiting. In his head he was saying the numbers, calling the pattern forward, reminding himself, and his voice, he realized now, was mumbling too, not too loud, not loud enough to be heard. But if the pattern did not come soon, he would, he knew, get louder and louder still.

  And then he caught out of the corner of his eye a flicker of motion and the pattern slipped into place and he saw the life beneath things rear its head just a little, a voice forming inside him, calling him forward to fulfill his purpose.

  * * *

  Jensi passed back out of the crowd and circled around to the other side, began cautiously working his way up the steps, trying not to cause a disturbance. He kept his eyes open for other security in the crowd. There was nobody obvious: either there was nobody or somebody was undercover. There was Istvan’s head and shoulders just a few steps above him.

  All I have to do is get to him, thought Jensi. If I can get to him and touch him, I’ll be able to coax him out of doing whatever he’s thinking of doing.

  But even as he thought this, Istvan lifted his head and began to move.

  “Don’t you think—” a new reporter began to say, and then stopped when she saw Istvan suddenly dash toward the podium. The security man nearest to him had been caught napping, too, and by the time he’d uncrossed his arms and begun to react, Istvan had kicked him hard in the knee. Even from where he was, pushing desperately forward through the crowd to try to get to his brother, Jensi heard the snap of the bone.

  The man went down in a heap, with an unearthly cry. The other guard turned and rushed forward. He was now grappling with Istvan, trying to pull something out of his hand. Someone in the crowd started screaming and suddenly everyone was fleeing down the stairs and away, the flood of moving bodies carrying Jensi along with it. He tried to resist the current, then turned and fell. Someone stepped on his hand, hard, and somebody else stumbled over him and careened farther down the steps, and then he had scrambled to his feet again and was rushing forward. He saw Istvan head-butt the guard he was struggling with. The man let go, stumbling back a little bit before falling down. Fischer now was crouched behind the podium, cowering, protecting his head with his hands. Istvan spun and pointed what was in his hand at the man, and Jensi realized it was a gun.

  “Istvan, no!” he shouted.

  But Istvan didn’t seem to hear him. He had a strange grin on his face—strange because it did not seem malevolent or malicious, but only like the grin of someone who was playing a joke.

  And then he pulled the trigger and there was a roar and Councilman Fischer’s head broke apart to spatter the podium. For a moment the body swayed there and then all the joints went loose and it collapsed. Istvan’s face had changed: he was no longer grinning. Instead he seemed genuinely shocked. He turned the gun around and brought it close to his face and stared into its barrel, as if it could tell him something. Then he lifted his head and suddenly met his brother’s gaze and this time seemed to see him. Shaking his head, he said, “This is not my purpose.”

  “Put the gun down,” said Jensi. “Please.”

  But Istvan kept holding it. “Brother,” he pleaded, “help me.”

  Jensi took a step forward, but it was already too late. The second security guard had regained his feet and plowed into Istvan, knocking him down, the gun clattering away. Istvan didn’t resist. He allowed the man to force his head against the concrete and hold it there while he zip-tied first his arms and then his legs. And Jensi, watching all of this, remembered above all else the way that Istvan’s expression remained puzzled, confused.

  “Who are you?” shouted out one of the reporters who had remained behind. But Istvan didn’t answer.

  Jensi tried to get close but the security guard waved him back and, when he kept on coming, pulled out a pistol, threatened him. “If I need to, I’ll have you taken away along with him,” he said. The other security guard was still lying on the ground, groaning, holding his leg.

>   “Why did you do it?” asked one of the few people who had stayed, apparently a reporter.

  “No vids!” said the security guard brandishing the gun, but more than a few people were already taking them with their mobiles.

  This time Istvan did speak. He licked his lips and said, softly enough that Jensi himself could barely hear. “My purpose. But no, it wasn’t … it was wrong.”

  “What was that?” asked the reporter. “Speak up.”

  “Shut up,” said the guard, and kicked Istvan in the ribs.

  “Who gave you your purpose?” asked Jensi.

  “They did,” said Istvan.

  “I told you to shut up,” said the guard.

  “What is it you want to tell the world?” asked the reporter. “All eyes are on you now. What do you want the world to know?”

  “Who’s they? Who gave you your purpose?” said Jensi again.

  “They did,” said Istvan, and grimaced.

  A moment later the steps were flooded by SCAC officers in riot gear, and Jensi wondered fleetingly if they were the “they” that Istvan had been talking about. One of them was in front of Jensi now, pushing him back and down the steps, the others moving rapidly to establish a perimeter. Jensi tried to resist and found himself pushed over and clattering down the steps. Through the gap between the officer’s legs he caught a brief glimpse of his brother’s face, still as confused as ever, and then they had forced a bag over Istvan’s head and were hustling him away.

  8

  The news was in people’s minds for a day or two, the subject of discussion on the vids, and then it disappeared almost as suddenly as it had first begun. Jensi had a hard time not thinking it had been deliberately quelled. For a week or two you could find the vid if you looked hard enough, hiding in some of the backwaters of the system. It showed nothing of the assassination itself, since the killshot had been hidden by the podium. No, you had to be to one side, as Jensi had been, to see Fischer’s head burst and scatter blood and brain. But what you did see was the look of confusion on Istvan’s face directly after the shot, a confusion and puzzlement that continued well after he’d been knocked down and tied up.