Trapped

by Scott Bartlett

  The sound seeped away as the last of the crashing waves seemed to recede, leaving only the sound of the fans in the artificial air units to fill the sudden emptiness.

  The com console beeped, and every person in the CIC jumped.

  “What’s that?” Husher snapped.

  “It’s the admiral.”

  “Put him through.”

  “Well, that’s a helluva thing,” Iver said. “I know you had poker games in some strange parts of the universe, but this one takes the cake.”

  The effort at levity fell flat. Husher found that his sense of humor had evaporated. “How the hell do they know my name?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Husher shook his head, staring down at the deck. Was this some kind of nightmare? Could this really be happening? Was it a simulation? A game?

  It seemed impossible that he’d crossed into another universe only to be called out by name by aliens humanity could never have encountered before. “Why me?” he croaked at last, not liking the sound of his voice one bit.

  “That was going to be my next question,” Iver said. “Here’s the thing. If you really have no idea what’s going on, then you need to figure it out. You might be the missing piece that holds this whole thing together.”

  “It might be the AIs,” Shota offered.

  Husher looked over at him. He’d almost forgotten Shota was there. He’d almost forgotten about everything. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s the only thing that makes sense. Who else in the multiverse would have any knowledge of humanity? They would know much of what this ‘Brood’—” Shota made air quotes with his hands. “—seems to know.”

  “Most of the AIs never made it to our universe.”

  “No, but the Progenitors would have programmed them with knowledge of us. We were among their primary targets, after all.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how they know me by name.”

  “True. That part is a little freaky.”

  “A little?” Husher said, some of his humor returning.

  Shota shrugged. “Maybe that was an understatement.”

  “It might be a bluff,” Iver said.

  “Of course it’s a bluff,” Shota said. “They aren’t letting anybody walk out of here.”

  Husher pressed his lips together. “You don’t know that.”

  Shota furrowed his brow. “No way. I know what you’re thinking, and no way.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “You’re thinking that you have to go. That this is the only way we have a chance.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. That’s stupid. There’s no value in just playing into their hands.”

  “Except that we don’t really have a choice.” Husher noted that there was no rush to disagree from the admiral.

  Shota was making up for that. “No. Period. It would be plain idiotic to give them what they want. We have to find a third way.”

  “A third way?”

  “Yes. In command school, this sort of thing came up again and again. Scenarios that only seemed to entail two choices, black and white. But there was always a third option. It wasn’t clear, because the rules were set up to make us see only the black and white choices. The best solution was hidden, because nobody was looking for it.”

  “All due respect,” said the admiral, “this isn’t some textbook scenario in command school. There are thirty thousand souls in this battle group we have to think about. I can’t just put their lives on the line in the hopes there’s a better solution.”

  “Admiral, with all due respect, that solution can’t be to just turn the captain over to them. That’s exactly what they want.”

  “You still haven’t given me a good reason not to do it,” Husher said. “And believe me, I’d love if you could come up with something.”

  Shota shook his head, clearly frustrated. “I don’t know what to do, but I know the answer is staring us in the face.”

  Husher stood. “The bridge is yours, XO. Admiral, we have to give them what they want.”

  There was a long pause. Shota looked like was going to be sick. “Are you sure about this?”

  Husher nodded, turning toward the hatch. “I’m sure.” He felt the gaze of every officer on the deck follow him as he walked out of the CIC.

  Chapter 30

  Combat Shuttle Little Beetle

  UHC Relentless’ nearspace

  Husher watched the bulkhead viewscreen opposite him, which showed the Relentless receding as the shuttle that carried him floated away.

  Off in the distance, he could see the other destroyers of the fleet. He hadn’t realized they were so close together. From this vantage point, he could make out the silhouette of some of the point defense cannons, the huge railguns ready to swivel and fire in unison if any foe managed to close within their deadly range.

  But there was only so much trouble you could keep at bay. Trouble always won out in the end.

  He shifted in his seat, craning to see the two guards that were sitting closer to the flight deck. Beyond them, through the open hatch, sat the pilot. She was lightly armed, but the marines were armed to the teeth.

  “Seems like a little much,” Husher snarled at the nearest marine, “just for little old me. What exactly do you think I’m going to do?”

  The marine next to the one he was addressing shifted a little in his seat, but neither of them responded. He’d been taunting them since the moment he’d been loaded onto the shuttle, and even before that, while they were shoving him into his pressure suit with the cold steel of their muzzles pressed against his head. Daring him to struggle.

  The other Husher—the butcher who’d murdered everyone he loved and got a slap on the wrist, plus a new command for his trouble—sat strapped into a crash seat opposite him. He wore a stupid look of concern on his face while he blathered on, trying to explain the enemy he faced, and how overwhelmed they were.

  Apparently, they’d already lost one ship. I hope you lose them all.

  The man across from him was so weak. It hurt Husher’s ears to listen to his whining, pathetic voice. “I don’t care about your stupid task force,” he said. “Your men. Your ships. You didn’t care about mine. You didn’t care about the men and women you killed when you destroyed the generators that kept my collapsing universe at bay.”

  The pathetic Husher took a deep breath. It must have been a nice luxury. For his part, he could barely breathe inside the hot pressure suit the marines had shoved him into, all the while tempting him with their eyes to make one wrong move.

  Then they’d bound his hands behind him, purposefully twisting his fingers, probably hoping for a reaction so they could beat him. Cowards.

  He couldn’t fathom the moral code these marines lived by. They had no honor. They spoke like they were saints, but they killed their enemies without facing them. They’d shoot them in the back if they had to, and find an excuse for their actions.

  Husher fought like a man. He faced his enemy and spat in his eye. He didn't hide behind rules of engagement or some thin excuse for civilization that ignored reality.

  His pathetic twin had felt compelled to explain the predicament they found themselves in. Another weakness. There was no reason he should tell him, a prisoner, anything. But the man was weak, like his soft face.

  He felt the urge to spit, but he doubted his saliva would make it to the other side of the shuttle. “You’ll never leave this universe alive,” he said instead. “You’re stuck here. Forever.”

  “For now, we’re stuck here. But we believe that we can remedy that.”

  “They’ll kill me. You know that, right? Once they’ve extracted whatever information they need, they’ll discard me.”

  His do-gooder twin frowned. “I don’t know that, actually. But I do know that if you do survive, I will personally vouch for your actions.”

  He laughed. “You think that’s going to mean shit? Even if I somehow survived, our gover
nment wants me dead. Your marines want me dead,” he said, glancing at the men standing passively nearby, their weapons at the ready. “But you think ‘vouching’ for me is going to help me?”

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “I don’t have a choice in this, so don’t pretend like I do. I’m so very sorry if it’s troubling your conscience, but I won’t tell you what you want to hear. I won’t tell you I’m willing to do this. That I understand and I’m doing this for the greater good. You’re going to have to make me do it. And you’re going to have to live with it.”

  The captain of the Relentless frowned. “So be it. I can live with it.”

  Husher smiled. “We’ll see about that.”

  The intercom above emitted the shuttle pilot’s voice: “We’re nearing the alien vessel.”

  Husher squinted at the viewscreen, which now showed the bulbous alien ship. “How the hell are you going to dock with that thing?” It looked like a giant piece of organic matter. Its sides looked wet, with nothing that looked even remotely metallic. Nothing that resembled an airlock or a dock of any kind.

  One of the marines approached. “Get up.” The brute jerked Husher to his feet.

  He spat at the man, and missed. The marine spun him around, marching him toward the airlock at the back of the shuttle.

  Frustration curled his stomach, and he hissed. “If my hands weren’t bound…”

  “But they are, freak,” the marine said, shaking him roughly.

  “Easy, Dixon,” the do-gooder Husher said from his crash seat. He’s not even bothering to get up.

  One of the marines slapped a helmet over his head, the fastenings clamping down automatically to seal with the rest of the suit. The captain was donning his helmet, and so was the pilot.

  “Depressurizing,” the pilot said.

  “Are we in position?”

  “Affirmative.” A few moments passed, and the pilot spoke again. “Depressurization complete. Turning off gravity now.”

  The marines were already gripping handles built into the bulkhead, using their free hands to hold Husher. Their boots left the shuttle’s deck, and so did Husher’s. His stomach dropped as he realized the pilot didn’t plan on trying to dock with the alien ship.

  The captain’s voice came into his ear, through his helmet’s radio. “Good luck,” he said. “You don’t deserve it, but there it is.”

  The airlock at the back of the shuttle opened, and Husher looked out into space—at the giant organic ships that loomed before them.

  “Have a nice flight,” one of the marines said. With a mighty shove, they sent Husher hurtling out of the airlock and into the void, tumbling wildly, the universe spinning around and around him until he wanted to vomit.

  He did vomit, and the bile floated through his helmet, splashing into his face, getting in his eyes and up his nostrils. For a moment, he felt like he was suffocating from the putrid contents of his own stomach.

  Crossing the distance between the shuttle and the alien ship seemed to take an eternity. An eternity spent drenched in vomit, trying not to drown in the stuff.

  At some point, he realized the organic vessel was coming toward him. It was growing larger, moving to meet him slowly, almost majestically.

  When it finally reached him, it opened up, swallowing him.

  Chapter 31

  Bowels

  Brood Stomach Ship

  Time slowed to a crawl.

  Bizarre, multi-limbed aliens were awaiting his arrival. They reached out hungrily for him. Possibly, they were literally hungry. Maybe they wanted to have him for dinner.

  But for some reason, Husher felt only calm. There was a powerful sound in his ears, like rushing water. It calmed him, and almost made him forget that his face was awash in his own vomit.

  The inside of the alien ship, the thing that his double had called a Stomach, looked exactly like that name would imply. It was dripping with thick liquid and what he could only describe as digestive acids. There were thick white vestibules that were covered in red veins, like the inside of a diseased organism. The aliens dragged him to a dais made of flesh and forced him down onto it.

  He knew he should struggle. Scream. Try to run. But the overwhelming calm of the rushing sound made running seem like a worthless pursuit. Instead, he stayed right where he was, enjoying the gentle nudging of the aliens’ many limbs as they probed and inspected him.

  A set of red emergency lights blinked inside his helmet, along with a warning about depressurization. It took Husher a second to realize that the aliens were cutting him out of the pressure suit. The suit fought off what it perceived as an attack, trying in vain to patch and restore pressure as the aliens worked to remove it.

  It didn’t take long. The aliens won out, and the suit’s emergency lights fell dead. The blaring stopped. The suit died as it was ripped from his body.

  Husher wasn’t one to be bashful about his body. He’d been practically naked under the pressure suit, for no other reason than to make the marines have to handle a naked man.

  He expected to feel cold, but if anything, he was warm, even warmer than in the unforgiving pressure suit. The air was moist, and a strong smell of rotting eggs reached him, even through the bile coating his face. He felt more bile coming up in his throat, and he turned his head to throw up again. But nothing came. He only dry heaved as the aliens carefully maneuvered his prone body.

  “What are you doing?” he managed to whisper. The alien closest to him seemed to cock its head, like it was watching a strange experiment unfold. It reached out and poked Husher’s cheek. He felt the slick digit as it slowly ran itself across the features of his face. There was a sucking sensation, and he wondered for a moment if this was what an encounter with a baby elephant would feel like.

  Then it pulled back, a long string of wet saliva connecting its appendage to his face. The limb shot forward, connecting with his exposed neck with a wet thud. It was like being punched, except Husher felt something puncture his flesh. The pain and shock made his mouth gape open.

  In that moment, a tube shot out of the alien and fired down his throat, gagging him. He tried to spit it out, but he could feel it questing deeper and deeper as he struggled, tunneling into him. He could feel his organs shifting and moving in his body, trying to accommodate this strange intruder.

  When he tried to scream, a gargle came instead, spittle blowing past the edges of the tube.

  Then he felt something warm and wet sliding down the sides of his chest. It was pooling on both sides of him, slowly dripping off the dais.

  He glanced down and realized it was blood. Thick, pooling blood.

  His blood.

  His panic grew, as he realized he was watching the aliens flay him open. He saw his organs pulled out of him. His spleen. His appendix. A portion of his intestines pulled aside and considered thoughtfully by an alien as one of his friends began tugging at the bottom of what he presumed was his lung.

  He heard a crack and realized it was his sternum. They had popped him open almost effortlessly.

  His last thought as he passed out was of his double. The weak man who believed he was better than him, the man who swore that his principles and oaths to some higher calling made it OK for him to kill everyone Husher knew.

  What about this, you sanctimonious bastard? Look what it did to me. Look what you’ve done.

  Blackness edged his vision, closing in.

  Look what you’ve done.

  The curtain of blackness fell, and he felt nothing at all.

  Chapter 32

  Combat Information Center

  UHC Providence, Battle Group Flagship

  Admiral Iver glanced over to Captain Daniels as the aliens began to pull away. The Brood, as they knew to call them now, were leaving.

  “They were true to their word,” Iver said.

  “Were we true to ours?” Husher replied over the com.

  With a zoomed-in visual, Iver had watched the shuttle take both Hushers near the Sto
mach, and then expel one of them. He hadn’t known Captain Husher had been aboard too until it had departed the Relentless, and by then it was too late to try to talk the man out of it.

  He has a strange sense of honor. But at least he has one. Unlike that monster we just sent to hell.

  The moment the shuttle had returned to Relentless, the entire battle group had pulled back, anxious to see if the Brood would follow them. So far, they hadn’t.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Iver. “They wanted Husher. That’s really Husher, and you’re really Husher. So are all the other Hushers, in however many other universes contain them.”

  “Do you think there are other Hushers in this universe?”

  “Maybe. But there’s something fundamentally wrong with this universe. The smart kids in the lab coats are telling me they don’t think this universe was always like this.”

  “How was it different? One moment.” Husher had returned to his own CIC, and he paused to give an order to his Nav officer, as part of the joint retreat across the sector.

  “Even the brainiacs don’t know for sure,” Iver said when he was finished. “But they’ve been speculating about the way the aliens are able to jump back and forth in space.”

  “And show up out of nowhere, when it comes to the Stomachs.” Shota delivered his earnest input from his position standing next to his captain.

  Iver did his best to conceal his frustration with the young XO. He seemed to want to inject himself into every conversation.

  He’d been the one to recommend Shota for the position aboard Husher’s command. No one knew that, and Iver intended to keep it that way. He’d thought Husher might be just the thing that the bold, impetuous XO needed, but Iver was afraid he’d misjudged. If anything, they were feeding off each other.

  “Yes, and that,” he said. “My people think some form of interdimensional travel is most likely.”

  Husher frowned. “We can’t travel interdimensionally. Why would they be able to?”

  Iver shrugged. “It’s just a theory. Whatever the truth is, it must have something to do with the physical structure of this universe. That seems obvious.”