The Lazarus Particle

by Logan Thomas Snyder

  “She told me, ‘You know, believe it or not, I’m starting to think you guys maybe did me a real favor, taking me along for the ride the way you did.’”

  Some favor, he thought now. And for what?

  “Red Leader, you still with us?” the shuttle pilot hailed. “Red Leader, respond!”

  “Here,” came the belated response. Quiet as Dell’s voice was, Fenton could hear the anger, the hatred, and somewhere below that, the desolate sadness underpinning it. “I’m here. How much further?”

  “Major?”

  Fenton pulled himself together. He didn’t have a choice. He owed it to Roon, to Ohana and Dell, to Xenecia and Soroya and Marshal Harm. He owed it to everyone who had already given their life. More importantly, he owed it to everyone who would still if he didn’t focus up and get himself right. “A few more klicks. That should do it.”

  “And what then?”

  “You open the bay doors and I jump out,” he said flatly.

  The pilot did a double-take so hard he nearly threw them off course. “What the—are you insane?! You don’t even have a suit!”

  “Oh, right.” Fenton frowned thoughtfully, regarding his bare hands. “Give me a minute.”

  Throwing away all that mournful anger, that empty pain, he willed the nans, coaxed them forth. It was an excruciatingly slow, mentally draining process. In reality it took only seconds for his body to seize and arch forward. Shoulders pinned back against the seat, he could feel each and every one of the trillions of nans in his body respond to the call.

  And then they came. A trickle, then streams upon streams of the tiny nans. They poured from his nostrils and mouth, his ears, even beneath the lids of his eyes. A writhing, shimmering mass, they reformed quickly, encapsulating his face, neck, body, and hands, anywhere there was exposed skin needing to be shielded from the vacuum of space.

  Within the span of a minute, the nans had manufactured a suit around Fenton.

  “Ho-lee…” the pilot started to say, drawing out the second syllable as Fenton threw him a thumbs up. Good to go. The pilot just shook his head in wonderment as he keyed the console to open the shuttle’s bay doors. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, sir.”

  “So do I. Now, open those doors and get the hell out of here!”

  Fenton watched as the shuttle banked away, putting a safe distance between itself and its erstwhile cargo.

  He was well and truly alone now. A distant, farflung observer to the war his research helped start. God, it was horrible. Strangely beautiful, but utterly horrible to behold, even from so far a distance.

  And now the Tyroshi fleet was moments from entering the fray.

  “Well,” he breathed, “it’s now or never.”

  Throwing his arms out before him, Fenton did what no man ever could before. God willing, none ever would again.

  It began in his fingertips. A raw, elemental tingling. Fenton looked to his hands, marveling as the nans began to rearrange themselves yet again. Slowly, painlessly, they began to unravel his fingers. There really was no other word for it. Atom by tiny atom, they disappeared before his very eyes, twisting away in twin helix streams circling one another gracefully. It was almost balletic.

  The rest of his body unraveled much more quickly, running like tributaries along his arms and legs, the constituent parts that together made him whole casting off into empty space all around him. Yet even as the nans deconstructed his body, his consciousness remained intact. There was no pain, just the incredibly disconcerting sensation he was everywhere and nowhere, all things and nothing. In that moment of utter and complete clarity, he gave himself entirely to them, glorying in their presence and the disentangling pull of all the sundry elements and particles that made Fenton Wilkes Fenton Wilkes. He laughed, the sound lost to the space he occupied—to the space he was.

  Suddenly, he and space were interchangeable. He and the universe had become one! Flexing what used to be his fingers, Fenton watched the light of dead stars long past their prime fluctuate and warp to his beck and call. All of creation crackled at his fingertips. The power of the universe was his to command and wield like a painter with a palette.

  He was space, and space was he, the two interwoven now.

  He had only to look upon the Tyroshi fleet to crumple their engines. Destroy their plasma cutters. Rip their ships in half and feed every last one of them to the abyss.

  Render their fleet unto Fenton, as it were.

  And yet he did none of that.

  No, he thought. Too easy.

  Instead, Fenton expanded himself, or rather what he had become. Slowly he separated, the sphere of space around him stretching to accommodate him. He grew wide and strong, feeding off the light of dead stars. He would devour the universe if he could, but even the most ambitious singularity had to start somewhere.

  He fed on the pathetic Tyroshi fleet. Willing them into the maw he had become, Fenton shivered with ecstasy as he felt each and every soul cry out and give way to the oblivion within him. It was orgasmic, wonderful, utterly transcendent. No earthly feeling could ever possibly compare, and he positively reveled in it.

  All powerful. All knowing. All consuming.

  And yet, even the nans were not powerful enough to sustain what he had become.

  What they had become.

  When at last the final Tyroshi vessel had passed through his gaping transcendence, Fenton collapsed physically and mentally. With him, so too did those life-sustaining particles.

  47 • COMEUPPANCE

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the Battle Group Vanguard, this is Station Commander Knolan Orth. It is with great sadness and a heavy heart that I must inform you of the death of Ship Commander Armand Trufant III.” Here he paused dramatically, suffusing the moment with tension. “He was killed—murdered—in a desperate act of perfidy committed by a Tyroshi kill squad sent with orders to eliminate Leviathan’s senior staff and sabotage the vessel. Tragically, they succeeded in part of their mission.

  “Commander Trufant was a good and honorable man. He will be remembered as a symbol, a martyr in service to all that Morgenthau-Hale stands for.” Another strategically placed pause. “As the ranking officer among the remaining senior staff, I am hereby assuming command of Leviathan and the battle group Vanguard, as well as the temporary rank of ship commander. Lieutenant Daniel Pruitt will serve as my executive officer and is authorized to speak and act on my behalf in all matters of command.” One last pause. “It has been said that these are the times that try men’s souls. Yet I am more certain than ever that we shall succeed, so long as we hold fast our faith in one another. That is all.”

  Pruitt smiled wryly as the broadcast ended. “Well said, sir. A stirring tribute to a great man.”

  “As stirring as a crock of shit,” Orth said, “but a necessary fiction. Now, we shall see who will stand with us and who will stand against us.”

  Captain Itzin was the first—and the last—to speak out at the command level.

  “I cannot abide this… this naked power grab,” she protested nobly, her head held high. To Pruitt it appeared almost as if she were looking down her nose upon the rest of them. “I shall have no part of it.”

  Orth closed his eyes, sighing almost imperceptibly. “Very well,” he said simply, solemnly. He had hoped it would not come to this, Pruitt knew. Yet refusal to fall in line could not be brooked under any circumstance. “I appreciate your honesty, Captain.”

  Itzin relaxed visibly. Apparently she was under the delusion her dissent would not be met with swift and decisive reprisal. To the contrary. With but a single nod to his Marines, Orth sealed her fate. Two of the men stepped forward, seizing the veteran line officer above the elbows. They marched her summarily to the nearest airlock.

  It was no coincidence there happened to be one not ten paces away.

  To her credit, Itzin did not resist as she was shoved roughly into the airlock. She stumbled forward but quickly recovered herself, turning back to face her judge, ju
ry, and executioner. Setting her jaw, she made a show of smoothing out her uniform. Her determination to die with dignity was noble, but ultimately fruitless, Pruitt thought. Even as the inner door sealed, she remained at attention, hands clasped firmly behind her back. She looked upon her fellow officers with contempt. Lastly she turned her gaze upon the man who had condemned her. She mouthed a single word, firm in her conviction to the bitter end.

  Traitors.

  What more was there to say? Orth keyed the initiation sequence required to open the airlock.

  Above the inner door, a klaxon sounded. Red warning lights strobed overhead, bathing them all in its ominous glow. Inside the airlock, Itzin trembled, her resolve crumbling in the face of her own mortality. Behind her, the outer doors had separated completely. Before she could so much as scream all the air was sucked out of her lungs and into space—and her with it.

  Silence reigned as the airlock remained open for several more seconds. Then the outer doors began to close. When at last they met with a resounding echo audible even through the foot-thick inner door, the siren and warning lights ceased.

  “Holy fuck, Knolan,” Hondo said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He gaped dumbly at the now empty airlock. “Holy fuck.”

  Ignoring him, Orth turned to Itzin’s executive officer. Like Itzin herself, Lieutenant Ayala was a plain woman, spare and reserved both in dress and demeanor. Pruitt understood her to be an efficient and well regarded executive officer but knew little else about the woman personally. Orth gestured her forward. “I trust you do not share the sentiments of your former Captain?”

  Ayala held herself firmly. She answered without hesitation in an effort to prove she was not intimidated by the man. It was a brave if not entirely convincing effort. “No, sir,” she said.

  “Excellent. Congratulations, Captain Ayala. I—” Orth frowned, puzzled. He glanced sidelong at the airlock. “I don’t suppose anyone thought to remove Irina’s rank insignia? No? Oh, well. No matter. We’ll find you a set somewhere. In the meantime, I trust you shall serve with loyalty and integrity.”

  An interesting sentiment, Pruitt thought, considering the man had just led an armed mutiny.

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

  “And the rest of you?” He looked pointedly to Hondo.

  To a man and woman, the captains and their executive officers agreed.

  “Excellent. Return to your ships and prepare your crews to engage the Tyroshi at my command. We finish this today.”

  Pruitt’s eyes tracked back and forth as the final lines of code scrolled the console’s screen.

  “How much longer, Lieutenant?” Orth asked. A note of impatience had crept into his commander’s voice, Pruitt noted. “We risk ceding the advantage every moment we do not act.”

  “Not long now, sir. It’s imperative I be certain the interrupt protocol has complete and unfettered access to the Tyroshi operating systems before we execute the remote takeover. Their systems are not all that dissimilar from our own, but there are key differences in certain critical subsystems. If I miscalculate and they were to retain control of their engines, they could jump away before we do them any real damage; if they were to retain control of their weapons platforms, it would make it that much more difficult and costly to destroy them outright.”

  “I will accept nothing less than their fleet in flames.”

  “Understood, sir.” Reaching the last line of code, Pruitt made a few minor alterations. He ran an independent simulation of the interrupt protocol against his own reconstruction of the Tyroshi operating systems. The interrupt protocol infiltrated the simulated systems flawlessly, even at near-peak efficiency. Allowing himself a moment of quiet congratulation, Pruitt turned from the console and declared, “It’s ready, Commander.”

  Orth smiled, his eyes sparkling darkly. Recently his obsession with the Tyroshi had taken on a malevolent, almost unhinged aspect. Pruitt could only hope that by helping Commander Orth realize his vengeance he was giving the man the means to find his core once again. “Outstanding. Communications, inform the others we are ready to begin. Then open a transmission with the Tyroshi flagship.”

  Lj Rejvollori answered the call. He alone stood center frame beneath the projection hub. “Ah, Commander Orth.” He bowed just so. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “You may fetch your master, for starters. I’ll not be reduced to dealing with his groveling dog.”

  If Lj Rejvollori was insulted by Orth’s lack of respect or candor, he did not show it. “Of course, my good Commander. No fetching shall be required. He is here presently.” With a small gesture of deference, Lj Rejvollori moved out of frame.

  Ndeeldavono replaced him a moment later. “Commander Orth. May we inquire as to why you and your battle group have ceased your bombardment of the Irregulars’ fleet? Furthermore, where is Commander Trufant? We were under the impression he was directing your portion of the joint operation.”

  “I’m afraid Commander Trufant has been relieved of his command,” Orth said, struggling to contain his excitement. “And as for our portion of the joint operation, I’ve decided I have no further interest in destroying the Irregulars’ fleet.”

  “Is that so, Commander?”

  “That is so.”

  “May we inquire just what it is you are interested in?”

  “Why, I would think it obvious, my Zj.”

  “Ah.” Zj Soliorana nodded. “We suppose it was always destined to come down to this moment between us, was it not?”

  “I suppose it was. I suppose it was.” Looking to Pruitt, Orth nodded. “You may begin, Lieutenant.”

  Pruitt turned to his console. With but a few graceful taps of his fingers he directed the interrupt protocol to infiltrate and remotely take command of the Tyroshi operating systems. He was preparing to execute the next series of commands when the screen abruptly lit red. The message it displayed should have been impossible based on his simulations.

  REMOTE UPLINK FAILED.

  OVERCOM UNABLE TO CONNECT.

  INTERRUPT PROTOCOL DISENGAGED.

  “No,” Pruitt breathed at the sight of the words on his screen. “No, it can’t be.”

  “What’s happening, Lieutenant?”

  Pruitt tried the uplink twice more. Each time, the message repeated. “I don’t know, sir,” he stammered. “It should be working. Something must be blocking the signal.”

  “Oh, we would not be too hard on your man,” Zj Soliorana said, practically tittering. His voice was pitched with amusement at the knowledge he had outsmarted Orth and Pruitt. “His programming was more than adequate. But did you really think our own technical teams would not discover the virus he introduced into our operating systems during your visit? They scrubbed it hours ago.” The Zj grinned sharply. “So you see, our dear Knolan, you have never been a threat to us, despite how you humans might flatter yourself. Thanks to our superior sensors and eavesdropping technology, we were also quite aware that you have assassinated your Commander Trufant and are attempting to attribute the act to a Tyroshi kill squad. While flattering, we both know this to be patently false. Be that as it may, we will gladly do you the honor of destroying your pathetic battle group and annihilating every last man and woman under your feeble command—”

  A battery of alarms erupted aboard both vessels, competing for attention as they drowned out Zj Soliorana.

  “What is happening?” the Zj demanded, furious that his grand rhetorical flourish had been cut short. “Status report! We demand to know what is happening!”

  Orth raised a brow. “I should very much like to know the answer to that question myself, Lieutenant Pruitt.”

  Racing from his own station to the sensors terminal, Pruitt all but threw the young woman manning it from her chair. Ignoring her surprised cry, his fingers danced like lightning across the terminal. “Scanning now, Commander.”

  When the disposition of the Tyroshi fleet flashed across the terminal’s screen, Pruitt’s eyes bulged so wide they s
trained against the sockets. It couldn’t be. By all rights it simply could not be.

  “Lieutenant! Report!”

  Finally, Pruitt found his voice. “Sensors indicate a massive singularity forming on the far side of the Tyroshi fleet. They’re being drawn in one by one.”

  Receiving the same report from his own people, Ndeeldavono wheeled frantically back toward the screen. “Madness! You have condemned us all, Commander! By what trickery, what vile corruption do you come to possess such monstrous power?!”

  Laughing darkly, Orth simply shook his head. “Oh, this is none of my doing, my good Zj. No trickery. No corruption, vile or otherwise.” Allowing a moment for a sneering smile to unfurl across his lips, he added, “Why, if I had to guess, I would say this is your ‘just desserts,’ as it were.”

  “All vessels, prepare to jump at once!” Lj Rejvollori could be heard screaming in the background, his voice pitched with shrill terror. “Repeat, all vessels prepare to—”

  The entire command module watched with perverse fascination as the projection distorted and skewed in defiance of all known laws of physics. Zj Soliorana raised his arm before him, regarding it with mute horror as it began to disintegrate before his very eyes. Looking through the projection almost pleadingly, he opened his mouth to scream, only to bear witness as his tongue dissolved and danced away from his slowly separating face. Pruitt and Orth smiled malevolently as the Zj and his people were torn apart at the most elemental level. They were ripped limb from limb cell by cell, molecule by molecule, atom by atom until at last there was nothing left to take. They were consumed within a matter of mere seconds. Yet for them, the elasticity of time within the grip of the abyss would have multiplied the agony a thousand-fold, stretching it over the span of multiple lifetimes, millennia, even eons.

  Orth would find no more fitting punishment for the clan who destroyed Orbital Station Tau, Pruitt knew. The man all but radiated contentment as the projection dissolved into nothingness. “Well, I suppose that rather changes things, doesn’t it?”