by Aaron Bunce
Jacoby’s hand materialized before his face through the haze.
The blur of fluid covering his eyes.
The blur of pain.
The strange crawling sensation hit the back of his throat and he gagged. It felt like his organs were pulling themselves up through his mouth, retreating, abandoning him. He was losing track of what it meant–the pain, Poole’s words, the out of focus movement around him.
Jacoby pressed the cotton tips to his lips, a warm tingle passing slowly over his gums, tongue, and then…it was gone. He pulled the two long swabs away, a writhing sheen of blue-green fluid covering the cotton and halfway down the stick. That was it? They felt so much more abundant, so much more substantial inside his body.
A blurry hand appeared, cupping his hand first, and then ever so gently, pulling the swabs free. Anna’s face appeared for only a second, her mouth moving, her eyes wide. But he couldn’t hear her over the rushing noise in his ears. Two globules appeared in the air from the side–large droplets of blood.
Everything went dark then, as a cold, almost frozen numbness swirled together with the pain in his skull. A single, meaningful thought fired off in his mind, but it too was lost, as he became heavier, tumbling and rolling into the darkness.
2200 Hours
Manis spent an interminable amount of time navigating the bowels of the ship, navigating the freighter’s dark and claustrophobic access passages. They were tight, filled with cables and branching conduit, always leading to hubs, which just branched off into more cable runs and access passages.
The hunger kept him going–that nagging, burning need growing in his gut. It pushed him past the moments when he ran into a dead end, the path through not immediately apparent in the lightless environment. It kept him moving when he wedged his body into spaces barely large enough for his bulk to fit, the cable ties and mounting arms gouging out large chunks of his softened flesh.
He finally happened upon a stream of cold air. The corresponding ventilation duct opened with almost no resistance, as most of its mounting hardware appeared to be absent. In its place, some lazy tech had run adhesive seals over the lip to keep it closed.
Manis squeezed his bulk into the ventilation shaft and wormed his way slowly through, hand over hand, his body bending snake-like as the tight space elbowed left and right. It was almost as if he was made for the space, the physical deficiencies and degradations aiding his movement.
He labored up the shaft when it angled upward, the overlapping fields of the ship’s gravity plating like invisible hands pulling and scrabbling against him. By the time he got to the top, he was exhausted, his ragged, wet breathing echoing off the tight space.
Manis lay there for a long time, his hands and feet twitching from the strange, buzzing microbials inside him. He could feel them in his chest–filling his lungs, bubbling up his neck and in his brain. But what were they doing? Would he know if something changed–an improvement to his physiology?
Layla didn’t appear to answer his unspoken questions, not that she would fit in that crushing darkness. No. The space wouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter, anymore. She wasn’t flesh and blood, like him. Just an alien consciousness, projected across the vastness of space, to him.
That thought inspired a spike of fear inside, as some part of his mind stirred up the memories of their encounter–lashing tentacles, crushing, smothering darkness, and pain. Buried deep within those recollections, under the overriding layer of pleasure, lay the sting, the ache, and the throbbing agonies as his body broke. He could remember them, but only just, as if they were not his, or perhaps, belonged to someone else.
The duct vibrated around him, a breeze kicking up and flowing over his body. Part of him wanted to feel the wind move like he used to, savor the gentle kiss against the hairs on his arms or the skin of his face. But a sound traveled on the breeze, and not the rattle of dampers or buzz of loose fan blades.
The hair remaining on the nape of his neck prickled as the sound grew louder. It was a voice, soft and barely recognizable at first, but as his brain latched onto it, the other, passive sounds seemed to fall away. The hunger growing inside him increased, flooding out to his extremities until his entire body was alight with need.
“You must feed.”
Manis was moving forward again before his brain consciously gave the order. Hands and feet caught the dirty ducting, arms and legs contorting to impossible angles to propel him forward.
More ragged flesh tore and fell away.
More weakness.
More frailty.
He came to a junction in the duct and stopped, his head hovering out into the wider space. Manis sampled the air, his nose, eyes, and ears, all collecting sensory input. After only a short pause he turned right and continued, the voice ebbing and flowing, but growing louder, closer.
Breathing heavily, tasting the air, Manis forced his body to slow. It was excruciating, especially knowing that he could move faster, but also knew it would cause more noise. And Layla told him he was vulnerable. That he was soft and needed caution.
Light appeared in the duct ahead and he slowed to a crawl, intentionally, methodically, deliberately lifting and sliding each limb forward. He became silent, save for his ragged, wheezing breath.
It will not always be so. They will fix me. She will be good to her word. I just need to play my part. Whatever that is.
The light from the first opening stung his eyes, but Manis refused to look away. After a minute or two the space resolved beyond the slits in the vent and took in a small room. The quarters weren’t unlike the one he’d stayed in, before the crew turned on him. But this space was clean, orderly, a small bed neatly made. It appeared to be empty.
He waited for a short while, but no one entered, so, Manis slowly made his way through the darkness to the next bright rectangle. This room looked almost identical, except for a collection of small, carved figurines lined up on a desk by the far wall.
The voice returned as he stared through the vent, echoing from the darkness, calling to him from the next vent down. It sounded close, the man’s breaths during each pause almost louder than his words. Was it the breathing itself, calling out to him, the silent biological aspects of his body speaking louder than the words his vocal cords created? Was it his hunger speaking?
Manis dragged his body forward, sipping at the air, tasting the man’s presence long before he brought himself close enough to see. A thrill coursed through him as he spotted a moving figure in the quarters–a tall, strong looking man, pacing back and forth. He was talking to someone Manis couldn’t see.
“I don’t know how many got off on the other freighters. I’ve only seen one from the directorate, and he…well, I don’t know what happened to him. He was a spoiled little shit and I think he stepped on someone’s toes. We restrained him in storage when he started ranting like a fucking crazy man, and they got to him, broke his arms and legs…smashed him up really bad. I told the captain I would investigate and find out who did it, but I figured, why bother. He was a spoiled shit and if no one else gets hurt, I’m not going to waste my time. The captain has inter-ship coms locked so I don’t know where the other ships are at this point. Hell, it took me quite a bit of negotiating just to get him to unlock this terminal so I could send you messages. Respond as soon as possible. I need to know what you want me to do. End transcription and send message.”
A pang of fear, sadness, or something else he couldn’t quantify filled him. Crouching there in the vent, Manis watched as the security man unzipped his top and pulled his arms free, exposing long, lean muscles. The tall, obviously fit figure turned, cursed quietly, and moved back to the glowing screen hanging on the wall.
“New message. Same recipient. I’ll transcribe more tomorrow, after I speak to the other crew. Please respond as soon as you get this. I need to know something, anything, at this point. Or I might lose my freaking mind out here. I cannot say it loud enough. Serious shit went down on Hyde and I’m not sure how the c
ompany is going to try and spin it. I don’t know where the captain’s loyalties lie, so I’ve got to be careful. Get back to me. Soon! End recording and send.”
The terminal beeped, and the bright screen dimmed. Manis watched him strip off the dark jumpsuit and toss it into a pile at the foot of the bed. Then he dropped to the ground, hooked his feet under the small cabinet, and started exercising.
It only hit Manis then–the voice, the familiarity, but also his face. Those blue eyes, strong nose bridge, and overly large front teeth. It was one of the two faces that hovered over him while they zipped the vacuum bag shut. He wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t made the connection sooner.
“Gorman,” he whispered, “you will get what you deserve.” He gloated over him, almost savoring the graphic nature of his deconstruction. Anger welled up, mixing with the dark hunger in his guts to form a toxic mix.
With the security officer counting, singing between breaths, and rattling the cabinet loudly, Manis dragged his body away from the light. He wanted nothing more than to drag his body out through the vent, savor the young man’s surprise, and then choke the life out of him slowly, lovingly, and make sure his face was the last thing he saw. But he was well over six feet of muscle, undoubtedly trained, and more than his match.
Soon. First, get stronger.
It took an interminable amount of time, more vents, too much contorting his figure, struggling against the feeling that his body would simply fall apart at any moment. But Manis happened upon a small, dark bunk room. He hovered in the vent for a long time–minutes, hours perhaps, the tendrils the only part of him moving as they swiped over his wide eyes. Then something shifted on the bed, the movement finally registering in the darkness.
His hunger tumbled forth again, no longer willing or able to be contained. He pulled the air vent’s clips free, twisting them slowly from the inside, one by one. His fingers pressed into the slotted surface, flesh and muscle congealing and oozing through, before reforming on the other side. It popped free as the last bracket gave way, the rectangular cover now embedded in the flesh of his right hand.
Manis pushed his way into the opening–bones bending, joints dislocating. The hole was small, barely large enough to accommodate his head, but his body poured through right after, shifting and moving without a sound. A meaty hand caught the ground, his spine and pelvis bending down behind him, all semblances of his old shape and physiology now gone.
Vertebrae clicked quietly as he straightened again, a deep rumble shaking his insides. The form on the bed shifted and moved beneath a rumpled sheet. He could taste him on the air, feel the tantalizing promise of body heat.
Manis inched closer as the figure rolled over–it was a man, older than he had been, short but thickly built, with bristly stubble and a crooked nose. It squeaked slightly as he exhaled, still deep in slumber. The air in the room smelled slightly of grease and solder–a technician or mechanic, perhaps?
He hesitated for a moment, the shredded tatters of his humanity battling against the disturbing impulses shaking his guts. It begged him to jump on the man, tear into him, feast on his body, to make what he had become whole once more.
Satiate. Listen to your body. Give it what it needs. It does not have to hurt. Pull his mind free and send him somewhere else, then do what you must.
Layla’s presence was somewhere in the space beyond the darkness, beyond what he could feel, smell, or touch. The sound of her waving, sliding tentacles tickled his inner ear.
Become whole with his flesh. Take the next. There is an end to your torment. Once you are strong, the ship will be yours. Then you can realize your potential and see our will fulfilled. A vision fired through his brain then, a glimpse of a large crowd of people, all bent over, as if praying. The closest figures looked changed; their bodies altered in horrific ways. The whisper of their combined voices echoed in his mind, the sound, their unintelligible words lending power and strength.
It was what Layla, or the growing consciousness acting through her, wanted. It wanted a following, perhaps, an army. No, he thought. A cult. It wanted to be worshipped, adored, and accepted, more than anything else.
Manis leapt onto the sleeping man, his legs hooking and his hands grasping desperately. He awoke with a start, a startled breath only broken by two words.
“What…lights!”
He rolled to the right as the darkness peeled apart, and then back to the left. They tumbled right off the small bed. The man’s weight landed directly on Manis, bones popping and wet organs rupturing, but he refused to let go. It would all be replaced anyways, regrown for greater purpose.
“What in the fuck? Get off me! This is…not funny!” the man gasped, pushing away, strong, thick fingers biting into his soft flesh and tearing loose. Manis’ hold stretched, his intended victim’s strength stretching his pliable, almost elastic limbs. He managed to gain a little distance, almost arm’s length, as muscles fired in fight or flight.
“What in the shit?” he gasped in horror as the flesh of Manis’ chest and shoulders tore. His hands broke free, still clutching the torn tissue as they crashed together. The man sucked in a breath then, his desperation and terror wafting off his body, the impulse to cry for help firing between them. Manis sucked on the air then, some dark part of him stealing the breath, the voice, right out of the terrified man’s lungs.
The technician gave an unintelligible cry–a wet, strangled rasp that barely escaped his throat. His eyes went wide, and he pulled his hands away to swipe at the air before his face. To his credit, he only fought the air for a moment, before wrenching his body to the side and scrambling towards the door. A feral, desperate sound grew in his throat, as if an animal were trapped inside him and fought to get free.
Manis flopped with him, his spongy body bending with the movement. He groped for his shoulders, but his ruined fingers found no purchase. He was too soft, too rotten.
His mind. Attack his mind.
The thought slammed into his mind with all the subtlety of a train wreck as part of his brain came alive. The technician kicked and flailed again, Manis’ right leg thrown free. He clawed his body forward again and again, his hands reaching and pulling for a touch panel located several feet up the wall. If he reached it, help would come. The man reached the wall as Manis flopped forward on his back, his weight slamming them both down against the deck.
“Stop!” the technician snarled suddenly, and snapped his head back. Manis’ head wrung with the blow, the impact jarring him back with a soft, rotten-melon plop.
He fell back, almost falling free, but fought the motion and pulled his upper body forward again. The technician was clawing at the wall, slapping and fighting for the touch screen. He must have at least grazed it, as it’s bluish glow now filled the dark space.
“Stupid…fu–” he growled, but Manis swung a ruined hand up and caught his hair. The other flopped in and latched onto the side of his head.
That deep, strange part of his brain–the one he felt come alive just a moment before, responded. The technician grunted, every muscle in his neck, shoulders, and back going rigid.
A host of chaotic, panicked thoughts flooded into the forefront of his mind—the calm, warm darkness of sleep, gentle, floating dreams, and then an attack. It was the man’s mind, his thoughts, all of it, at his fingertips.
“Get…off…stop…need…pain,” the man mumbled, weakly rolling from side to side. His trembling hands lifted, reaching for the screen.
With enough strength, Manis knew he could stop him, perhaps strip down the barriers and take control of his mind, but he was too weak. So, instead, he did the only thing he could do, he opened himself up. Layla, or the organism she represented, sensed his need and desire, and immediately responded. A hole tore open in his mind and Manis funneled an unquantifiable stream of information into the man’s brain, not as a gentle trickle he could absorb, but as a raging, violent torrent.
The technician gasped and made to scream, but his voice almost instan
tly shrunk and contorted in his throat. Manis felt his mind swell, the neurons coming alive in a dazzling electrical storm. The stored memories of a thousand souls–their joys, pains, successes, failures, all poured into him, a singular emotional thread pushing them along with the weight of a mountain, their deaths. Manis pushed it all into the technician, shredding his mind and sanity.
The dying man, rambling nonsense, coughed and flopped, fighting to pull free from Manis’ grasp. But he pulled him closer, driving one hand violently into his side, boney fingers parting the flesh just beneath the ribs. The other hooked around and slid into the technician’s mouth. His eyes rolled crazily as his teeth severed Manis’ pulpy flesh, but he jammed it over his tongue and down his throat.
The man choked and convulsed, his weight falling forward and his fight bleeding away. Their flesh started to meld together, Manis’ ribs popping loudly before splitting open. His chest opened to accept the offering of flesh and blood.
Triage
Lex watched Anna take the swabs from Jacoby, his eyes rolling back in his head before they fully left his grasp. Blood was already bubbling out of his nose, more weightless globs of it floating freely in the air from the wound on the back of his head. Poole’s form wavered a little in the air, his features still morphing without rhyme or reason.
She watched him intensely, waiting, hoping to see something familiar, perhaps even just a bit of Ayo to come to the surface. She needed confirmation…no, affirmation that her former pilot and object of affection was in there and she hadn’t simply seen what she wanted.
“Don’t you let him die, Poole.”
“I am doing everything I can, Red,” he said, more than a little ice clipping his voice. “But there is only so much I can do now, as Anna currently holds what little influence I previously possessed. With that said, the majority of the injury appears to be to his brain, which sounds pretty bad—and trust me it is, that collision really messed things around in here. But as the rest of him is relatively undamaged, and as his head is where I currently reside, it should be possible for me to at least keep him stable, while alternately working medical miracles in both Lana and Emiko’s bodies. Now come along, let’s be quick about our business before those precious little helpers die of old age.”
