Evolve Two: Vampire Stories of the Future Undead

by Unknown

  The surviving guard was sitting up, shaking in a puddle of blood, groaning as the shock spasms left him. “Goddammit … fu-uck … whud I take this fucking job…”

  “What’s the deal with this operation?” Frank demanded, pointing the gun at the man’s groin. “Why’re they keeping euthanasia patients alive?”

  “I’m … just a mercenary, I don’t know nothing about what goes on back there. They won’t let us back in transition, they got their own people to patrol it. I hate this fucking job…” He stared at the bloody corpse sprawled on the floor. “You kill Larry?”

  “Larry killed my wife. What’s your name?”

  “Marv. Ow. Goddamn that hurts.”

  “Okay, Marv Ow, you’re gonna get on that shuttle, and take any other personnel you can find with you. Evacuate all the employees. How many other mercs on this fucking bauble?”

  “Just two others. We never had no trouble before.”

  “You talk them into going with you. You understand me?”

  “Yeah, fine, just give me a chance to— Shit that hurts … Larry has the medic gear…”

  Frank reached down, pulled a bloodstopper off the dead guard’s belt. He sprayed his own light wounds with it, and then tossed it within reach of Marv’s working hand. “Use that.”

  Marv sprayed the bloodstopper on his wound, shuddering with relief as the anesthetics took hold.

  Frank spotted a concussion grenade on Marv’s belt. “Pretty heavy ordnance for a security guard. Hand that little egg to me, very carefully, Marv — give me all your ammunition and your pal’s too. Then get your people out of here. There’s going to be real death in this place. Nothing but real death.”

  Stalking up to the balcony overlooking the great open space inside the Soulglobe, Frank remembered when he’d first seen Mella.

  That trip up the Tigris, thirteen years ago. See! The new Hanging Gardens of Babylon! See! A re-enactment of the Execution of Saddam Hussein! See! Ancient Treasures and Glorious Executions!

  Frank had no interest in re-enactments of executions. He was ready to quit the trip, stupid idea doing a furlough there. Only, he had an interest in Babylon, the whole ancient Middle East. His mom had taken him to visit Cairo, Jerusalem, Istanbul. And he could count on peace in the Middle East — one of the most peaceful places on Earth, in the 22nd century. He wanted to be somewhere peaceful.

  But here he was, in a deck chair on a tour boat listening to an android talk all breezily about re-enacting hangings. And there was Mella, handing out lunches to a group of school kids.

  “Now that’s something you don’t see every day — face to face teachers,” said an old tourist in a fez, winking at him. “I remember a few — when I was a kid. None of them that looked that good.”

  See! The girl you want to marry the moment you set eyes on her. Mella. Beautiful and apparently unaware of it; innately kind, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Made you believe something good could come from people…

  And now she was shot to pieces. He had to know if it was his fault she’d died this way … and if not, whose fault it was.

  Frank stood on the edge of the balcony watching the blue mists rising past it; the angling light. The Ballet of the Dead was done for now — only a few glass coffins drifted around the edges.

  But far away, in the middle of the open space, someone was waiting for him. A big, dark figure was floating there, in the center of the Soulglobe.

  Frank didn’t hesitate. He leapt from the balcony, pushing off hard, right for the man in the center. Everything about the stranger, his placement, the hunkered aggression in his stance, said this was an adversary.

  The dark figure started toward him — it was like the guy moved through the near zero-G by his will alone. Frank couldn’t see a jet pack, couldn’t see him pushing off from anything. He went from motionless to flying toward Frank without anything propelling him.

  They got closer to each other, Frank coming almost head first, like a diver, but flying horizontally across the space, propelled through the extremely low gravity by momentum. A hundred meters from his enemy; eighty, sixty, thirty. He saw that the guy had no weapons in his hands. But he was big, muscular, probably capable of killing without a weapon.

  Closer. Wearing a black clingsuit, the man was pale, bald, with a big jutting jaw, craggy cheekbones, icy blue eyes, large hands opened to clutch. The stranger snarled as he flew toward Frank — were those fangs on his bared teeth? Not likely. Some kind of implants?

  Frank had no desire to grapple with this hulking, toothy thug. He raised the razor gun, clicked the select screen up, used the ball of his thumb to tap the image of his target at the place he wanted to hit, modulating projectile configuration. He fired, the bullets flattening into the thickened razor shape he’d specified. Following the gun’s directions the projectiles strafed across the target’s chest — not much immediate effect. Maybe the guy had armor.

  No — now his thick blood was splashing, spreading out from the dark figure’s chest, blood globules blossoming like grotesque red flowers in the low gravity. A solid hit.

  But the big guy didn’t die. He just kept coming, grinning widely, displaying his fangs. Looming up. And the blood stopped coming out. The razor rounds hadn’t stopped him. Was this some kind of androclone?

  Then they closed, the stranger instantly clamping his fingers around Frank’s neck. Squeezing. “I squeeze the blood out of your eye sockets,” the big man rumbled. “I drink from these fountains…”

  The two of them floated in lethal embrace in the center of the Soulglobe. The big man opened his mouth wide over Frank’s eyes, fangs glistening. Choking, feeling blood forced painfully up into his head, Frank fired the gun almost point blank. The man only laughed. His fangs seemed to grow; his mouth gaped wider.

  Frank’s fingers found the concussion grenade in his pocket and he jammed it deep into a gaping wound on the big man’s chest, shoving it in with all his strength, pressing the timer, jerking his hand free.

  Frank’s adversary roared, clutched at the invaded wound, the motion sending the two of them spinning apart … Frank lost his gun to centrifugal force—

  A dull thud and an explosion of red—

  Frank was slammed hard in the gut by the force of the blast, splashed by an expanding cloud of rancid blood and fragmented flesh, driven backwards toward the asteroid’s shell. He spat blood and grabbed his knees, rolled up in a ball, twisting in an OA move, flipping to face the curved inner wall of the Soulglobe.

  Something flew past him, trailing blood — a severed head. The fanged mouth still open, the eyes rolling, staring at him … then gone in the mists.

  Frank was stunned, felt sick, disoriented by the explosion. Part of the ballet of the dead myself, soon.

  A balcony loomed. He straightened his body, then brought his knees up sharply, changed angles so he was coming down feet first… The circular entrance seemed to widen, like a mouth opening to swallow him, then he was through, skidding, spinning — thumping hard against the wall, sliding, coming to a stop face down.

  He lay there a long moment, spitting blood, not sure if it was his. His whole front was soaked in the dark giant’s foul-smelling effusion.

  Frank took a deep breath, his bruised chest aching, and got to his feet. He heard a clatter behind him and whirled. The razor gun, propelled by the explosion, skittering by itself along the floor, spinning as it went.

  He ran to the gun, scooped it up, and turned to stagger toward the inner chambers of the Soulglobe.

  Frank stopped about ten meters from her, and stared.

  In a high-ceilinged stone room marbled with crystal, lit with soft blue light, the receptionist, Sestrine, was leaning over the body of old Mr. Jacobs, her hands pressed down on his shoulders. The old man was lying on his back on the stone slab. Intricate carvings, cryptic runes, etched the slab, and the wall beyond. Other bodies lay on shelves behind her, wrapped in plastic like flies in spider-silk bindings. Against the wall to the left
were racks of pulsars, and remote control panels.

  Frank watched as Sestrine bent over the old man. Her face dipped to his neck. He thought of a cat his mother had, its jaws on the neck of a dead bird.

  A little blood trickled past her lips. The old man’s fingers twitched but he didn’t struggle. His eyes were glazed. Sestrine wore a cloth diner’s bib, like something from a restaurant, so she wouldn’t get blood on her gleaming white dress.

  Frank remembered stories from old viddies. Horror stories. “So … you’re real,” he said. “Not just a story.”

  Sestrine straightened up with a jerk, staring at him, blood streaming down her chin, eyes alight with red fire. She swallowed a mouthful of blood. “Ah. Mr. Zand.”

  “You look kinda startled,” he said. “Guess you never thought I’d make it past the bruiser. How long do you keep people alive, here? People like Mr. Jacobs there.”

  “Oh…” She removed the bib, used it to fastidiously wipe her face. She folded the bib, laid it neatly on Mr. Jacobs’ chest. “Not so very long as all that. Long enough. They die in time. There are always new ones.”

  “Yeah. Like my wife.”

  “Yes. I shared the first taste of her with Tet. The radiation made her blood a bit thin.” She took a step toward him.

  He nestled the carbine against his shoulder, aimed squarely at her. “Uh uh. Stop right there. Answer my questions.”

  She paused, but she didn’t seem frightened. More like — amused. She gave him the same sweet smile she’d given Mella. “You seem injured. I doubt you’ll get much farther. You’re lucky to have gotten past Karn. He was quite old and experienced and powerful. How did you manage it?”

  “I’ll tell you, if you tell me some stuff first. I’m gonna take a wild guess — you guys have found a way to make the radiation shields drop in transport ships. Maybe in selected spots. Provide more people inclined to euthanasia—”

  “An intelligent guess. Essentially — yes. We needed to prime the pump.” She started toward him. For some reason, he didn’t tell her to stop.

  “Is it all true?” Frank asked. He was fascinated by her fiery eyes. It seemed to him that he saw real flames flicker there. “The stories?”

  “Oh, we don’t turn into bats, and if you want to hear one of us laugh, just wave a crucifix at us.” He was aware that she was gliding slowly toward him, but he felt a little sleepy, almost inclined to open his arms and welcome her, as she said, “We’re not magical beings — we’re simply an old race, with certain, particular needs. Not quite the same species as yours. It’s true we don’t like sunlight — the light in here is filtered. But we do have our special gifts…”

  Frank. Was that Mella’s voice?

  Suddenly he could feel Sestrine’s grip on his will. He realized the vampire was telling him things just to keep him from thinking too much. He felt the icy fingers of Sestrine’s mind — being aware of her mind gave him the chance to resist it.

  Frank backed away from her, shook himself, and squeezed off two shots from the razor gun. The rounds struck her right in the heart.

  Sestrine stopped, shivered — then shrugged complacently. “There is something true in the old stories: It’s very, very hard to kill us.”

  She grinned, and crouched — and he knew she was going to leap at him. But his fingers were already at work on the target selector. “You asked how I killed your friend…”

  Frank fired, strafing the rest of the clip out all at once, the razor rounds following the directions the gun gave him, its expert program aiming with inhuman precision — to sever Sestrine’s head cleanly from her body.

  Her head simply tipped off the neck — spouting blood. The headless body seemed to hesitate, clutching the air. Then it toppled.

  He walked over to the vampire’s head, picked it up by her hair, thinking about Medusa. Her mouth gnashed convulsively at him.

  He watched as her head bled out. “How I killed your friend is, I blew his head right off his body. Seems like separating a parasite’s head from its body’s a pretty handy way to kill it.” He carried her head to a disposal chute, and tossed it in. “Works real sweet.”

  It worked on Tet, too, when he burst in through the silver door, a moment later. “Sestrine!” the vampire howled, staring in shock at her body, as Frank inserted another clip into the gun.

  Tet whipped about, hissing in cold fury as he stalked toward Frank — but the gun already had its setting. Frank fired, and the razor rounds severed Tet’s head from his body with almost surgical precision.

  He went to Mr. Jacobs and patted his arm. “Almost over. You wanted to die, Mr. Jacobs, and I’m going to have to give you your wish. I don’t have time to evacuate anybody myself. There’ll be more of those bloodsuckers…”

  Frank took an autotram along a back passage to the thruster casing. It wasn’t far.

  The thruster’s engine room was a hangar-like structure, trussed with plasteel. On a metal table near the entrance to the control cockpit sat a coffee cup, the coffee untouched; near it was a half-used pack of Smoke Calms, and a clip from a razor gun.

  Someone had left in a hurry. The other mercs had been here, guarding the engine, and Marv had gotten them out. With any luck, there should be no one but him and the vampires left on the Soulglobe.

  “If you wanta call that luck,” he muttered, climbing up a metal ladder, through a hatch to the screen-lined cockpit of the thruster control.

  Frank dropped into the control seat, flicked the switches to manual, and sealed the doors to the engine area with a high security setting: No entry under any circumstances. The thruster was engineered right into the Soulglobe’s stony shell — but if they tried to break into it, they’d risk an atmospheric breach. Maybe that’d keep them out. They’d bide their time, figure he was taking them to the authorities. They wouldn’t be too worried about that. If they didn’t get to him before then, they could tell the authorities he was insane.

  Frank checked the surveillance screens — saw the shuttle was gone. Visitors and guards evacuated. They’d sent away the witnesses to his fight with the big guy in black. Figured they were safe to keep their operation going. Spin a terrorist story and send for some new blood.

  He turned to the navigation screen. It was standard. Just pick the course, program it in, the ship did the rest. He used the locator, plotted the course, programmed the computer, and triggered ignition. The cockpit began to vibrate.

  It would take awhile. He was tired, emotionally drained. If he was going to see this trip through, he’d need rest.

  He leaned the control chair back and tried to sleep…

  Frank was hovering over a river, looking down at Mella.

  His wife was reclining against red silk cushions, on a long low royal barge painted gold and black in the Babylonian fashion. She was drifting down the Tigris away from him. She looked beautiful and young and strong, her hair shiny black, her eyes large and dark and luminous.

  Frank — I want you to live. Mella’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Live, and find someone, and have children. That’s what I want. You know it is. There’s a time to go to death. This isn’t it. Live for me, Frank…

  The boat spun about, caught in a whirlpool — and then suddenly sank away, vanishing like a chip of wood swirling down a drain, taking her with it…

  From somewhere came a clanging sound … like a bell ringing in the depths…

  “Mella!”

  Frank sat up, sweating, hands clutching the arms of the control chair. His feeling of loss was gigantic, a thirsty void inside him; a vampiric suction.

  Her body was still out there, lying on the cold stone floor.

  The thruster hummed, the control room vibrated softly with it. They were still underway. He looked at the chronometer — he’d slept a long time. What had wakened him?

  The clanging sound he’d heard in his dream — there it was again. He got up, climbed down through the hatch to the superstructure — and saw that the big metal door he’d
sealed, across the big hangar-like room, was vibrating with the clanging. Shivering. Bits of powdered stone fell from the ceiling…

  The vampires were breaking through. Maybe they’d worked out where he was going and they were risking the breach.

  Frank shrugged, returned to the ladder, climbed into the control cockpit and checked the arrival time. Maybe they’d get through and stop him. Maybe not.

  He removed the thruster control pad, ripping it from the console. The setting was fixed, now. He slid down the ladder, found another hatch in the back of the room, almost hidden in the deck. Another ladder here, down to another deck — he slid down that too, and located the lifeboats against the airlock.

  Seven cylindrical escape vehicles — they were small, room for one passenger apiece.

  Frank found a laser cutter, used it to slice through the propulsion packs for all the lifeboats but one.

  That one was his. He opened it, climbed in — and hesitated. He didn’t want to live without Mella.

  Live for me, Frank.

  Frank sighed. Feeling a deep twinge of guilt, he activated the lifeboat. The airlock door slid back; the lifeboat was propelled through the airlock.

  Frank watched through the viewport as the hot-yellow energies from the thruster tubes pushed the Soulglobe down into the atmosphere of the eighth planet from the sun. The crystalline orb struck the outer atmosphere and began to glow. In moments it was wrapped in a corona of blue flame. But he didn’t think it would burn up entirely.

  It would fall into the churning storms of methane and ammonia. It would crash deep into poisoned plains, to be crushed by Neptune’s powerful gravitation into a small fist of stone. It would be locked forever in ice.

  He stared at the indigo orb of Neptune and thought it beautiful. Fourteen times the mass of Earth, it curved gigantically against the night, truly a god. Lit by starlight, it was a pearly dark blue, a perfect sphere. It was said to be mostly ice. Just ice and rock and ceaseless hurricanes of toxic winds. But from here it looked gorgeous, even elegant. A fitting tomb…