God Ship (Obsidiar Fleet Book 3)

by Anthony James

  “Nothing worth having, Lieutenant?” asked Vega.

  “Only for scrap.”

  “There could be dead bits of Vraxar in there.”

  McKinney dropped the alloy bar he was examining and suppressed the urge to wipe his hands on something.

  They left the room without incident and headed deeper into the Neutraliser’s central section. McKinney was aware of the passing time, so he kept the squad moving. He didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary, but more importantly he didn’t want to return empty handed.

  After following three long corridors, each of which connected to a small, empty room, they reached a second set of upward steps. The passage continued on by, so there was no need to climb if McKinney chose not to.

  “You know what they say about shit?” said Garcia. “The higher you go, the more of it there is.”

  “I thought it was shit falls on those underneath?” said Webb.

  “Whatever it is, down here is where all the Neutraliser’s maintenance stuff happens. These rooms were probably stuffed with whichever poor bums the Vraxar conquered before they reached the Estral. Ruined husks with lumps of skin falling off.”

  Garcia was likely trying to be sympathetic towards the dead in the only way he knew how. There were occasions McKinney wished the man wouldn’t bother trying and kept his mouth closed instead.

  “The Vraxar represent thousands of years of tragedy and extinction, soldier. I think we should try and show some respect for their victims.”

  “I’m no good with words, sir. I hate this place.”

  The words were sincere and McKinney let it drop. He was feeling on edge and it wasn’t because he’d almost died a short while ago. The battlefield adrenaline contained all sorts of other substances to make a soldier forget about his own mortality. It couldn’t suppress every emotion and McKinney was fighting with the pressure of standing inside what felt like a coffin of endless death and misery. In a way, it would have been easier if the Neutraliser was filled with Vraxar – shooting the bastards was far easier than thinking about their past deeds.

  “We’re going up,” he said. “If there’s no Vraxar gold, we’re returning to the shuttle.”

  This staircase wasn’t as long as the previous one. Even so, it took the squad a few minutes to reach the top. To McKinney’s dismay, there were more corridors, rather than a room filled with portable Vraxar technology, waiting to be carted back to the shuttle. There was also light – a dingy grey illumination which appeared to emanate from the metal.

  “We’ve got power,” said Grover.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” said Webb.

  McKinney looked each way along the corridor – he thought there might be doors and side passages in both directions. “I don’t like it.”

  “We could leave?” said Roldan hopefully.

  “Fifteen minutes and then we head back,” said McKinney.

  “Which way?” said Roldan, unable to hide his disappointment.

  McKinney chose to go right. He was starting to feel like a gambler who, having called heads ten times in a row and lost each one, had convinced himself that the next flip of the coin was more likely to be a head. And I’m doubling the bet each time, he thought.

  He ignored the whispers of self-doubt and strode off, letting the others catch up to him. They reached the first door and Clifton idly thumped the featureless surface with his fist.

  “Half a metre thick,” he said.

  There was an access panel to one side – it was a square, polished area flush to the wall. The panel looked as if it was made from glass but probably wasn’t. Unfamiliar Vraxar symbols cycled through a pattern with no sign of repetition. McKinney was tempted to try and activate the panel, to the point where he reached out a tentative hand towards it.

  “Best not,” he said, pulling the hand away.

  They passed two more sealed doors and then the corridor ended at a T-junction. The right turning continued until the end was lost in the distance, while the left branch ended at a closed door thirty metres away. They were running out of time in which to accomplish anything.

  “Let’s give that door a try,” said McKinney.

  With his mind made up, he strode to the end of the corridor and the rest of the squad moved to follow.

  “Are you sure this is wise, Lieutenant?” asked Whitlock.

  “No.”

  “Maybe we should…”

  “No.”

  McKinney reached the door. From his periphery, he could see the access panel in the adjacent wall, perfectly positioned for him to brush his fingers across its smooth surface. In two quick gestures, he pressed his palm to the panel and followed up with a swipe of his fingertips.

  The door opened.

  “Oh crap,” said Garcia, peering inside.

  The room was a huge, rectangular, open space. Its longer walls were a hundred metres or more and the shorter walls closer to sixty. There was a viewing window set into the far wall, the contents of the room beyond hidden by a tint on the clear surface. The dirty lighting was stronger here and somehow reminded McKinney of a deserted hospital viewed through the eyes of a nightmare. There were hundreds of raised platforms on the floor – most of them a metre wide and three in length. Others were much larger. Biers, thought McKinney as soon as he saw them.

  The high ceiling was covered in a criss-cross of deep runners, to allow free movement for the many-jointed robotic arms which reached down from above. These arms were made from some type of grey polymer and they were fitted with several different types of implements. There were scalpels, tubes, syringes and more. Elsewhere, there were mobile medical units, floating quietly above the floor. The walls were covered in panels and screens, their alien texts constantly updating and changing.

  Worst of all was the blood. It covered every single bier, in thick, glistening smears. In places, McKinney could see it oozing onto the floor. It should have dried or been stripped away by the force of the impact with Vanistar, he thought. Then he was struck with the realisation.

  “The life support is still functioning in this area of the ship,” he said. “The failure mustn’t have been complete.”

  “That’s what’s keeping all this blood wet?”

  “I guess.”

  “Does that mean…?” said Roldan.

  “There might still be Vraxar alive,” McKinney confirmed.

  The squad were instantly more alert and the worry – bordering on fear – was apparent in their voices.

  “Why haven’t we seen any?” asked McCoy.

  “I think we might have breached the central area of the Neutraliser when we came through that door,” said McKinney.

  “Time to get out of here?” asked Vega.

  McKinney didn’t answer at once. His feet were on the move and it felt as if his brain had no say in the matter. The floor was sticky with more than just blood – there were other fluids mingled in congealing lumps. He walked between two of the biers and tried hard to pretend he hadn’t seen the gobbets of flesh on the surface. A medical robot hummed nearby, from its shape appearing more like a mobile repeater than a device to save lives.

  Of course - its purpose really isn’t to save lives.

  “Where are you going, Lieutenant?” asked Whitlock.

  “I need to see what’s on the other side of this window.”

  “What is this place?”

  “A conversion room. Where the living and dead become Vraxar.”

  It was like a slaughterhouse and McKinney was incredibly glad his visor blocked out the smells. Just when he’d become accustomed to his level of hatred for the Vraxar, he found there were new depths waiting to be plumbed and he blinked back tears of fury.

  It’s going to make me stronger.

  He reached the window and stepped close enough to see through. What had appeared to be a tint was, in fact, a coating of some kind of dirt. He didn’t want to touch it, but he nevertheless swabbed an area away with the side of one hand. The dirt was
moist and the best he could manage without having a cloth in his possession was to leave a thickly blurred section through which to peer.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  The rest of the squad came over. They didn’t want to be here and they cursed amongst themselves as a distraction from the filthy squalor of the conversion room.

  Garcia was a moaner, but he could be relied on when the going got tough. He crossed the room quickest and waited next to McKinney, unwilling to take the next step.

  “I’m not sure I want to look through there, Lieutenant.”

  “Look.”

  Garcia did as he was asked. He stepped back from the window without saying anything.

  Ricky Vega was next. He spent a long moment staring into the next room, unleashing a string of quiet expletives as he did so.

  The others took their turns. Armand Grover was the slowest to cross the room, since he took a few moments to study one of the medical robots.

  “I reckon we could probably push one of these back to the shuttle,” he said. “That would make a good prize, wouldn’t it? We could learn what sort of medical tech the Vraxar use.”

  “We aren’t taking a medical bot,” said McKinney.

  “What, then?”

  McKinney thumbed at the smeared patch on the window and Grover put his visor up close.

  “I don’t think opening that room is a good idea, sir.”

  “You reckon?” McKinney took another look to remind himself of a sight his brain would never forget.

  The room within was filled with Vraxar. It wasn’t possible to see how many – certainly there were tens, possibly hundreds of thousands - since the far walls were hidden in the distance. The aliens stood in staggered rows, their bodies held upright against ten-feet metal posts, to which they were bound by metal straps across their necks. Their arms were pulled back and twisted around the posts, though it was impossible to see if they were tied in some way. The fixing method would have killed a human in a few hours and it made McKinney wonder if the Vraxar were determined to make their existence as vile as possible, even as they pursued its extension at any cost.

  “The Space Corps has never been given the opportunity to question a live Vraxar,” said McKinney.

  “How do you know they’re alive?” said Clifton.

  “Their eyes are open. They’re alive and we all know it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if we open that room up and it somehow releases them?” asked Munoz. “I didn’t see any weapons in there with them, but there are only so many rounds in these repeaters.”

  “It’s a chance we’ll have to take. Our prize is in that room, gentlemen – it’s the Vraxar gold we’ve been looking for.”

  If any of the squad disagreed with McKinney’s decision, they kept it to themselves. The door to the room filled with Vraxar was set in the middle of the conversion room wall. McKinney approached it with the trepidation of a barefoot man stepping into a darkened room filled with poisonous snakes. This door was three times the width of the others and with a slightly larger access panel to one side.

  “Here we go,” he said.

  McKinney pressed his hand to the panel.

  Chapter Eight

  The door rose into the ceiling, permitting access to the room beyond. The air from within came soundlessly through the opening, bringing a variety of compounds which McKinney’s visor didn’t recognize and which it warned him strongly against inhaling. He had no intention of removing his visor; instead he waited on the threshold with his plasma repeater ready to fire if there was any sign of movement. Thousands of Vraxar eyes stared at the squad. They didn’t speak, but there was a sound, which McKinney recognized as air rattling through countless pairs of rotting lungs.

  Now that he wasn’t viewing this storage facility through the semi-opacity of the soiled window, McKinney was able to see more details. The majority of these Vraxar had once been Estral, though here and there he saw other types, most of them physically smaller specimens. They were in various stages of decay and the floor was littered with pieces of their flesh. Motes of skin floated in the air, contrasting with the diffuse grey light.

  Each Vraxar had different shapes and sizes of metal implants, without rhyme or reason for why that might be. Some were missing eyes, limbs, jaws, feet and it was only in most cases that metal was used to fill the gaps.

  None of the squad knew what to say and they shrank away from the door, not wishing to be the focus of so much attention. McKinney didn’t like it either, but he stepped over the threshold. He was finally able to see the extent of the room – it was roughly square and approximately eight hundred metres along each wall. There was about a metre between each Vraxar - he tried to work out the numbers and gave up quickly.

  Without warning, the diffuse grey light faded out and was replaced a moment later by a steady green light.

  “Oh shit,” said Webb.

  The other men pointed their repeaters this way and that, as if they expected the Vraxar to detach their collars and coming sprinting towards them. McKinney was within a hair’s breadth of ordering an immediate withdrawal, when he gave himself a shake. Only the light had changed and the Vraxar remained where they were.

  “Hold!” he ordered.

  “What the hell is going on?” muttered Garcia.

  “Nothing is going on. The room sensors must have detected the change in the air, that’s all.”

  “It’s still not right,” said McCoy. “There must be a million Vraxar in here and I don’t want to be turned into one.”

  “You are not going to be turned into a Vraxar,” snapped McKinney. “Now shut up and wait here while I see how easy it’ll be to get one of these bastards down from its rack.”

  He reached the closest Vraxar. It had once been Estral and was almost fresh. Two entry wounds in its chest told the story of how it had originally died. McKinney prodded it with the end of his gauss rifle. It didn’t move or speak and he poked it again, trying to avoid looking at the agonised expression on its face. Part of the original Estral still lived within and was fully aware of what it had become. Even though the Estral had been no friends of the Confederation, it was heart-wrenching to see.

  “What are you doing, Lieutenant?” asked Clifton.

  “I want to see if its arms are fastened.”

  “It doesn’t look happy.”

  “Nope. I’ll bet it’s praying to whichever god it believes in that we’ll shoot it.”

  “Are you going to shoot it?” asked Roldan.

  “No.”

  McKinney was unable to provoke a response from the alien, so he took a gamble and looked around its fastening post. Its wrists were held in place by two metal cuffs, which were attached to the main post. The Vraxar didn’t make any attempt to break free.

  McKinney had no desire to try and carry an Estral-sized Vraxar all the way to the shuttle, so he hunted for one of the smaller ones. He had to go through several rows, unwillingly brushing against the aliens, until he found what he wanted.

  This Vraxar was less than six feet tall, with thin limbs and few alloy attachments embedded into its yellow-brown flesh. The creature’s nose was gone, revealing oval holes which vanished into its skull. Its lips were thin and pulled back, revealing blackened teeth in receding grey gums. Its eyes were yellow and puckered, seemingly far too small for their sockets. Nevertheless, these eyes tracked McKinney as he came closer and then fixed on him when he stood in front of it. His reflective visor stopped it meeting his gaze and he tried to discern what it might be thinking. He’d expected there to be hatred and there was none. Whatever was going through its mind, he got no feeling for it.

  Contrary to McKinney’s first thoughts, the alien wasn’t only held in place by the thick metal collar and the wristbands. There was also a rod jutting from the main support pillar which entered the mid-point of the Vraxar’s back, just off to the side of its spine. He could see an inch or two of it protruding and shook his head in absolute disgust. With carefu
l hands, he gave the neck collar a pull. It was solid and with no indication of how to release it.

  “Medic Grover, get yourself here and bring your med-box. Garcia and Whitlock, you’re the next volunteers.”

  Grover left the doorway, lugging the medical box with him. His revulsion was clear and he struggled to reach McKinney without touching any of the Vraxar.

  “I thought you’d be used to this kind of thing.”

  “No, sir. There were no rooms filled with living corpses in the training I went through. What do you want me to do?”

  “Plug that med-box into this Vraxar and put it to sleep.”

  “It’s an ugly bastard.”

  “It probably thinks the same of you. Now get on with it.”

  Grover started to say something and thought better of it. McKinney knew what the objections were likely to be and he didn’t want to hear them spelled out. If the med-box computer couldn’t figure out how to put the Vraxar into a coma, he’d need to think of another plan.

  With the med-box on the floor, Grover pulled out a wire with a fat needle attached to the end. Garcia and Whitlock watched intently, trying to pretend they weren’t surrounded by so many Vraxar. Grover didn’t spend any time looking for a good spot – he simply jabbed the needle towards the alien’s chest, aiming for the gap between its narrow ribs. The four-inch needle punctured its skin with a faint popping sound and Grover pushed until it was fully inside.

  “It’ll be easier if I got its heart on the first go.”

  The squad medic checked the display on the med-box.

  “The needle-probe went into something similar to heart tissue, but there’s no sign of a beat.”

  “It’s dead?”

  “Wait up, there it goes. There’s a beat so slow it may as well be dead.”

  “Can you put it to sleep?”

  “I’m going to try a couple of things.”

  The words hadn’t fully left Grover’s mouth when the green light in the room darkened, fading rapidly until the entire room was hardly lit.

  McKinney whirled around, expecting the worse. His visor sensor adjusted, showing the room to be exactly as it was before. The lights strengthened again, brightening and then immediately cycling back to near-darkness. There was a booming from elsewhere in the Neutraliser – it was a hollow, echoing sound which might have emanated from above or below.