Down

by Ally Blue

  “All right.” Mo knelt beside him, cupped his face in both hands, and kissed him. Lightly, tenderly, thumbs caressing the corners of his mouth. “Rest, Doc. You’ve been through so much. Just let everything go.” His fingers slid through Armin’s hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. “Sleep for a while. That’s what you need. To sleep. Forget it all for a little while.”

  A vague alarm sparked somewhere deep in Armin’s gut. A warning of something not quite right. But it was no match for the spell in Mo’s voice, reminding him how very tired he was, how much rested on his shoulders. Telling him to lay down his burden, if only for a short time.

  Whatever the not-right-ness was, he could work it out later, after he’d rested. Surely it couldn’t hurt for him to close his eyes for a few minutes. He’d be mentally sharper for it.

  Five minutes. That’s all. Mo can wake me.

  “Five minutes.” His eyes drifted shut. He hauled them halfway open again and peered at Mo, his vision blurry with exhaustion. “Promise.”

  He wasn’t sure he got his point across, but Mo nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry.” He wound an arm around Armin’s shoulders. “Rest now.”

  Mo’s voice rumbled in Armin’s ear. Soothing, soporific, sucking him under like a whirlpool. Caught in Mo’s comforting embrace, Armin spiraled down into unconsciousness.

  He woke curled up on the floor with his com link beeping at him. Mo was gone. Armin sat up, confused and a little angry that Mo had left him there alone and vulnerable in sleep.

  How long had he slept, anyway? God, Mandala would be furious if . . .

  His com. Still beeping with the message indicating that someone had tried to get in touch with him and he’d slept right through it.

  Mouth dry and pulse racing, he activated the com’s message retrieval. Gerald Palto’s voice came through high-pitched, frantic, and interspersed with bursts of static. “Arm . . .’s Ger . . . We . . . ation here. N . . . inf . . . ed. Thing’s . . . ting . . . contr . . . Med bay’s on iso . . . now. Okay? No one in or out. I tried ca . . . souf but coms are—”

  Shouts cut through the static, followed by a female scream much closer to the audio pickup. He heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle, then a peculiar gurgling noise before the recorded message ended.

  He scrambled to his feet and activated the com’s call function. “Dr. Savage-Hall for Dr. Gerald Palto. Maximum urgency.”

  Five seconds passed while he crossed the room. He’d reached the door when his com lit up, announcing an incoming answer.

  Except no one spoke. All he heard was a soft, loose rattle, like someone breathing through a trachea full of fluid. Someone very close to the other com link.

  Cold fear clawed at his belly. “Gerald? What’s happened? Are you all right? God, answer me.”

  The breathing morphed into a wet chuckle. “Gerald can’t talk now.” The guttural voice originated so near the com that Armin could hear the viscous rub of the mouth forming the words. “Good-bye, Armin.” Something crunched, ending the conversation.

  He had never heard that voice before. He’d never be able to forget such a thing. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew it. Fighting off the terror leeching the strength from his limbs, he shoved the door open and headed out into the dim, empty corridor. “Dr. Savage-Hall for Dr. Jhut. Urgent.”

  Mandala answered immediately. “Dr. Jhut here. Armin? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. But I think something might have happened in the medical bay.”

  “Did you call security? Well. Gordon?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to call you first. To make sure you were safe, and to tell you to keep your eyes open and your wits about you. Things have become . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Very strange.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve shown no signs whatsoever of psychosis, and I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. Just call Mr. Gordon to the med bay, and get yourself back here. I’m almost finished running diagnostics.”

  “Oh. Good.” He decided not to mention what Gerald had said about isolating the med bay. They could worry about that after they found out what had happened. Maybe he shouldn’t ask, but . . . “Mandala? This is going to sound like a strange question, but how long has it been since I left the lab?”

  “About an hour and twenty minutes, more or less.” Her voice grew gentle with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure. But I’m trying to find out.” A cackle like a hyena’s floated from around a corner somewhere behind him. He picked up his pace, trying to look everywhere at once. “I’m going to call Gordon now. I’ll come back to the lab soon.”

  “All right. Be careful. Out.”

  The moment Mandala cut the connection, Armin hailed security. “Dr. Savage-Hall for Mr. Gordon. Urgent.”

  Nothing. He strode thirty long steps with no answer.

  Uneasy, he tried again. “Dr. Savage-Hall for Mr. Gordon. Please answer, this is a security matter of utmost urgency.”

  “Gordon here. What’s going on? I’m at the lab, watching the door. Youssouf said I should stay here.”

  Armin blew out a relieved breath. “I think something’s happened at the medical bay. Dr. Palto commed me, but he was cut off by sounds of a struggle and screams. When I commed him back, a voice said he couldn’t talk, then crushed the com link.”

  “Fuck me.” Gordon was quiet for a moment. “Listen. Don’t go in there. I’ll be there in a minute, all right? Just let me—”

  “No. Stay at the lab.”

  “But—”

  “Youssouf was right. You should stay there. It’s important that Dr. Jhut and the work underway there remains safe.”

  “Well. Okay. But I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I. But we have no choice at this point. Out.”

  He cut the connection before Gordon could say anything else. For a moment he stood there, shaking inside, mentally steeling himself for what lay ahead. When he felt he could walk without his knees buckling, he continued along the empty hallway.

  He commed Mo as he strode toward the med bay. “Armin Savage-Hall for Maximo Rees. Urgent.”

  Mo took only a few seconds to answer, but it felt like years. “What’s wrong?”

  Armin smiled in spite of everything, a hard, tight warmth expanding in his chest. Mo had an impressive ability to read his mood. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Mo hesitated only a moment, but it was enough for Armin to worry. “Yeah, I’m okay. Heading back to my quarters.” His voice went from soft and slightly confused to sharp and focused. “Where are you?”

  Armin considered, and decided to trust Mo. “On my way to the med bay. I’m concerned about Dr. Palto.”

  “Concerned? Why? What’s going on?” Mo’s tone was hard and clipped, full of rising worry.

  Ahead, Armin saw the med bay doors standing halfway open.

  In his mind, he heard Gerald’s pronouncement through the static that the med bay was on isolation. No one in or out.

  Shit.

  “I’ll tell you later. I have to go.” He kept his voice barely above a whisper so whoever might be in there wouldn’t hear him. “I’ll com you again soon. Out.”

  Armin cut off the com and hung back in the hallway, wiping his palms on his pants and assessing the situation. Doors on underwater installations never stayed open as long as the controls were working correctly. It was a safety requirement, making it quicker and easier to seal off sections of the pod in case of a breach. Which meant the controls for this door must have been disabled.

  Considering what he’d heard through his com, this couldn’t be anything but very, very bad.

  God, Armin really wanted backup on this. He was only a scientist. He wasn’t equipped to deal with someone—something?—intent on violence. But Gerald or some of the staff might be hurt. And no one else was coming.

  You’re it, Doctor. Buck up.

  He breathed i
n. Out. Straightened his shoulders, edged up to the doorway and slipped inside.

  The unmistakable stench of recent violent death slapped him in the face. He tugged his collar over his nose and glanced around. The body he knew must be there was not in immediate sight. All three isolation rooms remained closed, the inner curtains drawn. Deciding to leave them for last, he moved toward the desk. The room appeared empty.

  “Gerald? It’s Armin. Are you all right?” No answer. He breathed through his mouth in an attempt not to smell the nearby slaughter. The air hissed through the fabric of his shirt and left a raw-meat taste on the back of his tongue. He swallowed hard. “Security’s on the way,” he added, in response to the sensation of a hidden gaze following him.

  The surface normality ended when he skirted the desk. He turned away and leaned on the soothing, pale-gray polycrete surface until the urge to vomit eased, then made himself look again, this time with an eye to the details.

  Misha lay spread-eagled on the floor, her belly laid open and her organs flung around in no discernible pattern. The smell came from her shredded intestines, draped across a nearby chair. Her open eyes stared up at the ceiling in permanent surprise.

  Christ. Armin had seen bodies before, but never such casual slaughter. Except on the Varredura Longa.

  If Misha had been the only one in here, he would’ve run straight for the relative sanity of the hallway. But he still had to find Gerald.

  He sidestepped Misha’s body, trying to stay away from the blood splatters and bits of viscera. The overhead light glistened on the blood coating the inside of her abdominal cavity, and for the first time Armin realized she’d been hollowed out right down to her spine.

  Saliva flooded his mouth. He stumbled into the nearest—thankfully empty—patient care compartment and threw up in the sink, cursing his weakness the whole time and trying to listen for any abnormal sounds through the noise of his meager stomach contents splashing into the faux-metal bowl.

  When he finished, he took a moment to splash his face with cold water before going back out into the bay. He didn’t look at Misha’s mutilated corpse. “Gerald? Are you here? It’s Armin.”

  Silence. Deep, still, watchful silence.

  He moved toward the autopsy room, in case Dr. Palto was in there working and unable to hear him. His footsteps sounded like bombs in the brittle quiet.

  The door to the autopsy room was not only shut, but bowed inward. He blinked at the irregular dent, trying to make sense of it. Would he even be able to get in?

  Only one way to find out.

  He reached for the sensor. Thumbed it. The door tried to slide open and stuck at an odd angle.

  He studied the narrow triangular aperture. It wasn’t much, but he ought to be able to squeeze through. The real question was, would the unstable structure close on him?

  He thought of Misha and what might have happened to Gerald, and decided he had to take the chance. Gathering his courage, he turned sideways and wriggled through the tight space into the autopsy room.

  It was dark as pitch and quiet as the rest of the med bay. A coppery tang filled the air and coated the back of his throat. The hairs rose along his arms. “Lights on.”

  He hadn’t expected them to work, so the sudden flood of bright white illumination took him by surprise. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw Ryal Nataki on one table and Carlo on another. It looked as though the autopsy on Carlo was well underway, while the one on Ryal hadn’t yet begun. He wished it were the other way around, so he wouldn’t have to see Carlo’s crushed skull and flattened body.

  Don’t look. The only one you can help now is Gerald Palto. Don’t even look at the others.

  He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Gerald? Are you in here?”

  Still no answer. But he spotted what looked like a foot peeking out from the far side of the table where Carlo lay like a specimen to be examined.

  Shoving the worst possibilities to the back of his mind, he crossed the room in a few hurried strides. He rounded the table, heart in his throat . . . and fell to his knees. Gerald lay in a twisted heap on his side, a laser scalpel still clutched in one gloved hand, his skull smashed into a pulp of bone, blood, and brain. His still-intact jaw jutted outward, giving him a strangely stubborn postmortem visage.

  Armin lifted his wrist to activate his com. “Dr. Armin Savage-Hall to . . .” He stopped. Who was he supposed to call? All the medical personnel he knew of were dead. Butchered. Just like before. Cold and scared, he hunched forward as if he could protect himself that way. “Fuck. Anyone. Gordon. Youssouf. Whoever’s still out there. Gerald Palto’s dead. Misha’s dead.” He drew a shaking breath and forced himself to calm down. “Whoever killed them is clearly quite dangerous, and is currently at large on this pod. I think we need to call together a security team, and—”

  A vicious blow between his shoulder blades knocked him off-balance and sent him sprawling facedown on the floor. He felt something hard under his ribs, and realized he’d landed on top of Gerald’s shin. Instinctive revulsion sent him scrambling backward on all fours, until he ran into something else.

  The something else moved. Connected with his ribs. He skidded over the floor, gasping around the pain. When he stopped moving, he saw, and it all made sense.

  Neil Douglas stood over him, blue eyes gone black with a luminous purple spark deep inside. His blue-tinted lips parted in a needle-full grin.

  “Hello, old friend.” Neil’s voice was rough and strange, yet familiar. The same voice Armin had heard over his com forever ago, back in the cool, dim, corpse-free peacefulness of the aquarium. “We’re so happy you’re here.”

  We.

  The word bothered Armin even more than the physical changes in his friend, not least because his gut told him Neil—or whatever had taken control of him—meant it literally.

  Armin planted his palms on the floor and eased backward as far as possible without looking away from that luminous stare. “Who are you? Where’s Neil?”

  The thick sandy-brown eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown so familiar it made Armin ache with grief. God, he hoped Neil was still in there somewhere. That he could still be saved.

  “Neil is part of us.” The grinding voice was gentle now, as if trying to spare Armin’s feelings. Neil’s swollen face twitched. “I . . . Neil . . . I’m changing, Armin. Neil is us.” The violet flame in his eyes flared. He stepped toward Armin, one hand held down to him. “Be us, my friend. The changing isn’t bad. And you’ll see such things.”

  Knowledge beyond human science. That’s what Neil—not Neil—offered him.

  He wanted it so much it hurt.

  Not-Neil grinned wider. Yellowish fluid dripped from its teeth, hit the floor with a hiss, and began eating through the polycrete. It reached down and lifted Armin by the shoulders. Armin clenched his jaw against a cry of pain as not-Neil’s fingers—grown long and thin as worms—dug deep into his flesh and ground into his bones.

  “We’re in you.” The Neil-thing’s whisper rumbled like a chainsaw on idle. Its breath smelled of blood and the seabed. “Be us.”

  “What are you?” The question emerged in a high, breathless rush. “How . . . how are you in us? H-how do we become you?”

  The Neil-creature laughed at him. “We are in you, Doctor. You must choose.”

  Choose? Armin had no idea what that could possibly mean. But the fear of giving in to the temptation to find out prompted him to wrench his arms free from the not-Neil’s grip and punch it in the jaw.

  It felt like sinking his fist into spongy, clotted gel. As if the bones that had formed Dr. Neil Douglas’s face were softening. Dissolving. Changing him into something else.

  The creature pretending to be Neil growled and backhanded him hard enough to knock him across the room. He hit the far wall with a dizzying thump and stared at the monster that was once his friend with terror, anger, and sorrow boiling inside him. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

  Only it was. The throb in Armin’s
face proved it.

  Not-Neil stalked toward him, rapier teeth bared and dripping, fingers flexing like snakes, jointless and powerful. Armin raised both hands, palms out as if he could ward off the thing with nothing but his will. Neil’s body leaned over him with its nightmare grin and elongated digits. The purple glow in the black pits of its eyes tugged at Armin’s mind like a metaphysical current, while its voice breathed inside his head. Come with us. You can’t even imagine what exists outside this sphere. Come and see.

  Armin blinked. Opened his mouth.

  Whatever he might have said, he didn’t know. Would never know. A soft pop sounded, and the center of the Neil-thing’s neck blew outward in a spray of skin, cartilage, and blood. A thick clot landed on Armin’s thigh with a splat.

  Time slowed to a crawl. He had ages to study the glob on his leg as Neil’s body performed its graceful final fall. The blood gleamed a dull reddish-black and felt cool through the fabric of his trousers, as if it had come from a corpse several hours old. Yet here was Neil right in front of him, just now hitting the floor with his arms splayed, the gelatinous skin of his face still in motion from the force of the impact. How could his blood already be room temperature and coagulating?

  It said something about Armin’s state of mind that the how and why of Neil’s sudden death didn’t even occur to him until a figure approached from the doorway of the autopsy room, crouched in front of him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Armin? Are you all right?”

  Lifting his head, he blinked at a face he’d come to know well, and the world’s gears clacked into motion again. “Mo.” He clutched at Mo’s arm, shaking. “Mo. Mo.”

  Nothing else would come out past the caustic lump of relief, fury, and desperation lodged in his throat, but Mo seemed to understand. Laying his gun on the floor, he gathered Armin into his arms and held him.

  Twenty minutes later, Mo leaned against the wall outside the autopsy bay and watched Armin try to pace a trench in the floor while talking to Youssouf, Dr. Poole, and Dr. Jhut on a group com call. He seemed okay now, but Mo couldn’t forget the stark terror in Armin’s eyes when he’d found him huddled against the wall of the autopsy bay.