The Intruder Mandate: The Farthest Star from Home: a military sci-fi suspense novel

by William Cray

  The final moments of Eric Hansen cycled again across the flyer. He watched each instant click by at its slowest setting, ticking step by step until the final indecipherable gasp, followed by the clean mechanical snap of the weapon coming up.

  The motion had devolved into a slow arc in the replay, sweeping up to his head with painful inevitability as Duran watched. The instant before the recoil, Duran looked away, only a fraction, not wanting to watch the death of his friend again. The blue-white flash of the gun filled the cars interior at the final instant.

  With a sudden surge Duran reached forward to the flyer, rolling it back frame by frame, until the full brightness of the discharge illuminated the car interior. Duran looked carefully, using the flyers limited resolution enhancement abilities to clean up the image contrast.

  There, he said to himself.

  The gun flash illuminated the cars interior against the dark night with a momentary burst, but there was something else outside the car. Someone was standing just outside. A lower torso revealed in the shadow of the flash.

  Duran enhanced the image to max detail, rolling the images back and forth. There was something there. The hazy outline of a shadow hovered outside, even before the gunshot. Someone was outside the car, watching Axe struggle. Hansen had tried to direct his Mag-gun at the shadow, but couldn’t bring it to bear. Moments later he used it on himself, revealing the other person standing there with the last action of his life. Without this playback, Cole and his Constabulary investigators would have never seen it.

  Duran rolled back further to Eric Hansen’s final anguishing moments. The escaping gasp of air forming a moan was perhaps his last attempt to communicate, knowing the end was coming. Duran watched his lips, trying to form a message through torture and confusion.

  ‘Nova.’

  “Nova…” Duran said aloud. Eric believed that this was no hunt for a simple sycophant accompli. He believed at least one of the murderous aliens had returned, possibly more. His last breath was spent giving a warning.

  Duran struggled to make the connections. If Axe was right and the Intruders had returned, what was their intent? How were the two girls involved?

  Everything pointed to the Zone. Whatever he would find, it would be in there.

  Black hands reached out before him, opening the way to the darkness. The shadows closed in around him like re-entering a womb of dread and confusion. He was not alone. Other black shapes followed him forward. The darkness enclosed all of them now, only a single point of light behind, leaving them. A crimson aura surrounded them, showing them the way forward, further into the blackness, the void. The aura guided them forward, showing them the way further inside, to an end with no bypass. Once again the black hands opened the way, and they went forward. The further they went inside, the more danger overcame logic. Focusing in the darkness, he searched for a way out. The way behind them was open, but it could not be taken. Before they could leave, they must capture the prize. The prize was somewhere in the dark. Unseen, yet all around them.

  A voice, “Atmosphere green.”

  He could smell it now… no… he could taste it as well. It was a warning. Death before you, tread no further into the blackness, but it was beyond his capacity to heed the warning. They came for the prize, no matter the cost. They went in, deeper, closer to the prize.

  Black hands reached out once more, opening the way for the quest to continue into the decaying womb. Now the aura showed them the first custodians of the prize, their forms mangled, twisted to face impossible directions. Their inner workings were exposed, covering their hands and tools. Their blood spilled, its color neutralized by the crimson aurora that exposed them. Why had the prize turned on them?

  The way behind them was still open, but no one cried out to follow that path. It was a small comfort, but the way back to the light might as well have never existed. For the twelve and two there was only one way, into the darkness and forward to the prize.

  Black hands cleared the path. The prize was this way. Now the aurora showed them the guardians of the prize. Most were spilled onto the floor, one suspended from above, his open torso allowing his once vital organs to hang from the ruined body. His eyes stabbed out, flesh removed, making a red carpet below this most despised guardian. He was trying to cry out, his lips and tongue moved, wagging incoherently. His bulging heart pulsed, his lungs took in foul air. Skinless fingers wiggled despite hooks piercing his hands, hanging from him above. His organs stretched to the floor, pulling on his fading life. He was dying from his own weight.

  Did the most hated comprehend his condition? Did he feel the damage that was done to his fragile body? Was he struggling to gain freedom from the cables and crude hooks that suspended him? Or was he struggling to die?

  One of the fourteen reached out to him with brilliant blue flame, ending the suffering. The most hated hung from the ceiling, limp and burned, his purpose now only a warning. Beware the prize. It is waiting for you. You do not seek it… it seeks you.

  It comes for the twelve. You must surrender, but you will be reborn if you open your mind.

  “Open your mind to me.”

  5

  Greenway District

  New Meridian City

  Hebes Chasma Trench, Mars

  Duran bolted upright, feeling for the wounds that violated his flesh. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he checked his partially clothed body for blood.

  Not blood, he told himself. Not blood. His breathing slowed and his heart rate slowly regulated back to normal. The disorientation he felt began to fade and the blackness of the dream was replaced by the pale illumination of his room.

  I am not there. Not at that place.

  Axe is dead.

  Duran checked the room chrono, less than an hour had passed since drifting off while reading Eric Hansen’s reports.

  Running his left hand across his scalp, Duran swung off the edge of his bed and slipped wearily to his feet. He steadied himself, his pulse slowing. He hadn’t expected a change, but the dream had been vivid. It was much clearer to him, but the details of the dream still eluded him like a vapor. He could see it and smell it, but only as an aftertaste, diminishing with each moment as tactile reality crept in to take its place. The terror was as real as anything he had ever experienced. The deaths in the dream echoed the photos of the Constabulary command center. It was like the dulled blade of a scalpel. The blade cut deep, but the precision of the instrument was ruined. The clarity and meaning lost in a jagged incision.

  Duran went back over to the desk flyer, abandoning his brief attempt at rest. He had gone without proper sleep many times and knew how to cope with it. The stress of the dreams agitated his condition. Duran decided to run a quick diagnostic routine to double-check his operating parameters.

  IRH, she said. Were you in the war?

  He synced the parameters on his infoboard and started the program, grabbing another cold roll of fugo ordered from the hotel service earlier to satiate the human side of him. The malleable cheese split as he pulled it apart, revealing the tomatoey-covered contents inside. The most hated. Duran dropped the split roll back into the box. He watched the cheese filled top slide out of the fleshy crust, spilling its organs with a sloppy thud onto the tray. He turned away.

  As the diagnostic routine ran, he sifted through the nights events. He knew so little, but there had been volumes of information processed and stored. The meeting with Cole could have been catastrophic, Duran thought. The professional interrogator had exposed his inexperience, but at the same time Cole seemed to be reaching out for help. He was desperate to solve his crisis; otherwise he would be sitting in an interrogation room right now, rotting with the rest of the city. But they might not even be on the same case. The links were there but they were only connected by the thin strands of his dream. Even Axe’s death was only connected by location. Cole had enough instincts to assign Floss to assist him in expediting New Meridian’s peculiar learning curve, and of course to spy on him. Once he had
is bearings he would ditch Floss.

  Time was wasting away. Soon he would have to confront the two girls in the bomb lockers. It was unavoidable. Hansen’s files indicated he had tracked them and less than three hours later he put a pistol to his head.

  Whoever was standing outside the car as Axe had shot himself was still out there somewhere. It couldn’t have been the girls. They were still locked up in the weapons locker.

  Duran scooped up the files again, but dropped them as soon as he picked them up. He was too amped up from the adrenaline of the dream. Looking over the case files again would reveal nothing.

  A few minutes later his diagnostic routine clicked off. All systems were within normal parameters. Duran disconnected with a mental command to his IP, then went to his L-Bag and pulled out a molecular gel pack. He ripped open the tab at the edge and pulled out the patch, slapping it on his back shoulder, allowing the building blocks of his modified architecture to be digested through his skin and assimilated into his body by the nanite army. The patch would give his body the raw materials it needed to maintain his architecture for the day. The fugo roll wasn’t going to cut it. Duran reached for his gear.

     

  Clappy huddled by the open flame in front of the incinerator, crouched down on his haunches. His breather was pulled back over his head, and the stale air flowing through the tunnel caused the flames from the coaler to spark in a flash. With the mask down, the air would be fresher, but he didn’t want to take the chance that the flames would deform his precious mask and erode its already tenuous seals.

  He rubbed his hands together, cause down in the ventilation tubes, the air alone could freeze a trike to death. With his gloves as a pad, he picked up his heated cup off the flaming grill, taking a drink of the hot intoxicant, keeping the parts of his body warm the fire couldn’t reach. The drink was good’n stout, like he brewed it upstairs. It was warm in the dome. He couldn’t wait to get back there, but if he left the toll early, Spider would have his balls on that flame, and would probably eat’em, that sick fat fuck.

  But Spider paid. Paid him so he could geek when he wanted, and could pay the leachman to keep the heat on in his hut. It waddun’t cheep livin’ in the Zone, and those that didn’t work weren’t just unemployed, they were victims. So everybody worked to keep the life they had, even if it wasn’t conventional, and the only jobs were with the syndicates. It wasn’t good work, but until he could move up to a corner post, he did gate duty like all the other rat fucks in the Zone who weren’t connected.

  Finishing the first cup, he pulled out another buzz rock and dropped it into the cup and replaced it on the grill to melt it. He would be outa buzz long rock before his shift over, but at least he would be well on his way to stoned, and then the cold wouldn’t get to him as much. He strained his eyes down the dark shaft one more time, looking for any movement along the intermittent lights further down.

  It would be a slow night tonight, with the wind on the surface blowin the wrong way. Cops would be out in the dome and not many would make their way down this shaft. Anyone who was anyone would be using the gate point, with the usual bribes paid in advance. Only the creepers would make their way up the shaft tonight, but to get past him they would pay the toll. No one gets in free to the biggest party city in the galaxy. They had to pay. And if they didn’t, well they would get a greet’n at the end of the shaft. Smashed, Crashed and Thrashed would be there waiting for freeloaders, and then they would pay the toll, one way or another. Everyone paid.

  Clappy lowered his head, only for a moment he thought, when the crimp of shoes on ice echoed down the corridor. He looked up, straining to focus. His fire was lower and he leaned back from it, pulling his breather down over his face, flushing fresh air into his lungs. His eyes focused a moment later, spotting the shadows of two figures passing the nest of lights clustered just down the vent from him. The cluster of lights was aimed towards the trench and would ruin the night vision of anyone traveling up the vent, so at least he would have a slight advantage. Seeing the two shadows he reached into his pocket, gripping the ever- present shiv in his hands, wrapping his gloved fingers around the shanks handle. Silently, he rose on his haunches and stepped back from the fire.

  The two figures were coming up faster now, based on the crunching of ice under gripshoes. Fuck, thought Clappy, fuckin cops. Had to be. He could see the reflection of a collar unit on one of them. Clappy tried to push back further into the shadows. Running would do no good, his bad leg wouldn’t let him do much more than an articulated shuffle. They would see him fleeing in the lights anyway. So he tried to hide, wrenching his body against the tubular shaft. He cursed to himself for drifting off and letting the two fuckers get this close. He hoped the two cops were regulars and wouldn’t shake him down.

  The two cops spoke to each other. Clappy couldn’t make out what they were saying with the echos and the crackle of the fire. They were just a few feet away now. He cringed in the shadows, already knowing the fire would reveal him this close. No matter what, Spider was gonna fuck him over for this if these two cops got past him without warning. If he didn’t warn Spider, he was fucked for sure. He would lose his job and every pitiful thing he had collected over the last year, including that whore girlfriend of his. He decided a night in jail was worth it. He was screwed anyway. Clappy grabbed the pirated percom in his pocket and thumbed the button, yelling into it, “Crisscross!..Crisscross!”

  Clappy slipped on the damp floor of the vent, crashing down hard as he tried to dart down the tunnel on his bad leg. One of the shadows lunged forward, grabbing him by the redcoat and jerking his frail frame to the ice covered floor, smashing his head against the hard surface. Clappy moaned as he felt warm blood trickle down his face. He dropped the percom and reached into his pocket for the sharp edge of his shiv.

  “Fuck Clappy…is that you…you fuckin scared the shit out of me you stupid fuck.” Two strong hands jerked Clappy to his feet by his buttoned redcoat and began patting him down hard. Before Clappy could get his bearings, the assailant began questioning him.

  “Anyone come down here the last ten minutes Clappy…you see anyone?”

  Clappy thought he made out the voice through his ringing ears. “Rally…that you?”

  Rough hands slammed Clappy into the tube wall again, with the stale Jiri breath of the hulking figure right in his face. “Inspector Rally to you, you little cocksucker…Answer my question.”

  “But Rally…”

  Again a jolt against the wall, his head banged hard. “Listen to me Clappy…are you listening?” He motioned to other figure. This is my Lieutenant…you get me. Don’t make me look bad here and answer my fucking question…”

  The big cop pulled Clappy’s hand out of this pocket and snatched the shiv out of it, holding the shank up in the light. “What have we got here, huh? What were you going to do with this Clappy…You gonna cut me…your old pal Rally, or maybe the Lieutenant over there. You stupid fuck, I could lock you up for the rest of your cocksuckin' life, but you’d like that wouldn’t you.”

  Bewildered, Clappy leaned back and surrendered to the cop. “Nah. Inspector…I wouldn’t….you know…you just scared me…its dangerous…and I didn’t…”

  “Fuckin' shut your dicksucker Clappy. Just answer my fucking question. Did anyone…Anyone…a person…a fuckin' rat, a goddamned bug…go past here.”

  Clappy thought hard, real hard. His head hurt and that shit faced dirty motherfucker Rally was gonna thrash him if he didn’t answer. Truth was he didn’t know. He had fallen asleep for a few minutes, so maybe, but he couldn’t say for sure. He knew if he lied and got caught he was fucked like a lilywhite bitch in August.

  “I don’t know man…I…”

  Rally slammed him again, this time crashing his head hard and jolting the breath out of him. He exhaled in pain but continued his pathetic plea. “I don’t know…I…I fell asleep…but I don’t think so.”

  Rally snatched him by the arm and spun him arou
nd crushing his face into the rough, rust stained wall. “What do you mean…you don’t know?!” he screamed.

  “Let him go” the other cop mumbled. “He can’t help us.”

  Rally released Clappy with a thud as the other cop pulled the microphone out from his collar speaking in a calm monotone. “This is Floss. We lost him. He’s in the Zone.”

  The two cops headed back the way they came, leaving Clappy crumpled on the floor of the tunnel. His head rung and he grabbed the heated cup off the fire, taking a scorching gulp to try to abate the pain of the thrashing from that asshole Rally. Most of the time you could deal with Rally, but not tonight. He had that straight fuck Lieutenant with him. Clappy turned towards a sound, breaking from the muck on the tunnel floor. It was the percom he dropped when dickwad grabbed him. After a few minutes in the muck he found it, picking it up and placing it next to his ear, but he couldn’t hear anything now. He called back over the percom to warn the others. The cops were gone but someone they were looking for might be coming through the other end. A gate crasher. He tired three times, but no one answered.