“Shield us,” Cyrus whispered from the floor.
Klane whipped around, staring at the bulkheads.
Cyrus heard bubbling sounds: the enemy lasers chewing through their ship’s armor.
Then something incredible happened. A Kresh ray sliced through the ship’s exterior armor, boring through the ablative foam underneath. The beam burst through the command module bulkhead. Klane stood in the ray’s path. His left shoulder and part of his side melted away. Blood exploded out of Klane, and he collapsed onto the deck plates.
The mental assault trying to put Cyrus to sleep evaporated. His eyes flew open, and he realized the Anointed One who was supposed to save the Fenris humans either was dead or would be in the next few seconds.
11
In the Attack Talon, automated hatches clanged shut, sealing the hull breach from the rest of the ship. In the command module, air now violently escaped into space.
As the air pressure rapidly dropped, Cyrus found it difficult to stay awake. Klane lay on the deck plates. Despite his missing left shoulder, arm, and a frightful chunk of his side, he only seeped blood. It should have poured out of him.
Cyrus was vaguely aware that Klane used his telekinetic powers to pinch off the exposed blood vessels. How long could that last?
The enemy Battle Fangs no longer beamed their Attack Talon. The comm line was open. A Kresh spoke, demanding their immediate surrender.
Jana was closer to the hull breach than anyone else. The air pressure had to have been less there. She lay on the floor with her eyes closed, although she twitched, indicating that she still lived for a little while longer.
This was a disaster. How could Klane survive such a horrible injury?
I cannot. I will die soon enough.
Sluggishly, Cyrus tried to decipher the thought.
It is I, Klane. I’m speaking with you.
From on the floor, they locked stares. The Anointed One looked at him with glazed eyes.
I must transfer.
“Take over my consciousness?” Cyrus whispered.
A moment, please; this is no good.
A piece of metal lifted from the floor and flew to the hull breach. It slapped against the opening. The sides bubbled, melted by intense heat caused by Klane’s TK, no doubt.
It was a fantastic example of Klane’s abilities. He held death at bay by the power of his psionics. Now, he repaired the command module.
I will die. My life is over. But my thoughts and abilities will live on in you as I transfer my memories into you.
“I don’t think I want that,” Cyrus said.
You must. I perish. I must still use what I have to save humanity.
“Fenris humanity?”
All humanity, both here and in your solar system.
“I must be me, Klane. I refuse to let anyone control my mind. Something in you controlled you.”
Klane ignored the last comment, apparently focusing on the first. I want you to be you. Now relax. I must transfer fast. I do not have long enough to make this an easy adjustment.
Before Cyrus could say anything more, he arched his back as waves upon waves of memories and thoughts slammed against his mind. A torrent, a river, a tidal current of thoughts hammered his mind and confused him. He saw Klane’s life in brief flickers of images. He saw the seeker’s life, and the seeker before him and him and him. It bewildered Cyrus.
Then something cold and dark, alien and slippery, tried to glide past without notice. Maybe it would have worked, but Cyrus had been waiting for the alien thing that had controlled and killed his friend.
Wait! What are you?
I am nothing.
How does nothing tell me, it’s nothing, Cyrus asked. You’re not human. You’re something else. And he blocked the alien thing.
Do not resist. I can teach you much.
Screw off. I’m me and nothing is touching who I am.
You do not understand. You are so primitive it hurts to communicate with you.
So piss off.
No. I will burrow—
Cyrus used a mind bolt as Jasper had taught him to wield long ago. The old Cyrus Gant couldn’t have done much. But he had already absorbed most of Klane’s psionic strength. The bolt caused the entity to squeal with pain.
Stop! I can hurt you more than you know.
Words, Cyrus thought. Fight me for control if you dare. And he struck at the entity with another mind bolt.
Wait, the entity seemed to gasp. Don’t you understand what I’m offering you?
Yes! Slavery. Earth government tried to put a lock on my mind. I fought them and won. I’m going to fight you, too.
I have found the ship. It is here. I can go home again and heal fully. In exchange for your help, I offer you any star system you wish to rule.
An exchange for my soul doesn’t interest me.
You have no soul.
I beg to differ.
You are a clod of dirt, a nothing in the expanse of the universe. Yes, become my Steed and I will give you power, more than you can conceive.
Slaves don’t wield power. Now piss off, you little mind prick.
You’ll die without my help.
We’ll see. Cyrus concentrated and battered the entity. It cried out and attempted to shield itself. Silently, Cyrus laughed. He was never sure or not if his mockery enraged the thing. But icy power emanated from the entity. It fought back.
In his body on the floor of the Attack Talon, the two battled for control of his mind and person.
You will be my Steed and I the Rider.
Let’s go, you alien mind bugger. Let’s get it on and fight it out.
The command module of the Attack Talon disappeared to Cyrus Gant. He went somewhere deep in his mind. Then that, too, seemed to fade away. Slowly, a different venue coalesced in his thoughts.
Cyrus found himself in Level 40 Milan. Somehow, he’d come home again. This was marvelous. He sprinted as air burned down his throat. Obviously, he fled from something. What was it?
Before he turned around to look, Cyrus was aware he wore a Latin King synthi-leather jacket. It felt good, and he knew once he zipped it up that it would afford him some protection. He didn’t think whatever chased him had a slugthrower, but a knife like him.
Cyrus’s fist tightened around the handle of a vibrio-blade. He was a master at this. Once he clicked it on with his thumb, the blade would vibrate many times a second, giving him cutting power.
He ran in a dimly lit area, with tall blocks of machinery on either side of him. He must be in the guts of the processing center, the air recyclers. Did that mean he’d come here for a Dust shipment?
This was also cannibal territory. A weird cult group hid out of sight down here. They had bizarre rituals and indulged in eating their fellow humans. They used pounds of Dust, not just grams. So, the Latin Kings sold to them. But no one liked to make deals with the cannibals. Maybe that’s who he ran from.
Why can’t I turn around to look?
Unreasoning fear filled Cyrus. That made him angry, and he gripped the knife handle harder than ever. With a shout of rage, he twisted his neck and looked back over his shoulder.
An inky cloud floated behind him. Out of the cloud peered an ivory eye without a pupil or iris. The eye seemed blind, and then he realized the being used the whole orb to sense with.
There was nothing in Level 40 like that. Cyrus knew it in his gut. Something wrong had happened.
Am I having a Dust nightmare?
Before he could figure that out, he tripped. With a cry, he sprawled onto the slick paving, skidding headfirst. The knees of his pants tore through, and he friction-burned the palm of his left hand so it began to bleed. Worse, much worse, his vibrio-blade skittered away from him across the paving.
Cyrus scrambled to his feet, turning, and h
e saw something completely different. The blockiest man he’d ever seen scuttled toward him with an odd shuffle.
The man had a bullet-shaped shaved scalp and lacked eyebrows. The eyes were weird white like nothing he’d ever seen. The man wore silky garments like a holo-porn star, and his arms and thighs bulged with muscle. His muscle shape seemed off, though.
As Cyrus watched, the muscles under the silky garments seemed to melt and rearrange themselves into something more normal.
That was so freaking weird that Cyrus heaved, and a thin dribble of vomit splashed onto the paving.
“You must submit,” the man said. He stood twice as tall as Cyrus and easily twice as wide. No one had shoulders like that; no one.
“I can crush you if you resist.”
Cyrus had no doubt about that. “Are you an enforcer?” he asked.
The man stopped, and he looked around. With a slow nod, he regarded Cyrus again. “I see. You have reverted. It doesn’t matter. I am the master of whatever domain you choose.”
“Are you high?”
The man’s lips spread in a parody of a smile.
Cyrus scrambled fast for his knife. He heard the man’s heavy shoes striking the paving. The freak rushed him. That was okay. Cyrus knew how to deal with big guys. He’d been doing it his entire life.
“Submit!” the man shouted from behind.
Cyrus’s right hand closed on the handle of his vibrio-blade. His thumb moved. Click! The blade vibrated at high speed.
A crushing hand gripped his left ankle. The man began to pull, yanking Cyrus’s body along the paving.
“I will crush the bone until you scream for mercy.”
Cyrus cursed the man, and he twisted like an eel. He did one thousand sit-ups some days, which made him strong. He twisted, turned, and slashed the knife.
It whined higher than Cyrus had ever heard a blade go. With a grunt, he forced the blade through the man’s leathery flesh and into the bone. The pitch hurt his ears, but Cyrus kept pushing, and the blade sliced through bone and flesh, neatly lopping off the offending hand.
With a kick, Cyrus launched the hand off his ankle.
The man jerked his arm back, and he held it up before him as if he’d never seen something like this before. Maybe he hadn’t.
Cyrus expected blood to jet and the man to howl. Neither event occurred. A vicious black substance oozed out of the severed wrist while smoke began to trickle.
“You’re not human,” Cyrus said while scrambling to his feet again. He shuddered with loathing, hating the alien creature that bled such black glop. He didn’t want that thing to touch him again.
The alien with the white eyes regarded him.
“I don’t think we’re in Milan,” Cyrus said.
“In the real world you are dying,” the alien said.
Despite the loathing he felt, Cyrus forced himself to grin. “No. I don’t think so. Klane died, or he’s dying. I’m very much alive, though.”
“Your spaceship is burning up around you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
The alien snarled, and he waved his smoking wrist back and forth. “We will try this again, you stinking human. You will submit to me or know the bitter cost of resistance.”
“Life’s a bitch and Cyrus Gant will never do what you want.”
“Do not believe it. For all submit to me in the end.”
Before Cyrus could ask what the alien meant, darkness fell as all the lights went out. The whine of machinery stopped.
12
One second Cyrus hardly knew that his thoughts drifted in limbo. The next moment the left headphone in his helmet crackled to life. The right speaker hissed as if the helmet had sprung a leak.
What’s going on? Where am I? Why am I wearing a helmet?
Then Cyrus realized that First Sergeant Mikhail Sergetov shouted at him. That was weird. The last time he’d seen the space marine, they had been aboard Discovery. He had thought Mikhail was dead. But the marine hollered at him.
“What do you think you’re doing, Cyrus? Get your butt back on the A-couch and buckle in.”
Despite his delight at hearing Mikhail again, Cyrus ignored the words as he floated through the laser chamber, heading toward the outer hatch.
Am I back on Discovery? How is that even possible?
Cyrus looked around in wonder.
A large structure taller than a man held the laser’s focusing mirrors near the collapsium blast doors. The mirrors were at the top of the combat dome, the one they were in.
Okay. This is very cool.
Around the chamber were computer banks, data links, laser coils, and emergency repair gear. Five acceleration couches were installed in a circular marked area behind Cyrus. Two combat-suited marines lay there, strapped in for shifting. On the third couch, Cyrus’s straps lay askew like dead snakes.
The marine NCO speaking to him through the suit comm wrestled with his last buckle.
“Get back to your couch!” Mikhail repeated.
Cyrus reached the hatch, catching the release bar. He twisted toward Mikhail. Despite his throbbing headache—Cyrus wasn’t sure why he had one—he grinned through the helmet’s faceplate.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Cyrus said. “I’m going to look at the stars.”
“Are you mad?” Mikhail asked. “We’re about to shift.”
The grin tightened. Cyrus understood something about this journey. A BAD THING waited around the corner of time. Maybe it waited outside among the stars.
“I have to do this,” Cyrus said.
“It’s too dangerous out there,” the first sergeant told him.
Something glinted in Cyrus’s eyes. “You taught me what to do.”
“Don’t pin this on me!” Mikhail shouted as he finally freed himself of the straps. He swung his armored feet onto the deck plates.
“You’d better buckle in. We’re about to shift.” Cyrus turned to the hatch as his gloved fingers tapped in the override code. He was surprised that he still remembered it.
“Listen to me,” Mikhail said, launching himself from the A-couch. “The Chief Monitor won’t overlook it if you go outside. He can’t because Dr. Wexx will hear about it. They’ll mark my profile with demerits, and the colonel will be forced to bust me down to private. What do you want to do anyway, die out there?”
The grin disappeared from Cyrus’s face. He didn’t always follow the rules, because sometimes the rules killed. Life was rigged and something always went wrong as the BAD THING reached out to destroy. His eyes shined with a haunted fear, just as they used to shine as a knife boy in the slums of Milan.
Wasn’t I just in the slums? Something is wrong here. I’m . . . reverting to who I used to be, not who I am now.
In the combat dome on Discovery’s outer hull, Cyrus hooked the tops of his booted feet against a metal lip. Anchored, he applied pressure to the bar. Ignoring the curses in his headphones, he opened the hatch.
“I’ll break your bones for this!” Mikhail shouted, sailing toward him.
Cyrus stepped through the portal and closed it behind him. That would slow the NCO. Cyrus leaped, floating onto the surface of the giant Teleship. Look at the stars. Their pattern . . . he’d never seen them like this because they looked different from the solar system.
Inside his helmet, Cyrus grinned. He couldn’t help it. The stars spread out in a glorious panorama. He couldn’t get enough of this. As a kid growing up in the bottom level of Milan, he’d never seen the stars. He’d never seen the sun, touched a tree, played in open fields, or swum in the sea. On Earth, most people lived in the kilometer-deep cities that often reached forty levels down. The nearly fifty billion souls of Earth made such living arrangements necessary. Only rich people lived a natural life aboveground.
All that had changed once he joined Psi
Force. Now, he hated confinement with an even deeper loathing than before and he loved—needed—open spaces.
Cyrus winced as the buzzing in his skull intensified, like razors slashing his thoughts. He gritted his teeth, enduring. He began to pant, and his suit’s conditioner hummed as sweat appeared on his thin face. It hurt to blink and it hurt—
I’m outside on the ship’s surface. I have to ground myself or risk flying off if they change heading.
He looked around. The skin of the Teleship was like any meteor drifting in space. Well, almost. The surface lacked mountains or valleys. It was uniform but made of asteroid-like rock, with dust where he could leave his boot prints if he so desired.
Twisting his supple body like a gymnast, Cyrus spotted the black dome he’d exited. Several similar domes dotted his vision. Some held mirrors to focus combat lasers. Others contained missile launch pits.
Discovery was like an old-style dreadnought from the Cyborg War of over one hundred years ago. Combat ships had used particle shielding then, hundreds of meters of thick rock to withstand enemy lasers or nuclear-tipped missiles.
Below the shielding minerals of the Teleship were the gigantic AIs, the fusion engines and acres of stasis tubes for the frozen sleepers. Over fifty thousand superior individuals waited to begin a colony in the New Eden system. Below stasis was the core structure of life support for Discovery’s crew: one hundred and seven men and women.
“Cyrus! Get back here!”
He saw Mikhail shine a powerful beam from the open hatch. The light tracked across the surface and finally reached him.
“We have a few minutes until the shift,” the first sergeant said through the helmet’s headphones.
It hurt to blink, but Cyrus did it anyway. He wished he could rub his head. He’d been wondering lately if the trouble came from out here. It was against the rules to be here during a shift.
“Do you want to die?” Mikhail asked.
“Not really.”
“The shift—”
“I need to see it,” Cyrus said.
“You’re mad,” Mikhail said. “No one is supposed to look at a null opening. It will smash your mind.”
Alien Wars Page 7
