Burnt Worlds

by S. J. Madill

  Saparun’s soft voice interrupted him. “If I may, Captain. I am scanning the buildings. The three automated weapons that fired at us… there are others. I count forty-one weapons visible from this location, including the three we destroyed. The others are mostly inert. Some are tracking us but not firing. Several are acting strangely, as if tracking random objects in the sky.”

  “Forty more?” breathed Dillon. “Holy shit, that’s a lot. So, you figure they’ve all broken down except the three that shot at us?”

  “Yes, Captain. It seems that way. They have been exposed to the elements for over seven hundred years, so it would not be surprising.”

  “Yeah,” said Dillon. “We’re really getting off lucky so far.”

  “With respect, sir,” said Lee, “I don’t like luck.”

  “Neither do I, Lee. It always runs out, eventually.” He sighed, leaning against the vehicle as he slowly looked around him.

  He surveyed the broad plaza with the massive buildings that surrounded it. He tried to imagine it full of life, with thousands of people going about their business, or gathered in the square for some great occasion.

  Dillon began to think of the day the plague struck. If the leadership knew about the precursor viruses already spreading among the population, they would have been nervous; urgent work on cures would have been underway. But when the viruses activated to become the plague weapon—

  He heard the soft chirp of a private channel opening. “What are you thinking, Feda?”

  Dillon turned to look at her, and she could see the sadness in his eyes. She nodded. “You are thinking of it as well. The day the plague started.”

  “How long would it have taken? You know, to...”

  She frowned. “Even one person that was infected with all the viruses, and was present to receive the signal, would have been enough to doom the planet unless they were already isolated. Living tissue would be transformed into more plague, which could easily jump from any organic matter to any other. For a person like you or me, we would have watched our flesh being consumed, until a blood vessel burst or some vital organ failed. Maybe half an hour, for most people. The pain would have been…” She trailed off.

  He looked again at the square, imagined the terror and panic of millions of people. Screaming children, people in agony or just quietly accepting their fate. Desperation. Helplessness.

  A second private channel opened. “Sir,” said Lee. “Focus, sir.”

  Dillon turned his head to look at the petty officer, who was watching him carefully. Perkins was nearby, fidgeting.

  “Okay,” said the Captain. “Let’s go.”

  -----

  The building’s front doors opened easily with a pull, and the team stepped inside. They were in a tunnel-like corridor, ten metres wide and high, and three times as long, opening at the far end into a much larger space. The entrance area was cordoned off, with desks and counters and gates, carefully positioned to funnel people toward security stations up ahead. The walkways led between pairs of tall machines, while cameras and weapon barrels protruded from the ceiling above them. One camera pivoted to look at them, while a weapon began to buzz and click angrily, though it was facing a wall. All the other fixtures remained still and silent.

  On a signal from Lee, the armed crew fanned out, walking behind the security counters while the Captain and the others followed them. Dillon reflexively stepped over an empty pile of clothing, stopping at a small handheld device on the floor a short distance away. He bent over to look more closely at it.

  Saparun knelt next to him, pointing a small handheld scanner at the device. “A weapon, Captain. Mass accelerator. It bears evidence of use, but its power source is long since drained.”

  Dillon looked over at the empty clothes on the floor nearby. “Used,” he said to himself. He looked at the nearby set of empty clothes. “I probably would’ve too.”

  Standing up, he tapped his wrist console. “Okay, everyone. Very important tip: don’t touch anything. This thing was a weapon; the next one you see might still be armed. No souvenirs, no matter how cool. I say again: don’t touch anything.”

  They walked forward, picking their way around the cordons and counters, until they approached the inner end of the tunnel.

  The corridor opened into a giant atrium: a hundred metres across and open all the way upward to the sky a hundred storeys above. The building above them was a massive tube, its inner walls clear and smooth, like a glass sheet that went all the way around. Through the glass, they could see the individual levels above.

  The floor under their feet was made of the same glistening black material found outside and on the cylinder ships, flowing from wall to wall as a single, seamless expanse of black.

  Ahead of them, on a dais a dozen metres across, were five statues of humanoid figures, each of them ten metres high or more. One in front, brandishing a bladed weapon, the four others behind, all of them in determined, forward-looking heroic poses.

  “So that’s them,” said Cho. His voice was calm, even soft. “The people who made the cylinders.”

  Dillon looked carefully at the one in front. Humanoid in shape, but proportionally thinner than humans. Larger eyes set deeper in their faces, horizontal ridges on their cheeks, and only three digits on their hands and feet. Their chests seemed thin and their abdomens bulged strangely, but he couldn’t figure out what that meant.

  “Look,” said Amba, pointing. “The one in front has a weapon. A soldier. The four behind it, look at what they are holding and wearing.” Her outstretched hand pointed at each in turn. “Worker, scientist, priest, artist.”

  “Interesting,” said Saparun. “The statue is symbolic, then. Unity of purpose.”

  “Yeah,” said Dillon quietly.

  Movement caught his eye, up on the far wall beyond the statues. He began to walk past the dais, trying to see better.

  On the rear wall of the atrium, high above the statue, were three giant square displays. Two of them were dark, but the one on the left was showing images. It was dim and frequently interrupted by static-like distortion, but appeared to be a mix of tactical displays and camera views of a massive space battle.

  Dillon watched in silence for a moment, the others gathering around to watch, all of them hoping not to recognise any of the ships they saw.

  His heart sank as a familiar shape flashed by. “Regina,” he said quietly. “The green stripe—”

  “Most of her,” said Cho. “Her port side engines and weapons are gone. Still fighting, though.”

  The Captain peeled his eyes away from the display. “Okay, god damn it, they’re counting on us. We need to find wherever it is they control those cylinders from.”

  “Upstairs,” said Cho. “Definitely upstairs, sir.”

  Dillon looked at him. “Huh. I was going to say downstairs. Okay. Cho, take Lee, Sap and some lucky volunteers and head upstairs.” He pointed at several crew members. “The Tassali, Perkins and Amoroso will come with me, downstairs.”

  As the crew members began to migrate into their teams, the Captain continued. “There will probably be security doors, scanners, and weapons. Especially near the more sensitive areas. Go around them, rather than through them. They probably have elevators of some sort, but don’t use them. They’ve been sitting for centuries.”

  He paused a moment, thinking to himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “Listen, I should’ve said this earlier: we can’t be sentimental about this, or about these people. We will honour them and grieve for them — but later, not now. Don’t touch anything that isn’t in your way. And,” he said more sternly, looking from person to person, “I’m saying this again: absolutely, positively no souvenirs. Get in, shut those ships down, and we all get out. Everyone got that?”

  The suited crewmembers nodded, their helmets bobbing. “Aye aye, sir,” they said.

  “Okay,” said Dillon, satisfied. “Keep in touch. Carry on.”

  He turned and started walking toward the
wall to the left of the screens. Amba and the other two fell in behind him. After a few steps he stopped, looking at the walls around them. “Now, where do you suppose…” he said slowly, “...the stairs might be?”

  45

  “Hold up here,” the Captain gasped.

  He came down the last few steps to the landing, almost tripping over his own feet. Perkins looked up at him while Amoroso, weapon at the ready, kept an eye on the cylindrical stairwell shaft that extended far above and below them, the stairs winding around the outer wall.

  Dillon bent over, trying to catch his breath, each pant momentarily fogging the inside of his mask. He heard the footsteps of the Tassali stopping behind him. “Captain?” she asked.

  Without looking up from his boots, he made a waving gesture with one hand. “In my defence,” he said, pausing for breath, “I was sick as a dog for weeks.”

  The Tassali sounded hesitant. “I am sorry, Captain… a dog?”

  He feebly waved again. “Very sick. No idea where the saying comes from.” Straightening up, he slowly took in their surroundings. There was a sturdy blue door on this landing, different from the bare doors on all the previous levels. Two large characters were marked on the wall next to the door. He nodded at the letters.

  “Twelve, sir,” said Perkins. “I've been counting. And I think the blue door is significant, sir.”

  Amoroso had leaned over the waist-high wall on the inside of the stairwell, and was looking down the shaft. He raised his carbine, pointing it down the shaft while he watched the scope’s tiny screen. “Sir, I can see the bottom. Looks like another dozen levels, sir. I can see a couple sets of clothes down there. Someone must’ve fallen.”

  “Or jumped,” said Dillon, peering carefully over the edge. He shook his head. “Okay, we can’t think about that.”

  “Is that door open?” asked Amba. The rest of the team quickly looked at the blue metal door, staring at the gap around its edges. Perkins had his weapon raised, and he and Amoroso approached the door. “Good eye, ma’am. Captain, looks like it’s open a crack.”

  Amoroso cocked his head, his helmet tilting. “What sort of security is that?”

  The Tassali’s voice was calm. “It is the security of people who realise it no longer matters.”

  “Go ahead and let yourselves in,” said Dillon. “Keep an eye peeled.”

  The Captain and Amoroso stood on the far side of the doorway, with Perkins and the Tassali across from them. They exchanged nods, whereupon Amoroso gave a quick yank on the handle, pulling his hand back as the door swung open. Almost immediately, an angry buzzing sound came from inside the open doorway.

  While Perkins and Amba pulled the door open until it was flush with the wall, Amoroso calmly leaned forward, pointing the muzzle of his carbine past the edge of the doorway. His eyes were fixed on the weapon’s scope display. “I see it, sir,” he said. “Ceiling mounted turret, like the ones in the lobby.”

  “Get rid of it,” said Dillon.

  “Aye aye, sir. Getting rid of it.” A sharp, short burst of fire erupted from his carbine, the brief metallic whine echoing up and down the stairwell. From inside the doorway, the buzzing halted, replaced by a sound like a dropped toolbox. “There we go, sir. Broke it.”

  “Good,” said Dillon. “Carry on, you two. In you get.”

  Their weapons raised in front of them, Perkins and Amoroso carefully stepped through the doorway. The Tassali followed them, her small sidearm pointed at the ceiling. She paused, and turned back to look at Dillon. Taking a few last deep breaths, he nodded and followed her into the corridor.

  A short burst of gunfire suddenly echoed in the narrow space, accompanied by a flash of light up ahead. “Another one, sir,” said Perkins. “Got it.”

  “I think it was already dead,” said Amoroso.

  “Wasn’t going to wait and find out, y’know?”

  The narrow corridor emptied into a large square lobby, ten metres on a side, with two other corridors leading off from the far end. The lobby was lit by ceiling fixtures, their cones of white light full of wispy smoke.

  The wall on their left had two large metal panels set into it, that reached from floor to ceiling and were almost as wide. Rows of chairs were along the other walls, some of them out of place, with empty clothing on the floor nearby.

  “Couple guns on the floor here, sir,” said Perkins. He advanced diagonally across the room, each footstep carefully placed.

  “Writing on the walls here, sir,” said Amoroso, gesturing to the right.

  “Okay,” said Dillon, reaching into his leg pocket for his datapad. “Let’s see if we’ll have any luck translating this stuff, based on Sap’s research.” He tapped at the screen, his gloved fingers clumsy against the device’s face. “I don’t suppose anyone’s heard from the ship or the other group.”

  “No sir,” said Amoroso. “Nada since level five.”

  “Right,” sighed Dillon. “Didn’t think so.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw light moving. The Tassali was examining the large metal plates set into the left wall, shining a small light she held in her off hand. As if sensing him looking at her, she turned to face him. “Elevator doors, Captain. This one is clean. The other,” she said, gesturing, “has streaks of rust. It is the first rust or decay we have seen anywhere.”

  “Huh,” said Dillon. “Good point. Seven hundred years, and no rusting or decay anywhere. Oxidation isn’t organic; it should still be happening.”

  “Fancy alloys, sir?” suggested Perkins.

  “I expect so,” said Dillon. He tapped at his datapad. “Okay, I'm trying to translate the symbols on the wall over there.” He looked up from the screen. “I wonder if—”

  A gentle chime sounded in the room. Amba jumped back from the metal door, quickly withdrawing her hand from where she had touched its smooth surface. Three weapons and a datapad were quickly trained on the metal panel as it slid open, revealing the elevator interior.

  The four of them waited a moment, before the Tassali spoke. “I believe,” she said slowly, “touching the door summons the elevator. Sorry, Captain.”

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ve learned something new: some things are activated just by touching them. So let’s be careful what we touch.”

  His datapad chirped at him, and he looked down at it, then up at the markings on the wall. “Outstanding. Someone remind me to give Sap a raise. According to this, the top one says ‘Control’ and the bottom one says ‘Science’. So,” he said, walking across the lobby, “the top one points to this corridor, which means 'Control' is this way. Everyone with me.”

  His datapad chirped again, and he looked at it as he rounded the corner.

  There was a flash and a roar, and something punched him in the chest. He took a staggering step backward as Perkins shouted, then was shoved to his left. There was a sharp burst of gunfire as two strong hands grabbed him and spun him around, pushing his back against the wall of the lobby.

  Wide eyed, he blinked and looked around. Amba was directly in front of him, one gloved hand on his shoulder, the other poking at the chest of his armoured suit. He tried to look down, moving his hands to touch at his chest, but she swatted them away. Her eyes glanced up at his, then back down at his chest. She stooped for a moment, picking something off the floor.

  “No injuries,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Suit intact.” Her hand found his wrist console, and he heard a private comm channel open. Her eyes, inside her mask, looked at his. “Feda,” she said quietly, “stop that.” She smiled at him. “It startles me when things try to kill you.” She handed him his datapad, which was shattered and twisted by a neat group of three bullet impacts.

  The private channel chirped off, and he cleared his throat before speaking. “Thank you for getting that, Perkins.”

  “No problem sir. You can have my datapad. Okay if we go first, sir?”

  “Please do.”

  With Perkins and Amoroso taking turns in the lead, the team a
dvanced down the corridor. They passed two sharp turns, each guarded by ceiling turrets, and two sets of half-open security doors. With surprising efficiency, the two marines in front destroyed the turrets and cleared the way for the four of them to advance.

  -----

  “Whoa. Found it, sir,” said Amoroso.

  Beyond a double set of security doors, with a malfunctioning turret between, the corridor opened into a massive command centre.

  It was round, fifty metres across and half as deep, with the far wall curving upward into a half-dome above their heads. They stood on a balcony halfway up the room’s height. Down in front of them and high up behind them stretched wall-to-wall rows of computer stations. Each had a display hovering in front of it, though only a few were lit.

  In front of them, the far wall was a massive set of displays. One large screen was surrounded by dozens of smaller ones, most of which were dark.

  The huge central screen was filled with a dim jumble of shapes and characters, twitching rapidly. Periodically, it would flash a few moments of a tactical display depicting a space battle. Lines and circles showed the locations and movements of the hundreds of combatants, with small text-filled boxes next to each.

  “There it is,” said Perkins. “No, wait… there it is again, sir. Do you see it?”

  “I see it. Hand me your datapad.”

  The marine quickly retrieved his pad and handed it to the Captain, who poked at it as he began to climb the stairs into the higher rows behind the entrance. Amoroso, weapon raised, quickly went up the stairs ahead of the Captain.

  “I’m guessing,” said Dillon, “that the bosses sat at the top—”

  “Do none of you hear that?” asked Amba suddenly.