He’d just needed a place to breathe for a few minutes while he figured out what to do next. But as quiet and careful as he’d been, he’d never been able to leave his wagon-train of crates again.
His new friend had stuck around, guarding Bergen’s enclave, waiting him out, he supposed. Every time he’d thought the damn monster had left the room to hunt, Bergen had tried to silently ease out from between the crates to get to the door to close it. But the monster had always been waiting right on the other side of the wall and then it had been a race to the crates. That had gone on for a while before he had given up.
Inside his plastic crate demesne, the bigger animals like that one couldn’t get to him unless they could knock down the stacks of crates. None of them had managed that yet. Unfortunately the smallest ones could slip between the crates—small, but just as vicious. One had taken him by surprise. And now he was in a bad, bad way.
There was something going on out in the hall again. He listened for a few moments, to determine how close it was. Damn things were at it again. A war was being waged out there. They were fighting for dominance—and for food.
Damn cannibals. He supposed that if there were some other kind of food available they’d prefer to eat that. He wasn’t about to broadcast his location and advertise that he was a willing smorgasbord. Not yet.
Thinking about Jane was a way to pass the time. He closed his eyes and contemplated the day, early in the journey, when she’d spent hours washing her hair for the first time in microgravity.
She had been self-conscious about it, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He’d watched her, surreptitiously, as she had gone through the many steps of her ablutions, her hair floating like a cloud around her face as she had worked on it painstakingly, section by section. Afterwards, she had let it air-dry, combing through it occasionally. He’d observed her pulling each lock forward, twitching it under her nose and rubbing it between her fingers, as if she couldn’t decide if it was actually clean unless it smelled a certain way.
He chuckled to himself silently. She’d have been mortified if she’d realized he’d seen that. She had kept her dignity wrapped around her like a mantle, always steady, always calm, always reasonable. She had helped him feel more… stable? Sane? Happy? He had wanted to please her, so he had tried harder. He wouldn’t do that for just anyone. She was special.
He imagined holding her again, one more time. The way he’d held her that day in the capsule, his chin resting on her glossy, silky hair. She’d smelled heavenly when the rest of them stank like baboons. She was earthy, woodsy, almost floral. She was warm and soft. She fit against him perfectly, no awkwardness at all. She was a gift.
He blinked back moisture and looked up at the ceiling, rubbing at his face and beard. A silent laugh escaped his lips as he remembered her reaction to his beard when he’d first started to grow it. He was the first of the men to give up on shaving with dull razors—without running water it was just a pain in the rear end, and the vacuum-assisted shaver built into the capsule was worthless. So he’d just grown a beard. It had been the easiest thing to do.
First she’d teased him about his hipster stubble. When it really grew in thick, she’d joked about his swarthy pirate beard. Then she’d presented him with an eye-patch painstakingly fashioned out of used food packaging, beaming as she handed it over.
He patted the pocket on his thigh and felt the plastic crackle under his fingertips. Still there.
She was the glue that had held them all together. Without her, they probably wouldn’t have made it to the Target alive. He and Walsh probably would have killed each other a few months in.
His throat constricted painfully from emotion. It was just as well they would never get a chance to be together. He’d never get it right. He’d do something stupid, hurt her somehow. This way, their relationship stayed pristine. They’d have those few meaningful moments. He’d never make love to her, but he’d also never have the opportunity to fuck it all up.
He woke, hyperventilating, flinging his arms out to ward off the predator he was certain he was going to find there. He caught his breath, taking stock, cursing himself for having fallen asleep again.
He felt hot. He was drenched in sweat. His vision swam. But there was nothing there.
Oh, fuck. Do not look at the leg.
What woke him? He blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to stay open instead of drifting shut again. The creatures were making a ruckus nearby, again. They were close. Really close.
This was it. They’d tracked him down. They’d bring down the walls of his makeshift barricade, overwhelm him with sheer numbers any minute. He could barely bring himself to care. Surely it wouldn’t hurt. Much.
Still… He fumbled for the pistol. It was so damn heavy. It was enough to have it in his hand, for now. There were still some bullets in there, right? Weird how that burn on his hand still hurt more than the leg that was just a pustulent lump of meat.
The sounds the creatures were making out there were strange. Curiosity made him ease forward to peer through the crack between two storage crates. A creature, the same one that had kept him from getting to the door and closing it, immediately filled his limited view, hissing and lashing its tail around. He had named it Barnabas. They were old pals.
Bergen rolled his eyes and scooted to the next crack. There was a stomping and smashing sound coming from out there that he hadn’t heard before. Was there a third stage in this disgusting creature’s life cycle? Could this actually get worse?
The scent of sizzling meat reached his nose and he wrinkled it in consternation. Was he so hungry he was hallucinating a barbecue? That was just sick.
He caught a glimpse of something black and shiny in the hall. His eyes widened and he forgot everything else. Something large and heavy lurched into the room and crashed to the floor, pushed over and overrun by the creatures. He couldn’t get a good look at it. He smashed his eyes closed and shook his head to clear it, then turned back to the crack, squinting with one eye to see better.
Whatever it was, it was strong. It was flinging the animals off itself ferociously, clanking heavily against the floor and wall as the animals swarmed over it, trying to keep it pinned down as they lashed and nipped at it.
A creature slammed into the crates that sheltered him. The stacks rocked into each other, unsteadily. He thought for a moment they might topple over on top of him, but they settled back into place.
What was that thing?
Wait, was that an arm?
Oh, shit.
It was an arm. An arm equipped with some kind of weapon. The air seemed to bend around the arm’s outstretched fist and a silent, concussive force emanated from it—sending the creatures flying in all directions and smashing them to bits.
Bergen swallowed hard as more of the black beast was revealed, as the animals splattered and rained in every direction and the air filled with the sickening smell of rot and cooked meat.
It was human in shape. And it was damn scary looking.
So, the alien bastard was finally showing its face.
He watched with fascination as the thing floundered like a bug caught on its back, trying to get itself upright. If he weren’t so freaked out, it might have been comical.
Finally it flipped itself over and got up on all fours, then raised itself up on its knees and blasted a few more of the creatures. That was something, at least.
He raised the pistol and braced it on a crate. He was probably only going to get one good shot before this was all over. He couldn’t miss. He’d aim at the head and hope that was a vulnerable place.
The thing was struggling to get to its feet. That seemed odd, but it was the perfect opportunity.
He fired.
21
Bergen held his breath. He’d hit his target, dead on. The alien’s head snapped back. It staggered, crashing back into the wall; it seemed to be stunned. Maybe he’d injured it. It seemed to be slow to recover. Maybe…
It straightened.
Its head whipped around, zeroing in on his location.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered. He tried to send another round into it, but the chamber was empty. He heard nothing but hollow clicks. Awesome. Great time to run out of ammo. Fucking perfect.
He couldn’t tear his eyes off the thing. He was frozen, couldn’t move. It stomped a few steps toward him and cocked its head to the side. It swiveled at the waist gracefully, in an almost feminine way, neatly dispatching the few creatures that remained.
Bye-bye, Barnabas.
It was menacing and beautiful. Now that the animals had been silenced, he could hear that it made mechanical sounds. Holy crap. That wasn’t the alien. The alien must be inside it.
The analytical side of him couldn’t help but admire the elegance in the design of the thing. It looked and sounded heavy, but moved nimbly. Some part of him lusted to take it apart, figure out how it worked. That single complex device in front of him would yield an exhilarating lifetime of insights and discoveries. But that was looking like a pretty unlikely scenario at the moment.
Bergen heaved himself back with an energy he hadn’t known in days when the thing reached out, grabbed the nearest stack of crates, and flung them aside like they were tinker toys. He wasn’t about to die lying on the floor, broken and beaten, damn it. He staggered to his feet, swaying and wheezing, close to passing out, and clung to the nearest stack of crates to keep from falling over.
The black behemoth stepped inside the enclosure and stood there, facing him. Long minutes passed. The fucker was taking its time, savoring the goddamn moment.
Bergen couldn’t take it another minute.
He flung expletives at the thing—raged like a rabid animal, spittle flying. He felt his face turn scarlet, the tension in his neck building as his blood pressure went up. He cursed the alien, its race, its ship, its home planet, its goddamn suit and its lack of proper ship hygiene—letting the equivalent of space rats infest the vessel, which was a fucking affront to cleanliness and decency everywhere. Just everywhere, goddamn it!
As he ran out of scathing words, he began to notice the thing had raised its arms, almost defensively… or what? Was it confused? What the hell was going on?
He lost his balance and slid back down to the floor as an ear-splitting voice boomed into the silence. He covered his ears. It was so loud he thought his ears might be bleeding.
“—just tell me how to turn on some kind of speaker so he can hear me! He can’t hear me! Oh. I—now he can.” It lowered its arms and took another step toward him. “Alan?”
Bergen’s eyes widened. That thing knew his name. Then it all clicked into place. It’d been inside Jane’s head. It could know anything about him.
It crouched down in front of him, held out a hand. It was no less threatening in that position, he told himself.
“Alan—it’s okay. It’s me.”
He shook his head, hands still over his ears. Goddamn it. That fucker loved its mind games, didn’t it? What the fuck did it want now? It had Jane and Compton—now it wanted him too? It waited until you were a crippled, crushed shell, incapable of any kind of defense, and then it took you—for what? What deviant shit was this thing going to do to him? Torture? Anal probing? Live dissection?
He cleared his throat, gathered what saliva he could, to spit at the fucker’s blank, shiny face.
At that exact moment, the voice thundered, “Retract the helmet.”
Even as it gave the command, the helmet split at the chin, tilted up at a forty-five degree angle, and began to lift, rotating on an axis, level with the point where ears would naturally be.
He’d already let the spittle fly… when he saw her face.
Saw Jane.
It struck her on the cheek. She blinked. “Really, Alan? Is this how you treat all the girls?” She lifted a hand to wipe it away, but frowned at the hard black gauntlet ruefully. The obsidian shoulders shrugged with a soft, mechanical whir as she dropped her hand again. She sighed and turned to scan their surroundings.
He stared at her hard and sank down farther, thoughts racing. He had to be hallucinating.
This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. It was a trap. The alien was inside his mind, could make him think anything, do anything, if he let it.
Her voice was soft. So alluring. So tempting to believe. “It’s not safe here. You’re hurt. Where are the others?”
“Safe. You’ll never get them.” His voice came out a groveling whisper. He hated himself for it.
She seemed confused, worried. “I’m glad they’re safe, Alan. You know it’s me, Jane, don’t you?” She crab-walked forward a small measure. “This is Sectilius battle armor. I told you about it, remember? I had to protect myself before I came down here. There’s no way I could have gotten to you otherwise.”
Jane went in and out of focus. The adrenaline was wearing off. He just couldn’t be scared of Jane, no matter what she wore, no matter who was pretending to be her. Not enough to stay alert, anyway. He shook his head and whumped it against the crate behind him. That didn’t help.
“Alan?” She stood. Her face was a mask of concern. She turned and clomped away.
His eyes fluttered closed, but he still heard the juicy crack as she blew away another creature that had wandered in. It was nice of her to do that. He wanted a good look at that weapon. For sure.
She came back, stooped right next to him this time, and slowly reached out a hand to touch his knee with just a single, black fingertip. It felt heavy and cold through the fabric of his flight suit. He didn’t like it. “Can you walk, Alan?”
He huffed. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” It came out more as a moan than actual words, though. So humiliating.
“I guess I’ll have to carry you. I can barely control this thing, honestly. I’m afraid I might hurt you. It seems like I could probably crack you in two without even trying.” She flashed a quick, tentative smile. Her eyes darted over him and he could have sworn that they were filling up with tears. Determination was in her voice, then. “I’m not going to, though. I’m going to make it work the way I want. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”
He tried to fight, but his limbs just flailed a little bit, like limp noodles. Jane was going to have her way with him, alien or not.
22
Jane took her time, willing her ham-handed movements to obey her intentions. She gathered Alan up as she would a fragile child, in her mind’s eye remembering the moment Ei’Brai had lifted her using Compton’s arms. His touch had felt mechanical, just as hers must now feel to Alan. That was where the similarity stopped.
Alan drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering at her. There was no more room for mistakes. A sob escaped her lips and tears slid down her cheeks as she tramped away from the rank pit he’d survived in to someplace safe where he could mend. She ignored the angry tears, the overwhelming surge of protective feelings, and barraged Ei’Brai with demands for information about the others.
She feared they were all dead. She wouldn’t be able to forgive that, if it were true.
“Alan says they’re safe. I need to know. You can sense them. I know you can. Where are they? Do they have enough food, water?”
It took everything she had just to walk in that getup. She couldn’t break her concentration to force him to answer. She wasn’t sure how she would do that, actually. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying as soon as she got the chance, should he refuse to give a satisfying reply.
She detected something cool and brisk swirling around Ei’Brai as he replied. “You have done well. I could not ask for more.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’ve had enough of your Machiavellian crapola. Tell me. Now.”
Something akin to a smirk flitted from his mind to hers. “They withdrew to their vessel as you commenced the recuperative process. Dr. Alan Bergen searched for you, solitarily.”
Her brow wrinkled. She didn’t like that answer, but felt it was probably true. “Okay. And?” There was more. She knew it.
“Presently they reside outside the periphery of my awareness. They have detached. They travel on a trajectory toward the nearest planetary body.”
“They left us here?” Damn it. Why did that hurt so much?
He didn’t answer.
She arrived at the Assessment Chamber.
The computer immediately greeted them in bland, unruffled tones. “Welcome, Documented Citizens: Jane Augusta Holloway, Bartholomew Alan Bergen. Please step onto the diagnostic platform.”
She visualized herself gently depositing a sleeping child onto a bed and willed the servo-motors to comply with that level of control. It mostly went well. She didn’t think she had hurt him further, though his head had bumped the surface of the platform harder than she would have liked. The blue-green tube of light enveloped Alan and his holographic twin appeared beside him on the dais, mirroring his supine form.
“Recording data. Machinutorus Bartholomew Alan Bergen presents in an unconscious, non-ambulatory state, demonstrating disruptions of multiple metabolic processes. Catabolysis. Hypohydration. Thirty-seven neurotoxic and hemotoxic metabolites detected in the lymphatic and cardiovascular systems. Is enumeration necessary?”
Jane’s brows drew together. “No. Continue.”
“Gross lacerations and trauma to lower left quadrant. Prognosis, with 95% confidence interval: level seven. Damage has reached near-irreversible levels. Prosthesis may become necessary. Recommendation: immediate Sanalabreus immersion for extensive detoxification, regeneration, nutritional supplementation.”
That was disappointing news. She’d hoped that he wasn’t as bad off as he looked—that he might just need a couple of injections and some light therapy and then he’d be ready to help her figure out what to do next. She indulged in a moment of hesitation, then moved forward to gather Alan up again. “Alan? Alan, wake up. I need to tell you something.”
Fluency Page 23
