by Chad Huskins
Also, everything is upside down.
“It’s…about what you described,” Rook finally answers.
“Does the area look dangerous?”
He starts to answer, then feels the world shift. The graviton tide causes everything in the room to slide a few inches to the left. All the furniture and random debris move slowly, as if pushed along by a lazy ghost. It feels like the floor tilts just slightly beneath him. His HUD indicates gravity has increased to 2.4 g’s. “Furniture and other items look destroyed, there’s debris that could make the going precarious, but the room seems stable.”
“Do you see the stairwell?”
Rook pans around, his helmet light revealing more of the room. His light shines on a thin line of dust falling from the floor overhead—Might as well start thinking of that as the ceiling, he thinks—and beyond it is a wide-open Ianeth-sized doorway. “Affirmative. Stairwell twenty meters ahead, exactly where you said. Door’s open and there’s no barricade or blocking debris. Performing scan.”
A few taps on his wrist computer, and it pulls up scanning selections. Rook runs the gamut of scans, from infrared to EM. No thermal readings, but there is some serious electromagnetic feedback, as well as some scant biological signs, including organisteel. Undead aliens, he thinks, shaking his head because he never thought he’d live to see the day. He switches off his lights and sets his visor to night-vision.
“Proceeding to stairwell.”
Rook moves slowly across the room. The doorway, unfortunately, wasn’t designed to go all the way from the floor to the ceiling. He has to dial up the power to the Stacksuit, then lets his rifle hang from his side before he preps for a jump up to what was once the top of the doorframe, then crawls over and lands on the ceiling—Floor, he reminds himself—on the other side.
He uses sonar to map out the stairwell. He picks his way around more furniture and steps into a corridor with dimensions that fight with his brain. It is wide and expansive, yet it has a set of stairs immediately to his left, one that is, of course, above him. Except for being upside-down, the stairs look almost of human design, just a little rounded, almost like large pull-up bars. The stairwell is a spiral, a little strangely-shaped but more or less what one would expect.
He thinks about climbing up to the stairs using the same magnetic grips in his hands that helped him cling to the exterior wall, but in here the walls aren’t made of steel—here, they are ornate marble walls. He has a tactical drill in his utility belt, and he gives thought to drilling into the walls to give himself some handholds and footholds, but a scan shows that their density is enough that drilling into them would take some time.
Time isn’t something Rook has a lot of. Looking at his HUD, he sees that he has maybe two hours’ worth of oxygen before he starts rebreathing spent air.
Rook looks down at his wrist computer. He taps a few keys and his HUD gives him the state of his Stacksuit. His eyes range over the display as he makes sure the suit is ready to get started with some heavy-duty work.
This gives a whole new meaning to “climbing stairs,” he thinks, checking his HUD for the graviton tide’s readings—he is now in a stream running 2.9 g’s. Rook readies himself for a climb. Just as he does, gravity increases to 3.1. “Jesus, this is gonna be tougher than I thought. I hope like hell I can—”
Suddenly, music in his ears. It’s not coming from his helmet, but from over the comm channel. A hard guitar and drums start it off. BOMP! Bomp-bomp-bomp! Bomp-bomp-bomp! Bomp-bomp-bommmmmmm!
Rook makes a face to himself. “What the hell? Did you cue that up on purpose?”
“You seem to like music.
“’Course I like music, everybody likes music. Don’t you guys have it?”
“Yes, but it seems to be a motivating ritual for you. I have subroutines dedicated to understanding you. This one seemed most appropriate for several reasons.”
Yeah, well, the gulf between what you and I feel is appropriate could swallow the Pacific Coast. If it’s still there. Yet the selection was right on. Once again, Rook considered that the Ianeth might well be learning faster than he was letting on.
Now, Rook positions himself against one wall, facing up at the stairs. He bends his knees, dials the Stacksuit’s power up to maximum, and waits. A red bar is climbing in his periphery, and when it reaches the top it turns green and a chime goes off. He jumps, and for a terrible second Rook thinks he isn’t going to make it, but his right hand barely clutches the rounded step and the glove grips hard enough to hold on.
“Risin’ up, back on the street,
Did my time, took my chances;
Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet,
Just a man, and his will to survive”
Grunting, Rook performs an agonizing pull-up, then reaches for the next step, and the next, and the next. He is able to brace his feet against the lower steps and climb the stairs, hand over hand, foot in front of foot, until he reaches the next landing, preps himself for another jump, and then leaps. Again, grunting and tugging, feeling the slight swaying of the graviton tide as he does so, constantly pushing and pulling and bullying him.
“So many times, it happens too fast,
You trade your passion for glory;
Don’t lose your grip on the dreams of the past,
You must fight just to keep them alive!”
Gritting his teeth, pulling, slipping and regaining himself.
“It’s the Eye of the Tiger,
It’s the thrill of the fight;
Rising up to the challenge of our rival;
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night,
And he’s watching us all with the Eyyyyyye…
…of the Tiger!”
Once on the ninth floor, Rook stops and scans for any biological signs, finds only scant readings. Then he checks for movement. Sonar catches none. Alright, then. Keep going.
Puts his hands beside each other, pulls his feet up and hangs like a monkey before performing a dynamo jump. Up another flight of stairs. No signs of life, no sign that anyone ever lived here in the last hundred years. Then up another flight. He is starting to sweat—much of the effort isn’t just the Stacksuit’s, it is his. The fans are working a little extra to keep him cool. A bead of sweat makes it into his eye and when he blinks and jerks his head, he loses his grip and falls back to the previous floor’s landing. “Stupid!” he chastises. “Get it together!” Another leap, another climb, hand over hand, foot in front of foot.
“It’s the Eye of the Tiger,
It’s the thrill of the fight;
Rising up to the challenge of our rival;
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night”
Up another flight. At the sixth floor, he stands and pants, gathers himself for the next climb. He checks the graviton tide—he is now in a stream running 3.6 g’s! It is taxing on both him and the Stacksuit. He’s already feeling a little lightheaded, and worries about the stream reaching the dreaded 4.0 g’s, when his body would no longer be able to pump adequate blood to his brain.
Rook starts towards the wall, preps himself for another jump…when his blood suddenly goes cold. There, not a few feet away, slumped against the wall, is a figure that looks vaguely humanoid, a statue of sorts, cracked into several pieces. It is a large body with a small head sitting at the top of a long, stalk-like neck. The body has been frozen and shattered, exactly like those in the catacombs. Rook looks at the lower half, at the bird-like feet…
Rook remembers to leap backwards, and is just in time. Its hand suddenly reaches out to him, fast and exact, like Bishop’s insectile movements. Rook hits the wall and brings his rifle up to bear, only to watch the near-fossilized Ianeth’s arm crack and crumble to the floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. The body slumps, goes through spasms.
Rook looks up at the face. Doesn’t look exactly like Bishop, does it? Another race of Ianeth, I guess? Like Caucasoids and Mongoloids?
Bishop said there w
as enough time for worldwide evacuation, but he also estimated that not everyone made it. He was right.
All at once, Rook imagines the moment. What must it have been like when it happened? The screaming. The confusion. Anyone who didn’t get out in time “falling” into the sky and reaching “up” at the earth, the fear so great…it must’ve felt like a betrayal of the planet. A betrayal of physics. A betrayal of their own defenses.
The Cerebs pulverized the planet, damaged the generators, sent them out of control and turned the Ianeth’s greatest asset into their downfall. They don’t miss a trick, those Cerebs.
Another brutal climb. His muscles are now quivering, nearing exhaustion from the sustained effort. He performs one more dynamo jump.
In his ear, Survivor is wrapping up:
“Risin’ up, straight to the top,
Had the guts, got the glory;
Went the distance, now I’m not gonna stop,
Just a man, and his will to survive!
It’s the Eye of the Tiger…”
“Status,” calls Bishop.
Grunting, he pulls himself onto the fifth-level landing. “On the fifth level now.” Rook takes a moment, steadies his breath, checks his oxygen reserve and the graviton tide, which has shifted again. He starts to move, feels a little woozy and staggers towards a wall—the physical exertion and the 3.7 g’s are taking their toll. He pulls his Exciter up into ready-low. “At this rate, I got an hour of oxygen left.” He huffs. “Proceeding inside now.”
“What’s the stream you’re in looking like?”
Another check of his HUD. The tide is shifting, this time for the better; he can feel his body give out a sigh of relief as the load is lessened. “Dropping to 2.3 g’s.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got a bunch o’ fat kids are jumping on an’ off my shoulders.” The tide shifts again, and some of the ancient furniture scratches across the floor, and Rook tilts with the rest of the world. The random debris gently collects in a pile in the corner of the room. Gravity shifts so dramatically to one side that eventually he’s straddling the debris, walking along the V in the corner where the wall meets the floor. Then, suddenly, violently, the gravity intensifies to 2.6 while leaning slowly in the opposite direction. “Jesus!” Gravity now starts to trend straight out, more and more powerful, pressing him against the ceiling. He checks his gauge. The g’s are slowly climbing. Now 2.8. Now 2.9. Now 3.1. The pounds are being added to his shoulders and the Stacksuit struggles to compensate. Rook finds a wall, and braces himself. Now 3.3. Now 3.5. It’s climbed this high before, but he’s not as fresh as before. Now 3.8. Now 3.9. Now 4.0. Now 4.2.
Bones feeling denser, less like his. The Stacksuit can’t compensate enough. Compression of his spine causing some pain. Starting to get extremely dizzy now, even seeing spots in his vision. Drops to his knees, and is just about to call Bishop and tell him to put the Sidewinder on autopilot and come and conduct a rescue, when finally, thankfully, the g’s start to ease up. Now 3.8. Now 3.5. Sits down on his butt, collecting his breath. Then, all at once, he can hear Badger’s voice. Resting is dying, pilot!
“Yes, sir,” he grumbles, hauling himself back up. Dizzy as he is, resting in here might not be such a good idea. Too many dangers in here. If he passes out during a graviton spike, he might wake up pinned to a wall, low on oxygen, unable to breathe or call for any rescue. He needs to get the job done and get out—
Something has hold of his leg. Standing up, Rook leaps away, rips his leg free and aims his Exciter down at the thing. Another corpse! This one is less complete than the last, with its lower body missing, its upper body twitching, head bouncing side to side unnaturally, grotesquely. Missing its waist and below, the living shell of a creature is crawling along the floors with its hands, scraping and clawing, dragging frozen viscera behind it.
“Rook, I see a spike in your heart rate. Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, walking quickly around the husk, giving it a wide berth. “Just ran into a former resident.”
“Steer clear. There will be more of them.”
Rook carries on down the dark corridor, moving as quickly as he dares, panning his rifle left to right, right to left, the light revealing spherical offices. The doorways are great ovals. It occurs to him that the walls in the corridors are slightly concave, as are the floor and ceiling. Did the Ianeth people have a proclivity towards curved surfaces? Did it fit their physiologies and psychologies more aptly than the hard right angles human beings seemed to prefer? A question sometime for Bishop.
He steps over mounds of debris, and random pieces of hardware that look to have been left in mid-assembly when the people here fled. Reminds me of Chernobyl after the nuclear plant meltdown. In the middle of a routine day everybody just got up and got the hell out as fast as they could, and never came back.
“I’m on the east side of the building now,” he informs the alien. “Passing the offices you told me about.”
“Roger. You want to proceed to the end of the hall and take a left. About a hundred yards down you’ll come to another junction. Take a right. Second door on your left.”
“Copy that. Proceeding down the hall.” The halls are filled with junk that has been sliding back and forth, back and forth, obeying the graviton tide for centuries now, like the debris of some shipwreck on the ocean floor, endlessly carried this way and that, smashing into each other and creating piles of smaller fragments and dust. Some of this causes him to slip, which only adds to his struggle with the graviton tide.
Following the directions Bishop gave him, and the sonar scans on his HUD, Rook passes strange cable junctions, and some sort of generator the size of a microwave and which is emitting intense radiation levels. Rook checks the micropad strapped to his right forearm, reads the radiation levels:66,487 estimated mRem: 664estimated mSv. Jesus, that’s almost as much radiation as the discharged drive cores were giving off inside King Henry.
Rook finally comes to a wide-open, almost cathedral-like room. There are gigantic support pillars that are made of twisted alien steel, all of which has strange texts running along it in long, elegant lettering that is a series of swirling parallel lines with the occasional dots above them. “Bishop, Rook. I’m in the nest. You copy?”
“Copy that. The vault should be directly ahead of you. It might be hidden behind the pillars. Can you see it?”
Rook moves behind a pillar for cover, cranes his neck around. At the far end of the cathedral-room is a dusty steel door that looks big enough to guide a Brontosaurus through, and while the path up to it is treacherous with debris, it appears someone left the great door considerately un-barricaded—or else the debris all around it once served as a barricade. “I think I see it. Proceeding to door. Stand by.” He moves out of cover, hustles to the next pillar. As he goes, the writing on each pillar catches his attention. It strikes him how much it resembles Arabic. It makes him recall very briefly Bishop’s strange exercise, the one that looks so much like push-ups…
…and for a moment, he wonders at just how much all species of sentient life appears to be so similar. Such universality, despite the many differences, he thinks. Perhaps it’s like star formations. The laws of physics make it so stars may look different, but they’re really made only one way, and they all behave the same at each stage of their lives. This spurs another inviting thought, and it concerns the principle of four. Maybe that’s not so strange a concept, when you think about. After all, back on Earth, the Pythagoreans believed in the power of four, and they also believed—
Rook is interrupted from developing that thought further when sonar warns him of movement. Off to his right. Approaching fast. Rook turns to look, and just in time. Twenty feet away and approaching fast, an Ianeth the size of Bishop is running towards him, swaying in the graviton tide, slipping in the debris and smashing clumsily into every pillar along the way.
“Contact!” he shouts.
Rook takes aim. He got Bishop’s
blessing to fire on his dead comrades, so he fires. The particle beam slices through the Ianeth, but the behemoth just keeps coming.
Ianeth are notoriously hard to kill, Bishop has told him repeatedly, and on that he wasn’t being deceptive. It takes two more shots, the last one finally hitting the head, just where Bishop instructed him. The husk suddenly goes lifeless, and falls limply to the ground. Right to the head. Just like zombies. Alien zombies. He chuckles, shaking his head in wonderment.
Humor dies fast, because now he’s got multiple signals. Rook looks at his HUD, sees a swell of activity all around, some of them large, some of them small, some from upstairs and some from below. And they’re closing fast.
“Husk is neutralized, but I’ve got more movement all around me.”
“The light from your Exciter may have attracted a few down the hall.”
“I thought you said they were only activated by facial-recognition!”
“I never said only.”
“So you just neglected to tell me?! How the hell did your people get so far along with the constant deception play like this?!”
“How did your people get so far without it?” the alien counters.
Rook bites back a curse. Moving in a low crouch with his rifle up and aimed all around, he takes cover behind a pillar, peeks around. Night-vision paints the cathedral-room in monochromatic green. He spies a lumbering husk at the far end of the room, and it appears to be missing a foot, but is still limping along with purpose, coming straight for him with that huge and permanent Ianeth smile. The graviton tide lurches one way, and the Ianeth slams into the far wall as Rook is forced sliding out of cover.
