Archangel

by Scott Harrison

  And so, Malcus had pretended to be delighted whenever his father had returned home, announcing that he had arranged passage for the three of them on a cargo-hauler the following day, to take them out to the Callidus system.

  Malcus had hated the cargo-haulers too: the way they creaked and groaned with every movement, the way the deck-plates would vibrate and shift beneath his feet whenever they made planetfall, but most of all he had hated the smell. That stomach-churning mix of sweat and machine oil and rotting flesh. The shipyards were no better.

  So little has changed over the years, Malcus thought.

  These memories came back to him as he rode the lift up to the dry dock, where the Stinger prototype was waiting to be connected up to the advanced mutoid-thing… Wait, what were they calling them now?

  He glanced down at the small electronic device in his hand and scanned the project manifest again. Archangels. That was it, that was what the test subjects were being referred to now: Archangels.

  Calling it the Advanced Mutoid Programme had proved unpopular, particularly with the grunts in Space Command. They’d taken to nicknaming it The Freakshow. It had started out as a joke amongst the officers in the mess halls, but it wasn’t long before they were openly referring to it as such in official communiqués. Very soon the upper echelons of Space Command had become involved, and an order came down from Space Commander Velkin himself, stating that he personally would discipline anyone caught using the name in public, either in conversation or over an official Federation communications frequency. Not long after that the name was changed to Project Archangel.

  Malcus scrolled down through the information until he found the details he required:

  Name—Sheya Tobin

  Designation—Test Subject: Two (of Seven)

  Codename—Raphael

  Sex—Male

  Age—Twenty-Four (24)

  Birthplace—Gamma Aquilus II (Alpha Colony)

  And that was all the information there was on the subject. Malcus cycled through the attached folders, looking for the background notes, but there was no more. He typed in ‘Additional Information’ and thumbed the search button. No results. He tried altering the search pattern a little, cross-referencing it with the Archangel tab, still nothing.

  By the time he’d reached the dry dock platform, 15 minutes later, he’d given up on the data search altogether; the electronic device had been returned to his overall pocket and he was flicking idly through the day’s itinerary instead.

  Beran was waiting for him at the other end of the walkway, dabbing at his face and neck with a handkerchief, his bald pate glowing wetly in the bone-white glare of the arc lamps that hung from the ceiling. The little man shuffled towards Malcus, a mixture of relief and annoyance wrestling for control of his features.

  ‘You’re late,’ he squeaked. ‘The Advancement is already here. They smuggled it through the side airlock an hour ago.’

  Malcus tapped his overall pocket, indicating the small electronic device housed within. ‘Archangel.’

  ‘Eh?’ Beran’s head jerked around. He peered distrustfully up at his companion. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Memo from the Presidential Office.’ Malcus raised an eyebrow at the little man. ‘We don’t call them Advancements anymore. Or Freaks, Advanced Mutoids, Constructs or Augments, come to that. They’re called Archangels now.’

  Colour suddenly sprang to Beran’s cheeks and the handkerchief appeared once more, fluttering across his throat and chin. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since two days ago,’ Malcus told him. ‘You really must check your info-feed more often.’

  In answer Beran pointed across the dry dock to where the prototype was berthed. ‘I don’t have time for that nonsense, I’ve been too busy.’

  The ship took Malcus by surprise. He’d thought he’d known what it was going to look like—he’d seen the original 3D schematics and approved most of the upgrades—but he had no idea that it would look so…powerful.

  For a start they’d built up the aft section—obviously to allow the experimental drive system to be grafted into the existing engine housing—but with the new tail fins and the venting grills there was virtually nothing recognisable left of the original Type 1 pursuit ship chassis. And with the new weapon system they’d placed at the front, just below the fuselage, the thing reminded him of some vicious, powerfully-built creature—an ugly great leviathan from the darkest depths of the ocean. It was a fanciful image, but one that disturbed Malcus nevertheless.

  ‘Looks to me like they’ve modified the tail section a little from the original blueprints,’ Malcus said, a little stunned. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at that thing before proceedings get underway.’

  Beran shook his head. ‘No time for that now. You’re an hour late as it is and I’ve delayed them for as long as I can. You’ll have to wait until after the demonstration.’ He shrugged, then added as an afterthought, ‘It’s your own fault. I told you to get here on time, didn’t I?’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Malcus flapped a hand at the little man, as though he were some kind of irritating insect buzzing around him. ‘A little less of the “I told you so” if you don’t mind. Let’s go and get ourselves front row seats, shall we?’

  Malcus smiled as his old friend scuttled off across the dry dock, muttering miserably beneath his breath. He took one last look at the Stinger, the smile slipping slowly from his face, then he turned and headed after Beran.

  *

  The observation lounge was virtually empty when they arrived, so they chose a couple of seats at the front, away from the small gathering of admin types who were collecting along the back row. One of them caught Malcus’s eye as he wandered down the aisle, offering him a brisk but pleasant nod, before turning back to the conversation.

  Desk pilots from the Presidential Office, Malcus thought, eyeing their crisp, unblemished white tunics and soft, well-manicured hands with obvious distaste. Probably the first time they’ve ventured outside the Terran system.

  Malcus noted that the observation lounge was actually a basic MK III box-kit with two, tall cantilever legs bolted on, in order to raise it further above the platform. The engineers had shoved it untidily up against the wall, at the very edge of the platform, probably so that it could overlook the main testing area without getting in the way too much.

  On the platform below, the technical crew were starting to assemble, prompting Malcus to lean forward and power up the communication panel.

  ‘I do hope they haven’t given the job of moderator to that fool Sherma again,’ Malcus said. ‘He made such a hash of things last time.’

  Beran sniffed noisily, rubbing at his nose with the handkerchief as he peered around the observation lounge. ‘It’ll either be him or Moola the Mumbler. I can never understand a damn word that idiot utters.’

  In a matter of minutes, the seats around them had begun to fill up. A group of five officials from the Administration Committee joined them on the front row, prompting the two men to shuffle along a bit until there was enough room for the small party to be seated.

  Malcus settled himself into the new seat, surreptitiously glancing sideways at the newcomers, careful not to make it too obvious that he was looking at them. After a moment or two he leant casually on the arm of his chair, inclining his head until his mouth was near Beran’s ear.

  ‘Be on your best behaviour, Beran, my old friend,’ he whispered. ‘If I’m not mistaken that’s Councillor Alexei sitting at the end of our row.’

  Beran’s eyes widened then began to twitch wildly, as though he were trying to stop himself from glancing over.

  ‘You never told me that the President would be sending his number one adviser to this little party,’ Malcus said. ‘Shame on you, Beran. If I’d have known she was coming then I would have probably arrived on this miserable junk pile on time.’

  ‘I never took you for a brown nose, Malcus,’ Beran hissed from the side of his mouth.

&nbs
p; When everything was ready they brought the Archangel out onto the platform, escorted between two armed troopers. Several people sitting in the observation lounge actually gasped, and Malcus found himself unconsciously leaning forward in his seat, as though this would somehow afford him a better view of the upgraded human.

  To his left a voice said, ‘It doesn’t look much like a mutoid to me.’

  It belonged to Councillor Alexei. Malcus noticed that she too was leaning expectantly on the edge of her seat, her gloved hands gripping the support railing in front of her a little too tightly. A number of people murmured their agreement, but none dared speak nor look away from the scene that was unfolding on the platform below. And for a while there was a long, heavy silence.

  The Archangel had been brought forward then manoeuvred around to the starboard side of the ship where it was met by two of the technical crew. Malcus couldn’t help but notice that the two men were wearing protective masks that covered their mouths and noses.

  It took a little time for them to connect up the Archangel, strapping it securely into the Stinger’s modified cockpit, and by the time they emerged back out onto the platform the small gathering of scientists and Administration officials collected inside the observation lounge was beginning to grow impatient.

  One of the technicians gave a thumbs-up and both men trotted off across the dry dock in the direction of the control tower. As soon as they were clear, the Stinger’s engines roared into life and the undercarriage began to slowly inch its way off the ground, the air beneath its takeoff vents rippling as though someone had dipped a finger into a puddle of rainwater.

  Malcus knew that something was wrong almost immediately, even when others around him started to applaud. It wasn’t anything he could have put his finger on, not at first. All he knew was that the craft was holding itself all wrong.

  The ship was circling slowly as though it was looking for something, swinging its nose around in an arc, until it finally came to rest facing the large, panoramic window of the observation lounge. From here, Malcus could clearly see the pilot through the craft’s reinforced plexi-glass window, could see its white, featureless eyes staring out in his direction.

  The Archangel was looking at him, directly at him, Malcus was sure of it; goose bumps crept suddenly up his spine, reaching out for the nape of his neck. Why had no-one else noticed this? He glanced about him, turning his head this way and that, but everyone else seemed relaxed; some were even beginning to chat amongst themselves as though they had already lost interest in the demonstration.

  So when the Stinger Class assault ship suddenly flicked on its retro-burners and hurtled towards the observation lounge at a little under Time Distort Three absolutely no-one was expecting it—except, maybe, for Senior Technician Malcus.

  The resulting explosion completely obliterated the dry dock, killing everyone instantly, and fracturing the support-struts on the west wing of Shipyard B. Fires spread along the structure, destroying thirty-four transporters and killing more than five hundred men and women.

  News of the disaster was suppressed by the High Council and the Callidus shipyards were abandoned for good—something that would have pleased Malcus no end, had he lived.

  It was reported that all personnel had died in a civil transporter crash on their way back to the Terran system. The footage of the blazing wreckage shown on the vid-casts was of the passenger ship Rohilla, which had crashed shipping families out to the new colonies eight years earlier, but no one noticed.

  Four days later, project Archangel was shut down and all files referring to it removed from central archives.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jenna had no idea how long the signal would be active for; it really all depended on whether the transmitter array could cope with the high volume of power. The problem was, there was no way for her to test it. If she was to try, and the array blew during the trial run, then it’d take the three of them another two hours just to fit a new set of breakers.

  ‘We’ve retuned the ship’s onboard distress beacon so that it now transmits at the same frequency as the device buried in Kodyn’s chest. Some of the pulse settings are a little out, but it should be near enough to convince the pursuit ships that it’s the original transmitter signal,’ Jenna explained. ‘The only problem is, we can’t alter the ship’s ID tag. Every time we try to access the transponder codes the computer thinks it’s being attacked and shuts down. So we’ve had to think around the problem.’

  Blake didn’t seem to be comforted by her words. ‘I’m sure you’ve done your best,’ he said, with a frown.

  ‘It’s far from perfect, I’m afraid, but it’s the only way we’ve found of masking the transponder signal,’ Jenna said.

  ‘If the Federation ships pick up the new transponder ID they’ll assume that Kodyn has jumped ship at the Dionysus,’ said Avon. ‘Then they’d start scanning the sector for the Liberator’s energy signature and we’d be back to square one.’

  ‘But if we boost the distress beacon’s signal until its power output is so great that it blankets all other transmissions…’ Jenna shrugged. ‘There’s a good chance that they’ll think they’re still following Kodyn’s signal aboard the Liberator.’

  It wasn’t quite the foolproof plan that Blake had hoped for, but it might still work. ‘Is there a possibility that they could still identify the craft’s transponder codes?’

  Avon nodded slowly. ‘It will take them a while to isolate the relevant pulse beneath all the confusion, but it could be done.’

  ‘By then we’ll be long gone and our energy trail should have dissipated,’ said Jenna. ‘At least, that’s the theory.’

  As they spoke Jenna had been cycling up the shuttlepod’s engines while disconnecting all superfluous systems from the main power grid, including life support—the hope being that the less power feeding off the ship’s grid, the less chance the array had of overloading immediately and giving the game away.

  She punched the new co-ordinates into the autodrive systems and programmed the engines to fire in two minutes. Admittedly Jenna would have been happier had they been given a little more time to get clear of the landing pad, but two minutes was the maximum time offered by the booster controls—they’d just have to make do.

  Jenna ushered Blake and Avon out of the cramped shuttlepod interior and down onto the landing pad, ducking under the craft’s blunt, stubby nosecone as they ran back across the hanger bay towards the flight control station. Behind them the whining roar of the take-off jets was reaching an almost unbearable pitch, prompting them to quicken their pace as they covered the remaining few yards to the sanctuary of the control station.

  They just made it inside as the huge metal doors on the far side of the hanger began to spiral slowly open, revealing cold, starless space beyond. The shuttlepod was starting to rotate now, its retros spinning around in their direction as the craft quickly aligned itself with the hanger doors.

  They watched the small craft as it taxied steadily across the deck and disappeared out into the darkness. For a while the afterburn from the shuttlepod’s retros was like a bright, burning star against the black, then it banked sharply to starboard and vanished.

  ‘This had better work, Blake, or I’m going to have every Federation assault trooper in the sector suddenly descending on this platform,’ Tobin said.

  ‘It’ll work, trust me,’ Blake told him, but Jenna caught the brief troubled look that accompanied his words.

  ‘This place is supposed to be neutral,’ Tobin whined, obviously noticing the look too. ‘The Federation leave us alone on the understanding that we don’t get involved.’

  It was a damn stupid thing to say, and Jenna could tell that Tobin knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth. Colour sprang to his cheeks and he dropped his eyes to the floor.

  ‘I had no choice in what I did before, I told you that. I’ve come clean with you about what happened and now I just want to be left out of this.’

  Behind him A
von said, ‘You’re deluding yourself if you believe that you can stay out of this.’

  Blake thumbed the communication button on his teleport bracelet. ‘Liberator, this is Blake. We’re ready to come aboard.’ He severed the connection quickly, then glanced across at Tobin. ‘Avon’s right, sooner or later you’re going to have to make a choice. I hope you make the right one, my old friend.’

  And then Blake and his friends were gone, leaving Tobin to his thoughts.

  *

  ‘Do you trust him?’ Avon asked, once they were back on board the Liberator.

  ‘No,.’ Blake admitted, sadly. ‘There’s something he’s still not telling us. Perhaps Travis still has a hold over him.’ He thought about it for a moment, before adding, ‘But it makes no difference, we’re still going to the Callidus system.’

  ‘Why?’ Jenna asked, in surprise.

  ‘Because I don’t think Travis is the one trying to restart Project Archangel,’ Blake said. ‘I don’t think he knows much about it, he was just using it as bait to get us to Sigma Minor so he could get his hands on the Liberator.’ He paused. ‘But I’m positive that Archangel is real and that someone is trying to restart it. And we can’t afford to let that happen. I think we’ll find whoever it is there at the Callidus system. I’m willing to stake my life on it.’

  ‘The question is are we willing to stake our lives on it?’ Avon asked him coldly.

  ‘What about Kodyn?’ asked Jenna.

  ‘I think we’ve got everything we’re going to get from him.’ said Blake. ‘He needs time to rest, to recuperate. He’s not going to get that where we’re going. We’ll have to leave him here.’

  *

  When the doctor returned to the medical suite later in the day, the medibot was out of its charging unit and flopping helplessly on the floor in the corner of the room, obviously in some distress.

  He pulled the remote control device from his pocket and clicked the recall button.

  In response the medibot emitted an abrupt string of high-pitched chirrups, but other than that there was no change in the machine’s behaviour. The doctor thumbed the button half a dozen more times in rapid succession but still it did no good.