The Down Home Zombie Blues

by Linnea Sinclair

  Finally he spoke, his voice bitter. “Kidnappers with a conscience. How nice. Go to hell, all of you.”

  She didn’t fully understand the first part of his remark. But she clearly understood the last. She raised her chin and met his hard stare evenly. “Been there. Twice.”

  “Go report to your captain.” His voice was a low soft growl.

  She backed up to the door and exited without comment, locking the door behind her. Herryck waited for her in the corridor. “Get a security team to transfer him to secure quarters,” she told the lieutenant as she holstered her pistol. “Stay here until they arrive.”

  “Problems, sir?”

  “He’s angry. And he’s security-trained and very capable of doing something about it.”

  “If he tries, sir?”

  She knew standard procedure as well as Herryck did. For all a battle cruiser’s tech and weaponry, it was still a fragile environment. No place for a nil with a grudge who had the skills to fire a G-I or micro-rifle but not the understanding of what that could do to an exterior bulkhead in the vacuum of space. If he managed to obtain a weapon, there’d be no choice but one. She knew that choice. And she wasn’t required to like it. “Hard-terminate, my authorization.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Good. She was glad somebody did, because as she’d issued the command, it weighed on her heart. Heavily. She spun on her heels and headed for the captain’s office.

  4

  “Good work, Commander Mikkalah. Regrettable loss of an agent, though.” Captain Pietr leaned back in his office chair and laced his hands over his stomach. His swarthy face was lined, though his tightly curled silver hair was still thick. He’d been in command of one Guardian ship or another since before Jorie was born.

  She had served under him her entire career with the Guardians. She respected him tremendously. On occasion, she even liked him. She wasn’t yet sure if this was one of those occasions.

  Petrakos probably thought of her as narrow, inflexible. Compared to Kort Pietr, she was wantonly lenient. The captain would never have risked losing the T-MOD to save one nil’s life. Zombies didn’t damage tech. She could have waited, let the zombie snack on Petrakos, then recovered the unit before the next zombie picked up its scent. What was one life when the data she brought back could save a million lives?

  “Thank you, sir.” She kept her shoulders back, her hands locked behind her waist, emotions tightly in check. “Agent Wain, like all of us, knew the risks. If shielding malfunctions and cannot be repaired, the T-MOD must be destroyed. Guardian Force Field Regulations, Section Twelve, Paragraph Three, Subsection A. Sir.”

  “Yet sometimes agents and trackers in the field ignore those very important regulations, Commander. They become enthralled with the hunt. They want to be the one to bag a powerful C-Prime. And they see an unshielded unit as bait.” He rocked his chair slightly, his eyes half-hooded. “They reinterpret those regulations to suit their needs. They take unnecessary risks. Sometimes it works in their favor. In Wain’s case, it didn’t. A lesson for all of us, surely.”

  Jorie wasn’t fooled for a moment, either by his posture or his words. Pietr was completely alert and by now had read everything she and her team had logged. He knew about Petrakos and might well consider her bringing the nil aboard unnecessary and in violation of not only field regulations but half a dozen Guardian Force general procedures as well. She chose, however, not to address that issue until he did. “An unshielded unit can spur a craving,” she recited. “Actions of zombies caught in a premature craving can be unpredictable. I would never attempt such a maneuver, sir.”

  Pietr nodded. Silence filled his large office, broken only by the occasional change in pitch of the air-ventilation system or the muted click as his deskcomp downloaded incoming messages from his staff.

  He arched his clasped hands, cracking his knuckles. “We have a nil on board, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Those half-hooded eyes studied her. “Tell me about him.”

  She did, careful in her phrasing, careful to make it clear recovery of the T-MOD had been her priority.

  “You could have terminated him.”

  “His presence, tied to the T-MOD at that point, was the zombie’s focus.” That wasn’t totally truthful, but there was no way the captain could know that. “It permitted me to engage the zombie. Had he not been there, the zombie would have come after me and the unit might still be unrecovered.”

  Pietr arched one silver eyebrow. “More likely it would simply have taken you a little longer to terminate the zombie.” He chuckled softly. “I don’t believe there’s a zombie out there that’s a match for the intrepid Commander Jorie Mikkalah.”

  That was because in the field the intrepid Commander Jorie Mikkalah often broke more rules than she followed. She just made sure no one was around to record her transgressions when she did. “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you. I can’t operate under those assumptions, however.”

  “So now we have this Sergeant…”

  “Petrakos, sir.”

  “…Petrakos on board. I’m sure you can arrange for his transport to Paroo at the proper time. Tell me, Mikkalah, are you going to attempt to connive me into sending his spouse and children with him as well?” His mouth curved into a wry grin.

  “He’s not spoused.”

  “That makes it clean and easy. I like that. I’m sure he’ll find Paroo a blissful experience.”

  Jorie hesitated. She could still see the bleak desolation on Petrakos’s very good face when she informed him he’d never return to his locale, his duty, that he was powerless over his life’s path. Such impotence took a harder toll on those used to the freedom of command. It had almost destroyed her once. Maybe that’s why his situation disconcerted her so much. “He’s not quite accepted relocation, sir.”

  “Fighting you on it, is he?” He shook his head. “Nils and their love of their planets.”

  “I think it’s his career as well, sir. He holds high rank in his locale’s security forces. He feels a duty to continue to protect his people.”

  “A worthy attribute. We can recommend he be placed in a similar function on Paroo.” That closed the matter. She could hear it in his voice. Relocation had been an effective Guardian policy for over two hundred years. Her job was not to question but to implement. Surely Petrakos would see that eventually.

  “Now tell me about this unusual—and unexpected—herd.” Pietr motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “And please sit down, Commander. I’ve reviewed your logs and Agent Wain’s. This is not going to be a short conversation.”

  She rather suspected that. Then the captain ordered food and ice water brought in, and Jorie logged the meeting as one of the occasions where she liked him.

  The bad news in Danjay’s data—aside from the fact that the Guardians still had no idea why the zombies had targeted the planet—was in the size of the herd: three hundred eleven drones. The good news was that there was still only one C-Prime and none of the drones showed signs of mutating into a second. But the larger the herd grew, the more chance one would mutate. They had to strike now, before that happened, while the C-Prime was still overburdened and increasingly distracted with its herd duties.

  One of the many questions Danjay’s data didn’t answer, however, was why the herd—which he’d dubbed a megaherd—had grown to such large proportions. The average zombie herd was fifty to seventy drones with one C-Prime. Up until now, the largest herd that had been recorded was one hundred seventy. Usually by that point, a second C-Prime mutated and the herd split, becoming adversaries and killing off the weaker drones, thereby reducing the herd.

  Termination of a fifty-zombie herd was just another day’s work for a Guardian team. Three hundred would take a little bit longer.

  “Before we terminate them, we do need to know how they managed to populate so quickly and not split,” Pietr said. “If this is a new mutation or resistance factor developing, it’s impera
tive we be able to adjust for that, as it may hold the key to why they’ve chosen this locale—and why they will choose others.”

  “You think the C-Prime may have learned how to expand its capabilities?”

  “I fear that, Commander. Our advantage has always been that, for all the zombie’s offensive and defensive factors, it is innately a stupid creature, unable to learn. The code—regulating its mental and physical growth—guaranteed that. A C-Prime with over three hundred drones should be incapacitated. This one’s not. It’s slowed down, but it’s functioning.”

  “I mentioned in my report on the Port Lraknal terminations that I observed what I thought to be intuitive behavior on the part of several zombies.” But intuitive enough to consciously choose a location that showed none of the requisite tech frequency emissions? The question puzzled her, as she knew it puzzled Pietr. Her job, however, was strictly zombie termination, not psychology. She was a soldier, not a scientist.

  Pietr was nodding. “That’s why I’m giving you command of this mission. I believe we’re at a critical juncture here.”

  He was giving her command? Jorie was one of the more experienced trackers on board, but still, Pietr’s words surprised her. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You may well damn me before this is over, Mikkalah. This is not the ideal setup. It’s a nil-tech world. We must operate completely covertly. Our agent, who could have provided us with not only a functional knowledge of the locale but a secure transport point for key personnel and tech, is dead. And we don’t have another three months to waste infiltrating the populace, getting another agent in place.”

  That meant more dark, stinking, humid alleys. And, given the conditions, a damned tactical headache. “Understood, sir.”

  Pietr leaned forward. “Let me throw this into the equation. How old are you, Commander?”

  Jorie tried not to frown. It never was a good idea to frown at one of Pietr’s questions, no matter how digressive they seemed at the moment. “Thirty-nine, sir.”

  “Would you like to make the rank of captain before you turn forty?”

  She sat very still. Would she like to make captain? Did a graknox like to roll in the mud? Did a fermarl like to copulate in liaso hedges?

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pietr held up his index finger. “Find out how this herd managed to get so large without fracturing.” He held up a second finger. “And then terminate it. Every one. And that captaincy will be yours.”

  So. All she had to do was ascertain why zombies were now capable of actions that were scientifically impossible and then conduct a ground war with small, less-than-optimally equipped teams in a nil-tech locale where the populace more than likely would consider those same Guardians their enemy. Definitely a tactical headache if she ever saw one.

  But the bliss, oh, the bliss, if she pulled it off!

  Theo sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Anger, frustration, and exhaustion vied for control of his body. After twenty minutes of prying and poking into every corner of the cabin and moving what furniture wasn’t bolted to the floor, he was unable to find any means of escape. Three armed guards and that curly-haired woman who seemed to be Mikkalah’s subordinate had escorted him here, produced a tray of food from a dispenser set into the far wall, and left. He had no doubt that at least one of those guards was still outside his door. He could take one on, probably. Two would be difficult, but he was more than willing to make the effort, if he could just get the damned door open!

  But he couldn’t get the damned door open. And he couldn’t find any other way out of the cabin. Which was, if he was in the mood to admit it, actually nicer than the room he’d stayed in at that new Holiday Inn Express in the Keys last year.

  He rubbed his eyes. He had a raging headache. He was hungry. There was a tray and a pitcher of water waiting for him on the small table. He didn’t know if those yellow apple-looking things really were apples. Or what the pale mushy stuff in the covered container was.

  And he was too spent to cross the short distance to the table to find out. It was almost three in the morning, his body’s time. So he sat, damning himself for walking out of his back door without his gun.

  That would have changed things. He wasn’t totally sure how or why, with his mind fuzzy and aching. He just knew it had been a stupid bonehead mistake a seasoned cop like himself should never have made.

  Ta ekanes skata. In the back of his mind, he could hear his Uncle Stavros telling him that he’d screwed up.

  His second mistake was not using Mikkalah’s own weapon on her, just before she’d sent them up to her ship. But he hadn’t perceived her as the enemy then. He’d just wanted answers. He didn’t want to hurt her, let alone kill her.

  He wasn’t even sure he could kill her now. He’d seen a zombie. He understood, with sickening clarity, what she had to do and why. But if the opportunity came…well, it would feel mighty good to give it a try. That he was physically capable of overpowering her he had no doubt. But he’d have to catch her off guard first, and that was no easy thing to accomplish. Her training was impressive. Maybe she had eyes in the back of her head. Hell, she was an alien. She probably did. She was probably as bad as those zombies she hunted….

  All women, he decided sagely as he rubbed at a knot between his brows, were zombies. Especially the beautiful ones. Like Camille. Like this Jorie Mikkalah. They show up in your life, bite your head, suck your brains out, and leave nothing behind but a withered corpse. Then your friends gather around and stare down at you and wonder why your eyeballs are so nice and moist.

  Except his friends wouldn’t have his corpse to stare at. They’d look and look and never know what had happened to him. It had to be a horrible feeling, that not knowing. He’d seen it destroy families in missing-persons cases.

  Thank God his parents weren’t alive. This would kill them. And he wouldn’t even be dead with them so he could explain he was really on Paroo, eating brains with some zombies named—

  “Petrakos.”

  Light shafted over his eyelids. Noise reached his ears. He blinked, realized he was flat on his back on a soft bed. He didn’t recognize the matte-gray ceiling. He didn’t recognize the sounds in the room, an intermittent muted clicking, a hushed rush of air. Where…?

  “Petrakos.” A woman’s voice. That woman’s voice. That he recognized.

  Skata. Shit. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, ran through more curses in Greek that would have impressed even crusty Uncle Stavros, then levered himself up on his elbows. He must have passed out. His gorgeous alien commander stood poised in the open doorway. He could see two of the three guards behind her.

  Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair brushed to a shine. The shorts and odd one-sleeved shirt had been replaced with a green-and-black jumpsuit. And only one gun now, hanging from a duty belt ringing her hips. She stepped in, but the door stayed open. He noted with some small satisfaction that she kept a hand on the gun. If she didn’t fear him, she was at least cautious. Good, he decided as twinges of anger surfaced again. Be cautious.

  “You didn’t eat.” She motioned to his untouched tray.

  He let his gaze move around the room, touch on the overturned chairs at the small dining table, the sofa cushions in disarray, the storage doors hanging open. “I was busy.”

  “Foolish. You will stress yourself.”

  He snorted and sat up. “Being kidnapped isn’t stress?”

  She picked up a slice of the apple thing, bit into it. He heard the crunch. “Good. Try?”

  “No.” He glanced at his watch. Five-thirty. He’d been out cold for about two hours. He felt as if he could sleep two hundred more, but at least the headache was gone. Sleep deprivation had always been part of his job.

  So were certain routines. He knew that around three in the afternoon, someone from the cyber squad would check the BVPD evidence room and find no laptop. People would start looking for him, a cop last seen at the site of a homicide. Now missing.
He knew exactly what emergency measures would be taken to find him, and it pained him. Because unless they launched the space shuttle, they wouldn’t work.

  Unless he took measures of his own.

  “I brought a thing for you to see.” She took two steps toward him.

  Adrenaline flashed through his body. Guards be damned, he could take her down. Right now. The hand on the gun had moved to a pouch on her belt. She was only a few feet in front of him, pushing the last of that apple thing into that beautiful mouth of hers.

  One swift move would do it. Knock her to the floor, restrain her hands, grab her gun while the weight of his body pinned her underneath him. She’d fight, squirm, press up against him, her hips grinding against his…

  “You want?” She tilted her head.

  Panagia mou! Oh, Mother of God! Heat flooded him. His breath shuddered out. Yeah, he wanted, all right. But they were talking about two different things.

  She had a square disk—about the size of his Palm Pilot—in her hand. He watched her squeeze its corners, and suddenly the flat disk became a cube. Colors, images, swirled on all four surfaces.

  He should stand up, take it, but then she’d know what he wanted, and it wasn’t whatever the damned cube was.

  He braced one hand against his thigh, wiped his face with the other. Christ, I’m losing my mind. He had to keep emotions out of this. He had to think like a cop.

  He blanked his expression, forced himself to look at the cube. “What is it?” Better to focus on that than on the delusional fantasies that sprang into his mind every time she came near him.

  “Holographs. You know this word?”

  “Photos. Images.”

  She nodded. “I thought perhaps if you see, you’ll understand it isn’t…” and then a word he didn’t know.

  “Isn’t what?” How could two languages be so alike and so different? One more thing to tax his sanity.

  “Not without a choice for you. Not all bad.” She paused. “Believe me.”