The distortion became inhuman on the next new face: an infant; painfully gaping mouth and bug-eyes contrasted by wispy, soft brown hair covering the scalp.
Its head was larger for an instant in glaring disproportion, and then shriveled in a spasm as if air had been let from a balloon. With this paroxysm, a tiny, shrunken body drifted out of the overlarge opening of the man’s shirt collar and a small, infantile cry issued from the throat of the desiccated human.
In a few more microseconds, the bizarre changes accelerated the transformation from newborn to pre-birth, stopping at roughly six months of fetal development. The rapid changes ceased as the withered, hunched fetus of the victim somersaulted slowly in an arc, clothing and boots floating around it, sucked dry of its life force.
All of this had taken little more than six seconds. With the final squeal and fetal-shift, the stunned pirates exploded into action, shouting in several different native tongues. One of the criminals fired more shots at Comani as he continued to rise into the confines of the pirate vessel. This also did him no damage. A staccato of energy bursts sounded below as the bolts continued into his ship destroying controls and equipment.
Whatever had taken control of his body seemed also to be in control of a time-effect that surrounded it. Comani’s earlier water experiment suggested such a field, which appeared to stall or reroute the energy bolts.
It was not a question that he was able to consider. His attention went instead with his body and his eyes, as he stepped onto the deck. His gecko-booted feet were walked, each step awkward, toward the back of one of the fleeing men. Several of them had chosen the same exit—one of the undersized bulkhead doors. The two in front were beating each other with gun butts and fists as they fought to squeeze through the hatch. The closest pirate was blocked from escape.
Fred’s hand reached out. Too late for this one. With a touch, this criminal, a killer now possessed by a terror for his life, underwent change upon change. Reduced to adolescence and innocence, then child, infant, and finally to a stillborn fetus.
And on it went. The ship was a small one; there was a crew of eight. The last man was tracked down and cornered, firing energy bolts wildly without regard for damage to the ship.
Exhausted and trapped, Comani teetered on the edge of sanity. Then something changed. A slow shift in his perception built rapidly. He was thrust forward even as his point of view said he stood still. And suddenly he was ripped apart. The entire front of his body, his flesh, was torn forward, ripping him away from his bones. Mind-warping pain exploded through every nerve. His hands and arms came up automatically in a hugging motion, his head tilted back in a hoarse scream that was loud in his ears. As his hands grasped each opposite arm, it felt… simply normal. It was not bloody wet. Not even painful—and he was in control of his body once more. All at once, he was himself. His predicament had changed in a literal blink.
Comani’s mind slammed into fast-time analysis as a saturation of adrenaline hit his brain. The doctor knew, with every fiber, that his survival depended on his ability to ignore any confusion, analyzing the next move to make.
Where was his former possessor? Looking towards the last pirate, he saw that the man had paused… no, it was a woman, her dirty, androgynous face obscured by greasy ropes of hair. She stared back at him, having mistaken Fred’s outcry and stagger as a direct hit from her gun.
As he watched, a new look overtook the woman’s face, the life seeming to drain from her eyes. Comani guessed his new danger immediately. He arched backwards and spun around in the same motion, and leaned into a zero-gravity sprint away from the pirate behind him, now possessed by whatever it was that had released him seconds before.
Moving and accelerating his body with some difficulty in the absent gravity, he careened off out-of-place bulkheads, dodging through hatches, searching. It must be here. Sì! As he swung through a passage, he saw what he had hoped would be there. Of two escape pods, one remained and was three meters dead ahead.
Fred gripped the metalwork of the doorway edge and pulled his body into a lurching flight, quickly crossing the two meters of a makeshift galley. His palms slapped against the final bulwark, one hand hammered down on the hatch-release button as he halted abruptly.
The response of the hatch seemed glacial. È troppo lentamente! A hiss, and as the hatch began opening, he jammed his body into the gap, forcing his way through. In the cramped space, he swung one hundred eighty degrees to smash down into the crash web.
The web closed over him, and with one hand, he slapped the fastenings; with the other, he reached for the hatch-close/launch button glowing bright red, and protected under a clear cover. The corner of his eye caught movement through the hatchway.
Fumbling, his attention being pulled to that movement, he missed the spring-latch release on the button cover. The movement quickened and drew closer. Panicking, Comani pounded on the cover, cracking it, but not enough to get to the button. In a whipping glance, he found that the pirate-thing was at the doorway, less than a meter-and-a-half from him, leaning in with a dead-eyed gaze. With a scream, his eyes locked to that gaze, the doctor blindly smashed his fist sideways into the cover, ripping it off its hinge, and in the same motion, mashing the button. The door slammed shut with urgency as designed; there was a cracking noise as a blast echoed from the explosive release bolts, blowing the pod away from the ship.
His eyes were wide, watching, as the door, crashing shut against vacuum, severed a hand and the head of the woman with a wet, popping sound. With the momentum of the acceleration away from the ship, Comani, in his crash web, was forced toward the door where the two unwanted bits of cargo were pinned by building forces. Different dynamics played in as the craft made decisions about its destination, firing thrusters and attitude jets.
Comani forced his eyes tightly shut, but when he felt the head careen off the top of his own, he retched; vomit sprayed across the pod to the door.
And again, he vomited as he desperately held his eyes closed, struggling to breathe between heaves. A soft thumping sound in the pod caused his eyes to snap open—the hand was still pinched in the inner door seal, but the head… it dropped and rolled with the motion of the maneuvering pod, becoming coated in his vomit as it bled the last of its fluid into the confined space. Rolling down under his feet as the engines came on to propel him to an unknown destination, it settled directly under his crash web restraint, staring up from between his legs, grisly, bloody and reeking, with an open-mouth snarl frozen on her face.
Fred jerked his gaze up and away from the horror. His whole body convulsed repeatedly, in an effort to move further from the monstrous sight. The crash-webbing held him trapped. Through the vomit-smeared hatch portal, he caught a glimpse of the body just as it tore from the flap of neck skin that had pinched in the doorjamb; the headless corpse spun away into space.
The good doctor had had enough. In that moment he fainted dead away, which saved him from having to watch the severed head rebound inside the tight confines of his get-away vehicle—coated in vomit, gory, vicious and accusing.
CHAPTER 14
EVENT: DAY 7, 1100 UT
“…meets the demanding standards of the modern military woman without sacrificing femininity.”
After the buzz she’d gotten from the view of “her ship,” Taylor had returned to the Dock stores at the edge of Vegas Slice. In an Intimates store, she read the tag on a pair of panties and was intrigued; they looked quite delicate, skimpy, like she liked, yet cost twice what they should have. She committed to testing their motto.
She’d also found a cute, zero-G coffee bulb and a few luxury scents that made wild, erotic claims. One could never be too prepared.
Purchased.
Of course, with all of the men she’d have at her disposal, TJ had no question about some certain events that would unfold on this journey. That sounds mercenary, she thought, then smiled.
She pondered the gravity boots. It was nice of the military to supply these for her. Until now, she never had any real need to convince someone to plunk down the sky-high price. She hoped that she’d be able to keep them and use them in a stunt in the future. Of course, she could spend some of her own creds and get the quieter, focus-free gecko boots that worked anywhere, and not just aboard ship and parts of the station. When she saw the price of the geckos, she whistled; that would be more than she’d ever had on her chip. Taylor decided to get the requisitioned magravs and deal with the standard learning curve; she’d save her money for other things.
By 1100 she was back out in freefall, Military Docks, running early and anxious for the mission. Her gravboots did indeed take a bit of intense focus at first and gave her an odd gait. They worked by sensing footbed pressure and muscle flex. It was just the opposite of flop-thongs: flex the toes to grip the deck; relax and lift to release. It was combined with an odd, downward pull before the release. A novice was guaranteed to look awkward, she discovered.
She flashed her ID at an optical sensor in the boarding corridor to the Medallion, and a smile at the security officer at his post. The officer did not try and stop her. He didn’t smile back and only looked her up and down once before turning his attention back to others passing his station.
She stood for a moment then addressed him after the others had passed. “What, didn’t see anything you liked?” The man was likely equipped with some optical sur-mods that let him practically see through her clothing.
“Move along, ma’am.”
Ma’am? He could at least use her name; he must know who she was if he was passing her through. She kept her indignation inside. Huh. Rude. Either he’s a eunuch or he swings the other way. Taylor could consider no other explanation.
She moved carefully away, trying to look as cool as possible with her strange gait. Other fish to fry, she thought as she again used her badge to access the assignment terminal inside the boarding hatchway. She sent a copy of the ship map to her Personal Zephyr, then pulled out and unrolled the device to study the map as she walked.
Pretending to be engrossed, she continued slowly and deliberately down the boarding tube corridor, going back to a mental litany: left release, step, flex, pull; right release, step, flex, pull… Feeling less awkward as she entered the ship proper, she turned onto the main, central shaft. It was lined with doors; she assumed these were quarters. Rather than immediately finding her own, she continued to explore and practice her walk. Someways down the passage, a door on her right abruptly slid open, and a young man burst out into the hall in a big hurry. He looked up from the flight bag slung across his chest, just in time to utter something unintelligible as he bumped into her.
Taylor’s concentration was broken for an instant and she started to lift off the deck, away from him. She sucked in a breath and flexed the toes of both feet, fast and hard. Her feet did come quickly down to the deck but her upper body was still moving with her directional momentum. She saw her mistake too late as she windmilled her arms in a sideways limbo maneuver, trying to regain her upright position. She would have been better off staying in freefall where she would simply have bumped into the opposite wall.
As if that thought was a command, she unconsciously relaxed both feet, releasing her body into a sideways somersault, feet coming loose and rotating up over her head. At this point, Taylor stopped reacting automatically and started getting angry.
She managed to ease her impact into the opposite wall, though completely upside-down, coming mostly to rest. She couldn’t be sure what would happen if she flexed her toes at this point, so she struggled to stay relaxed, which became difficult as she turned her head toward her assailant. The man had a strange look on his face, at first unreadable from her upside-down state; it resolved as barely suppressed laughter.
“Look, whoever you are, get me down! Right now!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied, his voice laced with mirth, “I’m Hahn, Levinson Hahn, but you can just call me Lev.”
“I’m going to call you lots of things if you don’t help me down!”
“Yes, well, that’s easy. There is no down on this deck, no spin, so your boots will pull you to your relative down position. Just flex your toes and walk off the ceiling, down the wall.”
Taylor looked down, or up, or at her feet, anyway, and prepared for about a ten cm drop to the ceiling. It was gentler than she expected. With her feet back on a solid surface, she reassessed her position—both physically, and in regards to how she might appear to this upside-down, yet still clearly attractive young man. To recapture some dignity she used her excellent spatial sense and equilibrium, executing a perfect jump-release with a half somersault and twist. Taylor smoothly landed facing him.
“Nicely done,” he commented, sounding truly impressed. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Jest.”
Taylor masked her surprise at his knowledge of her, wondering what he was seeing, and how much more of her personal data he had access to. She simply began on her way again, taking small careful steps. She brushed closely past without a word, but they followed each other with their eyes and turning heads. As he looked her up and down, she felt in control of the situation once more. For a moment it seemed that he might follow her.
In a tone he could not mistake, she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll remember you.” His eyes lit up. He smiled and picked up his pace again, looking back over his shoulder as he disappeared through the hatchway she’d just come from.
Now that’s a tasty fish. Taylor checked the map. Playing with its controls, she pinched the zephyr’s corner and the view shifted. With a fly-through function, she plotted her path to the assigned quarters in an overhead corridor. A pulsing dot showed where she stood in front of the door that the crewman had come from. She traced a circle to install a waymarker on the map. A perfect blue ring appeared. She left it unlabeled for the moment.
Farther down the hall there was an oval opening overhead; once under the hole, she pushed off the deck, gliding up through the ceiling. It was an odd experience, as this surface became a wall on the other side. The natural floor changed its dimensional plane by ninety degrees from one deck to the next, and then again as she entered her quarters. Once settled into her digs, she still had three hours to spare before Boarding Check.
She poked around her cabin. What have we here?
A mirrored cubby held a small countertop, and on it was a marked circle. She pushed its center. A glowing holo display shimmered to life above the desk—which was changing—flowmetal pulled back to reveal a sensor surface. A few common commands were encircled in finger-sized rings on the right side.
Taylor pulled down a hinged seat that was folded against the wall and sat. Experimenting, she said, “Show me the location of crewman Hahn’s quarters.”
Obediently the display shifted to a fly-in view of the main deck she’d entered on, a pulsing red cube marked the cabin where she had encountered the ensign. Then she queried, “Please, show me the crew image file.”
Without any objections or questions from the ship AI, thumbnail imagery flashed up, and at her right hand a scroll-tap control emerged from the desk surface. Smiling, Taylor reached around to pull a small pillow from its gecko strips on the bunk. Locking a leg under the hard seat, she slipped the cushion between it and her rear, and wriggled her hips into its softness. She then got busy reviewing the various beauties on her ship.
By his shoulder insignia, it would be Ensign Hahn. She found him: Levinson Markus Hahn. There wasn’t much more that his rotating headshot, name, and rank. That revealed another insignificant limitation to her clearance.
She conveniently decided that the best level of crewmen to cavort with would be ensign. His rank meant that she’d be with somebody that was somewhat elite without rising to the next level, lieutenant, whose sense of duty might preclude any romantic interludes while out of dock.
Ensig
n Hahn could introduce her around. And the fire in his eyes was very warming.
She found a roster display that showed on and off-duty, and on and off-board indicators but no times. Hahn showed as off-board. He had to be back before Boarding Check in a couple of hours, at least by 1400. Flight time was 1430. Maybe he had rushed off board for a little R&R in Vegas Slice.
These BUMP guys were always so horny when they were between missions. In Vegas slice, she’d enjoyed that fact in the past. Aboard the ship, she was bound to be fair game, civilian or not. She looked forward to the competition for her attentions.
According to the ship list, most of the off-duty crewmembers were also off-board, dockside on shore leave or other detailed errands. Boring for her. As far as the Ensign’s Roster went, there were three still aboard now: two on-duty and one off. Skeleton crew.
Chris Friday, the off-duty ensign, was stunning. She surmised that he and Lev Hahn had come off-duty at ten-hundred when the latest shift began. So was Friday sleeping? With shore time being so precious, why else would he still be onboard? She tried to raise him on the ship Vid and found that his line was tied up. She didn’t leave a message. Maybe he was married or otherwise attached. Data not authorized.
Lev would know.
CHAPTER 15
EVENT: DAY 10, Flashback
The deep silence was unbroken by the crescendo of wailing moans and screams in his head.
Unaware of his body, Comani clung to existence as his life’s buried regrets marched through his mind.
Parallel Extinction (Extinction Encounters Book 1) Page 9
