Veradin drew up alongside him. He’d also donned the light armor that was a mix of ground engagement attire from various decades. The effect made him look about as desperate as Asher felt. The gear might protect from pulse rounds, but the ballistic-style weapons he’d glimpsed in action on the Jennali Noble and in the assault on Tintown could very well just make the armor neat packaging for their remains.
This is pitiful. Might as well go in naked. Might take a few of them off guard.
“Core’s through here.” Maeve pointed an armor-covered gauntlet at a hatch that could only have been Sceeloid in design. It opened with a screeching, rusted groan that made him wince.
“You’re already patched in?” Asher asked, realizing that she’d not touched an interface.
Her proud smile was visible through the clearplas of her helm. “Wedge did. Relayed through the suit.”
Of course, the Wedge was Sceeloid tech. Everything about the base was; the Humans had simply built on top of it, ignorant of the systems already in place here. Most of the base was likely dormant, awaiting instructions from a source it understood. In this case, it was the Wedge. What else could the Wedge wake up? He stretched his shoulders, dispelling the thought.
Don’t go borrowing trouble. Stay on mission.
“Once I do my little dirty on the core, we get sixteen minutes to be clear,” Maeve offered, unasked. “I leave. With or without. Got it, pretty?” She smacked a hand against Veradin, who reacted with a painful grunt. The man let the rifle hang from his body harness. His hands reached around the back of his neck to feel where she’s just slapped him.
“What’d you do? What is that? Get it off.”
Maeve brushed his hands away. “Leave it. Thank Maeve later.”
Asher trained his light over the offended area of Veradin’s neck. A disk the size of a thumbnail was affixed to the reddened skin there. Already the edges had burrowed under.
Neural shield.
“What is it?” Veradin asked. He once more reached for the device burrowing under his neck. “It burns.”
Asher shoved his hand away. “Relax. It’s a neural shield. Protects from those stun fields the Sceeloid like to use. Sometimes they leave nasty little presents behind.”
“Where’s yours then?” he asked.
Asher tapped the side of his head. “Half-Binait. Don’t need one. Don’t work on me the same way.”
“Splendid.” Veradin rubbed at the spot disconsolately.
Maeve stood at the hatch, impatient. “Remember, ten minutes, ladies.”
Asher and Jon exchanged a glance. “You said sixteen,” they said in unison.
She shrugged. “It matter?”
Thirty
Tyler gaped at the unconscious figure strapped to the gurney with thick plastic webbing as they wheeled it out of the place the eggheads called the clean room. The man was pale and deflated. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. Miles Wren wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“Flooded the room with a penthrane-hybrid aerosol. Dropped him like a brick,” he heard one of the techs say.
“Penthrane? They use that on mob control.” Tyler swiveled on Hoffs, but she was already in motion. “What’re you thinking?”
Hoffs followed in the wake of the gurney. “That we needed to subdue him before he does something else rash. We can’t trust him, Tyler.”
“I thought you were gonna…I dunno.” He shrugged. “Talk to the man.”
She responded with a frown. Her gaze flitted to Tyler’s sidearm. “I think we’re past talking.”
“Whatever you’re going to do… do it soon. I don’t think we’ll be able to keep him under.” The speaker had a heavy German accent and an astounding paunch for someone existing on the same rations as everyone else. On top of that, he sounded scared. All the lab people looked ready to crap themselves. Tyler sensed it wasn’t just the mutiny aspect of what they were doing.
He realized one other thing. There were no other Marines in the room. Just him.
“Where’s Mitchum?” Tyler asked. “This is his duty rotation.”
“We locked the medlab level.” Essie finished checking the straps on Wren’s wrists.
“You what?” He gaped at her across the gurney.
She didn’t look up from the computer keyboard. “I couldn’t trust them. Just you.”
“Essie, what the hell?” He wasn’t as angry as he thought he would be. Maybe he realized that the moment he’d let Northway out of lock up, he was already in deep shit. The fact that he was the lone Marine conspirator in this shit-show was just a minor detail at this point.
“Tyler, please,” Essie said. “Just give us the time we need. If we’re wrong, you can do whatever you want.” The way she said it told Tyler that wouldn’t be the case.
“She said she’d help.” Northway stood at the open doorway that led from the examination suites with her arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a stranger.
“Her? That’s the chick Wren lost his shit over?” He didn’t realize anyone had heard him until he caught Essie’s scowl of disapproval.
The young woman didn’t look like much of a threat. In fact, she seemed frail and more than a little freaked out. Trembling with either fear or cold, she was no more menacing than a scared kitten. Her long, dark hair made her look even paler. Eyes an impossible shade of green took in every sudden move, darted to each new sound. The spare set of scrubs she wore made her look like some kid dressed up in her parent’s clothes. When she saw Wren on the table, her steps faltered like she’d spotted some sort of particularly nasty spider or a poisonous snake and was afraid to move.
She must have felt Tyler’s stare. Meeting those pale green eyes was like falling forward and staying in place at the same time. He found he couldn’t look away, that he really didn’t want to. The sounds of the room grew distant. He was aware of a warmth moving over his skin, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention.
Northway muttered something to the girl, and she broke her stare. Tyler felt a sharp tug. The falling sensation vanished. He shook his head. The room went fuzzy, then back into focus.
What the hell...
He stepped around the gurney, not conscious that he was putting it between himself and the strange new guest.
“Erelah,” Northway said.
He realized it was the girl’s name. It had a bizarre, yet tragic sound to it. Everything else the doc said to the girl was in that garbled gibberish the Genies talked. He’d never had an ear for language. He spoke American English, and that was about the short and long of it.
Northway directed the girl to stand at Wren’s bedside. She did, hesitant, as if afraid he was going to spring up at her. Didn’t blame her, considering.
“Then you’re not reading it right,” Hoffs said. She jabbed at the monitor. “He can’t have brainwave activity like that. He’s sedated.”
Tyler’s attention swiveled. Hoffs and the German guy debated over the reading—a bunch of squiggly lines. Her voice raised an octave with fear, panic. “Check the leads.”
A bunch of wires had been affixed to Wren’s scalp and were attached to the monitor. One of the lab coats—Carter—jabbed at the tiny wires.
The girl made a sharp motion and spoke excitedly.
Northway looked at the girl, then: “You shouldn’t touch him. It’s dangerous. It can affect you if you touch him.”
Hoffs stepped back from Wren’s bedside, tugging the lab tech with her. She held her hands out away from her body like she was afraid of touching something germy. “Okay, then how do we help him?”
The doc translated it to Genie. And the kid’s expression needed no interpretation. Northway responded. “She said that he’s…infected. Something is controlling him.”
“Controlling him. How?” That came from the German dude. “We’ve just heavily sedated our commanding officer—an offense that could get us court-martialed. I need more than your village shaman here, doctor.”
Tyler bumped the guy, purposefully, making a show of resting his hand on his sidearm. “Hey, back off, man. Northway wouldn’t lie.”
That seemed to break the invisible dam holding back the tension. Suddenly no one was playing nice. Shouts flew across Wren’s sleeping body. Northway held her hands up, calling for calm. Through it all, Tyler watched Erelah. She flinched at the sounds of their raised voices, but the whole time she watched Wren with those haunting green eyes.
There was a deep, purring sound. Tyler reacted in reflex, to pull Hoffs back. Wren’s right arm, then his left, came free of the restraints. He sat bolt upright like a monster out of some horror web-vid. The girl’s eyes went wide, her body rigid. She seemed bolted to the spot. Everything happened quickly.
“Get him back down!”
Tyler dove across the gurney, tackling Wren in a bear hug. The guy had to be 120 pounds soaking wet, but he was as immovable as a statue. He stood, pulling Tyler with him. The gurney tilted under him. It flipped on its side with a violent metal clatter. Someone screamed.
Wren took a lumbering step forward, zombie-like, straight for the girl. Still hugging Wren around the waist, Tyler glimpsed her pale face, eyes wide with fear.
“Get her out of here!” he yelled.
This seemed to get zombie-Wren’s attention. Fingers like metal bands clamped down on Tyler’s wrists. There was a wet, angry pop, and twin bolts of pain flew up his forearms. His grip slackened. He slid down the major’s legs, powerless to control his hands.
Fucker broke my wrist!
Tyler landed on his knees. The lab coats scrambled. He rose. Right hand numb with pain, Tyler pulled his sidearm. His thumb fumbled over the safety. He drew aim at the middle of Wren’s back.
“Major, stand down!”
Wren looked over his shoulder at him. The drifting little smile on his face held casual amusement. Wren took a step toward the girl as he plunged a hand into the pocket of his BDUs. Tyler glimpsed the glint of metal wrapped in his fingers.
Jesus! He had a weapon. Hadn’t anyone bothered to check him?
His training kicked in. Told him the only way to stop Wren was to fire. But he froze. This was crazy. He wasn’t about to shoot his CO. “Drop it! Drop your weapon!”
Wren didn’t even bother to look at him this time. He staggered forward to the girl as she backed away with Northway. The only place for them to go was the clean room, basically a dead end.
With a fierce bellow, Tyler dove forward, hooking Wren’s legs in another tackle. “Everyone down!”
This time, more than one person screamed.
Tyler grunted with pain and exertion. Luck was on his side. The lip of one of the counters caught Wren’s hip. He tipped with all the grace of a felled tree. Tyler felt something in his shoulder snap as he forced the tackle. His sidearm clattered away.
They spilled half in, half out of the threshold. He was aware of legs stepping past him. An adrenaline-fueled scramble brought him to his hands and knees. He looked up as Northway scooped up the gun in one hand, with the other shoving the girl behind her in the direction of the clean room. Northway paused, their eyes met.
“Go!” Tyler yelled.
She slipped into the clean room. The door rolled shut with quick efficiency.
“No!” Wren screeched as Tyler felt his grip give way. His shoulder was an angry knot of pain. His hands were numb, disobedient.
Wren still clutched whatever device he’d secreted from his pocket. This close, Tyler had a better look at it. It wasn’t a grenade. It was like no other weapon he’d seen before. But his gut told him it was meant for an ugly purpose. Tyler made a grab for the thing if just to slap it away.
Wren countered with a fist to Tyler’s face that was like having a building dropped on his skull. The room flashed with brilliant white.
He watched, stunned as a landed fish, as Wren brought his hands together, snapping the top off the device.
Then came a sonic boom that Tyler felt in his bones.
The universe winked out.
Thirty-One
“You hear that?” Veradin asked.
Asher scanned the stark white hallway. Save for the ever-present hum of overhead lights, he heard nothing. Two hundred feet into the station and they’d not seen another living soul, although they’d passed what appeared to be closed-off doorways. Colored stripes ran down some of the corridors, no design a Sceeloid would have bothered with. At intersections placards were affixed to the walls, bearing icons and unimaginative hash marks. He’d guessed it was the Humans’ native language. Odd that each door was named and numbered. Did they truly get lost that easily?
“What of it? Hear your mouth workin’ too,” Asher returned.
He raised the muzzle of the compression rifle back up and resumed course. Veradin fell into place behind him, watching their backs. Asher had to hand it to him; the man might have been a competent soldier once. It was a compliment he’d probably not accept. Nor one that Asher would voice.
“No,” Jon said. “I meant on the vox. It sounded like Maeve.”
Asher tapped his earpiece. It evoked a sputtering hiss and what could have been a voice. “Could be interference.”
“Could be her trying to check in. Been three minutes.” Veradin looked up from his chrono. “You trust her to give us a warning when she’s set the core?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Asher returned his attention to the locator beacon. Set to hone in on the metal alloy composite of Erelah’s stasis box, it was the only means they had of finding her in the facility. It’d been Tyron’s contribution. Not bad for a breeder. Another compliment he’d never be likely to deliver.
He felt Veradin’s heavy scowl but did not look up from the device right away.
“Still looks like we’re on the right level. Another three hundred feet and we should hit an intersection.”
They advanced in silence. At the intersection, they each took a side.
Veradin sank low and scanned in the direction the beacon icon wanted to send them. Brow furrowed, he stepped out into full view of the corridor.
Was he getting sloppy? Asher reached for him, ready to pull him back to his side of the doorway.
Then he saw the bodies.
They littered the floor of the wide corridor. Male. Female. Different ages, skin colors. Some wore all white; others were dressed in the more familiar blue of the combat team that had stormed Tintown. It was as if they’d just dropped where they stood.
Asher straightened from his ready crouch, watching as Veradin stole up to the closest body to check it. He touched the exposed throat of a young female, her head crooked at an odd angle, limbs akimbo.
“She’s breathing,” he said. Then he moved on to the next cluster of bodies. “They all just look like they’re…asleep. Like they just fell on the spot at once.”
Asher noted that the ones dressed in blue still had their boxy sidearms holstered. Whatever had happened had been too swift for them to respond.
Veradin took the clumsy looking handgun from the holster and cast it down the empty corridor. The clatter was explosive against the silence. They both tensed. No calls. None of the bodies stirred.
Just more unnerving quiet.
“Think I know why there was no welcoming party,” said Veradin. “Did Maeve do this? You said there might be neural stunners.”
Asher shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Otherwise, why bother with this?” Jon tapped the metal disk she’d slapped onto his neck.
“We’re still in the fight. Doesn’t change what we came here for.”
Jon scoffed, then nodded. “Remind me to stay on her good side.”
“Don’t think she’s got one of those.” Asher hefted the cumbersome tracker. The screen conveyed them to the corridor’s end. A large cluster of bodies lay near its open doorway. “In there.”
They moved on, careful to step around the bodies, although none of them stirred. There was no noise except the sounds of several dozen souls mired in
sleep. Asher thought of a story Kelta had told him as a boy: a village had fallen under an evil witch’s curse, the populace falling into a sleep-like trance, leaving only a defiant knight to defend against a flesh-eating dragon.
Was there a dragon here? He would have preferred one now—anything but this eerie silence and sleeping bodies.
Just be there. Please be here, Erelah. There’s not much time. Please.
Veradin raised a fist. Stop.
A quick glance into the next chamber told them what he had already guessed: whatever had happened had affected the whole station. There were more unconscious Humans, but these were all dressed in white. Two were clad head to toe in what looked like some sort of containment suits. Behind the clear visors of their hoods, he glimpsed black rubbery faceplates like resp-kits.
Asher’s nerves pinched with ice. Were they contagious? Or did they fear catching something?
He shared a look with Veradin over the body. Perhaps he thought the same, for the man did a quick side step, cautious not to touch any of the other bodies on the floor.
The locator gave a self-important chirp, sending them onward.
Thirty-Two
Maeve’s suit told her what she’d already surmised: the air was frigid and stale in the original Sceeloid chambers near the core of the outpost. The Human invaders had either never discovered this section of the outpost, or were unconcerned with it. A fine layer of ice glistened over the lumpy shapes of the control spines and interface ports of the chamber.
The slightly higher levels of ammonia made it a perfect atmosphere for female Sceeloid. Males tended to require less delicate refinements of atmo. It was what made them excellent workers and warriors. Being at Mother’s side had left Maeve few opportunities to even glimpse one of the lowly males. They were hulking, indelicate things with heavy jaws and razor-sharp talons.
Allies and Enemies: Exiles, Book 3 Page 12
