by Jamie Sawyer
Then I used the private terminal, equipped with a holo-viewer, to access the data-chip that Olsen had given me.
Dr Jarvis Kellerman’s life story unfolded before me. He was sixty years Earth-standard, and a scientific prodigy. It seemed like every record associated with the man – educational, medical, scientific – had been stored and catalogued by the military. He had no close relations to speak of, certainly none that occupied any world or station within light-years of the Quarantine Zone. No friends or enemies of note. Many work colleagues from a variety of scientific spheres; he was highly regarded by the general community. There were hinted links to top brass in the military as well – he was obviously a well-connected individual. Like me, he spent time hopping between different planets and the effects of time-dilation meant that he had significantly outlived those close to him.
I scanned through most of the material. Some of it made me feel slightly uneasy; as though I were a spy, peering into this man’s life. Infiltrating every private corner, leaving no stone unturned.
Eventually I chose one of the personnel files, and a tri-D video activated on the console in front of me.
SECURITY ACCESS UNLOCKED. EXECUTE: RUNFILE COMMAND.
Dr Kellerman. Operational date 04/06/2263
LOCATION: ANTARES PRIME [SEE LINKED FILE A/9989]
A man – Kellerman – appeared in front of the camera, waving to a fellow researcher. His hair was thick, although already greying at the temples. I quickly calculated his age – forty-four Earth-standard. He wore it well, and his face was youthful, his eyes bright with passion. He stood among the ruins of a Krell starship, still smoking in places. Tattered organic material hung from alien trees above him, and he was framed by an ochre sky. He wore an Alliance Science Division smock. When he moved, the fabric grew taut over his muscled torso.
“Quickly!” he insisted of the camera operator. “The retrieval team will be moving in soon. This is a primary opportunity to examine the site before they get here.”
He crouched among the ruins, prodding a piece of carapace armour – either something torn from one of the Krell bio-ships, or the remains of a primary-form. Difficult to say: the recording was fuzzy, poor quality. Kellerman confidently babbled at the camera operator, pointing out deviations in the normal Krell development pattern. Off-screen, another science officer hastened him onwards, but he refused the request to retreat from the site.
Bravery, I considered. Or idiocy.
I skipped the rest of the file, then moved on through Kellerman’s life story. There were several more research postings – some on worlds I’d heard of, some that I hadn’t.
I found something else of interest, and activated another file.
Dr Kellerman. Operational date 11/08/2270
LOCATION: EPSILON ULTRIS [SEE LINKED FILE A/9989] – ASIATIC CONFLICT – RIM WAR [SEE LINKED FILE A/432]
Now aged fifty-one objective years. The intervening period, since the last vid-file, had not been kind to Kellerman. He was propped up in a hospital bed and looked smaller than before; half of his body mass, perhaps. Feeder tubes erupted from his torso. A spotless white bedsheet covered his lower half, folded neatly at his stomach. Medi-patches concealed some of his chest. One eye was covered by a bandage, which had already turned an off-pink colour. He was in a hospital, I realised, and his injuries were traumatic and recent.
“Commencing psych-eval,” an off-screen voice stated. “Subject Dr Jarvis Kellerman.”
“I’m not a Christo-damned subject!” he roared from his bed. “I’m a man. I’m an Alliance citizen, and I don’t deserve to be treated like this.”
“Doctor, I am here to ask you some questions. To ascertain your capacity for return to service with the Science Division. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.” He stopped, set his jaw. Were those tears in his eyes? He sighed and shook his head. “Of course it is.”
“It is unlikely that you will walk again.”
“I know that already.”
“It will take some adjustment. Your current posting is untenable given the circumstances.”
“I know that,” he repeated. “I know that already.”
I checked the stardate again. This was before his placement on Helios, and the attached records indicated that at this time he had been permanently disabled. Loss of use of both of his legs. They had tried nano-surgery, tried every form of regenerative therapy, but none of it had worked.
I skipped the rest of that file. The eval went on for some time – hours, it seemed. Kellerman became more and more dejected. It felt wrong watching the man’s obvious pain.
There were other areas of Kellerman’s life that still interested me though. After he had been crippled, Kellerman had gone on to run other Alliance scientific operations. The psych-evals noted that, notwithstanding his injury, his mind remained sharp – sharper, one report even said, than before the incident.
I finally reached the Helios files. He’d signed up to the mission because of his specialist knowledge of the Krell. Written a variety of articles on the subject.
The Krell: A scientific study of the primary-form.
Understanding communication methods within the Krell Collective.
Retrospective: A year since the Treaty.
Possible impact factors on the development of Krell subspecies.
There was a collection of vid-files broadcast from Helios, which had occasionally been attached to the regular service transmissions. Just poor-quality tri-D recordings, usually Kellerman sitting on his own in his office or lab. The transmissions started with his theories on alien evolution: he hypothesised that the Krell were an ancient predator race, perhaps having extinguished other sentient species. He theorised about the bio-technologies developed by the Krell. Latterly, he spoke of the Artefact, of how he had attempted to decipher the signal.
I began to lose interest after a few hours. I longed for the simulator-tanks; felt the pull of the simulant body.
Then the content of the files abruptly changed.
“I’m on the verge of finishing my work,” Kellerman said.
There was an edge to his voice. Something more than simple passion: obsession.
He sat in a darkened chamber, with only a flashlight illuminating his face. Wearing a white medical smock, unbuttoned to his chest. A noise distracted him from his message, something like an explosion. Then screaming.
“This place is getting to me,” he said, voice quivering. “I never sleep any more. The xenos are everywhere. The sands stir endlessly. They used to ignore us, pass us by as insignificant. Maybe they sensed our purpose here. Saw that we meant them no harm, saw that we are men of science.”
He paused, looking behind himself and into shadow. I frowned. When the light caught his face, he had aged enormously. This was hardly the same man as he was on Antares Prime. He had become thin, emaciated, a wraith. The only indication of a soul within his withered body were his eyes; burning bright, sky-blue. His hair was fully greyed and thinned to near elimination.
“I have isolated an algorithm in the Artefact’s signal. It interferes with the Krell’s communication method. When the weather is clear here, they are almost paralysed by it.”
The broadcasts became more and more troubling. Rambling now, explaining that he needed more resources. That he had sent a request to his superiors for more equipment. Some of the security team had vanished, or at least he couldn’t hail them any longer. Suspected deserters, so Kellerman said. That was absurd; where would they go? He was always looking more and more ill, face becoming more contorted and distressed with each new data-file.
“It doesn’t just affect them. Many of us here feel the Artefact’s song,” he continued. “The noise is driving us mad.”
The last file proceeded to play, and I felt a chill run through me. It began with Kellerman in shadow, leaning back in his chair. I made out the outline of his body, clothing shredded and stained brown. He hadn’t changed from that same smart-suit i
n weeks now.
“I’m terrified,” Kellerman began. “Utterly in fear. Not myself, not myself, not myself.”
The image flickered, distorted momentarily. Kellerman laughed, long and hard. The noise was sibilant, as was his voice now. As though he was having trouble speaking. I wanted to replay the audio part of the file – it was so difficult to make out what he was saying – but I felt compelled to continue watching.
He stared right into the camera, fixing me with his eyes. Looking at this man – at Kellerman – something told me that he was not a victim. Without warning, the holo lunged forwards, arms outstretched.
I flinched back, startled. Had to remind myself that it was only a recording. Quite unconsciously, I realised that I had my father’s pistol in my hand: the heavy weight reassuring, some protection against Kellerman although he was still a world away.
He was an adversary. I didn’t know why I felt like that; only that there was malevolence behind those eyes. Travelling into the Maelstrom, bringing this innocent crew out into the darkness of Krell space – this felt so wrong, so very wrong.
The image suddenly came back to life. The recording jumped onwards; probably the same day, judging from the state of the lab behind Kellerman, but at some forward point in time.
“The work goes on,” he continued, shuddering in the dark. “Too well. We have made a breakthrough.” He leant into the camera. His old face was tear and dirt stained. “We lost three more men today. I have so few left—”
A shrill klaxon wailed overhead, so loud that it silenced Kellerman’s rambling. I jolted awake and the lights to my chamber flickered on. I jumped to my feet.
“All hands to the bridge,” came Captain Atkins’ voice over the ship’s address system. “Repeat: all hands to the bridge. This is not a drill.”
Without any rationale, I grabbed my father’s old gun. I cycled the loader, clipped a fresh ammo cartridge into the feed. Solid-shot rounds; this was proper contraband, the sort of item I’d discipline my squad for bringing aboard a starship if they were stupid enough to try.
I slid the bulky pistol into a thigh holster, incorporated into my fatigues. I had the feeling I might need it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THIS IS REAL AGAIN
The crew of the Oregon scrambled in response to Atkins’ emergency request and the bridge was soon packed with personnel. My squad and I stood in the midst of the action, and I felt like a third wheel. The crew worked quickly and efficiently, digesting sensor-feeds and interpreting their findings. There was no denying that they were in a state of high suspense, but they still operated calmly. Most of the officers were bodily jacked into their consoles: eyes a vacant haze, concentrating on the deep of space outside. Not unlike being a simulant operator.
Captain Atkins himself sat in the centre of the bridge room, ensconced in a command throne. He had discarded his formal cap and rolled up his sleeves to connect his exposed data-ports directly to the Oregon.
“Why the alert, Atkins?” I asked, stepping up to his command pulpit.
Atkins gave me a nod. “We’re still six hours away from engaging high orbit with Helios, but near-space isn’t as clean as we were led to believe. The asteroid belt is far more extensive. Our intelligence on the planet is either out of date, or just plain wrong.”
I paced to the nose of the ship, where the blast-shutters were still open. Viewers gave a wide angle of the path ahead of the Oregon, affording a hundred-and-eighty-degree cone of observation.
Outside, space was immense and dark. Helios hung in the distance. Between the planet and us, a wide band of space-junk span lazily – a miscellany of rocks, either left over when the planet was formed or attracted by Helios’ gravity in the millennia afterwards. Most of the debris was small and likely innocuous. That sort of material wouldn’t present any difficulty to the Oregon, given the ablative hull plating with which the ship was equipped. But some of the larger asteroids might require a nudge off-course with a laser battery or a shot from the railgun. That was more troubling; a direct hit from one of those rocks could hull the ship, and a repair out in space would be difficult. If not impossible, I thought. I didn’t like this at all.
The room was strangely silent for a moment, despite the number of personnel gathered, save for the gentle ping-ping-ping of the radar feeds. That same feeling that I had experienced back on the Point, when I was first briefed on the operation, arose within me.
Tell Atkins to pull out. Call off this whole operation. This is wrong. All wrong.
“We’re several thousand kilometres from the optimal orbital insertion point,” Atkins continued. Unlike the other officers, he seemed able to focus both on what was physically in front of him and on what he was doing in the virtual-reality realm of the starship. “Lieutenant Pakos, run amplification on the most recent lidar result, and get that patched through to my console.”
“Aye, sir,” Pakos replied. “You want us to go active?”
“Yes.”
A holographic display unit in front of Atkins illuminated, to show near-space and the Oregon moving through it. There were lots of other objects in the area, moving peacefully through the nether.
“Too many hiding places …” Atkins remarked, leaving the comment unexplained.
“I don’t like this at all,” Jenkins said.
“I don’t think that any of us do,” I said.
Olsen walked the chamber, red-faced and fraught. His team huddled nearby. They did nothing to help dissipate the tension in the room. Olsen came to stand beside Atkins’ command station. He tried to peer over Atkins’ shoulder but then thought better of it and returned to patrolling the bridge. A young blonde medtech – the girl who had shown an interest in Blake earlier in the day – dodged out of his way as he took a wider lap of the command terminal.
“How has this happened?” Olsen queried, his voice rising in exasperation. “Why didn’t you see this earlier? Surely your systems can see through some Christo-damned asteroids?”
Martinez flinched at Olsen’s profanity. “Hey, mano, watch the language.”
Olsen shot him a glare but was too spooked to argue with the trooper. “I don’t understand how we’ve made it so far without considering this problem.”
Atkins sat back in his seat. He tapped the screen of his console. “We’ve been watching Helios since we dropped out of Q-space, but the ship’s sensors interpreted this junk as a band of small objects. As for seeing through asteroid fields, it isn’t that easy.”
Olsen shook his head. His flabby neck rippled unpleasantly. “I know that! Don’t you think—!”
“Look, Olsen,” I said, “calm down. Let the captain work.”
PING-PING-PING-PING!
The pitch of the radar returns suddenly became a shrill chirping. I broke off. Every terminal on the bridge flashed with warnings. This could only be bad news. Officers started barking orders, and Atkins frowned as he read the scanner-feeds. On the holo-display, something big and angry was emerging from the asteroid belt.
But I didn’t need to look at the holo.
I could already see it from the view-port. A Krell warship materialised out of the dark of space, battering aside debris as it moved into position.
“It’s an ambush,” I whispered.
Krell bio-ships were grown rather than built, or so Science Division insisted. Quite how a species could grow something that big, and that dangerous, was beyond my comprehension. Being formed of organic matter, the vessels were especially difficult to detect via conventional methods. Many Krell starship variants were effectively invisible to lidar and radar, and only showed up on short-range mass-spectrum scans. The hulls were of some organic compound presently well beyond the understanding of men such as Olsen. By a method we couldn’t fathom, Krell ships also concealed their heat signature, which ruled out infrared as an effective detector.
All of this ran through my mind as the enormous bio-ship sailed into view. It was suddenly obvious how and why the vessel had managed to
evade detection. We had fallen right into their trap. How long had this ship been watching us? No doubt manoeuvring into the best position for an assault, waiting for us to enter the field.
“She’s a big one,” Atkins muttered, his voice almost admiring of the enemy vessel. “Null-shields, now.”
The ship looked like a mutant mollusc, with a long, sleek body and a sharp spined nose. The exterior was plated with organic armour, like that worn by the Krell primary-forms but on a massive scale. A collection of squid-like tentacles erupted from the aft. That was the engine mechanism for the ship, just about the only vulnerable spot. The flanks of the vessel were covered in what – at this distance – looked like skin pores. From experience, I knew that those pores were the Krell equivalent of hangar bays, used to either launch fighter-ships or fire spaceborne weapons. The entire vessel was black, almost impossible to distinguish against the field of space.
There was no denying that this was a warship. It was easily three times the size of the Oregon.
“She’s a category four,” an officer called to the bridge in general.
“Null-shields up,” another officer confirmed.
“Has it seen us?” Olsen gasped, followed by something unintelligible. He rubbed his temples. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead.
“Of course she has seen us,” said Atkins.
Someone from Olsen’s team started crying.
“Get those people out of here!” Jenkins shouted, pointing at the medical staff. They didn’t need to be told twice, and scurried out of the bridge together with Olsen.
The engine of the bio-ship fired silently, casting blue contrails across space and sending more of the asteroid field into disarray. As it moved, almost serenely, huge muscles at the aft of the vessel rippled. That put paid to any suggestion that we had evaded the ship’s attention.
