by John Daulton
The spot was zooming in for yet another shot and Altin chuckled as its projectile went harmlessly past, the Combat Hop moving him a hundred paces to the side. “Nice try,” he taunted as the spot went off and reclaimed its missile yet again.
It zoomed in once more, but, unexpectedly, it stopped and hovered some considerable distance away, appearing roughly the size of a peach, or perhaps a croquet ball. And there it stayed, as if watching him, perhaps recognizing that it couldn’t hit Altin with its heavy beams of stone.
Given a moment’s thought, Altin decided to send a fireball on its way to test out his theory about the spot being no more resilient than a block of wood. He was about to cast one as large as he possibly could when he found that there were insufficient elements near enough to him for him to get it done in the volume his mental image specified. The fire spell was suffering from the same problem he’d had with the rain spell. Apparently, magic had to be worked a bit differently out in space. He would have to modify much of what he thought he knew. But he had an idea.
He restarted the fireball spell, this time running a mana stream all the way back to Naotatica, figuring on borrowing elements from its fiery core as the answer to his need. At least the empty planet would be good for something, he thought. Drawing from so far away took him quite a long time to do, and as he did it, he realized that perhaps next time the Liquefying Stone would be a better choice for this particular type of spell. However, he had the source he needed already fixed in his mythothalamus, so he worked the spell as it was.
The fires deep inside Naotatica were incredibly hot, and Altin could actually feel the essence of the heat within his mind as he had never done before. Even drawing molten stuff from the heart of a volcano was nothing compared to this. It was thrilling to think he had access to such incredible power. He gathered up enough of it to fill a manor house and attached it to the mana string. Then he let it go, using the distance of three months’ teleports to speed his fireball on its way.
The transfer from Naotatica into the space a few hundred paces to Altin’s left was instantaneous, and the white-hot fireball went streaking towards the aggressive spot. The effect was almost blinding the fireball was so bright, and were it not for the screening effect of the Polar’s shield, Altin felt it might actually have cost him his sight. He watched in awe as the giant ball of incredible heat closed on the coconut hovering out amongst the stars; Altin was certain that nothing could take that kind of heat. But the coconut moved easily out of the way. As if it had Combat Hop as well.
Altin gasped. His brows dipped as he concentrated on this new discovery. No. Not a Combat Hop, he thought, for he had actually seen it move. But still, the spot had moved so fast that Altin was convinced that it had used something similar to the spell. “You little mimic-monkey,” he said. “So that’s how you’re going to play?”
His words were tough, but in truth, if a fireball wasn’t going to do the job, he, like the coconut, had no other way to attack his opponent and do it any harm. And so the wait began, neither of them able to strike a decisive blow, or any blow at all, and neither of them going to leave. Altin was damn sure not going to be the first to go. There was absolutely no way he was going to retreat. No way. On that he was resolute. As long as Kettle was back home to fill his box of food, he would stay here until the end of time. No coconut was ever going to scare Altin Meade off like some girl running from a snake. Never.
Chapter 27
Orli’s twelve hours of rest flew by, and before she knew it she was back in the nightmare taking place in sick bay. Two more patients had gone mad since she’d taken her break, and the first man, the one who had attacked her, was dead. When she walked back into the infirmary, Doctor Singh was sitting at a monitor with Doctor Salvator leaning over his shoulder also staring at the screen. They both saw her come in and nodded a greeting, Doctor Salvator adding, “Ensign Pewter, you might be interested in seeing this.” She beckoned Orli over to the join them at the monitor.
“This is the bacteria causing the disease,” Doctor Singh informed her as Doctor Salvator made room for her to stand behind his chair. “We took this culture and forty more just like it over the last week from members of the crew. We’ve been dosing them with everything we have over the last few days and yet, nothing. It’s definitely an alien species, and it is apparently immune to everything we’ve got.”
Orli could see that there were several bacterial cells visible on the screen, wriggling about in a blue-gray solution that looked in the monitor as if it were aglow. These microorganisms looked remarkably similar to the specimens she had found while working with her spore, and so she said as much.
“Really,” Singh and Salvator said in unison after hearing what she’d found. “So it was the orbs that took out Andalia.” They both nodded as if the last bit of doubt had been eliminated for them regarding the fate of the Andalian populace.
“So, what can you tell us about this bacterium then?” Doctor Singh asked, sounding hopeful. “You’ve had a great deal more time to study it than we have.”
“Well, sadly, I really didn’t start working on it right away, so I’m not that far ahead of you guys at all. But I will tell you that my bacteria came from the fungus.”
They both frowned. “What do you mean?” said Doctor Singh.
“It came from the fungus. Not off the fungus, but from it. My original sample was—still is—a fungus. I only saw this bacterium after I tested one of our fungicides on a few of my fungal cells to check its efficacy. That’s when I saw the bacteria. My fungus actually became bacteria as a reaction to the fungicide. I bet it’s some kind of alien defense.”
Doctor Singh crunched up his whole face, doubtful. Doctor Salvator didn’t look much more convinced, but she at least made an attempt to hide her reticence.
“I’m serious,” Orli insisted. “I did it twice. And if you map the genome—which I did have the time to do—you might find that it contains genes for not only bacterial traits, but fungal and viral too. Do it, and you’ll see.”
“So you’re telling me that this bacterium has genetic material for three entirely different types of organism, manifests only one at a time, and… can change at will?” asked Doctor Singh. Doctor Salvator was no longer hiding anything in her expression.
“Yes. Instantly. Faster than I could get back to the microscope. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And you’re sure it’s not just a mask, some kind of camouflage?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
Doctor Singh turned and ordered a nurse to draw new blood samples from several patients to whom they’d been administering antibiotics. He looked back at Orli. “As absurd as it sounds, at this point I’m not putting anything past an alien disease.”
“It’s not really that much of a leap if you consider the source,” Orli put in. “I mean, the orbs seemed to make instantaneous shifts of their exterior depending on what we were throwing at them. Maybe their defenses are change-based, be it ship—orb—armament, or in their germ warfare techniques.”
Doctor Salvator gave a low, short hum, her eyebrows lowered, and her mouth tight, moving laterally on her face in a doubtful way. “There’s a big difference between armor and life forms. I don’t think it’s quite the same thing. Although there is a convenient coincidence, I’ll give you that.”
Doctor Singh nodded, but said nothing. Orli thought that he might be at least considering what she said, but just then a huge racket broke out as two patients managed to reach the neurotic state of the disease simultaneously and began attacking the staff and other patients. One, a dark woman with sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks, began to scream. Nothing articulate, just a high, piercing wail of absolute disconnect. She slapped the cup from the nurse’s hand and spit at her, baring feral teeth, pausing her howl long enough to hiss. She swung towards the bewildered nurse and leapt with a strength a casual observer would not have reckoned her to have, her hospital gown flying open, her legs twisting round to clutch the nurse an
d bear her to the ground. The other, an older man, threw his tray aside and began tearing the tubes from his arms, gripping them in pale fists that looked arthritic the knuckles bulged so much with the rage behind his grip. He lunged for the patient in the bed next to him, who’d been asleep and had to defend himself despite surprise and pharmacological haze as the deranged patient began strangling him with the clear plastic tubes.
Orli and both doctors ran to help, she and Doctor Salvator pulling the strangler off of his victim, Doctor Singh untangling the screaming woman from the nurse. Several trying minutes ticked by before they got both patients sedated, but at last they did, though silencing them brought little relief, for the entire ward was beginning to show the signs of strain. It would only get worse as increasing numbers of the crew went crazy and ultimately died.
And it did get worse over the course of the next few days. The disease was spreading throughout the ship, and, as people got word of the futility of sick bay, many of them began to closet themselves away even if they manifested early signs of the disease. What was the point of going to sick bay if there was no cure?
There came more and more incidences of crew members appearing unexpectedly, already mad in the last stages of the infection, and attacking one another. What was worse, many of them were attacking critical ship’s systems: one petty officer jettisoned two of the Aspect’s four landing craft, and another attempted to blow up the ship’s forward water tanks. That would have been a real disaster, and security forces, at least those few remaining who were able to perform that rigorous of a detail, had been forced to shoot the man. He was the seventh death by that particular means in as many days. By the end of the outbreak’s third week, the ship’s crew was down to half, and of the half that remained, a quarter were showing signs of infection too. And there was no help coming from the rest of the fleet. No other ships were willing to risk their crews on the Aspect, not with an alien pathogen on the loose. Rumor had it that the Aspect’s name had been unofficially changed to the Aspect of Death in mess halls and recreation rooms throughout the fleet—not mockingly, but in a tragic, frightened kind of way.
All but three of the nurses were dead now, and Orli was frequently forced to work in that capacity despite being untrained. The three nurses were doing many of the duties normally saved for the doctor, as Doctor Singh was working tirelessly on developing a cure—standard treatments were completely ineffective, and he felt his time was better spent seeking their salvation than comforting the doomed. This left Orli performing duties far outside her experience and qualification. However, she was doing so with increasing skill and was even becoming something of an expert at sedating mad crew members regardless of their size. Her small frame and runner’s fitness made her quick enough to do it well. She was fast and of the right stature to get inside their flailing limbs and deliver a shot with precision. And she was becoming, with practice, very hard to hit. In fact her reputation in that regard grew over the course of a pair of weeks, and gradually she became the official sedater, being called virtually every time crew members lost their minds.
She reported to the infirmary one shift after an entirely unsatisfying five hours sleep and was greeted by a blinking light on the console that promised to be just such a call. She pressed the key that brought up the face of a very distraught petty officer with a large gash over one eye and sweat glistening on his face. “Duvall just lost it,” he said. “We’ve got him cornered. Security is here, but they said as long as he doesn’t come out and make them shoot his ass, you guys have time to come down and help him out. Hurry though.” She could hear a man’s voice screaming in the background, something about corned beef and a white yoyo with no string.
“Coming,” was all she said and clicked off the monitor. She grabbed the kit with all her syringes and sedatives and, poking her head in to say “hello” and “goodbye” to Doctor Singh, she trotted off.
She’d taken to trotting now. Running only brought the nightmare closer with greater speed. And the outcome was all the same. She’d sedate this one, just like the rest, but it wouldn’t make much difference. He’d still be dead in a few hours. The only thing she was doing was saving the security guys the guilt of having to shoot another one. That’s what this was all about. No need to run. Trotting was just right. Walking made her feel guilty, made her think she’d lost the last remnants of her humanity, but running got her there too fast. As long as she was willing to trot, she could tell herself that she was still concerned, that she was still human and alive, not just waiting for them all to die and end this slow disaster in the emptiness of space.
She arrived at the waste materials processing plant a short while later, her heartbeat quickened not by the distance but by the nature of the task she was here to perform. She may have done a lot of these, but they still made her nervous.
The petty officer with the cut on his face, the one who had made the call, met her as she came into the vacuous chamber and pointed in the direction of a large tank hissing steam from a cracked pipe fitting. The pipe, broken during the initial fight with the madman, was one of many that angled up into the labyrinthine array of plumbing that ran through the ceiling above or plunged down through the grated floor into a series of tanks and filters below. The huge room was humid from all the evaporative processes at work and remained so despite the huge vents meant to draw the moisture back into the plant’s hydro-conservation loop. The stench of the waste treatment process was overpowering, and disgust contorted her features as she surveyed the situation with a cursory glance around.
She could see two men, dark silhouettes in the warm fog misting up the room, and gauged by their rigid posture that they were security. She nodded to the petty officer and moved to the closest of the security men. It was Petty Officer Morgan whom she’d been running into more and more over the last few days. She lifted her chin in recognition as she approached.
“Where is he?” she said.
“Yo, Pewter,” he greeted back. “Over there.” He pointed with the end of his rifle.
She squinted, having to peer carefully through the shadows to make out the dark form of a man cowering on the deck behind the giant boiler. He sat on the steel-grate rocking back and forth, thumping his head on the wall behind him and mumbling to himself.
“He got any weapons?” she asked.
“None that we can tell. He was just yelling before, and acting all crazy. Had Tortelli in a choke hold, so I had to shoot him. Got him in the left shoulder, though, not a fatal shot. And he did let Tortelli go.” He tipped his head sideways towards the other security officer covering the corner from the opposite side of the boiler, but didn’t take his eyes off of Duvall. Sensing that he was the object of the conversation, Tortelli nodded back.
“All right, maybe he’s weak from loss of blood,” Orli hoped aloud. “I’ll go get him out.” She took a syringe from her kit and tapped the bubble to the top, clearing it with a squirt. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” said Morgan. “I got you covered.”
She crept into the shadows, moving through a partial curtain of steam and slowly towards the man still thumping his head against the wall. Despite being slim, she felt claustrophobic, dwarfed between the two large tanks and having to duck under and step over huge pipes every so often, some nearly two feet thick. Quickness wasn’t going to help her much in here; there was hardly any room to move.
She looked back at Morgan around the curve of the boiler and through the mesh of pipes. He was kneeling and had his rifle pointed at Duvall in case the madman got out of hand. She nodded and pressed on.
When she was close enough that Duvall could hear her over the hissing of steam and the racket of the pipes, she spoke to him in a soothing voice. “Hey, Duvall. Hi. Listen, I’m Ensign Pewter. Orli Pewter. I came down from sick bay, okay? I want to help you if you’ll let me. Is that okay?”
Duvall continued to rock back and forth and thump his head against the wall, the dull sound of flesh and bone on metal joining with
the hiss of escaping steam.
Sweat was running down Orli’s face and neck as she moved through the reeking, humid air. She could see that Duvall was soaked from head to toe in sweat and blood as well. The right shoulder of his uniform was almost black with blood, light reflecting off of the wetness, and he looked extremely pale. He’d definitely lost a lot of blood.
“Duvall, can you hear me? Are you listening?”
He made no response, and she moved in closer, hypodermic at the ready, held like a knife poised to stab, palm ready to press the plunger down.
There was a pipe running out of the bottom of the boiler near where Duvall was hunkered down. It came straight out of the tank and disappeared into the wall, two feet off the floor and almost eight inches thick. It was the only thing between her and her goal; Duvall was three feet beyond. Sedating him was going to require that she step over the pipe at the same time she came within the wounded man’s reach. She would have to be quick. She’d seen enough patients in this condition to know that apparent delirium was no impediment to sudden bursts of energy.
“Okay, Duvall, I’m coming to you now, all right? I’m just going to give you a shot to help you, okay? Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you; I promise.”
She knew he wasn’t listening as much as she knew that he was not concerned with whether he got hurt. But the calm in her voice helped her pretend that maybe she actually was. She neared the pipe she was going to have to step over. She stared into the shadows at Duval, wondering if he knew that she was there in any vague sense at all or if he was already gone. She raised her foot and stepped over the pipe.
