by T W Iain
<Climb when we can, come at them from above.>
<But we allow one survivor.>
“Our parameters are total removal,” Enya said. “Explain, Kesia.”
“We use fear. The survivor will seek shelter with others, and will pass on what they have seen. The fear and panic will reduce their effectiveness to think clearly. The result—we meet a less ordered resistance.”
Enya smiled, and for a moment Kesia felt that her suggestion was wrong somehow. It made sense, on a practical level, but something about it now bothered her.
“That sounds good.” Enya’s eyes clouded for a moment. “It’s been approved. And he suggests we get to work straight away.”
They all rose.
The hatch door opened, and they ran with long, loping strides. The movement felt good, and Kesia raised her heart-rate a fraction. She scanned her body, and was pleased with how smoothly it worked. There was a slight tightness behind her eyes—she’d put that down to dehydration if she didn’t know otherwise. There was no pain as such, but it was an irritant, and it was something to keep note of. But that was all. Otherwise, she was in perfect working order.
They sussed as they ran, refining their strategies. They were all professional, but Kesia sensed an underlying excitement. It had been there on the mission in Haven, and when they first landed in the proving ground. This was what they were made for. This was their purpose.
But Kesia didn’t feel this excitement. She would rather have stayed on the Proteus, in the pilot’s seat.
And that worried her.
Ryann said she needed time to think, and Murdoch worked hard to suppress a smile. More than the disappointment she felt in herself for coming round to his ideas, she hated his pleasure in this.
He’d provided her with a room on the Hermes, a tiny space barely larger than the solitary bunk it contained, but at least it provided some privacy. Murdoch had one of his NeoGens escort her to this room, and when the door shut with a click that could only be a lock, she lay on the bunk, head resting on her hands and her eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. She breathed deeply, and forced her body to relax.
But her mind wouldn’t stop.
So much bloodshed. So much death and pain. Yes, these NeoGens killed quickly—and there was a certain beauty in their efficiency and precision—but they couldn’t kill everyone instantly.
And they’d stopped. They’d let more live than die.
Ryann understood this. Murdoch wanted those criminals in the proving ground to suffer. He wanted them to feel terror. Maybe he’d say that this was deserved punishment, but…but it still felt wrong. And then there were the shades—they had once been people, and they too were now on the run.
But they were monsters. Ryann had killed shades, without a thought for who they might have been.
That was a fight for survival, though. She was protecting herself and her friends. These NeoGens were an execution squad.
And yet…this was their purpose, what they had been designed for. They were a tool of the company, an instrument and nothing more.
Kaiahive. She’d come to despise the sound of that word—the plosive initial sound, and then the connotations of ‘hive’, of a faceless mass of drones, unaware of the real reasons for their actions. To be a part of the company was to be a tool. Or a weapon.
In a sudden shift of perspective, Ryann saw Daman in a new light. He was as much a weapon of the company as these NeoGens. They’d used his obvious thirst for power, and had made him the puppet leader of the mission in Haven. But he’d malfunctioned. He’d backfired.
It felt a lifetime away. Images flooded Ryann’s mind—Arela discussing her concerns, the shades swarming around the Hub, Lynet making her final stand. Then there were those who had made it to the Proteus, the handful who had fought through.
She thought of Piran. Their plan might have succeeded without him, but he definitely gave them the edge when he aligned their lattices. It was something he shouldn’t have known how to do, something that should have been cracked down on. Even though Arela had known that some of his methods of work were borderline illegal—it wasn’t a big secret—she’d turned a blind eye as long as his extra-hours activities didn’t cause issues for Haven. And she’d been right to do so. By not blindly following his instructions—by not simply being another drone—he’d helped them escape.
And he’d taught Ryann. In those brief moments they were together in quarantine on Metis, he’d talked openly about how he circumvented certain security measures. He’d taught her how to use her lattice to mimic others, and how to redirect inquisitive routines.
She couldn’t access Metis’ system from quarantine, of course. Piran said even he couldn’t get anywhere.
But she wasn’t on Metis anymore. She was on a Hermes, and the systems would be different. The security wouldn’t be as tight.
Ryann slowed her breathing, and concentrated. She pushed out with her lattice, reaching for any connection.
The system on the Hermes was all around, a part of the craft. Ryann became aware of it, and she aligned her lattice. She brushed the system, soothing it while remaining alert for security protocols. She redirected intruder alerts, just as Piran had taught her.
She wasn’t there yet, though. The system didn’t throw her out, but it still didn’t know who she was.
She searched, running across the surface of the system.
It was easy to find Murdoch—he was the only other true human on board, after all—and when she did she carefully connected, using minimal touch. As Piran had shown her, she redirected, piggy-backing Murdoch’s lattice.
There was a flash of green across her left eye. A spinning circle grew. Ryann held the connections in place, waiting, as sweat cooled her arms.
Then she was in.
Ryann navigated menus that branched like trees, a whole forest of data. She moved slowly, exploring. Although all craft had the same basic structure, they were as individual as people. Ryann had to learn how this one functioned, and that took time.
She didn’t know how long she lay on the bunk, immersed in the Hermes’ system. She learnt all she could, and created her own data file, like an annotated map.
When she was finished, she used that map to navigate to the stored footage of the assault on the proving ground. She couldn’t say why, but a nagging thought pushed her to watch that carnage once more.
Ryann ignored the violence, and concentrated on the backgrounds. She studied those who ran, many too distant to clearly see. She saw groups in the trees, some firing weapons into the chaos while others fled.
And there was the crate. She knew this was the focal point for those in the clearing—at least, before the Proteus had landed—because Murdoch had explained how they supplied the criminals with basic provisions and weapons. So Ryann was not surprised to see so many people around it. Even with the NeoGens attacking, some were still struggling with heavy packs.
One of them jumped from the roof, or maybe he fell, and he collapsed on the ground. He rose, even though his ankle was clearly injured, and he fast-hobbled away. But a NeoGen rushed in, and when the man fell a second time he never rose.
The feed showed him on the ground, flat on his stomach, but with his head staring up at the sky. The view was sickening, but at least the snapping of his neck would have been quick.
Ryann opened other feeds. She focused on the crate, the metal box that withstood this onslaught, the one thing that didn’t change. It was here, she knew, that she’d almost missed something before.
She froze images—the violence was not as evident this way—and studied each intently. She read horror and disbelief on faces, eyes wide, sweat-coated foreheads, muscled arms holding weapons. She saw the lines around their eyes, the grime coating their arms. Some had old tattoos, many had blood running from wounds. Some stood, others crouched down. One looked along the sights of an o
ld Ambrus, his face obscured. The pose was strange, and Ryann wondered why he didn’t connect with his lattice, why he didn’t bring up the weapon’s sights in his lenses.
She backed up a few frames, stopping when his face was visible.
He was thin, his face haggard and his complexion grey. There were bags under his eyes.
And she knew who this was.
Pulse increasing, Ryann zoomed this feed out, then focused in on the man next to the shooter. He was standing, and held a Preben in one hand. His mouth was open in a shout. His face was fuller than his companion, but still showed fear.
Another face she knew so well.
But she had to be mistaken. Hadn’t Murdoch said all the people within the fence were criminals, taken from prisons, the worst of the worst?
Yes, he had. But he’d said a lot of things.
He’d convinced her that the NeoGens were a force for good. He’d forced her to admit that the project was trying to make a positive difference. He’d almost made her believe that he genuinely wanted to help her.
But now, she knew this was nothing but lies. She knew she couldn’t trust a single word that came from his mouth.
She left the Hermes’ system, pulling out slowly, as she’d been taught. But the image wouldn’t leave her, and even when she opened her eyes and stared up at her prison’s ceiling, she could see the faces of Piran and Eljin as they fought for their lives.
The rock pressed in around Deva, a crawl-space too tight to turn in. The air was thin and cold. When she breathed in, she tasted dust and dirt, so dry she had to fight the urge to cough. She could smell her own body.
And she felt safe.
Nobody knew where she was, and even if someone did find this tunnel, none of those meatheads could squeeze in.
She closed her eyes. There was no real point having them open anyway, not when the only light came from a thin line, where a crack ran through to Siren’s office.
This was how she knew about Haven, from the time Siren had questioned—interrogated—Bug and Dart, back when they were dropped from the Hermes. This was where she first heard the name Brice. And this was where she’d heard Siren telling Soldier how she wanted rid of ‘that demon-killing freak’.
Siren was in her office now, tutting and muttering to herself. There were very few words Deva could catch, but she caught the term ‘ghoul’ a number of times.
There was a sharp rapping, a snort from Siren, and then she yelled for her visitor to come in.
“Siren! You need to hear this!”
Axe. Deva would recognise his tone anywhere—not the most unfriendly in this place, but his voice still had a rough edge.
“Hear what? Talk, man!”
“Not from me. You need to listen to him.”
Deva heard shuffling, then the scraping of a chair. When Siren next spoke, her voice echoed in a way that suggested she was pacing.
“You bring him in here? You know who he runs with, don’t you? As if we didn’t have enough problems already with those bloody grey ghouls!”
“I’m not stupid, Siren. He’s had his head covered the whole time. And we took him the scenic route. But…you need to hear what he has to say.”
“You think I can trust anyone Spike sends?”
“Spike didn’t send him.”
“Defecting? He expects mercy?”
“He’s not defecting. He’s…just listen to him. He’ll explain.”
A click—to Deva it sounded like a weapon being readied—was followed by a soft sound, like a hood being removed.
“What do they call you?” Siren asked.
“Pussyripper.” Deva didn’t recognise the voice, but she instantly hated it.
“I doubt it,” Siren said. Then, in a softer tone, “Okay, Pussy. What do you have to say?”
“I’m only here because they told me to come. I want to make that clear. I didn’t want to see inside this stinking place.” Pussy snorted. “Bunch of bloody savages. I’m going to be so pleased when they come for you, you know that? Gods, I’d love to be here when they rip your ugly head from that scrawny body.”
There was a cry, a crash, then a grunt. Deva flinched.
“Stand him back up,” Siren said. “And if you insult me again, I’ll show you what I can rip. We clear?” There was a pause, then, in a quieter but more menacing voice, Siren repeated, “We clear?”
“Sure. But whatever you do to me, it won’t change anything. Those monsters find you too, you’re all dead.”
“You were attacked by demons?”
Pussy snorted again. “Demons! Like we’re scared of them! No, this was those other things. The ones from the drop.”
“The ghouls.”
“Ghouls. Yeah, that works. Bloody grey giants. They attacked us. Just walked right in, ripping doors from frames, killing before we could even raise weapons. You saw them at the drop, right? Well, let me tell you—that’s nothing. That was like…like they weren’t even trying.”
“So they attacked you. Take it they killed a few?”
“A few? Aren’t you listening to me? They slaughtered us. Soon as they got in a room, that was it—everyone gone.”
“But you survived.”
“Only just. You see this leg?”
“What, this one?” There was a cry of pain, and what sounded like someone collapsing on the floor.
Pussy cursed. More shuffling sounds, and a few grunts—Deva assumed he was standing again.
“Yeah, that one,” he said. “They gave me that, then told me to warn everyone else.”
“So you’re working for them.”
“What? No! Of course not.”
“That’s what it sounds like. You’re their errand boy.”
“No! Come on! If I don’t do this, they’ll kill me.”
“And who says I won’t?”
“I came to you first!”
“We’re the closest.”
“Yeah, but…I could have gone to Rampage. He’s not that much further away. And then I’d keep going. I’d probably get to you last. Look, I’m helping you here!”
Deva heard footsteps, and heavy breathing.
“Come on, Siren! I know Spike hated you, but…he’s dead now. Those things—what did you call them? Ghouls? Those ghouls want to destroy us all. You can’t reason with them. They come here, you’re all gone. But if you know, maybe you can do something about it.”
“Thought you said there was nothing we could do.”
“But…but you got a big haul, right? From the drop? Loads of new weapons, yeah? We never got that much, and we didn’t know they were coming. If you have advanced warning…I’m bloody helping you here!”
His voice dissolved into a gurgle, like he was struggling to breathe. And when Siren spoke, her words came through clenched teeth.
“You came into my Warren uninvited. You insulted me. And I have no reason to trust that you are telling the truth. This could all be a trick.”
“No,” Pussy said, his voice cracking, hard to hear. “No trick. Truth.”
“I could kill you. You said I’m smart, and that would be the smart thing to do. See this knife? I keep one side sharp, so that it runs through flesh like butter.” There was a sharp cry. “And the other side I keep blunt. Want to know why?” Her voice dropped lower. “Because a blunt blade hurts a hell of a lot more.”
“Truth! I swear! Please!”
Pussy whimpered, and the crash that followed caused Deva to flinch.
“Lock him up.”
“I have to tell the others!”
There was a slap, sharp as gunfire.
“We verify your story, and maybe you can. But you’re mine now. Just be thankful I’m letting you live a bit longer. You two, take him away.”
Pussy complained, but his voice became distant, disappearing with stomping of boots. There was a thud as the door slammed shut.
“You believe him?” That was Axe
, and Deva had to assume that he had not been alone in bringing this Pussy in.
“Possibly. That’s why I’m keeping him alive.”
“You want me to see if I can get anything else out of him?”
“No. I’m pretty sure he won’t tell us more.”
“So what can I do?”
“For now? Leave me to think. And make sure that freak’s still locked up.”
“The demon-killer? Thought he did good out there.”
“He did. And then the ghouls appeared. It’s a worrying coincidence.” She sighed. “If that bloody Fairy had done her job, we’d already know what happened.”
“But the new freak helped there, too. Without him, Spike’s men might have killed her.”
Siren didn’t answer instantly. Deva heard someone shuffling, thought it was Axe.
“Yes,” she finally said, and Deva could hear the smile in her tones.
“But I thought you liked her.”
“Oh, my dear Axe. Always so one-dimensional. Did I give the impression that I liked the little oddity? Oh, she has her uses, but she screwed up. You think I want anyone working for me if they make mistakes?”
There was a dig at Axe in her voice, Deva knew. But her words stung. Deva shivered.
“But I won’t get rid of her yet. She might have some uses.” There was no warmth in her voice. “She’s small, but she’s feisty. She might make a good distraction for these ghouls, don’t you think?”
Kesia sat in her pilot’s chair and activated the screen. There was a pause as, on the other end of the connection, Murdoch accepted the protocol, and the image appeared.
It was as she expected—the office on the Hermes, his private space. He stood, facing the screen, wearing the same white shirt and black trousers as on their approach to Haven. Totally impractical for field operations, but Kesia had to remind herself that he was orchestrating this without being hands-on.
“It’s done,” she said. Strange, she thought, how he wanted Kesia and the other to report verbally, when all the data was accessible to him through the system.
“Any issues?”
“None with the mission itself.” And, because she knew he expected a summary, she continued. “The operation went as planned. We moved fast enough to catch many of them unawares, and even those who managed to reach weapons were dealt with efficiently. And, as planned, we allowed one survivor to escape.”
