by Jamie Sawyer
“I think so,” I said. “I hope so.”
Novak nudged Feng in the shoulder. “You are okay, for Directorate, yes?”
Feng managed a weak grin. “Thanks, big guy.”
“So now all we have to do is get off this rock,” Lopez said.
Pariah shifted. It had been quiet throughout the process. Now, it hooked a claw towards the view-port. At Jiog Port.
“The infected are still coming,” it said. “There is not much time.”
“How exactly are we going to get the fish in there?” Lopez said. “No offence, Pariah, but that’s a Directorate facility. They’ll shoot you on sight.”
Pariah flexed its limbs. A pair of barb-guns popped out with a wet shucking sound, making Lopez jump. The weapons looked like pistols, but were made from gristle, bone and shell. Although this was the alien’s primary armament, and I’d seen the xeno do this trick many times before, I’d assumed that the Directorate had somehow removed Pariah’s weapons.
“You could’ve just used those earlier, you know,” Lopez suggested.
“Unnecessary,” countered Pariah. “Physical force was sufficient to neutralise the not-Alliance.”
“They’re called the Directorate,” Zero offered. “And Lopez has a point. How are any of us going to get through security?”
“We have an idea,” said the Voice, “although I don’t think that you’re going to like it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN
“This is the best that you could come up with?”
“In the circumstances, yes, this is the best we could come up with,” said the Voice. “It’s better than getting wasted, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
But only just, I thought.
The Jackals had stripped the train crew’s uniforms, and then put them on. Simple as that: we were now dressed in full Directorate attire. As plans went, this wasn’t exactly a strategy.
“These guys sure like black,” Zero said, pressing down her suit. Every feature of the uniform was consistently black, rubberised, capable of covering almost every inch of the wearer’s body.
“It’s a lifestyle choice,” I muttered. “Just make sure that you keep the hoods up, people.”
The uniforms were equipped with built-in respirators and atmosphere-hoods covered with a transparent face-plate, semi-mirrored, obviously a safety precaution for use on the surface. A long, trunk-like breathing tube reached from the respirator to the control unit on the chest.
“We look ridiculous,” Novak said.
“You sure do,” Feng chided.
Of all the Jackals, Novak looked the most out of place. The Directorate uniform clearly wasn’t made with the physique of a Russian convict in mind … Novak’s gang didn’t look much better than him.
“Try to hunch or something,” I said to Novak. “Make yourself look smaller.”
He grunted, and slumped forward. The suit was strained over his massive shoulders, at least a couple of sizes too small for him. Even his head looked crammed in behind the face-plate of his hood.
“At least you got the suit without bloodstains on it,” Lopez complained. Although we’d chosen the least damaged uniforms, many were holed by gunfire or torn by Novak’s frenzied assault.
“And you’re ready, too, P?” I asked.
Pariah twitched aggressively. “We are aware of the plan.”
“Even if you don’t like it, huh?” Lopez said.
Pariah lifted its thin lip in a thoroughly, and uncomfortably, human gesture of disdain. Its whisker-like barbels bristled.
“We do not,” it said. “But we understand the need.”
We’d found some restraints in one of the security lockers, and Pariah’s front limbs and legs were shackled. The manacles were strong and heavy. Lopez had activated the mag-locks in an attempt to make Pariah’s custody look convincing, but they still looked woefully inadequate given the alien’s size.
“How do we know that the Directorate won’t shoot Pariah on sight?” Zero asked.
“We don’t,” I said. “It’s a tactical gamble.”
Feng glared out of the train’s windscreen. “Automated docking is commencing. We need to move.”
The train had begun to slow. We passed under the shadow of Jiog Port; its outline cast a silhouette by the setting sun. A docking station was visible at the base of the structure, a black tunnel waiting to accept the train.
“Do you have transport arranged, once we get in there?” I asked the Voice.
“It’s been taken care of.”
“I hope it’s a nice, fast ship.”
The Voice chuckled. “I never said anything about a ship. Off-world transports are restricted.”
“So there’s no ship?”
Everyone paused, listening in to one side of my conversation with the Voice.
“Of course there’s no ship. This is a prison planet, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“So why are you sending us to the spaceport? It’s going to be crawling with Directorate forces!”
“Calm down. Like I said, it’s been taken care of. You’re travelling freight class.”
Closer still to Jiog Port, I made out several thick black lines—heavy cables—that connected the port to the sky above. Each disappeared into the ugly clouds.
Space elevators.
“Head towards the cargo sector,” the Voice said, “and keep your heads down. You’re taking the lift.”
We emerged into Jiog Port, the Jackals surrounding Pariah as though transporting a prisoner of war. The alien plodded along in time with our march.
“Are you sure about this?” Lopez asked me. She was having a sudden, and very understandable, crisis of confidence. “I mean, we’re dressed as train crew. Why are train crew transporting a Krell prisoner?”
“Of course I’m not sure,” I said. “But it’s not like we have much of a choice. Now just try to look like Directorate.”
Feng jabbed Lopez in the shoulder with his weapon. “It’s because the planet is under an evacuation order,” Feng suggested, “and Pariah is a priority prisoner.”
“That sounds marvellous,” I replied. “We get stopped, that’s exactly what you should tell the Directorate.”
This was crunch time, and it was hard not to feel anxious. If we were discovered, we could expect a slow and painful death.
“Keep your visors polarised, hoods up,” I ordered, “and your communicators tuned to this channel, at all times.”
The uniforms carried a short-range suit-to-suit comms system.
“We’re doing just the same as everyone else,” Feng muttered by way of encouragement. “No different to thousands of other worker-proles.”
And Feng was right about that. The station teemed with black-suited civilian workers, completely anonymous, totally faceless. All wearing the same gear, more or less, as the Jackals. They gave us a wider berth because of P—not even the Directorate wanted to stand within scent distance of a fish head—but the alien was otherwise attracting surprisingly little attention. Pariah wasn’t the only Krell in captivity down here. Other specimens were being moved as well, either herded by military escorts or sealed in cryogenic capsules. They didn’t look infected, but from nerve-plugs to flesh-grafts each and every one showed signs of Directorate experimentation.
“Chu, do you know which way we’re going?” Zero asked.
Feng nodded, indicated ahead. There was Korean text printed on the wall. “Cargo terminal is through that sector.”
“You should be able to see the elevator when you reach the checkpoint,” the Voice said over the joint comms. Feng had also aligned the suit-to-suit communicator to the same channel as the Voice was using, and now everyone was treated to the Voice’s pearls of wisdom …
“Right, right,” Lopez said. “But I’m still struggling to understand why you couldn’t arrange a shuttle.”
“Struggle away,” said the Voice. “It couldn’t be organised, okay?”
“
But if this doesn’t work, we’re basically trapped down here. A ship would be so much easier.”
“PMA,” the Voice replied. “‘Positive mental attitude.’ Look it up sometime.”
“If I get the chance, I might just do that,” Lopez said.
Zero prickled. “Company incoming, people.”
Squads of troops marched past, boarding tracked armoured personnel carriers, mounting dropships that sat on landing spars above us. The soldiers moved in tight drill formation, with a precision that I doubted any Alliance Army unit had ever achieved. Hundreds of personnel, from several military branches.
“The infected have breached the cordon around this facility,” Pariah declared. The alien’s vocals were being piped directly into our comms system as well. “They will be here soon. They will terminate the not-Alliance.”
Pariah watched the movements of the other xenos with what I took to be curiosity.
“Can you feel anything from those Krell?” I asked. “What do the Directorate want with them?”
“Cannot sense others,” P said. “Not of Collective.”
“The Directorate should have quarantine protocols in place,” Zero suggested. “I mean, we know that Pariah can’t be infected, but what about those other specimens?”
We really didn’t know that as a fact at all. Exactly how vulnerable or otherwise P was to the plague was one of many unknowns that surrounded the bio-form. Still, P didn’t correct Zero, which perhaps told its own story.
Lopez squirmed beside me. “Can … can we be infected?”
“You’re not a fish, Lopez,” Feng rebuked. “You keep asking this question.”
“We’ve all seen the mess that the virus makes of the Krell,” Lopez said churlishly. “Pardon me if I’d rather not end up like that.”
“So far as we know, it’s species specific,” I said. Again, I really didn’t know that as a fact. “No need to worry about it, Lopez.”
Lopez muttered back, “That’s not very reassuring, ma’am. Those infected fishes still give me nightmares.”
“Is like dead, yes?” Novak said, struggling to express himself. “We have word for this, back in Norilsk. Is strigoi.”
“They were more like a Christo-damned zomb—” Lopez started.
“Don’t,” I said. “Just don’t say it.”
Because saying it makes it real, right?
“But what about the other Krell in this port?” Zero said. “That’s my point. It’s something the Directorate should be thinking about. The infection could be airborne, for all we know. There’s a real safety risk here—”
Zero’s words were cut off as a flight of security drones scattered overhead, and the Jackals unconsciously paused beside a metal arch. The drones disappeared back the way that we had come, towards the train station.
“We need to go through here,” Feng said.
The flow of personnel was interrupted by a security gate. Directorate soldiers in light armour were checking civilians as they approached. They wore helmet-mounted scanning apparatus. Like docile animals, the civilians paused to be examined, face-plates becoming transparent as they were inspected by the security detail.
“Ah, fuck it,” Lopez said. “So close!”
“You got any ideas, Voice?” I asked.
The Voice paused. “No. You’re going to have to get through this on your own.”
We were beginning to hold up the tide of civilians, and one of the guards was eyeing us from his post. Granted, that could’ve just been my imagination—paranoia is a powerful master—but we couldn’t stand around here for long without drawing attention.
The guard suddenly barked something and waved towards us.
“What did he say, Feng?” Novak asked.
“He wants credentials,” said Feng.
Lopez’s hand went to the holstered pistol at her belt. “Shit. Our cover’s blown.”
“Wait,” I hissed, pushing Lopez’s hand away. “Not until I give the order.”
There was motion to my left.
At first, I thought that something had landed in the crowd, had fallen from overhead. There were gantries and walkways up there, interlacing the open hallways. But quickly I realised that was not the case. The crowd was moving, forming a circle around something on the concourse …
A worker detail had been transporting a Krell, lining up with the other evacuees. This particular specimen was a slimy-wet primary-form, much smaller than Pariah, with nerve-staples pocking its torso and head. It didn’t look well, but then they never do, and it was impossible to tell whether the alien had started out this way or its condition was a more recent development. Its hide was speckled and blotched red—maybe of the Red Fin shoal, although I was no expert in Krell identification. Like P, the xeno was chained at the limbs, but also had a shock collar clamped around its neck.
The alien sort of stumbled, falling into its handlers. One carried a shock-baton, and slammed it into the xeno’s leg. The alien pitched forward some more …
And vomited a torrent of blood and mucus.
What happened next was almost mesmerising. The alien spasmed, pulling at the bonds holding its wrists. Black splashes were visible across its hide. Those shifted. Even as I watched, they grew.
I guess that Zero had her answer.
The handler hit the alien with his baton again. Bright blue light crackled across the fish’s carapace, and it almost went down.
But not quite. A limb broke free from the bonds. The xeno grabbed for the handler, and threw him into the air. He came down among the civilians with a sickening crack.
The Krell had now completely broken free, and its body was more black than green. Silver filigree spread across its head, and its eyes had turned completely dead.
Pariah had enough tactical acumen to restrain itself from acting, although I could sense that was no easy decision for the fish.
“It’s happening,” I said. “The virus is spreading.”
Even the smaller Krell bio-forms were much taller than the humans that made up the crowd, and they were visible as islands in the sea of workers. Other Krell were also turning now. Several were rebelling against the Directorate. Had the virus become airborne, or was this the result of something the Directorate had done? For all I knew, these specimens could’ve been infected before their capture.
A ripple of panic spread through the crowd, workers jostling us. Novak pushed some aside. A tannoy began to drone on in the background, the words lost to me, but the intent clear. The place was being evacuated.
The guard’s attention was elsewhere. The tide of workers and soldiers swelled. A gun went off behind us. There was shouting, then the scream of dying Krell. An explosion.
“They’re here,” the Voice said. “You’ve got to get out of there.”
Then the crush started.
A handful of civilians breached the security checkpoint, and the guards didn’t even try to stop them. It wasn’t that they had lost discipline, but rather that there were bigger—much bigger—things to worry about.
That was all the distraction we needed.
“Stay together!” I hollered. I struggled to compete with the noise and chaos spreading through the hall.
Novak yelled the same order at his convict crew, but their numbers had already thinned. Several disappeared beneath the crowd.
“P, do your thing!”
Pariah flexed its limbs and the manacles holding them snapped apart. The xeno took up battle-stance, both barb-guns extended, its upper raptorial limbs deployed like those of a massive praying mantis.
The effect was immediate. The crowd parted around us.
“Take Cargo Rail Three,” the Voice said.
“This way!” Feng called.
As one, we vaulted over the checkpoint. A stampede of civilians followed us.
The next terminal was filled with metal crates and deactivated robotic loaders. Against the far wall, twenty or so metres away from our position, were four cargo rails: vertical tracks, each loade
d with a heavy industrial lift. Three of them were ready for launch, with pods the size of large elevator carts docked at the base of the rail.
Zero waved. “There! Those cargo pods will go up the track and into space.”
“Sounds great,” Lopez said. “Let’s move.”
Everyone seemed to have the same idea. Lopez fired a volley of warning shots into the air, clearing the way to the nearest rail. The crowd surged around us. Several civvies scattered into the forest of cargo crates, using them as cover.
“Those pods aren’t for human use,” Feng said, nodding at the closest signage.
“Then it’s lucky that we’re Jackals,” I said. “So this is your flight plan, Voice?”
“It’s the safest way off-world,” the Voice said. “Don’t worry; the pods are pressurised.”
“Really?” I asked.
The Voice paused before answering. “Yeah, sure. Probably.”
We found Cargo Rail Three. Feng activated the pod controls, and the iris-style metal door slid open. Inside, the pod was a metal box a few metres across, empty save for a cargo crate in one corner. It had a small scratched and battered window and a rudimentary control panel by the door.
We were finally in, although the door sat open behind us.
“We ready?” Feng asked.
I nodded. “Do it.”
Some controls inside the door flickered green. I hoped that was atmospheric control, but who knew? There was no time to check.
“They come,” said Pariah.
“You need to get that door shut, Feng!” Lopez exclaimed.
Whatever Collective these Krell had originally come from, they now shared the kinship of infection. As one, they made their own push for the gate. Could infected Krell communicate with each other? That seemed likely; simultaneously, across the concourse, several broke through a hole in a wall. They began to butcher the closest targets—throwing aside eviscerated bodies. Directorate soldiers opened fire on them and met immediate resistance from bio-weapons.
The remaining civilians began to run for the pods. A soldier with a rifle yelled a warning, firing a volley into another group of evacuees.
“Launch the fucking pod!” Lopez shouted, more insistent now. “Do it!”
