Breakout

by David Ryker

  “Uh, Officer?” Quinn offered. “Are you going to restrain us for the trip back to our cells? That’s SOP for escorting rival gang members, isn’t it?”

  “Huh?” Boychuk blinked as if noticing for the first time that he wasn’t alone.

  Ulysses shook his head. “Why’d you go n’ say that, idjit?”

  Sally simply watched the guard intently, which made Quinn worry that she was planning to attack him. It would be ill-advised to do so—even without his electric baton, Boychuk had a physique and matching skills to be reckoned with—but Sally never seemed to let logic get in her way. To Quinn’s relief, she kept still.

  “Sorry,” the guard said with his hint of an Eastern European accent. “I don’t know where my head is at these days. I think we don’t have to bother with restraints. Just don’t try anything, or I might have to kill you. I don’t want to do that.”

  Quinn shared a glance with his companions, trying to determine if Boychuk was making a joke. The expression on his face seemed to indicate he wasn’t.

  “Uh, no,” said Quinn. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Officer. We’re happy to get back to our cells.”

  “Good,” said Boychuk, pointing them to take the lead in front of him down the corridor. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

  “An’ we don’t wanna be killed, that’s fer shore,” said Ulysses. He was first in the single-file row, followed by Sally and then Quinn bringing up the rear in front of Boychuk.

  “Begging your pardon, Officer,” Quinn said quietly as they walked. “But is everything okay?”

  “Huh?” There was mild alarm in Boychuk’s voice. “Why? What do you mean?”

  They reached the hatch that took them into the central area, and Quinn could feel the pull of gravity lessening on him as they stepped through.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I just thought maybe you sounded a little distracted, that’s all.”

  Boychuk let out a breath. “I feel like I’m always distracted.” He seemed to realize what he’d just said, because he quickly added: “Don’t get any ideas. I’ll kill you as soon as look at you, don’t think I won’t.”

  “There y’go with that killin’ shit agin,” said Ulysses. “Don’t worry, Officer, y’ain’t gonna have to do that with us. I swear on my grandmama’s grave.”

  “I—I didn’t mean actually kill,” Boychuk stammered. “I’m not going to kill anyone, of course not. I never would. I’m just distracted, that’s all.”

  But as they began their ascent up the tube in the center of the station, Quinn couldn’t help but wonder who Boychuk was trying to convince, them or himself.

  17

  Chelsea had never had reason to speak directly with the warden about work-related matters in her six months on Oberon One. Sean Farrell had gone out of his way to talk to her several times, but he invariably turned the conversation to her father. She got the distinct impression Farrell hoped she was complimenting him during her infrequent conversations with her family back on Earth. He never came up, of course, but she didn’t feel the need to tell him that.

  But now—well, not feeding inmates, even ones in solitary confinement, wasn’t just concerning; it was illegal. She would rather their first work discussion hadn’t been on such a serious topic, but that’s how things had worked out.

  She waved her hand over a pad on the outside of Farrell’s anteroom door and a light came on above it, indicating the ID camera had been activated.

  “Warden Farrell, it’s Chelsea Bloom,” she said in her most charming tone. “I apologize for coming without an appointment, but I’m afraid the matter is fairly urgent. Can we meet for a few minutes?”

  There was silence for a full thirty seconds, and she was about the tap the pad again when the door slid open onto the room that adjoined the warden’s office. Farrell didn’t have an admin assistant—it was hard enough to find guards and techs adventurous enough to travel to the edge of space and work in a prison, let alone office staff—so Chelsea was surprised to see someone else in the anteroom, standing next to the warden.

  It was a guard she recognized: Kergan. She didn’t remember his first name, since they’d barely spoken to each other in person, but she’d heard his name from the inmates often enough to have a fair impression of his character.

  “Officer Bloom,” Farrell beamed, sporting a salesman’s grin. “What an unexpected pleasure. You know Officer Kergan, I’m sure?”

  She nodded and smiled at Kergan as she took Farrell’s offered hand. For a moment she thought she could smell stale urine, but she quickly dismissed it as a flashback to the Can with Quinn and the others.

  “Of course,” she said. “Nice to see you.”

  “And you,” Kergan replied. Chelsea didn’t know why, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making an effort not to leer at her.

  “What can I do for you, Chelsea?” asked Farrell. “I hope you don’t mind if we dispense with formalities? You know I’m just plain old Sean to you.”

  She smiled, not feeling it. It had always bothered her that her family’s status changed the way people behaved around her. In fact, the only people on board Oberon One she could trust to tell her exactly what they were thinking were the inmates.

  “I just wanted to bring something to your attention,” she said. “I just signed off on three prisoners in solitary and they told me they hadn’t been fed for some eighteen hours. That, of course, violates regulations, not to mention the terms of the Shanghai Treaty.”

  Farrell’s smile suddenly tightened, which made his handsome, if weathered, face look pained. He turned toward Kergan, his movements strange and stiff.

  “Is that true, Officer?” he asked. The question sounded oddly apologetic to Chelsea.

  Kergan’s face darkened, and she found herself wondering if he was mad at whoever had committed the transgression, or at Farrell for asking him the question.

  “Officer Ridley was the duty officer,” said Kergan, his expression becoming neutral once again. “I’ll be sure to have her report to you for discipline, Sean.”

  Sean? This meeting was starting to feel like an episode of that ancient television show, Black Mirror, that she watched on the free archives once in a while. Where seemingly mundane situations usually had some menacing undercurrent to them.

  He told you to call him Sean, she reminded herself. You don’t know his relationship with Kergan. Smarten up.

  Farrell turned back to her, and now his smile was almost pleading.

  “Does that address your concerns?” he asked. “Anything else we can do for you?”

  “Uh, yes. And no, I don’t need anything else.” Except a ticket out of this office.

  “Excellent!” Farrell cried, clapping his hands together. The relief on his face was almost pathetic. Even Quinn and the other two hadn’t looked like that earlier, and they’d spent the better part of a day in solitary, smelling their own waste.

  Which reminded her again that she smelled urine, and this time the source was unmistakable: it was coming from Farrell.

  “All right, then,” she said, feeling the awkwardness of her own smile. “I, uh, I better go.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the door behind her. “Got work to do.”

  “Yes,” Farrell agreed, nodding frantically. “Work! Lots of work to do.” He let out a brief, hysterical bark of laughter. “Pitter patter, get at’ er!”

  Pitter patter, get the fuck outta here, Chelsea thought with growing alarm.

  “Yes, sir,” she said and speed-walked toward the door. “Thank you for your time and consideration. Officer Kergan, nice to see you.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” Kergan replied in a tone that indicated the exact opposite was true.

  It seemed like eons before the door slid closed behind her. When she was sure she was alone in the corridor, she held up her hands, palms forward, and shook her head violently. After a few deep breaths, she started down the corridor, walking faster than she could ever remember doing in the six months she’d
been on the station.

  18

  “We have a problem.”

  Kevin Sloane’s voice would have sounded oddly flat to most others on the station, but his current companions in the anteroom outside the warden’s office didn’t notice.

  “I disagree,” Butch Kergan replied. “Things are working out quite well.”

  The guard’s self-satisfied grin prompted a flash of mild annoyance in Sloane, which, he recognized, was part of the problem he was trying to address.

  “Proper attenuation has not been achieved,” he continued. “The four of us are failures. This is unprecedented.”

  To his left, Iona Ridley sat at the meeting table, fidgeting with the controls of her wrist unit. Beside her, Sean Farrell rocked back and forth in his seat like a child, his eyes vacant.

  Kergan, however, held his seat at the end of the table with calm good humor. He was enjoying this. That was also part of the problem.

  “I don’t see that as a problem in the slightest,” he said.

  Sloane felt his annoyance growing, which was alarming in itself. As with all the attenuated, the two had the ability to share their thoughts to a degree, but Sloane had found himself unable to receive anything more than the most rudimentary impulses of Kergan’s mind.

  “I recommend aborting,” he said. “Only two full attenuations have been achieved.”

  Kergan grinned. “Yes, the females. They’ve been quite… receptive.”

  Sloane felt a strange sensation of pushing as the entity that shared his consciousness came forward. The relationship had been terrifying for him at first, but, as with Kergan, he had found a balance with his new passenger fairly quickly. When his passenger spoke, he felt as if he was listening to a recording of his own voice.

  “Attenuation is the only objective. Your vessel has taken control of you. That is not acceptable.” There was a pause as Sloane felt his mind shift back into a position next to his passenger. “Using vessels to satisfy your vessel’s urges is unacceptable.”

  Ridley suddenly rounded on him, her eyes flashing.

  “You’re not in charge, he is!” she snapped. “Don’t tell him what to do or I’ll kill you.”

  Sloane felt his passenger relinquish more control of their shared mind, and understood that it was because the entity believed he had a better chance at being heard and understood by Kergan. As his mind came forward, he felt his emotions return and sharpen. His passenger warned him to tread carefully.

  “This is an example of the failure,” Sloane said, waving a hand in Ridley’s direction. “This one only feels violent impulses.”

  Kergan grinned. “Of course she does. Violent impulses are what attenuation is all about.”

  “Incorrect. Attenuation is the subjugation of the vessel’s will. You know this.”

  “Yes,” said Kergan, raising a finger. “Subjugation of the will in order to perform violent actions.”

  “Incorrect. The objective of subjugation is the establishment of order.”

  “By violent means.”

  “That is irrelevant.” Sloane was struggling to keep the emotions dampened.

  Kergan leaned forward on the conference table, his grin looking even more smug now. “It’s not irrelevant at all. In fact, I think it’s the crux of the matter, and it’s why we need to continue with our plans.”

  Sloane blinked but stayed silent. On the other side of the table, Farrell let out a low moan as he rocked.

  “I agree that things haven’t gone the way they were supposed to,” said Kergan. “It’s obvious that these vessels are different from any species we have encountered before. And yes, Sean here can be classified as a complete failure.”

  “He should be fully attenuated so that you can take direct control. Then he will be useful.”

  Kergan shook his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I find him quite useful. He’s hilarious.”

  “What?” Annoyance prickled in him again… only this time, it wasn’t his. It was coming from his passenger.

  “We’re feeling things that we haven’t felt before,” said Kergan. “I can sense it in you even now. This is unprecedented. Attenuation has always meant complete control over the vessel’s thoughts. But something about this species is different. And I’m enjoying it.”

  “Full attenuation is possible,” Sloane protested. “The two females prove that.”

  “Yes,” Kergan said with a nod. “They were very receptive. But we have also experienced numerous failures. The men known by our vessels as the Jarheads, for example, have resisted two full attempts. A third attempt would very likely kill them.”

  “That is of no consequence.” But did Sloane really believe that, or was it just his passenger talking?

  “It is of consequence in this situation,” said Kergan. “This station is a holding facility for this species. There are a limited number of vessels; two hundred and fifty-seven, to be exact. The rest of the species are on their home planet.”

  “Which is why we must assemble the amplifier. Once we fully attenuate the entire population of this station and modify the existing ships, we can travel to Earth and complete our objective.”

  It was how it had always been for their species. They were parasites, existing solely as thought energy, and they were forced to subjugate the minds of other species in order to survive and reproduce. This was achieved by attenuating a small group, then inciting that group to attack its own species. Once all resistance was eliminated, the amplifier allowed for full attenuation and a new colony was established.

  Those colonies then went on to subjugate worlds throughout the known galaxy. The species existed as distinct aspects of a collective consciousness, which allowed for the instantaneous sharing of information. Whatever one knew, all knew. Because of that, every new colony had access to the knowledge, and therefore the technology, of all the others. It was just a matter of building it.

  But the genesis of their situation on Oberon had been somewhat different. The species had originated in a subspace dimension, and every so often certain circumstances allowed for a new aspect of it to emerge from that dimension into the physical universe. When the meteorites had struck the moon’s surface a week earlier, they caused a deposit of a rare element within its mantle to vibrate at a particular frequency, which drew the entity to it, and subsequently to the first mind it encountered. In this case, Sloane’s.

  That same element was the key to building the amplifier they would need to attenuate the entire population, and then to create their first army once they reached Earth.

  Sloane and Kergan shared the images of all of this via their bond. Ridley, who had only the most rudimentary of connections to the hive mind, could only perceive snatches of it. Her lips pursed into a pout, and Sloane could feel the desperate jealousy coming from the vessel.

  “This male and female are distracting,” he said, pointing to Ridley and Farrell. His passenger had relinquished much of its control to allow him to speak more directly to Kergan’s vessel. “We should attenuate them fully.”

  “There is no need,” said Kergan. “You’ve seen the effect I have on them. They are compliant.”

  Sloane couldn’t argue with that. Kergan did seem to have an adequate level of control over them, as well as the rest of the guards on the station who hadn’t been attenuated. Sloane himself had fully attenuated the technicians who worked for him, but some unknown factor was allowing Kergan to influence the thinking of his subordinates without fully taking over their minds.

  “Regardless, we should attenuate them fully.”

  Kergan shook his head. “Another attempt without the amplifier could kill them.”

  “It is of no consequence.”

  “It is to me. I enjoy making them do things.”

  Frustration bubbled in Sloane’s chest again, alarming his passenger. “Why?” he asked.

  Kergan leaned back in his chair and Sloane could sense him taking more control over the passenger, which he didn’t understand. He himself
had to wait until the thing that shared his mind allowed him to do so, but Kergan seemed to be almost a full partner in the relationship.

  “They treated this vessel poorly,” said the guard. “I’m getting… I believe the word is revenge.”

  “Revenge is of no consequence,” Sloane said emphatically.

  “Maybe not, but it’s what I want. I also want to keep using those two females.”

  “Your desires are irrelevant!”

  Kergan’s grin widened. “On the contrary. I think it’s this vessel’s desires that have made it such an interesting partner. And I believe we can accomplish much together.”

  “Yes, we can!” chirped Ridley, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll help! You’ll see, I can help! I’ll kill anyone you want!”

  Sloane’s brow furrowed, and this time he felt that he and his passenger were completely in synch. It wasn’t lost on either of them that Kergan had used the term partner instead of the proper word, vessel.

  “She is a failure,” he said. “Violent thoughts without full attenuation are dangerous. She is unpredictable.”

  “That’s why I like her,” said Kergan. He leaned toward Ridley and planted a deep, wet kiss on her mouth. “Also, I enjoy mating with her.”

  The feeling in Sloane’s gut could only be described as revulsion. Everything about this situation was wrong, and his passenger agreed, but what could he do about it? Their species relied entirely on hosts for continued existence, and the biological imperative demanded they reproduce.

  Adapt, said the thing in his mind. Evolve.

  “I can see that you won’t be dissuaded,” he said. “We will continue according to plan. I will send vessels to the moon to retrieve what we need, then I will build the amplifier.”

  “Excellent,” said Kergan. “Iona and I will make sure that you have all the resources you need.”

  “And if people don’t like it, we’ll kill them!” she hooted, startling Sean Farrell and prompting him to rock even harder in his seat.