The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  Avis had to smile as they took up their positions. She’d thought she’d seen enough of serious combat. Getting a job with the Cavendish Corporation had seemed like a good way to keep her toe in the water without either remaining in the Marine Corps or joining a mercenary group. She certainly hadn’t expected anything more dangerous than bar fights and lovers’ quarrels . . . besides, the drunkards on Supreme would wet their pants if they walked into a marine bar during happy hour. Now . . . now she was taking part in a last stand that no one would ever know about . . .

  “They’re striking at all four hatches,” Robinson said. “We’re in trouble.”

  Avis nodded. No resupply, no backup . . . unless the other guys got down to Main Engineering in time. A nightmare. They were very short on ammunition. She shot Robinson a sidelong glance. They were on their own, for all intents and purposes. The engineers couldn’t put up a real fight.

  “It’s been fun,” she said. She stuck out a hand. “I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

  “Yeah,” Robinson said. He shook her hand. “I did.”

  A moment later, the hatch exploded inwards.

  “Main Engineering reports that they’re on track to get everything finished in time,” Jeanette said. “But Conrad’s death . . .”

  Paul nodded harshly. Engineering needed someone who could not only supervise but fix problems as they popped up before they turned into disasters. Roman Bryon—damn the man!—might just have killed them all. Roeder’s staff were good, but they didn’t have his vast experience.

  “Keep focused,” he snapped. “Do we have main power?”

  “Twenty minutes,” Jeanette said.

  “All control systems are online,” Rani reported. “But I don’t know how long they’ll hold out.”

  “As long as they last long enough to get us out of here,” Paul said. He rubbed his forehead. “Security report?”

  “They’re pushing into Gold Deck,” Slater said. “I don’t know how they made those damned grenades, sir, but they smashed through one of our barricades and hit the hatch before we could get reinforcements in place. Half of them look like fucking zombies.”

  “Order the women and children to retreat,” Paul said. “And concentrate on guarding the access route to the bridge.”

  He glanced at his wristcom. Nineteen minutes . . .

  “Rani,” he said quietly, “if they start to break through the bridge hatch, activate the vortex generator . . .”

  Rani turned to stare at him. “Sir?”

  “You heard me,” Paul said. Supreme’s command-and-control network was already shot to hell. There was no time to set up a system to trigger the vortex generator from Main Engineering, let alone the secondary bridge. Something that could have been done with the press of a button, once upon a time, was now an impossible task. “If there’s a chance of them taking the bridge, we’ll leap.”

  “. . . Aye, sir,” Rani said.

  Paul watched as she turned back to her console. He understood her concerns, better perhaps than she suspected. The moment they triggered the power surge, the flickers would start to drain it. And if it fell below the threshold for opening a vortex, they were dead. There would be no further hope of escape.

  But we won’t have hope if a bunch of fanatics storm the bridge and get us killed, he told himself. We have to take the risk or die.

  “Main Engineering reports that the defenses are holding, for the moment,” Slater reported. “The reinforcements will be there in five minutes.”

  “Thank God,” Paul said. He glanced at his wristcom. Ten minutes to go. “I—”

  An alarm sounded. “They’ve broken through the lower hatches,” Slater said, checking his wristcom. “They’ll be on the bridge in two minutes.”

  “Shit,” Paul muttered. He drew his pistol. “We’ll make our stand here.” He looked at Rani. “You know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rani said. “The command set is already programmed into the system.”

  Paul sucked in a breath. Did they have enough time? All their planning was based on guesswork . . . and something that couldn’t even be called that. There were too many unknowns . . .

  “Send a signal to Spider,” he ordered. “The charge is to be detonated in two minutes.”

  He braced himself. The system was as simple as his engineers could make it. He hoped, prayed, that it couldn’t be disabled. The flickers hadn’t shown any real ability to manipulate matter, had they? And yet, there were the weird reports from some of the search parties on the lower decks. They’d reported seeing entire decks twisting out of shape . . .

  They were seeing things, he told himself. We are all seeing things.

  “Punch the vortex as soon as the charge detonates,” he ordered. “We won’t have much time.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Angela watched, feeling cold, as Finley stepped towards her. She couldn’t move. Her legs refused to obey her. Her eyes flickered from side to side, seeking a help she knew wasn’t coming. Matt and Constable Singh and their friends were tied up, Nancy off in her own little world, Marie lying on the deck, bleeding to death. Angela was half-convinced her governess was already dead, yet another person who had died to save her from herself . . .

  Finley loomed over her. His eyes caught and held her gaze. She couldn’t believe, now, that she’d ever thought of him as a colorless milksop. He’d hidden his true nature well, but now . . . free of all consequences, the real Finley could emerge. Or maybe the voices had driven him to madness. She could hear them at the back of her mind as he reached out, yanked her to her feet, and shoved her back against the bulkhead. She still couldn’t make out their words.

  “Let go of her,” Matt pleaded. “Please . . .”

  “Take me instead,” Carla said. Angela gaped at her. “I can—”

  Finley hit her, hard. She fell to the side and lay still.

  “Watch,” Finley growled. His voice sounded animalistic, all traces of humanity gone. “She is mine.”

  Angela’s arms felt heavy. She couldn’t raise them, even to defend herself. The voices howled in her head, mocking her. She had to fight to keep her legs from buckling, to keep from collapsing in front of him. Finley couldn’t see her weaken any further . . . she knew it didn’t matter. He already knew that she was no match for him.

  Think, she screamed at herself.

  She wanted to lift her leg and knee him in the groin, but her legs refused to move. She was too scared to move, too convinced that whatever she did would bring her only more pain. Finley was going to kill her; she knew he was going to kill her, but she couldn’t muster the energy to resist. The voices grew louder and louder, drowning out her thoughts. She staggered as they hammered against what remained of her sanity, inviting her to surrender. She knew, now, why so many people had just given in. The assault was overpowering. She had to bite her lip to keep from collapsing entirely.

  “Take off your clothes,” Finley ordered, his face consumed with an unholy lust. “Do it slowly.”

  Angela shuddered. He was going to rape her in front of her little sister . . . she opened her mouth to appeal to him, but she knew it would be useless. Finley was insane . . . or gone, replaced by a monster. And Nancy was staring up at the ceiling, mumbling to herself as the lights flickered constantly.

  A dull throbbing echoed through the deck . . .

  “I said undress,” Finley growled. “Now.”

  Think, Angela told herself. Her hands went to her shirt, despite herself. What was one meant to do if one was taken prisoner by a maniac? It wasn’t something she’d ever been taught . . . her thoughts ran round and round in circles, mocking her. There has to be a way out.

  A thought struck her. It wasn’t much, but . . .

  “Not here,” she said. She nodded to Singh’s bed. “On the bed.”

  Finley’s mouth dropped open in an inhuman expression. “And do you think it will be better there?”

  “Nancy won’t
see,” Angela said. She didn’t know if Nancy was seeing anything—there was a vacant look in her sister’s eyes that chilled her to the bone—but it was a reasonable request. “Please. I’ll do anything as long as Nancy doesn’t have to watch.”

  Finley smirked, the expression growing wider and wider as he drank in her fear and submission. The voices had been right. Angela was offering herself to him, offering to surrender . . . for a price. And it pleased him. He reached out and tugged her forward, then pushed her towards the bed. Nancy didn’t have to watch; she belonged to the voices anyway, but Matt would have no choice. He’d watch as his lover surrendered completely . . . a fitting last memory. Finley was going to kill the bastard as soon as he had his fun.

  He watched, admiring Angela as she stumbled over to the bed, her hands running under the pillows. He was going to enjoy himself with her, using pain and pleasure until she knew no will but his. And then he was going to kill her . . .

  “Get your trousers down,” he ordered. He couldn’t wait any longer. “Stay in that position; just get your trousers down.”

  Angela turned, a gun in her hand.

  Finley gaped at it. The shock was enough to drive some of the cobwebs out of his mind. A gun . . . where had she found a gun?

  Terror froze him, just for a second. His prey wasn’t meant to be able to fight back! She was his . . . the voices screamed at him, ordering him forward. But it was too late.

  Matt watched, torn between relief and astonishment, as Angela pointed the gun at Finley and pulled the trigger. The gun fired, time and time again, the sound echoing in the confined chamber. Finley staggered, his hands going to his chest, but somehow remained on his feet. Blood dripped down to the deck, yet . . . somehow . . . he kept going. Angela’s eyes were wide with horror as the gun clicked dry.

  “Up,” Singh snapped.

  Matt forced himself to his feet and hurled himself at Finley’s legs. The man staggered, then fell on the deck. Matt fell also, grunting as he hit the hard surface. His ears were ringing . . . Angela was screaming. The voices were screaming too. Sickbay suddenly seemed a vast and unknowable alien place. The shadows changing . . .

  Finley convulsed once, then lay still. Matt forced himself to roll over, tugging helplessly at his bonds. Finley wasn’t moving, but that meant nothing. The man had taken one hell of a beating earlier and just kept coming. And yet Angela had put five or six bullets in Finley’s chest. The shock alone should have killed him.

  “Matt,” Angela said. She wrapped her shaking arms around him. “I . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Matt said. He wished he could hug her back. “It’s all right.”

  “You need to untie us,” Singh said. “Quickly.”

  Angela flushed. “I killed him,” she said as she untied Matt. “Didn’t I?”

  Matt hesitated, then carefully checked Finley’s pulse. Gone. The wound in his chest certainly didn’t look survivable. A low quiver ran through the hull, and he smiled, despite himself. The drives were powering up. It wouldn’t be long before Supreme tried to jump out.

  “He’s definitely dead,” Singh said once he was untied. He gave Carla a quick once-over. “She’s knocked out, but alive. She should recover.”

  He gave Angela a warm smile. “Well done, miss.”

  “Thank you,” Angela said. She took hold of Matt’s arm and held it tightly. “I . . .”

  Singh gave them a reproving look, then tapped his wristcom meaningfully. “You’d better report to your CO, lad,” he said. “I’ll check the door.”

  Angela looked down at the pistol. “Do you have more . . . more bullets?”

  “I have a spare clip,” Singh said. He took the pistol and hunted through his jacket until he found the bullets. “But I don’t know how much use they will be.”

  Matt nodded and keyed his wristcom. “Captain, this is Evans in Sickbay,” he said. “We killed our guard and broke free. I don’t know what’s happened to the others.”

  “Attacking the bridge,” a voice said. The signal was so bad that Matt didn’t realize who was speaking at first. Normally, he would never have spoken to the captain without going through several intermediate layers first. “Can you do something to get them off our backs?”

  “We can try,” Singh said into his own wristcom. He checked his pistol. “Doctor, are there any other weapons here?”

  “No,” Joan said. Angela untied her, quickly. “You might be able to recover weapons from the guards outside, but . . . I don’t know how much difference it will make.”

  “None,” Nancy said. She turned to face them as another quiver ran through the hull. “Your escape plan is futile. We have your ship now.”

  Matt swallowed. Nancy seemed . . . larger somehow, as if she were slipping into dimensions he couldn’t even begin to perceive. Her eyes were inky pools of darkness. Blood leaked from her mouth and palms, dripping downward and splashing on the deck, but she didn’t seem to care. She stood as though she were a much older woman, gazing down at them from a great height. His eyes had problems even looking at her.

  “You enjoy it,” Angela said. She clung to Matt desperately. “You like making us suffer.”

  “You exist to feed us,” Nancy said. “You are ours.”

  “We’re not yours yet,” Matt snarled.

  “You don’t understand,” Nancy, or the thing speaking through Nancy, said. “You are already ours. You feed us.”

  Matt gritted his teeth. The tiredness pervading them all . . . the flickers were draining them, inch by inch. He understood, now, why they’d driven so many people to madness. The dementia created more energy for their consumption . . . or, perhaps, it made it easier to harvest the passengers. They . . .

  “Angela, I have to go to the bridge,” he said. He wasn’t sure what he and Singh could do, but they’d think of something. They’d have to think of something. “Can you stay here with the doctor and Nancy?”

  “It is futile,” Nancy informed them as Singh left the compartment and headed farther into Sickbay. “You may as well stay where you are.”

  “Humans don’t give up,” Matt snapped.

  Nancy said nothing.

  Angela squeezed his arm. “You’ll come back, right?”

  “I will,” Matt promised. Singh returned, carrying a pair of small canisters under his arm. “Whatever it takes, I’ll come back.”

  He gave her one last hug, then hurried out the door. A dozen bodies were lying on the deck, including a couple of people he recognized. He wondered, as he searched them for potential weapons, which side they’d been on. The battle for Supreme was practically a civil war, with friends on both sides of the divide. He hoped, prayed, that the fanatics returned to normal once Supreme was out of the lobster pot.

  “When I get back,” he muttered, “I’m going to apply for a post on a prison barge.”

  Singh surprised him by laughing. “It would be safer, wouldn’t it?”

  He picked up a pistol from one of the bodies and passed it to Matt. “Not much ammunition,” he said. “Didn’t your corporate masters anticipate a mass uprising?”

  “It wasn’t on the training syllabus,” Matt said. He’d thought Supreme could handle any internal trouble, hopefully without the majority of the passengers ever realizing that something had happened. But he’d been wrong. “A terrible oversight.”

  “Quite.” Singh started towards the companionway. “We’d better hurry. I don’t know how much time we have.”

  Matt nodded, following him up to Gold Deck. The interior of the ship had been devastated: the bulkheads were charred and pocketed by bullet marks; bodies lay everywhere, unconscious or dead. Some had been savagely mutilated; others looked as though they’d killed themselves . . . he wondered if they’d gone to their deaths hoping to spite the aliens one last time. Perhaps the aliens didn’t eat souls . . .

  And perhaps they do, Matt thought. Hadn’t someone once speculated that souls were nothing more than an energy pattern, imprinted on the universe by intelligent l
ife? He couldn’t recall the details. They might consume even our souls before letting our bodies drift within the graveyard forever.

  Singh caught his arm as they reached Gold Deck. “They cannot be allowed to get onto the bridge,” he hissed. The sound of shooting and cutters echoed down the corridor. “We have to stop them.”

  “I know,” Matt said. He tightened his grip on the pistol, slipping off the safety. “We’ll hit them from the rear—”

  “There’s two of us and . . . how many of them?” Singh made a rude sound. He passed Matt one of the canisters. “We need a plan. This is what we’re going to do . . .”

  Brother John could only dimly remember just where and when he’d converted and become one of the Brethren of the Holy Voice. He felt as though he’d always believed in the gods, even though he knew, intellectually, that he’d been an unbeliever before he’d heard the voices for the first time. In truth, he could barely remember any details of his former life . . . or anything that had happened before Supreme fell through the distortion and emerged in the realm of the gods.

  He allowed himself a smile of pure joy as the resistance collapsed, allowing the Brethren to rush towards the final hatch. The bridge waited beyond, manned by unbelievers who would try to yank them all out of the godly realm if they were given half a chance. John could not understand any longer why they were trying to fight. Did they not realize that they were on the verge of joining the gods? Their mortal bodies would soon be gone, but their souls would live on.

  The voices sang in his head, promising everything he had ever wanted and more. He could hear them, even though he couldn’t make out the words. And yet he knew what they were saying. They were answering questions he hadn’t known he had, quelling doubts he had never allowed himself to face. The Brethren had been right. No one could deny, now, that they’d been right all along. The mockery they’d faced on a dozen worlds no longer tore at his soul. They’d been right, and everyone else had been wrong.