by Duran Cross
“From there it will grow new veins within your veins and spread to your brain stem, but by that time you, as we know you, will be dead. Once the disease is that far advanced, you’ll be a walking hungry puppet, a host for the thing you’ll eventually grow into.”
Rennin feels his head swim but it’s not the sickness this time. “What-um, what thing?”
“Not to be melodramatic; a monster.”
For Caufmann to use that particular word after all the horrible things Rennin’s heard he’s done is nothing short of catastrophic. “Did you build it?” Rennin asks feeling too overwhelmed, almost like the time he lost his virginity, complete with all the terror that brought.
Caufmann’s face remains carved of stone, with a coldness that would freeze lava. “No. It’s old. Very old.”
“Where did it come from?”
Caufmann’s face turns genuinely reminiscent, “A world far off, from outside the solar system. Completely artificial,” his eyes start to glow brighter even though they glaze over as he stares off into a daydream. “I cannot remember exactly where anymore. Sometimes I’m unsure if I ever knew to begin with.”
“That’s what the progenitor-class said, before it attacked me,” says Rennin staring at Caufmann’s eyes. He can see the bioluminescence, if that’s what it is, glowing behind his irises. It is not a healthy look. Rennin’s artificial eye zooms in unexpectedly throwing his concentration for a moment but what he sees in Caufmann’s eye freezes him dead.
Visible for only an instant before the doctor moves his head, Caufmann’s eye is blue. It must have been their original colour. Shining within the once blue irises are glowing spokes, cutting outwards from the pupil with finer lines crosshatching throughout. They look etched in as if someone has sliced into his eyes with tiny razorblades. What ever happened to them, it must have been painful.
“What else did it tell you?” asks Caufmann.
“That you’re responsible.”
Caufmann briefly smirks, not an expression Rennin has seen often. “If I could design things so intricate, I’d be a world shaper, not a Head of Research at Godyssey.”
“But was it right about the Montrialis crew finding it?”
“It’s very likely. It remains the only ship ever made that was capable of zero mass hyper-transit, rather than the regular Hytran engines we use now.”
Rennin closes his eyes for a moment. “Can you please pretend, just for a moment, that you’re not talking to a rocket scientist?”
Caufmann ignores him, “The ship did hit the projected speed, and did need to make an emergency landing. The rest you know. Android goes mad, crew killed, one survivor.”
“And since you didn’t build it, you can’t cure it?”
“That depends,” says Caufmann locking his strange eyes on Rennin. “Did you get vaccinated?”
“Yes.”
Caufmann lowers his head, staring Rennin down.
“No,” the watchman concedes.
Caufmann’s mouth twists up in a grin but the rest of his face remains uncomfortably inanimate. “You are a stubborn one,” he says, stepping behind Rennin.
“What-” Rennin is cut off, as Caufmann grabs his hair with one hand, his other arm wrapping around his neck. Rennin chokes out in surprise. He tries to struggle but the doctor’s grip is like cold steel, without a hint of give.
A vice would be more forgiving.
The doctor forces Rennin’s head to one side. An instant later he feels a jab in his neck. He cries out, only to discover he has been released.
“You’ll recover in a few days,” says Caufmann, returning to his seat. “This must be unique, that your stubbornness has paid off to your benefit. If you had have already been vaccinated I would have used a different syringe.”
Rennin rubs his neck and coughs a little. “Simple as that? You could have just asked.”
“You would have made a fuss. You hate needles.”
How does he know that? “You penetrated me without even buying me a drink.”
“I can see you’re just flustered after being overpowered,” Caufmann says. From his tone, Rennin isn’t sure if he’s joking. “Now… how did you get sick?”
An image of Carla puking enters his mind. “Do you have any more of that shit?”
Caufmann slumps slightly, “Your girlfriend?”
“No,” he says quickly.
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
Caufmann smiles for a moment before returning to his serious expression. “Has she been vaccinated already?”
“I don’t know.”
“There isn’t much left of the antigen, Rennin.”
“I need it.”
“I barely have enough left for a hundred lives. If I give it to you, you must be sure she’s curable.”
“I think she is, she’s too hard-headed to get vaccinated for flu.”
Caufmann’s face isn’t friendly. “For her sake, you’d best be right. Find out if she’s been given the shot, then I’ll give it to you.”
Rennin thinks for a moment. “What do I do if she can’t be cured?”
Caufmann’s gaze remains fixed on his. “Best worry about that if or when it happens.”
◆◆◆
Caufmann and Rennin part ways. Or at least the watchman leaves his office looking rather down. The chemical reaction occurring within his body will knock the stuffing out of him for a couple of days as his immune system fires up, combatting the disease. But he’ll live.
He had better live.
Caufmann has been doing this job for what feels like centuries, slowly eroding his body and mind. Despite feeling like he’s deteriorating, he knows it’s all in his head because he’s physically quite powerful.
For years Caufmann hasn’t had company he’s enjoyed or found all that interesting. He leans back, thinking of the horrors of the war and things he once called friends. He’s lost so many, some he had to leave behind, either under orders or out of survival. In the many years since, Rennin Farrow is the only person he can honestly call his friend.
◆◆◆
Beta HolinMech are all aboard their gunship. Pharaoh Drake accompanies the unit, not at all comfortable with this assignment.
Serro Hopper sits opposite him, staring at him with those bright blue eyes. Drake glares back with his dark orbs, knowing how they intimidate Serro. It’s easy to read people, especially when he can see their pupil dilations fluctuating.
Dark eyes aren’t so easy to read.
“Nervous?” asks Serro.
Drake represses the urge to roll his eyes. His leg is twitching. “Who can be nervous? We’re shooting unarmed civilians. There’s no risk factor.”
“They’re dangerous.”
“Not yet they’re not.”
The pilot’s voice is transmitted over their headsets. “Ten seconds!”
Drake and the others ready themselves to disembark. The gunship’s engines whine loudly as the shuttle settles atop an apartment complex.
They’re in the Middle-city zone where the earliest infected have been registered through use of the outlawed Embryon Protocol.
“What the hell is the Embryon Protocol?” asks Drake.
Serro seems hesitant to respond. He briefly fidgets with the straps on his battle harness. “It’s an old school registry.”
“Gee I never would have guessed, thanks a lot, sir,” says Drake, irrepressibly frustrated.
Serro shakes his head, “It was the program used to select CryoZaiyon soldiers in the years leading up to the war.”
“To select whom? How?”
“Embryon Protocol was originally a medical program used by hospitals to detect genetic defects in unborn children. Godyssey eventually used it to find… you know… candidates,” Serro says with an uneasy smile.
Drake feels like he is missing something. “We’re next in line to become androids, why do you look so uncomfortable?”
“We are volunteers,” says Serro.
“Speak f
or yourself.”
“Point is, that the original ‘candidates’ were all selected by computer. It’s the shameful part of Godyssey’s history that gave us Andron technology. The rumour is that most of the original experiments were on high profile athletes. Most of them apparently died in mysterious circumstances, were put on ice for decades until things died down, then they were converted,” says Serro.
“Yeah, okay, I get the picture.”
According to Embryon data there are now dozens of targets that are dropping off the humanoid side of the scale and are succumbing quickly to whatever is loose in the city. Then they turn.
The targets Beta HolinMech will be confronting may or may not already be turned into the hostile organism officially labelled ‘Contaminant’; but they are to be executed regardless. No exceptions.
Beta HolinMech have been deployed into the most heavily infected population centre, whilst the Horizon Military are clearing less risky zones. Drake wonders how the future generations will remember this action. Apparently they’re preventing the spread of a deadly pathogen, but in his opinion they’re just a death squad.
A team of murderers.
Be all that you can be…
The gunship lands, the rear gangplank drops and the Beta HolinMechs file out by twos, in their assigned teams. Drake is with Serro as always. The two of them might as well be conjoined twins, attached at the hip.
The spring rain seems to have been locked in the on position at the Horizon weather station today. Drake could bet his right arm that it has been either raining or snowing for several weeks straight. What's the point in having a superior weather machine if it always makes the weather terrible?
The team enter the building through the roof access, dispersing to their specified sections. Serro and Drake are on one of the lower floors. Since they don’t use lifts in these situations, all the units are taking the stairs. As they run down the others split off in pairs, and soon enough it’s only Serro and Drake left. Now alone, they head to their floor.
The pair take position at either side of the door to floor fourteen, catching their breath while waiting for the go command. After a moment, the deep resonating voice of Captain Damon Kowalski, mission leader, comes over their headsets. “All units in assigned alpha point?”
All six pairs confirm.
“Engage.”
Serro and Drake open their door to a replica 1920’s style hotel hallway. The hall is cream coloured with dark maroon accents and stained wooden features. Era appropriate lamps are distributed evenly along both walls. “Drake, ease up a bit.”
“I want this shit done.”
“One of them might have a gun and alert the others, so relax, we don’t want a panic.”
“What do you think will happen when people realise we’re shooting innocents?”
“Non-combatants,” Serro corrects.
“Do we shoot anyone that sees us? Perhaps we should just burn the building down,” says Drake.
Mac Hudson’s gravely voice comes over their headsets, “One target down.”
Drake grunts, “Jesus, already?”
They are at their allocated target apartment door now, silencers attached, guns at the ready. So far the hall has been clear, but someone is playing loud Industrial music on this floor.
“Captain, Team Four at bravo point. Engaging,” Serro advises.
Drake shakes his head. This is going to get nasty. Kicking the door in, he surprises a young woman so badly she drops her cup of tea. “Are you Alexandra Tasker?”
She is still in shock and stammers an answer. “W-what do you want with my daughter?”
Daughter? This woman would barely be thirty. How young is this target? “Where is Alexandra Tasker?”
The mother looks at them in horror when a little voice speaks.
“Mama?” A little girl, not more than five years old appears. Her blonde hair is tied in plaits, and she is holding a soft toy elephant to her chest. Her skin is pale with black veins creeping down her arms and up her neck. Her eye sockets are so dark it’s like she has been punched.
Drake’s stomach feels like it’s been filled with mercury, “Oh shit.”
Serro is frozen solid.
“Target two down,” says the deceptively soft voice of Mia Saker.
“Sit down on the couch over there,” orders Drake, waving towards their lounge.
Mother and daughter huddle together on the seat. The child is observing them with wide eyes, her mother stroking her hair and mumbling to her in some attempt at comfort. They look more vulnerable and helpless than any two beings that Serro has ever seen.
He whispers to Captain Kowalski, turning his back to ensure the woman and child cannot hear, “Sir, the target is a child.”
Kowalski’s voice is remorseless, “Your orders are clear. All contaminants are to be taken out, along with all possible victims of secondary exposure.”
Serro’s eyes dart to the mother, “Shoot anyone living with them?”
“Target three down,” comes the voice of Morgan Gilmore.
“That’s correct, Hopper, out,” says Kowalski.
Serro takes out his earpiece and Drake follows suit.
The mother is cradling her little girl, “What do you people want?”
Serro doesn’t answer but looks at Drake expectantly, “Well?”
Drake shakes his head, “No way. I’m not doing it.” Softly but firmly he makes his position clear. “I can’t.” He is grateful that the Industrial music is drowning out this disgusting conversation.
“We’ve all read the reports on what this disease does. This may be a mercy,” says Serro, clearly unconvinced.
Drake smirks without a trace of humour. “Prevent death with more death?”
“Are you really that naïve? You know what happens once the body dies, don’t you? Or don’t you believe the reports?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“I’ve seen footage of the dead test subjects, they come back, Drake.”
“I’m not killing children.”
“Did you watch the footage of what they do when they wake up?”
“If you’re so sure, then you kill them.”
Serro nods, straightens his shoulders, and raises his gun when he feels the nozzle of Drake’s sidearm press against the back of his head. He freezes.
“Like I said, you kill them… but then I’ll kill you.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Drake’s hand is shaking so badly he can hear the gun rattling. “Serro, we just need to take a moment,” The child is still staring at them, but her mother has started to weep hopelessly.
Deep down Drake knows Serro is right. At least he’s right in theory. They have both seen the footage of the contaminants when they wake up. The horrible monstrous things they become are too hideous to contemplate; but executing a child is completely beyond justification. He can’t understand how his life has come to this point. He is a party boy that just loved having fun too much.
Comparative to shooting this poor little girl, killing Serro really does seem easy. He’s made his choice, he signed his life away. He tightens his grip on the trigger ever so slightly.
Serro hears the trigger move and his eyes widen. “Drake, easy.”
“Shut up!” he yells back.
The mother stands.
“You sit down! Sit now!” Drake voice raises and begins to crack with stress. She drops back into her seat, hands up before her in a placating gesture. Drake blinks hard. He knows logically the virus cannot be allowed to spread. It must not get beyond Gateway, the main entrance to the city.
This child’s body is, at this moment, being emptied of its humanity and remade into something hungry, reproductive and contagious. Prolonging this situation will only make the child suffer more. A mercy, he reminds himself. The thought feels so empty and hollow that it actually makes him feel worse, like the walls around him are closing in. He finds it hard to draw a breath.
“Target four down,” is just barely heard on the dangling earpiece near Drake’s collar.
How can Caufmann do this day in and day out? Making choices for other people’s lives, people he’s never met, people he doesn’t have to look in the eye before he kills. Then again perhaps he does. Perhaps he has to. It’s the horrible truth of doing what’s necessary. Not many have that kind of conviction, whether it is right or wrong.
Drake aims and fires the silenced gun, not at Serro but past him, hitting the child square in the forehead. That single moment is frozen in time, indelibly carved into his memory along with a soul-rending rush of grief over his choice.
Serro turns to look at Drake, but his eyes are already shut, his gun falling to the floor, and his mouth is open, spewing a terrible howl of anguish.
The mother starts screaming. It is the worst sound either of the soldiers have ever heard, a cry so full of pain it demands you be drawn in to suffer with them. Serro, almost on autopilot, shoots her twice before also dropping his weapon. He turns to face his friend, trembling. Drake is still moaning in horror; his eyes are now wide and crazed, his fists pushed into his temples as if attempting to crush the image of the murder he has just committed out of his mind.
“Drake, Drake, listen to me,” says Serro stepping over to him.
“Oh god!” he howls.
“Drake, it’s okay. Drake, please.”
Another wail of sorrow and Drake shuts his eyes so tightly it’s like he’s trying to force them back into his skull, never to see again.
Serro grips him and holds him. “Drake, Drake, she was already dead, you know that,” tears start to roll down his cheeks, “she was already dead,” he starts rocking back and forth a little. Drake clenches his jaw so hard he can hear his own teeth grinding. “She was already dead, man.”
Serro switches off, feeling everything drain away back into the numbness that a soldier is supposed to feel while going about their job.