Origins

by Jamie Sawyer

  The weapon mounts bristled on my shoulders, tracking the troopers around me. The suit had incredible strength-augmentation, and although I had two missile pods mounted on my shoulders I barely felt their weight.

  “This armour might be new, but you’re in charge. Don’t let the AI run it. Priority one is to recover any survivors from that ship. That’s where you come in, James. We might need a transport off this ship.” The Endeavour’s flight assets had included several shuttles, and we might be able to use some of them. Right now, with the Colossus’ hangars empty, we could easily accommodate more transport craft. I turned back to the boarding tube. “Colossus CIC, do you read?”

  “We copy, Lazarus Actual,” someone said: an officer, but not Loeb. “Green light for EVA deployment.”

  “Lazarus Actual out.”

  A face was visible through the view-port of the Colossus’ interior airlock door: sergeant of the Alliance Marines. The Marines’ armour was vac-proofed and combat-ready, but much less functional than the simulant battle-suits. There were ten soldiers, clutching laser carbines in gloved hands, wearing full respirator packages that covered their faces. The sergeant gave me a nod.

  “We’ll remain on-ship as ordered, sir,” he said, over the comm. My HUD danced with his estimated bio-signs. They told of a man on the verge of panic.

  “You do that.”

  The men were jittery. They probably felt inadequate in the presence of a simulant team, and I noticed that Jenkins and Mason were making particular efforts to stand at full height, enjoying the threat-aura that an armed and armoured simulant projected even when at ease.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of until I say so,” I said. “Just remember that. This is an extraction operation, nothing more.” I turned to my team. “We ready to do this, people?”

  “As we’ll ever be,” Jenkins said.

  I activated the airlock door control panel. The small terminal screen lit green and the outer hatch door slowly opened. There was a brief hiss of releasing atmosphere as the airlock and the tunnel pressure equalised. I stepped out of the Colossus and began the slow walk across the docking tube. Within a couple of strides I was beyond the warship’s gravity well. The boarding tube had a metal-strip floor, made to fix mag-locks, to keep users upright. Instead of using that, I used the ribbed walls of the tunnel to move – propelling myself along the distance with both hands. As I touched the tunnel walls, they sometimes gave just a little. The docking tube was disposable: made of transparent heavy-duty plastic, and would collapse in the case of an atmospheric breach.

  The Legion adopted the same procedure behind me. We cleared the thousand-metre distance rapidly, using zero-G to our advantage.

  “Coming up on Endeavour’s airlock,” I said. “Legion is boarding.”

  “Copy that,” the CIC replied.

  With hands that were shaking with anticipation – despite being skinned, despite my powered gauntlets – I grasped the hull of the Endeavour. Felt the cold metal through the palm of my glove. I wanted to feel some spiritual awakening – some sliver of kinship with Elena, to finally be aboard her ship – but the only emotion I could muster was fear.

  I gently propelled myself over the boundary, into the Endeavour’s interior airlock. The rest of the Legion followed me in.

  I paused for just a moment, looked back down the boarding tube. The distance seemed incredibly vast. The Alliance Marines had piled into the open airlock and were visible as tiny black specs. My suit identified their weapons – down to make and model. I could kill them with a thought: the missile pods on my shoulders were almost daring me to activate them. I switched to the Marines’ channel.

  “Remember what I said, Sergeant.”

  “Copy that,” the sergeant said.

  “Let’s hope that you won’t be required. Lazarus out.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TOO LATE

  “Everyone is in,” Jenkins said. “You want me to do the honours?”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Jenkins moved to the airlock controls mounted on the interior wall. She waved a hand towards the waiting Marine cohort, although at this distance and without improved sim-sense I doubted that they could see her.

  “Later, boys.”

  The Endeavour’s outer airlock sealed shut.

  “So far, so good,” Mason said.

  This was all as expected; nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Open the inner lock,” I ordered. “Martinez, run a scanner sweep.”

  Jenkins manipulated the controls. Atmospheric pressure between the inner lock and the corridor beyond – the real interior of the Endeavour – rapidly equalised. I felt tiny electrical shocks of apprehension run up my spine.

  “Wide coverage on this corridor,” I ordered. “Kaminski, watch our six.”

  “Copy that,” he replied.

  I took point and cautiously edged into the corridor beyond the lock. Suit-mounted lamps probed the dense dark like fingers. My HUD was painted with graphics, confirming that Kaminski and Martinez were moving behind me, Jenkins and Mason still waiting at the lock controls. James hung back in the lock as well.

  “Area is clear,” I said.

  We were in a long, straight corridor section, much wider than those aboard the Colossus and not as utilitarian as a military vessel, with smooth ceramic panelling on the walls. I scanned the floor: found no footprints, no other marks to suggest inhabitants. The deck was clear save for a thick glow of dust. I could feel the cold and age of the ship around me, both pressing and depressing. My HUD illuminated with schematics and plans of the surrounding area, indicating key locations such as the bridge, crew quarters and the energy core.

  “The bio-scanner has no reads,” Martinez said. “No movement, no signals.”

  “What’s the penetration?”

  “Going through this deck. Density is too much for me to get a reading beyond that.”

  That feeling that something was wrong here returned to me, despite my attempts to shake it. It’s a trap, the voice insisted. And you’ve led the Legion into it.

  “A trap that hasn’t yet been sprung…” I whispered back.

  “Negative copy?” Kaminski said.

  “Never mind.”

  I stalked on a few paces, rifle aimed ahead of me. I activated my suit speaker-system.

  “Hello?” I called.

  The noise echoed off down the empty corridor. A tense few seconds passed, but the greeting went unanswered.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Kaminski asked over the comm. “No telling what’s in here with us…”

  “Quit fucking with Mason’s head,” Jenkins said, but her tone wasn’t very jovial.

  I reached up for the catches on my helmet and blew them. My ears popped as they adjusted to the new pressure though the difference was minimal. The Legion did the same, glad to be free of their headgear. The crisp scent of antiseptic – of a well-maintained atmospheric system – filled my nostrils.

  “Not exactly what we expected, huh?” Jenkins said.

  “It isn’t over yet,” I said. “Not until we’ve searched the ship. Elena was aboard the Damascus Artefact. We all saw this ship when we travelled through the Shard Network. There must be someone here.”

  “Unless they’re all gone,” Mason said.

  I surveyed the lonely stretch of corridor. The Endeavour was a vast starship; a maze of tunnels and dedicated modules.

  “Drones would’ve come in handy,” I said. “I guess these new suits aren’t all they’re cracked up to be…”

  “You said just the same when they first brought the drones into service,” Jenkins muttered.

  “We’ll split up and search the vessel. I want everyone using the bio-scanners and running sweeps in every corridor.” I jabbed the controls on my wrist-comp; sent a mission plan to each of the Legion. “Martinez, you take the Communications Deck. Jenkins and James, hangars. Kaminski and Mason, I want you to search the Command Deck.”

  Jenkins didn’
t argue. She slapped James on the shoulder. In the battle-suit, the action was more of a threat than a reassurance. “Come on, flyboy. Maybe we’ll find some ships down there.”

  “And you, jefe?” Martinez asked.

  “I think you know that already,” I said. “I’m going to the crew quarters.”

  My scanner was on passive mode, pinging softly as it ran on my wrist-comp. The Legion and James disappeared from my sensor net as their orders took them elsewhere and we left the vicinity of the airlock.

  “Main hangar deck breached…” Jenkins declared over the squad comm-channel. She sounded as though she was whispering; as though she was afraid to wake the dead.

  “I’m on the Comms Deck,” Martinez reported in. “Real quiet down here.”

  “Same here,” Mason said. “Scanner is empty.”

  I silenced the squad channel. If the Legion found anything, they could comm me direct. They weren’t reporting anything that I wasn’t seeing with my own eyes. With every module, hangar and crew chamber we cleared, my disappointment levels increased. Was this another dead end in my search for Elena? I needed more than this: some clue – an explanation, just a shred of evidence – to show what had happened to her.

  Although life support was running, the transport network wasn’t, so instead of using an elevator, I took the ladder-shafts to the upper decks. The corridors around me softly whispered as I went. The airshafts sounded like there was wind running through them, the structure sighing as I searched.

  I eventually emerged into the crew quarters. There were hundreds of cabins on this deck; the ship had housed five hundred hands in all. Some quarters had been shared – those for the military personnel attached to the operation – but just as many were dedicated to the civilian staff. That meant separate berths for each crew member.

  The stark, empty corridors were lined with doors, and outside each was a printed metal plaque. I stopped to trace the names on some of those doors. Felt the embossed nameplates through the second skin of my gloved fingertips. Such a quaint anachronism. I matched each with the faces I’d seen back on Calico, so many years ago. They could surely never have even suspected that their optimistic endeavour would end like this. I felt a pang of sadness as I saw each name.

  The hydraulic hatches were unpowered, and I used the manual locking mechanism to open them. Each door came open with a nerve-jangling creak – the sound echoing off into the empty ship – but it felt good to be testing out the improved strength-augmentation of my suit.

  “Hello?” I called again, as I entered the first cabin. “Commander Cook?”

  Cook’s rooms were plush, akin to the state rooms of senior Naval staff, and the largest on the ship. Equipped with a decent-sized bunk, walls filled with his accolades from years in the Alliance Navy, of his lengthy stint as a corporate merchant sailor. Photos of smaller versions of him – I guessed his children – lined the ultra-modern furniture; as I swept a hand over a cabinet, a couple of tri-Ds even came to life. A half-filled decanter of something green and probably alcoholic sat beside his bunk.

  It was dust. All dust. The quarters felt and looked as though they had been unoccupied for centuries, rather than years.

  “Moving on to auxiliary staff quarters,” I said to my suit.

  From my analysis of the schematics, I knew exactly where the room was, and I’d already planned my route. Anxiety – such a foreign emotion in a simulant body – gnawed at me as I closed on it. I’d never been so close to finding her as I was now, and I imagined her walking these corridors: tried to reconstruct her footsteps. The bulkhead hatch was shut, like all of the rooms, and I stood outside for a long moment. My bio-scanner was quiet: the gentle green glow of the holographic reflecting off the corridor wall. I stared at the printed nameplate.

  DR ELENA MARCEAU (PSYCH SUPPORT).

  Do you really want to know what’s behind this door? the voice asked me. Isn’t she best consigned to memory; remembered how you want her to be? Sometimes that was true. Sometimes people were better remembered than experienced, but not Elena. She had been my only motivation for the years since she’d left. I had to find her, and had to put this right.

  As my gloved hand made contact with the outer hatch, the ridiculous notion that I should knock occurred to me. I shook it away, and began manually to crank the wheel. That was what Elena represented to me: normalcy. She was my anchor. This – the Maelstrom, the Shard, the Krell, all of it – wasn’t real. As Elena had warned me, I couldn’t allow myself to get lost in it, but that was exactly what I’d done by allowing her to go.

  The hatch came open with a low groan, and I slowly pulled it wide.

  “Elena?” I whispered.

  The room was deserted. Four-by-four, with an adjoining head and a locker for personal effects on one wall. The other was studded with view-ports. Each of those was open, revealing the multi-coloured and shifting surface of the gas giant far below. There was an unmade bunk in one corner. I poked the tussle of bedsheets.

  “Elena?” I asked again, louder this time.

  The place smelt of her. The scent lingered on the air, just beyond the ken of my perceptions. The sim’s olfactory senses were as sharpened as the rest, and I doubted whether I’d have detected the aroma in my real skin. It was almost painful.

  Damn it. This isn’t right.

  I grabbed at a bedsheet – clutched it in my gauntlet. Crumpled it.

  “Elena!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

  There had to be some sign of her. Some explanation.

  The Legion and James converged in one of the Endeavour’s atriums. Located on the upper deck, the chamber was bright and airy; working glow-globes were interspersed with full-length observation windows. A series of huge gene-engineered plants sat in pots around the room. They were long deceased, reduced to withered brown husks. As we filed into the chamber, the layer of dead leaves and shed branches crunched underfoot. The impression I got of a civilian spaceport lounge was reinforced by the moulded plastic tables and chairs that were arranged in clusters around the dead plants.

  Mason slapped her rifle down on the nearest table, and collapsed into a chair. It creaked beneath her simulated weight. Jenkins was less willing to give up her weapon but took up a position on one of the tables as well.

  “What’s the matter, LT?” Mason asked. “Frightened that we’re actually going to get some action on this ship?”

  Jenkins sighed. “I get plenty of action, thanks. And don’t call me LT.”

  Mason nodded. “Got it.”

  Martinez sucked his teeth. “It’s not the ship that we got to worry about. It’s the dead, man. This place really is a ghost-ship.”

  “Maybe we should call in the Sci-Div techs,” Mason offered. “Let them go over the ship.”

  “What Sci-Div?” Kaminski asked, prowling the edge of the room, looking up at the ceiling. It was entirely composed of armour-glass and ribbed with metal supports. “Who makes a ship with a glass ceiling? This is crazy. These people want to get hulled or something?”

  “Didn’t happen though, genius,” Martinez said. “This ship has been out here for years, and she hasn’t been hulled yet. Your time in the camp didn’t help much with the smarts. Mason’s right; we need forensics and that shit. This isn’t Sim Ops work.”

  Jenkins froze a little at Martinez’s reference to ‘the camp’, but ’Ski weathered the jibe well enough.

  “You sound scared, Martinez,” he said, grinning.

  Martinez scowled. “Fuck you. It has bad karma.”

  “I didn’t know that Catholics believed in karma,” Jenkins said.

  “There’s probably a whole lotta things that you don’t know about the Venus Creed,” Martinez said. “And I haven’t got time to tell you.”

  “Cut out the chatter,” I ordered. “This place isn’t right, and I’m not happy about it at all.”

  “Command Decks are empty,” Mason said.

  “Any bodies?”

  “None. The bridge is fully function
al.”

  “What about you, Jenkins? Did you find anything?”

  “We’ve swept the main hangar decks,” she said. “There are berths down there for maybe twenty shuttles and other short-range ships. But they’re all empty. Whatever happened here, someone took all of those ships with them.”

  “The inventory says that the Endeavour wasn’t carrying anything bigger than a shuttle,” James explained. “Well, the files are wrong. I’m telling you that the hangars were holding a lot more than that. Those decks were made to hold a fleet.”

  Jenkins nodded. “I’ve got everything on my vid-feed. There are run marks on the decking, thruster burns on the mag-runs.”

  “They look like they were made by something a lot bigger than a shuttle,” James said.

  “Maybe it was some sort of exodus,” Martinez offered. “The crew bugged out, decided it wasn’t safe here any more.”

  Jenkins shrugged. “It’s possible. There’s lots of equipment missing from the hangars: EVA suits, breathers. Place has been plundered.”

  “The evacuation pods have been fired as well,” James said. “Every last one of them.”

  I spied the Colossus in the distance outside the obs window, moving parallel to the Endeavour. Running lights blinked along the ship’s flank, and a single beacon flashed on her prow, marking roughly the location of the CIC. The ship was still tethered to the Endeavour, the lifeline umbilical stretched out between the vessels, taut like a piece of string. Beyond, the pale glow of the Abyss was ever-present.

  “Maybe Loeb has some ideas,” I said. I tuned my wrist-comp to the Colossus command frequency, and opened the comm-net to the rest of the Legion. “Command, this is Lazarus Actual.”

  “We read, Lazarus.” Despite the squall generated by the giant, the link was clear enough: we were virtually on top of the Colossus. “Loeb here.”

  “We’ve conducted a partial sweep of the ship. No signs of life.”

  “We’ve been reading your suit-feeds,” Loeb said.

  “Can anyone offer any assistance?” I said.

  Loeb sighed. “What about the ship’s data-core?”