Origins

by Jamie Sawyer

  “There’s an emergency beacon down there,” she said. “It’s an Alliance-pattern broadcast.”

  Now I saw it too. Something far beneath us, deep within the Maze. The signal flickered, shifted.

  “I can’t get a fix,” Mason said. “All this rock is making it hard to lock on…”

  “Someone had a death wish,” Martinez said. “Who’d want to set off a beacon on a Krell reef world?”

  “Someone desperate to be found,” I said. “Is it a signal from one of the Endeavour’s transports, or her fleet?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason answered. “The pattern is definite but the signal is really weak.”

  My throat tightened. This was it.

  “Lazarus Legion, get ready—”

  A red warning – an emergency warning – flashed across my HUD.

  Simultaneously, the Dragonfly pulled up sharply. James was suddenly and precisely focused on the ship controls.

  “Bearing at oh-five-nine…” Mason said, head bobbing as she read from one station then another. “That’s a confirm. That’s a definite read!”

  “You sure?” James yelled. “I’m not seeing anything—”

  A shadow fell across us.

  An enormous black structure, draining all light from the world around it, loomed through the mist.

  An Artefact…?

  James snapped in reaction. “Applying airbrake!”

  “Pull up! You’re losing roll control!” Mason shouted back over the comm-net. “We’ll lose G-stabilisation on the left wing…”

  The structure came up fast, so fast, to meet us, revealed by the shifting mists in the blink of an eye. I was powerless, completely hypnotised by the formation as it expanded to fill my field of vision…

  Not an Artefact. Something else. Something almost as bad.

  “Bio-structure!” I yelled.

  It was an immense coral edifice, erupting from the side of the canyon: jutting skyward. This close – virtually bearing down on the structure – it was obvious that it was no Artefact. The surface was porous and honeycombed, unmistakably Krell. It had appeared black at a distance – because of the mist – but on closer inspection was a spattering of greens and yellows, a reflection of the jungle below.

  The Dragonfly’s scanners began an insistent warning, red lights across the board. The gunship banked sharply, throwing us around inside the cabin, and I grappled with an overhead safety rail to stay standing.

  “We’re going to hit it!” Mason declared. “Hold tight!”

  The Dragonfly’s wing clipped the Krell bio-structure.

  It was only a glancing impact – grazing the outer shell – but the bio-tech was much stronger than it looked. From bitter experience, I knew the stuff to be about as resilient as reinforced plasteel.

  “Fuck!” Jenkins screamed. “What the hell are you doing, James? You’re bringing us down on a Krell nest!”

  More of the Krell structures appeared around us. Some grew from the canyon sides, others from the jungle-choked trenches below, peppering the landscape. All different colours, alien and incomprehensible.

  “I got signals!” Mason said. “On our six!”

  The Dragonfly carried several weapons systems: a nose-mounted laser cannon, two heavy gun drones under the wings, six smart-guided Banshee warheads – capable of firing ground-to-air or air-to-air, in a pinch – and two heavy assault cannons on the door mounts.

  I thought-activated my mag-locks and kicked them to the Dragonfly’s cabin deck, then I rolled open one of the side-doors. The heavy cannon slaved to my suit AI – perfectly linking, as though it was one of my own weapons. The cannon was mounted on an articulated arm, braced in the open door, and I panned it back and forth, testing the targeting AI. It had a good weight to it, significantly off-set by the battle-suit’s strength-aug. The ammo counter indicated a full drum. AP rounds, depleted plutonium core: about as anti-Krell as old-fashioned kinetics could get.

  The jungle was moving so fast it was impossible to make out any detail. I squinted in the diffuse sunlight, which was still managing to create a baking warmth inside the Dragonfly.

  “Jenkins, on the other cannon!” I ordered.

  “Copy that,” Jenkins said.

  I heard her sliding the opposite door open; felt the buff of wind as it ran through the open cabin.

  The automated tracking software painted potential targets across my face-plate, and in anticipation of a firefight I spun up the multi-barrelled cannon: felt the gratifying chug of the weapon as it readied. Kaminski fell into a crouch beside me, his plasma rifle aimed at the jungle. Martinez did the same at the other door, supporting Jenkins.

  “You getting anything on your side?” I asked of Jenkins.

  “Lot of shadows, lot of movement, but no confirmed targets.”

  “Maybe New Girl was wrong…” Kaminski offered.

  No. She isn’t.

  I saw them first. Just blurs of light, now becoming more distinct. Three shadows skated over the green canopy, moving faster and faster. Reciprocal shapes appeared above each shadow: smears of light shaped like long, thin needles. The shadows gained speed, kept pace with the Dragonfly—

  “Weapons hot!” I yelled.

  I fired the assault cannon. The gun controls jumped in my hands – bounced around – but it was spray-and-pray, and a burst caught the enemy ship. Rounds sparked against the invisible armour plating, temporarily interfering with the camouflage-field.

  “I see them on the feeds now!” James yelled.

  “Told you!” Mason said, almost triumphantly. “Three Needlers!”

  “One hella welcome party…” Jenkins muttered.

  The Needlers, sometimes called needle-ships, were long, thin vessels, made for extreme manoeuvrability. They were usually manned by a single Krell pilot, literally grafted into the cockpit, as close to symbiosis with the living craft as you could get.

  “What’s our distance to the signal?” I yelled to James.

  “Ten kilometres?” James shouted back. “You want me to set you down somewhere?”

  “Too risky,” I said. “Lose the bogeys first.”

  “Easier said than done,” James said. Abruptly derailing any wider tactical discussion, he added: “Taking evasive manoeuvre.”

  Back on the door-gun, I fired again, this time a longer burst. The enemy ship veered slightly away from the Dragonfly; flickered in and out of sight as though dipping into some other dimension. The ship had an almost aquatic body and stubby protrusion along the aft that more resembled fins than wings. A circular portal opened on the flank of the craft. Krell wearing heavy armour hung inside, and in a dark mirror of the Dragonfly one of them aimed a mounted bio-cannon towards the Dragonfly’s flank. A much bigger version of the stinger: a projectile-thrower.

  I ducked back into the cabin, yelled “Down!”

  The Krell gunner pulled the trigger.

  Flechettes – fizzling with bio-electricity, probably loaded with toxins – punched through the armour plating of the Dragonfly’s hull, right beside me. I fired back, without looking: kept my finger down on the firing stud of my own cannon and hoped that something would hit the attacker.

  “Defensive suite online,” James said. “Deploying chaffe, deploying doppler.” There were thuds through the hull as the systems activated, and I saw smoke billowing from probes which launched from the rear of the Dragonfly. “Drones away!”

  Two ultra-fast gun drones deployed from somewhere above the passenger cab. Equipped with low-wattage plasma carbines, they were meant to harry enemy ships that had already suffered damage. The small robots spiralled around us, keeping pace with the gunship. One of them instantly exploded, caught by bio-plasma from a pursuing Needler—

  The sky overhead darkened.

  “What the fuck is that?” Mason yelled.

  “Stingray incoming!” I shouted. Turned my cannon on its mount to strafe the underside of the approaching ship, knowing that it would do no good.

  The enormous bio-s
hip blotted out the light. It was moving faster and faster so that it matched us for pace. The underside of the Stingray was suddenly over us, and its belly was lined with pulsing egg-sacs, throbbing with angry, virulent life. This was the Stingray’s gift. It wasn’t a fighter: it was a troop-ship. There were sacs – now opening like sphincters – for a hundred passengers on the ship’s belly.

  A Krell suddenly leapt from the open guts of the Stingray, its talons outstretched to reach us.

  “Fuck me!” Kaminski shouted, recoiling from the Dragonfly’s door.

  I pulled off a protracted burst from the cannon.

  The Krell exploded in a green mist, falling well short of the attempted boarding. But more were launching themselves out of the Stingray – kamikaze-like, sailing to the jungle below.

  The remaining gun-drone registered the threat, moved to intercept, pummelling the underside of the Stingray with rounds. Krell body-parts literally rained from above.

  I turned my attention to the Needler, swinging the unruly assault cannon back and forth, sweeping the Needler’s flank. The xeno ship banked, too late, the volley hitting an exposed crew compartment. The gunner sprawled backwards, streaming blood from its chest, explosive rounds slashing through body armour and flesh without distinction.

  “Lazarus got one!” Kaminski shouted, rallying alongside me.

  “Just keep fucking firing!”

  The barrel of my assault cannon spun—

  “It’s falling back! Left flank is breaking off!” Mason yelled.

  I didn’t stop firing until the gun bucked and rebelled in my hands – the red AMMO OUT warning flashing on the weapon display.

  “Reload!” I shouted at Kaminski—

  More bio-plasma exploded around us. Heat washed over me.

  “Deploying missiles,” James declared.

  A missile pod on one wing flared to life, and there was a loud scream as the artificially intelligent Banshee missiles flew free. They dropped back behind the Dragonfly, searching for the damaged Needler.

  It took seconds for them to find their prey. One engine went first, exploding flare-bright, and the Needler went into a spin. I watched in fascination as the gunship was hit by another missile; pouring black smoke, whining loudly like an injured animal. Then the ship clipped the jungle, and another bright explosion marked its demise.

  But this was far from a victory.

  The ravines around us were closing in, becoming tighter: more Krell coral blocking our route like the strands of a spider’s web. We hit something, wobbling as James fought to control our flight. The Dragonfly lurched, dipping lower so that it hugged the jungle canopy. There were rapid thuds and bumps as stray branches impacted the hull.

  The Needler alongside Jenkins’ open door steadied, and mimicked James’ course. The Krell were not giving up.

  “That low enough for you?” James shouted, leaning into the flight controls. “Hold the fuck on back there!”

  The upper jungle canopy thrashed against the Dragonfly’s cockpit viewer—

  Another shadow, now whale-big, darkened the jungle. It was coming from behind the Dragonfly, but also above us.

  James’ altimeter was beeping persistently, warning of a loss of altitude. Chimes and warning sirens overlapped so as to become indecipherable, save for one repeated phrase: “BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!”

  The horizon shifted arbitrarily, and I was thrown back and forth inside the cabin. My simulated stomach lurched as though I was caught in zero-G. Martinez smashed into Jenkins, and she hit a wall – unconscious.

  “BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!”

  More Krell bio-fire raked the ship. Rounds impacted the main viewer, cracking the reinforced armour-glass canopy.

  “BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!”

  The engine’s throb became a high-pitched wail. I hit the roof of the gunship and felt an explosion of pain in my skull as the ship banked again.

  “I can outrun you, bastard!” James was shouting over and over, above the din of warnings and sirens. “I can outrun you, bastard!”

  Not this time, James.

  “BRACE, BRACE, BRACE!” the gunship’s AI argued back.

  Tree branches and trunks were hitting the hull harder now, shaking the gunship frame. And always the chatter of bio-weapons, and new shards of light appearing in the armoured roof above.

  “BRACE!”

  “BRACE!”

  “BRACE…!”

  The hungry jungle waited.

  It swallowed us whole.

  Where the fuck am I?

  I woke up with a killer hangover, ten times worse than the worst ever night out in the District.

  There was blue light above me, but I wasn’t in a simulator-tank. It was sky, splintered through a patchwork of broken tree branches. I was on my back. I didn’t know whether I’d been thrown clear of the wreckage, scrambled free, or even jumped: all were equally possible.

  “Diagnostic,” I barked.

  Error-code and scrap messages flooded my HUD, but the thought-connection was still active.

  OPERATIONAL, the suit AI insisted in my head.

  Is that all you can manage?

  I suddenly became alert. That had to be my suit, pumping me with adrenaline and combat-drugs – ensuring that I didn’t do the natural thing and lapse back into unconsciousness. A report of my injuries flashed onto my HUD. Just bruises and sprains, luckily, but in combination enough to make me feel like hell. Get up, trooper! The simple act of getting to my feet sent a ripple of aches through my limbs and chest. My battle-suit was covered in numerous dinks, scrapes and deformations.

  Stock taken of my condition, I took in our tac-sit. The Dragonfly had ploughed a furrow in the jungle half a kilometre long: driven a flaming, churned-up trail of destruction through the forest. Blackened branches and still-burning bushes marked the gunship’s descent-path, and the scar in the landscape was testament to the speed at which the aircraft had hit the jungle floor. James would no doubt want to believe that he was responsible for fending off the assailants, but I thought that it was more likely luck. The patchwork of light threading the thick thatch above: it was probably enough to provide some cover. That, and we’d brought down at least one of the Krell ships.

  “Legion!” I barked. “Sound off!”

  The drugs were pumping through my system now. Our situation was precarious and the Krell were probably just behind us. We had to get moving.

  “Alive!” Jenkins drawled, struggling to her feet from somewhere nearby. “Fucking hell. We got hit?”

  “I’d say so,” I concluded. “And we’re about to get hit again.”

  Jenkins had Kaminski under her arm. They had fared well enough. ’Ski managed a nod at me. Behind them Martinez and Mason, covered in dirt and burn-marks, and scrapes to bodies and armour, emerged from the jungle.

  “Where’s James?” I asked.

  “Here,” the pilot growled.

  James was speared, gladiator-style, with the spar of the Dragonfly cockpit: cleanly, more or less, through his stomach. Pinned, face-up, to the jungle floor. His aviator-helmet was shattered, the lower portion of his face covered in blood. That he was still alive was something.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, struggling with gloved hands against the metal holding him in place. “But you should get out of here. Investigate the signal.”

  Martinez slid his plasma pistol from the holster on his thigh. Slammed a power cell into the grip, and handed it to James. The flyboy took it.

  “Better to make it fast,” Martinez said.

  James shook his head. “There’s a distress beacon in the cockpit,” he said. “Activate it.”

  “Why?” Mason asked. “No one is coming. Loeb is under orders not to respond—”

  But I understood. It wasn’t about calling for help: it was about creating a diversion. Setting it off at full broadcast spectrum would call every fish head within the sector to James’ position. Meanwhile, we’d be gone.

  “Do it,” I ordered. “Now.”


  “I’ve got twenty shots,” James said, looking down at the digital read-out on the plasma pistol. He gave a weak smile: his teeth bright red. “I might even get a couple of kills before they get to me.”

  “It’s not as easy as it looks,” Jenkins said.

  Martinez and Mason hauled the door of the gunship free, and were already working on the damaged control console.

  “Done!” Martinez shouted from the wreck.

  “The signal was a klick north of here,” James said. “The position should be stored in your combat-suit.”

  My suit was gradually coming online again, and the wrist-comp showed local directions.

  James held out his fist, and we bumped knuckles. “Good hunting, Lazarus.”

  We fell into a forced march.

  It was hard going, but we were always alert, moving as rapidly as possible. Mason had a mono-knife, smaller than her trophy sword, and hacked at the undergrowth as she went, and Kaminski prodded aside enormous tree branches with his plasma rifle. The ground underfoot was sodden, swampy, and we were often knee-deep in fetid water. Stuff that looked like brilliant red reed-grass poked from mud banks. On closer inspection, those plants writhed and swarmed as though they were alive. There was mist everywhere, coiling around enormous tree boles. It was noisy too – full of chirping, burping and whistling things, animals that had vague analogues with Earth-born counterparts: disconcertingly alien.

  “This place stinks,” Mason moaned.

  “No shower is going to get rid of that fish-stink,” Jenkins agreed, “and the pollen is a killer.”

  “I hope,” Kaminski said, “not in the literal sense.”

  “Use your suit’s internal filters,” I said.

  “I am,” said Mason, “but that’s not helping.”

  Coupled with the intense heat, the smell was a double gut-punch. The deep, headache-inducing scent often defined an encounter with the Krell, but this was so much more potent. Back at the crash site, burning fuel propellant and roasting simulant flesh had cloaked the smell of the jungle. Now, there was no such perfume to the place. It smelt of rotted fish and salt – the Krell’s natural odour, multiplied by ten. Not for the first time, I was intensely grateful for my battle-suit’s medi-suite, pumping me with anti-sickness drugs and a regular supply of antihistamines.