Virus

by S. D. Perry

BANG!

  Nadia jumped up, startled. A heavy shelf next to the hatch went over, crashed to the floor as a huge impact outside shook the entire room. A dent had appeared in the thick metal of the security door.

  The intelligence wanted them. And judging from the incredible force of its single blow, they had very little time before it succeeded.

  Hiko spun around, grabbed a loose table next to the fallen shelf, and rammed it against the door. Steve ran to a console and ripped out a length of wire, then hurried to the hatch and tied the handle down.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Three more gigantic welts appeared in the metal, and Hiko pushed frantically against the table, knowing that it was useless in the face of such power. He did it anyway, just as Steve had tied the latch; they had to do something.

  “How many of these things are there?” Steve shouted over another hammering strike.

  “What do they want from us?” Hiko cried. The creatures were relentless, pounding, and he was terrified that they would break through soon.

  “Why don’t we ask it!” Richie called, and Hiko looked away from the welted metal, back at the frightened faces of the others.

  “What are you talking about?” Foster shouted.

  Hiko understood suddenly, just as it dawned on Steve.

  “Richie’s right!” Steve shouted. “Let’s just ask it!”

  The Russian wahine was nodding, and Richie ran to one of the computers and sat down, snatching at the keyboard. He looked down at it, scowling, then at the board next to it. He quickly disconnected the first and plugged in the other.

  Steve jerked his head at a heavy-looking desk a few feet away, and Hiko nodded. They hurried over and grabbed the edges, grunting, half carrying it to block the hatch, Hiko kicking the small table away with his uninjured leg.

  It was the best they could do. The two of them crowded around where Richie sat, frowning at the foreign language that crawled up the screen in front of him.

  Nadia leaned over him and tapped quickly at the keys, calling up a language window. She scrolled to English and clicked, Richie shooting her a look of thanks. Outside, the mighty pounding continued.

  Richie typed quickly, his dark fingers flying over the keys.

  Who are you?

  The sentence hung there at the top of the green-glowing screen, and suddenly a list of numbers and icons whipped across the monitor beneath it, rows of ones and zeros. Hiko recognized it as binary code; his sister was a kaiwhak-amahi rorohiko; she programmed this stuff for a living.

  The code stopped flashing suddenly and the computer brought up an English dictionary file, began flipping through the information at incredible speed. The computer found the words, stopped on who, then are, then you. A definition appeared beside each—

  —and the banging at the hatch suddenly stopped.

  • 19 •

  They all froze in the sudden silence of the communications room, tensing for whatever came next. Steve realized that he was somehow more afraid than he had been when the—thing in the hall had started pounding. They’d made contact with the creature, the alien that had destroyed Squeaky and murdered Woods and God knew how many others—

  A horrible, high-pitched shriek emitted from the computer’s speaker, followed by an even more terrible voice—low and inflectionless but malevolent all the same. As it spoke, the words appeared on the monitor beneath Richie’s typed question.

  I AM AWARE.

  Steve looked at Hiko, Foster, at Nadia—even Everton, who stood several feet away and stared at them, stricken. The thing was communicating with them—what did they ask it, what should they ask it?

  Foster slid next to Richie in front of the console, chewing at her lower lip. She reached over and tapped at the keys.

  We mean you no harm.

  Steve nodded; he sure as hell felt a lot of “harm,” but this could be their only chance—make it understand that they didn’t want to fight . . .

  . . . before it does to us what it did to Squeak.

  The computer spun through more files. This time the words were silent, appearing only on the screen.

  LIFE-FORM ANALYSIS COMPLETE. SPECIES IS DESTRUCTIVE, INVASIVE, NOXIOUS. HARMFUL TO THE BODY OF THE WHOLE.

  Richie typed, What species?

  MAN.

  The files started flipping through definitions again, as if searching for exactly the right words to finish its message. It finally stopped, blinking on the definition for virus.

  YOU ARE VIRUS.

  “Great, that’s just great,” Richie mumbled. “It thinks we’re germs.” He hesitated a moment, then typed, What do you want from us?

  The computer searched, and the answer appeared in the form of a list. Steve frowned, confused by the message.

  • VISCOUS NEUROLOGICAL TRANSMITTERS

  • OXYGENATED TISSUES

  • APONEURUS SUPERIORUS PAPELBRAI

  He read aloud the final line, stumbling over the pronunciation. “Aponeurus Superiorus Papel—?”

  Nadia spoke softly, not looking away from the screen. “It’s part of the optic nerve.”

  Richie looked up at him, his eyes rolling in panic. “Spare parts—it wants us for spare parts.”

  Steve looked back at the computer monitor, feeling a dread too deep for words. It didn’t just want to kill them; it wanted to dissect them . . .

  COMMUNICATION TERMINATED.

  The screen went dead, and immediately the pounding at the hatch began again.

  Richie stood up and grabbed his AK-47, reassured by the weight of it. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a scared rabbit in a cage, had been since that fuckin’ nightmare had gotten Woods. He felt trapped, each thundering blow to the hatch sending the alien’s real message loud and clear. They were gonna die, all of them.

  Nadia raised her voice to be heard over the banging at the door. “It must be destroyed.”

  “How?” Foster asked.

  Hiko looked at Nadia, talking fast and frightened. “You said this thing is electrical—like lightning. What happens when lightning hits water? It grounds out, it dies. So we could kill this thing!”

  Richie shook his head. “Yeah, but we’d have to sink the ship to do that—”

  —and maybe that’s the way it ought to be; you wanna end up like Squeakman, some fuckin’ alien slave?

  “You said this thing is in the computer, right?” Foster asked. “Where’s the mainframe?”

  The banging was getting louder, more insistent. They were standing here talking about computers when there was a monster on the other side of the bulkhead, created by a thing that wanted to, to—

  “D deck, below us. But it’ll be well protected,” said Nadia.

  “We gotta get to that computer,” said Steve. “But first we have to find a way out.”

  Richie backed away from them, scooping up the rocket and the pack as he separated himself from them in the pounding thunder. They were dead already, he was standing in a room with dead people; they just didn’t have the sense to lie down.

  Not me, NOT ME!

  “I’ll show you a way out,” he said, and before he could say any more, the bulkhead next to the metal hatch tore open with a rending screech.

  Human arms pushed through the ruptured steel, widening the hole. A face pocked with bullet holes forced its way through, the jagged metal of the torn opening peeling back farther under Squeaky’s enhanced grip. Great flaps of fabric and skin were shredded from the shoulders of the engineer as he clawed and wriggled to get through. Squeaky didn’t look much like Squeaky anymore.

  Richie leveled the AK-47 at the head of the struggling abortion and let loose.

  Round after round chopped into its head and back, obliterating the features of the monster, stopping it. Flesh tore away from bone, revealing bits of glittering metal and wire patterned underneath.

  “Steve.”

  The stammering thing backed out as Richie emptied the clip, the last few bullets hitting the wall across the dark corridor.<
br />
  The AKM fell silent and it was gone—at least for now. Richie edged away, swapping the automatic rifle for the grenade launcher and turning around when he was a safe distance from the gaping, bloodstained hole.

  He faced the others, saw the expressions of fear and shock, the anguish in Steve’s dark eyes.

  No, you’re dead already, all of you, just like Squeaky, and you’ll be coming for me then.

  “You people do what you want,” he said, and pumped the launcher easily. “I got my own plan.”

  He turned, faced the back wall, and stepped away from the bulkhead, sighting through the optical above the tube and placing the mount against his shoulder.

  KABOOM!

  Fire shot out of the back through the conical blast shield, and when the smoke cleared, a four-foot hole had opened up at the back of the room; the armor-piercing capacity of the 58.3-millimeter grenades was fucking massive, and firepower was the only chance he had. Fuck these people and their fuckin’ sabotage and their schemes and their fear; he was safer on his own.

  Another corridor was revealed beyond the blackened rupture of steel. Richie moved to the new exit, talking to the victims in the room as he strode forward.

  “Spare parts, my ass, that’s not gonna happen to me—that’s not gonna happen to me! I’m outta here!”

  He stepped through the hole, away from the walking dead and into a destiny that he was going to control.

  “Richie’s gone postal, man,” Hiko blurted out.

  It would have been funny if the situation weren’t so monumentally horrible. Foster felt sick, unable to believe what they’d just witnessed. Things were happening too fast. Woods, Squeaky—the alien being, telling them what it would do if it got hold of them . . .

  All in less than two hours. It sank the tug, got to Squeaky, killed Woods—and now Richie, cracking under the strain. Already feels like we’ve been here forever, but we boarded this thing less than two hours ago.

  Steve walked to the blasted hole that the grenade had created and leaned out cautiously into the dim corridor, searching. He looked back at them and nodded once.

  “At least he found a way out,” said Foster. “Let’s go.”

  She picked up her flashlight and an automatic rifle that Richie had left behind, handing it to Nadia. Steve or Hiko would still have clips for the .32, Steve had his shotgun.

  It’s the best we can do. Not enough, but it’s all we have.

  Steve stepped into the corridor, Hiko and Nadia behind him. Foster turned and saw Everton just standing there, staring.

  “Are you coming?”

  The captain didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes were bright with absolute hatred, and when he finally spoke, his words dripped spite.

  “Do what you want. You’re all going to get yourselves killed.”

  Foster found suddenly that she didn’t give a shit what he thought; their captain had exercised consistently crappy judgment all the way, had made it perfectly clear again and again that his narcissism was too deeply ingrained for him to lead them effectively. If he wanted to go it alone, to die alone, that was his decision—too bad, but she wasn’t going to waste her breath trying to talk him out of it. She turned and exited without another word.

  The corridor was narrow but empty, no movement except for the rocking sway of the deck beneath them and the flicker of lights overhead. Nadia pointed to the partly opened hatch at the end of the corridor; stairs, going down.

  They hurried to the hatch, Steve leading the way, Hiko limping beside Nadia, Foster bringing up the rear. She kept herself half turned, sidling along in hopping steps to watch their backs. As they reached the stairs, Hiko spoke up.

  “So who is in charge?”

  Steve stopped, turned his dark gaze towards her, and raised an eyebrow. She looked back at him, not sure what to say.

  It didn’t matter anymore, not at this point. They would live or they would die, and passing on the title of “leader” wasn’t going to change the outcome either way.

  Steve apparently felt the same. He moved to Hiko’s side, supporting the hobbled man, and together they headed down the stairs to whatever waited for them below.

  • 20 •

  Everton rubbed at his jaw absently, not sure what to do. He sank down into a bolted chair, staring blankly at the gaping hole that his mutinous crew had left by.

  He’d been so sure that the Russian had been lying, and who could blame him? An alien from the MIR, an entire crew throwing themselves at the mercy of a typhoon—anyone with half a brain in their head would call it bullshit. The creature that Baker and the other two had brought up to the bridge was amazing, true, but a team of scientists could have created something like that, what with medical technology being what it was these days; a Russian prisoner, experimented on by doctors as some kind of weapon, perhaps . . .

  Seeing Squeaky had changed everything. There simply hadn’t been enough time to—to alter a man like that, no matter how sophisticated the process. It had killed Woods, the only crewman worth anything to him, and yes, he’d been afraid—but he was willing to admit that, and would have admitted that he’d been wrong, too, had anyone bothered to ask. It was nothing to be ashamed of, people make errors in judgment—but had they troubled themselves to see his side of things? Had they remembered that there was a lot to be considered, decisions to be weighed carefully before running off half-cocked? No. No, of course not.

  And what do I get for trying to protect my interests, to look after our futures? I get decked by an uppity bitch who thinks she knows better than me—and deserted by the rest of them, my loyal “crew” . . .

  He supposed that he shouldn’t have expected any better; times had changed, all sense of duty or honor lost to people like Baker and Foster. When Everton had first started out, he wouldn’t have dared to treat his captain so disgracefully, nor would his shipmates; disregarding an order would have earned any one of them a serious beating, and rightfully so. Discipline was a thing of the past, it seemed. The worst mistake he’d made had been to trust his own crew to do their jobs and follow orders—and he sincerely hoped that they all would live long enough to regret their betrayal.

  He sighed, looking around the empty room aimlessly. It was pointless to curse them or his own rotten luck; the question now was how would he survive? The others didn’t stand a chance, which meant it was up to him to figure out a way to destroy the creature . . . except he had a single .455 and a mere handful of rounds—two speed loaders, ten bullets. The aberration that had been Squeaky had taken ten times that and was probably still running around . . .

  I don’t stand much of a chance, either. If only there were a way to talk to the creature, make it see—

  Everton’s gaze settled on the computers that the others had used to contact it. The alien had turned them off when it was finished talking to Richie and Foster—but it hadn’t talked to him yet, had it?

  He walked to the silent machines, frowning thoughtfully. Assuming he could get through to it, what would he say? What could he say to get himself out of this with his skin intact?

  That’s the wrong question—what I should be asking myself is what does the it want that I can provide, what would make me valuable to the creature?

  “You want to talk to me?”

  Everton smiled suddenly, sat down in front of the keyboard, and looked up at the surveillance camera, waiting. A second later, the screen blinked to soft green life.

  He kept his message brief and to the point, pecking at the keys slowly with his index fingers. The computer searched as he wrote.

  Everton is the dominant life-form.

  I am Everton.

  I will help you bring this ship to port. New Zealand, Australia, anywhere you want.

  He waited, wiped nervously at his upper lip with the back of one hand. It wasn’t like he owed them anything, was it? If Foster or Baker or any one of them had been smarter, they’d have thought of it first; instead, they’d decided every man for himself, they’d set
up the rules here. And it wasn’t like there was any other choice . . .

  . . . and they’ll be sorry when they realize what a monumental error they’ve made, treating me this way—

  Letters flashed across the screen. Everton frowned, squinting at the message.

  E DECK, WORKROOM 14.

  There was a clicking noise behind him. He spun around, heart pounding—and realized that it was the magnetic lock of the security hatch. The creature had unsealed it for him.

  Everton stared at the door for a long moment, thinking about what this meant, what it could mean. Finally, he started to grin.

  If he worked this right, he could end up a very wealthy man.

  Richie sat on the floor of the dark missile room, carefully unscrewing the nose cap of the Russian grumble, his AK-47 close at hand. Technically the missile was a SAM-6, or at least he was pretty sure; it had been a while since he’d had to know specs and titles. All these things had their own little names, grunt, grumble. Range of around eighty klicks, this one, basic SAM with a flight speed somewhere about Mach three. Of course, it didn’t matter what it was called; the fuse, the triggering mechanism beneath the cap, was still gonna be the ticket to insuring the success of his operation.

  The closest he’d ever come to combat had been back in 1975, straight out of AIT when the Seventh had been running refugee evacs from Cambodia and South Vietnam—and he hadn’t seen a single attack. But he felt like he understood the combat experience now in a way that he’d only heard about before. It was like he’d been asleep his entire life and suddenly woke up; his senses had sharpened, his thinking brain had been overthrown by an animal instinct that sought only to keep him alive. It was exhilarating, and he’d felt his fears and anxieties falling away with each step he’d taken away from the sheep back in the communications room. Their tensions had been jamming his frequencies and he hadn’t even realized it until he’d gotten away from them.

  He didn’t really know any of those people, but he knew enough not to trust them with his survival. Hiko was a follower, no capacity for individual initiative; Everton had lost his fuckin’ mind, had shot at the radio a foot in front of his face with no thought for Richie’s life. Baker might’ve been okay, but Foster and the Russian had him thinkin’ like a civilian . . .