by S. A. Lusher
“Gray?”
“Yeah, I'm here.” It was Montgomery.
“My boys have been doing some more digging at Obsidian Station. We found some information that I thought you deserve to hear,” she said.
“Okay.”
“The target was created based off of ancient technology. We already knew that. It seems like he was...grown.”
“A cloned body?” Allan asked. Cloning technology had long been around, though it was only used for growing new limbs, skin and vital organs. When the ability to grow a full clone had come about, there had been a frenzied uproar with everyone asking the hard questions of 'who was who?' and 'how can we tell the difference?' Luckily, the problem had solved itself pretty easily. No one had ever figured out how to make a clone, but not make it obvious that it was a clone. Allan wasn't too sure on the details, but he knew there was an incredibly simple scan that basically anyone could run that would reveal if the person in question was a clone with one hundred percent accuracy.
“No, not exactly. We're still trying to figure out how they did it, but it looks like the body and the armor were grown together. They're fused. But here's the extremely interesting bit. The technology they're using isn't Cyr.”
Silence for a long, long time. “There's another race?” Allan asked finally.
“It's looking that way. Even older than the Cyr. A lot older.”
“This is insane,” Allan muttered.
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“So where did his personality come from them?”
“What do you mean?”
“He talked to me. He taunted me. Carved a message into a metal wall for me. I've seen him do strange things. And...I guess, most importantly, where is he going?”
“Whoa, wait a minute. He spoke to you? And what do you mean, 'where is he going'?”
“When we first found him, he was about to kill me, but then he just stopped, turned and walked away. He's been walking in a straight line ever since.”
“This is...news. I don't know. We're still digging and-”
Allan stopped paying attention as he heard a sound behind him, coming from the cargo area of the truck. It was a dull but powerful thud. Someone began screaming. Allan glanced over at the driver, who looked back at him, fear dawning in his eyes.
The radio link erupted. “He's coming awake!”
“We're hitting with the-”
“-uck, it's not working! He's-OH GOD!”
More thumps coming from the back.
“What the fuck is going on up there?!” Montgomery demanded.
Allan grabbed his gun, but as he brought it up, a black-armored fist punched through the back of the cabin. It shot forward like a piston, grabbed the steering wheel and ripped it sideways, then tore it off completely. The truck swerved. Chaos consumed the cabin. Allan tried to get his gun into play but then the truck completely lost balance, going sideways and yet still maintaining its forward momentum. It began to roll violently.
Allan had a confusing vision of the killer's hand grabbing the driver's neck, then his head banged against the inside of his helmet so hard it made him dizzy. It happened twice more in rapid succession, then he had the feeling of flying through the air.
Then there was nothing.
* * * * *
Awake again.
Allan found himself wishing against all hope that he was at home in his bed. Instead, when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at a dull, cloud sky through a lens of light-enhanced, rain-beaded pain. Everything hurt. His head throbbed in blunt agony. Slowly, he sat up, propping himself up on the heels of his hand.
A highly, littered with bodies and burning debris, stretched out before him. He could hear no one and nothing but the lonely sound of soft rainfall and the whispering of the winds. Very slowly, like an old man, Allan stood. He gritted his teeth against the various aches and bolts of suffering that shot through his worn body.
His weapon was gone. He still had his pistol, but it would do shit-all against the killer, who had, without a doubt, survived the crash. Allan began moving through the wreckage, searching the bodies of Spec Ops soldiers who had been doing their duty, tossed into a situation beyond even their capabilities. Allan paused at every corpse he came to, paying a small amount of respect. He recovered a shock rifle and several magazines.
Even as he did this, he knew he didn't have much hope. The trip to Obsidian Station had taken a lot longer, and the killer had stayed under the entire time. He'd hardly been out an hour and he'd come up fists blazing. The tech was way beyond anything humanity had, so it was entirely within the realm of possibility that he'd built up some kind of immunity against the shock therapy. Hell, shooting him again might only make things worse.
But he couldn't just sit there and do nothing. After a long while of moving among the dead, Allan discovered two curiosities. The first was that he was still alive. Everyone here seemed to have been killed deliberately if they managed to survive the wreck, which had apparently taken out every single vehicle in the convoy. If this was the case, then why was he still alive? Probably the same reason he'd survived Obsidian Station: the killer wanted him alive. The killer wanted someone chasing him, someone hunting him.
The second curiosity was that, as far as he could tell, he couldn't find Montgomery's body among the dead. He supposed it was possible that he'd simply not discovered all the bodies, but it didn't feel right. It seemed likely that Montgomery had somehow gotten away. She seemed difficult to kill. Allan checked his compass and aligned himself with the heading the killer had been taking. Thankfully, it put him on a path down the highway they'd been driving along. Limping slightly, he opened up his radio and began walking.
“Is anyone out there? Did anyone make it?” he asked.
He expected a response from Carpenter, since he'd turned his long-range back on, but for a long moment, he heard nothing but silence.
“Gray? Holy shit, I thought you were dead. You really must be one lucky son of a bitch,” Montgomery replied.
“I don't think it has anything to do with luck. Everyone's dead here. He let me live. I'm in pursuit,” Allan replied.
“Do you see him?”
“No. Just following the path he's been taking since the beginning.”
“Keep going. The highway goes by a refinery. It's about two miles away. I've sent in most of the rest of my men to evacuate the refinery and set up a defensive perimeter. We're going to recapture the target and eliminate him for good.”
“Where are you? And how do you plan on doing that?” Allan asked.
“I...drove away,” Montgomery admitted, hesitating. “I'm the only one in charge of this operation. If I die, there's a good chance he could just...keep killing. Keep going. I had to get away once I saw the shock bolts were no longer working.”
“Fair enough. So how are we going to stop him?”
“We managed to dig up more at Obsidian Station. It seems the scientists there knew they would need a way to stop the target in case they lost control of him. They made a few prototypes that use a rudimentary form of nanotechnology, based off of the same technology. It'll stop him. Not kill him, but incapacitate him. So we're going to continue with the plan. Same as before. I'd like you there,” Montgomery replied.
“All right. I'm on my way.”
“Affirmative. Out.”
Allan kept limping.
* * * * *
The first indication that Allan had that something was wrong was when an immense explosion lit up the night sky. The shockwave was so powerful it picked Allan up and tossed him back several feet. He hit the ground with an explosive groan of pain as all his aches and pains snarled at the abuse. A wave of hot dust blew over him, getting into his vents. He coughed violently and sat up once more, grateful that at least he hadn't been rendered unconscious again. His radio exploded in a burst of static as he climbed painfully to his feet.
“Gray! Allan! Are you still there!?” Montgomery asked.
“W
hat the fuck happened?” Allan groaned. “Was that your fucking secret weapon? Because I already tried that and it didn't work?”
“Joke on your own time, Gray. Are you okay?”
“Fine. No more worse for the wear at this point. What the fuck happened?”
“It was confusing over the network, but I think they managed to incapacitate the target. Someone, either one of my men or the target must've hit something critical at the refinery during the fight. Listen, I'm on my way and-”
“Holy shit!” Allan cried out.
Something roughly shaped like a man, cast in black, smoking armor abruptly crashed to the ground in front of him. The impact sent him stumbling back several feet and once more he fell on his ass. Ignoring Montgomery's frenzied questions for the moment, he lurched to his feet once more and cautiously approached the carter. He looked down at his gun and bit his lip. If the killer was still awake, he might be able to buy himself some time...
He looked into the crate, which was at least three meters deep, and spied the unmoving form of the killer's massive body lying at the bottom.
“Gray! What the fuck is going on!?” Montgomery demanded.
Allan began laughing. “You'll never believe this, but the asshole just landed at my fucking feet. He's out cold!” He kept laughing.
Montgomery was silent for a moment. “Talk about a stroke of fucking luck. Okay, I'm on my way. Stay there. Watch him.”
“Yeah, you got it, boss.”
* * * * *
Montgomery and a team of black-and-silver armored men and women appeared in a pair of jump ships. Six of them moved to the bottom of the carter and began to attach heavy-lift gear to the killer, securing him firmly. Montgomery slowly walked up to Allan, who had begun to drift off, even though he was still standing.
“Let me take you back home,” she said after a long moment.
Allan opened his mouth to respond, to argue, but he was so tired, so hungry, so thirsty, that he wasn't sure he'd survive to make the trip to the sun and back. For once, his lethargy was overriding even his need to kill the killer. To see him end.
“Fine,” he said after a very long moment.
“Thank you,” Montgomery said quietly. “Don't worry. We'll get the job done. Go back home. Get some sleep. I'll contact you after it's done.”
“All right,” Allan replied, making for one of the jump ships, his head spinning.
He climbed aboard, sat down, strapped in and again fell into an immediate and deep sleep.
* * * * *
The first hints of daylight were peering over the distant horizon when the jump ship settled down on the landing pad just long enough to drop Allan off. He was home again. Back at base. There were so many questions, and his mind felt hazy still. He'd slept the whole way there, waking occasionally when a bit of turbulence jolted the ship, but his brain felt wrapped in wool or deep-fried. Every thought came sluggish and malformed.
The jump ship left as soon as he was clear, leaving him alone on the landing pad, bathed in the early-morning glow. It didn't last long, though. He heard footsteps and turned, frowning as he saw Captain Carpenter marching towards him across the pad. He was flanked by three security personnel armed with stun rifles.
“Captain...” Allan began, preparing to defend himself.
“Sergeant Gray, I'm afraid I'm going to have to place you under arrest,” Carpenter replied, cutting him off.
Allan's frown deepened. He'd known Carpenter for a year now. The man might be tough, but he was reasonable.
“Captain, I can explain my actions. And I have the backing of Special Operations. I-”
“Allan, this comes from above my head. You lost your second team. You disobeyed a direct order. Allan, for Christ's sake, you detonated a power plant using authority you didn't even possess! Make it easy on yourself while we sort this out.”
Carpenter took a step towards him, cuffs in hand. “I'll need you to remove your armor.”
Something first strained, then snapped inside of Allan. He might have been able to give in to Carpenter's demands...if those demands didn't involve getting out of his armor. Allan had the notion earlier that he might be coming to rely on his armor, might even be using it as armor against life itself, but he'd been so busy fighting the killer, doing whatever it took to stay alive, to keep going, that it had slipped his mind.
Instead of abating, fading away, the notion, the demand that he stay in his armor had only grown stronger, hidden in the shadows of forgetfulness and distraction. So when Carpenter said what he said and did what he did, Allan raised his rifle. It was an instinctive, automatic reaction, as though the killer himself was standing before him.
The last thing he remembered was seeing the escort raise their own weapons and open fire. Everything was lost in a bright, blue glare.
* * * * *
When Allan woke up, he did so to a confusing jumble of memories.
The only memory that felt very rock solid was being tazed and taken down by Carpenter's mind. For a second, he wondered who they had been, as their faceplates had been polarized, their faces hidden. Were they people he knew? It was very likely. But between that memory and his current reality, there seemed to be something else.
He laid there for a moment, (he was lying on his back again, this time on something hard, and with the notable absence of his suit), had tried to sort through the memories. Some of them seemed to be viewed through a red haze, as though someone had thrown blood in his eyes. He remembered waking up in a cell, realizing his armor was gone, and utterly losing his shit. He remembered jumping up. He remembered punching the door, screaming at the top of his lungs, throwing himself around the small cell in utter abandon.
But recalling these memories was like watching a video that someone was either fast-forwarding or playing in slow motion, perhaps both at the same time, through a shaky mist of static. As he remembered, though, throbs of pain on his body seemed to indicate that they had, in fact, happened. He brought his hands up and stared at his knuckles, which were bloody and, to varying degrees, broken. He swallowed and found his throat raw and painful.
Allan tried to sit up, but energy had left him.
He laid there and felt wholly isolated, utterly alone and abandoned by the universe around him. It was as though life itself had forsaken him. He felt dead, or like he should be. For one very strong moment, he wanted to be dead. Did it matter anymore? Did anything? The killer was likely dead by now, or on his way. Hopefully Montgomery would put in a good word for him, but she'd at least finish off what it was that Blackwell had been doing.
Hopefully.
Allan closed his eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wasn't as tired as he was before, but now he was becoming weak from hunger. How long had it been since he'd had a meal? What time was it? There was no window in the cell, no way to tell time, and his sense of time was hopelessly skewed. He had no idea if it was dusk or noon. As he settled in to go back to sleep, waiting until they came for him, he found himself wondering about something.
Johnson. As he still alive? Or was he counted among the dead at Obsidian Station? Did it matter? If they guy was alive, he'd probably made it somewhere safe and warm, probably was in the process of finding a new job after getting debriefed.
As Allan prepared to sleep, the door to his cell abruptly opened. He sat up, startled by how quickly his body apparently reacted to this, as he had no intention of sitting up. He fully expected to see Carpenter or someone else he'd known from his past life, but instead he stared in total shock at the familiar face of Johnson.
“Man, do you owe a big one,” he said.
Allan sat there, feeling supremely stupid.
Johnson gestured impatiently. “Well get up, asshole. We've only got a little bit of time before they find the guard I knocked out.”
Again, Allan's body reacted. He stood. There was something about all this, something about his situation that whispered that he wasn't finished yet. Lansing Station was likely a dead-end anyway. Eve
n if Montgomery spoke up for him, Spec Ops didn't have the final say in the interlocking politics and bureaucracy of Galactic Alliance, the governing body of humanity. Maybe he could escape, maybe he could push past this death wish and cold apathy.
Clearly there was a part of him that wanted to.
“The killer's escaped,” Johnson said as they left the detention center.
Allan froze, all thoughts banished by this simple sentence. “What?”
“Yeah. Their plan failed. Montgomery and what's left of her Spec Ops boys are coming up with some kind of plan. They sent me to spring you once they found me. You and I are really the only ones who's ever come in contact with this guy and lived, so besides her, we're the only ones who really know how bad this situation is,” Johnson replied, stopping and looking back impatiently.
Allan's mind tried to reboot, to jump-start. It took a few times, but finally he had it. The killer was still out there. Still alive.
He had a firm purpose again.
“Wait,” he said when Johnson tried to pick up the pace again. “I need my armor.”
“I was wondering what you looked like under there. Man, you look like crap,” Johnson said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Allan, who waved him off, hunting for his armor.
Johnson shrugged and lit up, looking around nervously.
“I was wondering what you looked like when you found some guts,” Allan replied, stepping into the evidence room.
“Yeah, yeah,” Johnson muttered.
Allan found his armor. He quickly began pulling it on, feeling more secure, more comfortable, more like himself with each piece that was secured to his body. Within a few minutes, he finally had his armor on. He grabbed his shock rifle and magazines, as well as a pistol, out of habit, and stepped back out into the corridor.
“Can we go please?” Johnson asked.
“You coming with?” Allan asked as they headed out of the base.
Johnson shook his head. “No. Montgomery offered me a ticket offworld if I did this. And I'm taking it. I'm going to drop you off at the rendezvous point and get the fuck out of here.”