by S. A. Lusher
“Good. We ran into a pair of Berserkers and a couple of Dark Ops squads, but they're dead now. We're just making for the final manual override. You?”
“Just wrapped up ours. We're going to head for the digital dual-release system now.”
“Excellent. Contact us when you're there.”
“Come on, we've got to get back down to the medical wing. The final terminal is in an observatory room overlooking a surgical bay,” Kyra said.
Greg took a few breaths, and then stood. “Let's get going.”
* * * * *
After an eternity of pain and suffering, Greg, Kyra, and Holt finally came to their destination. The pain subsided by the time they reached the observation deck. Greg hoped it wouldn't be long before it was completely gone. It was a huge distraction. He looked around. They were in the corridor in front of the door that led to the observation bay itself. Kyra knelt in front of the control panel, trying to make it work. Holt stood a little ways away, standing guard.
“Got it.” Kyra stood.
They came into the bay, making sure it was clear. It was empty, just a room for people to stand in and look down on a surgical bay. There was a terminal in the far corner. Kyra went over to it. Holt stood guard by the door. Greg found himself drawn to the glass wall that looked down into the room below.
He came to stand in front of it and glanced down. A sterilized, white-tiled room awaited his inspection. It was empty, save for a single examination table where, presumably, surgeries took place. Someone had died down there, marring the perfect white area with a great deal of red, lying on the table.
Only...something was wrong with the scene. Greg frowned, looking closer. The body...it was too perfectly positioned on the surgical table. Had someone been in the middle of an operation? Greg considered the horrors of that, then began to think about going down there and seeing if the poor bastard was still alive.
Then he saw it.
There was a glint of metal. At first, Greg thought perhaps it was a medical instrument. However, with a growing horror, he realized, as he looked closer, that it appeared attached to the man's chest.
“What the fuck is that?” he whispered loudly.
“What?” Holt came over and looked down. After a long moment, he spoke again. “I think we should check that out.”
Kyra talked with Powell, still positioned by the terminal. Greg heard her counting down, still wholly focused on strange anomaly below. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to be down there. Kyra came over.
“We did it, bridge is unlocked...what are you looking at?”
“I don't know, but let's get down there. I want to see what the hell it is. Something's wrong with that body,” Greg replied.
They found a quick route down and stepped into the surgical bay. As they approached the body, Greg noticed several more anomalies. There was a metal plate welded to the body's chest. Both eyes were gouged out and one was replaced with a crude mechanical analog. The stomach cavity was open and several of the internal organs were missing. Many wires ran from the terminal hooked up to the examination table into the open stomach.
“My God,” Kyra whispered.
“What the fuck were they getting up to on this ship?” Holt murmured.
“I don't know, but I'm beginning to suspect that the Undead weren't the only things they were experimenting on...come on, we need to get to the bridge.”
Chapter 10
–Revelation–
The way to the bridge was a twisted, unpleasant nightmare.
Things started out bad when they found their way off the medical deck and came into a vast network of cargo bays.
“Christ, like being in a cave,” Greg muttered.
“Yeah...at least we seem to have the place to ourselves.” Kyra spoke in soft tones.
“Don't bank on it staying that way.” Holt looked nervous.
They'd come to a massive cargo bay, easily triple the size of the underground warehouses Greg had found himself trapped in deep below the surface of Dis once upon a time. Now, enormous piles of crates towered over them, stacked pyramid-style. Greg decided that Dark Ops were overly fond of pyramids. He supposed he should thank them. He might be dead were it not for that design. Besides the crates, Greg spied huge cranes that hung from the ceiling like inert, metal bats, and small anti-grav hover-dollies were everywhere.
The trio made their way through the cavernous bay. Greg listened, but there seemed to be nothing in the room with them. According to the map, they'd have to move through three of these before getting to an elevator that would bring them close to the bridge. Greg spoke, he needed a mild distraction.
“So, Holt, I've been meaning to ask someone about the war that took place not too long ago. I've heard about it, but, obviously, I can't remember it.”
“Oh, boy. The war. I was out of the Marines by the time it started. It began brewing about eight years ago. They called it, of all things, the Systems Wars. I'm not totally clear on the details. What it largely boiled down to was politics. Some charismatic asshole started going around, gathering mercenary armies and angry civilians to his cause. Soon, he was a million strong...then ten million...then he had a few systems to his cause. By the time Galactic Alliance sat up and really took notice, it was too late.
“It probably wouldn't have amounted to anything if they hadn't launched a surprise attack on one of the more important planets. They blew up an incredibly well guarded military headquarters and assassinated a trio of high up, key political figures all in the same two-hour period. It was highly coordinated and highly effective. It was a declaration of war. A lot of people who had been on the fence suddenly found themselves wanting to go to war against the GA. It really seemed like the rebels might have a chance of overthrowing the government.”
“Is the GA...evil? A dictatorship? I mean, I didn't get that feeling...” Greg trailed off.
Holt shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Obviously, they do shady shit from time to time and they have questionable ethics, but what government hasn't? No, they're pretty good, all things considered, and I'm not some mindless patriot, either. I've had plenty of bad things to say about the GA, but the alternative is worse, honestly.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, that attack I mentioned took place about five years ago. After that, it was hard fighting. It was brutal. It looked like it was going to go on for a lot longer after three years of damned hard fighting. Then, suddenly, over the course of a few months the opposition just...fell apart. Several of their leaders, many of whom were politicians and military titans, turncoat from GA, up and died. Worse, they lost several key locations. It was like dominoes. No one is too sharp on the details, but the rebels just faded away.”
“I thought you said you didn't know much about the war,” Kyra said.
Holt chuckled and shrugged. “I guess I like to downplay any knowledge on my part. Being in the military, I naturally took to checking up...but I'm not what you'd call obsessive in my pursuit of knowledge.”
They reached the far end of the first cargo bay and passed through the next one. Greg could immediately tell this one wouldn't be nearly so easy. The lighting was darker, and as he glanced over head, Greg saw why.
Webbing.
“Crap,” he muttered.
“Keep a sharp eye out for spiders,” Kyra whispered.
“Christ, how big are they to produce this much web?” Holt murmured.
“Big,” Greg replied.
They made rapid progress across the bay. It was obvious that some kind of battle had gone on. One of the larger stacks of crates now lay spread across the floor, burst open, contents spilled. Several Undead and Dark Ops corpses lay scattered. Empty shell casings carpeted the deck plates and black and red blood pooled in several places. The webbing seemed exclusive to the ceiling, for which Greg was thankful. There were dark shapes in the webs. Some of them might have been spiders, others might have been corpses.
Did the spiders make a distinction
between alive and undead?
Greg kept his eyes raised, rifle at ready, flipping it on to three-round burst. His finger slipped within the trigger guard as he spied a few of the larger forms shift. They seemed sluggish, as though they were dreaming.
“Come on, hurry up,” he whispered.
They climbed quickly and quietly over the toppled crates, moving as swiftly as they could. Spiders were the absolute last thing Greg felt like fighting when it came to the roster of things that wanted him dead or captured.
A skittering sound caught his attention.
He glanced around, looking up at the towering crates, the darkened corners of the room, the deeper shadows. There could be anything hiding within them. They'd made it nearly three quarters of the way there when the first spider launched itself from somewhere atop one of the crate pyramids. It landed with a thud directly in front of Greg.
He took just a second to study it before blasting it away with a trio of three-round bursts. This spider was almost wholly black now, with only hints and streaks of blue left in it. It looked leaner, more lethal.
“Run!” he screamed as it sprayed black gore across the ground.
More of them descended from the shadows, eager to move in for the kill. Gunfire lit up the area as Kyra and Holt opened fire. Another two leaped in front of Greg. He downed them with a pair of well-placed bursts from his rifle. They squealed as their insides ejected from within them, a wretched, high-pitched sound that sent icy shudders down Greg's spine. They were almost free of the bay. He tossed a glance behind him.
There were nearly a dozen spiders giving chase. Huge, horrible, dark abominations, scuttling over the crates and across the ground, their limbs nightmarishly dexterous. Greg knew that he'd never see anything but these things again whenever he looked at a spider, even a very small one. There was no time to shoot, only to run.
He reached the doorway first and slammed into it. Punching the open button, he slipped through, spun on his heel and laid down some cover fire in between Kyra and Holt as they bolted for the door.
“Come on!”
He had to stop the gunfire as Kyra came through, then Holt. Greg slammed the shut button and activated the lock function. Several soft thuds came from the other side of the door. Greg let out a long sigh of relief.
“Um...Greg?”
He turned around.
A dozen black-armored troopers with shotguns and rifles occupied the bay. They were all aiming at Greg, Kyra, and Holt.
“I have eyes on the target.” One of them advanced.
“Why don't you fuckers just leave me alone?” Greg snapped.
He began wondering how the hell they were going to get out of this, and then he heard a sound overhead. It was a short growl. He glanced up. There was a hole in the ceiling, high overhead, maybe forty feet.
A Berserker peered down through the hole.
Greg grinned wildly. “Oh-ho-ho...you guys are fucked.”
“Oh shit-” one of the troopers began.
The Berserker jumped, sailed through the air for a couple of heart-pounding seconds, and then landed with an earth-shattering crash in the midst of the Dark Ops troops. Several of them went flying. The Berserker recovered quickly from its high drop, grabbed one of the men and tossed him over its shoulder.
It was almost funny.
“Shit! Shoot it,” the leader shouted, spinning around.
Greg didn't give him a chance. He raised his rifle and when the leader turned back around, let him have it in the faceplate. Glass and blood flew on the air as the body slammed backwards to the ground.
“Go!” Greg shouted.
The surviving troops did everything in their power to flee from the rampaging Berserker, but it was too close. Greg, Kyra, and Holt moved along the exterior wall, finding a narrow corridor between the crates and the wall, broken only by spaces in between the pyramids. As they came to a corner, turned, and kept going, a body flew in between two of the piles and slammed into the wall in front of Greg.
They listened to the Berserker tear through the Dark Ops squad as they reached the far wall and found the door that led to the elevator. They slipped through, shutting and locking the door behind them.
“Damn, that was fucking nuts.” Holt's voice trembled.
Greg laughed with unease as they headed down the corridor towards the lift at the end. “Yeah...it always is with the Berserkers.”
“Where do the names come from?” Holt asked.
“Military named the first batch...dunno about the new ones. I guess we name them,” Greg replied.
“Interesting. Maybe that can be my job.”
“Hey, maybe. Creeper is a good name.”
They reached the elevator and piled in. This one was less confining than the maintenance lifts. Greg activated his radio, trying to raise Powell, Cage, and the others.
“What's happening, Bishop?” Cage replied.
“We're out of the cargo bays. Ran into some trouble. Dark Ops really seems to be on my ass. How about you?”
“We're at the bridge now. Waiting on you. We...” Cage hesitated. Something he didn't do often. “We found something strange.”
“What? Stranger than zombies?”
“Yes. We found a dead body with what appears to be some kind of cybernetic enhancements. He was hard-wired into a terminal. His hand had wires coming out of it and there were plates of metal attached to his back.”
“We saw something similar in a medical bay...any theories?”
“None that are particularly pleasant. Just hurry up and get up here, yeah?”
“On it.”
The lift came to a halt and admitted them to a long, bloody corridor. Greg tried to remember where this would take them as his boots squelched in the recently spilled blood. Powell's map indicated this smaller passageway would link them up to a larger, central corridor, which would take them right to the bridge.
“Where are the bodies?” Kyra asked suddenly.
“That...is a good question. I've been noticing missing bodies recently...I guess I just assumed it was the Undead. People turn instead of dying,” Greg replied.
“Yeah, but if it was the Undead, there'd at least be some remains. They end up killing almost as many as they turn.”
“Maybe the Undead are getting smarter, and found a use for the bodies,” Holt murmured.
“The cybernetics?” Greg hazarded.
Kyra shook her head. “No, no way they're that smart. I'm willing to grant that they're getting smarter and more effective at killing, but that's too much of a leap to make.”
“Then where are the bodies? Obviously a shitload of people died in this corridor.”
To that, no one had any answers. They made it to the end of the corridor. Greg opened the door and peered out into a much larger, broader hallway. There were signs of conflict: bullet holes, great pools and sprays of black and red blood, only a few bodies, though. The corridor appeared to be clear. Greg could even see the others, gathered down at the far end in front of what must have been an entrance to the bridge.
“Come on, we're almost there,” he murmured.
They slipped out and made rapid progress towards the others. They had nearly made it there when one of the side doors in the corridor opened up. Greg spun, weapon raised, prepared to blow away whatever came through, be it Dark Ops soldier or Undead horror.
It was neither.
What stumbled out into the corridor was once a man, though it hadn't transformed into a zombie. It was almost naked, wrapped in the tattered remains of a med-tech's white jumpsuit. It was incredibly pale, as pallid as a corpse left in the snow for days. One of its eyes glowed a deep, pulsating crimson, an arm had been replaced by a sparking twist of wires and circuits. Several pieces of metal were grafted across its torso.
“What the fuck is that?” Greg cried.
The thing turned to look at him. Its mouth opened and a horrible sound, a mix between a squeal of static and a human scream, emitted. Greg raised his rifle and fi
red, punching several holes through its chest. The thing stumbled and some of the plates fell off. Kyra raised her own piece and put a hole in its head.
That sent it flopping to the ground, where it shuddered and twitched, eventually becoming still. Greg walked towards it. He spied Cage and the others coming towards the thing as well. They all met and gathered around the unknown anomaly.
“This...is not good,” Cage murmured.
“What the fuck are these things? That's the second one we've found so far.” Greg stared down at the abomination. The eye still held a faint red glow.
“Some kind of experiment Dark Ops was preforming?” Powell suggested.
“Look, whatever it was, it clearly wasn't that much of a threat. We need to get to the bridge,” Billings said.
They lingered briefly, and then walked to the bridge. Greg glanced at their latest addition. “Campbell? Do you know anything about this?”
“No way, man. As far as I know, the Undead was this cell's primary operation. That's how it works. Each cell is given a single task. This was our task,” he replied.
Greg fell silent, remaining so until they had arrived at one of three entrances to the bridge. He glanced over at Cage.
“What's on the other side?”
“We don't know. Could be anything. I suggest a multi-pronged attack.”
Greg considered it for a moment, and then nodded. “Powell, Campbell, over at the far end. Billings, Cage, in the middle. Kyra, Holt and I will take this side.”
Everyone hurried to get into position, checking weapons and readying themselves for what might be a titanic assault. Whispers passed in between the split squad as they settled into position. Greg trembled in anticipation.
“Go!”
Three doors opened simultaneously. Seven survivors aimed their weapons into the bridge, hidden behind the door frames, preparing for a hail of bullets. There was no response. Greg frowned, peering cautiously into the bridge.
There were signs of conflict, but the bridge was totally abandoned.
“What the hell happened?” he murmured, slowly going in.