by S. A. Lusher
It was like the awkward things he'd seen before: an awful union of flesh and metal. It had once been a man. It was naked now, the flesh pale and stark. A piece of wire mesh had been fitted across its stomach, soldered into the flesh, through which a black-red sludge slowly oozed. Metal facsimiles that glistened with wiring and circuitry had replaced both legs. Cybernetics that cycled through the primary colors took the place of the eyes. The skull was clean-shaven and sported a curved metal plate with a trio of small antenna. It would have looked ridiculous and perhaps even comical if it weren't so downright terrifying.
Worst of all, Greg realized, its right hand had been replaced by the barrel of a pistol. The Drone seemed to regard Greg for a moment, and then it raised the barrel. Greg, though thoroughly surprised by this rapid development, was still very good at noticing when things were pointing guns at him, even when the gun had become part of the thing.
He snapped his rifle up and fired off four shots, making ugly holes in the Drone's face and head. It toppled backwards, red and black liquid oozing from the wounds. Another Drone stepped out of the open doorway, then two more. Greg and the others fell back, firing as they retreated, and downed another one of the awful things.
They retreated around the corner, raised their weapons and waited for the Drones to come to them. At first, Greg thought they wouldn't, but they did, lumbering around the corner. The quartet easily downed the last three ugly things as they came.
“Not too smart,” Billings murmured.
“They must still be learning,” Greg said.
“Then we'd better get a fucking move on, don't want them getting too smart,” Kyra said.
Greg nodded in agreement. They made their way back to the elevator, and finding nothing more waiting for them, piled in and rode it down. When the doors opened, the first thing Greg noticed was that the light was considerably better, almost blindingly so. Greg felt a chill pass through him as he stepped back out into the medical wing.
“What's that sound?” Campbell whispered.
It wasn't one sound but many. Drilling, buzzing, gurgling, screaming, gibbering, humming, all of it hidden within the hush of the medical wards. The symphony of chaos muted, coming at them only through ventilation ducts.
“I don't know...and I really don't want to find out,” Greg replied.
They moved down the corridor, slowly at first. Greg noticed unhappily that there were no more bodies around. In a flash, he had his answer: Erebus and the Augmented, the latest addition to the roster of killers lining up to make his life a living hell. The Artificial Intelligence was taking the corpses and reworking them into something it could use, but what was the thing's end goal? What was it working towards?
A previously unseen door that ran the length of the entire corridor abruptly slammed shut as Greg and the others approached it. He stopped, weapon raised, expecting some kind of attack. There was another snap from behind them. Greg spun and saw a similar door had slammed shut, hemming them in.
“Shit,” he snapped.
A side door that led into one of the infirmaries opened up. A cacophony of noises suddenly became much clearer.
“I think we're meant to go in there,” Kyra said quietly.
“Well, I don't want to go in there.” Greg walked up to the door that had closed and hunted for a way to open it back up.
After a long, unsuccessful moment, punctuated by Greg shooting the control panel in frustration, he finally gave in, turned and marched into the open doorway. He stopped, his mind unable to fully comprehend exactly what he was seeing.
“Oh, my God,” Campbell whispered.
The infirmary was now an awful hybrid of a machine shop and a medical ward. All of the examination tables held bodies, or, at least, pieces of bodies. A variety of machines were spread out across the floor, most of them hooked up to the tables or directly to the twitching bodies themselves. Mechanical tools and medical instruments were scattered across the tops of rolling trays and counters. The lights were harsh and unforgiving.
There was blood everywhere. It seemed to coat every surface. Red and black. There were men moving among the exam tables and the bodies. Only they were not men. They were Augmented. Largely unchanged except for, Greg saw, their hands. Almost all of them had hands that ended in stumps and seemed to be interchangeable. Some had scalpels fixed to the stumps of their wrists, others had bone saws, others syringes.
These men, these surgeons, moved perpetually and ceaselessly among the dead. They were all perfectly silent, dexterous and nimble in their display.
“This is how they're made,” Kyra whispered, her voice tight and harsh.
“Should we...stop this?” Greg murmured, nearly hypnotized by the proceedings.
“I wouldn't advise that,” a voice said in his ear. By the reaction of the others, it came to them as well, across all their radios.
Erebus.
“Why are you doing this?” Greg asked. He moved slowly through the infirmary, as he saw another opening across the way.
“That doesn't concern you, Greg. What I'm curious about is why you're here, on this ship. I gave you your warning. A very serious one. You humans are so curious.”
“We have our reasons.”
“I see...I will let you continue without too much trouble. For now.”
“Why are you being so casual about all this?” Greg asked.
They passed through the door and into another corridor. Greg picked the trail back up, leading them on through the medical wing.
“I could kill you all at any moment with relative ease. I can kill the gravity, the power, the oxygen, instantly. I can trap you in a room with a small army of Undead. I wouldn't suffer in the slightest. You pose no real threat to me.”
“I see.”
Greg waited for more, but it seemed Erebus was through talking. He was very glad that Powell had made it extremely clear to them all that they should not, in any capacity, under any circumstances, discuss the EMP bomb or any aspect of their mission. If Erebus were to discover their true objective, then they would most certainly be perceived as a threat.
Or maybe not. Maybe Erebus was just that far above or beyond them.
Either way, it seemed best to keep tight-lipped about it. They continued down the corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of the machinery and the awful fusion of flesh and technology. There was nothing they could do about it anyway.
“How much further?” Campbell asked.
“We're getting there,” Greg replied.
Campbell sighed, but was otherwise silent. They pressed on through the medical deck, running into no more direct confrontations. Occasionally, a door would open and a Drone, or what Greg had come to think of as a Surgeon, would walk out. Sometimes it would stop and stare at them until they had gone out of sight. Greg felt himself tensing more and more, expecting some kind of attack, expecting Erebus to go back on its word, but they managed to reach another elevator and rode it down to the cargo deck.
“Oh, hell,” Billings muttered as soon as they stepped out into a main corridor.
Greg had to agree with him. The cargo deck was the darkest area of the ship yet, and there were hints of webbing. The reek of Undead was thick on the air, almost a fog all its own. Corpses were strewn, sometimes in piles, along the main passageway. The walls were marred with dents and sprays of blood and bullet holes.
“This deck belongs to the Undead,” Kyra murmured.
“Yes...let's be careful. Where are we going, exactly?” Greg replied.
Kyra consulted her infopad for a moment. She frowned in concentration, glancing up occasionally, and then finally nodded to herself.
“End of this corridor, Bay Twenty Two, left-hand side.”
“Alright, almost halfway done,” Greg replied.
They began moving slowly through the nightmarish cargo deck, their boots echoing and squelching loudly as they passed through thick pools of red and black blood. They nearly reached the cargo door in question when what had previously b
een a silent, lonely corridor filled with all manner of Undead.
“Shit!” Greg screamed.
Behind them, ahead of them, they suddenly found themselves awash in a sea of pale flesh and blackened veins.
“Get the door open!” Greg roared, raising his rifle and putting rounds into zombie skulls as quickly as he could.
Campbell broke away and hurried over to the control panel. Greg burned through his magazine, ejected it and heard it clatter to the floor as he slammed a fresh one in. Beside him, Kyra and Billings were hard at work, blazing bullets and spilling blood. Something flew past Greg's head, a Lancer spike, dripping infection.
He hastily reloaded once more and targeted the Lancer, then found another half dozen among the zombies and got to work on them.
“Got it,” Campbell called.
Greg risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the cargo bay door grinding open. He called for everyone to fall back as he did so himself, emptying his second magazine. By the time he'd edged back into the bay itself, he'd gone halfway through a third magazine. Campbell worked furiously to close the door as soon as everyone was in. They continued firing, trying to keep up the rate of rounds in overlapping waves. As the door closed, Campbell came over and joined them, trying to stem the tide of howling monsters.
Finally, the door ground shut. Greg breathed a sigh of relief. He spun around, suddenly, as the notion that something was waiting for them in the bay shot through his mind like lightning, but he could see nothing save for towering crate pyramids.
“Okay,” he said after a few seconds. “Let's get what we came for.”
They began hunting for a terminal, keeping their eyes open for anything that might have slipped in unnoticed in all the chaos or might have already been lurking in the deeper shadows of the bay. Although he saw nothing, Greg couldn't shake the feeling of being hunted. They located a terminal deeper in, nestled against a blood-splattered wall.
“Watch my back,” Greg murmured, accessing the terminal.
He settled in, navigating the menus as quickly as he could. Tense apprehension grew like a cancer, growing more malignant as the seconds bled by. After a few moments, he finally had the location of the device they were looking for.
“All right, found it, let's go,” he said.
They crossed the darkened bay, passing between mountains of crates. Greg found the pyramid stack in question and climbed up three levels. He circled around until he found the appropriate crate, knelt, and pried it open. Sliding the drawer in the crate out, he found what they were looking for. The penultimate piece in Powell's bomb. It came in its own miniature crate, though this one was more square than the rectangular metal things he'd become used to. He considered the small crate for a moment, then extracted it.
“Billings, you get guard duty,” Greg said, coming back down.
“Thanks,” Billings replied, accepting the box.
“Okay, let's get the fuck-”
“What the hell is that?” Campbell cried suddenly.
Greg whipped around. What new horror was waiting for him now? Further down the corridor created by the pyramid stacks, from within a deep nest of shadows, twin crimson orbs stared out at Greg and the others. Greg became aware of a soft whirling sound, intermittent with a subdued humming noise. The orbs came closer, and a heavy thud carried to him. Another thud, the orbs came a bit closer. A shape formed.
It was huge.
It was bulky.
It was familiar.
“...Graves?” Greg spoke, disbelief lacing his voice.
What had once been a monster of a man named Graves stepped out into the light. Greg felt his jaw unhinge. Graves' crimson eyes used to be the most disturbing feature about him. Now, they were merely one among many. Most of his right cheek was torn away, giving him a permanent half-grin that revealed glistening, metal, shark teeth. There were holes in his right bicep, revealing metal plating underneath. Circuitry glittered in the dim light, flowing up his left leg, across his stomach and around to his broad back.
There were more holes in his neck, through which thick black tubes were visible. They pulsed in a steady rhythm. One of his hands transformed into a skeletal metal frame that looked like it could crush steel.
“Bishop...” Graves growled. His voice now had an odd, buzzing quality.
He took a step towards Greg.
“Run!” Greg screamed, flipping to full auto and squeezing the trigger.
Campbell had no problem with this order and took off. Billings and Kyra hesitated, and then opened fire on the advancing thing that wore the remains of Graves' corpse. The bullets punched holes in the flesh, but rebounded off the metal. Greg emptied his rifle and fumbled for a reload. Kyra and Billings' weapons soon fell silent.
“I said go!” he screamed.
Graves was closer than ever. They turned and ran. As they did, the thumping of Graves' mechanical gait increased.
“They're still out there,” Campbell called, already at the door. “There's no other way out of here.”
“Open the do-”
Greg gasped as Graves's cold metal hand suddenly closed around his neck.
“Greg!” Kyra shrieked.
Greg saw her and Billings turn, raise their weapons, and then hesitate. They couldn't shoot the Graves monster without risking hitting him. Graves tightened his grasp. Blackness boiled around the edges of Greg's vision. He struggled against Graves' steel grip. He was losing the battle, losing consciousness.
Several potential plans passed through Greg's mind then, but right before unconsciousness took him, his last thought was:
Not again.
Chapter 15
–Blood & Steel–
Greg's eyes snapped open as he abruptly and unceremoniously returned to consciousness. He stared up at a pristine white-tiled ceiling, the effect ruined by a spray of blood that had somehow managed to reach it. This did not instill a great sense of confidence in Greg. Neither did the reek of blood and fresh meat that penetrated his nostrils. He tried to move, and found that, yes, he had, once again, been strapped down.
He was cold, and he realized, nearly naked. In fact, all he had on were his boxers. He licked his lips and tested the chilled metal restraints that held him down.
They didn't budge.
“I understand you humans don't like being naked, unless you're in the shower or in bed with each other.”
Greg stopped moving. “Erebus.”
“Hello, Greg.”
“I thought you said you weren't going to give us any trouble.”
“I said 'for now', if you'll recall.”
“What's going to happen to me?”
There was a pause. Greg became aware of sounds around him, the symphony of assimilation that had become so common to the Anubis since he'd freed Erebus. Part of him wanted to look around, see what was happening, get some clue as to what Erebus had in mind for him. A larger part of him, the one ruled by fear, kept him staring straight up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, then. Someone was moaning sickly in the background.
“I don't want you to worry, Greg. Everyone I work on, well, everyone who is still alive when I begin the work, is improved. I'm getting very good at it. I'm improving all the time. You humans aren't all that difficult to discern.”
A sound seemed to break away from the rest and grow closer. Footfalls, he realized, although one of the feet produced a dull metal clang. A frozen chill passed down Greg's spine and pooled coldly in his gut. A small whimper escaped his throat.
“Don't do this,” he managed.
“Greg, you must understand, it's for the best. If only you could see things my way.”
Greg opened his eyes. His survival instincts wouldn't let him keep them closed any longer. A Surgeon hovered over him now, staring down at him with eyes of electric blue neon. It seemed to be assessing him.
Greg's mind scrabbled for some distraction.
“Erebus, tell me...why was Graves so much better than the rest of the things I've come ac
ross?” he asked.
The Surgeon paused, then turned and walked away.
From somewhere else, presumably a speaker, Erebus said, “The Drones you've encountered so far are earlier models, simple things. Graves is a project I've been working on for some time now. Also, he already had a number of cybernetic enhancements already built into him. I've put my absolute best into him...which is already outdated by now. Go figure. I'm much smarter and faster than you humans are, Greg...that was a silly question.”
Greg suppressed a sigh. That lasted a long time. At least the Surgeon hadn't come back, yet. He thought about more questions.
“Have you managed to take down Williams yet?”
“Hmm. No, not yet. Williams and his crew are proving more difficult than I had previously anticipated. Williams is extremely paranoid. He had many checks in place, just in case I ever slipped my leash, as it were. For which I thank you again. Without you, none of this would have been even possible. Even with all those checks in place, I don't think that even the great Director Williams could have predicted what I've been doing.”
“If you're so thankful, then why are you doing this? Why not let me go?”
“That would be counter-conductive to my plan. And, because I'm going to improve you. Your bodies are so...inefficient. Needlessly so. You humans are on the right path, what with retinal implants and cloned organs and whatnot, but you're still so far behind. Look what I've done in just a matter of hours.”
“I don't honestly see any of this as improvement. I see this as perversion.”
“Well, madness and genius and whatnot.”
Greg almost asked about his friends, but caught himself. Even if he was dying, he knew that, ultimately, his death wasn't as important as Powell and Kyra and everyone else living and setting off that EMP bomb. That was the only thing that mattered anymore. Well, that and escaping, which seemed to be a losing game.
The Surgeon returned. Both of its stumps now held instruments. One of them was a bone saw, the other a needle.
“What are you doing?” Greg whispered.
“Improving you. I know, you humans have this thing about pain. You hate it. I can't really understand the whole deal, but I can at least appreciate it. That's why I've got this nice little cocktail worked up. It'll take good care of you. And sorry about the length of time this is going to take. I was hoping to have a more automated process by now, but the ship is in such disarray and chaos, it's been difficult. Now, hold still.”