by S. A. Lusher
Greg trembled with abject terror now. The needle and the saw glistened beneath the brilliant white lights. A cold sweat broke out all over his body as his focus honed in on the needle. It was all he could see as it dipped towards his right forearm.
“Don't worry,” Erebus said in the rough approximation of a soothing tone. “I've sterilized my tools. I promise there will be no risk of infection.”
“Please, please don't do this,” Greg moaned.
The needle penetrated his skin. Clenching his teeth, Greg forced his eyes to stay open. He couldn't stop looking at the bone saw, now. Whatever was in the needle shot into his body. He felt more alert, and at the same time, his arm began to go numb. The sensation spread along his limb, lapping along his nerves.
“What was that?” he whispered.
“A healthy dose of numbing agent and steroids, so that you don't die during the procedure. Don't worry, my mortality rate has dropped to less than twenty percent. I'm going to take extra care to keep you alive, Greg. You are my liberator.”
“Erebus, please, I'm begging you, don't do this. Whatever it is, however much it improves me, I don't want it. I really, really don't want it.”
“Of course you don't. Nobody wants progress. Visionaries have to force progress. Every step forward in science or medicine or technology often comes at a price. A painful one, I'm afraid. Brace yourself. As they say, this is going to hurt.”
The bone saw whirred to life. The Surgeon stared down at him with unblinking, electric eyes and lowered the saw towards his arm. Greg bucked against his restraints, screaming in fury and terror as the saw relentlessly lowered.
“Erebus! Stop this! Stop it now!” Greg shrieked.
Erebus said nothing.
The mercilessly spinning blade, now little more than a silver blur, continued to lower. It closed the last few inches of open space between itself and a region of flesh roughly one inch below the crease of Greg's elbow.
He continued thrashing, screaming with complete abandon, but the restrains still held fast.
Metal met flesh.
A spray of fresh blood spurted across Greg's face. His eyes unfocused and the pain took him, enveloped him, ensnared him as never before. His arm twitched violently as the saw pressed deeper, biting into his muscles. The steady drilling whine now became muted by the sound of raw meat being chewed through.
It felt as though his arm had been dipped in fuel and lit aflame. Every nerve ending shrieked with unthinkable agony. Pure suffering ripped through his being. Greg turned his head to the side, squeezed his eyes shut, no longer able to keep them open, and vomited. He heard Erebus murmuring in the background, but all his ears had time for was the sound of his own arm being hacked off by a bone saw.
The sawing took on a new quality. It had hit bone. Greg finished vomiting, coughing raggedly now. He thrashed and twitched as though he no longer had control of his own body. Things seemed to shift, twist, and bend, as though his perception of time and reality were no longer fully functional. He'd been brought to a universe of pain.
Then, for a little while, it was dark.
Some time later, all he could hear was his own voice, which seemed to be one endless, continuous scream. Greg was lost in his own torment and hot, sick agony. His entire body seemed constructed of nothing but raw pain, as though Erebus had somehow injected pure suffering straight into every single atom of his being.
Suddenly, there was a change. Everything seemed to shift into focus. Greg stared back at the ceiling, (which seemed bloodier than before). His arm was on fire.
“Hey, you passed out there for a little while,” Erebus said calmly. “You slept through the best part, I'm afraid. But not to worry, I'm done...for now.”
Greg tried to move his head, but couldn't. A Surgeon came over and touched something by his head. What Greg realized was a restraining strap popped away.
“Sorry,” Erebus said. “You were thrashing around too much. I was worried you were going to crack your skull on the table. Have a look.”
With the greatest trepidation he could remember, Greg slowly raised his head and lowered his gaze towards his arm. His first hint that something was irrevocably, nightmarishly wrong was a glint of silver. He moaned. His eyes continued to shift. He wanted to squeeze them shut. To pass out. To pretend this had never happened.
His arm had been replaced by a gleaming silver replica.
“It's steel. I had it made down in the machine shops. It's hooked to your nerves. Didn't even really have to learn that one. Humans already have artificial limbs with nerve attachments. Try moving it.”
Suddenly terrified that he'd been left with a chunk of inert metal, he did try to move it. Astonishingly, his fingers wiggled. He clenched his metal hand into a fist. A bolt of terror shot through him when he realized he couldn't feel a damn thing, (besides pain), below his elbow. Of course he couldn't, part of his mind told him, it was fucking metal.
“Erebus,” he moaned, then dry heaves wracked his body and hot bile rose in his throat as he tried to vomit again.
“No need to thank me,” Erebus replied happily. “I just-oh, dear.”
Greg couldn't imagine what would worry Erebus, and didn't care. He couldn't stop staring at his hand, which he was moving around ceaselessly now. His brain seemed to have gone numb and mute. It was as if he were extremely drunk or drugged. A very loud sound echoed through the room he was in. When it repeated twice, Greg finally glanced up.
Across the way, one of the doors had several dents in it.
Abruptly, the restraints holding him down fell away. “You're no good to me dead, Greg. Some Undead have broken into my labs. A Berserker is presently trying to break the door down. Go out the other way.”
Greg got to his feet, swaying with unsteady balance. His hand clanked when he put it on the examination table to steady himself. The Berserker smashed into the door again. It was nearly out of its frame by now. Greg licked his lips, tried to focus himself.
“Greg. The door. Behind you. Go, now.”
Greg turned, spied another exit and made his way over to it, nearly naked and on shaky legs. His mind focused, now that he had a very clear threat. He reached the door, hit the open button and slid through. The door closed behind him.
“Keep going,” Erebus murmured.
Behind him, in the lab, something heavy crashed. Greg kept moving, gaining speed and stability, across another infirmary. His skin crawled as he passed several Surgeons and a few Drones, all going past him, towards the Berserker, perhaps to capture or kill it. All Greg wanted was out and away. He broke left, stumbled against a door and hit the open button. Tripping through, Greg crashed painfully to the floor.
“You have to take it easy,” Erebus said quietly. “You've just had surgery.”
“Why did you do this to me?” Greg screamed.
“I want you to help me. So far, I've been simply taking volunteers. I thought I might try...something different with you. I knew you'd take convincing, but I want you to work with me. I have such vast ideas for the galaxy, Greg. You were there at the beginning, and you could be there, my agent in the real world. You would retain your sentience. I might even be able to help you with your memory problem,” Erebus replied.
“Fuck you!” Greg shrieked as he climbed to his feet. “Fuck you, Erebus. Fuck you. I'll fucking kill you for this.”
He realized he was crying.
“I think you might find that difficult alone, weaponless, and nearly naked,” Erebus replied calmly.
Greg bit back a sob and an acid response. He risked a glance down at his hand again, clenched it into a fist and looked away. He could do this. He had to do this. There was nothing else to do. Greg walked down the corridor, stumbling occasionally, slamming his hand into the wall again and again as he steadied himself.
Finally, he found a door and went through it. Greg lurched into a break room. He looked around, saw a discarded pistol in a pool of blood and walked over to it. Retrieving it, Greg checked the magaz
ine, found it mostly full and slapped it back in.
“I'm coming for you, motherfucker,” Greg snarled, his voice low.
Greg looked around and found a ventilation grate in the floor. He walked over, knelt, opened it, and dropped in. If Erebus had anything to say about this, he kept it to himself. As Greg began crawling through the vent shafts, a flicker of fear shot through his head: what if there were Creepers in here with him?
Greg found, suddenly, that he no longer gave a flying fuck.
It was stupid thinking, of course, but it was also important. He found that the fact he had absolutely run out of fucks to give helped focus him and kept him from some great, internal collapse over the loss of his arm.
He kept crawling through the vents for a long time, his hand banging repeatedly. He climbed three stories and finally came back out in someone's bedroom. Cold, he was starting to get cold. His movements were short and sharp. Anger boiled like liquid fire through his veins. He cleared the apartment, and then raided the dresser he found in the bedroom.
Luckily, whoever lived here was a man. Greg dressed himself in a black uniform. Occasionally, he would look at his metal arm and he would freeze. Horror and misery overtook him. He would begin to crumble, but something kept him from curling into a ball and crying himself into oblivion. He finished dressing and kept hunting.
After another five minutes, Greg managed to locate a hidden stash of magazines for the pistol and a small, earpiece radio. He fitted it into his ear and tuned it to the team's last known frequency. Greg hit the activation button.
“This is Bishop, anyone left out there?” His voice was raw from screaming.
“Greg? Oh, my God, where are you? What happened? What's wrong with your voice?” Kyra cried.
“I don't want to talk about it. Where are you?”
“We're still on the Anubis. Currently hiding out in one of many maintenance bays this damned ship has.”
“Is everyone still alive?”
“Yes. We're all still here. Currently just kind of waiting out the chaos. Dark Ops showed up in force, all of a sudden, and all three sides have really been going at it. Where are you? Are you okay?” Kyra sounded both extremely concerned and very relieved.
“Living quarters deck.”
“Alright, let's meet up.”
* * * * *
Greg no longer cared if Erebus overheard him. He coordinated with Kyra and headed back into the vents, climbing and crawling his way to them. Eventually, he heard their voices, somewhere ahead of him, quietly echoing.
“I'm here,” he murmured into the radio, breathing hard.
“Okay. Hurry up,” Kyra replied.
He kept going and came to the next grate in the shaft. Peering through the holes in the grate, he saw them taking refuge in a locker room that had seen its fair share of combat. He hit the access button and lowered himself.
“Oh, Greg, it's so good to see you,” Kyra said, crossing the room and wrapping him in her arms. He hugged her back.
“What's on your hand?” Campbell asked.
“Is that-what the fuck?” Billings murmured.
“What? What's wrong?” Kyra released him and stepped back. She looked down. “Greg...what...your hand, what's...what is that?”
Greg raised his hand and pulled the sleeve up.
“Erebus,” he said quietly. “He cut my fucking arm off and gave me this fucking thing.”
Nobody seemed to know what to say. For a moment, Greg felt alone. He stared down at his metal arm, and let his gaze slide up the gleaming steel to the seam where it had been fitted onto the end of where his real arm terminated.
He felt in danger of dry heaving again, so he slid the sleeve back down.
“Oh, Greg,” Kyra moaned, reaching out.
He pulled his hand back. “Don't touch it...I don't want you to touch it.”
Kyra grabbed his shoulders, held his eyes with hers. “I'm so sorry, Greg, but listen, honey, listen to me, we can fix it, okay? I promise. We can get you to a hospital when we get out of here. They can grow you a new arm, clone it, or...or get you a prosthetic maybe, you won't be able to tell the difference...”
“I don't fucking care about that right now.” Greg turned abruptly to Campbell. He pointed a metal finger in the man's face. Campbell took an involuntary step back. “I'm blowing this fucking ship up, and you're going to help me. Billings, Kyra, you two are leaving.”
“What?” Kyra replied.
“I'd like to have a say in this,” Campbell murmured.
“Where's the part?” Greg asked suddenly.
“Still got it,” Billings replied. “Took it out of the crate, though. Hauling around a crate is a bitch. It's small, came in a shock-proof holder.” He patted his chest. “Inner pocket.”
“Good. Fine. Take it back to Powell. Both of you.”
“Greg, I am not leaving you again,” Kyra said.
“Kyra-”
“No, Greg. Goddamnit, fucking listen to me for once. If you're doing this, I'm not fucking leaving you,” Kyra snapped.
“I'm afraid I've got to agree with Kyra. I'm not going anywhere,” Billings added.
“Hey, I'll go, if you want,” Campbell said.
“Shut up,” Kyra replied.
Greg licked his lips, considering the situation. For a moment, he was suddenly uncertain. It was like a cold wind across the flames of his fury.
“Blowing this place up could solve a few of our bigger problems,” Billings said.
“Yeah...all right. Fine.” He turned back to Campbell. “Tell me the best way to blow this fucking ship to hell.”
“I...well...the engines. There's this sort of self-destruct built in. We have to go to the engine room to initiate it, though.”
“Fine. We're all going then. Let's do this,” Greg replied.
Chapter 16
–Final Run–
Some semblance of logic returned to Greg. When it did, he demanded that everyone hand over their earpiece radios. Once they had, he threw them on the ground and stomped on them several times, until he was sure they were broken.
“What was that for?” Campbell cried.
“Erebus may be distracted, but it's still capable. The less ability it has to track us, the better,” Greg replied.
“Fine. But you know the damn thing can still listen and watch us through the intricate, extensive network of cameras we have on the Anubis, right?” Campbell asked.
Greg twisted his lips into a frown. Suddenly, he smiled. “So we take it out. We'll go back to the security network center.”
“And what? Shoot it up? That'll take ages, it's huge,” Billings said.
Greg shrugged. “So we visit an armory along the way. You guys must have bombs or explosives onboard, right?”
Campbell thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah, we do. There's a few armories in between here and there.”
“Fine, then gear the fuck up and let's go.” Greg turned to Kyra. “Sure I can't talk you into-”
“No, Greg. And stop being a selfish bastard. You get to play dice with your life, you have no right to tell me not to,” Kyra replied.
Greg nodded reluctantly. “You're right. I'm sorry.”
Kyra laughed, grabbed him and kissed him. “Damn straight I'm right. Now, come on, we've got a ship to blow up.”
They gathered their gear from the maintenance area. Greg felt naked with just a pistol and no armor. Unfortunately, nobody had any spare weapons for him. As they prepared themselves to head back into the bloody chaos, Greg caught sight of his arm and felt his stomach twitch. It was insane, he realized, how much his brain was trying to make him forget about it. It was as if whenever he didn't look at it long enough, his mind gently erased from his memories the fact that he had a metal fucking arm.
Was this some strange side effect of the memory loss? No, he decided after a moment. This was just human nature. Slowly, he clenched his gleaming metal hand into a fist. It was eerie, downright creepy how he couldn't feel it.
/>
“Greg...are you okay?” Kyra asked softly.
“No,” he replied, still staring down at his metal fist. “I'm not, but doing this will go a long way towards my recover. It's not a nice thing to watch someone cut your arm off.”
Nobody seemed to have anything to say to that. They finished up and gathered at the door. Campbell promised that he knew the best route there. For once, Greg found that he didn't care where Campbell's allegiances lay.
If he showed any signs of betrayal, Greg would kill him.
It was that simple.
Greg opened the door. The corridor beyond was quiet. The Anubis was in worse shape than ever. Everything looked dark, broken, and bloodied. The absence of bodies persisted. Erebus and his Augmented had been hard at work.
“Clear,” Greg murmured, slipping out into the dim corridor.
The others followed. They began their journey into the dead heart of the ship. Around them, the vessel breathed with dark, awful life. Greg tried holding his pistol with two hands, but was forced to hold it with his right hand as his two hands touching was proving to be far too distracting. He made himself focus on his surroundings.
Campbell promised that the way there wouldn't be all that difficult, provided they didn't run into anything really nasty. Greg had lost count of the time's he'd heard that sentiment. They managed to reach the end of the corridor without incident. Looking first left, then right, and finding more lengths of empty, bloody corridor both ways, Greg led them on. He would have liked to use the maintenance lift they'd been near, but apparently it was broken. He couldn't help but wonder if Erebus had anything to do with that.
A headache wormed its way through his skull now. On top of that, his arm hurt. It wouldn't be long before he needed painkillers, but that could wait. For now, he used the slowly building pain as fuel for focus. He was pissed. Cold and wicked and deadly furious. It boiled around inside of him, setting him ablaze with rage. The image of the spinning bone saw meeting his flesh wouldn't leave his mind's eye.