by Jamie Sawyer
“And what happens?”
“It burns the bugs alive.”
“Oh,” said Novak.
I clutched for another rock, rode it. I was that bug, passing through the anti-insect field. The sensation was far from pleasant, but it was brief, and it wasn’t dangerous. Although warnings flooded my HUD, they were gone before the energy field did any lasting damage to me or my suit. The null-shield was an anti-ballistic protective measure, mainly used to disperse laser and plasma fire. It didn’t deal well with small targets, and that included the smaller pieces of debris found all over Thane’s asteroid belt.
I fired my thruster. Grabbed for yet another rock.
My heart beat sporadically, and I couldn’t help but check that the farm’s defensive systems had not activated. Incredibly, although they twitched and tracked the asteroids, the defence network didn’t fire. Our plan—or more accurately Harris’ plan—was simple. Ride a rock through the station’s null-shield. Get aboard, disable defences. Then dock the Paladin, and fill up on sims and tanks and whatever other equipment we could plunder …
In truth, Darkwater’s greatest defence wasn’t its weapons grid, but its hidden location. Out here, in unexplored space, unless you knew where to look for it, the prospects of finding the base were virtually nonexistent. That Harris had been privy to that sort of intel put him in a different category to most enemies of the Alliance.
“I’m in position!” Feng shouted. His outline was beneath me, somehow, and I saw that he was crouched on Darkwater’s hull.
I tumble-jumped towards him. With an outstretched arm, I snagged the hull, and the magnetic strips in the palm of my glove activated, held me there. I used the mag-locks in my boots too, then managed to stand up. The shift in perspective was almost overwhelming, in my own body, and I fought to keep last night’s liquor in my stomach.
Lopez and Novak called in. They were scattered across the hull, but all in one piece.
“Everyone’s down,” I said. “Jackals are on the deck.”
“I’m down too,” Harris said. He sounded irritated.
I saw him on my left flank, plodding along the hull to reach me.
“You going to be able to catch up with us, Lazarus?” I asked.
He huffed over the comms. “Of course I can.”
“Take care out there, Conrad,” Elena suddenly said.
“I’m fine,” Harris retorted. “What’s our closest entry point?”
“I’m sending you the location of the nearest airlock,” Nadi said. “It’s fifty metres out; see?”
“… withdraw immediately. This is an automated announcement. You are entering restricted aerospace, and your presence is in violation of Military Code 23-98. On threat of lethal force, you are hereby directed to withdraw immediately …”
I winced as the emergency broadcast intruded onto the comm-net. It was loud and insistent, and the machine-emulated voice actually sounded panicked, if that were possible.
“Cover’s blown,” Zero said. “The station’s defences are waking up.”
Sure enough, the various weapon systems on the farm’s hull came online.
“Doesn’t matter,” Harris said. “They won’t fire now. We’re within the friendly fire parameters.”
Whoever was on the farm now knew that we were here, but there wasn’t a damned thing that they could do about it. I could only imagine Science Division’s desperation, as they picked us up on bio-scanners and whatever other sensory tech the station had: knowing that we were coming, that we were now inside their safe perimeter.
“Can someone shut off that announcement?” Harris said. “All that lethal force shit is pissing me off.”
“On it,” Nadi said.
“And you’re sure that the staff won’t be able to purge the farm?”
“Sure enough,” said Nadi.
This operation was pushing Nadi to the limits of her abilities. While we conducted the boots-on-the-ground assault, Nadi and Zero were attacking the station’s soft security systems.
“Pariah, are you in position?” I asked. “What’s your status?”
There was a slight pause before the xeno’s reply—just enough for me to suspect that P might’ve been wasted somewhere out there in the asteroid belt—but eventually I got my answer.
“We are ready,” it said.
The alien was farther down the farm’s hull, too far out for me to see where it had landed.
“You remember what you’re supposed to do?”
“We remember.”
“Then radio silence from here. Good luck. Jenkins out.”
The comm-line fuzzed with static, and I could only hope and pray to Gaia and anything else that would listen that the fish would actually do what it was supposed to …
Lopez was positioned over a service hatch in the hull.
“I have our entry point,” she said, although she didn’t sound impressed. She pulled a face behind her visor. “It’s a waste-disposal tube.”
I sighed. “Only you could be bothered by that in a situation like this, Lopez.”
“Just get the hatch open,” Harris ordered.
“Do not fire until we have no other choice,” I said. “And that includes you, Novak. The personnel in there are Alliance citizens. Our war isn’t with them.”
The Russian grunted over the comms. “Affirmative.”
The Jackals and Harris assembled around the hatch, and Lopez fixed a low-yield demolition-charge to the outer lock.
“Do you remember the last time that we assaulted a space station?” Feng asked.
“It was Daktar Outpost,” Lopez said.
“Feels like long time ago,” Novak added.
I grimaced. I knew that Feng didn’t mean anything by it, but Daktar Outpost had been an outright disaster.
“This is going to be different,” I countered. “Safe positions, people.”
“Setting charge.” Lopez bounced a clear distance. “All clear.”
The demo-charge activator winked at me; then there was a rumble through the farm’s hull as the charge detonated. The hatch blew outwards. There was a brief rush of escaping atmosphere, and then we were in.
Up the trash chute and into the station.
“Keep that hatch sealed until we’ve secured the theatre,” I ordered as we clambered out of the chute and into a corridor. “We’ve got gravity, and we’ve got atmo. Let’s try to keep it that way.”
Novak knelt over the hatch, spraying it with sealant. The foam hardened immediately. The readout on my HUD indicated that any lost atmosphere was being replenished by the farm’s life-support systems.
“Hatch sealed,” he declared.
“Corridor is secure,” Feng said.
“That was easier than I thought it was going to be,” said Lopez.
“Don’t speak too soon,” I replied.
The corridor was industrial and bathed in an amber glow from the emergency lamps in the ceiling. A siren wailed in the distance.
“Move on the Command Suite,” Harris said.
A map of the facility appeared on my HUD. So far, Harris’ clandestine intelligence looked pretty damned accurate. Signage on the station’s walls pointed out COMMAND SUITE, SIMULANT DEVELOPMENT, STORAGE BAY, DOCKING BAYS ALPHA—BETA …
“Take down the security eyes as we move,” Harris ordered.
“On it,” Lopez answered.
She popped pistol-fire into the security cameras studding the deckhead of the next junction, sending out a rain of sparks—
“Stop right there, you Directorate bastards!”
The amplified voice cut right through me. The owner sounded very, very angry. That, I decided, was only going to get worse.
Harris used the corner of the corridor as cover. Fired off a warning volley.
“I said not to shoot until necessary!” I yelled.
“It’s necessary, okay?” answered Harris. “Plus, I’m guessing that the security team is going to be simulants! Grenade out!”
Harri
s primed a grenade, bounced it down the corridor.
“Incoming!” shouted another trooper.
“Christo damn it!” I exclaimed. “This is an Alliance facility, Harris.”
It was a stun grenade, and it detonated a second later. The security team reacted as one, their armoured suits clattering as they took up a defensive position.
“We’ve got multiple signals converging on our location,” Feng said, his face grim behind his visor. “Looks like a full squad.”
Phoenix Squad. Had to be that they were on-station and acting as security. Had Captain Ving been demoted? That would’ve been a sweet explanation, but I somehow doubted it. More likely, he was just here through coincidence. If the Spiral had been taking out space stations and closing down access to Shard Gates, then it was entirely possible that Darkwater represented a significant Alliance asset, maybe requiring additional security.
“We’ll take another route,” I declared. “On me. Watch those corners!”
“Weapons-free, people,” said Harris, despite my objections.
He laid down more gunfire with a Directorate carbine and retreated back up the corridor. Bulkhead hatches were whining shut around us, systems already in turmoil. Another security team were converging on the next junction, planting portable energy shields in the corridor’s deck to establish a cordon.
“All hostiles cease activity!” roared the station’s AI. “You are contained within this level.”
“Push on through!” I yelled. “Keep going!”
My nerves jangled. Another grenade went off behind us, Novak weathering a storm of frag. Feng tossed a smoke grenade, creating portable cover.
There was motion above me. I panned left, my suit identifying a possible target—
A sentry-gun dropped out of the ceiling. Twin-linked kinetic cannons swivelled in their mount, targeting lenses focused on me, painting me with their infrared optics. I brought my gun up to respond, yelled a warning that we should all get the fuck down—
The sentry-gun fired.
The deck vibrated as it absorbed the impact of armour-piercing rounds.
I bolted around the next junction, through a bank of smoke. I could make out the words COMMAND SUITE in glowing text ahead of me, as well as STATION IN LOCKDOWN: REPORT TO SAFE LOCATION.
“Surrender your weapons!” yelled a figure beneath that sign.
Bio-signals closed on our position, from every direction. Ten figures in total, advancing on us. A double-strength Sim Ops Army squad. Just to reinforce the point, another sentry-gun activated in the ceiling, mechanism whining softly as though to warn us that it could fire at any time.
“We’re trapped,” Lopez said.
Novak stroked one of his blades, taped across his chest. “Could always go down fighting, yes?”
Harris grunted in disapproval, his PDW aimed down at the floor. “Wait.”
“Stand down!” came that angry voice again.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all …” Lopez muttered.
The security teams advanced behind glowing energy shields that were almost as tall as me, in a nice slow march. Shields clattered as they locked to the deck. Heavy shotguns were aimed through the gaps between the shields.
“This is an Alliance Simulant Operations facility, and you are trespassers. Drop your weapons.”
I recognised that voice, and just hearing it made me angry.
“They’re simulants, yes?” Novak grunted. “Like Lazarus says.”
“Maybe we should ask,” Lopez said. “I volunteer you, Novak.”
The security detail closed tighter. They wore full combat-suits, emblazoned with Simulant Operations badges. The lead officer deactivated his shield, and it instantly disappeared. Only his head poked from the collar-ring of his suit, but he was most definitely a simulant.
“Mark 15 combat sim,” I said, over the external speaker of my Ikarus suit. “Am I right? And you’re Captain Ving.”
He was close enough that I could see the picts stencilled on his armour; his callsign PHOENIXIAN proudly displayed across his chest, fire birds dancing up the outer sleeves of his arms. How long does it take these guys to mark up their damned armour? I wondered.
Now it was Ving’s turn to freeze. He frowned at me. His head was shaven, face broad and pristine, suggesting that this sim was freshly hatched. Notwithstanding that, he looked like a veteran of the Programme, the way he carried himself, and the practised ease with which he’d herded the intruders—us—into a trap.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I asked if those are Mark 15 combat sims. Your skins, I mean. And if you’re Captain Ving, of Phoenix Squad.”
“Who wants to know?” he said, squinting at me.
“I guess that I’m an easy face to forget,” I said. “In Directorate battle-armour, at least.”
“Jenkins?” he said, still paralysed by disbelief. “Keira fucking Jenkins, of the Jackals?”
“That’d be right. Although Keira Jenkins works just fine.”
Someone else on Phoenix Squad chortled, but Ving shot him a look that silenced the noise.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” Ving said.
“You don’t seem pleased to see me.”
“Why the fuck should I be pleased to see you?” he asked. “You were a damned mess when you were Captain Heinrich’s platoon. We all thought you’d got yourself wasted in the Maelstrom. Bought the farm during the exodus, or something.”
That provoked more laughter from Phoenix Squad, and Ving didn’t bother to stop it this time. His words provoked quite the opposite reaction from the Jackals, who visibly tensed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Novak’s hands on his knives. I prayed that he wasn’t going to do anything stupid, that he was just going to let me handle this …
“I see you’ve got your Directorate friend with you, too,” Ving said. He looked at Feng. “And now it all makes sense. You’re fucking traitors, right? All of you.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I said.
“What did you do to get security detail, Ving?” Feng argued. “You must’ve pissed off the brass mighty to get a shit job like this. The real war is about ten light-years that way.” Feng indicated with a thumb behind him.
Now Lopez laughed.
That seemed to offend Ving’s suffocating sense of bravado. “I’ll ask the questions here. As of now, you are prisoners of the Alliance.”
“Sure,” I said. My throat was dry, the grip on my AUG-30 tight.
“Drop your guns.”
“That wasn’t much of a question, Ving,” I said.
I wasn’t dropping my gun for anyone, but there were only five of us. If it came to it, this would only end one way.
“Where’s the damned fish?” Lopez muttered, suit-to-suit.
“Do we rush them?” Feng offered.
“Just stay calm. No one do anything until I say.”
Ving unholstered a pistol from his belt. Took a step forward.
“This corridor is sealed. The room behind you is in lockdown. The sentry-gun overhead is armed. What are you doing here?”
“Ah, it’s kind of complicated,” I said.
“Leave this to me,” Harris insisted.
“Stay where you are!” Ving ordered again.
“It’s okay,” Harris said. He reached up, popped his helmet. “I think you’ll know me.”
With that, Harris revealed his face.
Ving might be an asshole, but he knew his Sim Ops stuff. He was old enough to recognise Harris. To recognise Lazarus.
“He’s supposed to be dead …” muttered one of Ving’s troopers.
“Lazarus is gone …” said another.
“It’s … This is a damned trick,” Ving said. I wondered if that sounded as dumb in Ving’s head as it did spoken aloud. “A Directorate trick!”
I felt a jolt of something run through me. A psychic shockwave, if you will. A communication unfolded in my head.
We are here.
“It’s in position,” I said.
“Shut up!” Ving shouted at me, looking suddenly very confused. I guessed that his tiny brain couldn’t process all of this at once. It was a lot to take in for a shaved ape like Ving. “You’re dead. You’re all dead!”
“No,” said Harris. His hands were up now, palms open. That struck me as a ridiculously brave—or foolish—thing to do. Every shotgun in the corridor was trained on him. “It’s you who’s dead, my friend.”
One of the troopers collapsed. The body crumpled, combat-suit losing rigidity like a puppet with its strings cut. The trooper’s armour noisily clattered to the deck, shield failing with a fizzle.
“Hold position!” Ving yelled, over the wail of the security siren.
In turn, each of the simulants collapsed to the floor. Harris just stood there.
“This is a trick!” Ving shouted, his pistol up. “This is a damned—”
He fell before he had a chance to finish the sentence. The pistol dropped from his hands, gloved fingers immobile.
The corridor was suddenly quiet, still.
Two minutes earlier.
Darkwater Farm had kilometres of service tunnels. They were tight, dark, dank. Just how the fishes like it.
Must be a holiday for you, P, right?
Pariah had got onto the station easily enough—unlike Lopez, it had no fear of using waste hatches, and it welcomed the closed spaces. Once inside the facility, it used its heightened spatial abilities to navigate the insides of the station. The creature needed no maps or schematics to find its way to its target. Fish senses were keener than that.
P paused in one shaft. Smelled the air. There was a wrongness aboard the station, and if P could feel it, then I could too. There was something beyond the walls, flowing through the air-currents … but despite its sharpened awareness, Pariah couldn’t identify the wrongness, and so moved on. The objective was not far.
A chamber filled with humming machinery, with devices that sang with data and transmitted perpetually. The others had a name for this place. It was a Simulant Operations Centre, containing ten simulator-tanks—glowing bright blue, an operator lying in each. The tanks, the equipment used to operate the sims, was all technology of the other, not something that Pariah knew how to operate. But Pariah understood how to follow the data-waves and the info-streams, no matter what the language. That was Kindred knowing and was intuition on a genetic level.