Exodus

by Jamie Sawyer

  I saw this in my mind’s eye. Felt it all through a compressed data-burst, as though I was experiencing it first-hand. As though I saw things through the alien’s eyes.

  How is this happening?

  We are here, P said.

  Pariah paused over a certain tank. The words printed there meant nothing to the alien, but I knew them. VING.

  “It’s in position,” I said.

  We act, Pariah told me.

  P activated both bio-guns, and they folded out of the xeno’s limbs. It fired into the nearest terminal, and one by one the simulator-tanks went dead. That was the noisiest machine—the device sending the most data. The neural-link to each sim was severed.

  The SOC’s emergency protocols kicked in, and the mainframe failure triggered an emergency extraction. Ving and Phoenix Squad’s tanks soon began to purge, the operators emerging from their cocoons still wet with amniotic, shivering and shaking.

  P stood there, both barb-guns trained on the room, covering ten operators at once.

  “Others should not move,” P said, “if others wish to continue existing.”

  On newborn legs, quaking with extraction-shakes, the operators looked on in stunned amazement. Phoenix Squad might be stupid, but they weren’t suicidal. Not in their own skins, anyway.

  Ving immediately surrendered, and the rest of Phoenix Squad followed suit.

  The connection—or whatever I had just experienced—between P and me broke.

  I stumbled, unsteady on my feet. My legs had turned to rubber and I felt as though I was one of those damned operators, and my neural-link to a sim had been cut …

  “You okay, ma’am?” Feng said.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. Dazed, is all. Pariah has the operators down on C-deck.”

  Harris nodded. “You need to have a word with that fish. It cut that way, way too close.”

  “Sure,” I said. “It … it got delayed.”

  Lopez raised an eyebrow at me, as though to ask, You know this how? but said nothing.

  “Those operators won’t stay in one place for long,” Harris said. “They need to be secured.”

  “P has them covered,” I said. “For now, at least.”

  Nadi broke in on the comms. “You need to get into the Command Suite. I’m reading a breach in my firewall.”

  Harris was already on the door. “Can you remotely open the hatch?”

  “Let’s see what I can do,” Nadi said.

  “They’re sending a communication off-base,” Zero explained.

  “That’s all we need …” said Lopez.

  “On me,” Harris ordered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A NEW SKIN

  “… repeat, they are on-station! We have multiple hostiles inside the facility!”

  With weapons up, the Jackals deployed into the Command Suite. This was Darkwater’s operations centre, with several consoles, monitors and staff stations. A view-port set in the far bulkhead gave a sweeping view of the asteroid field.

  “Stand down!” I shouted as we stormed the room.

  There were a dozen or so technicians manning the suite. Dressed in white overalls and Sci-Div smocks, the geeks mostly surrendered immediately—with hands up, wide-eyed expressions of fear on their faces. One made a bolt for the door, and Novak caught him with an open palm to the chest, the impact almost flooring him. The tech quickly submitted and went to his knees with the rest.

  But not everyone was so eager to give it up. One tech was bent over the comms console, talking as she operated the relay. The woman saw us, knew that we meant business, but kept going anyway. She repeated the same request, or some variation on it, as the other techs surrendered.

  “We need immediate assistance!” she said. “They are on-station! Immediate assistance requested from all available assets—”

  Feng trained his pistol on the woman.

  “Away from the console, ma’am,” he said. “We’re in control of the farm now.”

  Lopez pushed the woman aside, but with admirable tenacity she scrambled back to the machine.

  “Immediate!” the woman continued, yelling into the communicator. “I said immediate!”

  The tech was young, her skin bronzed, and with long dark hair. She was fairly nondescript, certainly no hero type. But as Lopez dragged her away from the console, she saw Harris, and something snapped behind her eyes.

  “She’s armed!” I yelled, my AUG-30 panning up.

  The tech was whip-quick. Pistol out. Firing.

  A single shot. Aimed at Harris.

  He grunted, flinched, as the round hit his shoulder.

  The tech snarled, went to fire again—

  But never got the chance. Feng put her down with a sharp bark from his own weapon. The woman collapsed over the terminal, torso pouring blood.

  There was a half-second of indecision from the Jackals.

  “Harris!” I shouted. “Are you okay?”

  “Jesus,” said Harris morosely, “that’s going to sting.”

  He was still standing, and cycled his shoulder, groaning. The shot hadn’t breached the Ikarus suit but had dented the left shoulder guard pretty badly.

  “Saved by Directorate armour,” said Harris. “I’ll never live it down.”

  Lopez swallowed, looking at the dead technician. “You killed her, Feng.”

  “I—I didn’t have a choice,” Feng said.

  “Is okay,” Novak muttered. “Killing Alliance is what he was made for.”

  “She shot Lazarus!” Feng insisted.

  “Keep these people covered,” I said, nodding at the other techs. They looked terrified by what had just happened. “That was … unfortunate, Feng.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Feng said again.

  “I know. But like I said, these are Alliance citizens.”

  “Thanks for the save, kid. You did good,” Harris said, but kept rubbing his shoulder. “This damned armour doesn’t have a medi-suite. I’m going to find some analgesics, but I’ll live.”

  Lopez nodded at the dead woman. “She didn’t like you much, sir. Did you know her?”

  “Don’t recognise her,” Harris said.

  The other technicians remained frozen, although someone whimpered.

  “No more heroes,” I said, to the room in general, “and no one else will get hurt. Do we understand each other?”

  “Y-yes,” stammered an older man who looked like he might’ve pissed himself.

  “She was new,” said another woman, whose hands were locked behind her head. “Mori, I mean.”

  “That didn’t need to happen,” I said. “And if you all do as we tell you, it won’t happen again.”

  Novak prowled the edge of the group, leering behind his open visor. I couldn’t tell whether he was doing it deliberately or not, but his aura of intimidation was stirring the group into a frightened compliance. The Russian stroked one of his sheathed knives, taped horizontally across his chest, and the man who looked like he had pissed himself did actually piss himself.

  “How many of you are there on Darkwater Farm?” I queried.

  “Thirty-two science-grade technicians,” answered Piss-man. “We’re … we’re a skeleton crew. Most of the facility is automated.”

  “See, just like I said,” Harris muttered.

  Harris had predicted that the station would have a small standing staff. The farms were largely unmanned, monitored by an AI. It didn’t take much to oversee simulant production. Mostly the simulants were grown in tubes, and after that it was only a matter of keeping them on ice before they were shipped out for distribution.

  “How many simulant operators?” asked Novak. That was the real resistance.

  The man swallowed, quivering hard. “Just Phoenix Squad. Ten troopers.”

  “Then we have them all in lockdown,” Harris said. “I don’t think that the other techs will put up much resistance.”

  Piss-man shook his head. “No. They won’t. I’m station supervisor. My name is Dr. Ver
non. You can tell them I give permission to surrender.”

  “That’s very helpful, Dr. Vernon,” I said.

  “What’s happening here?” asked the other female tech. “I mean, who are you people? You’re wearing Directorate armour. But …” She looked at Harris, then over at Lopez, who had removed her helmet now, dark hair spilling from the collar of her suit. “He looks like Lazarus, and she … she looks like Gabriella Lopez.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a fan club, Lopez,” Feng said, shaking his head in disapproval.

  Lopez’s eyes burnt, angry that she had been recognised. I guess, in her own way—being an heir to the Lopez throne—she was even more recognisable than Harris. He had faded into legend, into myth, become part of Alliance history. Senator Lopez’s story was still current.

  “Forget that you ever saw her,” I said to the woman. “It doesn’t matter who we are. You behave yourselves, you’ll get out of this alive.”

  “S-sure,” she said.

  “Herd these people up, Lopez,” I said. To Harris: “Did your admirer manage to get a signal off-station?”

  Harris prodded the dead woman aside, and she slumped to the floor. The console was streaked with blood, monitor spattered with claret. Harris wiped it so that he could read the info-stream.

  “Not sure,” he said, frowning. “But standard operating procedure in case of a station takeover would be to send out a mayday.”

  “Help him, Feng.”

  Feng did as ordered, accessing the terminal. “She wasn’t sending a mayday, ma’am.”

  “Then what was she sending?” Harris asked.

  “I’m not sure. The stream is encrypted.” Feng shrugged. “Maybe she panicked.”

  “It’s not a very good distress signal if no one can unencrypt it,” I said.

  The dead woman, MORI printed on her lapel ID, lay still on the floor. Regret rippled through me. No doubt about it; we had properly crossed the line now. I shunted the emotion to one side. I couldn’t think about this now.

  Harris rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then spoke into his communicator. “Nadi, Zero: I want you to run a decryption package on that signal. I want to know its intended destination as soon as you can get it.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” said Nadi, chirpy as ever. “But it might take a while.”

  “The nearest Alliance outpost is light-years out,” Zero explained, speaking over the comms. “The farm has a tachyon-relay, but even allowing for faster-than-light communications, any response is likely to take days to reach the nearest Alliance outpost. If you factor in time-dilation, and then consider that Alliance space forces are badly stretched, I’d say we’re looking at a much longer—”

  “Okay, we hear you, Zero,” I said, speaking over her. “You’re saying that it’s not an immediate threat, right?”

  “Exactly,” Zero agreed.

  That took the heat off a little, and it was good enough for Harris. He gave the all-clear for the Paladin to dock with Darkwater and began to rattle off orders to his team over the comms net.

  “Lestrade, get down to the Firebird. Maybe we can cannibalise some of those parts or commandeer the ship.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Lestrade said.

  “It’s a combat ship. Should be right up your space lane.”

  Lestrade chuckled; the first time I had heard him laugh. “I see her. She is a lovely ship.”

  “Gustav, secure Docking Bay Alpha. Nadi, keep the station’s AI in check …”

  He continued to issue commands to the crew, ever the leader. They each responded crisply over the comms.

  “Hey, ma’am,” Feng said. “I’ve found something.”

  The Jackals assembled around Feng’s terminal. He’d accessed a data-feed.

  “What’s it supposed to be?” Lopez asked.

  “It’s a security warning,” I said. “From Rimward Traffic Control.”

  Feng nodded. “Exactly.”

  “So?” Lopez said.

  Feng shook his head, dismayed that Lopez couldn’t see the importance of the intel. I guess that she still had a lot to learn, no matter what we’d been through together.

  “Rimward Traffic Control is responsible for policing the former border with the Asiatic Directorate,” I said. “They’re reporting a potential incursion into Alliance space.”

  “More specifically, it’s from the Joseon-696 system,” Feng completed. His face had taken on an ashen appearance, and I knew that it wasn’t just as a result of what had happened in the control room. He looked sideways at me, pursing his lips. “The Directorate could be searching for us,” he said.

  “How many ships?”

  “Report says a single quantum trail, so probably just one,” Feng read. “But that’s all Kwan needs.”

  “Can you identify the vessel?” I muttered.

  “I can’t,” Feng replied.

  “Is big galaxy,” Novak said. “Could been anyone, yes?”

  “Forward that intel to Zero,” I said to Feng, a hand to his shoulder. “I want her to analyse possible flight and jump patterns. Anything we can use to outrun them.”

  “Solid copy,” Feng said, still staring at the terminal screen. “You ever think there’ll be a time when the Directorate are out of our lives?”

  I gave a short laugh, and wished that I could give him some reassurance, but all I could think about was the metal in Feng’s head.

  After the Command Suite, the invasion was bloodless and over in all of ten minutes. Dr. Vernon made an address over the station’s PA system, and the remaining scientific staff surrendered soon thereafter. Most had gone into hiding. None had thought to arm themselves, and there were no further acts of resistance. Whoever Mori was, she was obviously made of sterner stuff than the rest of the crew. I almost felt sorry for her.

  Hands locked behind heads, fastened with cable-ties from the general supply, the sci-techs were a quivering, terrified bunch. Many still wore bio-hazard suits from working in the cloning vats. I prowled the ranked bodies, my weapon on hip, trying to look more in control of this than I felt.

  “Paladin docking in five minutes,” Harris said over the station’s PA.

  “Have you swept the decks for any remaining crew?” I asked Feng.

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Everyone’s accounted for.”

  “What are we going to do with them?” Lopez asked.

  “We could kill them,” Novak said. “We should probably kill them.”

  I scowled at Novak. “We’re not doing that. None of them is to be hurt, understood? What happened in the Command Suite was a necessity. That girl was fighting back.”

  “Ving is hole in ass,” Novak said, unapologetic. “Could do just him, yes?”

  “Not even Ving,” I said. “Whoever they are, Phoenix Squad are still Alliance personnel.” Going AWOL was one thing; killing Alliance citizens—and in particular Sim Ops—was entirely something else. We weren’t going down that path. “Round them up, get them into the evacuation-pods,” I ordered.

  Lopez paused, looked a lot like she might baulk at that, but then set to it. I could understand her reaction. Now that we were actually here, aboard Darkwater, I was beginning to feel the enormity of it all. Did I feel bad about loading the farm’s crew into evac-pods? Yes, I did. I felt damned well terrible. But if we left the crew on-station, they could either follow us, or arrange for the dispatch of a response team. The girl who had activated the distress signal was proof of that. The station had to be neutralised, definitively, with as little loss of life as possible.

  Darkwater’s evacuation bay was a long corridor with a series of circular openings on each bulkhead that connected to its two dozen pods. The hatches were open and waiting for occupants.

  Like prisoners of war, the techs were marched into the pods. Darkwater Farm had enough craft to evacuate everyone, although it would be cramped and far from comfortable. The pods were quickly filled up, but the prisoners didn’t give us any trouble.

  The atmosphere changed as Ving an
d Phoenix Squad appeared at the end of the corridor. They were all dressed in station-side fatigues now, but still wet from the tanks. Although Novak and Pariah kept them covered with their weapons, I could detect their animosity. I didn’t blame them for that—had I been in their situation, I was sure I would’ve felt a good deal worse. But if there was a flashpoint, where this would turn nasty, it was now. These were hardened operators, not desk jockeys. Pariah’s enormous shadow, both guns deployed, seemed to provide sufficient encouragement—or threat—to keep them in line for the time being, but I wanted this part of the operation done, and fast.

  I took in Phoenix Squad, a team that had been Captain Heinrich’s darlings. Even out of his sim and combat-suit, Ving was an imposing figure, competing with Novak in height. However, Ving and his squad were all too well muscled, primped and preened, to be mistaken for frontline troopers. Everything about him and his people was too perfect, too manufactured. Indeed, I’d heard rumours that Ving had even had muscle tissue sculpted and implanted, so that he was closer in appearance to his simulant. Which was, in itself, pretty weird, as it was based on a copy of him … Ving’s hair was cut very short, with markings shaved into his scalp, and his brow was permanently lowered in a simian scowl. Now, he just looked plain confused, in complete shock as to what had happened.

  “What are you?” Ving said, pausing to inspect Pariah.

  “We are Pariah,” the xeno said. “Move. We have orders not to terminate others. But that could change.”

  “This has to be some kind of trick,” Ving said. He shook his head in dismay.

  “You keep saying that,” Feng said, “but it doesn’t make it any truer.”

  “So the Directorate are working with the Christo-damned fishes now?” Ving suggested.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I said.

  “I’m all ears, Jenkins.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I muttered back.

  P prodded the line of operators with its bio-guns.

  “What the fuck is that fish?” Ving questioned again. “Is it some kind of Directorate project? Because I’ve never heard of anything like it, and Phoenix Squad has been places.”