Exodus

by Jamie Sawyer

  “Sayonara, kemo sabe,” I said with a wave of my gloved hand.

  The hatch rumbled shut, and the grenade detonated. The blast door vibrated, but held firm.

  “That should slow him down,” I said, shaking my head. There was still too much noise in my ears, as though someone had turned up the volume produced by the beating of my heart, the pumping of my blood.

  Harris nodded in approval. “We need to get back to the Paladin.”

  “Agreed.”

  “This way.”

  A mechanical shudder hit the station, reverberating through the corridor. We paused for a moment, steadying ourselves against the wall.

  “That was a ship docking,” I said. “They’re boarding the farm.”

  The station’s AI reported a second later, confirming my suspicion: “Station breach. Station breach. Unauthorised vessel in Docking Bay Theta.”

  “That’s the other end of the station to the Paladin’s location,” Harris said, getting his bearings from the flashing direction signs on the corridor wall. “We have some time before they reach us.”

  Unconsciously, I put a hand to my neck. It hurt like holy hell. “I need a gun. Riggs will be on our tail.”

  And he’ll have weapons and armour this time.

  Without pause, Harris pulled a heavy pistol from a thigh holster and tossed it to me. I racked the pistol’s slide, checked the load out.

  “Armour-piercing rounds,” said Harris. “Be careful how you pick your targets. I don’t have any more ammo.”

  “Solid copy.”

  Harris’ craggy face settled into a grin. “Just like old times, huh?”

  I smiled back. “Just like old times.”

  The Ikarus suit’s map facility, loaded with Darkwater’s schematics, indicated various routes through the station. I squinted at the holo, plotted our path to the Paladin’s dock.

  “We’ll go through Simulant Processing,” I said. “Novak is there. We could do with another pair of hands.”

  Harris flexed his mechanical fist. “Not funny,” he said.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be a joke. Feng was in the armoury, Lopez in Supply.”

  Both were close to Alpha Dock; there was a reasonable chance that they’d made it out. Simulant Processing, on the other hand, had access corridors that led to Storage.

  “Captain Lestrade was on the Firebird,” Harris said. “That’s Docking Bay Beta.” He shook his head. Beta was at the other end of the station; Lestrade would be on his own aboard the Firebird. “We’ll have to worry about him when the time comes,” Harris decided.

  “Then we better get moving.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DESPERATE MEASURES

  A whole sixty seconds later, running as though the devil himself were behind us, we breached Simulant Processing.

  If Storage was heaven, then Processing was a lot like hell. Hot as the Proxima Colony, and humid to boot, it was lit only by the occasional hiss and sputter of working machinery. There were plenty of possible hiding spaces in here, and as soon as we entered, our pace slowed to a near crawl, covering each other as we advanced an aisle at a time, corner by corner.

  “This place isn’t suitable for human occupation,” Harris muttered under his breath as we moved. “It’s supposed to be fully automated.”

  “Figures,” I said.

  Simulant Processing was a flesh factory. As vast as Storage but filled with production lines, manufacturing runs, hydraulic presses, robotic manipulators. There was a lot of activity down here, a lot of motion that acted as a distraction. All of that played havoc with my bio-scanner, although in truth, very little of what was around us was actually alive. Aisles were lined with cloning vats, where the simulants were birthed; filled with chemical soups, hormonal concoctions that drove the specimen down a particular developmental path. Bodies in various states of growth glared back at me. A spinal column here, grafted with bionic implants. A skull with simulated eyes there. Then a row of corpse-things with exposed muscle fibres.

  As Harris said, everything here was automated, and the machines continued to operate regardless of the developing crisis. A conveyor belt still churned out gleaming metal implants—purpose unknown. Elsewhere, a robotic welding arm fizzed and sparked, attaching components to armoured suits. Technology and biology were unified here; the sims and equipment were supposed to be used together.

  “Where’s the lifer?” Harris said in a loud whisper, so as to make himself heard over the throb of the surrounding machinery.

  “I … I don’t know,” I said. “He called in before Riggs attacked. He should be here.” I’d ordered Novak to search Simulant Processing. This was where he was meant to be. Even so, I wasn’t surprised not to find him here. “It isn’t the first time that he’s gone missing during an operation,” I muttered.

  Harris shrugged. “We don’t have time to look for him. Riggs won’t be far behind us.”

  We prowled on to the next junction. The chamber’s chemical stink sank to the back of my throat and sat there.

  “Novak?” I called. “Novak!”

  A shape moved at the end of a row of machines. A bio-sign appeared on my scanner, reflecting the movement. I detected other sporadic signals in the vicinity.

  “Incoming,” Harris said. “Get lively!”

  I ducked a volley of gunfire. The shooter accompanied the attack with a battle-cry: “Purge the fishes! No peace!”

  I caught a glimpse of the tango as he moved between pillars farther down the aisle. The man wore a black survival suit, taped and holed in equal measure, with a white spiral printed on the chest-plate, Cult of the Singularity iconography plastered over the sleeves and leg-modules. Backlit from behind by a fizzing robot welder, the man was a ragged and fanatical figure. His assault rifle—even in trained hands, a spray-and-pray weapon—blazed inexpertly, sending rounds across the factory floor.

  Harris fired back, using a piece of industrial machinery as cover.

  “Head through the vat section,” I said, slapping Harris on the shoulder. How far behind us was Riggs? How long until he got here? The noise would surely attract his attention. “We can’t afford to get bogged down in here.”

  Harris nodded. We went flush to the wall, moving as fast as possible.

  Sprang! A kinetic hit the deck, too close to my left boot for comfort.

  “Shooter,” Harris said. “Twelve o’clock. Gantry.”

  He returned fire into the metal catwalks that criss-crossed the area. More gunfire chased us into the shadow of a cloning tank.

  “Dead end,” declared Harris.

  The factory floor was a maze of machinery, and we had been backed into a blind alley. On one flank, machinery processed the torso units of combat-suits with enormous pressing pads. On the other, cloning vats churned and glowed.

  “They’re over here!” yelled the fanatic.

  “Comms are still down,” Harris said, bracing against a pillar and drawing a bead on the only direction in which the hostiles could come at us. “We’re in this alone.”

  “As ever,” I said.

  “Take out as many as you can,” Harris suggested.

  “If it comes to it,” I said, more battle-cries sounding across the factory, more fanatics drawn to our presence, “I’ve got a grenade.” I patted a hand against the tactical webbing, where my last frag grenade was holstered.

  The shooter on the catwalk fired again, landing a shot even closer this time. I guessed that he was armed with a sniper rifle. Range and visibility conditions weren’t ideal for sniper-fire, but trapped as we were, it was only a matter of time before we got swarmed. All the sniper had to do was pin us down.

  Another shape rounded the corner, waving a knife in the air, wide eyes suggesting that he was stimmed to the gills. I popped his head, and backed up alongside Harris. Bodies were starting to pile up, but still more figures were clambering over the hydraulic machinery beside us. Small-arms fire pattered off the deck.

  “Less than half a clip left,
” Harris said matter-of-factly.

  The sniper rained another shot down from on high. The round went wide, hit a nearby console.

  “I’m out,” I said, tossing my pistol away. It would do me no good empty.

  “Stay behind me,” Harris ordered.

  The Spiral closed on us. They knew that we were almost out of ammunition, could sense the kill was near. These were not professional soldiers, but they were professional maniacs. The first guy we’d encountered down here was at the head of the group, his rifle lowered, his dirty ginger beard parting to reveal a smile.

  “We have them, Disciple Riggs,” he said into a communicator at his neck. Even zealots had comms, it seemed. “Simulant Processing. Come now.”

  The sniper rifle sounded again.

  Then a yell from on high.

  A body fell from above, directly onto the lid of a cloning vat. The sniper’s shout was abruptly cut off by a wet crunch. The distance between the roof of the vat and the gantry was reasonable, clearly enough to kill or seriously injure the attacker.

  “Malvern?” shouted the lead fanatic.

  The group’s resolution wavered, then broke a second later as the sniper-fire started again. This time, it was directed at them. One of their number caught a sniper round in the torso—not dead, but injured enough to stay down. Another was clipped in the leg. The rabble began to back up.

  There was a big observation port in the side of the cloning vat. Armourglass plated, it was supposed to allow the techs to see the half-formed sims inside. It was an obvious weak point in the vat’s construction. A round hit that window, and it shattered immediately. Glowing liquid poured across the factory floor. Sims in various states of growth sluiced out, directly onto the Spiral.

  “What’s that fluid composed of?” I asked Harris, watching the scene with a mixture of horror and amazement.

  “Nothing good,” said Harris. “But it is caustic when oxygenated.”

  The mob were covered in sticky blue gel. Bodies were already smoking, exposed skin on fire.

  “Up!” came a shout. “Use ladder!”

  Novak was there, braced on the catwalk. Stolen sniper rifle in both hands, aimed down at the Spiral agents. He’d given up shooting, now that the tangos had something else to think about.

  There was a maintenance ladder beside one of the operational cloning vats. I realised that it would take us high enough that we could clamber onto the nearest gantry, get up to Novak’s position. He waved a hand to us, pointing out the route we should take.

  “Let’s go,” Harris said. “Those fumes are probably toxic.”

  The chemical stink had got a whole lot worse, enough that it made my eyes flood with tears. That and the smell of burning flesh from the injured Spiral made for a potent atmosphere.

  One hand over the other, I clambered up the ladder. The Ikarus suit whined in objection—left leg refusing to straighten—but I made it up to the top of the vat. The structure was sealed with a metal lid, the sniper’s prostrate body not far from the ladder, head shattered like a broken egg. Up close, I could see that the man’s throat had been opened up, too. Whether it was that or the fall that had killed the asshole, didn’t really matter.

  “Up here.” Novak beckoned.

  Another ladder led to the network of gantries and catwalks from which technicians could oversee the factory floor, and Novak crouched there, waving us on.

  “Where have you been?” I asked accusatively as I grappled my way up to him.

  “Have been here.” Novak looked me over, no doubt taking in the injury to my neck, the lacerations to my face caused by the fight in Storage. “Something happened, yes?”

  “Something happened is right,” I said. “Riggs is in Simulant Storage. He has sims, and he has weapons.”

  Novak’s chest puffed out at that, his lip curling into a sneer. “Is bad.”

  Gunfire started again beneath us, yells from more tangos as they entered the chamber.

  “Is Warlord here?” Novak said, wearing interest across his face. “On farm, yes?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “And right now, I don’t really care.”

  “We need to get back to the Paladin,” said Harris.

  Novak gave a perfunctory nod, as though not quite committed to that idea, but said, “Through here. Service duct, yes?”

  There was an open hatch at the end of the gantry, an unlit hole that led into the warren of tunnels and shafts in the deckhead. I glared at my wrist-comp—spattered with Spiral blood—and realised that none of this was on the schematics. That didn’t seem to stop Novak. The big Russian tossed away the sniper rifle—useless in the narrow confines of the service ducts—and crawled in, hunching his shoulders to access the tunnel.

  Harris and I followed.

  The tunnel was tight, dark and even hotter than Simulant Processing, lit by pale emergency bulbs set into the ceilings, flashing intermittently and suggesting exit routes. We crouch-scrambled along on hands and knees in single-file, with Novak on point, then me, and Harris at the rear, covering the retreat with his PDW. For all the good that would do: the illuminated control panel showed LOW AMMO.

  “Where were you, Novak?” I hissed in the dark, unable to let it go. “I ordered you to search Simulant Processing.”

  “So?” he answered.

  Novak’s sizeable bulk almost blocked the passage. He turned his head in my direction, eyes catching the emergency lights. I could see the cogs working in his head, considering whether he should lie to me, whether it would be better to just come clean.

  I glared back at him. “That’s not even an answer.”

  “I search Processing,” he said. “But is no good.” He shrugged, nodded down at the factory beneath us. “There is nothing here but robots. Is no use.”

  “An order is an order,” I rebuked.

  “But I do find something in crew quarters,” he said. He paused, dangling a small metallic item between his finger and thumb. It was, I realised, a crudely fashioned Black Spiral pendant, hanging from a metal chain.

  “I find this,” he said. “In the girl who fight’s locker.”

  Mori: the girl from the Command Suite. That made sense. She’d called in backup, not from Alliance forces, but from the Black Spiral. The Spiral had either been nearby through coincidence, or their ship had already been en route to Darkwater. Neither was particularly encouraging.

  “Figures,” Harris said, grunting as he crawled. “I suppose she was a convert.”

  “Jesus Christo,” I said. “Is there anywhere they haven’t infiltrated? This place is supposed to be secure.”

  Novak shrugged again, sliding the pendant back into his suit and moving off. “Times change, yes?”

  “They’ll know that you’re back, Harris,” I said. “Riggs will have extracted, shared that intel. It’ll make you a target all over again.”

  “I’ll worry about that later,” Harris said.

  “Did you find any weapons, Novak?” I asked.

  “Just a couple,” he said. “But no guns.”

  I noted that Novak’s armour was taped with new holsters and sheaths, each holding a bladed implement of some sort. He had maybe a dozen knives secreted across his body.

  “Is okay here,” Novak chattered away as he crawled. “That planet might’ve looked like home,” he said, sucking in a mouthful of the noxious atmosphere, “but this place smells like it.”

  Although the light was low, and I couldn’t see much farther than the hand in front of my eyes, I could taste the smoke in the air. A headache like nothing I’d ever experienced had started to build in my temples, making me nauseous. I wished that I hadn’t lost my helmet back in Simulant Storage.

  “Just keep moving,” I replied. “Which way to the Docks? The fastest route.”

  Novak halted at an intersection, considering. “This way,” he finally answered.

  “Are you sure about that? Riggs is probably right behind. He’ll have a bio-scanner, and he’ll know where to find us …”


  “Am sure,” Novak said.

  I tried to activate my own bio-scanner, but the device flashed with Korean text and showed an error that I couldn’t interpret. Must’ve been damaged during the firefight in Processing.

  “You better be right about this.”

  “We go through here,” Novak said. “Through black place.”

  “The dark module?” I queried.

  “Yes, that is right.”

  “Have you been in there?”

  “You tell me not to,” Novak said.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Novak shook his head. “Not yet. Access tunnel leads to module. We go through, then out into mess hall. Leads right to Dock.”

  I stared at the big Russian.

  “Probably,” he added.

  “Comms are still down,” Harris said, tapping his wrist-comp. It also showed an error message. “The Spiral must be using some sort of jamming tech.”

  “Whatever the Spiral have got, it must be pretty advanced.”

  “I just hope that the Paladin is still in one piece,” Harris muttered.

  I repressed the fear that we’d dragged our sorry asses across Darkwater only to find that the Paladin had been lost to the Spiral. Lopez and Feng hadn’t been far from the docking bay. Once they had realised something was happening to the station, they should’ve fallen back to the Paladin.

  Surely. Hopefully.

  “Keep trying to make connection with the Paladin,” I suggested. My own communicator had been lost in Storage.

  In the relative quiet of the shaft, I heard Harris’ heavy, pained breathing. He grunted with irritation as we crawled onwards.

  “Are you okay back there?” I asked.

  “Other than getting a prime view of your ass, I’m doing fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  But I did. Harris had seen better days, and I knew that he would be struggling to keep up.

  “Slow down, Novak.”

  “I said that I’m doing fine,” Harris said. “It comes to it, you leave me. Right?”

  “It won’t come to that,” I said. “You’re the one with the Watch connections. If anyone can unite what’s left of the Alliance in the face of this exodus …” I sighed. “Then it’s you.”