by Addison Gunn
PRAISE FOR EXTINCTION BIOME
“Bristling with big ideas and big action, this is a knock-out sci-fi thrill you won’t want to miss.”
Adam Christopher
“Ruthless and fast-paced, Extinction Biome is a planetary gut-punch to any possibility of a happy future.”
Weston Ochse
“Filled with compelling characters, tense confrontations, and vivid action scenes, it’s the book equivalent of a roller coaster, except people of any height can enjoy it.”
Chris Bucholz
“A riveting tale of a world-shaking disaster and the determined survivors hanging onto civilization’s last fraying threads. From harrowing battles with sea monsters to chilling encounters with mind-controlling cults, Gunn keeps the pressure on and the tempo up.”
Carrie Patel
“How to do military sci-fi right. There is barely time to draw breath between the pages.”
Grim Reader Reviews
“Military SF that grabs you from the first page.”
The Big Thrill
An Abaddon Books™ Publication
www.abaddonbooks.com
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First published in 2017 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.
By Anne Tibbets, writing as Addison Gunn
Editor: David Moore
Cover Art: Edouard Groult
Design: Sam Gretton & Oz Osborne
Marketing and PR: Remy Njambi
Editor-in-Chief: Jonathan Oliver
Head of Books and Comics Publishing: Ben Smith
Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley
Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley
Extinction Biome created by Malcolm Cross and David Thomas Moore
Copyright © 2017 Rebellion. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78618-092-6
Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
1
THE SEA HAD enemies.
Alex Miller had nothing against the ocean. On calm days, when the sun burned high and the watery horizon shone like a sheet of polished metal, he looked out over the seascape, listened to the ocean roar, and felt a hint of hope, a contentment that came and went as quickly as the breeze. It would be easy, he thought, to get used to life on the water.
But the sea knew no mercy; one day it soothed the soul and the next it bared its teeth. The waves roiled and drew up from the depths and crashed against the Tevatnoa’s bow; a vicious barrage—unrelenting, knowing no compassion.
Whatever Miller thought of the sea, it seemed to hate him—and after six months in its unsympathetic coils, his contentment congealed and sickened, eventually matching the sea’s loathing.
How could you not despise something that persistently strove to kill you?
Perhaps the sea was exacting revenge for centuries of abuse at the hands of selfish and destructive humans, perhaps not. Either way, as Miller stood on the Tevatnoa’s bridge and watched the waves thrash the smaller vessels of the Schaeffer-Yeager fleet, he had to wonder.
“The Dunn Roven is in distress,” said the able seaman manning the com and radar displays. “They’ve requested emergency assistance.”
Miller’s eyes swept the starboard horizon, slipping over a fishing trawler, a sailboat and a tug before settling on a thirty-meter pleasure yacht fit to carry a little over a hundred people. Topped to the brim with evacuees from some seaside town Miller couldn’t remember, it had teamed up with the Tevatnoa after only two months at sea.
It had been the first ship they’d found. More had followed: scattered across the waters, seeking refuge from the chaos on land caused by the Archaean Parasite and the burgeoning new ecosystem that followed it.
They’d hoped, by banding together and pooling resources, to ease the trials and tribulations of life at sea; but the crazed currents, the endless storms, the fungal mats—to say nothing of the carnivorous sea life—tossed the smaller ships about like ping pong balls, and Miller often had to wonder if the Tevatnoa wouldn’t have been better off if they’d gone it alone.
“Dispatch the Dawn Rising and Robin’s Nest to assist with the evacuation,” said Commander Lewis. He looked up from the chart table and leaned back into his captain’s chair.
“If we re-task Dawn Rising,” L. Gray Matheson said from beside him, “there’s a good chance of our missing the fishing quota for the day.” He crossed and uncrossed his arms, fidgeting. He seemed out of place on the bridge in his loose three-piece suit, but Miller couldn’t fault him for hanging onto the shards of his former CEO life. Miller would gladly chop off his own left foot to have his Armani wool-blend pinstripe back. Now, to his disappointment, his security uniform and gear seemed a part of him.
“You think I care about fish?” Lewis grumbled. “We’re talking one hundred and fifteen people, Matheson.”
“And how many will die of starvation aboard the Tevatnoa if we don’t make quota?” Gray shot back. “We’ve got people eating twice a day as it is.”
Lewis’s face fell. He scratched his thighs just above each leg prosthetic. “None of the other ships have the maneuverability. They’ll drown before either of the cruise liners can alter course.”
“Send one of the mega-lifeboats,” Miller offered.
“We can’t risk losing another one,” Lewis snapped. “Or the crew.”
“Cobalt can manage it.”
“We can’t risk losing you, either,” Lewis retorted.
“The longer we debate,” Miller said, “the more bodies we’ll be fishing out of the water.”
Gray frowned.
“Fine,” Lewis said. Then, to the pilot on his right, “Full stop.” Almost as an afterthought, he said to Miller, “But I want that lifeboat, and all of you, back in one piece.”
Miller swallowed his first response. “Yes, sir.” Spinning on his heel, he marched from the bridge and hooked a left out the door.
He didn’t resent having to oversee a rescue of the Dunn Roven, or not much. With the absence of an actual Coast Guard, the five remaining members of his squad were the best qualified and experienced for the task. He only wished it didn’t involve going back out onto an angry ocean. He’d grown to hate the feel of salt water.
MILLER FOUND HIS team right where he’d left them, grouped together, away from the rest of the refugees, tucked into a corner of the Crow’s Nest bar.
Every last drop of alcohol aboard the ship had been consumed or used as antiseptic months ago, making the bar the driest, saddest spot aboard. But in a ship packed to the railings with hungry, weary, and often seasick civilians, he didn’t blame them for seeking out a spot of silence.
Du Trieux, her leg draped over the arm of her chair, looked focused as she sharpened the edge of her new favorite toy—a ten-and-a-half-inch hunting knife she’d traded one of the old compound guards for her smaller, less-ominous-looking one. Her new blade, a black straight-edge, whirred back and forth against the well-worn stone. Beads of sweat collected on her hairline and dripped down to the tip of her nose; she brushed them away with the back of her hand and absently looked up at Miller as he approached.
&n
bsp; On her left sat Doyle. At first Miller thought he was asleep, but then his eyes popped open and focused across the room, where a tiny, empty bottle of gin sat propped in the window sill. Then, just as suddenly, his eyes met Miller’s.
Focusing exercises. Doyle was attempting to keep his sniper skills sharp despite the mandatory ban on target practice to conserve ammunition.
“What’s wrong, boss?” Doyle asked.
Miller pursed his lips. “Why do you assume it’s bad news?”
From the far side of the room, Hsiung snorted. Swinging from a makeshift hammock she’d fashioned out of a shredded parachute, she dropped to her feet. “Is there any other kind of news these days?”
From behind the bar, Morland laughed as he sucked down a shot of desalinated water. “Not bloody likely.”
Miller shrugged. They weren’t wrong. “On your feet. There’s a yacht full of people about to capsize.”
Du Trieux’s blade froze over her whetstone. “It’s pretty rough out there for a rescue mission.”
Miller didn’t disagree. “Gear up. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
THE TEVATNOA, BACK in its prime, was a first-class cruise ship. It had over eighteen hundred cabins, and could legally carry thirty-six hundred passengers and thirteen hundred crew. They’d surpassed that number ages ago.
Powered by an on-board fusion reactor, the Tevatnoa was close to one hundred fifty tons and larger than many aircraft carriers, so it was no shock to Miller when it took the vast vessel twenty minutes to come to a complete stop. By then, they’d overshot the Dunn Roven by a whole nautical mile.
A ship that size, carrying that many people, needed a state-of-the-art evacuation system if needs arose, and the Tevatnoa was well-equipped. With fifteen mega-lifeboats, each capable of evacuating three hundred and seventy people, the boats were launched from a davit system that lowered them directly into the water from the second deck landing.
Easily manned by a crew of five, the lifeboats were fitted with two one-hundred-seventy-horsepower diesel engines and twin rudders. As far as they were from the yacht, it wouldn’t take them long to reach the Dunn Roven.
Once the lifeboat was in the water and quick-released from the cams, Hsiung took the helm, steering it directly into the next oncoming wave. The bow of the lifeboat shot high over the crest and slammed back down into the wave’s trough with a slap.
Hsiung swore under her breath, bracing herself against the console. “So much for coming in on the low side of the storm.”
Miller, tightening his life vest, smirked. “Not sure there’s such thing as a low side anymore.” He’d seen worse, though.
In truth, the waves were moderate—cresting at about five meters and topped with sporadic white caps—but they weren’t the main cause for concern. The wind was clocking in at seventeen knots.
As the lifeboat rose and fell, the steering tower creaked and shuddered. The near-gale-force wind shook them like a flag, and although it was the largest lifeboat Miller had ever seen, the fiberglass-reinforced hull was empty; one hard gust, one wave hitting from the side, could send them over.
On their approach to the Dunn Roven, Miller surveyed the wreckage. The yacht lay becalmed in the water, tipped on one side, and was surrounded by survivors in life vests. Their Personal Locator Beacons flashed among the waves, not that it mattered: the COSPAS satellite system had been offline since China’s collapse into martial law.
“Can you swing her around?” Miller asked, eyeing the corpse of the yacht as it rose and fell in the rush of waves.
“Not enough sea room or steering way to get around,” Hsiung said. “The waves are coming from starboard. If we turn here we’ll be in the same mess they are.”
“Alright, stop here. We’ll have to fish them out.”
Hsiung slowed their approach until they sat idle, or as idle as any boat could be in the conditions.
Miller looked out the windows to assess the situation and saw the colossal rent in the hull. Given the damage, he was less surprised by the speed of the disaster. Movement caught his eye; squinting through the rain, he could just make out the tip of a scaled dorsal fin as it swam away. His stomach lurched.
“Did you see...?” Hsiung gaped.
He nodded, then clasped the radio receiver clipped to his shoulder. “We’ve got a live one in the water, Cobalt. Look sharp,” he said, releasing the button with a wash of static.
Two life rafts from the yacht floated nearby, but had tipped over in the fuming ocean. Some of the survivors clung to the ropes looped around the sides, beacons flashing, while others floated free, thrashed by the waves and swept off in all directions.
The race was on.
Miller climbed down the ladder to the bottom deck and snatched the Reach and Rescue pole above the door. Opening the hatch, he planted his feet wide, wedging his hip against the hull, and kicked down the cradle, a thick rubberized net used to hoist people aboard. Frigid sea water surged up and over his head, making him cry out. He should have put on a wetsuit, but there was nothing to be done now.
Behind him, du Trieux clung tightly to a strap and opened the hatch opposite his.
“Here we go,” Morland said beside her, his rifle hung over his shoulder.
Doyle popped his head out of Miller’s hatch, hooking his elbow through the hand railing, and peered through a pair of binoculars. He shouted over the howling wind: “Two at ten o’clock. Three meters.”
How Doyle had singled them out, Miller couldn’t figure; he could barely focus in the spray. There were too many vests floating in the ocean to choose from—too many arms reaching out, too many men crying for help, too many sobbing women and howling babies heard over the crashing waves. As Miller watched, one woman off to his right was sucked under by some unseen force and never resurfaced.
Swallowing the bile in his throat, Miller extended the arm of the pole at ten o’clock, where a couple had latched arms together. The man, a slight fellow easily in his fifties, grabbed hold of the hook on the end of the pole and held tight as Miller dragged them toward the lifeboat.
They drew closer, the man kicking to drive them, the woman limp and staring blankly. It wasn’t until Miller reached down to help her into the cradle did he understand why.
“My wife,” the man said, blue-lipped and pale. “My wife... take her first.”
She was clearly dead, either drowned or frozen to death, too long exposed to the treacherous and unforgiving sea.
God damn this ocean.
“My wife...” the man repeated again, pushing her body into the looped net.
Given the way her head bobbed in the water, Miller guessed her neck had been broken.
“Come on, now, ma’am,” Doyle said, reaching past Miller and grabbing the net. “Uppsy daisy.”
“My wife...”
“We got her, mate,” Doyle said, pulling the net.
One hand still gripping the pole, Miller used his other to help Doyle, grasping the net and pulling upward. The woman’s limp body rolled up the side of the boat. When she reached the top, Doyle dragged her by the shoulders into the boat’s interior and Miller dropped the cradle back into the water.
The man swung around, got into the net feet first and waited. “I’m coming, Lilly! I’m right behind you.”
Without a word, Doyle and Miller pulled him up. Doyle held the man’s arm until he got inside. The husband dropped to his knees beside his wife and cupped her face. “Lilly? We made it, Lil.”
Miller and Doyle shared a grim look.
Turning back to the despicable ocean and the sea of flashing life vests, Miller gripped his pole and flung it far, hooking it around a woman holding a wailing baby over her head.
A wave surged and knocked the pole from the woman’s vest, but she never released the screaming baby. It took Miller two more attempts, but he finally roped them in and pulled them to the boat. He went to grab the baby, but Doyle appeared and did it for him, then handed him the yowling infant.
“You’d bett
er hurry up, boss,” Doyle said. “Du Trieux’s lassoed twice as many as you have.”
Miller grimaced, struggling to keep his grip on the squirming infant.
Doyle rolled the woman up the side. When she was on board, Miller handed the baby to her and swung the pole back out into the water.
The next nearest life vest was a teenage boy with lips so blue it looked like lipstick. The kid grabbed the hook and Miller dragged him toward the boat, but had pulled him less than a meter when he felt resistance.
The boy shrieked holy hell, his arms flailing like pinwheels in the wind. “Help me! Help me! I’m stuck!”
Miller leaned into it, tugging harder, and Doyle abandoned his position to help. Like a grotesque tug of war, they pulled the boy. He didn’t budge.
With a deafening wail the boy hollered his last. Immediately, the resistance gave way, sending Miller and Doyle reeling backwards into the interior of the lifeboat.
Still holding the rescue pole, Miller scrabbled to his feet and pulled the boy toward the boat.
The boy’s face was still, seemingly stuck in an expression of sheer horror and pain.
“Miller,” Doyle said, eyeing the survivors watching them. “Don’t pull him in.”
“What?” Miller dragged the boy closer. After he advanced a few meters more, coming within reaching distance of the cradle, he halted. Something was off. He couldn’t place it. “Hey, kid,” Miller spoke to him.
The boy didn’t answer, or blink.
“What the...” He leaned over the boat to grab the boy by the shoulders of his life vest.
“No!” cried Doyle.
Too late.
Miller was surprised how easily he lifted the boy from the water; it wasn’t until he saw the teen was missing the entire bottom half of his body that his grip gave way, dropping the body face first back into the water. Entrails floated out from his gut like the tentacles of a jellyfish.