The Eternity War: Pariah

by Jamie Sawyer

  “That’s right,” Zero replied.

  “But out here,” I said, shaking my head, “anything goes.”

  This was where the flotsam and jetsam of the universe ended up … Prospecting for xeno-tech wasn’t the only reason to come to a station like North Star. Those that were desperate for somewhere to hide from the prying eyes of the Alliance authorities also called this place home. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was better than the alternative.

  Sergkov pressed on through the mass of shoppers and new arrivals, towards the immigration gate. That was a requirement of Alliance law, but that didn’t mean it was taken seriously. A half-dozen Military Police officers—a decent portion of North Star’s serving security detail—lounged at a booth, cradling shockrifles, wearing graffiti-covered vac-armour. They looked like they couldn’t care less. Instead, a small figure in a grubby Customs Union uniform emerged from the bustling crowd and expressed an interest in us.

  “Ah, new arrivals!” said the man, speaking in a strangely high-pitched voice. “Officers, please ensure that these people submit to station registration.”

  The base official was pale-fleshed and chubby, with bare strands of grey hair covering a shiny scalp. His uniform had faded from bright yellow to a milky beige.

  “My name is Officer Crawley Gravid, but everyone calls me Craw. I’d like to make your stay here as comfortable as possible.” He turned to the MPs. “Come on, come on. Let’s get the new arrivals registered.”

  With marked reluctance, the Mili-Pol officers stirred from their languor.

  “Guess it’s been a long time since you registered any new arrivals,” I said, making it clear that what I really meant was it’s been a long time since you did any work.

  The Mili-Pol sergeant grinned. Only his head was visible inside his uniform, but his chin was double and unshaven. “You read that right, Lieutenant. This is the ass-end of the universe. Name’s Byers. I’m pretty much the law out here.”

  “That’s nice to know,” I said.

  Sergeant Byers scanned our biometrics. “Hey, you guys are Sim Ops.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Observant and handsome. Not a package you see very often.”

  “Witty and shitty,” Byers said. “Again, not so common these days. You Sim Ops guys still around? It’s been so long since we’ve seen anyone from your branch, we figured that they’d disbanded the Programme.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Sergkov protested. “We’re on a timetable.”

  Byers sighed. “That’s nice for you. But if Union guy says I should register you, I register you.”

  Major Sergkov reluctantly submitted to the immigration checks. I was unsurprised when a different name appeared on the Mili-Pol officer’s scanner screen, but the trooper was satisfied with the result and moved on. The Customs Union man was a little more vigilant. His features fell as he read the text from the unit.

  “You must be the, ah, major,” he said. Swallowed.

  “That’s right,” Sergkov said.

  “The Union received your communication.”

  “As I intended.”

  The little man wrung his hands. How long had it been since North Star had received any attention from the rest of the Alliance? An aura surrounded the Customs man, as though he was suddenly dealing with high-ranking dignitaries—as though he was dealing with the Krell High Council itself.

  “They’re all clean,” the sergeant said. Looked back over at Feng and Novak. “The lifer had better keep his drone switched on at all times. If I had my way, I wouldn’t let the Chino onboard, but hey, what do I know?”

  Zero put a hand on Feng’s forearm, in an attempt to rein him in. It worked and he stood firm.

  “No weapons on you, Novak?” Riggs said, with a grin. “That is a surprise.”

  “Is rules, yes?” Novak said.

  “Is rules,” I replied. “Let’s get on with this.”

  The Mili-Pol checks had been cursory, and I was sure that Novak had a home-made shiv or two somewhere on his person. On that basis, I was eager that we move this along without any further investigation.

  “Read this,” Byers said. Tapped a handwritten placard that had been nailed to the immigration booth window. “No weapons at any time. Place is real old, real shaky.”

  “We’ve a fully pressurised environment out here,” the Customs Union man said, as though having a “fully pressurised environment” on a space station was some sort of luxury. “A stray bullet could cause all manner of complications, and that simply would not do!”

  Sergeant Byers nodded. “Pressure seals aren’t what they used to be, and we don’t want to risk a hull breach.”

  “Neither do we, Sergeant,” I said.

  Byers pulled back his lips. His teeth were stained brown by nicotine and caffeine abuse. “Then we understand each other, Lieutenant Jenkins. We don’t want another incident like Daktar.”

  Riggs groaned. “And there was us hoping that you might not be up to date with current affairs…”

  Lopez wasn’t wrong to warn me of what we’d find aboard North Star Station; the place might’ve been on the frontier, but like most deep-space facilities it had a communications array, and thus it had news. VOTE SENATOR LOPEZ! a wall-display declared. VOTE CHANGE! MAKE IT HAPPEN! His image danced to life.

  “I promise to cut defence budgets. The war’s over, and we need to move on. What do you say to an improved colonisation programme? To new worlds, a new life, and a new tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” the sergeant said, “we know who you are, Lieutenant, and we know who she is too.”

  In an unsuccessful attempt to conceal her identity, Lopez buried her face in her fatigues. I doubted that many in the Alliance would fail to recognise her.

  “All right, that’s enough of this,” Sergkov said, cutting through the chatter. He nodded at Craw. “I need to see the Fleshsmith.”

  As soon as that name was mentioned, the atmosphere shifted. The reaction was as sudden as an airlock opening. Both Craw and Byers went rigid.

  “Of course,” Craw said. “Of course.”

  Byers patted the stock of his security-issue shockrifle. “We can take you down there,” he said. “But Craw here will have to come too.”

  Craw nodded. “The, ah, Fleshsmith … He is quite particular about receiving visitors…”

  “He’s expecting me,” Sergkov said.

  “Are you, ah, all going?” Craw said. I was starting to get a serious vibe about this Fleshsmith, whoever he was.

  “My squad won’t be attending the meeting,” I said. “They’ll need a decent bar. Somewhere quiet.”

  “I can arrange that,” Craw said. “If the rest of you would be so kind as to follow me…”

  Sergkov and Zero started after the Customs official. I turned to my squad. “Remember what I said. You can be trusted.”

  “Solid copy,” Riggs said.

  “Keep comms on, and report to Carmine every hour. Zero and I will keep you updated on the progress of this meet.”

  Riggs nodded. “I got it already.”

  “He has rules,” Sergeant Byers said as we went. “Strict rules.”

  The Mili-Pol security detail led us deeper into North Star, and the place changed around us. Colder, dirtier, smellier. Tight corridors. Abandoned hab-modules. View-ports that were scratched and patched and looked barely capable of holding back the vac. The architecture became almost archaic. The isolation pressed in like an insanity.

  Byers continued. “You don’t look at the Fleshsmith. You don’t make any fast movements around him. You don’t report what you see here. That last one he takes especially seriously.”

  We passed through another checkpoint. We had already been through several, and at each of them Craw and Byers were both required to scan palms before the sealed hatch would let us pass. Zero and I exchanged loaded glances. It was pretty obvious that Customs Officer Craw was far from being just that.

  “He’s one of yours, I take it?” I said to Sergkov.<
br />
  “That’s classified,” Sergkov replied.

  “I help where I can,” Craw said. Turned to me and grinned—a smile that looked like it would shatter at any moment. “But as the major says, that’s classified.”

  We arrived at an armoured hatch, surrounded by surveillance cameras. Unlike the rest of North Star, this door looked new and well maintained: as though someone was doing their best to keep people out. Or perhaps the other way round, I thought. A squirt of anxiety hit me—the feeling that this wasn’t right… A familiar scent lingered on the air, just beyond the range of my human senses. Before I could place it, the hatch opened. Beyond was an enormous cargo hold, the extremities in shadow.

  “Who did you say we’re meeting again?” I asked of Sergkov.

  The major stood with his back ramrod straight. “I didn’t,” he said.

  “Do you think now might be a good time? I mean, who in the Maelstrom goes by the name ‘Fleshsmith’…”

  “The asset,” Sergkov said, adopting formal Mili-Intel terminology, “is somewhat eccentric.”

  “And will he mind you describing him like that?” Zero asked.

  Sergkov shrugged. Byers and Craw stopped in the middle of the hold. Byers’ hands were on his shockrifle, his eyes darting around him like he expected to be attacked at any moment. The station creaked and groaned, the stresses of artificial gravity playing with its ancient structure. Seriously spooky shit.

  “Oh, do please drop the theatrics,” a voice said, echoing around the hold. “Sergeant Byers is having fun with you.”

  Byers’ face told a different story. There was no fun there.

  A cargo elevator came into view, chemical engine roaring as it descended. The platform stalled just before ground level, the miscellaneous chains and rigging used to lift it swaying noisily. A figure stood on the edge of the platform, watching us very precisely, the dark circles of a pair of glasses peering back from the gloom.

  Beside me, Byers had already started retreating. Craw was at his side.

  “If you’ve quite finished with Sergeant Byers and me,” Craw offered, shifting from foot to foot, “we’ll be on our way. I mean, ah, this place tends to affect my sinuses…”

  “You’re dismissed,” the speaker said, hands pressed to the lift’s railing as though he were addressing us from a pulpit.

  I stood my ground and looked up at the haggard figure.

  “You’re Fleshsmith, I take it?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” the figure said, with a rigid grin that failed to expose a single tooth. “But you can call me Dr. Skinner.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE FLESHSMITH

  Dr. Skinner drifted among the detritus of his laboratory, and we followed closely. To have been left behind in that shadowed hold would have felt like becoming lost in the dark for ever. The place was cavernous, with only specific sections lit by glow-globes.

  “Forgive the use of the local MPs,” Dr. Skinner explained, “but I have to take security very seriously. Of late, North Star has become inundated with pirates operating out of the Drift. Many would be very interested in the work that I conduct here.”

  Sergkov nodded. “Military Intelligence has been tracking some of them.”

  “Not well enough,” Skinner countered. “There are rumours of insurgency across the Drift. Stories of the Black Spiral and a man they call Warlord.”

  “We’ve already met him,” I said.

  “Is that so?” Fleshsmith asked, without turning to look at me. “Much to my chagrin, he’s conducted raids on several nearby facilities. I’ve found that securing decent-quality whiskey this far from the Core is now nigh-on impossible…” He laughed to himself, and I didn’t like the sound much.

  Sergkov coughed. I got the distinct impression that the Mili-Intel man was scared. “You can cut the small talk, Doctor. You know why I’m here.”

  Dr. Skinner paused. “Don’t be so curt, Major. I don’t get many guests out here. Even the two MPs who usually guard my lab seem to have disappeared, although fat lot of good they were anyway…” The man shook himself, and I began to question his sanity: out here in the dark for God only knew how long. “How is your wife these days, by the way?”

  Sergkov bristled. “Fine.”

  Dr. Skinner hit a control panel. An LED lamp suspended above him blazed to life, illuminating this portion of the lab. It was crammed with inert isolation-booths, robotic manipulators mid-operation of grisly tissue samples, and untidy shelves stacked with tools of alien appearance. Dozens of cryogenic capsules lining the walls, reaching into shadow.

  Suddenly, I knew exactly how Dr. Skinner had acquired the codename “Fleshsmith.”

  Things lurked inside those capsules: homunculi-like shapes with warped faces and twisted outlines. All frozen, of course, but even in suspended animation the specimens were capable of generating an aura that was difficult to ignore. Zero drew closer to me, gasping sharply.

  Dr. Skinner showed no apprehension. He was a tall, lean figure, aged in a ragged and unpleasant sort of way. His light hair was cropped short to his narrow head, his skin paled. He wore a tan smock, the chest panel splashed with iodine or the remnants of a bloodstain.

  “Time for introductions,” he said. “I already know you, Major, but who are these two?”

  I stepped forward, determined not to let my anxiety show. “Lieutenant Keira Jenkins, of the Jackals. Alliance Army, Simulant Operations Programme.”

  The Fleshsmith nodded. Satisfied.

  “And this is Sergeant Zoe Campbell,” I said.

  “Everyone calls me Zero,” she added.

  “I think that I will call you Sergeant Campbell,” the Fleshsmith said. “My name is Dr. Claus Skinner.” Despite his name, which I thought sounded Germanic or Euro-Confed, he spoke with a stiff British accent. He waved a hand around the room, at the summation of his works. “And everyone calls me Fleshsmith.”

  “I’ve worked with the Doctor for many years,” Sergkov said. “That Mili-Pol officer was having some fun with you. As you can see, Dr. Skinner has few rules.”

  “I was once a pioneer,” the doctor muttered. “When it mattered.”

  “Dr. Skinner was one of the directing minds behind the Simulant Operations Programme,” Sergkov explained. “He was responsible for the creation of the simulant cloning technology.”

  “That so?” Zero asked.

  When Skinner smiled, something froze inside me. “It was a lifetime ago. I’ve since become engaged in more pressing projects. Which is how I find myself out here, working all alone in the dark…”

  He stepped in front of a rank of cryogenic pods. Illuminated by internal blue light, a thick frost on their canopies, the capsules hissed and wheezed as though they were living things. The sound was far from pleasant.

  “Let me show you my latest work,” the Fleshsmith said.

  The pod beside Skinner opened, canopy lifting.

  And just like that, everything changed.

  That familiar scent in the corridor? It wasn’t something that I had smelled often in my real body, thankfully. That must’ve blunted my recognition. But now I could suddenly, and very precisely, identify it.

  Krell.

  “Cryogenic facility suspended,” came the station AI’s voice. “Please stand by for further information.”

  A xeno lurched out of the pod, trailing cables and dripping bright blue chemicals.

  Zero didn’t scream, didn’t shout, but she quickly fumbled away from the nearest pod. Eyes pinned to the attacker, hands scrambling over benches and shelves and any other surface that she could reach—items clattering against the deck.

  And me? Hardwired, primal instinct took over. An instinct that had lain dormant for a long time but that could never be unlearnt.

  “Move!” I shouted, already doing the same myself.

  Weapon. Fight. Survive.

  My hand dropped to my gun holster—

  “No weapons at any time. Place is real old, real shaky.”

/>   The recently decanted Krell shook free of the cables that had tethered it to the cryo-pod, and stomped its clawed feet on the ground. Spatters of glowing blue suspension fluid showered the lab.

  Sergkov was either too old or too slow to react. He stood there, stupefied, as the drama unfolded. At his side, the Fleshsmith—or whoever the fuck he was—just grinned and grinned.

  Dead. They’re both dead.

  Zero bolted between the shelves and benches. Something smashed in her wake, but she kept going. Head down.

  To the hatch. Out into the corridor. Through the station to the waiting ship—

  We’d never get that far. The Krell let out a pitched shriek, giving chase. Its stink hit me in the temples, so intense that it almost dropped me, so strong that I thought I was going to throw up. Maybe that and the cryogen would be enough to make me numb, so that I wouldn’t feel it when the thing’s claws and teeth ripped me apart.

  Think!

  I grabbed for something—anything—from the nearest bench. Fingers closed around a power-wrench. Battered and chipped but as long as my arm, with a decent weight behind it.

  I had no choice but to fight.

  I twisted. Wrench in my left hand, right against a shelf for balance.

  Hit the power stud. The tool lit with bright sparks.

  The alien was right in front of me. Where else would it be? Mouth open, fangs reflecting the scant light. Eyes like deep pools.

  Time slowed to a near stop. It always did that in the end. Whether real or simulated, it’s as though human senses are too blunt to properly understand the implications of death, and so the mind has to unspool time. To chop and press it, to process it differently.

  The tool slammed into the Krell’s head. Bounced off its skull.

  Zero was screaming now. Reliving what she had tried to bury for over two decades of her life.

  I pulled the wrench back. Painfully aware that I would not get another shot—that by the time this blow landed, the Krell would be on me.

  “Desist.”

  Voice brittle, electronic. Sufficiently unnerving that I paused, wrench over my head, mid-assault.

  In the pool of light cast by the cryogenic capsule, Dr. Skinner was laughing. It was a dark, self-contented sound.