by Jamie Sawyer
“Dr. Skinner told us about Earth,” the Pariah said, twitching its limbs. “Like Kindred Reef Worlds.”
“That’s probably the closest thing you’d understand,” I said.
“We have never been there. We will never go there. We are Pariah.”
“Do you miss Skinner?”
The alien paused, then said, “Define ‘miss.’”
“Do you think about him?” I asked, tapping a finger to the side of my head. “He was your creator, the man who made you. You spent time with him.”
“We are,” the alien said. “That is all.”
Talking to the Pariah was a lot like trying to reason with a crude AI. Not just the way that it spoke—that electronic voice-box made it feel a lot like a machine—but the nature of its responses. Struck me as little actual reasoning going on behind those dark, alien eyes. The creature was just a big organic machine.
“I wanted to say thanks for the save,” I said. “For going outside the ship, earlier today.”
The alien regarded me impassively. “We did as asked.”
“You didn’t need to do that though.”
“We did as asked,” the Pariah repeated. “Other requested.”
“That’d be Major Sergkov,” I explained.
“It is leader-form?” the Pariah offered.
A leader-form was probably the closest analogy within the Krell caste-structure to an Alliance officer, although leader-forms enjoyed the perk of being able to mind-control their lesser troops in a way that I was sure Sergkov would appreciate…
“I guess,” I said. “Sort of.”
The alien poked a talon towards me. More inquisitively than threateningly. “It is different to Sergkov-other.”
“You mean that I’m different to Sergkov?” I touched a hand to my chest. “I’d hope so. For a start, I’m female.”
“Sergkov-other is not?”
“Major Sergov is male,” I said. “He’s also an ass. But then most men are.”
So far as we were aware, the Krell were sexless. Was the Pariah any different? Impossible to know whether Dr. Skinner’s experiments had messed with the alien’s genome, and this really was not a subject I wanted to discuss with the alien.
The Pariah craned its neck. “We do not know ‘ass.’”
I permitted myself a tired laugh, and shook my head. “You don’t need to know, P. You don’t need to know.”
The conversation—if you could call it that—ended there.
I sat up the whole night-cycle. The Pariah barely moved at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
INTO THE GYRE
Early the next day-cycle, we were inside the Gyre.
Carmine scrambled all crew to the bridge, and the place was once again packed with personnel. The Jackals assembled around the tactical display—all except Zero, who had remained in the SOC—while Sergkov paced the chamber with barely restrained frustration.
“We’re here,” Carmine declared, as blunt as ever. “And the Sab Rhea star system isn’t.”
“Run through this for me again,” Sergkov said. “If you don’t mind, Captain.”
The Gyre spread out before us: a twisted spiral of planetary matter and stellar debris, an ever-decreasing coil. At the very heart of the conglomeration was a super-massive black hole—the result of dozens of collapsed stars—pulling everything into the churn.
“See for yourself,” Carmine said. “We’re currently inside the Gyre, although only just, and the Sab Rhea system isn’t here.”
Carmine was hard-plugged to her console, and she’d been that way, mostly, since we’d fled North Star. Her old face displayed the edge of exhaustion: black bags hung at her eyes, her mechanical leg twitching. That, I’d noticed, was a sign she was on edge. Right now, her leg was moving positively non-stop.
“What do you mean by ‘isn’t here’?” Sergkov pressed.
“It’s gone. Everything is gone.”
The tactical display demonstrated where Sab Rhea had once been, with comparative imagery. According to historic analysis of this region, the sun had once held sixteen satellites. The Santa Fe’s AI considered those and spat out a lengthy stream of data on them, together with tach-scope pictographics.
“Maybe we’re in the wrong place…” Lopez muttered. “Could there be an error with navigation?”
“That’s not possible,” Carmine said. “I’ve checked it myself, and our location is confirmed by scope. This is all that’s left.”
An expansive swirl of debris and matter—a purple, mist-like swathe—claimed most of Sab Rhea’s space.
“Ship’s sensors are having difficulty getting through it,” Carmine said. “But it looks like asteroidal debris. I can’t tell whether it’s new, but it wasn’t there when this system was last imaged.”
“Why don’t you just ask it?” Riggs said, nodding to the back of the bridge.
Sergkov had insisted on the Pariah’s presence on the bridge, but it had stayed quiet throughout the approach to Sab Rhea. Although it was deceptively easy to forget that the alien was even there, I never lost the feeling that it was listening to everything: a potential spy in the camp, gathering intel. And not the only one, I thought as I looked around the bridge.
“We cannot assist,” the Pariah said.
Lopez stared at the tac-display. “Can you sort of, you know, sense any other Krell out here?”
“We cannot,” Pariah intoned. “This place is Red Fin territory. We are not of the Red Fin Collective.”
“So you guys call yourselves by those names as well?” Riggs asked.
Pariah tilted its head towards Riggs, before answering, “We are of Kindred. We are using words that others understand.”
“When the Hannover was last here,” Sergkov said, walking the display, “the Sab Rhea star was still burning. This is fresh damage.”
“It likely had millennia of energy reserves,” Carmine said. “At least, according to those data-files.”
“Couldn’t the Gyre be to blame?” Riggs suggested, pointing at the heart of the stellar phenomena.
The Gyre turned away in the centre of the map. The more I looked at that hypnotic spin of dead matter, a terrible sense of familiarity came over me. I’ve seen that image somewhere before, I realised. The Gyre looked very much like the Black Spiral’s insignia: like the badge that they plastered over the stations and ships they attacked…
“I doubt it,” Carmine said, bringing my train of thought back to the present. “The Gyre is reckoned to be stable, and our readings don’t suggest any change in its condition. It would take the Gyre thousands of years to pull Sab Rhea in.”
“What is that thing, anyway?” Lopez said, referring to the Gyre.
Carmine shrugged. “Lots of stories to tell about the Gyre, when you have time to hear them. They say that it is a failed Shard Gate. Something massive and terrible left over by the Shard, when they upped and left this end of the universe.”
Sergkov tutted and rolled his head in annoyance. “None of which is confirmed,” he rebuked. “And none of which is helpful. Keep your rumours to yourself if you will, Captain.”
I flagged a location at the heart of the stellar cloud that had once been the Sab Rhea system. “Can we run a targeted sweep deeper into the cloud? If the Hannover went down, she may have fired her evacuation pods. Those carry broad-frequency distress beacons.”
Carmine paused before answering. “We can try it, but what with so much fouling of the sensors any beacons out there will be seriously muted—”
“We’re picking something up on the scanner…” Yukio said. A look of determined concentration dawned on the lieutenant’s face.
“Follow the scanner return,” Carmine ordered.
Silence descended over the bridge. The tac-display was scattered with static, the Santa Fe’s scopes becoming so clouded that we had virtually no visuals at all. Space around us was swamped with exotic particulate…
“It’s definitely a generated signal,” Yukio said. “I �
�� I think that it’s Alliance pattern.”
She patched the audio beacon through, and we listened to the pulse of an electronic signal.
“That’s an Alliance distress beacon,” Riggs said. “I’d recognise that anywhere. I used to run evac when I was with the Marines.”
“How far out?” Sergkov asked.
“We’re almost on top of it,” Carmine said, still focused on her data-feeds. “Can’t see a damn thing through this shit!”
Carmine’s terminal began to chirp. A siren whined across the ship’s PA system.
“All halt,” Yukio declared. “Gravitic drive holding in position.”
The Sante Fe’s spaceframe shuddered, and ahead of us something emerged from the sea of debris.
“Oh shit…” Novak whispered. “Fish heads…”
A Krell bio-ship appeared on the scanners.
“All sensors, maximum power!” Carmine suddenly interrupted. She threw off the vestiges of fatigue and became almost hyper-alert: as though she’d made transition into a simulant.
“Aye, sir,” a staffer replied.
The next few seconds passed in a sort of frenzied blur.
The Navy crew ran all of their tests, did their scans, and the Fe’s scopes and scanners strained to amplify the visuals until they were clear. But at this distance, there was little that the sensors could really tell us: bio-ships were made for stealth and emitted very few detectable readings.
“Your signal—the distress beacon—is coming from inside that ship,” Carmine said. “The vessel must be acting as a barrier. All that bone and gristle … That’s why our sensors didn’t detect it earlier.”
The Santa Fe’s intelligence engine had assigned the identifier Azrael to the bio-ship, and the name currently floated alongside the vessel’s holo-image.
Sergkov nodded. “She was seen on Askari during the Krell War.”
The Santa Fe carried a local copy of the Navy’s intelligence database, and it quickly provided us with everything that had been collected on the ship. The Azrael was ancient, venerable, and had been encountered by the Alliance many times before. She had some impressive kill-stats, her history steeped in the blood of human–Krell engagements. Red Fin Collective apparently—in recent years assigned to a defensive fleet mustered in the Sab Rhea system…
“The signal could be from one of the Hannover’s evac-pods,” Sergkov said.
“It has to be,” I said. I couldn’t see any other explanation for a human distress beacon emanating from inside the bio-ship. “There could be survivors in there.”
“Ship is not right,” the Pariah added.
Everyone turned to look at the enormous bio-form. Its skin had gone oily, and the musk it emitted was almost overpowering.
“Can it communicate with the bio-ship?” Lopez offered, talking about the Krell while also trying to avoid looking at it.
“We cannot communicate,” the Krell voiced. It writhed its limbs, producing an almost wet sound as it moved. “Ship is not of our Collective.”
“Any other nuggets of wisdom you want to share on that topic?” Riggs said, attempting to goad the alien again. “What exactly is the point of having this thing on the ship if it can’t actually communicate with the other fishes?”
This time, the alien snapped about, its two taloned forearms raising like shoulder-mounted battle cannons, directed at Riggs. Fully deployed, the alien’s limbs grazed the deckhead.
“Whoa!” Novak said. “Easy, fish.”
The crew scattered away from the alien; only Sergkov remained in proximity. But the second passed, and the xeno’s limbs gradually sagged. Breath caught in the thing’s chest.
“Ship is … wrong,” it said again. “We want to know why.”
Sergkov looked up at the alien, making eye contact. “You’ll get your chance,” he said.
“And how exactly are we going to do that?” Riggs asked. “If the fish head can’t speak with the ship, I mean.”
I already suspected the answer.
“You are all going aboard that ship.” Sergkov nodded at the alien. “And the Pariah is going aboard with you.”
“No other choice,” I whispered, eyes still on the XT. I didn’t like this one bit. “Riggs, you’re flying.”
Less than ten minutes later, we were clad in new skins and loaded for war. I glanced around the Warhawk’s cabin—the same cabin in which Riggs and I had rutted only a day ago. I shifted that memory and sealed it way, instead performed a cursory check on the rest of the team.
“Transition confirmed,” I said, into the communicator.
The Santa Fe’s hangar bay doors soundlessly opened, pressure escaping. Space appeared beyond the lock.
“We hear you, Lieutenant,” Zero said. She was back in the SOC, vicariously soaking up every bit of the action. “Your video-feeds are looking good.”
“Bridge confirms feeds too,” Sergkov said. “Mission is a go.”
“I hear that…” Feng muttered, flexing his hands in the armoured combat-suit. “Sure feels good to have the nice toys.”
“Although some were luckier than others,” Riggs said, turning from the cockpit to grin at me. He was at the flight controls, the only occupant of the shuttle’s cockpit.
The inside of the cabin was positively jammed with bodies. Four simulants in full combat-armour were bad enough, but the HURT was enormous. I felt like a goddess, albeit a clumsy one, inside the armour. I fought to control my pulse, to keep in check my eagerness to deploy the HURT again.
The Jackals all wore full combat-suits, cradled plasma rifles on up-armoured legs. I felt a curious mixture of pride and anxiety as I looked on the team. Pride, because they were shaping up. Every suit was marked with the Jackal-head insignia, every weapon primed and tested. But also anxiety, because of what Riggs had said. Could I trust my own team, and what were we walking into?
Don’t think about that now, I insisted to myself. Concentrate on the mission.
“Just remember, as I told you: these suits are bigger and more powerful than those you’re used to.”
“Is not problem,” Novak said. “Do not worry.”
“I do worry, Novak,” I said.
“We did those simulations and drills,” Lopez said. “We’re ready.”
I tapped Lopez’s forearm. “The combat-suits have a null-shield generator in the left vambrace. Keep that turned on; the shield will operate as soon as the suit detects an incoming projectile.”
The team all nodded and voiced agreement because, of course, we’d been through this a hundred times already.
“I want all suits sealed throughout the operation,” Sergkov said over the comm. Each combat-suit was fully pressurised, could act as a space suit if necessary. “No one is to unseal under any circumstances.”
“You heard the major,” I said. “This is not a combat mission—”
“At least, not yet,” Riggs said.
I scowled at Riggs and started again: “This is not a combat mission. No one shoots until I give the order. The Krell are friendlies, until I say otherwise.”
The Pariah was stooped in one of the crew seats, unharnessed, wearing its bio-suit and helmet: the equipment it had taken from North Star.
“Is the Pariah reading your comms?” Sergkov asked.
“We are,” the alien said.
“Will fish survive the vac?” Novak questioned, although the tone of his voice didn’t carry any concern for the alien.
“It’s wearing Class III bio-armour,” Zero said, “which is probably more durable than your combat-suit.”
“That told you,” Lopez said.
“Hey, you are one sitting next to it,” Novak replied.
Lopez was closest to the Pariah, and she cast her eyes sideways. Although it was difficult to fidget in a full combat-suit, Lopez seemed to manage it. She looked less than comfortable.
“Can the chatter,” I said. “We’ve got an objective to secure in there.”
New data scrolled across Riggs’ control co
nsole, and iconography on my HUD gave the all-clear for launch.
“Ready when you are,” Carmine said.
“Copy that,” Riggs said. “Let’s kick the tyres and light the fires.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Riggs flipped control switches on his console, the board illuminating green. “Just an old air force saying.”
“Right. Let’s launch, shall we?”
“You’re the boss,” Riggs said. “Launching in three … two… one…”
The Warhawk launched from the Santa Fe’s hold. There was a brief tug of resistance as we fired thrusters and cleared the ship’s gravitational field, then we were on our own.
“Just keep the Fe’s weapons systems hot,” I said to Carmine, over a closed channel. “No telling when we might need to use them.”
Carmine gave a low, throaty laugh. “Do you even have to ask?” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE AZRAEL
A searchlight mounted on the Warhawk’s nose absently scanned the bio-ship’s battered exohull. There were muttered curses and exclamations from the squad.
“You receiving this, Fe?” I asked.
“We see it,” Sergkov said.
“This ship is massive,” Feng whispered. “Where do we even start?”
There were no wise quips or comebacks from anyone this time.
The bio-ship was much longer than the Santa Fe, and maybe twice as broad. The hull was ribbed with biological armoured plating, pocked here and there with what might have been view-ports. Several larger apertures mimicked airlocks or docking bays, but it was hard to say—everything screamed of the organic, rather than the machined. Save for the nose, all angles were soft and curved, and every portal was circular. As we drew nearer still, I saw that several of those were open.
“Looks dead,” Novak offered.
“Or at least dormant…” Zero said. I heard her swallowing as we drifted nearer, and I could feel her apprehension over the comms network. Being so close to the Krell was surely taking its toll on her.