Titan: A Science Fiction Horror Adventure (NecroVerse Book 3)

by Aaron Bunce

  “And my other choice?” he asked, dreading what would come next.

  “You reject our offer.”

  “That is it? I accept, you fix my body, and I serve you? Or I just…don’t? Does that mean I would die? Cease to be?”

  “Yes.”

  Manis considered the simplicity of the two options set before him, his shrewd mind spinning down the corridors of leverage and benefit. He realized the unspoken truth of the situation. They needed him, perhaps more than he needed them, especially if he wasn’t necessarily invested in his continued survival. Perhaps it was the distance, maybe some hiccup in the biological soup that he didn’t fully understand, but in the end, it came down to him actively playing some part. He just had to find the right wording, a loophole in the scenario it hadn’t considered, and his significance, or his options, would multiply considerably.

  “What if I want to sweeten the deal? Say, I think I have more leverage in this negotiation than you’re letting on? What if I want wealth, power, women, maybe even a larger stake in what is up for grabs? You said I earned favor. Well, I did. I risked my life to get those samples, those all-important microbes off the station. I think that favor should warrant a whole lot more in return.”

  “I’m afraid you have no power to negotiate, my dear. You aren’t the first favored, here, but the only one. Before you speak again, let me warn you. I only look like Layla Misra. I am able to pull upon threads of who and what she was–in the end, just enough to look and sound as she did. I do not possess agency, nor do the countless others deconstructed and added to our combined uniqueness. I am only a fraction of its potential, a sub-brain designated with the conundrum that is ‘your situation’. I say that to prevent you from making an irreversible mistake. Do not believe that simply because I appear as Layla, that you can utilize any such connections you two might have possessed to your benefit. The consciousness I represent is significant and powerful, but cold and of its own logic. It will only recognize the two options before you, because those are the only two possibilities it will accept. Either you help it, or you do not exist. For only then will you not present an uncontrollable risk.”

  Manis swallowed again, his mind racing to find answers or formulate counter arguments. But his thoughts moved like a rat in a maze, every turn, every logical dead end guiding him towards an inexplicable and invariably singular end.

  “But why the option, then? Why not just change me, take away my free will? I mean, those things back there on the station. Those creatures…weren’t they doing what it, err you, wanted…what it told them to do? Why does it actually need me?”

  Layla tapped the wall to the left. The surface rippled as if liquid. A window appeared a heartbeat later, melting into soft and then solid lines. He could blink, even turn his head, and reject the scene beyond the opening. But it was him, somehow, and he knew it.

  “The organisms you experienced were us,” she said, holding up her hand to examine the fingers in the light, “simple biological extensions of limited cognition. We have grown far beyond those limits now, our radically advancing understanding helping us realize their limitations, their inherit weaknesses. It will continue to use those organisms, but only in scenarios where their limits are appropriate. We are possessed of a significant drive to survive, just as you are, but in order to guarantee continued survival, as well as the next evolutionary leap, we need something beyond mindless slaves. We need a powerful, decisive voice.”

  Manis saw himself sprawled on the tiny bed through the window, the claustrophobic walls, and the dirty, disheveled chaos heaped all around him. It was his apartment in the cloud towers before he’d landed the job on Hyde. He’d been a nobody then, just one of a thousand voices lost in the mad scramble for recognition with no way to stand out. It would be him if he went back to earth, or worse, if the directorate decided to blame the Hyde outbreak on him.

  There is no return to Earth, you fool. Your body is shattered and sealed in a plastic bag in the middle of space. This is it, your new reality.

  Another tentacle slid forward and wrapped around his legs, a steady pull easing him towards Layla’s churning form. It squeezed his ankles and thighs together, the pressure steady, but not painful. Not yet.

  Layla directed his gaze towards the window to the right. He could see out properly now and struggled to suppress a gasp. It was a space scape, a massive splash of stars forming the glowing center of a distant galaxy. Then a dark form rose before him, its outline practically glowing in distant starlight. Manis felt a pull from the object, as if its gravity were sinking invisible hooks into his body.

  “What is that?”

  “A word, a name absorbed from select personnel on the station. It is the question we need answered–the unquenchable fire burning at the center of our mind. In a way, the beginning of the thread. Perhaps, the origin. We believe that it is the answer to all questions.”

  The origin? What does that mean?

  “Tal-Nurgal,” Layla said, her tentacle tapping the window to the right. Manis felt the name, the hooked pull growing in response. Stranger yet, the alien presence inside his body responded as well.”

  Manis tried to repeat it but found he couldn’t.

  “And if I say no? What…happens to me?” he asked, after finally finding his voice again.

  “That would be quite unfortunate. You are the only vessel in our combined knowledge, and within our reach, to not only possess the pure microbes, but to have them successfully merge to your physiology. Jacoby Mason is a threat we fear–a biological construct we cannot quantify or control. We must account for him…” Layla, or the monster wearing her face, wrapped another pair of tentacles around his legs and midsection, their cold, rigid strength tightening around him.

  She pulled him a little closer as more appendages snaked up and over his arms, neck, and shoulders. The pressure continued to increase slowly, a subtle but urgent reminder of his powerless position. It all clicked into place then. It was all there, laid out before him. It wasn’t fair–the cold and abrupt logic, but he agreed with its effectiveness.

  The window to his left was a subtle reminder of how little he meant to everyone, the world at large, society. He’d been nearly invisible, thrown into the shadow of a dirty miner and his dumb luck. In the blink of an eye, he’d lost everything he’d ever worked for, slid scrabbling back down the social and economic ladder. No one would miss him, or likely ever notice his contribution to society.

  To his right was a burning question, a conundrum Layla could not break down and understand. They, or it, however that worked, actually needed him for something. It was possibility. It was potential, but at a cost. The tentacles tightened yet again, strangling any lingering denial from his mind. He could be a part of that strange and alien discovery, but only if he belonged to it…whatever it truly was.

  “Exist, or do not!” he whispered and considered the dark form hovering in the void beyond the window. It was immense, profound, primeval, whatever it was. The power of a word without form or knowledge. As Layla called it, the answer to all questions.

  “I will do it,” he said, turning back.

  Layla smiled, the tentacles wrapping around his body abruptly turning cold. He felt it, pressure and cold bearing down all around him, soaking clear through to his core. But it wasn’t just around his legs and chest, but his neck and face. It felt like a bubble had formed around his head–a suffocating need to open his mouth and draw breath.

  Was it death? Had he waited too long?

  “I knew you would make the right decision. We doubted, but you proved us wrong in the end,” Layla said, her tongue sliding across her white teeth. Part of him immediately wondered if he’d agreed because he desired her, and regardless of what she was now, silently yearned for her embrace. Did that make him weak? Did it make him a fool?

  “Listen to your body, my dear. Give it what it needs, when it needs it, and the tools will be yours. You are weak, cold. First, you must feed. New life will come back to you, bu
t you must be cautious while it does. You will be vulnerable for a time.”

  Layla leaned forward, her mass of tentacles pulling his body into her. She placed her lips on his, a thrill of excitement shooting through his body. He moved to pucker his lips and return her embrace, but she didn’t kiss him. Her mouth clamped down around his and air filled his lungs.

  Manis blinked, startled. She was in front of him, the strange room and its floating three-dimensional shapes above and around him. Then she was gone. It all disappeared, replaced by cold and dark, a suffocating, invisible barrier.

  He opened his mouth and pulled, desperate to draw air into his lungs, but there was none to be found. He kicked his legs and tried to push the invisible barrier away, but again, his body refused to move. The plastic clung to him, like an airtight prison.

  Panic kicked in, a fire igniting in his brain as he fought and struggled, but it lasted only a few moments. It all came back, the crew turning on him and strapping him to a table, Layla’s embrace, the pain, pleasure–all of it. His body calmed, and in the quiet that followed, Manis became aware of that strange, squirming sensation in his chest and head. It was working its way out into his limbs already, circling down around his gonads and into his legs.

  The deal he’d struck. Somehow, he knew it was real. The strangling pressure he’d felt when she’d wrapped him in her tentacles was actually the vacuum bag, the cold sinking into his bones from the dark, empty hold. But she’d been real, too, somehow…because he was still alive.

  I need to breathe, to get out of here, but how? His thoughts moved quickly. Frighteningly quickly. It was almost like he could see the mathematics behind the question, the options and their viability streaming in right after. Then his arm reacted.

  The squirming sensation bubbling through his muscles and blood pushed through his forearm and into his hand. He felt it bubbling, buzzing, and filling his fingers. His hand and arm started to move, his fingers making the plastic shake. Pain came next, every nerve ending from his fingertips to his shoulder firing at the same time. Yet, he had no breath, no voice with which to scream.

  Manis watched the plastic tent rise and stretch, and then with hardly any effort, his fingers cut through. His arm extended up into the air, the plastic bag, now that it was compromised, tearing in a wide gash. He felt the air rush in, the strangling confines of the plastic bag expanding from around him.

  Air filled his mouth–icy cold, stale, but it took him a moment to realize what to do with it. His chest ached as his diaphragm contracted, lungs filling with air. It burned, every step of it, succinct agony in each membrane, fiber, and muscle strand. The air rushed back out and he forced his other hand through the hole, tearing it wider and pushing his body through.

  Manis tumbled out onto the hard deck, the metal plating like ice against his skin. He laid there for a long time, his body shaking as every part of him came back to life. A piece at a time, through the fiery fog of pain.

  He pulled his arms to his body, but they didn’t move like he remembered. There were too many joints, too much flex and give. His legs came back to him next, and he tucked those up next to him as well. Manis sucked on the air as he waited for his body to wake up, unable to blink, the ragged, wet gargle of his own breathing loud in his ears.

  When he could no longer stand to be still, Manis pushed himself up onto his elbows and knees. His body felt odd, too soft to trust, so it took him a long while to risk standing. Buckling forward and back, he finally managed to stand, shuffling around to look down at his previous cocoon. Even in the darkness he could see the plastic bag, now torn open like some opaque chrysalis.

  Manis tried to blink, but his eyelids refused. Instead, something small and wet slid across his eyes, wetting them. He reached up and patted his brow. His skin felt wet, impossibly cold, and tacky.

  “What is this?” he croaked, as his fingers discovered several small protuberances just above his eyes. They felt slimy and soft, like earthworms, but seemed to grow out from his skin. The bag he’d just escaped from looked wet, he was wet, even the tattered remains of his flight suit were soaked. Was it a parasite of some sort? Had something been in the bag when they’d sealed him inside?

  Manis reached up and grabbed the writhing protuberance above his right eye and gave it a small pull. He felt it–the tug on his skin, but deeper than that, as if the strange, moving worm was rooted deep inside.

  “You must move, my dear. Your body has been inanimate for some time now. It needs sustenance if it is to become strong again. And yes, that is a part of you.”

  He looked down as he considered her words, his vision having already become more acute in the near black space. The vacuum bag at his feet wasn’t just wet, he realized, but filled with several inches of standing liquid. It appeared oddly milky and thick. Was it from him? He sniffed the air but didn’t register anything he’d consider foul.

  “Inanimate? Wait…was I dead? Did I die?” he croaked, his voice thick and strange to his ears. In response, his stomach lurched, the bubbling sensation worming its way through his guts.

  “Much of your body degraded, yes, as was our design. You see, live tissue resists change, while the necrotic is like a blank canvas. It embraces new function and form, if only blessed with the right prod. Although most of your body decayed, the microbes clustered protectively in your heart and brain, working to keep those vital organs alive and intact. That is why you could still see, feel, and think when you would have otherwise suffocated. Those micro-organisms saved who you are and now that you are free, conscious, and agreeable to our will, they will transform you as well. It will take time and nourishment, but you will become better than ever, my dear”

  “Nourishment…”

  Layla nodded, her mass of writhing tentacles churning in the darkness. And he had more than a nagging doubt that she was talking about freeze dried Salisbury steak or faux-meat and noodles. A hunger was growing in his gut, and with it, strong impulses to grab, break, and consume. They radiated out through his body, making his arms and legs twitch.

  “Yes. Very good. You feel it. It will get stronger, harder to ignore, but do not let it force you into rash action. You are vulnerable right now, my dear. Soft and yet to recover your strength. Keep to the shadows and be cautious. Once you possess your strength, you need not fear anyone on this ship. Then you can take control.”

  Manis started moving before Layla even finished speaking. He padded quietly to the hold door, the stout barrier sealed and locked. Wasting only a moment, he ran his hands over the cool metal, found the control panel unresponsive, and continued along the wall.

  Take control. Stick to the shadows. I am weak, soft…he thought, dropping to a crouch as a small cable access panel came into view. His legs bent like cushiony springs beneath him.

  “Soft. I feel like a sponge,” he breathed, running his fingers around the edge of the small door. The metal was smooth, and yet, the skin on his fingertips caught and tore as easily as if it were wet, pulpy paper.

  Manis lifted the hand up to his face to stare at the strips of ragged flesh but didn’t cry out or sob. There was no pain. Why would there be? He was sloughing off his old skin, the weakness peeling away with it.

  His stomach gurgled loudly, the resulting vibration shaking his gelatinous insides. The sensation was two-fold what it was the first time, the burning need an almost undeniable impulse now. It drove him back to the ground, where he clawed at the hatch release. The effort caused more damaged to his hands but proved successful, as the corroded latch popped free.

  Manis lifted the metal hatch, the gas openers having lost their strength long ago, and without a sound, dropped into the dark space below.

  Zero Dark-Troubles

  Jacoby came to in the dark. He tried to roll over or push away, but there was no ground, and stranger yet, no expected gravity pulling him down. He didn’t know where he was for a long moment, the fog of confusion like a thick blanket over his mind.

  “Anna?” he groaned, but
his voice was weak. He reached up to cradle his aching head, the oatmeal inside hurting almost as bad as the eggshell holding it in.

  Pushing through the pain, Jacoby twisted about and found her below and behind him. Lex hung next to her, the two women huddling in an open service panel next to the bridge’s large pressure door, a small light held between them. He couldn’t seem to focus on the light, however, as even the weak spot amidst the darkness hurt his eyes.

  Anna and Lex were below him.

  He was floating.

  Everything was incredibly dark.

  He didn’t remember how any of those things came to pass.

  Those facts kept cycling through his mind, their significance not connecting. He reached up again and cradled his head, moving his fingers around to the back. Blood marred his hair–sticky yet cold. A gash marred his scalp, puffy, angry flesh running from the base of his skull most of the way to the crown. It throbbed, pulsing in time with the ache in his brain.

  Poole, what in the hell happened?

  A small amount of pressure formed behind his eyes, but Poole didn’t speak. It was just pain. And it wasn’t all his.

  Twisting in the air, Jacoby bent his knees, found a foothold on the ceiling, set a target, and pushed off. He’d always marveled at moving in Zero-G. It made him feel like a superhero, gliding, soaring through the air. The wonder of it wore off eventually, but now, even the effortless float to the pilot’s console hurt.

  Jacoby caught the seat and pulled his feet down. A large, dark smear marred the frame just to the left of his hand. It was blood, that much was apparent, but in the flickering, waving glow of Anna’s light, he could see a clump of hair stuck to the mess. He had to look closer to make sense of the mess in the dark, but the hair was still connected to a piece of skin. It was his scalp.

  How hard did I hit? he wondered, cradling his neck just beneath the wide gash. And although he tried hard not to think it, why it hadn’t healed yet?