“And the way Evan reacted to the news of losing Teri,” Cameron said as he cringed.
“I’ve seen a lot of different reactions to loss, I can’t say any of them really look natural to the outsider, so that wasn’t necessarily what striked me as odd,” Olivia commented, “but a complete disregard was unusual. Like, he didn’t even mention her name once after. None of them did. That was peculiar.”
The sudden presence of a broad chested man behind Olivia alerted Cameron’s gaze through his bifocals. Olivia followed his eyes and turned in place, viewing the expansive figure behind her as she craned her neck upwards.
“You’re Olivia McCarthy, aren’t you?” he spoke, his bravado showing through in his deep voice.
Cameron rolled his eyes and groaned. The man took notice.
“I’m sorry,” his apology dipped in sarcasm, “were talking to the beautiful girl here?”
“An astute observation,” Olivia said, “albeit a simple one.”
The man stuffed his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Smart, too. I guess you have to have it all to win those pageants, right?”
With his gaze cast to the table beneath him, Cameron addressed the man, “Hey, just leave it, man. She gets this all the time.”
“I don’t think I was talking to you, four eyes,” the man replied.
Cameron muttered, “How original.”
“What did you just say?” The man puffed his chest.
“Alright,” Olivia interjected.
“Screw it,” Cameron replied. He pushed his seat back and stood. The room turned to view the impending fight. “I don’t care anymore. Guys like you--”
“Have a different perspective on the world,” Olivia interrupted. “And variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?”
Cameron groaned. “Really, McCarthy?”
She smiled up at him. “It’s what I do.” Then she turned to the intruding man, saying, “I think if we have a sit down, we can chat our way through our feelings, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure, sweetie,” he replied, “after I lay into this uppity nerd.”
“Oh, I’ll take a beating for that,” Cameron said, stepping in, fists raised. He cocked one back and lunged, but with his eyes closed, he couldn’t see Olivia standing, her body entering the path of his attack. His fist swiped across her cheek, the softness of which caused him immediate regret. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry!”
“You’re about to be,” said the larger man.
Sheri’s fingers immediately identified the pressure points beneath the flesh of the man who had laid his hand on Ian’s shoulder. With applied effort and a specific motion of her wrist, she sent a great deal of pain radiating through his arm into his chest, such that he began to scream in terror that he might be having a heart attack. In response, the man’s friend beside him swung a fist towards Sheri, dispatching with his own personal code against hitting women as one demonstrated herself to be superior to both of them. He missed, however, on account of Ian’s chair, which was shoved back as Ian pushed away from the bar. He turned around in a quick pivot and landed a slug square in the middle of the second man’s face with his crippled hand, a punch he would feel ache in his bones for days to come.
“Alright, that’s all I had,” he said, and shrunk away from the fight, as Sheri slammed the first man’s skull against the imitation wood and invited the second to join him on the ground with a mere raised eyebrow. The second man sniffled, blood trickling from his nostrils as he readied himself to fight Sheri.
Ian leaned over the bar some feet away, speaking to the bartender, “Isn’t that the sexiest goddamn thing you’ve ever seen?”
Olivia reeled from Cameron’s misfire, but maintained position between the two men.
“Darling, you’re going to want to move,” said the larger.
“Don’t belittle her, you prick!” shouted Cameron.
“Enough!” Olivia demanded.
The two froze for a moment in response to her plea, but their huffing faces viewed one another with fiery contempt. The faces of the fleetfolk that gathered in a circle surrounding them were lit with expectant excitement.
“Listen,” she said, a much calmer tone.
“Hey, they’re Berserkers!” came a rogue voice from the crowd.
“Give ‘em hell!” shouted another.
“You’re part of the Berserker crew?” the man questioned of Olivia, disgust creeping across his face.
“A moment ago, you were trying to bed me, you know,” she replied.
In the bar, a collection of men gathered behind the remaining opposition to Sheri, egging him on, telling him not to let a girl defeat him. Their chorus pumped up their fellow officer as he lifted his fists before his face and lowered his gaze on his target.
“I will lay you out same as your friend if you don’t back down,” Sheri warned earnestly.
“Shut up,” was his response.
A quick one-two from Sheri bloodied his face further, spreading what leaked from his nostrils across his cheeks, but he shook it off and hopped on his feet like a boxer in a ring. As he readied himself for an obvious right swing, a high pitched squeal filled the bar and caused all but Sheri to grip their ears in pain.
“What the hell is that?” Ian cried.
Sheri pivoted to face its direction, finding Benji at the door to the bar, stumbling forward with his mouth agape.
The man scoffed. “I would never sleep with a traitor.”
“Traitor is a contemptuous word,” Olivia replied. “On par with villain, or enemy, in the common tongue, or Trespat, if you speak Ilian. But you know they never use it? They have an entire section of their vocabulary that exists purely to be ignored. They believe the words that belong to it are dogmatic, and so they refrain. Isn’t that interesting?”
“I don’t think he’s listening, O,” Cameron said, a creeping worry tinging his voice.
“You renegade Berserkers make nice with the enemy, you do whatever you want, Fleet be damned!” the man shouted, rubbing his skull in some apparent ritual pregame to a fight.
“Interesting point,” Olivia replied. “Would it change your perspective to know we just returned from a mission in which we stole fuel cells from pirates?”
Before the man could respond, a tearing sound filled the air, and the crowd dropped their heads between their knees in a futile effort to escape it. Cameron spun around and could view, from over the hunched backs of those surrounding him, the figure of Gloria lumbering forward, her arms scratching at each other in that nervous way she had since they met her. Though, instead of drawing red lines in her flesh, her nails began to tear apart her skin. It was too odd for Cameron not to watch, despite the otherworldly sound emitting from her throat. Blood didn’t pour from her wounds. Instead, a pitch blackness was revealed beneath it.
“What the…” Cameron’s voice trailed.
Sheri watched while Benji stepped further into the bar, his jaw seemingly unhinged. The rest of the fleetfolk cringed against the noise which was something between a whale song and a thousand nails dragged along chalkboard, but Sheri withstood it, watching Benji as his legs carried him closer.
“Benji!” she shouted at him.
His eyes did not shift, his body did not stop. He continued.
And then his cheeks tore from the corners of his mouth to his earlobes, and only blackness shown beneath the flesh.
Eight.
The Interview
____________________________
Evan had been collected, which was a polite way to say he had been taken, without explanation, by a pair of broad-chested goons and delivered into a small room with nothing but a table, a pair of chairs, and a two-way mirror that couldn’t have appeared inviting to anyone. Despite these circumstances, as Gil spied the stranger through the mirror from the comforts of the dimly room beside the “interview suite,” he failed in locating any degree of concern in the affects of his new acquaintance.
“What’s he supposed to think of all this?” Gi
l grumbled.
The man beside him, a shorter, squat gentleman, wheezed before he replied, “Who cares what this nutjob thinks.”
Gil turned to the man, who he knew as Commodore Jim Reid, the brash and often brutal second in command aboard CC. The commodore’s history was shrouded in mystery, hidden with marker over document paragraphs and oaths among fellow commanding officers. Jim gave Gil a bad taste. If there was anyone less adept to lead the military arm of the IUR through an encounter with the unknown than its present General Peter Hardy, for Gil’s money it was Commodore Jim Reid.
“That nutjob,” Gil repeated, turning to face Jim beneath him, “hasn’t done anything wrong yet, Jim.”
“Wrong?” Jim scoffed. “The man gives me the willies. Stone faced to a fault. I can’t stand him.”
“No, what you mean is you can’t understand him,” Gil corrected. “Not quite the same.”
Jim turned to Gil. “If it’s all the same to you, captain,” he retorted, emphasizing rank, “I’d appreciate an ounce of quiet during the interview.”
“Interrogation,” Gil corrected again, turning back to the two way mirror. Evan sat erect, his hand on the metal table before him, his fingers interlaced, gaze passive and resting on the far wall. Even as the door behind him opened, he didn’t budge. Gil’s eyes struggled to keep themselves open, waiting for Evan to blink first. He never did.
Thomas entered the room and rounded the table, coming to seat himself across from Evan. Once he did, he corrected his jacket, cleared his throat, then laid his palms down flat on the table between them. “You’re Evan, I understand?”
Evan evaluated the man before him for a length of time before responding. “That’s correct,” he said, in a voice less like Gil had heard from him prior, more like a copy of the general. To both Thomas and Jim, there wasn’t a second guess, but having heard him speak before, Gil immediately felt red flags lifting. Everything about this felt wrong to him, and a burning sensation behind his ears brought a layer of sweat to his forehead he felt beading as he watched.
“I’m General Peter Thomas Hardy, chief commanding officer for the Interplanetary United Republic Fleet, the Command Center of which you presently find yourself residing.”
To the words “Command Center” Gil finally sensed a budge from the strange man, a nearly imperceptible tick, but nonetheless a movement of his right cheek, lifting and falling. It was almost like a half smile, for a half second, which faded into the resonant ambivalence of Evan’s generally stoic presentation. It was enough, Gil thought, to suggest something residing underneath. Something secret. And secrets were always sinister.
“Something just isn’t right,” Gil voiced.
“Oh, quiet,” Jim told him.
“No,” Gil replied, worry seeping into his voice. “I’m telling you, he’s doing this all wrong.”
“You’re going to tell your general he doesn’t know how to do his job?”
Gil turned fully and snapped, “This isn’t his job! Where are the professional interviewers? Debriefers? This is ridiculous, you don’t put your highest authority in a room with someone whose motives you don’t know.”
“You don’t let word out that you have a person in custody you don’t fully understand,” Jim retorted, turning to face Gil. The pair of them stared intensely into one another’s eyes in a standoff.
“That would be your rationale. Keep everything a secret until it suits you, hm?”
“Secrets are part of security, son, you ought to know that, running around the galaxy the way you do.” Jim chortled. “Can’t imagine why you’d even care about your general when you’re little more than a damn mercenary.”
Gil clenched his fists at his sides, withholding a swing. “I know my charge, Commodore, and I complete my missions as mandated. That’s my duty. The proper function of a Fleet relies on the full knowledge of all its members as to their individual duties. It’s rationality, and how you keep us from falling into chaos.”
To this, Jim burst into laughter, his mouth opened wide and spit bursting from his wet lips. “Oh, calm down, Gil,” he said, turning back to the mirror. “We’re talking about one little interview, not the end of the universe.”
“The point,” Gil retracted himself to deliver the completion of his thought, “is that you operate the same whether its either.”
Inside the room, Gil spied from his periphery, Peter looming over the table, having stood and planted his fists down before him. Gil shook his head, watching Evan. Nothing appeared to shake the stranger as he watched the General’s display of power.
“Listen, there’s something you’re not telling me,” Peter spoke, raising his voice. A red tint flooded up from his chest into his neck.
“C’mon, Peter,” Gil muttered.
“I’m sorry, General Peter Hardy,” Evan replied. “I’ve answered all of your questions to the best of my ability.”
“No, you haven’t!” Peter shouted, breaking.
“Shit,” Gil cursed.
“Perhaps you’re not asking the right questions,” Evan responded. Despite an even-tempered delivery, it was clear to Gil that Peter took it as mockery.
“Damnit!” Peter slammed his fist onto the table. “Tell me what the hell you were doing out there, right fucking now, or I’ll have you thrown into a cell until you’re ready to talk!”
Gil covered his face in embarrassment.
“General,” Evan spoke, his voice a stark contrast to Peter’s outburst. In its imitation, it sounded as the collected half of Peter’s mind separated and embodied, facing off against the other half given over to rage. For that consideration, a shiver traced Gil’s spine where the pain from his leg had dissipated. “I’d like to express to you my sincerest condolences. You see, I haven’t lied to you. I have, in fact, answered all of your questions precisely. But for all our back and forth, what you fail to understand is the core difference separating the two of us.”
Gil felt his body gravitating towards the glass, his eyes glued to the scene. He felt his gut sink, and his heart pause. There was a silence, where all three men awaited the finished thought.
It never came. Instead, Evan began to convulse, and as his body shook, General Peter Hardy leaned closer over the table to examine it.
“He’s faking,” Jim concluded.
Gil felt an immediate dread. He banged his fist against the window, shouting, “Get out of there! Damnit, General, get out!”
Before his eyes, Gil watched as Evan’s body began to fissure. Along his pale flesh, long marks raced through, criss-crossing and opening like seams. As they peeled back, a dark blackness revealed itself beneath instead of muscle. Chunks of skin collapsed to the floor, exposing this pitch blackness, unlike anything Gil had ever witnessed. It was a total absence of light, a black that erased existence in its pure shade. It wasn’t black, it wasn’t anything. It was nothingness incarnate.
Evan’s head burst, its pieces strewn across the room, and his limbs disassembled from his body, which itself molted off the void mass until Evan was no more.
“Holy bejesus,” Jim muttered.
“Code Red, Commodore, now!” Gil commanded. Jim twisted around, pounding in a code to the commlink against the wall as Gil watched the void stretch itself in the air over the table and engulf Peter within itself. Before Gil reached the door, the general had disappeared into the mass. Not consumed, but erased.
Gil threw open the door to the hallway as the red lights flashed and the alarm sounded. Without a glance back to Jim, he set off on his own prerogative. The Berserker One had another job to do.
Now, Gil thought, if he only knew the first thing about void masses.
Nine.
Escape
____________________________
While the rest of the bar around her gripped their ears against the painful screeching, Sheri observed Benji’s body deteriorate before her, like a molting snake. The skin peeled away, but revealed beneath were not muscle, bone, and blood, but instead a pure emptines
s, like the space there did not exist. Like she was staring into a hole in reality. The face ripped down from the hairline along the bridge of the nose, splitting in two, and peeling back what remained of the body beneath it. Once the scraps of flesh had collected on the floor, they were immediately absorbed into the mass, like a bit of reality swiped away.
The screeching stopped. Sheri stood still watching the mass as it froze for a moment, finally silent. Then, after a prolonged standoff, the void raced through the bar’s entrance into the hall. Into the Command Center.
Sheri immediately turned to Ian, grabbing at his collar and hoisting him up from his hunched position. “Lucas!”
“What!?” he shouted back.
“Take your fingers out of your ears, we have to chase that thing!”
“Chase it!?”
Without another word, she dragged Ian along through the bar’s entrance into the hallway. She peered one way then the other, and as she turned her head, the red lights and sirens of a code red filled the space around them.
“Code red,” Ian muttered. “The others?” He looked to Sheri, who stared back with concern.
She looked again both directions, one where the lights had shifted white to red, the other, where the red seemed to flicker in and out as if from faulty wiring.
“This way,” she commanded, and began to run.
“Damnit,” Ian cursed under his breath as he followed behind.
The flickering lights led them through the hallway towards the observation deck, where they had caught up with the mass. It had made its way through a crowd, evident by the horrified expressions across the faces of those backing away and fleeing. Stray limbs, too, littered the ground, pieces ignored by the mass as it ploughed through. Even as Sheri entered the seating area, she watched as the mass swept through another victim, a broad man, muscular, frozen in terror at the sight of the entity, unable to rationalize his sight, therefore unable to move. It floated through him, and he disappeared into it, only fingertips and feet left in a pile where he stood.
Fallen Fleet (Berserker One Book 1) Page 6