by Joe Hart
“Yeah. Needed to be done, though.”
Gillian watched them step away from the port, and the one who had pushed the button drew out Carson’s handgun from one of his pockets. He ejected the magazine. “Four rounds left. Where the hell did she get a gun?”
“No idea. But he’ll be happy we snagged them.”
“Most definitely. Glad I saw you when I did.”
Strength was returning to her body. She swallowed and blinked, bringing her thoughts into order. The one in the space suit was Guthrie, the pilot who had brought them to the surface. The other was someone she’d never seen before. She looked around quickly.
Where were Leo and Lien?
“Looks like someone’s coming around,” Guthrie said, staring down at her.
“Pl . . . please,” she said.
“Don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine soon.”
“Let’s take care of him first,” the other man said. “Don’t want this big fucker waking up. Took two blasts to put him down in the first place.”
“Ten-four.”
Guthrie and the guard reached down, and now she could see Birk lying motionless on his back near her feet. They grabbed him beneath the armpits and knees before lifting him off the ground and carrying him to the wall near the port. They set him down, and Guthrie pushed the button on the wall. The same beep issued, and the port swung open.
Birk mumbled something guttural, one arm raising a few inches off the ground.
“Hurry up,” the guard said, grasping Birk’s legs again. He and Guthrie lifted him up.
Gillian shook her head, lead cobwebs gradually lifting from her mind.
It was a disposal port. For garbage or waste that shouldn’t be kept on board. There’d been one just like it on the ship, though much smaller. As she watched, the guard slid Birk’s feet and legs inside, Guthrie feeding his upper body in as well.
“Stop,” she croaked, leveraging herself up on one arm. She got one leg beneath her and wobbled onto a knee.
“Just relax, Doctor. We’ll be with you in a minute,” Guthrie said. He struggled with Birk’s wide shoulders and finally pushed the big man fully into the disposal. Birk shifted, another mutter coming from him as Gillian made it to her feet.
“Tenacious,” the guard said, glancing her direction and swinging the port’s door shut.
The door made a hollow thunk and bounced back.
One of Birk’s hands was folded over the seal, a half-moon of blood oozing from where the door had struck him.
The guard stepped forward and tried shoving Birk’s hand into the port, but it shot up and grasped him by the neck.
“Ah shit,” the guard said before he was yanked forward and his forehead connected with the wall.
He fell, slamming to his back as Birk struggled out of the port.
Guthrie rushed forward, but Gillian kicked one of his feet as he passed, and he stumbled to the floor.
Birk slid free of the disposal, his clenched jaw like the prow of a ship. He wobbled once as he took a step. His eyes found hers, and she saw something change in them. Saw them darken.
Guthrie rose onto his haunches and drew out a Taser.
Birk slapped it from his hand and grabbed the pilot’s arm. In one motion, he yanked Guthrie to his feet and ran him across the alcove, gripping the back of his head.
There was a loud cracking as Guthrie’s face met the wall. Gillian guessed it was his orbital bone breaking, but it could’ve been his nose too.
The pilot slithered down, a smear of blood tracing his path on the wall.
She caught movement in the corner of her eye as the guard struggled to his feet, the pistol in one hand.
Gillian ran toward him and drove her shoulder into his chest, the impact sending tremendous waves of pain through her skull.
The gun dropped to the floor and danced away, then Birk was there, a Viking immersed in a battle’s bloodlust. He grasped the guard by the lapel of his jumpsuit and dragged him to the port, then braced him against the opening before slamming the heavy port door into his face.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The fourth swing of the door smashed the top of the man’s skull off, and Birk let the body slip to the floor in a wet thud. He was spattered with blood, hunks of something Gillian didn’t want to think about clinging to his jumpsuit.
Gillian’s gorge rose, looking at the carnage, but just as quickly she stepped forward and scooped up the Taser. But where was the pistol?
Her eyes trailed in the direction she thought it had bounced, and she saw Guthrie pushing himself into a sitting position, his nose flattened sideways and the gun wobbling in his hand.
The barrel’s black eye leveled on her.
“No!” Birk leaped in front of her and wrapped his arms around her in a titanic bear hug.
Four reports, the gun beyond loud in the close space, drowning out her screams.
She felt the rounds slam into Birk’s back, each one like a hammer blow reverberating through his body into her own. Gillian struggled, but Birk held her fast, arms pressed to her sides.
Slowly he released her. Birk turned, took a step, and fell to one knee. The blooms of red on his back spread quickly, turning his blue jumpsuit black.
She heard a dull clicking and saw Guthrie pulling the gun’s trigger over and over.
A sound came from her she didn’t recognize, something elemental that welled up from her core.
She took two steps, jammed the Taser against Guthrie’s forehead, and yanked the trigger.
There was a low hissing, like an enormous snake, and Guthrie jittered where he sat. A burnt-meat smell wafted up, and when she stepped back, the pilot’s scalp was singed black.
He tipped sideways, eyes rolled to the whites in his head.
Gillian turned and dropped to her knees beside Birk, who had fallen to his back, mercifully hiding the bullet holes, but already blood began to spread out beneath him like a blanket of red.
His eyes found hers, and he tried to smile. “Doctor.”
She grabbed one of his huge hands in both of hers and denied any of this was happening. She couldn’t be seeing this, watching this man die, this wonderfully intelligent young man who had played with her daughter in their yard, had never said an unkind word to anyone, had given up his nights and weekends to further her cause.
And now he had given her everything.
“Oh God, no. No, Birk.”
“It is . . .” His voice faded, and he coughed, a horrible wet sound deep in his chest. She ran her hands over him frantically, shaking so hard she could barely stay upright. Maybe there was a chance. If she got him to medical right now, they could do something. She didn’t care what they wanted anymore; she’d give it to them.
But this was what they wanted. The crew needed them gone. No record, nothing to expose what was happening here.
“Tell Justin I am sorry, Doctor.”
“No. You’ll tell him yourself. Get up.” She put an arm beneath his head, but he pushed her away gently.
“I think . . . my number is up.” He smiled suddenly, blinking against a glaze that was invading his eyes. “I finally . . . finally got one right.”
His smile faded, muscles going slack beneath her hands.
Birk’s chest rose and fell and didn’t rise again.
A sob gripped her so strongly, she was sure it would tear her in half. Gillian slumped forward onto his body, holding him, whispering she was sorry over and over into the hollow of his throat. She could smell his aftershave, sweet and light above the stink of blood.
Gillian sat back. Couldn’t process Birk being gone.
A numbness settled over her, and it was like watching the world through someone else’s eyes. Everything that had transpired in the last few months had an unreal tinge as if it had happened to someone else.
And, oh God, she wished it had.
A scream tried boiling up and out of her, but she bit down hard on her lower lip. Her
gaze traveled from the blood-spattered alcove to the hallway. Around the corner was the elevator, the only way to base level, where hopefully Easton was waiting. Maybe he was dead now too. But she had to try; she owed it to everyone who was already gone.
She grabbed the Taser from the floor and started unsteadily back the way they’d come, then stopped. The elevator wasn’t an option. Even if she managed to get on it safely, she’d probably end up being whisked to whatever level the crew wanted her at. Besides, they were likely on their way here right now.
Her gaze flitted over the alcove, stomach plunging at the sight of Birk lying motionless. Beyond him, Guthrie was slumped to his side. Her gorge rose at the sight of the scorched corpse, but not before her eyes lighted on the space suit he was wearing.
It took her the better part of three minutes to get the suit off him, the looseness of his joints and the burnt-meat smell gagging her. She donned the suit, trying to adjust all the straps and securements tighter since it was so large. Where was the helmet, though?
Gillian turned in a circle before stepping into the hallway, hoping to see the helmet on the floor along its length, but there was nothing. She couldn’t go on without the helmet. There’d be no point in—
A distant sound filtered to her, and she paused, cocking her head to listen.
The sound of footsteps coming closer. Many sets of them.
She ran.
FORTY-THREE
The hallway scrolled by, endless junctures and doors passing like road signs on a desolate highway.
Gillian turned left, then right at the next hall, stopping to listen over the sound of her panting. Couldn’t hear anything over her heartbeat.
They were coming for her. And they would kill her as soon as they caught her.
She hurried on, the suit making constant noise as she ran.
It had to be somewhere close. She’d covered over half of the level, zigzagging through the corridors. Before long she’d be routed back to the central elevator, and she couldn’t risk going that far.
A short hall opened to her right, and she skidded to a stop, a burst of elation flowing through her.
The airlock was open, and a row of helmets sat neatly on a shelf inside.
She jogged to them, grabbed the first one, slammed it down, and latched it in place. After reaching inside the space suit’s pocket, she drew out her key card from where she’d tucked it earlier and scanned it across the reader to seal the inner door.
Nothing happened.
She waved it again. And again.
Nothing.
They’d shut it off.
“Fuck!” She slammed her gloved hand into the control panel, but the display remained the same. She was about to flee the lock when a thought struck her.
Gillian unzipped two of the opposite pockets before her fingers closed on a familiar shape.
She pulled out Guthrie’s key and scanned it.
The display changed, offering her command options. She hit the “Open Airlock” button and stepped back as the inner door slid shut.
Decompression in five seconds, the cool electronic voice said.
She tried slowing her breathing, knowing what was going to happen next.
The outer door opened, the vast emptiness of space interrupted only by a swath of the red planet.
Weightlessness began to take over as she moved to the edge and looked down.
Her head spun with vertigo seeing the lower level and the pocked surface of Mars miles below.
If she screwed up, she’d fall into its gravitational pull, then through its atmosphere, and end up a stain somewhere on the rocky landscape. The only solace would be dying long before she hit the surface.
The hallway outside the lock was still clear. Time to go.
There was a tether line fastened to the station’s side that she would hook to in a normal situation with a cable attachment. She dropped the Taser, hated leaving it behind, but none of the suit’s pockets would accommodate it. Without a tether, she needed both of her hands free.
She swung herself out of the airlock and grasped the line, holding it so tightly her knuckles ached.
The openness beneath her was all consuming.
Gillian pulled herself downward. Hand over hand.
A support strut impeded her progress, and she had to move to the side to circumvent it. Another ten feet away was base level’s airlock. If someone was aware of her location, they’d simply bar her from the lock. And then what would she do?
The thought of floating outside the station trying to find a way in was almost too much. She had no idea how much oxygen remained in Guthrie’s tanks, but it would be long enough to go insane trying to gain entry before her air dried up.
Five feet.
Three.
One.
She peered in through the airlock’s viewport.
It was empty. The exterior control was to the right side. She followed the tether line over to it and was about to press the “Open Airlock” command when something moved out of a recess into the light.
Leo’s corpse floated toward her, swollen and hideous from the ravages of space. His tongue lolled, purple and blistered, and his hands were hooked inward near his chest.
Gillian screamed and lost her grip on the line.
Shit. Shit.
She stretched for the tether, fingers brushing the line as she began floating away. She convulsed, swinging her opposite hand around as she rotated from the station and out into space.
Her pointer finger snagged the line. Came free.
But it was enough to drag her closer, and she wrapped her hands tightly around the line, whispering breathless thank-yous over and over.
She pressed the button, and there was a pause while the inner door shut.
The airlock opened, and she slung herself inside, closing the door behind her. She lay on the floor, trying in vain to push the image of Leo away as hot tears ran from the corners of her eyes. He’d been very much alive when they’d forced him outside and had apparently tried to work his way down to the airlock as she’d done, but never made it. Lien had obviously met the same fate as well. Gillian shuddered, on the verge of being sick. Slowly she gained her feet and moved to the inner door. Pressurization took nearly a minute, and she used it to watch through the window for anyone’s approach.
Outside was the “T” of a hall. It took her a moment to gather her bearings, but then she recognized where she was. To the left was the central elevator. The right would take her to the landers’ launch area. She hadn’t spotted either of the two ships docked below the station on her walk outside, and the fact disturbed her. She should’ve been able to see them.
Pressurization complete, the system’s voice said.
She unlatched the helmet and drew the suit off; it would only slow her down if she needed to run.
Shaking with receding adrenaline, Gillian opened the inner door and stepped into the hall.
There was no one in either direction. She headed toward the launch area. If Easton was still alive, he would be there.
She’d gone only a dozen paces when a weak voice echoed through the corridor, stopping her.
“Help.” It was coming from up ahead, near the entry for elevation control. Easton? She moved forward wishing she had some kind of weapon. There was a rasp of fabric, and she could see that the next door on the right was slightly open.
Diver’s cell.
Gillian sidled up to the doorway and looked in.
Vasquez was lying on his back in a spreading pool of blood, a ragged gash on the side of his neck. A blood trail led to the small access door set in the glass partition, which was open.
Diver was gone.
Vasquez spotted her as she stepped inside the room, pushing the door the rest of the way open. His eyes bulged as she took a step closer, unsure whether she should help or even if she could help—there was so much blood.
“Door,” Vasquez said, and at first she thought he was hallucinating. But then she sensed m
ovement behind her and spun.
Diver was there, his spindly form lashing out from behind the door where he’d hidden. One of his fists caught her on the jaw, and starlight bloomed in the corner of her eyes. She hit the wall and stumbled out of the room, then slipped in some of Vasquez’s blood and fell.
Her vision seesawed before steadying, and she tried to rise, but Diver was already there, his fingers finding her hair and yanking her onto her back.
He stooped over her, face inches from her own, teeth yellowed and decaying, breath like a sewer. He screeched, the sound something that could’ve come from a swath of dense rainforest. The hand with the broken finger, which was wrapped in bright-blue tape, slid beneath her jaw and began to squeeze while the other ran up and down her jumpsuit as he straddled her.
Gillian tried rolling away, but the biologist was too strong. Even in his emaciated state, his grip was like a cable around her throat.
She bucked, the pressure in her head becoming creeping darkness at the edges of her vision. She managed to get ahold of his broken finger and pry it loose.
The bone snapped as she twisted the tape-enclosed digit. Diver bellowed and switched hands, then slammed her head to the floor.
He was going to kill her.
His injured hand tore at one of her pockets, and he drew something out.
Guthrie’s key.
Diver looked at the card, something like adoration drifting into his fevered gaze. At the same time, the pressure relented on her throat, and she sucked in a breath, using the respite to shove his chest as hard as she could.
Diver swayed backward but maintained his balance above her. In one motion, he clenched his good fist and drew it back to strike.
Something clipped the top of his skull, and he fell sideways off her, dropping the key card to the floor. Gillian scooted away, untangling herself from Diver as he groggily pushed himself up on one arm.
Orrin wound back with the steel stool he was holding by the legs and slammed the seat into Diver’s forehead.
The biologist collapsed to his back and made a mewling growl. Gillian scooted to the wall, rubbing at her neck as she watched Orrin raise the stool again.
One of Diver’s hands came up weakly, but Orrin swung above it.