by John Shirley
Sarge shook the officer’s hand. “Sergeant Mahonin, RRTS.”
Pinky handed Sarge a fistful of access cards on chains, to wear around their necks. “Access chips for the security doors.” He led them into the next room—a much bigger room dominated by computer monitors, comm consoles.
Sarge—always ready to get on with it—gestured toward a console to one side. “Put us up, Pinky.”
Pinky whirred over to a console, tapped touch-responsive spots on the screen. “Activating remote personal surveillance.”
On the screen over the console, images appeared from the viewpoint of the digicams—fiber-optic microcameras on their chest armor. The idea was to transmit their point of view to the communications center so everyone there could see what the squadron was seeing. Most of the time, the squadron had kept the digicams turned off. You didn’t always want what you did in the field on record.
Pinky stared into the screen. One of the little thumbnails was just a blank outline. “Who’s Dantalian?” he asked.
The squadron looked at the Kid. Mac shook his head, reached over and slapped the switch on the Kid’s chest-mounted CDM. It blinked green—and his thumbnail on the comm screen lit up with an image of Mac chuckling at him.
The digicams were up, but there was a second-line of point-of-view connect. “Circle up!” Sarge ordered.
All the squadron—except the Kid—suddenly pointed their guns at other members of the team. The Kid started at this—it was a little lacuna in his training.
But on Pinky’s screen, another set of images showed. “Killcams up and running,” Pinky said. There were fiber-optic cameras on the guns, too, just below the barrel, so people monitoring the squadron could see what was being shot.
“People,” Sarge rumbled, “this room is code red. No one gets in without our permission.” He let that sink in, then went on, “Mac—stay here, secure the door. Squad, on me. Let’s move it out…”
Mac scowled. He didn’t like hanging back from the action. He came from a culture that emphasized self-sacrifice, even suicidal risk in the service of the team. But there was no questioning Sarge.
Pinky hit a tab, and hydraulic locking pins clashed, a big metal door rolled aside.
The squadron stepped into an atrium room, a vault of cobwebbed marble archways and high, shadowy ceilings. Under the arches, along with the ubiquitous UAC logos, the infomercials chattered to themselves, dialed low volume, like lunatics who babbled on no matter what happened.
Reaper noticed rubble in the corners—loose pipes, cracks in the walls, dust. The place wasn’t being maintained. One of the screens flickered like it was about to go out.
“Nice,” Duke said. “Cozy. Where the fuck are we?”
“Couple million miles from breakfast,” Goat rumbled, looking disdainfully at a clutch of UAC employees passing through, carrying digital clipboards and giving them frowning looks.
Leading them across the room to another computer console, Hunegs asked, “When can I start evacuating my people out through the Ark, Sargeant?”
Sarge shook his head. “We’re at level-five quarantine. So nobody’s going anywhere.”
Reaper started to ask about the quarantine—there had to be some protocol to get these people out if it came time—then noticed the woman standing at the computer console.
Samantha. Samantha Grimm. Reaper’s own sister.
It was an uncomfortable moment. He’d been expecting to see her here of course—just not so soon.
Portman was hitting on a couple of minor female technicians—with nice legs. “Hey, uh—we’re up here on vacation, we were wondering what you ladies were doing later?” They looked at each other, amused—and not at all tempted. “We—” He broke off, seeing Samantha Grimm. Who was in a whole different league from the techs. Flat-out gorgeous—and with the absolute minimum makeup. “Hold that thought,” Portman mumbled to the techs. Turning instead to Samantha as she walked toward them. “Excuse me, we’re up here on vacation, we wondered…”
She walked past him as if he didn’t exist, stepped up to Reaper and Sarge. And waited with a kind of quiet authority.
“Sergeant,” Hunegs said, “this is Dr. Samantha Grimm, the UAC science officer assigned to retrieve data from the lab.”
“Sergeant,” she said.
“Dr. Grimm,” Sarge rumbled. Managing not to react to her beauty—mostly. But his eyes flicked over her body, just once.
She had light eyes, strawberry blond hair, the suggestion of a dimple in her chin. But her expression was all business. She was just twenty-six but, Reaper knew, she was a brilliant scientist—she’d graduated from high school at the age of thirteen. She’d always had an interest in the past, in forgotten worlds. So she’d gotten her doctorate in “archaeological genetics”—almost following in their parents’ footsteps, but finding her own path. She’d always looked for her own way to do things.
Her eyes met her brother’s—just a flicker of reaction. Some warmth, not much. Reaper had to hand it to her—she was unflappable. They had a troubled history, and there was no room in the unraveling situation on Olduvai for family sentimentality.
“Hello, John,” Sam said. She looked at the light machine gun he carried. Just the suggestion of contempt in that look. She’d never gotten over it…
“Hello, Samantha.”
Duke took off his shades. “Hel-lo Samantha!” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
She rolled her eyes and looked at a printout she held in her hands, as if it were infinitely more interesting than Duke. He kept smiling at her.
Reaper gathered that Samantha was being introduced to them for reasons other than politeness. Assigned to retrieve data? Were they thinking that she was going along with the squadron? Olduvai he could deal with. But his sister, breathing down his neck? Uh-uh. Besides…Sam would be at serious risk, judging from the hints they’d had from the transmissions.
“Sarge,” Reaper said firmly, “this mission is code black. We can’t take passengers.”
Sam turned back to him, those pretty eyes narrowing, going icy. “Excuse me, Corporal, but I have orders to retrieve data from the physical anthropology, forensic archaeology—and molecular genetics servers—”
“With respect, Doctor,” Reaper interrupted, not very respectfully, “our orders are to locate and neutralize a present threat. It’s not to retrieve some”—he smiled dismissively—“science homework.”
She crossed her arms. “That science homework is the core study of a nine-billion-dollar research program. You got the nine bil, fine, cough it up, pal, I’m sure UAC’ll call it quits.”
“Give me the address,” Reaper said blandly, matching her glare for glare, “I’ll send a check.”
They exchanged scowls for a moment. Then she went on, “I’ve got an idea, why don’t you ask your CO what your orders are?”
Everyone looked at Sarge, a noncom but the closest thing to their CO.
Sarge thought for a moment, then recited, “Contain and neutralize the threat, protect civilians…and retrieve UAC property.” That contradicted what the suit had said—which was no surprise.
“We finally done here?” Sam said. “’Cause I’ve got a job to do.”
Reaper winced. She’d checkmated him again. She always had beat him unmercifully at chess.
Sam knew what he was thinking—every little thing between them had some kind of nagging family-history resonance to it—and she gave him a chilly look of triumph. Then she turned on her heel and strode off, heading for another computer, giving Reaper’s shoulder a push, as if he were rudely in her way, as she went. Reaper watched her go, thinking maybe he should go after her, have everything out. Including the pecking order here.
Sarge took Reaper aside, spoke in undertones. “You chose this, Reaper,” Sarge reminded him. “Is this gonna spoil my day?”
“There’s gotta be someone else—”
“Is this gonna spoil my day?”
Reaper let out a long slow breath. “No, sir.�
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Sarge nodded—as if to say: That’s right, it won’t. Then he went off to talk to Hunegs.
Duke and Destroyer ambled over, Duke nudging Reaper. “Tell me you didn’t let a fine-lookin’ piece of ass like that get away from you, Reaper…”
Evidently Duke thought Sam having the same surname as Reaper meant “ex-wife.”
Sighing, Reaper prudently decided against punching Duke in the nose. “She’s my sister.”
Duke blinked in surprise. “Really? No shit…”
Destroyer shook his head at Duke as Reaper walked away. “Don’t do this again, man.”
Duke feigned innocence. “Do what?”
“There are three sections to the labs?” Sarge was asking, as he walked beside Sam to the air lock. Hunegs was close behind her, with the squadron.
She nodded. “Archaeology, Genetics, and Weapons Research…”
“You test weapons up here?” Portman asked. Articulating everyone’s puzzlement over the weapons lab. Not what you expected to go with archaeology and genetics.
Sam shrugged. “Mars is a dead planet. You want that stuff tested up here where it’s safe—or in your own backyard?”
They were following her down a corridor. A sign on the wall said, TO AIR LOCK. “This is primarily an archaeological facility. The genetics labs are only here studying the structures of various forms of fossil life. Weapons research is in its own separate area. It has nothing to do with Dr. Carmack’s work.”
Reaper wasn’t sure he bought that. Could be they’d found something that needed…special weapons. If they hadn’t—why bring the squadron here?
“How many inside when shutdown occurred?” Sarge asked.
Sam considered. “Only Dr. Carmack’s team. After he maydayed, we tried all the internal comm systems and the data lines, but there was zero response.”
She’s acts like she’s really on top of things, Reaper thought, annoyed. Hell, she probably is, knowing her.
Though Reaper still thought of her as his little sister, he knew better than to underestimate her.
They reached the outer door to the Research Labs division. Two UAC security guards stood at the high-security door—they just managed to drop their looks of excruciating boredom as Sam walked up to the door.
Turning to the others at the door, she went on, “…except in one of the carbon-dating labs there was an internal phone left off the hook. The line was live to an admin station upstairs.”
“Give you any information?” Reaper asked.
She looked at him with a kind of blank disbelief, as if it was just penetrating to her that here was her brother, in full combat regalia, right in the midst of her crisis.
Then she turned abruptly to the UAC security officer. “Hunegs. Play him the tape.”
Hunegs took a small handheld tape recorder from his coat pocket, hit REWIND, then PLAY.
Static, as Reaper bent nearer to hear. Then a woman’s voice. “Jesus please help me…oh God…Mother!” She whimpered—then shrieked. Screaming. “Keep away! Get away!” A piercing cry that made Reaper draw back a few inches, wincing. Then another order of sound entirely—the sound of something being torn apart. A gurgling…
Static.
Hunegs pressed STOP. Sarge grunted to himself, then turned to his men. “Any questions?”
They had lots of questions. But they knew there weren’t any answers yet. A few minutes earlier, on the way in here, Hunegs had said: “We’re not sure what the threat is. We need you to find out.”
So the squadron cocked their weapons and tried to look like they were all balls and no nerves. They almost managed it, except for the Kid who was chewing his lower lip.
“Open the door,” Sarge said.
Sam pushed the green button, the pneumatic bolts hissed and gnashed, the door opened.
Sarge pushed past her and headed into the air lock. The others followed—except Hunegs.
The surface atmosphere of Mars was thin, unbreathable. The labs were supposed to have breathable air but the integrity of their interface with the planetary surface could be breached, hence the air lock.
It was a small stainless-steel cubical room, just big enough for the squadron and Sam. Once the door to the Ark and command facility had sealed behind them, Goat and Portman both pulled handheld particulate scanners from their belt clasps, squinted into them.
“Magnesium, chromium, lead. Normal,” Portman announced.
The LAPT in Goat’s hand blinked, and chimed; he glanced at its little screen. “All clear.”
Sarge motioned, and they opened the door into the corridor.
It was pitch-black out there. Their gun-mounted flashlight beams swept the darkness of the corridor beyond the air lock, scarcely seeming to penetrate it.
And Reaper took the lead, stepping out into the shifting darkness.
Five
THE CORRIDOR WAS cold and dark, and there were disturbing, undefined smells in it. Like something you smell as a small child on your first trip to a zoo.
Reaper could smell something reassuringly human, too: his sister’s perfume—could feel the warmth of her body close to his right elbow. She’d never admit it, but she was sticking close to him in here. He wished once more he’d found a way to keep her from coming along. She wasn’t even armed…
“Pinky,” Sarge was saying, into his headset, “get us some juice down here, damn it.”
There was a response from Pinky, but it was crackly, distorted. Reaper wasn’t sure if he’d said yes or no can do.
Sarge didn’t wait for more light; he moved down the corridor, leading the way, the narrow flashlight beam from his gun probing ahead. Their gunlights swept over bare walls—not quite bare, there were brown stains, in places: big splashes of dried blood. Wires hung from gaps in the ceiling; the occasional pipe. In the narrow beams of light the dangling wires looked like filaments of living tissue. And the darkness itself seemed to squirm, hinting at shapes just beyond classification.
When Portman spoke, he sounded like he was trying to convince himself: “Five bucks all this shit is a disgruntled employee with a gun…”
Sparks spat from a broken power line then, announcing the return of the juice. Reaper spotted a light switch, hit it, and an overhead fluorescent tube came on. But there wasn’t much reassurance in the grim, echoing, bloodstained corridor made visible.
Reaper noticed the corridor branching left and right up, ahead…which way to go?
“Pinky,” Sarge said into his comm, “you get us a schematic?”
There was a pause as Pinky shot them the layout from the mainframe. “Uploading to you now.”
Sarge held the flashpoint uplink in his hand, angled downward; it projected a schematic of the lab on the blood-scuffed floor. They all stared at it but it seemed mostly a jumble of interlocked squares. After a moment they made out patterns—and labels: GENETICS, LAB OFFICE, WEAPONS.
“Goat, Portman…” Sarge ordered, “…Genetics. Destroyer, Kid: the office where Carmack sent the mayday…” He pointed with his free hand to indicate the place. “Reaper, keep Dr. Grimm safe on her salvage op. Duke and I will take the Weapons Lab, make sure the hardware’s secure.” He looked at each subteam as he gave them their assignment, a hard look emphasizing the inflexibility of the orders. And added, “Fluorescent powder marking as rooms are cleared.”
The squadron nodded as one and after a final glance at the schematic to get their bearings set off.
In the wormhole chamber, Pinky watched a monitor displaying a layout of the labs, tracking the squadron with GTS blips tailed by their names. The guncams showed in thumbnail images across the top of the screen.
Pinky found himself wondering for the tenth time that day if they were doing the right thing. Complete and instant evacuation would’ve been wiser. They could return later with a larger force and get the data then. But the way things had been going, the whole base, labs and all, could be destroyed in their absence. And they had to seal off the Ark. Something might get through
, otherwise…
Still, they might simply be wasting more lives, sending the men in—and Sam. He felt a twinge, thinking about her going in there. He should’ve tried to talk her out of it. But he knew that’d be like trying to talk the moon out of rising.
He glanced at Mac, leaning against the wall near the door, gun cradled in his arms. Mac was looking at the monitor, frowning, trying to decode the floor plans and blips.
“They’re on the move,” Pinky told him. After a moment, looking Mac over—Mac was obviously Oriental—he added, “You don ’t look like a ‘Mac.’”
Mac looked at him expressionlessly. Then recited his full name. “Katshuhiko Kumanosuke Takaashi.”
Pinky nodded. “So…Mac!”
Sarge and Duke moved down their divergent corridor, toward the Weapons Lab. Wall signs confirmed they were going the right way.
Duke wondered just what kind of weapons were squirreled away down here. How much had they been tested? The M-100 in the jungle was still a fresh memory—a bad memory. If they tried out one of these weapons—and how could a weapons expert like Sarge resist?—they might find out why the damned things were locked away up here…
It never occurred to him to try to talk this over with Sarge. Someone else maybe, not Sarge.
Duke wished he’d been assigned to go with Reaper. Someone to talk to. One thing Sarge wasn’t, was someone to talk to.
They kept on, in silence, through passages where the lights flickered; past cross corridors that led into restless shadow, where things moved—intuited more than seen. Things that snuffled and chuckled and clicked their teeth together.
Both Sarge and Duke felt the things out there. And neither one of them said a word about it.
Destroyer and the Kid swept the back hallway and storage rooms, marking with the fluorescent powder as they went.
“Clear,” the Kid said into his headset, as they passed through another nondescript room. Trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.
The Kid had come to the squadron right from secondary training, just a week before. But in the short time he’d been with Unit Six he’d come to look up to Destroyer. Didn’t want him to know how scared he was. Destroyer was tough, all right: he could go from smiling to flinty in a heartbeat. But—despite some ribbing—he’d spent a long time showing the Kid how to field strip his weapons, in the days before this assignment. He’d given him a couple of lessons in hand-to-hand fighting, hardly hurting him at all—if he’d wanted to, he could have broken the Kid’s neck—and he’d listened to the Kid talk about his family without once making fun of him for it the way Portman had. Destroyer had shown the Kid a holo-cube of his wife; had smiled at the Kid’s cell-images of his girlfriend Millie. Hard-nosed moniker or not, the Kid suspected that Destroyer had a soft heart.