by Jeff Stanley
Rian remembered the syringe which had been jabbed into his arm from behind. The scene replayed itself in his mind. He felt a surge of rage, but kept it inside, knowing he could do nothing.
“In time, once we’ve gathered all the information available, you’ll be freed, of course. Until then, it’s vital that you remain as still as possible, as calm as possible. Anxiety could skew the test results. We could keep you sedated, but . . .”
Rian felt something moving on the back of his neck. Thin digits, like fingers, kneaded the skin covering his spine, at the base of his skull. He jerked. Fought by the restraining jelly, he moved his hands upward, clawing up his own torso.
“No! Don’t do it, Rian. That’s why we can’t keep you asleep any longer. There’s . . . there’s something happening to you. Something we can’t explain. Not yet. On a cellular level. As best we can tell, you’ve been exposed to some foreign material, a virus, if you will, or multiple viruses, which have infiltrated just about every system in your body: your organs, your soft tissues, your muscles, bones, tendons. It’s interacting with all of your systems in ways that, quite frankly, we don’t understand. It’s quite remarkable.”
Remarkable? Rian ignored Pallas’s warning and dug through the jelly to his skull. He touched something, something soft, squishy. Fine tendrils arose from the thing to greet his questing hand, licking through the gel like a hundred thin tongues. Rian felt an electric tingle in his fingertips. A warning?
He panicked. His fingers dug at the mass, ripping into his own flesh. The tentacles reacted violently, slashing at his hands.
“Rian, don’t! We don’t know enough! Not yet!”
Rian ignored Pallas, digging, digging.
“Dammit! He’s not listening. We have no choice. Sedate him again.”
“Are you certain, Pallas?”
“Yes, damn you! Do it. Do it!”
Cold crept through the umbilicals in his sides, sinking into his body, drifting through his blood. His fingers became blunt sausages, feeble. His hands sank through the jelly. The voices faded, faded . . .
“Rian? I know you can hear me.” Pallas’s voice, again.
Rian, remembering betrayal, did not respond.
“Rian, I didn’t want to have to put you under, and I can’t do it again. You wouldn’t survive the sedation.”
He tried to raise his arms to pry the thing from his neck, but found his arms restrained, bound close to his sides.
“I’m sorry about that, Rian. But we had no choice. It’s for your own good. Our good. Trust me.”
Rian bucked within the jelly, struggling to tear free his arms. But whatever bound him remained tight, refused to give. He relaxed, accepting futility.
“I need to talk to you. But I need to be certain you’re listening. Can you listen, Rian? If so, nod your head.”
Rian nodded.
“Good. Now. You need to know that there have been changes since we last spoke. The viruses—we’ve isolated at least two separate organisms—have entirely infiltrated your body. How, or why, we don’t know yet. But, and this is important, Rian: They do not seem to be harming you. On the contrary, they seem to be doing something . . . quite remarkable. Extraordinary, I must say.”
A long pause, during which Rian marshaled his strength for another try at his bonds.
“We’re primarily interested at this point in the second of the two viruses. The first, we’ve identified as having come from the anomaly, doubtless during your contact with him, perhaps through an exchange of blood or other fluids. But the other . . . Ah, that remains a mystery. We’ve not encountered its like.
“This virus seems to be strengthening your immune system, Rian. And not only that, it seems to be stabilizing your genetic matrix. In short, it’s making you immune to the landskin contagion.”
A part of Rian understood what he was being told. The rational part. The part detached from his present circumstances. That was a very small part. The rest of him struggled quietly, subtly, against the bonds.
“This is the breakthrough we’ve been dreaming of, Rian. Can you understand? You are the breakthrough we’ve sought for generations. You represent the future, our past, the salvation of humankind, Rian. You, and this virus. We’ve done it! We’ve beaten it, Rian! Can you understand the impact this will have?”
The bonds held him tight. Rian lost patience. He slung himself about within the jelly. His feet impacted the membrane wall, bulged it outward.
“No! Stop that, Rian. Stop that, or you’ll leave me little choice but to sedate you again. I don’t want to do that. None of us want to do that. I don’t think you’d survive going under again.
“But if you persist in this, you’ll leave me little choice.” Short pause. “We can get the information we need from you whether or not you’re alive, Rian.”
Rian stilled. He hung in the gelid bath, feeling its currents against his skin.
“That’s better. That’s much better. Now. You must understand, Rian. Please. We don’t . . . We don’t like this. Not at all. But we have no choice. Surely you see. Surely you realize that for the good of us all, for the good of our species, we must keep you. We must explore, experiment. We’ve got to find the missing pieces of this puzzle.”
Rian screamed, thrashing, gagging on the throat-tube. He strained against his bonds, but to no avail.
Chapter 19
After Planetfall, APF 0001
“You forget yourself, Commander Rodriguez!” Captain Santiago’s face drew down into a scowl, and his wrinkled fists bunched on the surface of his lap-board. The results of Alberto’s exhaustive research, paired with Lt. Marissa Flaherty’s, were displayed plainly on the screen.
They were undeniable to any who would open their eyes and realize the truth.
“My apologies, Captain. I spoke out of anxiety, I assure you.” How could he have said such a thing? A man’s pride brings him low, but a man of lowly spirit gains honor. What? Rodriguez berated himself, wondering at the choice of words that had suddenly, without conscious thought, tumbled from his mouth when the captain had expressed his doubts.
“I was unaware you were such an adherent of the Church, Commander.” He frowned, and Rodriguez could almost hear his thoughts. He wondered if he would be forced to visit the psych officer. Fanatics were justifiably excluded from Service; their instability had been proven time and again as unsuitable for life beyond Mother Terra. Something about the vastness of space clashed with their undeniable yet consciously suppressed belief in their own importance in the universal scheme of things.
Rodriguez shook his head. “I’m not, Captain Santiago, I assure you, a product of my . . . dysfunctional upbringing. I’ve cleared Psych at each nexus.” He paused, considering. Santiago still stared at him, uncertain. The captain opened his mouth, and Rodriguez jumped to a decision. “My father was a bishop of the Church of Universal Truth. Mother removed me from his custody under the Dogma Protocols, and I underwent the standard series of deprogrammings and evaluations. I’ve checked out fit for duty time and time again, Captain.”
“I’m puzzled at the exclusion of this from your records, Commander. Most puzzled.” He tapped out of Rodriguez’s research and called up the personnel records, spanning through until Rodriguez saw his own Service holo displayed on the screen. “There’s nothing here at all.”
Deprogrammings and reprogrammings were universally erased from master files, absent the express need of the good of the Hegemony. Santiago should know that as well as he. But Rodriguez shook his head, becoming increasingly agitated as he sat here, useless, in the captain’s study, while all of creation lay awaiting him in the BS lab. “Respectfully, Captain, that’s irrelevant. You’re missing the point. My research—”
“—is what’s irrelevant, Commander. I suggest you begin rethinking your conclusions. Surely you don’t believe that this . . . this landskin should take precedence over our mission, over the expansion of the Hegemony? Your own reports indicate there is no danger in it. We’ve see
n no adverse effects from it. And it burns away readily to make room for our expansion. I see no reason to forestall the thawing and downloading.”
“But it’s intelligent, Captain! I know it!”
“Intelligent?” The captain snorted, turning off his display. “Commander, we’ve seen no such indication. It—”
“It reacts to stimuli. And, there is a definite pattern within its reactions. The flyers, the drakes—”
“Drakes? You mean, as in dragons? Rodriguez, I do believe you’ve lost your mind. Perhaps a visit with the PO would—”
“No!” Rodriguez stood, glaring down at the captain. “You refuse to see, you foolish old man. You look out upon a beautifully intricate, yet simple, ecosystem, a system in perfect harmony, and you see an unresponsive world ripe for exploitation and rape. Don’t you see? They’re all related! The flyers, the drakes, the landskin. All of it! The landskin is a vast solar collector, drawing energy from this world’s sun, processing it in a manner similar to, but much more efficiently than, the photosynthesis of our own Terra. The flyers eat the landskin, which expands through the medium of the drakes. Death adds to the equation, feeding the loop. It’s perpetual procreation, Captain, untainted by the complexity that makes life on all other worlds we’ve encountered so chaotic, so unpredictable.
“And there is direction here, I tell you! Intellect. Cognition. Vast on a scale we can’t begin to understand, and crude, by our standards. But intellect. Think what we can learn! Think of the wonders that await us if we move slowly, with care for this precious environment. The sheer magnitude of the—”
“Compose yourself, Commander!” Santiago rose, grimacing at the pain in his knees. He touched the plasma screen, which rippled in reaction. “Send a security detail to my study. Commander Rodriguez is to be confined to quarters until further notice. Have the PO attend me in Records.”
“Yes, Captain,” came the response.
Rodriguez recoiled. “Psych officer? No. I . . . No!”
“Restrain yourself, Alberto. Don’t force me to put you in cryo. It would appear your reprogramming was ineffective. In deference to your long record of exemplary service, I’m willing to forget this little insubordination, provided you check out with Psych. If reprogramming is warranted . . .”
“You’re making a mistake, Captain. A grave mistake.”
“That’s enough, Alberto! Enough. Don’t force my hand.”
Rodriguez lapsed into silence, defeated. He hung his head. An interview with the PO spelled the end of his career, despite Santiago’s assurances to the contrary. Any reprogramming sufficient to alleviate the captain’s concerns would certainly bring collateral damage to his higher cognitive functions. Memory loss. Lapses in coherent thought. He would be fit for nothing but manual labor until he could be retrained. A process requiring years. Years which he did not have.
His discoveries! His precious, amazing discoveries!
A world-mind. A true world-mind, spanning the entirety of this planet, moving with a slow deliberation, unrecognizable by the means at their disposal. Only sensed, on some alternate level of consciousness.
Communication. There was communication. He knew it! This vast intelligence tried, and repeatedly failed, due primarily to the shortcomings of the human mind, which could envision no mode of communication other than its own. But the ebb and flow of the landskin, its curious ability to alter genetic material to which it was exposed, offered another form of sentience altogether.
Already Rodriguez could see the effects of the world-mind’s efforts. He had theories, theories that needed further exploration. Pheromones. Particulate matter, like viruses, that compelled a host’s mutation along designated lines.
The security detail arrived, their entrance hailed by the tonal signal echoing from the speakers hidden in the walls. The two men in military uniform, sidearms holstered but fingers touching the cold metal butts of their weapons, stepped up and saluted the captain.
“Commander Rodriguez is to be confined to quarters. Restricted access to only myself and those I designate. Deposit him, then send the duty officer to me in Records. Keep this quiet, soldiers.”
“What are you doing, Captain?” Rodriguez was on the verge of panicking. To have come so close!
“Rodriguez, there are things you must understand. Even someone from your particular branch of Service should understand the need for security and order in circumstances such as these. We’re on an alien world, Alberto. Need I remind you of that? We face unknown challenges in the execution of our sworn duty. Biological Sciences is along on this foray to serve the ends of our mission parameters, no more. These things you speak of . . . They pose an imminent danger, jeopardizing Ship security and mission integrity.”
“No. No, please, Captain.”
Santiago shook his white-haired head. “I’m sorry, Rodriguez. But until I feel our mission has not been compromised by your . . . fanaticism, Biological Sciences will come under direct supervision of Security. All research activities will be channeled through me, requiring my direct approval. Anything not directly pertaining to furthering the security of this mission will be immediately terminated.”
“You can’t do this, Captain!”
“You’re wrong, Rodriguez. I can do this. I have done this. Take him away. If he persists in this untoward behavior, sedate him.”
“Mar— Lt. Flaherty! What. . . . How are you able to comm with me?”
“Keep it down, please, Commander. I presume there are sentries outside your door as well as mine?”
He nodded, regarding her face on the screen. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and her hair had a tousled look not usual. She glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder, biting her lip. “Have you heard? Have your guards told you?”
“Told me? What?” His guards had been particularly uncommunicative. When addressed, they would respond only as protocol dictated, giving him nothing. For the past three weeks he had languished in his room, occupied only by reviewing in his head the details of his research. An entire world to explore, a consciousness with which to establish rapport, and he was locked in this chamber, unable even to access his research materials.
And the nightmares. At times he could no longer be certain whether he was awake or asleep. His father’s voice came to him with startling regularity now. He could not control it. The null capsules the PO had prescribed, a great deal more powerful than those he had prescribed for himself, had ceased to have any effect. And the sessions with the man had proved useless beyond belief. No doubt he was slated for cryo as soon as the captain consented to the order. Upload and erasure would soon follow.
“Captain Santiago’s had a seizure. A stroke. Partial paralysis of his entire right side. Speech all but impossible. The prognosis is for partial recovery, but he’s been designated unfit for duty by the medical staff.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I’ve got a friend in Comp. He patched through to me this morning. It’s him allowing me access to you now.”
Rodriguez felt a sting of rage at her mentioning of a male friend. Had he imagined the emphasis on friend? What more was he to her?
Let us behave decently, as in the daytime, not in orgies and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and debauchery, not in dissension and jealousy. Rather, clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and do not think about how to gratify the desires of the sinful nature.
“Shut up!” Rodriguez shouted.
“What?” Marissa drew back from the screen, her face wearing an expression of utter shock.
Rodriguez shook his head. What had he said? “Nothing. I was . . . thinking of something else, Lieutenant. Forgive me.”
“Commander, are you . . . okay? You seem . . . frazzled.” She frowned, concerned.
When had he last looked in a mirror? Or even stepped into the sonic cleanser? His hair hung lank and oily across his forehead, and he could feel the thick stubble on his chin. When had he stopped taking the facial depilatories? He sniffed, real
izing he stank.
“I . . . I’m trapped in here, Lieutenant. I’ve got to get out.”
She seemed unsure, pausing. She licked her lips. “That’s why I’m contacting you. With the captain incapacitated . . . Luther’s assumed command of the mission, but it’s a fractured command, at best. There are those who . . . those who share our views, Commander.”
“Who?”
“Most of BS, of course. Others. A few soldiers, in fact. My . . . friend coordinates communication, keeps us secure from detection. Something’s boiling beneath the surface. We have friends we never knew we had.”
“We.”
She nodded. “We need you, Commander. We’ve tapped into the long-range sensors. Something approaches. A flyer. A big one. Its configuration is different from the others. More sensory tentacles. We believe it’s the alpha-prime.”
“The alpha-prime,” Rodriguez whispered, his voice trailing off in awe. “Get me out of here, Marissa.”
She smiled. “We’re working on it, Commander. With the disarray ongoing, it shouldn’t be long. Listen, Commander, I don’t know how long this channel is secure. I’ll contact you again as soon as I’m able.”
Rodriguez waved her away noncommittally, his mind already turning toward the momentous things brooding on the horizon. The alpha-prime!
Rodriguez keyed the holographic display clock rather than the auditory alarm. It was time.
A moment later he heard muffled voices through the door panel. A shout of alarm trickled through, then the unmistakable whine of small-arms fire. More shouts. The impact of beam weapons on the interior hull of Ship, an agonizing, grating sound. Then silence.
Good. They had neutralized the guards before the alarm went off. The sensory implants within the guards’ bodies, the bio-statistic relays, would trigger the klaxons in moments, but there was a small window of time. A very small window.
The door hissed open, disabled at the keypad outside. A soldier stepped forward, outfitted in full battlegear. The muzzle of his pistol smoked. The stench of death filled the corridor. Behind the soldier came Marissa, her hair bound in a loose ponytail, a smudge of grime across the bridge of her nose. She carried a plasma carbine in the crook of her arm as if she were born to it.