Hybrid

by K. T. Hanna

  Dom decides he likes the guy. After all, it’s really Dom’s fault that he landed this position. He pulls in on himself, shies away from most people, even Harlow. And unless he’s talking about his precious technology, he withdraws into himself. Any people who bully him won’t do it for long. Dom’s been having a lot of fun with his own ability to not be seen.

  It’s been easy to keep an eye on all the ingoing and outgoing communications since the Damascus scouts were released. Owen is a night owl for obvious reasons; the Damascus can’t scout in daylight—or, at least, not during high noon. Dom has always wondered why humans still insist on night as the sleeping time and day as the active one. Really, they should have adapted to the fact that the sun was no longer anyone’s friend, not in its unfiltered state. Although maybe it was the whole protected Dome atmosphere.

  Any other thoughts on the subject go out the window as Owen scrambles over to one of the feeds. The images are jumbled and the readout is going haywire, but there is no doubt that the Damascus are engaging some of the Exiled.

  The information streams constantly, providing weapon statistics, power, firearms, armor types, and a count of how many people are there. The smallest among them is dismissed as an assured casualty, while the others move onto the armed soldiers.

  He follows the battle until only the lieutenant is left standing, facing down two men, both injured. Then a pulse hits him, a bright, violent, and heated force. The transmission ends and the readings flat line.

  Dom stares at the screen, trying to make sense of it, before creeping out of the room and making his way to see Bastian.

  For your own safety, please do not leave your designated areas. Report any unauthorized personnel immediately. Remember, the future of GNW depends on you.

  Dom barely resists the urge to jump in surprise. It’s the first time he can remember noticing it, and now the mantra plays on repeat in his head. This isn’t right. Something is extremely wrong. The Damascus appear to be stronger, more ruthless, for having rested. If that pulse hadn’t hit, the whole delegation would have been killed with 1.5 Damascus left standing. Perhaps it lies in the exact language of the new directive they were fed. Eliminate all of the Exiled and reacquire the source of Shine.

  “Damn,” he mutters under his breath and is relieved to see no one in the corridors to hear him.

  Bastian’s shields are far more complex and detailed than they were before Selwyn sent Nimue to spy on him. But Dom is attuned to them and it’s easier for him to enter than others. The only problem is that, to the security recordings outside of Bastian’s quarters, it would appear the doors opened for no good reason, so he needs to alert Bastian. Luckily for Dom, he’s still awake.

  The door swings open, and Bastian’s head pops out to look either way and frown theatrically for the cameras while Dom slips in undetected.

  With the door shut firmly behind them, Bastian sighs. “You really need to figure out a better way into my quarters.”

  “Sure,” Dom says calmly. “I’ll just scale the outside of the building next time and break through a nice thick pane of glass.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Bastian ushers Dom into his living quarters. There’s a tired pull to his voice, as if the dearth of sleep is finally catching up to him. “You’ll set off the alarms if you do that.”

  Dom smiles, a more relaxed smile than he’s managed lately. He still has difficulty with emotional expressions, but the parasite is getting easier to coexist with. “The Damascus found what I think to be a scouting troop of our own. Everything was going about how I’d expect it to when the lieutenant was taken out by a brilliant pulse of some kind. I mean, white-hot, something I’ve never seen before. Not even in all the history Mathur crowded into my head.”

  Bastian frowns, and his eyes seem dull, his reactions slowed. “What exactly was it like?”

  Dom shrugs, intent on studying his friend. “I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. He was about to wipe out the last couple of people and all of a sudden was hit by something big and shiny that ripped him apart. I’d suggest you get the recording off Owen.”

  For a brief second, Bastian draws himself back to the man he’s always been—sure of himself and everything around him. “I’ll see to it. You might want to go and see how they’re doing. I’m going to need to know anything they’ve discovered that can help me help them.”

  The Mobile is bustling with activity when Dom arrives. He leaves Mele safely in the parking bay and makes his way to Mathur’s quarters. Several hours away from the city, even as fast as Mele can travel, isn’t nearly far enough out. Dom frowns at the risk.

  The sun is high in the sky, so he’s is surprised when he finds Mathur’s quarters dark. “Mathur?” he calls out tentatively. “Mat, you’ve got to wake up. Something bad has happened.”

  The old man isn’t there. Perhaps he’s in his lab. He couldn’t have been so stupid as to go with the scouting team. That would be absurd.

  He finds his creator hunched over his workstation, fiddling with some sort of scalpel-type instrument at the base of a domino’s skull. Jeffries murmurs instructions at him from off to the side.

  Dom clears his throat to get attention, while trying his best not to eye what looks like his twin laid prone on the table like an experiment.

  “Dom?” Mathur scrunches up his brow as if confused by his appearance. “I thought you were...well, not here.”

  “You sent out a scouting mission?” Dom doesn’t have time to make small talk. In fact, he has no time to do anything. “Already?”

  “Well, yes.” Mathur puts down the instrument.

  “I need to get Sai. We can go out and see if any of them survived.”

  “What?” The color drains from Mathur’s face, and he sits himself in the chair at his desk. “What do you mean, survived?”

  Dom shrugs. Impatience encourages the darker part of him, and it’s all he can do to push it down. “Pretty much the exact definition. Your scouting team encountered the Damascus scouting team, but there may be a couple of the Exiled still alive. Sai can come and get them with me—about half of her isn’t as susceptible to the heat. And she can help heal them.”

  “Dom...” A layer of sweat breaks out on Mathur’s forehead. “Sai was with them. Sai and Mason.”

  “What?” Dom quickly quashes the fear that rises inside, the anger that threatens to let the darkness claim him, and recalculates a few things in his head. “How far did you send them out?”

  “About eighteen hours,” Jeffries interjects, apparently aware that Mathur isn’t completely up to speed at the moment. “We sent them north for in an E-27 model transport.”

  Dom nods. About ten hours in Mele. “If they managed to get back into the transport and leave, they should be here by midnight. If not...it doesn’t matter when we find them, they’ll all be dead.” He refuses to let himself think about it any further than that. There’s not a lot to be done but go and figure what can be salvaged. If Sai... He stops himself. He can’t have saved her for this to happen; she has to be there. He needs her to survive.

  “I’ll head out in Mele. If I can tow them back or help in anyway, I will. If I can’t find them, we know what happened.” He doesn’t tell them about the brilliant fiery pulse or the smaller person the lieutenant had dismissed as already dead. Dom is certain that, if Sai were dead, he’d know it before anyone had to tell him.

  “You’ll need medical assistance,” Jeffries pipes up, his own face a little pale and pasty.

  Dom just shakes his head. “I have some medical training. Emergency first aid, anyway. Unless you want to come with me, Doctor, I can’t afford a hold up. I’ll leave as soon as we’re done talking here.”

  “I’ll go grab my things while you wrap it up, then.” And he’s out of the door before Dom can protest.

  “We’ll leave now. Let the others know, and you need to hide better.” Dom takes a long hard look at Mathur. “The survivors will be fine, and we’ll grow stronger from the knowledge they’ve
gained.”

  The older man doesn’t move, just sighs and focuses on his fingers, suddenly appearing far older than he actually is.

  “Mathur.” Dom knows he doesn’t really have the time, but he needs to make it anyway. “None of this was anyone’s fault. It seemed like a good idea, and had they not apparently gained in strength during their stasis, the normal weapons and a decent ratio would have been sound. For future reference, you’ll probably want to opt for three men per Damascus, trained in unison with each other. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, just motions Jeffries to follow him down to Mele. Neither of them speak a word until they leave the bay, follow the path of the transport taken by Mason’s scouting group.

  “What are the odds they made it into the transport before the sun was up too long? Those suits won’t protect them for long after sunrise...” Jeffries voice trails off, uncertainty obvious.

  “It was about two o’clock this morning when the final pulse hit the fight. I’m hoping they could at least crawl to the transport.” Dom isn’t quite sure whether or not he should mention the lieutenant’s dismissal of who he hopes was Sai.

  “Final pulse?”

  There’s an odd note to Jeffries’ tone that Dom can’t place. He files it away and tries to explain a little better. “Flash of bright light of some sort.”

  “Could be a number of things,” Jeffries states, more to himself than to Dom, probably not quite aware of just how acute Dom’s hearing actually is. “So they may have had time.”

  He chooses to ignore the doctor and concentrate on locating Mason’s transport using Mele’s scanner. The signal is easier to pinpoint than he anticipated, and he adjusts their direction accordingly. Attempting audio contact doesn’t work, and he tries to push back at the encroaching darkness. If he were more human, he’d think it was panic. Sai would say he’s more human than most. The thought catches him unaware, and he has to clench his jaw to refocus.

  The transport isn’t traveling as fast as it should be and is apparently weaving a little. Dom frowns and leans forward, placing a hand directly on the steering console of Mele, hoping to lend her the urgency of the situation. He’s fully aware she’s not sentient, but sometimes it feels like she truly responds to him. The only problem now is figuring out how to get on board the other vehicle once they catch up to it—and masking their trail as well as possible.

  It takes a few hours for him to get within range of the transport, and the sun is just starting to set. Overriding their controls from within Mele proves challenging but completely possible. A few minutes later he pulls up next to the vehicle and brings his own to a complete standstill.

  Motioning the doctor to stay behind him, Dom opens the doors and waits for it to clear. He can see across into the other transport and can’t help frown as he closes the distance. Something is wrong. A dull and coppery smell, like lingering death, assaults his senses and teases the parasite within. The lights are dim, almost as if it’s running on reserve power, and the black haze around his vision as he fights that part of himself lends it an ominous miasma.

  He can hear Jeffries several feet behind him, wariness evident in each step the man takes. Dom frets about the survivors, and the darkness threatens to take over his vision numerous times on the short walk across the sand. They were limping back home much slower than they should have been. There’s no time to check the vehicle’s propulsion, but it may have been damaged by the conflict. He hopes Bastian has managed to interfere in the data transmitted.

  If he could have gut feelings, this one would be bad. His eyes make out two forms in the main seating area of the transport. They’re lying on the floor, bandages tied crudely, obviously in a hurry. He smells blood, lots of it, and hurries to the side of the first man, not sensing any immediate danger.

  Mason is pale, sweating profusely, his heartbeat far too faint for someone his size. Dom motions Jeffries over. “Can you fix him up enough that we can get him home?”

  Jeffries grimaces and kneels down next to Mason, checking his temperature, pulse, and then scanning his wounds. The leg wound is obviously the worst, having soaked through pretty much all of the bandage that also seems to be serving as a tourniquet. He shrugs uneasily. “Perhaps. Give me a few and check on the rest of the transport. Odds are the pilot isn’t in good shape, either.”

  Dom nods and moves to the other body. This one appears to be in slightly better shape. Not quite as knocked up, but still bleeding sluggishly from several gashes all over his body, not to mention the baseball-sized shiner he has on his forehead. The name on the uniform is obscured by blood. Walstein or something similar. Another survivor who can at least tell them what happened out there.

  He looks toward the console and suppresses his immediate reaction. The arm hanging from the side of the pilot’s chair is slender and familiar, and the blood-caked hair dangling down to tickle her fingers is stiff and dirty. Slowly, he moves up to the chair. If she’s sleeping, he doesn’t want to wake her quite yet, and if she’s not, he doesn’t think he’s ready to know that quite yet, either.

  She’s a sight. The grafts on her legs shine through her tattered armor, telling him her brain function is trying so hard to heal whatever damage she sustained that the adrium isn’t taking on the guise she usually gives it. There are about four sections of her body armor, especially on the left-hand side of her midsection, that are in shreds.

  “Hound,” he mutters, knowing instantly she was the one stuck fighting the beast and suddenly the lieutenant’s dismissal makes far too much sense.

  Dom can still hear Jeffries fiddling around with bandages and pain salves behind him, and he kneels next to Sai for a moment. She’s alive. From the rise and fall of her chest, she is most definitely alive. The relief Dom feels is something he doesn’t quite know how to deal with.

  He touches her head and pulls the longer strands of hair away from it, wincing at the way some of it is embedded in a few fresh scabs on her face. That’s not going to be pretty. Even if she manages to heal herself, some of that scarring will probably remain.

  Her eyes flicker open, and he tenses, waiting. It takes a couple of seconds for her to focus on his face, and her smile is so full of relief that the tension flees from his body.

  “Dom,” she croaks out, her hand gently gripping his forearm, her voice raspy and dry. “They okay?”

  Her first thought is for the others, and that’s when Dom realizes just what the light was. Even though it shouldn’t be possible, even though he has no idea how she managed to direct it, that pulsing fire was her.

  “Shh,” he says and scoops her up in his arms without any effort. She leans in, warm against his chest, comfortable...right. “Jeffries is here. Mason and Walstein are going to be fine, and I’m pretty sure your botched first aid is helped them survive so far. On the bright side, you didn’t get burned to a crisp by the sun.” He can’t help the chatter; it’s a nervous reaction. She almost died, and then nothing would have been okay, nothing would have been right. Not ever again. Her weight in his arms soothes and keeps the darkness at bay—so much that he doesn’t want to put her down, doesn’t want to let her go ever again.

  “You really have to stop doing this almost-dying thing, you know,” he jokes, trying to drown out his own desperation, and looks down to realize she’s fallen back asleep. He lays her down in Mele’s passenger seat and sets about attaching the tow to Mason’s transport. By the time he’s rigged the exhausts to expel enough air to obscure their tracks, Jeffries needs his help getting the other two back to Mele’s cabin.

  It’s extremely crowded once everyone is onboard, but overall Dom is fairly happy with the progress. Jeffries examines Sai and frowns.

  “You shouldn’t have moved her before I got to look at her. She has some fractured ribs and bad blood loss, not to mention something wrong with her head at the moment. Major reactionary headache.”

  Dom nods. “Sorry, we had to get out of there. Damascus will be scour
ing the area shortly, if they haven’t started already. If we don’t get back soon, we not only run the risk of losing three people, we also run the risk of them picking up our heat signatures and thereby losing whole Mobiles.”

  And the litany repeats in his head—that no matter what, he will never risk losing Sai again.

  Dom stands in Mathur’s kitchen while his creator digests the information. Compact and well-appointed, it has the necessary amenities. His eyes stray over the stainless surfaces and clinical feel. Even here, Mathur’s touch is obvious.

  “But that is not possible, Dom.” The old man sips a cup of tea and eyes him with complete disbelief.

  “Then you tell me what happened.” Dom crosses his arms and waits.

  Mathur chuckles. “Sadly, I have no clue, but I do not believe it is possible to recreate the original burst a gift causes when it awakens, not to mention channeling that much power into one concentrated and aimed effort. Really, Dom, if I did not know better, I would say you were going senile on me.”

  “There’s no other explanation.”

  “But there may be. Let Mason and Walstein get through their operations and recovery and we can begin asking them. In the meantime, help Gregory up in navigation plot the best possible paths we can take to avoid the Damascus and throw them off so we are not sitting ducks.” Mathur turns back to his small stove, white hair swaying gently with the flow of filtered air, an obvious dismissal.

  “Not yet,” Dom mumbles as he walks out of the room, frustrated at Mathur’s lack of urgency. And then it strikes him—his mentor, creator, whatever else he is, is on the verge of giving up. Just short of leaving the corridor, he turns around and enters the apartment again to find the old man with his head buried in his hands, tears running down his face as he looks up, startled.

  “You can’t give up, Mathur. People depend on you to have the answers for them.”