Syn-En: Plague World: The Founders War Begins

by Linda Andrews

  “I heard that.” The blankets rustled. The mattress dipped. Nell had rolled over.

  Perfect. Bei leapt onto the bed. His knees and hands dug divots around his wife, pinning her in place.

  She squealed and slapped her hands against his bare chest. They shifted lower and lower. Warm breath fogged the air around them. Her musky scent filled his senses.

  He palmed her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head. “Now, you’ll see what I’m gonna do about it.”

  “I know what you’re gonna do.” She arched up. The blanket disappeared, leaving naked skin against naked skin. Warm lips pressed his jaw. Her tongue traced the curve of the bone. “You’re going to make me forget everything but you and me. Me and you. Us.”

  And he did.

  Chapter 20

  Light burned the back of Nell’s eye sockets. She raised her hand but the problem intensified. Ugh, such was the problem being married to a man who only needed two hours of sleep a day. He turned on the lights way too early. Tingles raced up her toes. Bei. His heat spooned her back. He was still here. She was here.

  No urgent message came across the com.

  No one knocked on their cabin door.

  Elvis didn’t scratch to be let in or send her telegraphic messages of severed heads while prodding her hunger.

  For a little while longer, she had her husband to herself.

  She wiggled her hips.

  A heartbeat passed. Then another. No hand caressed her bare hip. No lips kissed her neck. No erection pressed her bottom.

  What in the world?

  She rolled over.

  Bei stared at the ceiling. His NDA skin peeled back in thick strips like the rind of an overripe banana. Black pustules gnawed at the silver coating his jaw bone. Heat radiated off his rotting body.

  This couldn’t be happening. The Syn-En had been inoculated. The Surlat strain didn’t exist on the planet. He couldn’t be sick.

  “Wake up. Wake up.” Nell smacked her cheek. Pain sent her eyes ping-ponging around her skull.

  She was dreaming inside a dream.

  She raised her hand to smack herself again then stopped. Her stomach cramped. The room buzzed as blood fled her brain. Bone white light radiated from her pores.

  She was infected.

  She stuffed her fingers in her mouth to dam up the building scream.

  Oh, God. She wasn’t dreaming. Her husband had the Plague.

  Bei was going to die.

  Chapter 21

  Thorns and stinging nettles multiplied under Groat’s skin. Damn new armor. Groping in the darkness, he reached for his oil. His fingers encountered soft flesh. Goo clung to the digits of his humanoid hands. His eye stalks stiffened and his nictitating lenses pulled back.

  A rectangle of light stretched into the dark tunnel.

  Groat’s vision shifted to account for the low illumination. The room shimmered, black and white shifted into shades of pus green. He checked his armor. One pinscher claw dropped to the floor. Viscous liquid puddled near the severed end. The scent of putrefaction assaulted his olfactory openings.

  “Curse upon the Municians!” He’d been sold defective armor. Groat leapt to his feet. His sword appendages thudded to the dusty floor. He kicked at them. His boot sloughed off, splatted in a puddle of clear liquid.

  Ice shot down his spine.

  Black pustules sprouted like mushrooms between the slits in his pink flesh.

  He had the Plague. Vomit roared up Groat’s throat. This couldn’t be. Holding up his humanoid hand he watched his armor slide off like infected toenails.

  “We’re dying.” Tridit stumbled inside the bunker. Sunlight glided over the oiled pockets of his shriveled body. Armor lay like broken shells around him. Collapsing in a heap on the floor, he slapped pieces back on his withered flesh in wet slurps. “Those Humans we killed must have been infected.”

  “We should have slaughtered the rest.” Groat stroked the smooth armor of his remaining pinscher.

  Tridit leaned against the wall, an oozing plank of decay. “So much for the Founders’ vaccine.”

  Groat shambled toward his friend. Armor flaked off with each step. At least, their bodies would be incinerated in the planet’s cleansing. No one would see them weak and vulnerable. “The Founders will still make a profit. Desperate species will pay anything to survive, and the legal teams will tie up any suits with scientific stonewalling. In the end, all sentients in the universe will believe if they had taken the cure long enough, or before the virus mutated, or any of the Founders’ political spin, they would have been cured.”

  He’d seen it before, read about it in the tactical history guides. He ran his hands over his scalp. Buboes formed knobs between the cracks in his armor.

  Tridit broke the vacuum seal of his helmet. The face plate bounced down his shrunken chest and spun on the concrete floor. Bone showed white in the dissolving flesh. “What would you have done as Commander of the Fleet?”

  “Drive the Humans back into their cages. Kept Beijing York’s head as a trophy on the wall of my bridge.” Groat worked his fingers between the seams of his armor. His goals seemed insignificant, the same as all the great leaders before him. “I would have forced the Founders to accept Scraptors as equal. To let us practice our art, to expand our education beyond military agendas, and listen to our ideas on improving the home worlds.”

  Tridit nodded. “That is the kind of world I would be glad to bring my daughters and son into.”

  Groat’s claw detached from his shoulder and rocked on the floor. “My mate and I never had children. When we were cleared for reproduction, we were stationed in Hellholes at opposite ends of the galaxy. By the time we hooked up, our license had expired.”

  “I would have lobbied to remove the reproductive quota. You would have sired fierce warriors. One only has to see how you inspire the rest of us.”

  “Speaking of the rest of us…” Groat flipped his breast plate over and removed the radio. Static crackled in the speaker. Viscous liquid formed iridescent bubbles at the bottom of the rectangle. “Groat to shuttle. Report.”

  Time shifted in shadows over the bunker floor.

  He squeezed the radio again. “Shuttle. Report.”

  The radio fell silent then blazed with static. Clicking skittered through the airwaves.

  “Commander Groat.” The new recruit groaned through the speaker. “The engineer is gooey and has shed his armor.”

  Groat cursed the Founders in general and Mopus Argent in particular. If the stinky political officer hadn’t suggested this visit before the cleansing, none of this would have happened. He cracked his knuckles. “Are you infected?”

  “Yes.” The recruit’s voice hitched.

  “Have you informed the Celestia? “ Groat wanted every Scraptor to know the Founders’ vaccine didn’t work. If he had to die, he would make certain, they were the last casualties of the Plague.

  “Our transmissions have been blocked, Commander.”

  “Understood.” They would be denied the opportunity to send a final farewell. Mopus’s idea, no doubt. The malodorous politician protected his career. Bits of skin slid down Groat’s cheek. Blood formed violet spots on his jaundiced flesh. None of his men would die alone. “Recruit, did you ever hear of the victory on Salet 9?”

  “N–No, Commander.”

  Tridit shivered. “Make sure you get it right. I was there with you. I’ll know.”

  Groat removed his helmet. Cold air stung his lungs. His joints ached. His limbs twitched. “Tridit and I were new recruits, still in our pink armor, when we set down on the planet.”

  If he must die, he would die well. And his past glories would be his shroud.

  Chapter 22

  Nell scrubbed a hand down her face. The mattress rocked under her knees. Her husband was infected, and she glowed brighter than a hundred Watt bulb. Panic shredded her insides. She tamped it down. Now was not the time to lose control. She had work to do. Rolling her head on her shoulde
rs, she released a long breath. “Okay, brain box, tell me what to do.”

  Shutting her eyes, she imagined opening a tablet computer and the file marked first-aid.

  She stared at her pink eyelids instead of pixelated words. Her inner Doctor wasn’t unleashed. She shook her hands. Maybe her brain box was being temperamental. “Okay, cerebral interface, instruct me on how to treat the Plague caused by the Surlat strain.”

  Moments passed. She wandered the vacuum of her mind.

  Dammit. She needed to get her freak on and it wasn’t cooperating. A growl rumbled up her throat. She flicked the back of her skull, hoping to jog her brain box free.

  Nothing but a hollow thud.

  Bei’s body jerked against her thigh.

  Her eyes flew open. She set her hands on his chest. Heal dammit. Heal. His armor crackled under her touch. Black pustules crawled like evil slugs out of the crevices. She smoothed his hair then shook off the clumps that stuck to her damp palms. “You’re going to be alright.”

  His body arched.

  She pushed against him. Her hands dented his armor. Oh, God, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Sure, the Plague came with a side dish of fever and a topping of convulsions, but her husband was literally crumbling under her touch. She needed the medical program she’d downloaded.

  She needed Doc.

  Bei’s blue eyes cut to her face. Anger and fear tangled in their depths.

  “My brain box is calling, but no one is picking up. I need to get Doc.”

  Her husband’s body spasmed.

  She swept her hand over his forehead. Heat blistered the NDA skin then boiled it away, revealing the steel coating on his skull. “Give me a sign if you understand. Wink or something.”

  He winked. His eyelid rolled into a pillbug and plopped onto his pillow.

  Nell mentally smacked herself. How could she be so stupid? The tremendous level of trauma had forced his armor into a hard lock, immobilizing him so he didn’t injure himself further. She stroked the thick column of his throat, bumped over his collar bones, and found the small indentations below. “I’m going to unlock your armor, okay?”

  His left eyebrow slid into the well of his temple.

  She’d take that as a yes. Silver tinged her fingertips. Metallic threads spun from her nails and stitched the patches over his faces together. New tears appeared in his NDA. She needed to wrap him like a mummy. After calling the NDA to dress them, she depressed the indentations.

  Bei’s body tensed then relaxed. He clamped onto her hand. “How are you? Are you sick? Perhaps you should lie down.”

  “I’m fine. Better than you.” How could he worry about her when he was falling apart? Blinking to clear her blurry vision, she focused on their interlaced fingers. Liquid silver crawled up his arm, sealing the cracks in his armor. Her very own Tin Man with a heart bigger than Oz.

  His black hair and uniform melted in a vat of raw NDA. With features like a mask, only his almond-shaped, blue eyes remained. “You’re infected. The glow gives it away. Rest, Nell. I’ll go unlock the others.”

  “You’re not leaving me.” What if he fell apart as soon as she stopped touching him? She mustn’t release him. Ever. She clasped his hands in both of hers and scrambled off their bed.

  His lips disappeared in a mirrored surface.

  “Stop frowning. We’re a team and I’m the cure.” She better be the cure and not just the light in his life.

  “At least, we can see where we are going.” He hobbled across the floor. The sway betrayed the pain of movement more than the sharp scrape of boot. Puddles of NDA marked his footsteps.

  Releasing him briefly, she snapped her fingers. The silver pools stretched like rubber bands until they hit her boots. Her soles sucked them inside, wicked them up her body, and fed them back to Bei.

  “How are your power levels?”

  “Full.” She lied. With her brain box playing mute, she couldn’t check. “The others?”

  “Everyone’s infected.”

  NDA formed icicles on the doorknob where he touched it. Brushing her hip against it as she walked through the opening, she called it home. “God. Doc was right. We infected Davena and her people.”

  “Maybe.” Bei shook his silver head.

  “Maybe?” Had she missed part of the conversation? The Plague was here.

  “I’ll let Doc explain.” The curtain of verdant vines had turned autumnal brown and were bare in patches.

  Leaves crunched underfoot. The vegetation curled into yellow corkscrews. Fruit bulged from the floor like zits. Occasionally, one erupted in a foam of fermented bubbles.

  Bei dropped onto a stool. “Can you unlock Doc?”

  Nell’s heart thumped inside her chest. Her husband must be very ill. He never asked for help. Never. She squeezed his hand. “Will you…”

  “I can hold it together.” NDA enveloped him in a silver full body suit. “I’ve patched my software.”

  Patched but not fixed. That was her job. She had the cure inside her. She would heal him. Slowly, she slid her fingers from between his. She inched her palm across his until just their fingertips touched. Her hand shook.

  He rocked side to side.

  If she let go, would he dissolve?

  He took the decision away from her. Lowering his arms to the table, he clasped his hands until they formed a solid lump.

  Nell jogged around the table and drew up short.

  Doc lay in a puddle of his own NDA. His steel-colored skeleton looked better on a Terminator than her friend. Black buboes clung like barnacles to the remaining paper-thin layer of armor. His heart beat within the cage of his ribs.

  She crouched near the lip of the puddle. The buttons to unlock his body were wired to the sides of his scapula. She blocked out the warmth seeping into her trousers and set her hands on his chest. NDA poured from her fingers and ran like melted frosting over his torso. “Doc, you’ve kinda let yourself go to pieces since Davena left.”

  She leaned on the buttons.

  With a faint click, Doc relaxed. Silver skated over his frame, crept up his arms and down his legs. He wiggled the tools marking the tips of his fingers. “I would say Davena’s ruined me for other women, but I can see the right one will fix me up again.”

  Nell groaned. “You should leave the bad jokes to me.”

  “And she’s the right woman for me, not you.” Bei fished in the packages on the table before extracting a wafer-thin battery. “Now, did we bring the Plague here, or did our defective instruments overlook it?”

  Doc’s silver hands patted hers. “I’ve patched my software.” He swayed when he sat up, steadied himself, then crawled toward the table. “I don’t know how fubared our instruments are, but yes we brought the Plague here. The fermites fixed it.” He slapped the stool and dragged himself up. “They might even have improved the disease by making it more virulent.”

  “An improvement is adding extra cream to a donut, not making something more deadly.” Nell pushed up her sleeve. Her veins and arteries pulsed pink and robin’s egg blue under her glowing skin. “Pick a vein, any vein, draw some blood and win a prize. The ultimate prize—a cure for what ails you.”

  Bei tucked the battery under his liquified NDA. The wafer-shape floated up his arm. “Perhaps you should sit down. It might calm you.”

  “Not gonna happen.” She circled the table. Energy writhed inside her, tested the boundaries of her skin, and threatened to break free.

  Doc fumbled with a butterfly needle. He freed a coil of tubing from its crinkly packaging and fed it into the medical analyzer. “Ready.”

  She plopped onto the stool next to him and stretched out her arm. “Ready.”

  He uncapped the needle.

  She looked to the left. A fat strawberry rotted in a pool of crimson. “Anyone notice that the fermites don’t seem to be working?”

  “Yes.” Bei scratched the liquid silver skin between his shoulder-blades. “They did not flow between our linked hands like they did when we
first landed.”

  The hair on her arm stood tall. Her skin prickled.

  Doc touched the needle to her arm. Light burst from her skin, hitting him square in the chest, and flattening him across the stools. His NDA splattered the table, floor and her. Blue arced across his teeth. “Shit!”

  “Oh!” Nell slapped her hand to her mouth. She’d forgotten Davena’s warning. “I’m so sorry. I’ll take the sample.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she corralled the scattered armor and ordered it back on the doctor.

  Bei rolled his eyes and held out his hand for the syringe. “I’ll take it. You keep turning your head when the needle pierces your skin.”

  “He’s right.” Shaking his head, Doc clawed upright then passed the needle to her husband. “I should go check on the others.” He pushed to his feet then collapsed again. “In a minute or three.”

  “I’ll check ‘em once Bei collects the sample.” Nell angled her arm at her husband.

  “At least we know your fermites are still protecting you.” Her husband set his elbow on the table to steady his hand.

  “So they’re not there just to make me glow?” Biting her lip, she looked away from his wobbly hand. “But they’re not working right. I touched you both. I wanted to heal you, save you, like I did with the boy who was clobbered by the basket of corn. The fermites didn’t work. My brain box didn’t work. If it wasn’t for my NDA magic, I would think my circuits overloaded with too much freak.”

  “You don’t have circuits.” Bei caressed the inside of her wrist.

  Tingles rocketed up her arm. Good tingles. Bei-induced tingles. She relaxed.

  Doc shifted the analyzer toward him and powered it on. “And I don’t think freak has ever been quantified. How could you have too much?”

  The needle pinched her skin. She held her breath as the burn dissipated. “You weren’t around during the Nineteen-Eighties—Hair bands, Valley-speak, and MTV. Freak was not just quantified; it was marketed.”

  Bei’s finger skimmed the inside of her wrist. “Relax.”