“Luka, no...”
On hearing my voice, Luka snaps out of whatever reverie held him. The euphoria seems to fade, but the flushed, hale, and hearty appearance of his skin remains. He seems almost to glow, a picture of perfect health for now, in spite of the bloody, small holes punched everywhere through his clothes.
The others stand beside me as Birka says, "It appears more than bullets will be required to put down the Revenants. Come on, let's get to the computer, or whatever it is. Perhaps we'll find an answer to that question, as well. I have to imagine that someone as cautious as Dawson, and with his attention to detail, would know of a way to prevent his weapons from being used against him before he would ever put them into the field like this."
That makes sense. I stride toward the double doors, place my hands on the two handles, and take a deep breath before I fling them both open and crouch, reaching for my blades. I needn't have bothered, however, because the only thing beyond the doors is a ten-foot corridor that ends in another set of doors. Oddly, a faint breeze blows in my face, though it quickly fades.
I glance over my shoulder, but Luka and Birka both merely shrug. I move on to the second set, the scuffle of feet behind me confirming the others are right behind me. Before I reach them, the first set swings shut with a soft clang, and my ears immediately pop. I open and close my mouth to unpop them. Unequal pressure—that explains the breeze.
We repeat the process at the next set of doors, but this time, when I fling the doors open, there is no breeze and my ears don't pop. Hmm. This time, there's plenty to see beyond the doors. Garish, almost fluorescent purple-and-blue lights flood the room in a psychedelic light show. The blue ones I recognize as ultraviolet lights. Why would they need UV lights in here? I see no plants growing, no hydroponics—
I freeze as my gaze locks with a pair of eyes floating in a giant vat of murky, purple liquid. Eyes? As I stare, they seem to coalesce out of the murkiness. With dawning horror, I see what creature this is, though I don't recognize it. It has a face, vaguely human, but this floating creature's bulbous head is fully half the size of its withered, elongated body. It's arms and legs are also withered, but seem shrunken and misshapen.
"What the crap?" The gasps behind me, just before the others move in, tell me they don't know what this is, either. This monster in a giant fishbowl is beyond anything I've seen in even my worst nightmares.
I see additional details as the initial shock fades. At least a dozen tubes protrude from the thing's nose holes and various IV picks all over its body. Its skin is impossibly wrinkly, and it looks like bits and pieces are coming off it. That might even explain the water's murkiness... The pallid flesh shines bright with purple or blue, whichever light is striking a given spot. A larger tube extends from its mouth, the end shoved down its throat. The tube extends down to the vat's floor, where it coils before fading into the murk. The vat itself has to be at least twenty feet across, and maybe twelve feet from floor to ceiling.
Despite the horror show that is this creature and its environment, what strikes me hardest and stands out in a way I know I'll be seeing in nightmares are the thing's eyes. Those eyes... Where they should be white, they are the palest of blues, but those are human eyes. There is an intelligence behind them, and deep in my bones, I have a certainty that this thing is begging me to release it.
It wants to die.
I shake my head to clear the thought. That's impossible. Whatever alien creature or mutant this thing is, it's not human and it never was. I can't let that get in the way of our goal. "Enough sightseeing, let's—"
There's a tattoo on this thing's chest, right where the breastbone is, or should have been. Twin angelic wings extend to either side from the center, which is occupied by a heart. There's writing on the heart, as well, though I can't read it. It's been distorted.
Glenn must have come to the same conclusion I did at the same time, because his words echo my thoughts. "Oh my God, that thing, it was a man. It's human."
Birka steps up to the that glass, and I step aside to make room. She says, " A mentat... These things are taboo. Who would have done such a thing? What soulless monster did this?"
I get the impression she's talking to herself, so I don't interrupt to ask what a mentat is. As to who? Well, they enable slave trading, so why not break other taboos?
Ida squeaks and slaps both hands over her mouth in shock. "A mentat? Those are real?"
Birka nods. "You're looking at one, aren’t you? What else could it be?"
Luka steps into view. "Is this somehow relevant?" His voice is hard and callous. He’s back to his normal self. Well, normal since he came back to life, at least.
How he could ignore this thing—this man's—suffering is beyond me, and I glare at him.
He ignores me, too.
Birka turns to face him directly. Her voice goes up an octave as she says, "Don't use that tone with me, boy." She pauses, coughs into her hand like she's clearing her throat, then continues in a more normal voice. "I know you were being sarcastic, but the answer is yes. This thing is relevant. The blue lights around us are UV lights. They sterilize the environment, because mentats have suppressed immune systems. The purple lights, though, are no ordinary lights. Anyone with an ounce of magical sensitivity can feel the raw power emanating from those lights. I think this horrid mix of magic and science is the computer we are looking for. They wouldn’t go through the expense of maintaining a mentat otherwise. I don't know how it works, but I'm willing to bet they found a way to harness technology to access the data the mentat stores. Everyone, look for a computer terminal or radio, anything that looks like a way to communicate with this thing. I'm willing to bet that it's going to have purple wires coming off it."
Luka shrugs. "All those tubes coming off this monster—"
"It's one of us, not a monster, you petulant child."
"—have to come out of the tank somewhere. Find out where, follow the tubes." He stares at Birka staring at him, and shrugs again.
Birka spins on her heels, and without another word, begins to walk the tank's circumference. Glenn follows suit, and is the first to find something. "Over here, guys."
Letting out a deep breath, I rip my gaze away from the thing's... No, the poor man in the tank's... eyes and head over. A dozen or more tubes extend out from a special coupling in the tank’s wall and then spread out in all directions, running along the room’s walls. They glow purple, with sparkling flecks that look like glitter floating within. "A liquid?"
Birka says, "Yes, dear. Liquids are often the most stable medium in which to store magical power. Why else do you think potions are so prevalent in mortal folklore?"
Okay, good point. I follow one half of the tubes as they branch to my left. Then, they split in half again, three on top and three below. I follow the lower three as they run along the wall. Then, one branches off of the other two and goes straight down toward the floor, disappearing behind a small cabinet.
I open the cabinet, and inside sits a computer terminal of sorts. It looks like something out of a steampunk cartoon, though, full of transistors and so on, and the keyboard is definitely mechanical. It has all the normal letters and symbols, and a dozen others I don't recognize, as well. "Over here, I think I found it."
Birka steps up beside me and looks into the cabinet. "Yes, that is most definitely it. Does anyone know how to use this thing?"
"What, how to use a computer? That's not exactly a rare skill." Luka's tone is totally indifferent.
Birka sniffs, indignant. "Not just any computer, but this one. Look at it. It has buttons I've never seen before. They're not any of the four main magic transcription sets. Do any of you recognize the symbols?"
Four? I ignore my own curiosity and look around at the others, hoping someone has answers, but Birka's question is met with only silence. Apparently, no one else has a clue, either.
"Maybe there's a user guide," I reply lamely.
Chapter 14
Halfheartedly,
I begin searching for a printed reference manual. In all the movies, the doomsday device or whatever has a manual. Really, though, I'm at a loss as to what else to try. None of the reference books on the desk seem like they could be what I need, but even if I find one, we certainly don't have the time to study it well enough to hack into the system.
I head toward several small bookshelves standing near the tank, interspersed with tables full of gizmos and doodads the nature of which I couldn't guess. Some of the volumes stuffed into the shelves are simple binders full of printed materials, but after wasting a couple of minutes quickly skimming through them, none seem remotely relevant. "This is a lost cause."
Just as I finish saying that, I feel a thump inside my head, like someone striking bone hard enough to rattle my teeth. Half a second later, I realize that nothing physical has struck me, but it's a half second too late to avoid dodging reflexively and covering my head. I glance around, but no one seems to have noticed, since they're busy searching for a solution, too. Confused, I look around the room. It didn't feel like telepathy—I've been contacted that way before, and this wasn't that.
That's when I hear a bump on the tank's glass. When I look up, that bloated-yet-shriveled monstrosity in the tank is staring at me wide-eyed from not even a foot away. Did this thing try to attack me, somehow? Is that what hit me?
Then, it dawns on me that I feel utterly calm. No, that's not quite right... I want to feel calm. Do I, though? I'm still staring into fish-man's eyes, riveted, when it hits me. Those aren't my feelings at all. "Okay buddy, you have my oh-so-calm attention. What do you want?"
After a moment, I feel silly staring eye to eye with the poor man in the tank. Did I imagine it? I must have. What a silly notion, after all.
I turn to walk away and continue my search, but I'm overwhelmed with a sudden dread. And again, I have that impression that the feeling isn't mine. I turn back to him, but of course, he can't tell me what he wants.
Oh, how I wish I knew—
There's a connection in my brain, a sensation of someone else inside my head. This part is just like the telepathy I've experienced before. But why doesn’t he answer me? Perhaps he can't... Maybe the connection is deeper, somewhere below the level of language. If I'm not imagining all of this, I certainly feel primal emotions.
Relief. I feel a sense of deep relief. This time, however, I recognize instantly what the source of this feeling is. I stare into his eyes, those bulbous blue things, and will him to communicate, to tell me what he knows or what he wants. Not with words, but I imagine myself hurling my desire through the glass and straight into his brain.
The world around me vanishes. The only thing left are those eyes of his, those disturbing eyes. I don't think I'm really seeing them, either. Rather, this is just how my mind is manifesting the experience it's going through. I wonder how the pitiful creature in the tank sees me?
An image flashes through my mind, a picture of me. But it's not the me I see when I look in the mirror. This one is far more beautiful than I am. I could fall in love with that image of me—shame. I'm embarrassed. No, it—he, rather—is embarrassed. So, that's one of the perils of being connected on this level, I guess. I think I'm smiling in the real world. In our shared mind-world, or whatever this is, I only know that he senses my pleasure at his idealized view of me. I think I like this guy. It's too bad he’s stuck in a fish tank.
The world around goes darker still as, level by level, this man and I share a sort of mental embrace as our connection deepens. Somehow, I know that this is not his first time doing this, and he's the one guiding that connection. From a great distance, I hear my own voice softly say, "Tell me what you need."
Anger. I hate this tank, this prison I'm in. No, the prison he's in... I hate it. I hate what I've become. I know I'm a monster. I'll never leave here alive, and even if I could, how can I go back to my family looking like this? I'm a freak...
"No, you're a victim," I try to say, but what emerges from me is only a mashed up jumble of feelings. I've never done this before, this form of communication. I don't know how.
A terrible idea comes to me, then. Down to my core, I feel the depth of the poor man's desire to end his miserable existence. He wants to die, and in our connected state, I almost feel it as though it were my own emotion. It's hard to separate where I end and he begins. I think that, maybe on the primal level we are connected, the two of us are one and the same.
Yes, for goodness’ sake, yes. I stare into those eyes that I'm seeing only in my own mind and I commit every fiber of my being to ending his suffering before I leave.
I feel his doubt as though it were my own. Do I really mean that? Or am I merely trying to bargain to get what I want?
I mean it. Even though it's hard to separate my own determination from his doubt, I know who I am. I know what I would do. Yes, I'll kill you, whether you can help me or not. I know that I wouldn't want to live as this man is, and for once, his primal feeling and my own are in complete agreement.
And somehow, I feel a decision being made. He's making a decision, not me... But what were the choices? I need to know. I don't know why I feel such a burning need, but I think that if I'm going to kill him, if I'm going to end a man's life without being forced to do so to save my own, then he deserves for me to remember him, not by how he looked, but by who he was. Who he is.
There's a sensation in my consciousness that I don't recognize. The closest analogy I can come to is of the water in a kitchen sink when the plug is pulled, the vortex that forms. In this case, my mind is the drain and his knowledge is the water. Images flash by faster than I can track them, much less understand them. I don't know what I'm seeing, so much flows between us. Symbols, stars, numbers... Connections... The symbols are numbers. No, numbers are symbols. Just symbols. What's important is how they’re written, the concept they define. It's like that with the images flashing through me.
With a start, I realize these symbols are not the ones on the keyboard, but rather, the ones those keyboard pictographs define when put together in certain combinations... Words, that's what they are. These images are just the words that those symbols can construct, and it's those words that matter—not the "letters" that combine to relay them.
Pride. Satisfaction. These are the emotions I—we—experience together, even as he thinks them.
It's just too bad they're going by so quickly that I'll never remember those word-symbol concepts being sucked down the "mental vortex."
Abruptly, something hits me in the head. No, it's that same feeling as when the fish-man and I first began to connect, only this time, the sensation is like a mirror image. I blink, confused at what I'm saying. It's the real world, the world around us. I'm seeing it through my eyes, my eyes alone. And in this real world, I'm staring at the floor with a goofy look on my face, a bit of drool beginning to form on my bottom lip but not yet fallen.
Confused, I look into the tank for the thing I must kill, once a man. He is floating motionless at the dead center of all that goop, his eyes locked on to me. I don't have to share a connection with him to know exactly what he's thinking and feeling. Even bloated and disfigured as he is, his facial expression shouts grim resignation. He's ready to die.
"Ella, dammit, snap the hell out of it!" The volume in Luka's voice, bellowed from maybe a foot away from my ear, makes me cringe.
I turn on him, angry, but I'm not sure if it's him I am angry at or if the fire burning in my belly is because of what I must do. Before I have a chance to think it through, my hands streak to snatch his assault rifle, and in one movement, I spin and bring the barrel up toward the tank. I feel like I'm outside myself, watching as I bring the barrel up, the trigger mechanism creaking under the weight of my finger drawing it back. It's the point of no return.
Clack. Clack. Clack. The weapon's ejection port slams open from the force of a bullet's gas separating it from its cartridge, hard enough to strip that cartridge out and send it flying across the room. Springs inside forc
e it to slide forward again, stripping a round from the magazine and slamming it home in the chamber. It cycles through, repeating an identical process for each bullet, and Luka is so stunned that half the magazine vanishes through the ejection port in a series of tiny little fireballs before he can react.
When he does react, though, he's fast. Impossibly fast. I don't even have a chance to flinch as he comes at me before the weapon is ripped from my grasp. As he snatches it away, my trigger finger feels like it damn near comes off with it.
"What the hell, Ella?"
His voice is drowned out by the sound of the giant aquarium shattering and hundreds or thousands of gallons of viscous goo gushing out in a mini tidal wave that sloshes through the room with enough force that it almost knocks my feet out from under me. I grab the desk beside me in time to brace myself for the two seconds it takes the goo to evacuate the space once occupied by a tank. It's now several inches deep across the floor.
Almost in unison, Luka turns to look at my victim at the same time I do. That gigantic swollen head was an impossibly easy target...
There is a half-second of total silence, then the room erupts in the sound of almost half a dozen outraged voices all being raised at the same time. And I don't even care that they are all screaming at me, because I know something they don't. Now that my mind is back in the real world, the truth of what happened has become markedly clear—he didn't tell me what those symbols meant, he crammed them into my mind, stuffing them through my subconscious and into my conscious gray matter. It all happened so fast that my conscious mind couldn't keep up, but like a man who freezes at the sound of a gunshot only to realize a half-second later that it was a car backfiring, I now realize that I know what those symbols do and mean, how to read them, and most importantly, I know how to use them.
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