Carrier

by Timothy Johnson

  "Like you helped Tom get a weapon?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "When we got back to Earth, I was going to have his leg replaced, and I was going to get him alcoholism counseling. I have no idea where he got the gun. Maybe he brought it on board with him. Have you noticed, for a security department, you're pretty lax on security? I mean, you didn't even ask for my weapon."

  She led him downward with her eyes. Her sidearm sat casually in her hand, the barrel pointing at his abdomen. He'd allowed her free hand to retrieve her weapon. Rage had made him sloppy.

  As she pressed her weapon into his rib cage, Stellan begrudgingly released her and backed away, expecting her to finish the job she'd sent Tom to do. She rubbed her neck and breathed deeply, coughing. Her face returned to its natural color.

  "If I'd wanted you dead, I could have killed you anytime I pleased. You know this. Believe it or not, I'm here to help because, for the time being, we have a common interest in survival." She holstered her weapon. "You know, you sure have an interesting way of greeting people."

  "What do you want?"

  "The Pandora Protocol was never designed to work with so little support. Putting so many people into so few zones is only going to exacerbate the problem. You have to stop the Captain."

  "It's already done," Stellan said. "All the quarantine zones except for the cargo bay have checked in."

  Troubled by this news, she retreated into thought, pinching her bottom lip and staring into nothing.

  "The whole ship's locked down," Stellan said, "which you should know, although it doesn't seem to be hindering your ability to move around."

  She emerged from her thoughts with a mischievous smile. "This is going to escalate. The captain is holding onto the illusion that he has control, but it's already beyond his grasp. As he loses it, he's going to squeeze harder, and it's going to flow between his fingers like water," she clenched her fist and put it on display. "He's very stubborn, and people are going to die."

  "I doubt that concerns you."

  "No," she said. "It doesn't, but if we don't fix our problems, we'll never get back to Earth. He won't let us."

  She'd thought further ahead than he had. Stellan's problem had always been seeing past failure and into contingency. He'd not doubted that, if Daelen was right about the infection, they would be able to wrestle it under control, and he'd not yet seen how fast it could spread. He'd not considered just how contagious the plague that they carried was. In the worst case, he knew what Skinner said was true. Pierce wouldn't let anyone leave.

  "What do you suggest?"

  "This quarantine was premature, but it has to work. Some have to remain uninfected. There have to be survivors. Returning home is contingent on convincing Pierce there's a reason to bring people home. You have to figure out a way to test for who's infected. Then isolate the ones who are from the ones who aren't."

  "And the infected?"

  She raised her eyebrows as if the answer was obvious, as if they weren't worth her time to discuss, and then she started to back away.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Stellan said, raising his weapon. She showed her hands but continued backing away.

  "Save who you can. There's something I need to take care of."

  "What's that?"

  "Call it insurance. A failsafe."

  Stellan felt her slipping through his fingers. He wouldn't shoot her because he had more questions now than he did before, and if he killed her, they might never be answered. Even worse, if he killed her and it turned out that she was telling the truth, he might even have felt guilty. He wanted to pull the trigger, but something told him that, if he did, he'd regret it.

  "How do I know I can trust you?" he asked.

  "I never wanted harm to come to anyone. I'm not evil. Though I will do what I think is necessary. This mission is perhaps the most important one I've ever taken. It's why I chose this ship and why I chose you. I knew from the first time we met that you were my best chance at success. As I said, you're a survivor."

  "You're not convincing me."

  "Nothing in life is certain," she said. "You play the odds and stack the cards in your favor when you can. You're going to have to decide for yourself whether it's worth the risk."

  Adelynn retreated into the shadows, and Stellan let her go.

  Five

  Now operating automatically, the tram whirred into the station, and Stellan looked to the front cab, waiting for the operator to stick his head out the window to make sure everyone boarded safely. He alone walked through the parting doors, and no one made sure his heels cleared the gap before the doors closed again.

  He rode the tram across the ship, and it stunned him how spacious the car felt with no other passengers. He'd made a similar trip during what should have been his sleep cycle before docking at the Shiva, and he'd been thankful for the silence and solitude and absence of bodies. Now, he would have taken even bloodstains. Any signs of humanity would have been better than the total absence of life. Knowing the horror was real would have been better than waiting for it and fearing it. At least then he could do something.

  Exiting the tram, his footsteps echoed in the halls. With no one to disturb it, dust already hung in the air and settled on the flat surfaces of the empty station manager's booth and terminal. Overhead lamps flickered on and warmed as he approached. Other lights were dark, detecting no occupancy. Each door he passed through required authorization with his link, and on the other side, he found more nothing. Everywhere were the signs of desolation.

  He walked into the security deck and found the signs of negligence even there. It was more of a feeling, like the whole world had moved on and left him alone with the emptiness and the darkness beyond the Atlas' hull. All his men were stationed around the ship at quarantine zones, watching the entrances and reinforcing the locked doors with their weapons, as if the message hadn't been delivered with relentless clarity.

  Stellan walked past the empty desks, which his men would use for terminal access in filing reports. Most people didn't realize the administrative duties that came with the security post. Even the most mundane events required reporting. They were required to keep journals and note everything they observed. Stellan didn't look forward to having to document the quarantine, and he was sure much would be left out simply from inability to recall. Maybe part of them would be unwilling to remember.

  He entered his office and thought his workstation had never looked so lonely. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat there to file a report, and he wished for those times when the monotony of documentation was a task on a to-do list rather than a suspended formality. Nevertheless, he hoped to have the time later, down the road when things returned to normal.

  Flipping through windows on his terminal, he was almost unaware of what he was doing. He wondered if he even wanted to know whether Skinner told the truth. No one liked the feeling of waning belief, and if they weren't on the right path, he feared it might already have been too late.

  He found the surveillance files on the Atlas' server and navigated back to the date and time of the fire incident in the water facility. When he found it, he gazed at the file for a moment, feeling something like fear. He almost didn't open it because some part of him argued it would be a waste of time. He already knew he'd find Adelynn Skinner, and then he'd admonish himself once again for letting her go. She'd been so cool when she lied to him. He envied her for that ability.

  Yet, she'd been waiting for him. Stellan had no illusion that she allowed him to find her.

  He opened the file and watched the screen. The perfect clarity of the digital transmission did the water's dancing reflections justice. He thought about the calm and serenity of that place, the organic effect of the water, its purity.

  Realizing he hadn't sat down since beginning quarantine, he zoned out. Exhaustion pulled on his mind, so he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. When he regained his focus on the screen, he saw a dark figure, rays of light dancing on baggy pants, a downcas
t head, and hunched shoulders. Excited fingers struck a match, and the flame illuminated the face of Edward Stone, dancing in his wondrously mad eyes. He held the match out with a pinch and then dropped it into the accelerant. The ENV suit burst into flames, whiting out the sensitive sensor in the camera.

  When the camera adjusted, it showed Edward casually turn, place his hands in his pockets, and walk away, his lips puckered into a whistle Stellan could not hear on the video feed.

  Stellan closed the file in disbelief. He had been so sure Skinner had started that fire to distract him. She'd done that to get at Tom, so she could give him the gun, which he'd used to try to kill Stellan.

  As Pierce had said, people see coincidence and try to derive meaning. All of his preconceived notions about her came crashing down. He'd been wrong.

  With renewed anger, Stellan remembered Edward was in a holding cell, so he stood and walked to the door that led to the holding room. He waved his link over the holographic lock and stepped inside. He found Doug watching over Jude Washington, Elias Robichaud, and Robt Mathers, problems Stellan had forgotten about seemingly ages ago. Stellan and Doug regarded each other with a nod in the dim room.

  On the end of the row of cells, Edward wept in a corner, the pain of his injuries consuming his sanity one thought at a time. Stellan didn't care, mostly because Adelynn had been right that Edward wasn't worth it, but seeing the other prisoners made Stellan remember what was important.

  He hoped he would have time later, when things returned to normal, to sort things out with Edward. For now, these three men had his attention. They stood in the center of their cells, staring out murderously. In their gaze, Stellan found emptiness, like a blackness that covered malice. He saw it in their unflinching, stone stares. They all looked at him the same way, as if they had all the time in the world to kill him. They eyed him unafraid, pupils swallowing irises.

  Seeing them, Stellan knew there had been no mistake, and Daelen was right. Something was consuming his crew. All remaining doubt evaporated, and he had no idea what they were going to do.

  "How long have they been statues?" Stellan asked.

  "I picked 'em up like that," Doug said. "You push 'em, and they move. Otherwise, they just stand there, like they're tuning into something or trying to find a connection. Somethin' ain't right upstairs." Doug tapped his temple and then banged on the cell bars. The only prisoner who moved was Edward, who shrieked but never left the comfort of his fetal position on his cot.

  "I think Jude tried to bite me," Doug said.

  "Did he?"

  "No."

  Stellan's heart sank to see Jude in such a condition. The other two were not so familiar to him. At first, he couldn't quite place their faces, but as he looked at them staring back, images of the gunfight with Tom played in his mind. He remembered his hand acting on its own and his eyes never leaving his target. He remembered the sounds of the cracking guns, and he remembered the blood. There was so much of it. It sprayed everywhere, covering the bar and several faces behind Tom.

  And as if someone placed the images in front of him, those faces became clear.

  "My God," Stellan said.

  "What?"

  "Where's Floyd?"

  "Still guarding that door, like you told him to."

  "We might need his administrative skills after all."

  Stellan realized, when he shot Tom, the back spray had covered others. And he remembered them one at a time. Jude was there, but so were Robichaud and Mathers. Daelen said the infection was probably a pathogen, which meant Tom's blood would have carried the contagion. They would need to find out who those people had contact with by tracking their links during the past few hours since Tom died. Even though Stellan had no idea how this infection worked or how communicable it was beyond Daelen's theories, he had to try. If Skinner was right and the quarantine would inevitably fail, it was his best option.

  Looking into the murderous gazes of the men in his holding cells, Stellan realized he wasn't waiting for the horror. It was already there, and he felt powerless, knowing it had snuck up on them, using their own fear and skepticism of the black madness as camouflage.

  Space hadn't warped these men's minds. Stellan couldn't even be sure they still were men. However, there was one thing he knew with certainty. These men were no longer his friends.

  Six

  All his life, Floyd Coulson's mind had wandered. When he was young, his doctors had prescribed him medication to help him maintain his focus through school, and until he'd finished, moved out of his parents' home, and officially became a man, he took them. Then he stopped because he liked letting his mind run free. It allowed him to tap into his creativity. Unfortunately, he found he lacked the drive to make use of it, but he didn't care. He was happier. He was the person he was meant to be.

  So as he stood guard of the door to the room on the reactor deck in which the body had been found, his mind wandered from the boredom. He thought about writing a book. And he thought about sleep. He thought about it more these days. It was the ultimate way to let his mind go. To dream was sweet and warm, like his mother's potato and dumpling stew.

  She'd used the old-fashioned rolling pin to flatten the dough. He remembered the sound it made as it crossed the countertop in their country kitchen. It was a soft rumbling, and it sounded wet when the air bubbles snapped and popped under the rolling pin. Over and over, she'd beat the dough, and he remembered he loved the surprise the best. You'd never know if you'd get a soft potato or a chewy dumpling until your teeth clamped down.

  Floyd realized he'd closed his eyes and had almost fallen asleep standing up. The onset of another dream moved into his mind like a passing cloud. The sound of that rolling pin was in his ears.

  He slapped himself in the face, and after the ringing vanished from his ear, the wet rolling sound remained. It took a moment for him to realize the sound was coming from behind him, beyond the closed hatch door, in the room where the reactor coupling was. In the room with the disemboweled dead body.

  Floyd pressed his ear against the door. It was cold, but he could hear the sliding sound better. It was low, on the deck, and then he picked up on two syncopated taps on the deck before each wet sliding sound. A rubbing accompanied the sound, as well, like dragging boots on the floor.

  At this thought, he jumped away. There were only two boots in that room as far as he knew, and Stellan had assured him they weren't going anywhere.

  Floyd reached for the door latch. He had to know what the sound was, and even as his mind wandered and the sound grew louder, he knew. But it was impossible. Even his wandering, open mind would not accept it. Because it wasn't possible.

  The sound grew louder, and he moved closer. He never felt so foolish in his life. Still, he inched along, dragging his paralyzed body.

  A window leaped from his link, and Stellan's face greeted him in holographic glow.

  "Floyd, how's it going down there?"

  "Fine," Floyd said with a relieved sigh. "Just fine." The sliding sound ceased.

  "I'm going to need you back up here. We've almost got quarantine established, but there's something else I need your help on."

  "Okay. What about the stiff?"

  "It's not going anywhere, and soon, there won't be anyone left out of quarantine to disturb it," Stellan said. "Just get up here." Stellan's face shrank into Floyd's link.

  Uncertain, yet still curious, he reached for the door and stopped with his hand outstretched.

  "You're being silly," he said aloud. He wasn't sure, however, if it was the fear or the simple knowledge that, if he opened the door, there would be blood, but his hand fell upon the manual locking lever. He pulled it down, and something within the bulkhead wall boomed like a giant gavel.

  Wiping his brow, he started back toward the tram, which would take him to the security deck. A few steps later, the sliding sound returned, and Floyd stopped and listened. He ran for the first time in years when he heard the pounding at the base of the door.
r />   Seven

  There's a space between sleep and consciousness where dreams overlap reality. Some call it "protoconsciousness," the waking brain beginning to process the real world again. Hypnotists claim it is where they take their subjects to exercise the power of suggestion.

  When Wendy awoke on the medical deck, her abdomen still burning from the gunshot wound and the surgery, she thought she was in that place, still sensing her dreams but otherwise conscious and aware, her imagination painting pictures over the real world, her mind creating sounds her ears didn't hear.

  She thought she heard a scream, and in the low, ambient glow of the nearby medical terminal, she couldn't tell where it came from. The light in the hallway outside her room filtered through the frosted glass that surrounded the door on the far wall, but it wasn't enough to discern the origin of the voice. Surely, the fogginess of the sound meant it was outside of her room, or it was just in her mind.

  Wendy tried to sit up but was only able to make it halfway with her elbows supporting her like shaky pillars.

  "Hello?" she called. "Is somebody hurt?"

  For a moment, she heard no response. The dead air hung audible like static, and she had enough time to doubt herself again and nearly drift back to sleep before another scream pierced her ears, creating an unmistakable sense of urgency that shot through her body like electricity. The lingering cloud of sleep melted away enough to know for sure that the voice was not in her mind.

  The remainder of her consciousness sprang into awareness. Her eyes darted around the room, searching. She found the strength to sit fully upright. She listened.

  A pair of feet padded rapidly outside her door. Through the frosted glass on the far wall, she saw a dark shape hurry past. And then she heard a gasp and the squeal of shoes as they slid across the deck. She presumed the series of knocks she heard were the sounds of joints on the human body slamming against the deck. She heard scuffling as that body struggled to rise.

  The voices silenced, and she sensed a moment of terror but not her own. Wendy was afraid, but through the silence, she felt a strong, vicarious fear. The person who ran past her room panicked.