Derelict: Tomb (Derelict Saga Book 2)

by Paul E. Cooley

  When they reached the credenza corner, Dickerson took point while Carb got an angle on the open door at the end of the hall. The doorway was a meager meter and half wide, just enough room to fit a gurney or stretcher, but even through the relatively small space, Dickerson could see the devastation beyond.

  “On approach,” Dickerson said into his mic.

  “Copy,” Carb said.

  He crouch-walked as fast as the mag-boots would let him. The right side of the room came into view slowly. “On low right angle.”

  “High left angle,” she said.

  Carb would be a meter or two behind him, standing tall, and covering anything that might approach him from the left side. “Large room. Looks very different when lit up,” he said.

  “Copy that,” Carb said. “See all that shit floating?”

  “The stuff we didn’t notice when the lights were off? Yeah,” he said, stifling his gorge, “I see it.”

  The bodies weren’t the only things floating in the room. Someone had savaged at least one of the corpses, dragging their offal out of the body and leaving it to drift around the room. Fortunately, the freezing temperature had turned the guts into a solid mass. Unfortunately for them, the room was heating up. He just hoped that shit wouldn’t thaw before they got out of here.

  When he reached the doorway itself, he spoke into his mic. “Move up.”

  Although atmosphere was filling the medical bay, his suit kept him from hearing Carb’s movements, much less the sound of his own mag-boots. He thought about turning on the suit’s environmental audio hookups, but decided against it; he didn’t want to be distracted by the sound of those bodies bumping off the walls.

  He scanned the room for pinecones. As when they searched it before, he didn’t see any. “Clear right.”

  “Clear left.”

  “Entering the room,” Dickerson said. He stood from the floor and walked in, pointing his rifle left and then right. “Clear,” he called. The adrenaline dump through his bloodstream had left him ragged and his nerves sizzling. When the crash finally came, it was going to be a bad one.

  He turned to look at the wall next to the door and froze. “Jesus,” he breathed.

  Carb entered the room. “What?” He pointed to the wall and she followed his gaze. “What in the fuck happened here?”

  Scrawled on the wall in thick messy lines, someone had written “HUMANKIND’S END!” The artist had used a palette of blood for color and a severed hand for a brush.

  “Fireteam. Status?” Kali asked over the squad channel.

  Dickerson said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. Elliott certainly didn’t need to hear about this shit.

  “Boss, we’re clear in here,” Carb said. “Multiple casualties. Also, some messages.”

  Messages. Yeah, she was right about that. The artist hadn’t merely scrawled the two words. On the adjacent wall, behind three floating corpses, lines and lines of bloody words covered the steel. Dried and frozen, they would stay there for eternity.

  “Messages?” Kali asked. “Send me a feed.”

  “Done, Boss,” Carb said.

  Dickerson ignored the wall of mad writing and symbols and stared at the metal table in the back corner. “Shit,” he said. “Carb?”

  “What?” He couldn’t see her turn around, but he heard her breath catch. “Is that what I think it is?”

  The autopsy table didn’t have a body, exactly. Instead, the gleaming steel surface held a chest. The head, arms, and legs were missing. A long hook-and-loop fastener strapped the remains to the table. Next to it, covered in blood, was a pinecone, its bulbous body secured the same way. Only it wasn’t a pinecone anymore.

  The creature’s exterior had been cracked open, probably with a surgical vibro-blade, and peeled back. Small chips of what looked like metal floated in the air above the table. The pinecone’s “bottom” looked like something he’d seen before, but couldn’t place. It reminded him again of the Dallas Aquarium. The tanks that held the few surviving crustacean and cephalopod species kept bouncing in his thoughts. The claw, though, was downright terrifying.

  The pinecone thing’s claw had three toes, each looked razor sharp and made of some kind of alloy. Now that he could look at one of the things in the light, he was convinced it was something biological, despite its metal-like surface and the fact it could survive a vacuum and the absolute zero temperature of deep space.

  “How the hell does it move?” he asked aloud.

  “Who cares,” Carb said. “As long as we know how to kill them, that’s all that matters.”

  “Did they drag that thing out of that, that chest?”

  “Don’t know,” Carb said.

  He turned to her. It was maddening not being able to see the expression on her face. “I feel like we should get out of here,” Dickerson said. “Screw the mission.”

  She nodded. “Copy that,” she said. “I hope we vaporize this ship with nukes.”

  He stepped away from the table, unable to look anymore. The sight of that thing, its outer shell peeled back revealing its inner workings, was making him ill. More so than even the hollowed-out chest sitting next to it. Dickerson examined the desk in the corner and found a holo-terminal. The projectors were smashed. There was no way he was going to be able to connect to it.

  “Corporal?”

  “Go,” she said.

  “The only terminal in here has been destroyed. I don’t see any other comms devices. What do you want us to do?”

  “Secure that room if you can. I want those doors closed,” Kali said. “I saw the feed and I want that room quarantined.”

  “Aye, Corporal,” Dickerson said. “Carb? Let’s get the door down. I don’t ever want to come back in here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Gunny wasn’t happy. He was pleased, for the most part, but not happy. The squad hadn’t managed to fuck things up too badly and the lines were mostly down and secure. Wendt had actually acted like a lance corporal for once and helped the young non-rates with both the lines and the harness fittings. Gunny wasn’t sure he could have done a better job himself.

  What he wasn’t happy about was the last line. Taulbee warned them there was more of that acid shit back there. That meant he’d have to fly slow and careful and keep his squad on their toes. His non-rates were tired. Hell, he was tired. Fatigue had an undeniably deleterious effect on performance and diligence.

  After they’d placed the thrusters and Taulbee had towed them in, they’d had a total of thirty minutes outside their suits. Wendt had made sure the rest of the squad reloaded their air, their liquids, consumed some protein, and rechecked their suits. Gunny had supervised with his usual dour expression, but he’d been shocked at how easily Wendt had transformed himself from a jackass into the experienced marine he actually was. There was hope, after all.

  A thirty-minute respite from hours of a suit’s stifling silence, the beat of your own heart pulsing in your ears, and the disorientation of weightlessness wasn’t much of a break. Placing the last line wasn’t even the end of this phase of their task either. They still had to wait for the nannies to finish coalescing, make sure they knew what to do, and then lock S&R Black into the harness. Each of those steps involved troubleshooting, walking carefully, and doing your best not to fall through fragmented decking.

  Two privates, one PFC, one disgraced lance corporal, and one pissed off and tired Gunnery Sergeant floated atop the most famous, and infamous, ship in human history. What could go wrong?

  “Finish that line yet?” Gunny called out.

  Wendt’s voice came back immediately, although Gunny had said it over the squad channel. “Aye, Gunny. Just placed it. Should be getting the signal any second.”

  Sure enough, his HUD lit with a new status message from the harness. Gunny grunted. “Good job, marines. Get your asses back here on the skiff. This is going to be a long haul.”

  “Aye, Gunny,” Wendt said. He and his fireteam mate, Private Lyke, started their long ma
g-walk back to the spindle. Gunny watched their lights dance in the distance.

  “Gunny?” PFC Copenhaver asked over the private comms.

  Gunny raised an eyebrow. Talking to him over private? That was something new. “Go,” he said.

  She stood by the spindle, one hand mag-locked to its side, her head pointed at the status panels. “Nannies are coalescing again. Looks like the hive has increased by another 15%.”

  “Copy,” he said.

  “But...”

  He rolled his eyes. “What is it, PFC?”

  “Sorry, Gunny. This last line? We’re going to have to drag it carefully. If we shred it, it looks like the nannies won’t be able to do their jobs properly.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. He fought the sinking feeling in his stomach. “We should have enough redundancy to more than make up for any loss.”

  “I don’t think so, Gunny,” she said. “If we were towing something half of Mira’s mass, I’d agree. But I don’t think we have enough lines for this monster.”

  Cursing, he connected to Black. “You monitoring the comms, Black?”

  “Of course,” the AI replied. “PFC Copenhaver is correct, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  He blew a hiss through his teeth. “And why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “The fact is,” the AI said, “we do have enough redundancy to manage a slow burn tow. We do not, however, have enough line to recover from evasive maneuvers.”

  Growling inside his helmet, he connected to Dunn. “Sir?”

  “Copy, Gunny. Go.”

  “Black just informed us we will have to be very careful with this tow, sir.”

  Dunn paused. “Oakes, Nobel, and I came to the same conclusion, Gunny. Not much we can do about it. What’s your status?”

  “Sir, my marines are walking back to the skiff. I’m going to leave Copenhaver and Murdoch here to watch the spindle and take Wendt and Lyke for the last line. Over.”

  “ETA?” the captain asked.

  “They should be back here in 2 minutes. Unless I find some serious obstacles in our way, we should be able to get to the last mount-point pretty quick, sir.”

  “Good,” Dunn said. He paused for a moment. When he spoke again, he sounded grim. “Gunny? Take your time. You know why.”

  “Aye, sir. I do. Cartwright out.”

  You know why. Yeah. He did. The captain didn’t want to say it and Gunny didn’t want to hear it. Take your time. Because regardless of how soon the KBO would enter the area and smash both S&R Black and Mira to pieces, Dunn didn’t want another marine to die on the ghost ship’s hull. Gunny didn’t want that either.

  The lights from Wendt’s and Lyke’s suits were closer now. When he’d told Dunn two minutes, he was stretching the estimate; the two marines would be back on the skiff in thirty seconds.

  “Copenhaver,” he said over the squad comms, “you and Murdock are going to babysit the spindle. You will make damned sure you scream out if something goes wrong. Understood?”

  Both Copenhaver and Murdock answered with affirmatives.

  Gunny looked up at Wendt as he approached. “About time you two got back here,” he said.

  “Aye, Gunny,” Wendt said. “Lyke is slow as shit.”

  “Shut up, Wendt,” Lyke said.

  “Leave your marital spat for back on Black. Wendt? Grab the last line. Lyke? Take the gun and be ready to help Wendt with any problems. This is going to be a long hike. No fuck ups. Understood?”

  “Aye, Gunny,” Wendt said. After a few seconds, Lyke replied as well.

  Through his rear suit cam, he watched Wendt step around the skiff to the spindle. He mag-locked a glove on the line and began pulling it to the skiff’s rear. A moment later, Wendt stood. “All good, Gunny.”

  “Better be,” he said, “or I’ll have you scrubbing the ship on our way back to Neptune. Now get in.”

  Wendt said nothing, climbed into the skiff near the line attachment, and faced the rear. “I’m ready, Gunny.”

  “Gunny to Taulbee, over.”

  “Taulbee here. I’m on my way back with a little surprise.”

  Gunny frowned. He wished the captain hadn’t told the lieutenant he could go treasure hunting. If anything went wrong, Taulbee needed to be on the spot in a heartbeat, like he was with Niro. Not that that had helped much.

  The private had stepped in the glistening liquid on the hull and lost one of his legs to what appeared to be some kind of acid. The boy’s suit had finally come apart when they tried to use the line gun to retrieve him. He hadn’t survived the trip back to S&R Black, although Taulbee had tried to save him. Don’t forget, he told himself. You tried to save him too.

  Gunny touched the throttle. Compressed nitrogen puffed from the rear jets and the skiff crawled forward, its bottom a mere meter from Mira’s hull.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave Copenhaver and Murdock back at the spindle. He’d wanted them aboard the skiff and helping him spot hazards along the way. But someone needed to stay behind in case the spindle stopped responding to block commands or something else happened to one of the placed lines. He sure as shit wasn’t going to leave a lone marine back there, especially a PFC or a private.

  Besides, Copenhaver was capable. Green, but capable. She’d manage things, even if Murdock was a near hopeless cause. Gunny grunted. When he got their asses back to Neptune, everyone, and that meant everyone in the goddamned Company except for the officers, was going to go through a little mag-boot boot camp. He’d find a way to make these marines into something useful. Somehow.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The medical bay was warm enough. 5°C would have to do because she was afraid to wait any longer. Elliott’s blood pressure was dangerously low and he continued flitting in and out of consciousness. Shock was killing him.

  After calling in, it took Carbonaro and Dickerson less than two minutes to get back to the examination and medical room. Kali felt shaky after what she’d seen through their feeds. She didn’t want to read the words they’d seen on the wall, but she knew that, eventually, she would. If they ever managed to connect with Black again, she was going to make sure everything in that room was fed directly to the AI. Someone on Trident Station needed to figure out what happened here.

  When the two marines walked in the doorway, the shakes in her hands departed at once. Being here, being alone, even with Elliott next to her, was terrifying. Her imagination kept running a horror holo through her mind complete with schools of pinecones and dismembered bodies. She wasn’t sure she’d ever sleep again.

  Kali opened the autodoc. “Carb. Help me get him out of the suit. Dickerson? You’re the guard.”

  “Aye, Corporal,” he said.

  Carb stepped to Elliott’s floating body. The two women pulled until his feet were flat on the floor. While Kali held him still, she connected to Elliott’s block and sent an override command. The suit vibrated as it depressurized.

  The visor and helmet opened revealing Elliott’s pale skin and bluish lips. The cold air hit him and he began to shiver. “Hurry,” Kali said.

  Depressurized, the suit lost its rigidity. Carb peeled the suit down to the waist and freed his uninjured arm. She reached into her belt and removed a vibro-blade, thumbed the handle, and the sharpened Atmo-steel wavered like heat haze. Carb delicately and carefully cut the suit to free the partially dismembered arm. As soon as she reached the suit clamp that had functioned as a tourniquet, fresh beads of blood bubbled from the wound and floated to the ceiling.

  “This is going to hurt, Elliott,” Carb said. “Ready?” He nodded. “On three,” she said and ripped the cap off the dismembered arm. Elliott’s mouth opened in a scream, but no one heard it through their suits. More blood bubbled out from the wound.

  Kali placed the silently shrieking Elliott into the autodoc and closed the transparent top. Straps slid out and locked him to the doc’s metal slab. A warm blue light shot across his body as the device scanned him for injury. It immediately found the amputation poi
nt and a steel spider rolled out of the wall. One leg held a syringe that pulled blood from his body while another waited with a different syringe. As soon as a few milliliters appeared in the tube, the machine paused for an eye-blink before the other syringe dropped and pumped fresh blood into his system.

  Another leg unfolded and swung over to the maimed limb. A bright blue line appeared before a pair of metal claws and then it raced over the stump. Kali was glad she couldn’t hear Elliott’s screams, but they lasted only a second or two before his body completely relaxed. A line of curly smoke rose from the cauterized limb.

  Swarms of bio-nannies appeared through the pores on his arms and legs, racing to a spot a few centimeters from Elliott’s left shoulder. They quickly disappeared. New swarms trickled and then swept over his body like a plague before burying themselves in the same fashion the others had departed.

  A holo-display fired to life above the autodoc. Blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, blood type, blood oxygen level, bio-nannie statuses... Her lips twitched into a brief smile.

  The doc was replenishing everything. Now that the stump had been treated properly, drugs injected, and essential fluids replaced, Elliott was going to make it at least until they got him off this hulk. She imagined the blood was synthetic and the new bio-nannies would use it until Elliott’s organs caught up and could handle the strain on their own.

  The one thing he needed that he couldn’t get was rest. As soon as they had him back in his suit, they could-- Oh, shit. The suit. She looked down at the tattered remains. When Carb had cut off the sleeve, she’d effectively rendered the suit useless. They’d have to find him a new one.

  “Carb? Dickerson?” she said over private comms. “We have a problem. Elliott won’t have a suit.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Shit,” Carb said. “There’s no airlock here. We’d have to depressurize the medical bay to go find one.”

  “Dammit,” Dickerson said. “What about the autodoc? Is it pressure safe?”

  Kali consulted the autodoc’s diagnostics. As she remembered, it had a pressure fault. She selected the report and scanned it. “Okay. The autodoc will have pressure and atmosphere for a short time. However, the CO2 filters are leaking.”