Derelict: Tomb (Derelict Saga Book 2)

by Paul E. Cooley

  “Aye.” Through his rear cam, Gunny watched Lyke lean over the gunwale. “Nothing yet, Gunny.”

  That, at least, was something. The pinecone field around the final mount-point was absolutely stuffed with the things. He could barely make out any gaps between them as though they’d all cuddled up together from a possible threat.

  He shivered at the thought. They’re not alive, he told himself. Just strange shit from outside the solar system. Mira. What else did this cursed ship bring back with it?

  A few micro thruster bursts and the skiff finally crossed the last of the pinecones and into the dead zone. “Wendt. You keep an eye on that trench over there.”

  “Aye, Gunny.”

  “I mean,” Gunny growled, “keep the cannon pointed at it and pay attention.”

  After a second or two, Wendt finally spoke. “Okay. Gunny? You know something I don’t?”

  “Yeah. That you shouldn’t trust this ship,” Gunny said.

  “Copy,” Wendt said.

  The target for the mount-point was little more than a few meters away. “Lyke? How’s the line?”

  “I think we’re good, Gunny,” Lyke said. “Can’t guarantee we don’t have it spread over some of the ‘cones, but when the spindle takes up the slack, it should straighten out and avoid them.”

  Gunny cursed. He hadn’t even thought about that. One reason he’d approached from this angle was to avoid having to fly over the trench Taulbee had seen. Now he had to hope that when they tightened the line, it didn’t get stuck on those things.

  He brought the skiff to a halt and studied the mount-point. Just a bare patch of Atmo-steel, nothing to be afraid of. But the trench was only a few meters away, and from this angle, he couldn’t see what it contained. “Lyke. I want a nano-probe hovering above that trench.” Lyke paused before answering in the affirmative. “And make sure you set its motion alarm.”

  “Aye, Gunny,” Lyke said. His voice sounded tense, confused, and maybe a little afraid. “Is there something moving in there?”

  “I don’t know,” Gunny snapped, “which is why I want the fucking nano-probe.”

  “Copy, Gunny,” Lyke stuttered.

  A moment later, Gunny’s HUD lit up with a nano-probe alert. He connected to its feed and a small window appeared before his eyes. The probe’s camera showed a close-up view of the deck plate. The image was less than detailed as the probe’s insubstantial light barely illuminated the area. The motion sensor, however, should work fine. He hoped.

  Lyke flew the probe to the center of the trench and parked it a bare meter from the hull. Silvery liquid glistened at the bottom of the pit. A shudder of unease wracked his spine. They were lucky Taulbee had spotted it first. If Gunny hadn’t been warned, he probably would have dropped his marines into it.

  “Motion sensor activated,” Lyke said. “I set the radius to two meters. Should keep it from picking us up as false positives.”

  Gunny nodded in approval. “Good thinking, Lyke.”

  “How do you want to do this, Gunny?” Wendt asked.

  “Damned carefully,” he said. In truth, he didn’t know how he wanted to do this. He’d brought a very experienced lance corporal and a private along for the job. While he trusted Wendt’s mag-walking and his ability to sniff out hazards, he didn’t trust Lyke to use the cannon if something happened. Mounting the line into the Atmo-steel could be done by a single marine, but would be faster with two. Gunny clenched his fists in indecision.

  SFMC hates cowards, he told himself. “Wendt. Take the line gun. I want you on that cannon and to keep an eye on the probe’s camera. Such as it is. If we have to jump back in the skiff, I expect you to be at the controls in a heartbeat. Understood?”

  “Aye, Gunny,” Wendt said.

  “Lyke? You and I are going to place the last line.” Gunny waited for the marine’s response, but it didn’t come. “Private Lyke. Do you understand your orders?”

  “Aye, Gunny,” the marine finally said.

  He sounded terrified. Through the rear cam, Gunny saw Lyke’s helmet pointed at the trench a few meters away. “Son, listen to me,” Gunny said, “if we both get out of the skiff and work together, we can place this thing in a few minutes and then get the fuck out of here. Wendt has our backs.”

  “Yes, I do,” Wendt said.

  Gunny scowled beneath his visor. The last thing he needed was for Wendt to try and give the kid a pep-talk. Although he wondered if Wendt’s words hadn’t been aimed at Gunny instead. “So let’s get this done, Private.”

  “Aye, Gunny,” Lyke said.

  Standing from the pilot’s chair wasn’t easy. Gunny’s legs were shaking and it took him a moment to regain control. Lyke had seen the silvery liquid devour his squad-mate’s leg and ultimately kill Niro. He was sure the man’s mind was filled with those images, not to mention the gurgling, panicked screams Niro loosed through the comms while he was slowly eaten alive. Gunny had the same problem.

  When he felt he had control of himself, he stepped out of the skiff on the side facing away from the trench and mag-walked to the rear. Lyke awkwardly stepped from the gunwale to the deck, nearly losing his footing as he struggled to place both feet firmly on the hull. Gunny opened his mouth to yell at the private, correct the terrible dismount and mag-walk technique, but decided against it. The boy didn’t need any more stress than he was already dealing with.

  Lyke waited for Gunny to pass him and lead him to the line secured at the skiff’s rear. “Gunny to Taulbee, over.”

  The lieutenant responded immediately. “Go ahead, Gunny.”

  “Sir, Private Lyke and I are getting ready to place the line.”

  There was a pause. “Understood, Gunny. I’m finishing my circle. Should be above you in thirty seconds.”

  “Understood, sir. Out.” Gunny stared at the harness line. This was the last one, the very last mount-point and last line. After this, they could haul ass back to S&R Black, get a breather, and then attach the harness to Black. They’d make it with time to spare so long as the harness didn’t give them much trouble during the hookup. If it did, well, they’d deal with it. They always did.

  “Okay, Lyke,” he said. “I’m going to detach the line. Take hold of it about three meters from the skiff. When I let loose, the slack is going to float like a whip.

  “Aye, Gunny.”

  He waited until Lyke was in position with his hands mag-locked to the spindle line. “On three.” He counted down to zero and detached the line. The short slack between the skiff and Lyke sprang up from the loss of tension, slapped the deck, and rose again before losing most of its momentum. Gunny grinned. Lyke was holding the line as though his life depended on it. The kid was scared, but he seemed even more terrified of disappointing his commanding NCO. Just as it should be.

  Gunny stood and turned to face Lyke. “See the target on your HUD?”

  “Yes, Gunny,” Lyke said.

  “Well, get your ass to it. I’m going to walk down the line and make sure it’s not caught on anything.”

  “Aye,” the private said.

  Gunny watched him for a moment to make sure the kid didn’t freeze up. Lyke hesitated and then walked forward, his helmet swinging from side to side as he looked for possible threats. Gunny grinned. Maybe the kid wasn’t worthless after all.

  He closed his glove around the line just enough to use it as a guide. As opposed to his inexperienced marines, Gunny mag-walked elegantly and fluidly. His eyes flicked from window to window on his HUD, scanning the area before him, around him, as well as behind him. He fought the urge to add Lyke’s helmet feed to the already cluttered interface. That was a bad idea. He had to trust Wendt to help the kid. More than that, he needed to trust Lyke had some balls.

  Each step further from the skiff brought him closer to the seemingly never ending field of pinecones. When they’d first approached this area of Mira, he’d thought their number was in the hundreds. He’d been way off; it was much closer to thousands. In some places on the hul
l, they were packed in clusters four or five deep. Taulbee had somehow missed this on his scouting passes with the ‘52? He had a hard time believing that. But if Taulbee hadn’t missed them, then they must have… What? Moved here when no one was looking? He shivered inside the warm suit.

  “Migration” was the word that kept echoing in his mind. Animals migrated to avoid unpleasant conditions. “Or danger,” he said aloud. Humans migrated for much the same reasons. If Mira were alive, he’d torture the bitch until she coughed up all her secrets about where she had been and, more importantly, just what the hell she’d brought back with her. But after all he’d seen, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He’d rather the derelict just vaporize without a trace, taking everything it had seen with it.

  After walking ten meters, lost in his thoughts, he finally stopped. The line was clean. Their tow hadn’t resulted in it getting stuck to the pinecones or wrapping around them. Once the harness line tightened for flight, it would more than likely cut through any obstacle it encountered. He hoped.

  “Lyke? What’s your status?”

  The boy sounded out of breath when he spoke. “Almost finished, Gunny. We should go green in a minute or two.”

  Gunny’s lips twitched toward a grin. “Good. Wendt?”

  “Clear so far, Gunny. I think--”

  Wendt’s voice broke off. A cold chill filled his stomach. “Wendt?” Gunny said. “Give me status. Now.”

  “I’m getting alerts from the probe, Gunny,” Wendt said.

  Cursing, Gunny turned around and headed to Lyke and the mount-point. He added the probe’s feed to his interface and opened his mouth wide. The glistening liquid in the trench shimmered and bubbled. “Gunny to Taulbee.”

  “Taulbee here. What’s up?”

  “Sir, we may need an evac,” Gunny said. Four meters separated him from Lyke. “That trench is doing something.”

  “Shit,” Taulbee said. “I’m dropping altitude. I’ll stay ten meters above the skiff. I’m ready with the line.”

  “Very good, sir.” Gunny’s words came out clipped and rushed. Just knowing Taulbee was up there made him feel a little better. A little.

  “Green,” Lyke said. A nano-second later and Gunny’s HUD reported the same line status.

  “Get in the fucking skiff, now!” Gunny yelled. He dropped the line and changed direction. “Wendt? Now would be a good time to become a pilot.”

  “Aye, Gunny,” Wendt said.

  He saw the large marine scrambling from the mounted cannon to the pilot chair. Three meters. Two. Lyke’s slow, awkward steps had grown even worse with the stress. If the kid didn’t calm down, he might really fuck up and end up floating off the hull.

  No time to worry about that. Wendt had the line-gun. Trust Wendt! He reached the skiff and climbed aboard. Lyke was a little more than two meters away on the other side. Gunny pulled himself to the opposite gunwale with his mag-gloves and extended his arm over the side, hand open. Lyke reached for it, his glove locked with Gunny’s. He plucked the young marine from the hull. “Wendt! Now!”

  The skiff came to life beneath his boots. A vibration rocked the vehicle as Wendt rotated the skiff using the thrusters. Before the skiff could turn back to face the trench, Wendt punched the thrusters and they started moving away from the area at five meters per second.

  Lyke floated above the skiff. Gunny pulled him down into the craft and locked him to a tether. He slapped the marine on the shoulder. “Good job, Lyke.”

  “Holy shit!” Lyke said, his helmet facing behind them.

  Gunny flipped to the skiff’s rear camera. The entire field of pinecones stirred, squirming like maggots in a festering wound. A few floated off the hull, undulating in the darkness with alien elegance. A silvery geyser erupted from the trench. Dozens of the pinecone objects seemed to leap off the hull. The geyser spewed higher. Something was coming out of the trench.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The cutting beam sliced through the Atmo-steel in silence. Nobel wished he could hear the beam’s buzz, the scratch and hiss of melting metal, and enjoy the harsh tang of ozone in his nostrils as well as the taste of aluminum in his mouth. Inside Trident Station’s hangar bay, with gravity pressing down on his joints, the beam held between his hands, and the music of tortured metal, he was most at home. Cutting a piece of hull in a vacuum just wasn’t the same.

  He finished carving a long cuboid sliver and put the cutting beam aside. Nobel pulled the retractor from his utility belt and thrust the sharp end into the centimeter-wide gap. The suit’s actuators helped provide pressure on the tool, the Atmo-steel plate wobbling against the strain. Cursing, he pushed harder and then wrenched the tool.

  He felt the metal give and the scarred plate rose a few centimeters on one side. Breathing hard, Nobel stared at his handiwork. The interface connecting the fin assembly to the inner hull was barely visible. He focused his suit lights on the area and smiled. There was the perforation, a hole no larger than a fingernail in the outer housing.

  First, patching resin. With movements born of routine, he pulled a resin strip from the pack and carefully slid it over the perforation. Once certain the strip was secure, he pulled the heat gun from the pack and pressed the needle-sized nozzle onto the strip.

  When he depressed the trigger, the tool released a barely visible stream of excited plasma. The resin melted beneath the heat, the ferrous compound flowing like liquid across the hole. He passed the scanner over the area again. The resin filled the shielding perforation perfectly. In a few seconds, the residual heat disappeared freezing the resin in place.

  “Black? Can you run a diagnostic and tell me if the radiation is still leaking?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Black said.

  Nobel waited, the sound of his breathing and the steady thump of his heart the only company in his universe. All he had to do was wait for Black to give him the all clear and then he could tamp down the layer of hull, weld a patch, and call it good. He could get out of the suit. He could get reactor 3 back online again and they could get on with the rest of this shit-show of a mission.

  Something bumped his foot and Nobel froze. He’d forgotten about the pinecones. He was afraid to look down. The mostly still image on one of his HUD windows twitched with movement. He had to look down. He had to see.

  Swallowing hard, he tilted his helmet down and stared with wide eyes. A pinecone floated by his foot. A single claw flicked from its bulbous end, scratching at his mag-boot. His breath came in rapid huffs of air, leaving him light-headed. He felt a tremor near his toes as though the thing were burrowing through the thick fabric and metal weave.

  “Lieutenant,” Black said. The sudden volume of the AI’s voice startled him causing him to lean backward with both feet still stuck to the hull. “The radiation--”

  “I have a problem,” he stammered into the comms.

  “What is the nature of your problem?” Black asked, her voice saccharine and amused.

  He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. “Pinecone,” he said. “They’re-- They’re alive.”

  Black paused before speaking. “Are you under attack, Lieutenant?”

  The pinecone thing moved closer, its body now completely covering the boot. The scratching tingle rattled his toes and instep. “T-t-trouble,” he managed to say.

  “Stay calm, Lieutenant.” The AI’s words sounded distant as though they were coming from another planet. “Do not move.”

  “C-copy.”

  “I suggest you cut the magnetics on your boots.”

  Nobel’s voice hitched in his throat. “C-can’t,” he said. “W-will float away.”

  When Black spoke again, a hint of concern, whether manufactured or real he didn’t know, colored her voice. “Help is on the way, Lieutenant. Please cease power to your magnetics. You are tethered, sir.”

  Tethered. Yes. He was tethered! Why didn’t he--?

  The itching sensation on his foot became more pronounced. An alert appeared on his HUD. He was losing su
it integrity on the boot. With a scream of panic, he sent a block command to disable the magnetics. The instant he did, his feet floated free of the hull. The pinecone, however, did not cease moving against him.

  An invisible force pushed his left foot behind him, the itching sensation increasing. He kicked his leg out, the pinecone thing bouncing off the boot’s surface in an awkward tumble. The pinecone floated a meter or two away, righted itself, and brandished its claw. Nobel reached for the cutting beam in his belt, his hand shaking so hard it took three tries to free it. The pinecone was closing in.

  Nobel raised the cutting beam, waited until the pinecone floated in range, and activated the tool. A bright, blue centimeter-long teardrop of incredible heat instantly appeared from the tool’s barrel. The beam hit the pinecone’s shell, sending several crimson sparks of light dancing above the creature. The pinecone seemed to draw into itself and then expand, the effort moving it away from Nobel.

  The other two pinecones rose from the hull as if on cue. Panicking, Nobel hit his suit thrusters. He shot away from the fin assembly until he ran out of tether. The jerk of the carbon fiber line rattled his brain and sent him careening into the hull. Cursing, he stared back at the fin assembly. Three pinecones floated beside the crack in the hull, their bodies pulsing. Now they were between him and the safety of the airlock.

  His voice little more than a choked whisper, he said, “Black?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Are you safe?”

  The pinecone that had clawed at his foot turned in the z-g and faced him, shining claw pointed directly at him. “Not in the least,” he said. “I have an open hull plate and three of those void-damned things staring at me.”

  “They have eyes?” Black asked.

  “How the fuck should I know!” Nobel tried to slow his breathing, calm his ever sprinting heart, and get himself under control. He wasn’t winning that battle.

  “The Command Crew is aware of your situation,” Black said. “Please calm your heart rate, Lieutenant. You are using up your oxygen rather quickly.”