Ember's Echo (The Nimbus Collection Book 2)

by D. C. Clemens

  Our shuttle descended until it hovered several feet above the southeastern access point, which was determined by Hardy’s math to be the entrance with the least amount of obtrusive sand and debris. As the doors slid open, the captain ordered everyone to exit the craft, except Fife, who was to keep guard over the doctor. Once my boots met with the dampening ground, I commenced an objective that was never verbally stated but merely understood. I started to warp as much sand away from the access as speedily as possible. As my labor made headway, Brent’s signature began to fade, wholly dying out a moment later. Nonetheless, our spirits toiled on, knowing it only meant his nanotech signal was no longer transmitting, though it was difficult to come up with an optimistic reason why he would cease the signal on his own accord at this point. Unlike the doctors, who had worried about the rouge security team tracking their signals, Brent would surely have kept his signal active so that his comrades could trace it.

  After clairvoyantly tossing away most of the sand stuffed at the entry, unveiling the first concrete steps, I climbed down to clear the sand ingrained deeper in. Vasilissa was the first to follow me, with Emory, Briannika, and the two scouts trailing not far behind—the third sentry of the night was burdened with keeping its cameras on the entrance. Our captain was the last to join our procession, who had to stoop quite a bit to prevent his head from hitting the ceiling, not looking particularly comfortable in his contorted state. There was eventually little sand impeding our path when we reached a level that branched out into two paths. We had to choose between continuing down the stairs, which twisted down behind us, or take the narrow tunnel in front of us. Not wanting for us to separate, the captain commanded one of the scouts to advance on ahead, while the rest of us would continue descending the steps, seeing as the last indicator from the lieutenant suggested he was deeper down. No trace of light shone from us or the scouts. We instead employed our night vision and thermal imaging, preferring our existence to remain as unknown as possible. Even our slinking footsteps created no sound or sign of our whereabouts.

  As we warily marched down the steps, the scout sent to the first path discovered that the pathway was simply a utility tunnel containing only a tangled web of rusted pipes and rotten wires. The scout still in our company was impelled to become the new trailblazer and zip on ahead of me to divulge what was waiting for us in the floor below.

  What the scout discovered waiting for us in the floor below made us freeze in our tracks. Scattered about in a space as expansive as the forsaken plaza above and rising twice as high as the tunnels that interlaced the subterranean world were dozens of sinister pairs of yellow eyes. I thought it strange that I didn’t feel their tremors or hear their mischievous laughter, but a longer observation answered my bewilderment. They were all standing absolutely still, looking little more than effigies. But they soon proved that they were not made of molded clay, for their light breathing could be picked up by the scout’s microphone and I could occasionally see some blink. These imps were so different from when I last saw them, almost looking peaceful in their blank stares. Lying face up at the center of the room was a highly significant figure of interest; the lieutenant. His helmet was missing, but thermal readings showed he was at a promising 98.8 degrees Fahrenheit, despite having been stretched out on a floor filled with half an inch of grubby water.

  The scout was bidden by the captain to drift to the other side of the expanse, keeping itself near the ceiling so as to avoid upsetting the horrid statues. There were random, short-lived “giggles” that expelled from one or the other, as if some could not keep a straight face in the middle of a prank or game of musical statues they had lured us into, but nothing else stirred. During its trip, the scout was able to see that the wide space held two tunnel entrances at every wall and an opening at each corner that led to elevating footpaths to the surface, including the one we hadn’t yet left. On reaching one of the two tunnel entrances on the other side, the scout was instructed to bump against the wall with the hopes of diverting the imp’s attention, making it easier for us to move in, take out some clustered enemies swarming in on an artificial intruder, and retrieve the body. Yet, when the scout scraped the wall loud enough for us to hear it from where we were standing, all the imps did was reinforce the idea this was an elaborate prank. They did nothing. None I saw even flinched. A second attempt was a clone result of the first. We had no other choice but to charge ahead guns blazing.

  And blaze we did. With my rifle taking point, I gained the first clear shot of our slothful adversaries as my boots waded into the waterlogged room. From a scheme turned routine turned instinct, the first goal when plunging into a crowd of enemies was to disorient them by firing a flash-bang grenade, which is what I did. In a room where light had not so much as flickered in untold centuries, an instantaneous lightning bolt boomed through the infinite night, quickly proliferated by lesser psychedelic flashes of light erupting from my comrade’s guns alongside me. The enemy continued to do nothing, not even squirm when their bodies fell. As we struck a bull’s-eye with every slug, like they were targets in a shooting range, I continued to wait for the moment they would stop playing possum, but they persisted in doing nothing to inhibit their own destruction.

  In what was less than fifteen seconds since our first bullets were unchained from their barrels, we had succeeded in purging all the creatures in the vicinity, leaving all of them headless and crumpled on the foul floor. It didn’t feel like we had won a battle, if one could call it that, and it almost felt wrong killing something without any effort. How had we so easily prevailed against beings whom I knew to have considerable dexterity and prowess?

  Vasilissa was the first to reach Brent, shrewdly evading the corpses, and used the medical scanner in her suit’s gauntlet to begin evaluating his condition. The rest of us circled her, keeping watch over the eldrick until she was done with her preliminary examination. Brent didn’t look at all like I thought he would. He wasn’t pale and didn’t look at all wearied. I’m sure he looked better than I did.

  “He’s alive,” said the eldrick, standing back up, “and there are no signs of external or internal trauma. Even his armor is intact, discounting the missing helmet.”

  “Good,” said Fife as concisely as someone could say a single syllable word, assuming syllables existed in the falsetto grimalkin language. “Then let’s get out of here.”

  “Agreed,” said Kiran. “Take up his body, Vasilissa.”

  Nodding her acquiescence, Vasilissa began implementing the sour water surrounding the lieutenant, warping it gently enough to make it seem as though Brent’s spirit was rising off the ground and not his body. Indicating her mastery over the aspect, the eldrick barely wriggled her fingers as she keenly manipulated the water to accomplish her task. With our goal secured, Captain Kiran and Fife were the first to exit from this synthetic cavern, trailed by Vasilissa, who bore the lieutenant in front of her, and then Briannika. I formed the living tail end of the line this time.

  Just as I was about to take my first dry step onto the concrete stairway, the feeblest of fleeting quivers traveled through the floor and up my spine, forcing me to take a hardwired gaze over my shoulder, regardless of knowing that the scout watching our retreat behind me would have alerted my team to any noteworthy activity. It lasted as long as the quiver, but I thought my vision caught an odd glimmer coming from the other end of the subterranean floor, where I estimated the infinitesimal tremor had originated from. Seeing as we were taking our leave, and hearing the footsteps of my comrades diminishing, I saw no harm in authorizing the scout to switch on its lights to their brightest setting. The instant illumination was enough for me to catch some docile ripples coming from the brink of the tunnel, the same one the scout had been stationed in when it had tried to distract the imps. This effect was also unnervingly near the origin of the glimmer. No more wrinkles in the water came once these dispersed, some energetic enough to lightly jostle some of the floating chunks of carcasses. I told myself that these rip
ples were likely from the settling of some of the corpses or debris falling from a shot wall, but my conjecturing couldn’t pacify the sensation that we had just been watched, or perhaps being watched still. By what, I couldn’t fathom, but I held the suspicion that investigating any further would either prove futile or stupidly involve myself in something that was way over my head. As I had no desire to spend any more time alone in the makeshift crypt, the scout and I moved onto the surface.

  I climbed up just in time to see Brent being placed on the shuttle floor, everyone else following after him. With the Wanderer still missing, our transport headed to the only place we could; the Revel.

  “If he’s fine, then why is he unconscious?” I heard Fife ask when the shuttle began to glide onward.

  “His helmet was off,” snappily answered Emory, “which means his brain lacked sufficient oxygen to work properly. Don’t you know anything?”

  “More than you ever will!” Fife angrily barked at his cousin.

  A weakly hoarse voice arose to ask, “Will you damn hairballs ever shut up?”

  The cousins squealed with surprised delight when they realized the voice belonged to Brent. Everyone else gave a visible sigh of relief.

  “Welcome back, Lieutenant Henring,” said Vasilissa through a soft smile. “How do you feel?”

  Sitting up as he spoke, he answered, “A little sore and confused. What happened? I thought I was a goner.”

  The captain seized the initiative to answer his right hand man. “We found you knocked out in an underground hollow after we traced your beacon there. There were some creatures there, but they didn’t put up a fight, for whatever reason. You’ll have to enlighten us on what happened after you were captured.”

  “Can’t say too much, I’m afraid. I felt myself being carried for a few seconds before feeling that my head was being freed from the dirt and sand. I tried getting out, but they had me in there tight. I’m not exactly sure what happened after that. I could only get a look at the ceiling and hear that weird laughter they make. Then, all at once, they stopped their racket and I felt my helmet being taken off. I blacked out after that, though I’m not sure why. There should have been enough oxygen to keep me awake a bit longer.” In the corner of my eye I saw Fife give a sly look at Emory. “I’m guessing the little bastards did something.”

  “They’re full of surprises,” said Briannika. “When the captain said they didn’t put up a fight, he really meant it. They just stood there while we took headshots.”

  “Why did they spare you and not Frank?” quietly wondered Dr. Oleson, huddled in the same corner chair we had left her in. Her eyes told me she was thinking on autopilot. “They can warp, decide who they kill and who they don’t. That doesn’t sound like the actions of mere beasts.”

  “Are you trying to suggest something, doctor?” Vasilissa asked, which made Dr. Oleson refocus her listless eyes on all of us, as though just remembering where she was.

  “I mean, those creatures look an awful lot like the skeletal remains we uncovered, such as their gaunt frames and thin eye sockets.”

  “You’re saying those creatures are Ember’s lost civilization?” asked Fife skeptically.

  “They can warp, can’t they?” the doctor continued with a stouter voice, possibly offended by his doubt. “That implies they are sapient, even if they aren’t quite acting like it.”

  A valid theory,” said Vasilissa, “but even if true, why would have Ember’s original inhabitants allowed their cities to decay? And why free the lieutenant?”

  Brent, responding with a stronger voice, said, “Well, whatever their reason, I’ll be glad to get out of here. What’s our next step?” Captain Kiran explained to him how the Vixen had been destroyed, the Wanderer was nowhere to be found, and that our new plan was to repair the cruiser’s long range transmitter. “Great, I’m out for ten minutes and everything goes to shit.”

  Chapter Eight

  Our expeditious trip to the cruiser was completed when our shuttle landed alongside the larger craft, and our potentially longer expedition to repair our only means of connecting to thousands of worlds began. It was not far off to say that, fundamentally, a long range transmitter was a miniature jump-engine. Just as a ship could leap through the enveloping wormhole created by the jump-engine, so could a wireless transmission be sent instantaneously across light years using the same method. Generally, even if a message couldn’t reach a habited world on its first try, as was often the case, then it would be automatically transmitted to what was officially known as a jump-buoy, or, offhandedly, as a mailman. These were strategically placed alongside trade routes, between colony worlds, near military bases, and the like.

  Without this technology, it would be impossible to send information through the vast distances of space in a timely manner, as the law of light prohibited traditional communication from being effective to anyone whose lifespan was less than a few million years. We were little different from our ancient seafaring ancestors before this mode of messaging was developed. Previously, it would take at least a few days for news to travel to any destination outside a star system, or, in other words, as fast as a courier ship could get there. Still, it wasn’t perfect. The main weakness of the emissary technology was its vulnerability to interference by natural or artificial disturbances—since the frail wormhole could only be safely created at the external tip of a transmitter—and, therefore, could be destabilized by sudden changes in the environment, forcing a recalculation of the wormhole’s design. The much sturdier wormholes that embraced a ship didn’t have to worry about these minor fluctuations.

  In spite of the obvious benefits of this communication technology, it was insanely expensive to miniaturize jump-engines for this use, making it a rare commodity in civilian spacecraft. Luckily, such a comm transmitter was placed into the research vessel and, even though it was heavily damaged, it wasn’t too problematic to restore as long as the necessary equipment was available. The only real complication was a power source, but our shuttle’s engine could provide it, along with some of the other necessary gear, as any self-respecting shuttle carried the basic implements to generate a distress signal. It was made known to us after analyzing the marred cruiser that it would likely take about two Earth days of round-the-clock labor to get the mechanism in working order again. Despite having the physical tools we needed to activate a call for help, we all silently prayed to the Sacred for the Wanderer to return. No one wanted to spend any more time than was necessary on this unaccountable world.

  I had spurned it at first, but a peculiar, icy feeling had gradually trickled up my spine ever since the moment my boots met Ember’s sandy ground, becoming more pronounced the longer my cognizance attempted to diagnose it. It was a sentiment completely separate from all the other feelings that came from first witnessing the superficially barren planet, the limbless and headless torso of Dr. Krauss, and the bizarre creatures who were responsible for the feat. There was an inclination to merely label myself as awestruck by the ambiguities of this world, but more and more did I come to realize that it was a far more primitive sensation; fear. Not a full blown, adrenaline fueled fear, but the restrained kind that forced me to glance at a shadow a second longer than normal to make sure nothing was using it as a veil. This wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I had thought I was alone in this experience, then I could just tell myself I was skittish and nothing more, but I didn’t think I was alone. Of course, none of my veteran companions would admit they were feeling something related to dread, but I caught most of them taking that extra-long look at that shadow with me.

  Despite the incapacitated state of the ship, the relative safety of its bulky metal frame weakened the unsettled feeling I distinctly felt beneath the open, grainy sky. I didn’t think the imps would dare attempt an attack while we were inside and, if there were indeed still members of the traitorous security team hiding among the dunes of this world, I felt confident that our training and superior equipment would be more than a match f
or them. All the same, I would have felt much more confident if I knew what had happened to them. Were they still planet-side, like the shady figure in the video hinted at? Did they really get paid off by slavers? And, if so, why leave at least one member behind? Would they foolishly return to abduct the rescue team responding to the suspended checkups? It was frustrating how little everything made sense. I had assumed that joining an elite rescue squad would have had someone that could decipher any situation we would be thrown into, but my first mission just happened to be the one that everyone on the team (a dose of reality obliged me to rephrase this to those that survived the experience) would either tell everyone they met about it, due to its peculiarity, or tell no one about, due to its dismaying abstractness.

  Our repairs were coming along well after a full nine hour night cycle was dethroned by the first delicate rays of western light prickling the ship. Best of all, we were not visited by disturbing laughter or saw any unexplainable shadows lurking about. What we first examined was the internal end of the transmitter, which was located in a small octagonal room in the engineering deck, and while it was severely damaged, it was by no means a lost cause. Hidden underneath the wall panels we discovered that much of the vital wire network was left untouched by the seditious hands, saving us many hours of work. We simply had to rewire the control interfaces, connect them to Hardy via a scout, and get the power cables to accommodate the outside power source we already had at hand. Most of this was done by the onset of that evening’s sunset. The last major fix was to replace some parts at the external end of the transmitter that had been damaged from gunfire. I was sent with Briannika to aid her on the cruiser’s roof for this task. Seventy feet below us, Vasilissa and Emory worked on linking and adapting the shuttle’s power source with that of the transmitter.