Dead Space Martyr

by B. K. Evenson

  PART FIVE COLLAPSE

  41 He took two trips and had to use the tranquilizer gun once. The first trip reprogrammed the MROVs, switched them over to robotic self-control, and the digging progressed at a tremendous pace, but he had to tranquilize the technician accompanying him before they reached the surface. The man gave him a fair amount of advance warning, growing more and more irritable and then finally lashing out. He waited to tranquilize until he was absolutely sure he was violent and as a result almost waited too long. Indeed, the man was trying to choke him to death as the tranquilizer took effect and his hands slowly relaxed and he collapsed. The other trip, strangely enough, was with Stevens, the psychologist, who applied electrodes to both his and Altman's heads, reading changes in their brain waves as they descended. "So I guess this means Markoff agrees with me that Hendricks's mental problems might have been caused by the signal," Altman asked. Stevens smiled. "How can I know what Markoff thinks, Mr. Altman?" he answered. Altman stayed ready the whole time, one hand on the tranquilizer gun, but like him, Stevens didn't seem to suffer any adverse affects. He just stayed crouched over his equipment, looking up at Altman from time to time and smiling. "Learn anything?" asked Altman. "Yes, I did," said Stevens. "But I'd learn more if one or the other of us had an attack. I don't suppose you'd like to oblige me, would you?" Altman shook his head. "I didn't think so," said Stevens. "Maybe another time, then." The next trip consisted of himself and a jovial engineer named David Kimball descending to retrieve the driller bathyscaphe, though Altman wasn't briefed until they were already on the way down. "It'll be simple," said Kimball, patting a large chrome-plated machine that had been bolted to the console just for this trip. "Just a matter of a few minutes. All we have to do is direct an electrical pulse at the bathyscaphe." "What'll that do?" asked Altman. "It'll release the latches for the ballast chambers," said Kimball. "This will cause the ballast to rush out. After that, the bathyscaphe will rise on its own." "Sounds easy enough that a robot could do it," said Altman. "A robot could do it," said Kimball. "But Markoff thought it'd be better to have us do it." "Why?" asked Altman. "I don't know," said Kimball. "He didn't say." In case anything goes wrong, Altman added in his head. When they reached the ocean floor, they continued to move downward into the inverted cone that the robotic excavators had created. Having completed their tasks, the units now stood motionless, strange statues in the darkness. The bathyscaphe descended, the cone slowly tightening on them. He brightened the lights and turned on the vid cameras. Altman glanced over at Kimball. He seemed like he was doing all right, though he looked a little distracted, slightly jumpy. Nothing to worry about yet, thought Altman, but just to be safe, he checked to see that the tranquilizer pistol was cocked and ready. "You been down here before?" Kimball asked. Altman nodded. "Nothing to worry about," he said. "They showed me the vid," he said. "You seen that?" "Yes," said Altman. "I had no idea," said Kimball. "Do you think it'll be as bad as it looks?" "Yeah," said Altman. They fell silent. Down below, they could see something, a vague shape that slowly became clearer. It was a huge structure, two tapering pillars twisting sinuously around each other and rising to a point. It seemed to be made of stone, but there was no doubt in Altman's mind that it was constructed rather than a natural phenomenon. Coming closer just confirmed it; it was covered with symbols, weird hieroglyphics unlike anything he had ever seen. They covered every inch of the object, winding downward around its body and up to the twin horns of the thing. It was massive and gave off the impression of great age. At once beautiful and vaguely menacing, it was completely alien. It had not, Altman knew immediately upon seeing it, been built by human hands. Why had it been built, and how? The stone showed no breaks or cracks or joints, as if it was a single gigantic piece. And the shape: it reminded him of something. But what was it? And then suddenly he knew. "The tail of the devil," whispered Altman. "Holy shit," said Kimball, awe in his voice. The symbols were either luminescent or catching the bathyscaphe's light in a very particular way. He checked the displays. The pulse signal was negligible at the moment. Probably a good thing, he thought. "Do you think it's safe to get close?" asked Kimball. "What is it?" wondered Altman aloud. "Who made it?" He moved the bathyscaphe slowly around just above it, filming it from all angles. It was the most impressive thing he had ever seen. Then he zoomed the camera in closer to record some of the symbols. He would have kept doing it, but Kimball's nerves were rising. "This is freaking me out. Let's get the other sub and get out of here," Kimball said. There it was, sunken at the base of the artifact. Altman descended farther, got as close to it as he could and shone the light into the observation porthole. Even from that vantage, the inside of the cabin was a nightmare--blood spread over the windows and the walls, smeared in odd patterns. He moved the lights quickly away before Kimball could get a better look. He played the lights along the side of the craft, looking for signs of damage, but the air seal seemed intact. In theory, it should rise, albeit slowly. "Ready?" he asked Kimball. "Ready," Kimball said. Altman moved around until there was no danger of hitting the Marker and then fired the pulse. It struck the driller bathyscaphe full on, an eerie electric glow fizzling along its hull. Then its ballast chambers began to empty, the lead pellets pattering down and raising a cloud of silt. Slowly it began to rise. He watched it come, passing just a half dozen meters away from them, and move upward. It tilted and a disembodied arm rolled against the observation porthole. Ready or not, he thought, and then their own bathyscaphe started up in pursuit.

  42 This is getting to be a habit, Altman thought, carefully easing the chunk of rock out of the core sampler. Nobody seemed to notice. They were all too preoccupied with the interior of the bathyscaphe itself, the wash of blood and gore inside, the rotten, damaged bodies. Markoff quickly had the area quarantined, but not before Altman had gotten away with the sample. Now he took it to his bedroom to examine it. He was certain it was from the artifact itself. It was seemingly ordinary rock, but one that he couldn't identify. The bit he held had an indentation on it, where something had been carved or inflicted on the rock, but it was too small a sample to give a clear sense of what it was. Sneaking into an unlocked lab at night, he tested it. The substance was not unlike granite but harder, almost as hard as corundum. One face was smooth; he could see where the rest had been cut, was surprised the cutters hadn't burned out. Within the rock he found mineral veins that struck him as too regular to be natural. But if they weren't natural, what were they? In the end, puzzled, he decided to assume they were natural formations: there was no technology that he was aware of that would allow someone to manipulate solid rock in this way. � � � Whatever had happened to the others in the bathyscaphe, what Markoff had been able to determine about it, Altman was never told. Once quarantined, the bathyscaphe disappeared and was never seen again. No doubt Markoff and his inner circle had analyzed it to death. Altman was eager to see the rest of the vid from Hennessy, but his request to Markoff was met with silence. Now that the bathyscaphe was up, the floating compound was frantic with preparations to raise the artifact itself. It was impossible to have a conversation that didn't turn to the monolith lying down at the bottom of the crater, and people seemed both excited and incredibly nervous. Whatever it was, whatever was down there, could change everything, and they would be the first to come into contact with it. The signal had returned but seemed to be broadcasting differently now, intermittently, on and off, in fairly regular bursts. Some researchers speculated it was a distress call, though who or what was in distress nobody dared guess. Perhaps it was a result of a failing piece of technical equipment, the artifact itself faulty or breaking down. It was, after all, very, very old. And many believed, Altman among them, that it was old enough that it couldn't possibly be of human origin, that the artifact was clear proof of alien life. "If you'd seen it," he told Markoff in his debriefing, "you'd agree with me. There's nothing human about it." The pulse signal was now interfering with radios and vids, creating a static communication wave and fuzzing images. Often
when he descended in the bathyscaphe Altman was out of touch very quickly because of the interference, and stayed out of touch for a good part of the trip. He was piloting descents daily, with several members of Markoff's inner circle, all of whom showed no signs of cracking. He questioned whomever he was with, trying to find out anything he could. Mostly they were closed-lipped, but every once in a while they let something slip. A scientist called him in from the hall while he was walking past a lab and, thinking he was someone else at first, began asking him questions about a winch mechanism. Was it really enough? Would it lift the thing? And what about the cable? What sort of cable would you need for something like that? Altman played along as long as he could, finally admitted he didn't know what he was talking about. "You're not Perkins?" the scientist asked. Altman shook his head. "Never mind," said the scientist, retreating quickly into his lab. "Forget I said anything." Showalter, too, was almost as much on the outside as Altman, though he knew geophysics well enough that he was somehow consulted. "Always just bits and pieces," Showalter confessed to Altman in a low voice over coffee. "They think if they give me just a little, I won't be able to figure it out. That'd be true if it was just them, but their colleagues sometimes consult me as well. I know more than anybody realizes." "And?" asked Altman. "I think we're very close to bringing it up," said Showalter. "Almost all the theoretical problems have been solved. A few more tests and they'll just be waiting for an okay." Ada had made friends with the medical team, even helping out informally when she was needed. And she was needed more and more. In the floating compound, Ada told him, reports of scientists and soldiers beset by insomnia and hallucinations were on the rise. "According to Dr. Merck," she claimed, "he's never seen anything like it. Violent incidents of all kinds are on the rise, nearly double what they were just a few months ago. The suicide rate has skyrocketed and the assault rate has climbed considerably." "It's a tense time," said Altman, playing devil's advocate, the role Ada usually would play. "Maybe that's all it is." "No, you were right. It's more than that," said Ada. "Even Merck thinks so. There are signs of widespread paranoia, people having visions of dead relatives, and more and more people speaking in a trancelike state of `Convergence,' without being really able to explain what that meant exactly once they were themselves again. Everyone is on the verge of paranoia or panic. Goddammit, you've got me thinking like you." Altman nodded. "Then my nonscientific inquiry was right," he said. "Everyone is on edge. Something is going on." "What do you think it means?" Ada asked him. "What does it mean?" said Altman. "If you ask me, it means were fucked."

  43 Altman was on yet another descent, this time with a researcher by the name of Torquato, someone from Markoff's inner circle. He had with him a simple black box, homemade, with a single knob on it and a needle readout. The technology was old enough that it could have been made in the twentieth century. As they descended, Altman tried to make idle conversation to pass the time. "You're what," he asked, "some kind of scientist?" Torquato shrugged. "You could call it that," he said. "Geophysics?" asked Altman. "Geology? Volcanology? Something more theoretical?" "It's hard to explain," claimed Torquato, "and not very interesting." But Altman was interested. He was descending into the heart of the crater with a man who was being deliberately vague. Something was up. "So what brings you down here today?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "A few measurements," said Torquato. "What's the box about?" Altman asked. "This?" responded Torquato, pushing at the box with his thumb. "Oh, it's nothing." A few more questions and Altman gave up. They descended in silence down to the artifact and held position just above it. Robotic units had dug out under its base and were well on the way to netting it, the net itself attached to a series of cables that would eventually be hooked to larger, stronger cables on the freighter. The artifact would be reeled in, with the help of the nascent field of kinetic technology. It was to be secured and then brought through the water doors into the floating compound. Beside him, Torquato gave the single knob on his box a counterclockwise twist. The needle immediately came to life, engaging in a rhythmic and regular movement along its graph. Torquato grunted, jotted something on his holopad. "What is it?" asked Altman. "Hmm?" said Torquato. "Did you say something?" When Altman started to repeat the question, Torquato interrupted. "Take the bathyscaphe lower," he said. "How much lower?" "Halfway between the top of the object and its base," he said. Carefully Altman nudged it down. The black box's needle he saw continued to bounce, but its rhythm and scope changed. "That's good," said Torquato. "Now, can you slowly circle around, staying just at this level?" "I can try," said Altman. He started moving the bathyscaphe slowly around the monolith, casting glances from time to time at the box. When Torquato noticed him looking, he cast him a withering look and from then on shielded the readout with his hand. "You're here to drive," he said. "Nothing more." "Look, buddy," said Altman. "I'm not stealing any secrets here. I have no idea what that thing does. I'm just trying to pass the time." Torquato didn't bother to answer. Exasperated, Altman turned away, focusing on trying to bring the bathyscaphe within a few meters of the monolith without touching it. When he looked back, Torquato was still covering the readout with his hand. Asshole, he thought. Torquato's turn was different from that of the others, much more abrupt, little if any warning. One moment he was sitting there, shielding the black box's needle display with his hand, and the next he had attacked. How he'd undone the restraint on his leg, Altman hadn't been able to figure out at the time, though later he discovered it had been cut, whether by Torquato or someone else, he never could be certain. In a flash, Torquato was free, and that was all that mattered. Altman tried to get the tranquilizer gun out and fire a dart, but Torquato had been too quick, and when he reached for it, he found the holster empty, the pistol aimed at him instead. He dived to the side, but the pistol had already fired, and there it was, the dart sticking out of his arm. He reached down and, with effort, plucked it out. His tongue already felt thick in his mouth. Torquato was talking to him, he suddenly realized, though he was a little less clear on what he was saying. He blinked and Torquato blurred out of focus, only slowly coming back in again. The man was speaking incomprehensibly, endlessly, about the necessity for Convergence. Altman made an effort, bit the inside of his mouth until it bled, succeeded in focusing. "You've been here again and again, just beside it," he said to Altman, stroking his cheek. "Yet you have felt nothing. Don't you hear it calling to you? Won't you answer?" When he regained consciousness, it was to find himself pressed up against the observation porthole, the bathyscaphe pushing up against the artifact with the motor still running until it was tilted on end. There were repeated banging noises coming from somewhere, punctuated by long moments of silence. "It's stuck," he heard Torquato's voice mutter. And then, "I'm trying, I tell you, I'm trying." Trying to what? Altman wondered. The banging started again. Altman slowly pulled himself up, standing on the porthole. The cabin felt extraordinarily warm, stuffy. He scaled the side of the console and stood on it. The oxygen recirculator had been disabled, was nothing but a mass of tangled metal, sparks flying off it. He was careful not to touch it. No wonder the air felt stuffy. How long had he been out? He looked down at the console until his eyes found the chronometer. It, too, had stopped. The ladder leading to the hatch was directly above him, horizontal along the ceiling, and he could see Torquato's feet sticking out of the passage. The banging started up again. Oh, shit. Altman realized, his limbs instantly going heavy: He's trying to open the hatch. He's trying to flood the bathyscaphe. He clambered onto the sideways chair, nearly fell when it swiveled. There was a brief groan, and for a moment he thought it was going to come unbolted from the deck, but it held. Carefully he put both feet on the chairback and stood. From there, he could almost reach the fixed metal ladder. He steadied himself, reached as far as he could, but his fingers just grazed it. He'd have to leap up, hope that his fingers caught the rung and held it the first time, so that he wouldn't come down with a crash and alert Torquato. The banging started again, Torquato screeching alo
ng with it. Altman jumped, caught the rung. He flailed his leg up, managed to get his ankle around the side rail of the ladder as well. The banging stopped. He hung there motionless, hoping Torquato wouldn't turn around. "It's stuck!" he shouted, apparently at nobody. "I'm trying, I tell you!" Holding on to the ladder, Altman tilted his head back until he could see Torquato there, upside down. He was lying flat in the passage, a metal bar in one hand, a strut maybe, something stolen from the remains of the oxygen recirculator. His knuckles were bloody, and Altman could see symbols like those on the artifact, painted here and there along the passage in blood. Torquato tugged on the wheel, then gave a little cry of frustration. He raised the bar and started striking the hatch again, at the hinge. The pressure was too great, Altman realized with relief. Unless he loosened a hinge or blew the hatch from the control panel, the seal might hold. Much more worrisome, though, was the lack of air. Torquato stopped, breathing heavily. "A cleansing," he was muttering. "Yes, a cleansing. Start again, new and fresh." He began pounding again. Carefully, Altman started along the ladder, back into the passage. As he got farther up, he had to bend his arms, pull himself up closer to the ladder so as not to brush Torquato's back. By the time Torquato stopped again, Altman was hanging directly over him, their bodies less than a foot away from each other. Altman could smell the man's sour sweat. He held his breath, staring at the ladder a few inches from his face, the muscles in his arms starting to cramp. Torquato kept muttering to himself, laughing softly under his breath. Altman heard the sound of him scrabbling at the hatch, the cry of frustration, then the pounding began again. He let go of the ladder and pushed off it hard at the same time, crashing down onto Torquato's back. It hurt like hell. He tried in the confined space to scramble around to face him, but Torquato was trying to get up, too, and for a moment his face and chest were pressed against the ladder. With a shout he pushed down as hard as he could and Torquato collapsed underneath him. He started to turn around again, knocking his shoulder against the ladder, and made it this time. Torquato was half-turned over now and groping for the metal bar, which had fallen and was under him. Altman grabbed his head by the hair and brought it down hard. Torquato was bellowing now, struggling, trying to slip back and out of the passage. Altman wrapped his legs around him and held on, trying to keep him there, slamming his face into the floor again. Torquato had the bar now and was trying to get it up, but his arm was still pinned beneath him. He turned his head as far as he could, trying to look at Altman, and Altman saw his collapsed cheekbone and orbit, the blood that was washing over his eye. He slammed his head down again, and then a second time, until the bar slipped from Torquato's fingers and his body went slack. Altman lay there on top of him for a while, holding him by the hair, trying to catch his breath. Knocking against the walls, he turned Torquato the rest of the way over, faceup. His face was a mess, the nose and cheekbone broken and in a pulp. He held his ear close to his mouth. His breathing was shallow, but it was still there. Now what? thought Altman. What do I do with him? He could tie him up, as he had done with Hendricks, but there was always the chance he would break free. And there was the bigger problem, the lack of oxygen. With the oxygen recirculator broken, he probably didn't have enough air to make it to the surface for one person, let alone two. Am I a killer? Altman wondered. Am I the kind of person who is willing to kill someone so as to stay alive himself? He ran it through his mind again, considered other alternatives, but couldn't come up with anything. It was either Torquato or him. Torquato, he told himself, would have died anyway if he'd gotten his way and managed to open the hatch, so the choice was either both of them dead or just one of them dead. He looked at the bloody face below him. He'd done that. Maybe he'd had no choice, but in any case, he'd done it, was responsible for it. And was about to be, he realized, responsible for more. He reached out and put his hands around Torquato's throat. It was sticky with blood. He let his hands lie there, then very gently began to squeeze. At first he thought it would be easy, that Torquato would simply slip from unconsciousness to death without waking. But after a moment, Torquato's eyes suddenly sprang open. Altman squeezed harder. Torquato's arms began to flail and shake, striking Altman's shoulders and arms. He arched his back, knocking Altman into the wall of the passage, but Altman held on, squeezing tighter. In the last moment before he died, a light came into Torquato's undamaged eye that Altman couldn't help but see. Human, pleading. He closed his own eyes to it and turned his head to the side. Gradually, he felt Torquato's movements slow and stop. When he finally opened his eyes again, Torquato's eyes had rolled back in their sockets. He was dead. He dragged himself out of the passage, climbed down the wall and onto the console. There, he reversed the screws, bringing the bathyscaphe backward and away from the artifact. It slowly righted itself, Torquato's body spilling out of the hatch passage and onto the floor. Altman climbed off the console and to the chair to start the bathyscaphe rising. The lead-pellet release was jammed, the panel all around it scarred from where Torquato had dented it. The craft started to rise, pellets slowly dribbling out, but not as fast as he'd hoped. Chances were he'd reach a certain water density and then the craft would stop moving entirely and he'd hang there suspended, slowly dying. He recorded an SOS message and then sent it to loop and broadcast, asking them to come for the bathyscaphe, to make it rise as quickly as possible. Whether they'd get the message soon enough, he didn't know. He recorded another message for Ada, telling her he loved her and that he was sorry, just in case he didn't make it. It was getting very warm. He wasn't getting enough air. He wondered if the best thing was to go to sleep. He'd use less air that way. He contemplated getting down on the floor of the submarine, thinking the air might be better down there. But he just stayed slumped in his chair, staring at Torquato's remains. And then suddenly, he saw Torquato's hand move. Impossible, he thought. He's dead. He swiveled his chair around so that he could see him better, watching carefully. No, he was dead, he wasn't moving, how could he? And then the hand moved again. Hello, Altman, Torquato said. "Go back to being dead," Altman said to him. It's not as easy as that, said Torquato. I need you to understand something first. "Understand what?" "This," said Torquato, and leapt forward. Torquato flew up on him, choking him. He tried to pry his hands off, but they were digging too firmly into his neck. He latched his own hands on to Torquato's neck, squeezing with all he had; then he blacked out. He came conscious to find his hands around the neck of a corpse. It was rigid and cold, had been dead a very long time. What is going on? he wondered. He tried to stand up to get away from the corpse, but couldn't. He moved his fingers away and rolled off, lying just beside it. He hoped he was close to the surface, but there was no way to tell from here. Suddenly he saw something strange. A woman. She looked a lot like Ada, though it wasn't her. It was obvious when he looked close. But maybe it was her mother, back when he had first met her, before she had cancer. But that's impossible, he thought. Ada's mother is dead. I'm hallucinating again, he thought. Just like with Torquato. Hello, Michael, she said. "Aren't you dead?" he asked.