The Lazarus War: Artefact

by Jamie Sawyer

  I raised my hand.

  “Weapons cease, repeat weapons cease,” I shouted.

  Immediately, the squad stopped their assault. We froze as the man entered. He was dressed in a black bodysuit, carrying a tank of oxygen on his back and wearing a respirator mask over his face. As if to reinforce the point that he was no xeno, he yanked it free. Underneath he was rugged and scar-faced. Middle-aged, I’d guess – his dark hair was peppered with grey, and he had a full beard. He was a big, well-set man; taller than me, broader-shouldered. He eyed us wearily and advanced into the bay, equivocally covering us with an ancient solid-shot carbine.

  A handful of similarly dressed figures filtered in behind him. Still more appeared at the shattered view-ports. Most did not reveal their faces and only some lowered their weapons. All armed with rifles and shotguns. None of them looked even remotely like Krell.

  Deacon looked over the interior of the crashed module, setting his chin. He took a breath from his respirator before speaking.

  “Care to tell me what in the seven shades of Hades is happening out here?” he asked. He had a strong Texan drawl, real Old Earth. “Y’all could start a fight in an empty house. Someone could’ve been killed out there. You Directorate or something?”

  “We’re Alliance military,” I said flatly. “We’re conducting a rescue operation.”

  “So you’re here for us?” Deacon said.

  He pointed to an embroidered badge on the shoulder of his bodysuit. It showed a yellow planet, circled by two stars. Under the emblem, it read HELIOS EXPEDITION. Beneath that was sown a small United Americas flag.

  “Looks to me like you’re the ones who need rescuing,” he said. “We saw you come down. Must’ve been a hell of a firefight, but I guess you already know that.” He jerked a thumb at the destroyed bank of computers. “I’d strongly suggest that y’all turn that shit off. You’re calling every Christo-damned fish head on this continent to your position.”

  He laughed, then made a high-pitched beep-beep-beep sound, mocking a radio beacon. It was about as humourless as the rest of his presentation.

  “I’d have thought you military types would know that already.”

  Another man tugged at Deacon’s arm, and Deacon paused to speak into his communicator. The expression on his face indicated that he wasn’t happy with whatever news he had just received.

  “Your arrival has stirred up the natives,” he said. “They get all tetchy whenever something makes planetfall. Choice is yours, but I’d strongly suggest that you come with us. If you stay out here, you’ll die. Simple as that.”

  Then he turned back to his rag-tag security team, and began giving orders. The men, still buttoned up, started dismantling the medical bay – stripping out everything that wasn’t bolted down, and much of it that was. They presented as experienced scavengers, systematic and fast. It was almost impressive.

  “Are we just going to let them take our stuff?” Jenkins asked me, indignantly.

  “It’s not like we have much of a choice,” I said. “Everyone stay collected and with it, until we know what’s going on down here.”

  There were grumbles of acceptance from my squad, but they sounded about as convinced as I was.

  “So are we going with them?” Blake asked.

  “We don’t have a better option,” I said. We needed shelter and medical aid, and I reasoned that it was better to hold fire for now. The blazing storm outside made that decision for us.

  Deacon turned back to me, looking me up and down. Black dust lined his already weathered face, and there was a deep suspicion in his eyes. He doesn’t want us here. Why is that? His team was cut off on Helios, without any support from the rest of the Alliance, and yet this was our welcome? It didn’t make sense.

  “Y’all waiting for a formal invitation? I said, move it. We have a sand-crawler outside. Maybe ten minutes until the Krell get here.”

  “I take it we’re going to Helios Station?” I said.

  “That’s right. The Doc wants to see you.”

  “Kellerman is alive?”

  Deacon grunted a laugh. “Alive, but not quite kicking. You’ll see soon enough.”

  Wearing respirators and stuffed into whatever hostile-weather gear we could find onboard the medical module, we struggled out into the storm. Visibility was reducing and the weather was becoming more intense. Grit stung my eyes, chafed every inch of exposed skin. My leg burnt deeply as I placed my weight on it, and the pain in my ribs was constant, but there was no time to dwell on any of that.

  Not far from the crashed module, maybe fifty metres, were two large land vehicles. Both were half concealed by a sand dune, and whether that was some deliberate camouflage to fool the Krell or an unintended consequence of the storm I couldn’t say. Even with running lights on, they were barely visible until we were on top of them. The lead sand-crawler had a massive weathered chassis and three pairs of enormous wheels, set on an adapted suspension bed for cross-country use. They were strictly civilian-issue models. The vehicle engines were still running; sending out thick black plumes of smoke from chemical-burner engines.

  These were the sort of vehicles used on colonial outposts throughout Alliance space – ubiquitous, sometimes dependable, always cheap. But the tech was nothing like what we were used to: these were not only civilian transports, but they were old and badly maintained.

  Jenkins nodded at me. “Looks like our rescuers have recently had a run-in with the Krell.”

  I saw that the flanks were pocked with boomer-fire and the rear vehicle had been struck by stinger-spines.

  “Too recently for my liking. I just hope that they know what they’re doing.”

  “I thought we were the rescuers?” Kaminski added.

  Deacon was at my shoulder, barking orders to get supplies into the crawlers. He waved his carbine in my direction.

  “The storm does something to block out the signal broadcast by the Artefact,” he said. “Gives them back a little of their self-control, or something like that. The Doc has studied it. They often move in this direction when the storms come in, and sometimes batter up against our defences. Hurry up and get inside.”

  The sand-crawlers were manned by another security crew. They wore a variety of mismatched uniforms and hostile-environment suits; none of it new, most of it re-patched many times over. They looked like an Old Earth hood-gang; faces concealed by headscarves and respirator masks. Their uniforms carried a bizarre array of badges and iconography, suggesting tours of duty on many planets and outposts. All of them were emblazoned with the Helios Expedition badge, but they were obviously a seasoned crew. These were civilian contractors, not proper military.

  “Nothing more than damned mercenaries,” Jenkins muttered under her breath.

  “Just keep quiet for now,” I ordered.

  We were hustled aboard the lead crawler, into the passenger cabin. Seats lined the flanks of the cabin, big enough to accommodate maybe twenty personnel. A separate driver cab was upfront and more guards manned that.

  “Get the fat one in there as well,” Deacon snarled in his Texan burr. Two men appeared dragging Olsen’s still body out of the wreck. They brusquely dumped him into a passenger seat aboard the transport. “Leave the bodies behind – no point in fussing over the dead.”

  Good men and women who died for no reason, I thought. Who died trying to get us down here, and save your asses. Martinez and I exchanged a look.

  “This isn’t right, cuate,” he whispered.

  I didn’t say anything to him. He eventually glared down at the floor, boring a hole into the deck plating. Leaving bodies behind wasn’t the military way, and it wasn’t Martinez’s way either. I bitterly wanted to confront the security officers, to argue with them; I just didn’t have the energy.

  The security team ventured onto the module to take surgical equipment and simulator-tanks, but they seemed most interested in shipping the boxed foodstuffs and ship rations. When that was done, they unloaded the armoury. Watching t
hem from the open hatch of the crawler, I realised how few of them there actually were. They appeared capable of carrying and dragging much more than their number and worked at a determined rate. They’re frightened, I concluded. Frightened of being left out here, or running into a Krell patrol.

  “They’re taking everything,” Kaminski said, glumly.

  “Even the heavier shit,” Jenkins said. “They must have the whole medical bay on that other crawler. Good job I kept this handy.” She patted a plasma rifle on her lap.

  “Keep the safety on until we know what’s going on out here,” I ordered, glaring at her. I had kept my pistol, still strapped to my leg, but I didn’t think that it would do me any good.

  “They’re even taking the sims,” Blake added.

  Sure enough, the group were wheeling and levering the remaining sims out of the wreckage. Deacon didn’t seem in the slightest phased by the deactivated bodies but some of his crew stopped to tap on the glass. The bodies inside didn’t respond, and the security men quickly lost interest. Each capsule was loaded up onto the crawlers.

  Soon everything was aboard. Deacon sent most of his guards to the other transport, then took up a seat in the driver cabin of our crawler. He ordered another man to act as driver, and set a guard in the back with us.

  “It’s not far,” Deacon called back into the cabin. “Just sit tight.”

  The crawlers moved off in unison, and trudged cross-country away from the crash site.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THIS IS ALL THAT IS LEFT

  The drive to Helios Station was rough on me. The broken terrain made for a bumpy ride, constantly provoking pain in my head, my leg and my side. It definitely wasn’t the way I’d have preferred to travel, given my condition.

  “I think Martinez has the right idea,” I said.

  He was slouched back in his seat, eyes closed and mouth open, fast asleep. A sheen of spittle had formed on his open lips.

  “He’ll sleep anywhere,” Jenkins said, rolling her eyes. “How’s the damage?”

  “The painkiller is wearing off fast,” I said. I rearranged myself in the seat. “My leg hurts pretty bad.”

  “Maybe when we reach the station, a real doctor can have a look at it for you.”

  “Deacon mentioned Kellerman. Sounds like he’s still alive.”

  The guard manning the passenger cabin sat several seats away from us, his battered ballistic helmet pulled down over his face. He wore a basic flak-vest, that didn’t seem to match his headgear, and beaten greaves over his boots. When I mentioned Kellerman’s name, he suddenly came to life. He grappled the carbine to his chest, pulling at the canvas strap over his shoulder, and frowned at me.

  “Don’t talk about the Doc.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so, asshole.”

  And you’re the one with the rifle, I answered to myself.

  “Message received.”

  We sat in silence for a while. I could see the outside world through the view-screen upfront. The sky was an ochre colour, swirling with clouds and a constant sandstorm. Deacon and the other security man in the driver section were having a conversation, and I listened in because I had nothing else to do.

  “How much further?” the driver asked Deacon, his voice juddering in time with the crawler engine. “Everything out here looks the same to me.”

  Deacon shook his head. “Quit stressing. We’ll be there soon. You know the route well enough.”

  “This is why I don’t like leaving the station. Never know what will happen. Our fuel could run out, we might hit something, get ambushed. Like Keres – you hear about her? She was out in a crawler and the drive axle snagged on a rock or something. Got stuck outside and toasted, by all accounts. Tyler says she could only be identified by a smudge left on some rocks.”

  Deacon seemed to be doing his best to ignore his colleague, and was focused on the landscape outside.

  “Would you fuck Tyler?” the driver suddenly asked Deacon.

  “Christo, now that is a question. Would I fuck the only piece of ass this side of the Maelstrom? Tough call.”

  The driver grunted. “She’s a bitch. Not sure I would even give her the time.”

  “Since when does that make a difference?” Deacon said, shaking his head. “I didn’t realise that you were so Christo-damned sensitive. She might be a bitch, but I got a thing for blondes. And like I say, not a lot of selection out here. Although maybe one of these new arrivals could change that.” Deacon turned and glared back into the passenger cabin, hungrily eyeing Jenkins. “You all right back there, California girl?”

  He smiled maliciously and continued staring for long enough to make his intentions clear. She stared him down.

  “Like I say,” he repeated, “not a whole lot of selection out here.”

  Don’t even try it, Deacon, I thought to myself. She’ll rip you to pieces.

  The driver hunkered down over the control console and the conversation ended. We travelled on for a few minutes, and began to climb uphill. Huge mountains appeared in the distance. The crawler engine changed pitch as we went.

  “Approaching destination,” the driver announced.

  Helios Station loomed ahead. It had been concealed by the dust-storm, cast about the site like a shroud, but for just a second the wind seemed to cease altogether and I got an unimpeded view.

  A ragged prospect of blackened buildings, mostly low and dust-stained. Many leant at absurd angles, like old tombstones in a graveyard. Some structures had disappeared altogether, but those remaining looked semi-derelict: tortured by the extreme elements. Very few running lights gave any indication of human occupation. I’d studied the schematics, and I expected more of the outpost than this. It was as though the planet was attempting to suck the structures in, remove any trace of the human settlers. The twin suns – Helios Primary and Secondary – hung behind the station, cutting a pointed and eerie outline.

  The station itself was crammed inside a low security wall, battered but solid. A flag post was positioned atop that, and I could just about make out the Helios Expedition flag, and beneath that the Alliance colours. Both flags were tattered and worn, reduced to little more than rags. As a finishing touch, the name HELIOS STATION had been stencilled onto the perimeter wall; the letters I, O and S painted over, so that the name now read HEL STATION. The description was strangely apt.

  “We’ve travelled across light-years of space for this,” Jenkins whispered to me. “We lost the Oregon, nearly got killed for real …”

  “Looks that way,” I answered, but I shared her sentiment.

  What the hell is this place? Would Command really have sent us all this way for what was left? That feeling I’d had back aboard the Oregon – that Kellerman wasn’t someone to be rescued, but that he was an adversary – surfaced again. Only now I was injured, I needed urgent medical help, and we were without the support of our starship.

  On the approach, a pair of laser batteries mounted on the perimeter jumped to life, tracking the crawler. I had no faith that the machines would be an effective deterrent to the Krell; they looked so old and weathered that I questioned whether they even functioned.

  Deacon activated a communicator on the control console.

  “Tyler, this is Security One inbound,” he said. “We’re coming into range. Deactivate the lasers and open up.”

  The console crackled, whining with background static. A woman spoke: “I hear you, Chief.”

  The battered security doors peeled open, with the angry whine and crunch of damaged gears.

  “Security Two inbound,” the communicator hissed.

  The crawlers trundled through the gate.

  “Everybody out!” Deacon ordered.

  The crawler came to a stop inside an enormous hangar bay, crammed with work vehicles of every kind – fusion-borers, more crawlers, drilling machines. Real functional shit; the sort of heavy earth-moving equipment and transport vehicles that couldn’t be reproduced on-world.


  I stiffly climbed down from the crawler, groaning at the pain in my leg.

  “Who’s in charge here?” I barked, my voice echoing across the hangar. “I have a science officer in need of medical attention, and I want to speak with Dr Kellerman.”

  My squad formed up beside me. The security team suddenly stopped, looking to Deacon for further orders. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some of them reaching for their weapons. Jenkins must’ve seen it too.

  “I think the man asked you a question, and my friend here,” she shouted, as she patted the metal stock of her plasma rifle, “deserves an answer.”

  Deacon turned a venomous glare on Jenkins but she didn’t flinch. Her M95 powered up with a high-pitched whine: a just-audible sound. I drew my pistol, pulling back the hammer. I tried to conceal the pain that flared in my ribcage; I didn’t want to show any weakness to these bastards. The hangar grew quiet for a moment, save for the background howling of the wind. No one immediately went to attack but no one made any effort to answer me either. Stand-off.

  “I need access to the Operations centre and your communications equipment,” I said, waving my pistol.

  Again, no response from the gathered group. Jenkins sucked her teeth beside me – raring for a fight.

  A woman jostled through the security officers, waving her open hands towards us. She was dressed in a black tank-top and worn combat trousers. Blonde hair pulled back under a bandana, maybe late-twenties. Her bare arms were thin and grease-stained.

  “Looks like we got a live one here,” she said, laughing. When she moved a tool-belt at her waist clattered with various devices. “You go, girl. Deacon, try not to be such an asshole to the new arrivals.”

  “Show some damned respect,” he growled. “I’m chief of security.”

  “Yeah, you’re both.”

  “I was a sergeant in the Army.”

  “Well you’re not any more.”