The Lazarus War: Artefact

by Jamie Sawyer

  We went on for a long time, listing those missions. Listing operations, remembering easier times.

  They all had one thing in common: they had ended with death.

  The civilians ran out of water first.

  Mine was exhausted next.

  Then Blake’s ran out shortly after.

  “Someone could go back into the ship and get Ray’s bottle,” Kaminski suggested. His voice cracked, throat sounded dry. “Or maybe you could lay down some fire with the rifle, and Deacon and I could drag Farrell’s body back.”

  “I’m not losing either of you out here. That’s a negative.”

  “Let me share out what I have left,” Kaminski said.

  “See to the civvies first.”

  Dusk was fast approaching. Helios Primary dipped on the horizon, and Secondary had also begun to set. Three hazy and undersized moons rose overhead, casting a sickly yellow light across the desert. The pain in my injured leg had developed into a deep, plaguing ache. Maybe Blake is right, I thought, and it is infected. Then I remembered Farrell’s tortured body, and I immediately put my own injury to the back of my mind. Couldn’t dwell on what wasn’t immediate, what wasn’t happening in the here and now.

  But a thought nagged. Why were the Krell out here? There hadn’t been a storm. Intel suggested that the area was clear of a Krell presence. They were supposed to be influenced by the Artefact. Something had gone desperately wrong.

  Out in the dark of the alien desert, there was time to ask only one question: Is this how it ends, this time?

  I couldn’t answer that.

  My head was throbbing again, and the signal was back.

  The ground under me grew increasingly cold. The stifling, dry heat of midday seemed like a distant dream. My wrist-comp indicated, as if I didn’t know it already, that night had fallen. The temperature gauge dropped at an alarming rate: negative five degrees Celsius, then negative ten. I began to shake inside the suit.

  Civilian piece of shit.

  My stomach churned with a real, deep hunger.

  I kept the carbine in both hands – poised, ready. I’d been holding the same position for so long that even my arms ached. Except for the occasional warning shot, the Krell hadn’t shown themselves or moved on us.

  What are they doing? I wondered. Waiting for reinforcements? Waiting for the cold to wear us down? Or hoping to kill us with the occasional burst of stingers and boomers?

  It didn’t really matter. Whether it was the environment or the Krell that got us, we were dead either way.

  After a long wait, Deacon shuffled up beside me. The sand underneath him crunched quietly as he moved.

  “We don’t have long out here,” he said.

  I repositioned myself on the bank, watching for movement. The area beyond the ridge was empty and silent. I answered Deacon without taking my eyes off the Krell position.

  “I know.”

  “It’s getting too damned cold. If we’re going to do this, we should do it now.”

  He was right. We were running out of time. The cold was growing in my bones, making my muscles ache. I stole a glance down at my wrist-comp. Negative fifteen degrees Celsius. I needed to rethink the strategy.

  “Change of plan,” I announced, sliding down the bank.

  The rest of the group huddled nearer, shuffling on bellies or crawling on knees. Only Blake held his post.

  “These fish heads are playing the long game. They want to flush us out. They know we have limited resources. They know we can only survive out here for so long.”

  “This isn’t usual Krell behaviour,” Peters responded. “When we have seen them before – they’ve rushed us. Sent waves of primary-forms to meet our security forces.”

  Peters looked like he had been drained of all fluid. His skin was cast matt by the dust and sand. His voice had developed an unpleasant rustle. Just listening to him speak reminded me of how thirsty I was.

  Kellerman nodded. “Perhaps these xenos are wary of the Shard craft. They don’t want to get too close to it. It’s interesting behaviour, to say the least: maybe on some instinctual level, the wreckage repels them.”

  Can’t you just leave it, Kellerman? We’re dying out here and all you can think about is your next hypothesis!

  Instead, I said: “Whatever their reasons, it doesn’t matter. They’re a small group, as Kaminski says – there are six of them. We took down one. That leaves five. I’m going to fire another volley into the crater. Blake, you watch my fire and when the Krell react, take down any exposed targets. When they start to return fire, then we move.”

  There were some vague nods and mutters of agreement.

  “I want all of you to limber up. Unlock limbs, shake out the frost. When we start firing, go round the side of the Shard craft. Don’t look back. Kaminski, you go with Kellerman and Deacon.”

  He nodded.

  “Blake and I will follow once the return fire starts. Keep to the edge of the ship, then head south across the basin.”

  “That seems an awfully long way,” one of the researchers said. “Can’t someone make the run and bring the crawler back?”

  I sighed. This was not a plan, and I knew it: this was a suicide run. I remembered my last suicide run. The New Haven felt like a different life. That’s because it was; and don’t forget that you died on that last run. I didn’t want to explain to the woman that the distance between the crater edge and the sand-crawler was going to be too far for all of us to make it. Or worst of all, that by having multiple targets running for the crawler, we were at least increasing the chances that one of us would get away. No, all of that would be too morale-destroying to reveal, and I needed the group to stay focused.

  And so, I said: “It will be easier if we all move together. If the Krell try to swarm our position, we can use the rifles.”

  She nodded, at least superficially content with my answer.

  “What about the doctor?” Peters asked.

  “One of you will have to help him.”

  Kellerman’s face immediately reddened. Even now, facing death, he was still obstinate and belligerent.

  “I have adequate mobility,” he murmured.

  “No, you don’t. Just this once, let your people help. It’s a long way back, and I’m not going to leave anyone out here. If you don’t want your researchers or Deacon to help, then Kaminski can do it.”

  Kellerman glared at me with slitted eyes – glints of white in the darkness. I’m trying to get us out of here alive, you asshole! There was such intense resentment in his face. But he didn’t say anything, and as far as I was concerned the matter was resolved.

  “Communicators on,” I said. “Just in case.” Then, as an afterthought – almost forgotten among the chaos of the ambush: “Who has the Key?”

  Dolan, the female researcher, bobbed her head. “I do. It’s safe.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  I moved back up the bank, using some rocks for purchase, and readied myself. The rifle ammo counter displayed a warning sign, indicating low ammo. Beside me, Blake got comfortable and cycled the loader of his rifle. Kaminski scurried further down the bank and remained in cover. The rest of the civilians, with Deacon and Kellerman, had taken my instruction and were flexing arms and legs.

  “You ready for this?” I asked Blake.

  He gave a slight smile. “Always ready. I didn’t get that badge for nothing.”

  “You pull this off, and I’ll see to it that you get another one.”

  “I’m not so sure badges and medals matter to me any more.”

  “Whoever said anything about a medal?”

  We laughed, low and meaningless. The laughter of men who know that their time could be up. I closed my eyes for a second, felt my pulse racing. Deacon was right: it was now or never.

  “Do it!”

  Then we were up. I fired my carbine into the desert. Short, controlled bursts. Two, three, flashes of black, as Krell exposed themselves to take shots back at us. Blake was at my
flank and fired his rifle smoothly. There was a flash and a target vanished.

  “Go, go!” I yelled.

  Kaminski moved, shouting orders of his own. I concentrated on my fire, and only half registered the progress of the group.

  “Left rock, on the crater edge!” I shouted.

  Blake swivelled his rifle. He spat rounds into the position. Another Krell went down, sprayed across a rock. Then two more popped out of cover, their shimmering eyes just visible.

  “Got one!” Blake declared.

  My carbine shook. The barrel heated with overuse, steam rising into the air. That might have been my imagination, or maybe my pathological need for some heat. I paused, eager not to expend more ammo than necessary. Blake fired again and again—

  Boomer-fire shrieked past our position, setting the atmosphere alight. Rounds impacted all around us.

  “Down, down!”

  Blake went to sink beneath the ridge—

  A Krell stinger span past his head, and he ducked sideways. Too slow. Another, probably accounting for his response to the first, impacted with his shoulder.

  For a long moment, Blake didn’t react. He was frozen in disbelief.

  Then he slipped backwards down the bank. I lowered my rifle and caught him. He started to scream.

  “It’s okay!” I mumbled. “It’s okay!”

  I knew that it wasn’t.

  Blake had taken a sound stinger impact to his right shoulder. An ammo-splinter of black bone, coated in caustic gel, poked out from his body. The round had pierced right through his suit; and through the tear in the suit, I saw blood and human bone. He abruptly stopped screaming and started to hyperventilate.

  His face was deadly pale. I knew that his pain management would kick in soon. After all, he had been here before: only in another body. He’d been trained to deal with this sort of agony, trained how to ride it to stay operational. He ground his teeth against it, his eyes bulging. He shuddered in my arms.

  “Man down!” I shouted, although not quite sure at who or even why I was shouting it. There was no one to help us out here, not now or ever. Shit – this can’t be happening! Not Blake. Not the Kid.

  “They got me,” he muttered. His voice was already distant and there were flecks of blood on his lips.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said. Again, the lie came easily.

  It was only then that I realised Kaminski was trying to reach me – his voice becoming increasingly demanding over the communicator. I must’ve phased him out, so focused on Blake, because suddenly he was yelling. I fumbled with the bead, positioning it in my ear. I looked down the ridge, towards Kaminski and the rest of the group. They had reached the far end of the sand bank, and were about to break cover to make the last dash towards the crawler. Kaminski was at the head of the group, keeping low, indicating to the rest to copy him.

  “What’s happening?” he insisted.

  “Blake’s down,” I answered. The words were final, irrevocable. “Kaminski, I need you to get to the crawler. Break out the medical kit. Sweep back down towards the ship. Get Deacon to lay down suppressing fire with whatever gear he has aboard the transport.”

  Blake grunted and tried to prop himself up, still holding the rifle. He shook his head.

  “That’s a negative,” he said. He coughed hard, spitting up blood. “Just follow them. I’ll hold the fort while you’re gone.”

  “I’m not going without you, Blake. Kaminski, execute those orders and move now.”

  Kaminski nodded – visible only as a tiny figure at the far end of the ruined Shard ship. But Blake held up his hand.

  “Belay that order, Kaminski,” he said, using his communicator and a good deal of his available strength. “Don’t bring the crawler back. Just move. Cap – please go with him.”

  “I’m not leaving you out here!”

  “It’s okay,” Blake said. “It’s okay. None of it’s real. We’ll wake up in the tanks. I promise you that.”

  “I’m not leaving you! We’ll go back to the crawler and—”

  “Just go,” Blake said, a powerful edge developing to his voice. He coughed again and righted himself a little more. “I’ll use whatever I have left in this rifle to give you some covering fire.”

  He struggled with something around his neck, then passed it to me. His biometric dog-tags. With monumental effort, Blake pulled his forearm up and checked his wrist-computer. The model was old and worn out, and blood-stained now. The display blinked erratically.

  “My oxygen tank is half-full. Remember what Deacon told us? If it breaches, it’ll go up. Help me to put it on my chest.”

  “No – just sit tight. That’s an order!”

  “I’ll only do it on my own if you don’t … help … me.”

  He tried to disconnect the tank hose, his fingers fumbling with the release mechanism. He really couldn’t do it on his own. Ephemeral wisps of smoke were starting to rise from Blake’s wound.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “My choice, Captain. Now, please … help … me.”

  Reluctantly, I unstrapped the oxygen processor from his back. Unclipped the hosing.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  He clutched the tank to his chest and repositioned the rifle. It was awkward and difficult, but I realised what Blake was going to do.

  “If they get near to me, I’ll blow the tank,” Blake said. “Take out … as … many of them as I can. Rookie mistake to get shot … in … the first place.”

  I nodded, utterly numbed.

  “I’ll see you on the other side,” he said to me. Those words: they had a different, more poignant meaning now. “Give my t-t-tags to my folks.”

  “Anything you want, Blake.”

  “Now, just go.”

  He got ready to aim his rifle, but nodded back towards Kaminski. He waited at the very edge of the bank, the civilians in an orderly line behind him.

  “Take care of Jenkins for me, Kaminski,” Blake said, over the communicator. His voice was wet and gravelly. “Make sure she stays in check. And one more thing: I’m … tw-tw-tw-twenty-three standard years.”

  Kaminski nodded. “Be seeing you, Blake.”

  Then Blake was up on the ridge again, hunting for targets.

  I had watched Michael Blake die thirty-seven times. I had been with Kaminski, Jenkins, the rest of my squad, and seen and heard all of them die. But this was different. This was real; not simulated. This was happening to Blake, not some distant flesh copy. I hated myself for not being able to help him. This would be his last death. As I took one final look at Blake’s dying body – the only one that he had left – something perceptibly died inside of me as well.

  I was empty. So cold inside and out, that I had nothing left to give.

  I stooped, moving as fast as I could towards Kaminski. My legs screamed with the effort and I yelled to Kaminski to just move.

  Ahead of me, Kaminski leapt between broken areas of terrain. He herded on the civvies. Deacon had his arm around Kellerman, kept the old man moving. The researchers did their best to keep up.

  My progress was slower. Every injury that I’d experienced over the last couple of days descended on me, with a vengeance. I ground my teeth as I took another step, pain exploding in my leg.

  Through the swirling, dust-ridden wind, I made out the hulking black shape of the crawler. The Krell nest was to my right, up on the crater edge. They had camped behind a collection of boulders and were using the hard cover to move as quickly as possible into the crater.

  Blake continued firing somewhere behind me, although far less often. In contrast, the return fire from the Krell was becoming more ferocious, more concerted. Whenever Blake rested, I glimpsed the Krell descending another level into the crater. The fish heads were absolutely focused on Blake.

  I paused for a second, gasping to catch my breath, and checked by wrist-comp. By now, I was well out of communicator range with Blake, so instead I babbled commands at the rest of the group.


  “Keep going!” I shouted at Kaminski.

  He never paused, never questioned me.

  The sand-crawler was ahead. The gun-bot was in pieces nearby, blackened with corrosive Krell ammo.

  “Kaminski – get everyone onboard and power up the engine!”

  We were suddenly at the crawler entrance hatch, and I drove the others inside. The sky behind us was alight with blues and reds: boomer-fire rained down on Blake.

  “Start this thing up. We’re going back for Blake.”

  “Affirmative, Cap,” Kaminski shouted. He was in the driver cab, powering up dormant systems.

  Deacon slammed shut the hatch, sealing us in. The transport hummed to life. Kellerman grappled with ammo crates and scattered clips across the cabin floor.

  “Take us right down into the crater. Deacon, get armed and keep the hatch covered. When we reach Blake, cover me. I’ll go outside and retrieve him.”

  I stumbled into the driver cab, activating the secondary systems. Too slow, too slow – got to get down there. The crawler started to move off, jerkily at first as Kaminski tested the controls. The vehicle had a basic sensor-suite, and I activated that too. Hot signals appeared all around us.

  “We got Krell on the six,” I muttered, looking out of the view-screen ahead. “Let’s make this fast and—”

  “Christo,” Kaminski whispered. “Oh Christo.”

  There was a momentary flash outside, from Blake’s position. Inside the crawler, I couldn’t hear the explosion, but I knew that it was considerable.

  Kaminski brought the crawler to a stop. He just stared ahead, into the swirling darkness outside.

  The sensor began a steadier, more hostile chiming. They’re coming for us. My head swam, and I lurched up and out of the cab.

  “I do hope that the explosion has not damaged the Shard starship,” one of the researchers said.

  It took some serious self-restraint not to react to that. I held myself in check, fixed my eyes on the view-screen. Kellerman had no such qualms.

  “Have some respect for Christo’s sake!” he shouted.

  Kellerman reeled across the crawler cabin, with indomitable force. The exo-suit servos screamed as he pulled back his hand, and landed a single back-handed blow across the researcher’s face. The woman flew backwards, hand to her cheek, but made no sound. A streak of blood landed on the cabin floor; pure red.