Cassel took a deep breath and regulated the steadiness of her voice.
“This leaves us sixteen Valkyrie-2 lifeboats total. Not all in one EDZ, either. They appear to be spread out, although the forward EDZ seems untouched. Which means that Captain Keyes is still aboard, whether alive or not, chances are he remains at the bridge…which has become completely unresponsive. So…sixteen lifeboats, two each. More than enough for us. But…”
Cassel’s last word of reconsideration immediately became lost amid a rising storm of tumultuous voices. The documenters—especially Baxter, Wisniewski, and Schuman—were all obstinate on announcing their accordance with this plan. That the EDZ and lifeboat option was their best and wisest choice. Meanwhile, amid the wave of voices which Felina feared could be heard—detected through vibrations in the walls—by the Xeno’s, she did discern counter-arguments from Calloway, Zometa, and Baez. Meanwhile Loudon just shook her head and rubbed her temples, which Felina imagined were throbbing jackhammers not unlike her own. All of the Remoras just exchanged solemn expressions, and Felina noticed that even Palmer—who had essentially lit this dynamite wick—was now slouched in a chair, Seighty in his lap.
Finally Cassel silenced everyone, but not with words. She uttered a single, sharp, strident whistle without even using her fingers. It had the desired effect—essentially sundering everyone’s trachea in lieu of keeping their ears.
“Fact remains factual,” she said simply, chuckling hopelessly. “The congestion of hostiles between us and the labs is thinner than the congestion between us and the EDZ’s. This said, well, it’s not a good thing. These creatures are spreading like wildfire. I fear that not all of the corpses in these corridors are completely dead, and that they might even have stored some in the walls. Attack to maim and incapacitate before infecting at a later time of convenience. Here we are, devising an escape plan; now imagine them out there—clearly they aren’t mindless animals. They’re sentient in their own tunnel-minded ways. Human, once, most of them; all, really, if you want to be technical. So fuck it, I’ll say what we’re all fearing…those things know we want to leave; they’re focusing their numbers on the EDZ’s, regions of the vessel most of them have already seen during the initial attacks—whether the original Xeno’s or the carriers. I…I don’t know, I think they might have this sort of hive mind; like a collective conscience. A way of communicating that goes beyond our perception; I know it might sound silly, but…regardless…if even a fraction of it is true, we can’t possibly use the lifeboats to debark the Manticore. Not in one piece. And we aren’t fucking drawing straws.”
That last statement came out spitefully, but steadfastly.
Her foot was down like the gauntlet, and nobody questioned her qualification as Ensign of the USRD Manticore.
As everyone absorbed this, like an entire meal mashed into one liquid and fed through a tube down their throats, there rose minor specks of debate. Most of them died down quickly, because ultimately there was a mutual acceptance of Cassel’s stance. It was no longer a matter of opinion or viewpoint—it was sheer fact.
And of all the people to candidly acknowledge this foremost, Palmer stood up.
“She’s right,” he said, voice croaking at first. He cleared his throat, Seighty landing in both hands with its muzzle aimed at the floor. “Cassel’s right. I was fucked in the head. But now I’m not. And I say…I say we go to the bridge. Give our venerable Skipper a much-needed visit.”
Connell and Wincott exchanged surprised expressions that seemed to gaze out over the top of Palmer’s head. They both smirked briefly before Wincott slapped Palmer on the back and verbally supported his idea. When Connell chimed in, Cassel appeared relieved and awash with new hope. She announced the reality that their path from here to the bridge, if adhering to the primary starboard corridor, would render far less opposition than if they were to visit even a single EDZ.
“Given, opposition is opposition and with those things out there,” she admitted, “it’ll be no piece of cake. But I think that with the numbers in our group, once we stock up from the Spleen, we’ll stand a better chance than anywhere else.”
“What guarantee do we have that the bridge hasn’t become infected?” Ngo asked reasonably.
“Very little,” Cassel sighed, her words painful to hear much less speak, Felina imagined. Nonetheless she picked up on a faint glimmer of hope in the Ensign’s eyes, which at this rate casted her vote. “But…without the navigator, this vessel would react differently—and we’d know about it. As smoothly as it’s been running all this time, I’m willing to bet that as soon as those alarms sounded hours ago, Keyes reinforced the lockdown procedure with his own word—and the people aboard the bridge in there, I doubt they’d go against his word and try to leave. For their own safety, besides; quite possible that he even sealed it from the inside from his own terminal. To keep anyone from leaving. That said, don’t you worry…from the outside, it can be opened even now—but only by myself or Ikabu. We can only hope with all our hearts that he is in there right now with Keyes and the rest, trying to reason with the Captain. As for us…I think we’re wasting precious time and thin ice.”
“So we make a beeline for the bridge,” Calloway said, “guided by everyone carrying a weapon. And then we reach it, you let us in, and we just…wing it from there?”
“Pretty much, Calloway. Do you see an issue with that plan?” Cassel asked.
“Frankly,” he said with a shrug, “it’s the best one I’ve heard so far.”
“Good.” Cassel nodded, almost letting a smirk slip. “Then we stock up. SC6 and Sentinels—”
“SC5,”Scugs said, harnessing more misery than spite.
“Right, then.” Cassel nodded grimly. “Remoras and Sentinels, first.”
Skugs nodded with a grave smirk all his own, heading for the Manticore’s Spleen.
“Fucking-A, man,” Palmer said with a seemingly inebriated series of nods. His whole disposition bordered on lunacy. “Remora foreva.”
Felina rolled her eyes while Loudon and Baez joined her for a quick pep talk. It was more of an exchange of looks and grunts than actual speech. Everyone seemed intent on saving their saliva and voice for when they might need it most, while repressing any pessimistic vibes.
Meanwhile, the Remoras and two remaining sentinels distributed weapons and ammunition among them. Lockers were also tended to, which brought about the availability of Deci pistols between them.
Felina remembered hers, tucked into a pocket, as did Loudon. When brought to the Remoras’ attention, Cassel interrupted the women and asked Connell for a rundown of their supplies, but it was Landham who responded. His voice, despite the wound he had suffered and loss of a comrade in-the-flesh, wavered not the least.
“After Arevalo dropped his during the attack, it was immediately unattainable. As well as, regrettably, his body. So…we’re down to four instead of five Seighty’s. Doable. Three TG-24’s, two Tenors, four Spitfires, and…nine Deci’s, including the two between Loudon and Sabartinelli.”
Cassel nodded, taking this in. “And ammunition?”
“The Spleen suffices. Deci mags almost entirely full.”
“Manpower?” Cassel asked, glancing from Landham to Connell, Palmer, and just about everyone else.
Landham sighed gutturally and did a quick headcount, the tower of a man that he was.
“Five Remoras, including myself. Combat-ready, make no mistake. Then Ochoa and Djevojka, which makes seven.”
“It’s easy math, really,” Djevojka said, stepping forward and raising her accelerated voice. “I’ll take a Tenor and Spitfire. Ochoa’s got a TG-24 and Spitfire. That leaves four Seighty’s, a Tenor, and two TG-24’s for you fellas. I’d suggest taking the Seighty’s, and whoever takes one of the TG’s also sling the second Tenor. Then Cassel should get a Spitfire, hand off the last TG to the ponytail guy—he seems like the only one fit to carry it, of the documenters—and ration out the last Spitfire, as well as the nine Deci’s to eve
ryone else. Everyone who is comfortable carrying one, I mean, we shouldn’t force anything but let’s be honest…out there, we should all be carrying. You’ll need it. I hate saying this, but…just in case.”
Felina and others tried not to smirk when she mentioned Godunov without saying his name. “The ponytail guy” stepped forward just then, and now that Djevojka had finished speaking, he bared a toothy grin and offered his bland enthusiasm.
“I’ve fired shotguns before. But never something like that.” Godunov cleared his throat and shrugged. “Now’s the time to learn, though, I suppose.”
“No better a time,” Djevojka said with a crooked smile. She handed Godunov the shotgun, flexing to lift it with one hand. Godunov took the weapon and gradually accustomed himself to carrying it, although Djevojka said “it feels a lot heavier when you shoot it, if you know what I mean.”
Felina certainly did. The weight of taking a life.
Although in this case, carrier or not, she couldn’t help but think morality was out of the equation. These creatures may have once been human, might still be in essence, but her beliefs about the soul kept her from feeling too much empathy in killing them. This survival instinct had already come into play, besides, when they were attacked by that premature carrier down in MALBO.
Given, none of the other documenters were there for that, except her and Loudon. Which led to her lack of surprise when it was decided that Loudon would take the last Spitfire handgun, while forfeiting her Deci to someone else. At the end of the distribution of remaining handguns, they had two remaining because Wisniewski and Ngo refused to carry one. At first Baxter was most reluctant too, but upon observing the wound Landham wore on his chest—through his vest—and the amputation Madhavari endured, her timidity evaporated. With the two remaining, there was no objection to Godunov carrying one as a secondary addition to his TG-24.
Landham, being the most capacious individual present, opted to carry the Deci and its two magazines in addition to his current loadout. He claimed that if anyone dropped theirs en route and they had a moment free from duress, he would resupply that person.
“As for those of you unarmed,” Cassel said, which included Lemaître and the hover-chaired Madhavari among the two weaponless documenters, “I advise you keep extra close to a Remora or sentinel. I suggest Skugs on point with me, since you’re carrying a TG-24. Good for clearing a path.”
Skugs nodded like a statue, his expression no different.
“And Connell, you too, with me,” Cassel continued. “Then let’s keep the documenters, Madhavari and Lemaître huddled between us…Palmer and Djevojka, behind us three on point; Landham, Wincott, Ochoa, take our six.”
Connell swallowed and turned to Connell, asking if he had anything to add.
“I’m solid with everything you said, well set,” Connell nodded. “But yeah, actually.” He turned from Cassel to face the others. “When we come up on a turn or room that could potentially blindside us, we pause on my signal—and hold—while Skugs and Myself C&S it. Once secured, we return to the group and continue. I want everyone to be fast, but vigilant; speed is key, but caution is just as important if not more so. Let’s not forget, these fucking things have been seen using the walls for rerouting; keep an open eye and ear for anything suspicious. Oh, you think you’re just being paranoid? Bullshit. Don’t ignore your gut; point it out, we’ll hold and check it out. Better safe…better safe than sorry.”
Connell seemed to have trouble saying that last bit, suppressing a smidgen of grief-stricken anger regarding Arevalo’s death. This much was apparent, Felina thought, and she could see it glimmer in Skugs’ eyes as well as Wincott’s and even Landham’s. Palmer paced, keeping his eyes adrift on the floor.
Cassel nodded, patting Connell on the back before slapping her palms together and announcing a readiness to move out.
9
Time no longer seemed relevant to Felina Sabartinelli, much less the rest of the group. It had become man versus monster, although the elephant in the room was tacitly understood—man and monster had grown hand-in-hand. Not just the viral infection, nor even the cross-genetics of human and extraterrestrial DNA, but the fact that it was a man who had spurred this mess. All of this aside, Felina could no longer grasp the concept of time; it slipped through her sentient fingers, eloping to the stars and infinite space outside of these bulkheads.
What was once an immaculate motif was now a template for bloodshed.
The group moved uniformly, but apprehension got the best of most. Felina wasn’t excluded; she felt the substance of valor permeating her veins upon exiting the security center, and more than just a speck of confidence considering her company. The Remoras were generally gung-ho about it, as were the sentinels. Cassel tried to play off a similar vibe, but it didn’t transfer as well as the others carried themselves.
Ensign or not, she was no soldier.
Felina admired that she knew how to keep herself composed, at least considering the circumstances and in contrast to the documenters—or even Palmer for that matter—she handled it well. Thus Felina looked to Cassel for inspiration and motivation, second only to Loudon of course. The documenter was a rigid woman seemingly more fit to be a weapons trainer or professional rock climber—Felina’s mind bounced like ricochet, but it helped keep her distracted from the fear.
It expanded like humidity in the air, clinging to everyone’s skin and seeping through their flesh to infect their arteries with a virus almost as bad as Xeno carnem: doubt.
To bear such skepticism of your own survival in a situation like this was insalubrious to say the least.
She tried to divert her thoughts.
Everyone moved in the unified huddle, shuffling through the bloodied corridors with haste in their muscles but caution as a silver lining. They paused upon crossing every side room or branching corridor, even if it was just a bathroom. If accessible, Connell gave the signal before Skugs joined him to C&S the area. Felina and Loudon were already accustomed to this procedure, but it clearly inflicted added impatience and paranoia to the other documenters.
Everyone was armed, at least, except for the select few.
At a steady pace, the distance between the security center and bridge could have been made in less than fifteen minutes. At a touring pace, anywhere between twenty and thirty, forty if the guide really stretched things out.
These circumstances were a dire concoction of priorities.
What may have been five minutes, albeit the exaggeration of five hours seemed applicable to Felina, could have passed for ten. She hadn’t reached for her PDA since returning to the security center after their troubling experience in MALBO, and suffice it to say she wasn’t that inclined to. Other matters felt more pressing, besides, she had faith in its safety in the uniform’s back pocket, so long as it remained sealed and she didn’t fall on her back—or get slashed at.
Best case scenario in that instance, added protection.
The radical notion made her smirk, which drew Loudon’s eyes and she couldn’t help but stare cockeyed. Felina simply shook her head to disregard the expression, feeling a bit crazy in that moment.
What could possibly cause someone to smile under these circumstances?
Felina kept to herself. The status of their progression would probably help if someone accessed their PDA to check the map, or at least hear a report from Cassel.
“Are we there yet?” Felina thought of asking, like a child in the backseat during a family road trip.
As she repressed another smile, Cassel spoke up, her voice quieter than Connell’s had been in the past during C&S holds. Cassel’s hand waved above their heads, in case she couldn’t be spotted by shorter members of the corridor-clogging group.
“Hang in tight, everybody,” she announced, “we’re almost there. I promise.”
There was a tinge of desperation in her voice, but the sincere kind as terrible as that sounded.
Moments after she said this, Felina felt like she could h
ear Connell’s guttural sigh as they came upon another side room. At first Felina thought it was a lavatory, but with the hologram sign damaged above it, she’d simply experienced a lapse of focus. It was in fact a maintenance room, which Connell announced upon giving the signal to hold, and the group ground to a halt. There was a corner up ahead of them, which took a hard right that refreshed Felina’s memory.
Past it was a straight shot at the bridge’s entrance.
Maybe a seventy or eighty-foot walk.
A sensation of relief channeled through her body. Although the EDZ sequenced light-panel flashing had ceased, it didn’t alleviate her relentless headache. Many of the LED panels were damaged this way, although far less corpses had been spotted. This keyed ambivalence, since the presence of corpses—however disturbing a sight, and smell—usually meant less carriers. Nonetheless, this was their last stop before the bridge—supposing Felina’s memory served her right, and Cassel was in fact prime to her promise.
Connell and Skugs entered the maintenance room, which—according to Felina’s memory of the Manticore’s schematics, and past tours—was hardly the size of any lavatory, men and women’s combined into one.
They were in and out in a matter of seconds.
As they exited, their weapons’ flashlights cut off. Connell returned to the group, giving the signal of ‘clear,’ with Skugs right behind him.
A raucous crash sounded, like collapsing pipes and tearing wires. There was a spurt of sparks from inside the dark maintenance room, followed by a shrill screech that was metallic in sound but not nature. This all happened within seconds; the documenters barely had time to scream, neither had Skugs a sufficient chance to properly react.
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