Dead Space™

by B. K. Evenson

  “I’ll come get you,” said Altman.

  “That’s not possible,” said Harmon. “Before you even go a few steps, they’ll tear you to bits.”

  “Can you do me a favor?” asked Altman. “Is there a way you can open the submarine bay doors from there? Do you have authorization?”

  “Sure,” said Harmon. “Why?”

  “Open them and leave them open,” Altman said. “That’s how I’ll get to you. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Name it,” said Harmon.

  “Gather everything you can from the system about the Marker. Signal, composition, dimensions, makeup, anything at all.”

  “All right,” said Harmon. “It’ll give me something to do.”

  “I may have figured out what the Marker wants,” said Altman. “I’ll know when I get there. If I get there.”

  Harmon started to say something, but Altman had already switched off. He made his way out of the lab and back in the direction from which he’d come. He searched through lockers and cabinets, looking for either oxygen or a wet suit, but found nothing. He’d just have to risk it. He looked at the chain saw. It was hardly the ideal weapon; when the chain had caught, it almost got him killed. In any case, he couldn’t take it. The water would ruin it. The plasma cutter, though, was another matter. It would probably work even after having been through the water.

  He found two fifteen-meter coils of rope and hooked them over his shoulder. Then he started climbing the ladder again, back to the hatch.

  63

  He climbed down the dome to the boat platform, bucking now with the swells. The submarine bay was below and a little to the left. He went to the far edge of the platform and looked down for it.

  There, there it was. He could just make out the glow coming out through the open bottom of the hangar.

  He tied the two coils of rope together, tugging on either side of the knot until he was satisfied, and then carefully measured its length. He tied the plasma cutter’s strap onto one end of the rope, double-knotting it just to be safe. The other end, he hitched fast around a mooring.

  Carefully, he lowered the plasma cutter and the rope into the water until they were gone, little more to see than the first few meters of rope. He stripped to the waist and carefully limbered up, thinking.

  He’d have one chance, he knew. Once he’d gone a certain way down, he’d be committed. Either he’d make it into the submarine bay or he’d drown.

  He breathed rapidly in and out and then dived, letting the air out through his nose as he went. He swam as quickly as he could straight down, following the rope. The pressure built quickly, his head feeling like it was being squeezed. It felt incredibly slow, like he was making no progress, like he was still just a few meters below the platform.

  He kept swimming, trying to keep his strokes even and steady and his heart rate constant, trying not to panic. He could hear the blood beating in his ears now, a steady thudding growing slower and slower. Were his limbs slowing down, or did they just feel like they were?

  He saw lights. He was close to the submarine bay. No, he thought, don’t look, stay focused, just keep swimming down.

  He felt his lungs struggle, wanting to breathe in air that wasn’t there. He made a gurgling sound, had to force himself not to breathe in water. Things all around him seemed slower, much slower.

  And then he saw it, floating near the end of the rope, the plasma cutter, like a shadow in the darkness. His heart leapt with exhilaration and things started going dark around the edges and he thought for a moment he was going to pass out.

  But when he reached it and grabbed hold of it, he realized he’d never be able to struggle it into the bay with him. He didn’t have enough air left, didn’t have the strength. He’d have to leave it behind.

  He let go. He looked to the side and there it was, just a few meters away: the open submarine bay. He left the rope and swam for it. He would never make it, he realized. He might make it into the submarine bay, but he didn’t have enough strength left to close the floor and then wait for the time it took to pump the water out. It was pointless.

  But something in him kept him swimming anyway. He crossed through the opening and into the bay. He was just heading for the door lock when he caught a flash above him and suddenly had an idea. He shot up as quickly as he could, striking his head hard against the roof, almost knocking himself unconscious. But there, in the corner, was a thin layer of trapped air. He put his face up against the roof and took a gasping breath, water lapping against the sides of his mouth.

  He hung there, floating, breathing in more, until he stopped wheezing, until his heart stopped pounding. It was okay. He was going to be okay.

  When he felt calm, he dived back into the water and swam down. But instead of swimming to the floor controls, he swam through them and outside. For a moment he was lost, disoriented in the open ocean, and thought he’d gone in the wrong direction. And then he caught sight of the shadow of the rope, realized he was looking too high. He looked down a little and there it was.

  He swam to the plasma cutter and grabbed it, immediately striking back for the submarine bay, dragging the rope along with him. With the rope, it was too heavy, the progress very slow. For a moment he considered abandoning the cutter, and then an idea struck him. He turned and switched the cutter on and cut through the rope with it.

  The cutter was heavy, making it so he could use only one arm to swim. It threatened to drag him down. He made it to just beneath the bay floor and then swam desperately up, kicking hard with his legs, a little panicked. By the time he got his fingers around the edge and pulled himself in, he was nearly as exhausted as he’d been from the initial swim down. He thrust it into a corner and then swam quickly for the controls for the floor.

  He pressed the button and held it down. The emergency lights in the room began to flash. Slowly, he saw, the floor was sliding out of its channel and coming across, coming closed. He swam up for the pocket of air and for a moment couldn’t find it. Where was it? He swam back along the ceiling and found a pocket about the size of his fist, just enough to get his face into. He sucked it in, then breathed quickly out, the pocket growing larger. Below him, he heard the water-dulled clang of the submarine bay floor closing and then the gentle throb of the pumps.

  The water level began to drop and he got his head completely out, took a deep gasping breath, and immediately blacked out.

  Michael, the voice said. Michael. Wake up.

  He opened his eyes. It was his father. I asked you to get up, his father said. How many times do I have to ask?

  In a minute, Dad, he said. His voice sounded strange, hollow, as if coming from a distance.

  I said now, said his father. Get up or I’ll drag you out of bed myself.

  He didn’t move. His dad shook him. He moaned, shook his head. Dad—

  Get up! His father was screaming now, so close to his face that he could smell the liquor on his breath. Get up!

  He came conscious facedown, half-on and half-off the catwalk running the edge of the chamber. He had been lucky. He was alive and coughing up water rather than floating facedown in the center of the room, dead.

  He struggled and leaned back against the wall, gathering himself. Then he inched to the edge of the catwalk and jumped off and into the water.

  He couldn’t find the plasma cutter. Maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe it had shaken loose when the doors were closing and had slid out into the water. Maybe it was gone.

  He resurfaced, holding on to the edge of the catwalk, and then went down again, searching more carefully this time. He found it wedged behind a float, all but impossible to see until he was almost touching it.

  He worked it free and surfaced again, pulling himself out and onto the catwalk. Then he lay there on the grille a moment, breathing, trying to recover.

  When he got up, he was still shaky, his nerves jittery. He wiped the droplets off the wall com unit with his palm and connected to the Marker chamber.

&n
bsp; “Hello?” said Harmon, his voice a little panicked now. “Hello?”

  “It’s me, Altman,” he said.

  Harmon squinted at the screen. “Altman,” he said. “I wondered if you were still alive. You still are, aren’t you? This isn’t a vision, is it? You look different.”

  “I’m still alive,” said Altman. “Just a little wet.”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Submarine bay,” said Altman. “Not far.”

  Harmon nodded. He pulled a holofile up and spun it so that Altman could see it.

  “Here you are,” Harmon said, and a red blotch appeared on the map. “It’s simple,” he said. “Down this hallway, the one with the slight slope. Then into a new hall, past these two labs. A final hall and there you are.”

  “What’s between you and me?” asked Altman.

  “Close to the Marker, nothing,” said Harmon. “They won’t get close to the Marker. If you can get into the final hallway, you should be all right. Before that, it might be a little trickier.”

  He flashed Altman a view of the hall just outside the submarine bay lock. The camera made a slow sweep, showing a pile of corpses, a pallid batlike creature fluttering above them, and then dissolved into a wall of static. “This was just before the camera was destroyed,” he said. “Who knows what’s there now.”

  The view changed, two separate cameras, two labs. In one, a spiderlike creature like the one he’d killed before, only this one had a third head and a ridge of spines along its back. In the other, two of the creatures with the scythelike blades. They lay on the ground motionless, perhaps dead. “These are current,” Harmon said. “I’d suggest being quiet going past the labs. The hall itself, and the hall after it, seem to be empty.”

  Altman took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “Here goes nothing.”

  He stopped the airlock mechanism when it was only slightly open and looked through. The hall outside was dim, some of the emergency lights fluttering, others burnt out completely. But he could see from the dim shapes and tell from the sounds being made that they were there.

  And then an arm reached through the opening and grabbed him, wrapped itself around his own arm and pulled hard, dragging him against the airlock.

  Or at least at first he thought it was an arm. As he tried desperately to pry it off, he realized it wasn’t an arm at all, but something more like a bundle of sinew stretched long and hardened somehow. He tried to get the plasma cutter up, but his arm was flush against the hole, no space to cut. It tugged again and almost tore his arm off. He pulled back hard but couldn’t get any purchase. Not knowing what else to do, he kicked the lever to continue opening the door.

  As soon as the opening was large enough, the sinew pulled him through. The hall had been remade, was covered in an organic layer, smeared with an approximation of flesh. It was like he was being tugged down an intestine. He cut at the sinew with the plasma cutter, but the blade didn’t go all the way through. The sinew jerked, just dragged him farther down the hall. He cried out in pain, cut again, and this time cut through.

  There was a roaring sound. The rest of it slid rapidly down the hall and disappeared into an air duct. The piece that he had cut off was still digging tightly into his arm, cutting off the circulation. To get it off, he had to carefully section it.

  It was like walking through a nightmare. Blood and flesh everywhere, no idea where they were going to strike at you next. He was becoming jumpy, he knew. He needed to relax, needed to calm his nerves, or they’d get him. But how could you relax in a hell like this?

  Aching all over, he stumbled down the hall, wading through a kind of putrid slurry, trying not to touch the flesh-coated walls or ceiling. There was a corpse blocking the way. He tried to kick it out of the way, but as soon as he touched it, it hissed and lashed out at him. He stumbled back and slipped and then it was on him, trying to slash his head off with its scythes, scythes that had been hidden beneath the water. He raised his knees and turned to see it up and over him, its drooling mouth just centimeters from his throat. He somehow got his hands between it and him, held it away. It hissed and shrieked in frustration, leaning hard on its scythes and trying to get closer, its breath enough to make him want to retch.

  With a groan, he gave a mighty push and threw it to one side, then spun over and pulled the cutter out from under him. It was already looming over him again, but he had the cutter now and lopped off one of its scythes. It kept coming at him with the other scythe and the stump. He brought the casing of the plasma cutter down hard, pulping its head. It kept coming. He scrambled back and away from it, stopped only to swipe at it. He took the rest of the stump off, then most of the other scythe. It thrashed for a while, half buried in the muck, and then stopped.

  It was only then, in the brief quiet, that he realized there was something coming up behind him. He leapt to his feet and turned, and a scythe cut through his forearm, making him drop the plasma cutter. He screamed and struck the thing open-palmed in the chest, hard, feeling the sickening smack of its dead flesh. It staggered back a little and he managed to get the cutter up again, wincing with pain. It rushed again and he dropped to avoid its scythes, which whistled over his head, and kicked its legs out from under it.

  It fell on top of him and for a moment, trapped in the muck and beneath its stinking, rotting flesh, he had the impression that he was already dead, that he was wandering the afterlife, living out a peculiar hell for all he had done wrong in this life. The cutter was trapped between his body and the creature above him. The creature was gnawing at his shoulder, working its way over to his neck, and was trying to prop itself on one bone scythe so as to swing the other through him.

  He pressed the trigger for the cutter, hoping it wasn’t too low and pointing down rather than up. The blade sprang between his knees and he angled it up hard and through the creature’s pelvis, forcing it up bit by bit, sawing it slowly in half. It fell to either side of him, but he still had to get up and stomp each of the halves before it stopped moving.

  He stumbled up. Blood was still spilling out of the cut in his arm. He tore off the bottom of his shirt and awkwardly bandaged himself. It wouldn’t stop the bleeding, but it would slow it, and that would have to be enough for now.

  Two more hallways, he thought. That’s all.

  He went to the end of the hall. He had to cut away the growth around the door to find the controls, but once he’d done that and scanned his card, it opened fine.

  He looked in. Harmon was right—the hall looked fine, nothing there. There, to the side, were the two lab doors. He would just move forward as quietly as possible, past them, and then he would be safe.

  He eased into the new hall, moving slowly, squishing sounds coming from his shoes from the muck in the other room. He could hear movement behind the first door. He held his breath. And then he was past it, almost to the second door. He could hear a sound from behind that as well, a crackling sound and then a low, long whine. He hurried his step a little, was soon past that as well.

  He’d already reached the door at the end when one of the doors opened. He didn’t look back to see which one it was, just pressed his card against the scanner and prayed the door would open soon enough.

  The low whine came again, louder this time, closer. The door began to slide open and he rushed through it and into the final hall, casting a glance back to see the three-headed spiderlike creature, just standing there near the end of the hall, watching him. It was different from the other one. Its back, he saw, was covered with spikes, which as he watched began to stiffen and stand up. One spat off its back and shot toward him, embedding itself in the wall next to his face. All three of the creature’s upside-down heads hissed in unison, but it didn’t move forward. And then the door between him and it slid shut.

  He reached the door at the end of the hall and engaged the comlink.

  “Who is it?” came Harmon’s voice.

  “Who the hell do you think it is?” said Altman.

/>   “Altman?” he said. “How can I be sure it’s you?”

  “Come on, Harmon. Open up.”

  “No,” he said. “You have to tell me something that nobody but you, nobody but the real you, would know about me.”

  What, was he crazy? “I don’t know you that well, Harmon. I don’t have anything to tell.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t open it,” and cut the feed.

  Altman reengaged the link. When Harmon picked it up, he said, “Don’t disconnect. Turn on the vid feed and you’ll see it’s me.”

  Harmon did. Altman saw his worried face squinting, peering at him. One hand was clutching something at the end of a necklace.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “A vid can be faked.”

  “You’re paranoid,” said Altman, and then realized that yes, that was exactly what he was. The Marker was making him that way. But, he remembered, Harmon was also a believer.

  “Look,” Altman said quickly, “you were the one who told me that the creatures can’t come close to the Marker, right? If that’s true, I must not be one of them. If I was one of them, I wouldn’t be able to get this close. The Marker will protect you if you believe in it. In the name of the Marker, open the door.”

  Harmon gave him a long, solemn look that Altman couldn’t interpret; then he reached out and pressed a button ending the vid transmission. A moment later the door opened. Altman walked in slowly, his hands up.

  “Ah, it is you,” Harmon said. “Marker be praised.”

  64

  “I knew you were coming,” said Harmon. “I just knew.” He was, Altman noted, sweating profusely. His responses were disconnected, his voice zigzagging back and forth between being affectless and flat and a panic-stricken roar. He was clearly not in his right mind.

  “Actually, I called you and told you I was coming,” said Altman.

  “No!” Harmon said, his voice rising. “You didn’t tell me! I knew!”