by Jason Hutt
Rasmussen meanwhile was looking around the dune and then off into the horizon. His goggles were tinted, so Nick and Max couldn’t see where he was looking.
Rasmussen called out to Nick, “Where did you see your shadow, Nick? The thing that eluded your flashlight beam.”
Nick took a moment to orient himself in the same position as he was standing last night. He swung around, trying to remember exactly where he had caught a glimpse of the thing. He finally pointed back to the east, where the sun was already inching closer to the horizon.
“Marsha,” Rasmussen called to the woman, “Do a survey for tracks and then take samples down the dune for twenty meters in that direction. Let’s see if we can find any trace of this thing.”
She nodded and set off to work, leaving the male assistant to take samples where the body had been.
“Was there anything else, Nick?” Rasmussen asked, “Was there anything else you heard or saw or felt that could help us identify this thing?”
Nick shook his head, but then he remembered one other detail.
“It shrieked. Can’t believe I didn’t remember that. It was a high-pitched screech that scared the crap out of me.”
Rasmussen listened as he continued to survey the area.
“Did it remind you of anything, any other type of animal?”
Nick shrugged and said, “I don’t know. A bird, maybe. It sounded big though, that’s for sure.”
A chill ran up Nick’s spine as he recalled the sound. Involuntarily, he stared at the spot where the body had been. This thing took down an armed man without much trouble, Nick thought, and it took him down from the front. There was no doubt this thing was big.
“Hey professor,” Max said, “If this thing comes out at night, I’d rather not be here then. I’d appreciate if you could wrap this up before sundown.”
“Probably a good idea.”
Nick wholeheartedly agreed.
***
Two hours later and they were back in their chairs at the Dry Dock surrounded by the usual suspects. Charlie was telling the saga of the leaking water hose, though Nick wasn’t paying attention enough to know if this was different than the one told last night or merely a rehashing of the same story with different highlights. Nick had had a couple of drinks in quick succession and was starting to feel their influence.
He sat there quietly while the older men told their stories. He noticed his cup was empty and poured himself another glass from the pitcher on the table. The alcohol in his system had long since killed off any residual nervousness after their trip out to the dunes.
All that time out there and Rasmussen and his team found nothing, no tracks, no traces of DNA, and no other physical evidence of the creature. Nick was glad for that. He had no desire to face whatever struck down Winters. The sun had crept perilously close to the eastern horizon by the time they left and Nick could tell that only he and Max were anxious to get the hell out of there. Rasmussen was filled with overabundant scientific curiosity and clearly felt no danger. His assistants were immersed in their work, willing to do whatever Rasmussen directed them to do.
In that, they were like any other grad student, eager to please their professor and willing to do whatever it takes to gain some esteem in his eyes. Nick had been on that path not too long ago. A life of prosperity lay ahead of him, whatever he desired could be bought with the means at his disposal, or rather his parents’ disposal. His parents, his mother specifically, left him to want for nothing.
She was always there when he needed it. She was at every event, every game he played in, every graduation ceremony, every award, and every triumph, but he had left her behind in all this. Nick took a long pull off of the mug of beer he was holding and finished it. He slammed the recycled, transparent aluminum cup on the table a touch harder than he intended.
“Whoa there, champ,” Max said, “Don’t hurt yourself.”
Nick smiled while Zanth poured him another round. Nick gladly took it. He took another long drink, feeling the cool, frothy, golden liquid run down his throat. While Zanth picked up with a story of some other drunken revelry, Nick noticed that the world had gotten a little fuzzy and he thought his fingertips were numb.
He was tapping the tip of each finger on his left hand to his left thumb when the front door of the bar crashed open with a loud clank. An imposing figure stepped through the doorway and lumbered down the steps. The man was well over six and a half feet tall with a solid, thick frame. Nick’s eyes were immediately drawn to the misshapen lumps on his forehead and the solid gray plate that covered the left side of his bald head. He wore a menacing, unhappy sneer, but it was his eyes that Nick found most unsettling.
His eyes, an unnatural shade of red, were asymmetrically shaped – one squinting and focused with just a tiny bit of pupil showing, the other open incredibly wide and constantly moving. The movements were purposeful and precise. The eye’s field of view swept from one corner of the bar to the other, hesitating briefly at each patron, before passing on to the next.
“Another friend of yours?” Nick slurred.
“Watch yourself, kid,” Max said quietly. The conversation at the table had quieted and all heads turned toward the door. Once the big man finished his scan of the room, he began walking purposefully towards Nick, Max, and their compatriots. With each step there was a muffled thud as the lumbering giant put his foot down forcefully with every stride.
Nick remembered his first day here, how Charlie had approached him with a fierce snarl before everyone erupted in laughter. They all had a good laugh at his expense. Nick wasn’t about to be played the fool again. He sprang from his stool, stood with his chest puffed out, and blocked the giant’s path.
Max immediately reached out and grabbed Nick’s arm, but Nick quickly and forcefully pulled free.
“Kid,” Charlie said sharply, “Sit down.”
“You’re not my father. Your ugly friend’s not going to get the best of me.”
“Kid, trust me,” Max said.
“Hey ugly,” Nick yelled, too drunk to recognize the collective groan issued by his companions, “Don’t you know this bar’s only for old, salty space jockeys? Why don’t you take your lumpy head and skedaddle on out of here?”
Nick made a little shooing gesture with his hand and turned to flash a drunk smile at Max and his friends. It was then he noticed that they were sitting on their chairs with their heads lowered, staring at the bar. No one made eye contact with him. Just as Nick’s brain began to register that maybe he had made a mistake, he felt the giant’s hand make contact with his sternum, knock the air out of his lungs, and send him flying across the room.
Nick crashed into a table and chairs, toppling everything, and lay on the floor with a blossoming ball of fire in his chest. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he struggled to breathe. Before he could do anything, Nick felt a hand grab the front of his shirt and haul him off the floor. Both of the giant’s eyes were fixed on him.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” the man growled. Nick struggled to breath, let alone talk. Fear gripped him and all he could do was stammer. The giant clenched his fist and cocked his arm, ready to deliver a thundering blow to Nick’s head. Max cleared his throat and stood up, staying out of range of the giant’s long arms.
“Francis, he’s with me.” Max said calmly, “I’m sorry. He’s just a kid who’s had too much to drink. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Francis’ eyes didn’t break their lock on Nick, who dangled helplessly a couple of inches off the ground. For a moment, nothing happened and Nick was sure that he was going to get punched again. Francis, however, let him go unceremoniously and Nick once again found himself lying on the floor.
Francis let out a disgusted grunt. “Max, you need to do a better job of picking your help.”
Max nodded, but said nothing. Nick thought he heard everyone in the bar collectively exhale; though that may have just been his own huge sigh of relief as he real
ized Francis wasn’t going to beat him to a bloody pulp.
“I’m sorry again, Francis,” Max said, “Let’s just tend to business, shall we?”
“Right,” Francis said with a low grumble. He gave Nick one last disgusted sneer before turning to face Max. “Father expects delivery by noon tomorrow.”
“I’d love to,” Max said, “I would’ve delivered two days ago if we’d gotten the forms cleared. I took a waiver to the Governor’s-.”
“The waiver will be approved by the morning,” Francis said. His voice was deep, but it had a slightly metallic twang that was a nanosecond behind his normal speaking voice. “Once you make the delivery, we’ve got a job for all four of you – a delivery to Nexus. We should be able to get you guys loaded up and on your way by tomorrow night.”
Francis then extended his arm to the four old pilots and pulled back his sleeve. Each pilot stepped forward and pressed their thumb against the screen of his wrist computer, consenting to the work request.
“Very good,” Francis said, “I’ll see you at noon tomorrow.”
They nodded and Francis headed for the exit. Nick was still lying on the floor, afraid to move and draw anymore unwanted attention. When Francis reached a safe distance away, Max reached over and offered Nick a hand. Nick took it as he continued to watch Francis lumber towards the exit. Just as the giant reached the stairs, a young couple emerged from the shadows of a booth and approached Francis.
Nick couldn’t quite hear what the man said as he approached Francis, something about a request for father. Francis stopped and his terrifying sneer transformed into a look of resigned sadness. He seemed to measure the young couple, looking from the man to the woman and back again. Nick realized he recognized the woman; she had been the one crying on the subway this morning. Or was it yesterday morning? Nick couldn’t quite remember.
Francis extended his wrist computer toward the couple. The man and woman both touched their thumbs to the screen. An uncomfortable ten seconds passed and then the wrist computer emitted a beep. Francis gestured for them to come with him. The man immediately said thank you; the woman immediately started crying. Moments later, the three of them, Francis and the young couple, exited the Dry Dock and the door swung shut with a bang.
Nick was brushing himself off, finally back on his feet.
“Who the hell was that?” Nick asked.
Max patted him on the shoulder and said, “Another lesson for you, never insult the boss’s son.”
The others laughed, releasing a bit of the built up tension. Nick did too, but he found himself staring at the door wondering what he had just witnessed. That question never reached his lips. He took a step forward and his knee buckled beneath him. He quickly reached out and grabbed Max’s arm for support, but as he hunched over, the room around him started spinning violently. Seconds later, he pitched forward, hit face first into the floor, and the world around him went black.
Chapter 5
Pain wracked Nick’s chest and he clutched at his shirt. What had happened? The last thing he remembered was the confrontation with that big, ugly guy. He tried in vain to remember the hulk’s name, but he couldn’t pull it out of the throbbing ache that clouded his memory. Nick remembered being surprised by a thundering fist to his chest and then not much else.
“Lights,” he called out. The overhead lighting in the room sprang on with the brightness of a thousand suns or so it seemed.
“Dim,” Nick said and mercifully, the brightness of the lights reduced enough that he could open his eyes again. He was relieved to be back in his room at the Drifter, which was a surprising thought in and of itself. He swung his still booted feet off the thin, ragged mattress and onto the metal floor grating. The clang produced when his boots hit the grating made him wince. He stood somewhat unsteadily and slid his feet across the floor in an effort to avoid any more loud noises.
The cramped bathroom held the universe’s smallest shower stall and a rusted, stained toilet that hadn’t been cleaned in roughly fifty years and reeked of god knows what. Nick gagged slightly at the combination of the odor from the toilet and the scent of stale beer coming from his clothes. His reflection in the mirror showed the effects of the previous night’s drinking. Most noticeably, he had a dull red splotch on his right check where he assumed his face had hit the floor.
He gingerly pulled off his shirt to reveal another bruise that had quickly formed. There was a large, reddish, purplish circle right in the middle of his chest. Just lightly touching it caused him to wince in pain. Nick looked dazedly around for his travel pack. It took him a few minutes of searching, but he breathed a sigh of relief when he found some trusty Conglomerate-brand pain medication. He pressed the tube gently to his bruises and within seconds felt relief.
He grabbed a cup of water and sipped tentatively, unsure how his stomach would respond. The water rushing down his throat felt like a flood overrunning desert sands. He immediately started to feel better.
Nick checked the time on his wrist computer. He had a few hours before the hotel restaurant opened up. He was starving and was happy to find a nutrient bar sitting in the bottom of his bag. He tore it open and bit into it eagerly, unbothered by the horribly bland taste and gritty texture.
He sat down on the edge of his bed and said, “Monitor. News. No sound.”
A screen embedded in the wall opposite the bunk came to life; Nick squinted as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the picture. The same blonde-haired woman sat at her news desk, speaking to the audience with a look that was a mixture of solemnity and concern.
Nick couldn’t read lips well enough to know what she was saying, but he knew this report very well. This was the news broadcast that had started this chain of events and had sent him off the beaten path. The image had shifted from the reporter to an external view of space from the bow of a cargo ship. Nick remembered what happened next. Pirate ships attacked the freighter, stealing the cargo of food supplies bound for Canis One. Explosions erupted along the hull of the freighter and the pirate attack was underway.
This was not the story Nick cared about though and he ordered the recording to jump to the next segment. Here it comes, he thought. A pit formed in his stomach and the muscles in the back of his neck tightened, sending a fresh spike of pain through his head.
On cue, his father’s face appeared on the screen. His father stood there in his perfectly pressed suit, with his perfectly combed and unmoving silver-streaked hair. His father spoke, but Nick didn’t bother to turn up the volume; he already knew the script.
“We sincerely regret this tragic turn of events,” his father said with a perfectly crafted sympathetic gaze. His father’s brow was furrowed just enough to display a bit of consternation though not enough for viewers to doubt his control of the situation. He placed his left hand in his pants pocket; his body language suggesting he was sincerely sorry, though strong enough to show he would not be bowed by this crisis. This was a man whose every action was crafted, every gesture scripted, every word designed to elicit a certain response from the viewer.
He was a fraud. Nick’s cheeks flushed and he clenched his jaw.
“Our thoughts and prayers are with those people affected by this tragedy,” his father said. Nick choked back the bile that rose in his throat. The only prayer Nick’s father had ever said was to the almighty god of corporate profit. Nick had seen his father’s files, read the notes to and from his most trusted advisors, and seen the ledgers that showed the potential financial impacts for this disaster.
Nick knew that his father’s only concern was keeping the true details of this from the public eye and making sure that the bottom-line of the Conglomerate went unaffected. He would feign remorse, empathy, express a dedicated pursuit of the reasons behind the tragedy, do whatever was needed to keep consumer confidence high, and forge a path to a higher profit margin.
“We will dedicate all our resources towards finding out why this happened and prevent it from ever happening again,” his f
ather spoke to the cameras. His father’s expression was strong and unwavering. Nick granted that his father had charisma, strength, determination, and drive; what he lacked was any shred of moral decency.
The reporter came back on and filled in more details of the story. Reportedly, a group of unknown terrorists attacked a research facility on Nanuk. Hundreds had been killed before the terrorists accidentally triggered base quarantine protocols. Neurotoxins were released on the compound, killing everyone there.
That was the official story.
Nick shook his head at the memory. Tears welled in the corner of his eyes at the hatred and loathing he felt toward his father. Over the years, he had seen plenty of evidence of his father’s greed. This, though, had taken things to a whole new level.
The night he saw this report for the first time he snuck into his father’s office, just as he had the night he left, and started reading through his father’s files. He found the authorization letter giving the go ahead to conduct human trials on a serum. He found the emails from concerned research scientists warning of the risks of conducting these trials. He found the field reports from those same scientists warning of the abhorrent behavior exhibited by some of the animal test subjects. Just what the serum did, though, was a mystery to Nick. Those details were not in his father’s correspondence.
Plenty of other information was.
He had read through all of it, taking in every word. He only stopped to go to the bathroom. He returned to the computer and continued to read, continued to dig. He had no fear of his father catching him; his father was off-world as he often was. The little boy who looked up to his big, strong father during little league games or on career day at school was gone. His mother, his teachers, his priests had raised him differently than this. The father he thought he knew had never really been there.