by Watts, Peter
"Copy."
She waited for further instruction but none came. "So?"
"Is there a problem?"
"If Control is lost then why am I here? Shouldn’t we just blow the rig from a distance?"
The pain started in her neck and shot down her back, streaming down the sides of each leg. She would have screamed if the breath had not been sucked from her lungs. She fell to the floor, convulsing like a fish on dirt. When the shock finally stopped she sucked in large gulps of air, trying to regain control of her faculties.
"Your orders stand. Clear the rig."
She pulled herself onto her knees and rubbed her neck. She could feel the small bump, like a mole, where the behavior chip was soldered onto her C5 vertebra. It had been a while since they had used it. She had almost forgotten it was there.
There was an elevator shaft opposite the entrance to Control. The doors were jammed open with a long pipe. Twenty-Seven poked the barrel of her gun into the shaft, following that with her head. She could not see the ground floor but there was a distinct odor of stale smoke. Something had been burning at the bottom. Though the car was gone, the cables remained intact, running into the black, smoldering pit.
The rear wall of the rig was a super-acrylic designed for deep-sea vessels. It allowed the workers to look out into the ocean when they rode the elevators up and down the rig. As Twenty-Seven lowered herself down the cable she could not help but steal glances of the lost landscape, buried forever in the ocean.
There was an entire city outside the rig, broken and forgotten. Since the window faced East, Twenty-Seven guessed she was looking at some part of the Western coast of the American continent. The time it took her to arrive at this rig was no more than a few hours. From Capital City they would not have been able to make it to the European coast.
Given how close the cityscape was to the station she was probably no more than a few miles from shore. If it weren't for the small explosive in the back of her neck she could swim to land. She could live in the wasteland, free from the Alliance…
No. It was silly to think such things. Foolish. Dangerous.
The smell of smoke crept further into her nostrils as she neared the bottom of the elevator shaft. Glowing embers of a small corpse were strewn over a twisted and mangled elevator car. Whatever number they had sent in before had made it at least this far before encountering any mullos.
Twenty-Seven dropped to the ground and took a closer look at the corpse. All of the flesh had been burnt off—probably by an incineration grenade. Since those were not standard armament for her kind, Twenty-Seven had to guess that the one who came before found a few new toys in Control before making her descent.
The corpse was full-grown. The open pelvic inlet and outwardly flared hipbones suggested female. The cuspids had grown to three inches in length. This was definitely a mullo. It had been a mullo for at least eight hours.
Twenty-Seven leapt out of the shaft, crawling through the broken doors. The lights on this floor were completely out. Small spot-fires and sparks from damaged equipment were the only light source.
For a dhampir like Twenty-Seven, that was not a problem. It was the reason they used her. Dhampirs were the spawn of mullos and humans. They were not consumed by the hunger, but had plenty of mullo attributes, most beneficial in this particular situation: the ability to see in the dark.
One would think that dhampirs would be the dominant species on the planet. Unfortunately, the mating of mullo and human was an incredibly rare thing. Though the humans were able to clone the dhampirs, they were unable to create them artificially from scratch. That was probably a blessing. Twenty-Seven wondered if she would be here at all if the humans could start with a blank slate.
The sound of gunfire rang out somewhere within the rig. It was definitely on the first floor, deeper inside. Twenty-Seven kept her gun up and walked slowly down the thin hallway and into the commissary.
Tables and chairs had been flipped and cast across the room. There were streaks of blood across the walls, floor and ceiling. Two bodies were lying on the ground, huddled together in the corner on the other side of the large room.
Twenty-Seven went to her side, through the kitchen doors. The cooking area was small and mostly undisturbed. She went back into the dining hall and found only one body where there had been two moments ago.
Before she could raise her gun she felt a hard blow to her side, knocking her to the ground. Her AAR slid across the floor. The mullo was already in the air again, descending on Twenty-Seven with its teeth bared, growling like a wild beast. Deep blue veins ran over its otherwise pale skin, giving it the glow of a ghost in the darkness.
Twenty-Seven lifted her right hand to catch the mullo by the throat and grabbed for a sidearm with her left. The creature made a few chomps at her before opening its mouth wide—too wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw—and flicking its tongue at her. She moved her head just enough to feel the mucous-coated muscle scratch her face.
She pulled her pistol up and jammed the barrel into the base of the mullo's neck. The creature launched its tongue again just as Twenty-Seven fired. The bullet must have connected with the spine because there was an explosion of blood as the mullo's body dropped onto Twenty-Seven and its head rolled forward, completely disconnected.
Twenty-Seven stood quickly and surveyed the room. She should have checked the bodies before the kitchen. That was a stupid mistake she would not make again.
When the room was clear of any more enemies she moved to the second body. It was an older man, probably in his late fifties. He had died human. His stomach was torn open and there were numerous gashes on his throat and face. That mullo may have been feeding on this corpse for some time.
Before she left the commissary, Twenty-Seven grabbed the severed mullo head. She held it up so that blood from the neck pooled in her hand. She wiped the blood under her arms, on her belly, legs and around her neck. The scent would work to mask her human-smell from the others, at least from afar.
If the clone who came before her was following procedure, as Twenty-Seven was, she would have started on the bottom floor, working her way up through the rig, clearing the floors one by one. The mullo she had just killed meant one of two things. One, the first dhampir missed a mullo, which meant she was new—typically overlooking a mullo meant not making it back alive. Or, two, the first clone was killed, which would explain the reason Twenty-Seven was called in. Either option seemed unfortunate for the clone.
On the second floor, the living quarters, Twenty-Seven went room to room, clearing each with a slow, cautious focus. She would not be surprised again.
The first half of the living quarters showed no signs of a struggle. Typically rigs housed thirty to forty staff, each assigned a section of living quarters by group. The Alpha group worked mornings, the Beta group worked evenings, and the Gamma group took the late nights.
Since the Alpha quarters were completely clean it was safe to assume that they had been on duty when the infection began. If that was true the rig had been exposed no more than nine hours and no less than three. Given the size of the teeth on the burnt corpse and the elevator shaft, and the mutation of the tongue on the mullo in the commissary, Twenty-Seven guessed on the side of caution and assumed that the rig had been infected for at least nine hours.
Nine hours of infection meant that the hazard would not be fully developed. It takes at least a day, usually longer, for a mullo to reach maturity. The worst-case scenario would be more of what she faced in the commissary, mullos so hopped up on pheromones and testosterone they would be uncontrollably driven to feed.
The mature ones are a great deal more difficult to kill. The mature ones can think and reason and plan…
As she neared the Beta quarters she began to see signs of chaos, papers and knickknacks strewn about the floor amidst lines of blood and broken glass.
The first two rooms were clear. There were three bodies inside, all deceased. Two humans and one mullo. It appeare
d as though some of the workers put up a fight. Good for them.
In the third room Twenty-Seven found a mullo staring at itself in a mirror. She shot it in the back of the head before it could turn around. The fourth room was clear but the fifth room had a mullo on the floor, struggling to stand on two broken legs. She put it down quickly.
The sixth room gave Twenty-Seven pause—a nursery. There were several small plastic tubs, none of them occupied, and a line of cribs along the back wall. Something was snarling in the center crib.
Twenty-Seven kept her gun aimed on the crib as she approached. This would not be the first time she had to put down a baby mullo but repetition did not make it easier.
The mullo was an infant, no more than a few months old. It was obviously in pain but seemed more angry than sad. There were no tears—mullos lacked tear ducts—but it wiggled and struggled in a fury to twist itself from back to belly. A small trickle of blood was crusted around the neck where two puncture wounds were already beginning to heal.
Twenty-Seven raised her gun…
Something was behind her.
She spun around to see a figure in the doorway. Before she could make it out, there was a flash of light and an immense pain in her shoulder. She spun around, losing her AAR, and taking cover behind the empty plastic bins.
The voice was familiar, "I need you to listen to me."
It was the clone. The other Twenty-Seven.
Twenty-Seven grabbed both pistols, raising them ready. "Now you want to talk? You just shot me."
The voice was coming from another corner of the room. She was moving. Smart. "Only to stop you from shooting me. You weren't going to hesitate, were you?"
True. If the clone had paused for only a moment she would be the one nursing a gunshot wound. Though, Twenty-Seven liked to believe that she had better aim than her adversary. If she had gotten off the first shot they would not be having a conversation.
The infant mullo moaned in the crib. The clone continued. "I can help you."
Twenty-Seven smirked. "Help me? How's that?"
"I'm going to put down my guns. Can we talk?"
Twenty-Seven pulled the hammers back on both of her pistols. "Sure. Step on out."
She peered around the corner to see her clone standing there with both hands in the air. She seemed genuine when she said, "Please. We don't have to fight."
Twenty-Seven stood, both guns aimed at the other dhampir. The clone continued, "I am Forty-Five. Will you just listen?"
Twenty-Seven smiled, "No."
Before she could pull the trigger there was a great weight on her back, shoving her into a stack of plastic bins. One of her guns went off. The air was knocked from her chest. An immense pain shot through her back. Then there was a loud explosion and an intense moment of heat. Something hit her in the head. Everything went black and just before she lost consciousness she heard the infant snarl.
Twenty-Seven had the same dream she had dreamed many times before.
She was in a park. The grass was thick and green. The sky was open, deep and blue. There were trees all around her. There were people everywhere. Kids. Parents. Families. Everyone was enjoying themselves. They were all smiling.
Someone picked her up from behind. Twenty-Seven giggled. She was small, perhaps a toddler. The woman who lifted her laughed with Twenty-Seven, spinning her around and pulling her close. A hug. A kiss. Love.
It was her mother. Mother had long, brown hair and large green eyes that matched the grass. She was warm. Everything was warm.
"I love you," Mother said.
Then there was bright light behind Twenty-Seven, something so bright that Mother's face shined like the sun. Though Twenty-Seven could not turn around, she saw fear in the faces of everyone behind Mother. People started screaming. They turned and tried to run.
It was too late.
A gust of wind smacked Twenty-Seven in the back and tore through the park, lifting everyone and everything into the air and burning it to nothing.
Mother's face began to crack and peel but her smile remained. She looked at Twenty-Seven as her skin turned black and tore off in chunks.
"I love you."
Twenty-Seven screamed awake. She was in a dark room and she was not alone. The clone was there, by the door. She reached for her weapons to find none. Her earpiece was also missing. Forty-Five stood, raising a hand to calm Twenty-Seven, "Please. Be still. You're fine."
She stood and backed away. Forty-Five stood as well, keeping her hands up. "Was it the park?"
Twenty-Seven nodded.
Forty-Five put her hands down and smiled. "Those aren't your memories, you know?"
"No shit."
"What's your designation?"
"Twenty-Seven."
Forty-Five pulled a small canteen from her side, twisted it open and held it out to Twenty-Seven. "Thirsty, Twenty-Seven?"
She was. Twenty-Seven took the canteen and drank a few quick sips. When she dropped her head back down she felt a numbing pain along the back of her neck. She reached up to rub it and found a large scab where her behavior chip should have been.
"What did you do?"
Forty-Five grinned again, "We freed you."
"Freed me?"
Forty-Five motioned to a body huddled in the corner. It was a mullo, maybe male. It was difficult to say because it was dark and most of its face was missing. Something had ripped its flesh off from chin to forehead. Most of the jaw and nasal cavity was gone.
Forty-Five continued, "Before you passed out it bit out the chip."
Twenty-Seven rubbed her neck again, feeling around the wound. Forty-Five was not lying. The lump was gone. Forty-Five turned and pulled her hair up, showing Twenty-Seven her own wound. "You see? No more control."
A few mullos began to peek around the corner of the doorway from the hall. Twenty-Seven stiffened, raising her hands to fight. Forty-Five lifted her arms and stood in the way, shouting, "No! Wait! They're not here to fight you!"
One of the mullos, the largest one, put a hand on Forty-Five's shoulder and pushed her aside, staring at Twenty-Seven. He was big. He was obviously mature, which did not add up with the timeline for the rig.
He was an Alpha. Twenty-Seven had glimpsed photographs of Alphas, but never seen one in person. They were said to rarely leave their dens, sending the younger mullos out for food and ruling from the safety of shelter. And yet, one stood before her.
The Alpha had white skin, almost transparent so that his veins were visible like spider webs under his flesh. His hair was long and white and came out of his scalp and back, falling around his feet like a mane. The cuspids were over six inches long, jutting past his mandible unlike any fangs Twenty-Seven had seen before.
The Alpha stopped in front of her. She kept her hands up, calculating every possible attack. Without her weapons she knew she would die. If she was going to die it would not be without a fight.
The mullo lifted a hand in her direction and opened its mouth, "Help us?"
Twenty-Seven lost her breath again. The Alpha spoke. Mullos do not speak. Ever. The words were heavy, falling out of the creature’s mouth like half-chewed food, but they were clear enough. It was communicating and it wanted assistance.
Help us.
Forty-Five came to Twenty-Seven's side and put a hand on her shoulder. Though Twenty-Seven was unable to take her eyes off of the Alpha, she heard Forty-Five when she asked, "Can we show you something?"
Twenty-Seven nodded.
She followed Forty-Five out of the room and down the hallway, deeper into the rig. The larger mullo, the Alpha, walked behind them as they passed several open doors and rooms full of mullos. The Gamma quarters were full of them, some young, some old, all huddled in doorways watching Twenty-Seven with cautious glares and occasional sneers.
They went up a series of stairs and stopped on the fourth floor where Forty-Five opened the door to the recreation room, the largest single space on any rig.
Twenty-Seven could not help b
ut gasp. There were hundred of mullos, many more than this facility alone could produce. Some were young, scratching at their faces as they continued to mutate. Others were quite a bit older, like the talking Alpha. All of them were staring at Twenty-Seven with a palpable deal of anxiety.
Forty-Five turned to Twenty-Seven and held out her hands, gesturing to the masses, "These are our people."
"Our people?"
Twenty-Seven looked around the room, trying to take stock of her situation. Some of the mullos were feeding on remnants of corpses. Others were sitting along the wall, unmoving and patient. Many were holding one another.
The Alpha stood in front of Twenty-Seven, putting his right hand on her shoulder. Twenty-Seven's instinct was to flinch… It took a great deal of effort to avoid doing so.
He pointed at himself, "Mullo," then to Forty-Five, "Mullo," and finally to Twenty-Seven, sniffing her neck in an exaggerated fashion, "Mullo."
Forty-Five moved closer, "Whereas our employers see us as half human, the mullos see us as half mullo. They do not see us as enemies, but family."
Twenty-Seven's "family" made her nauseous. How many of these things had she killed over the years? How many times had one of them tried to rip her head off?
"That's not how most of them react."
The Alpha shuffled over to the rest of the mullos, leaving Forty-Five and Twenty-Seven in the middle of the room.
"I understand your hesitation," Forty-Five kept eye contact and seemed genuine, "but are you really more human than mullo?"
Easy. "Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't terrorize innocent people. I don't eat other humans."
"You have killed mullos?"
"You know that."
"What did the mullos do to you?"
"They killed other humans. I am a response. It's my job."
Forty-Five was smiling again, "You do what you must to stay alive? Are the mullos any different? What if I told you that it was the humans who were the villains here?"
Twenty-Seven laughed out loud despite herself. "I'd say you were mad."
"Really? Is it madness to evolve? The humans had their chance on Earth. And what did they do? They wiped themselves out!"