Black Phoenix

by B. V. Larson

  “I’ll try it next time.”

  Turtle tapped his cards in thought and nodded sideways at the craggy surface out the port. “I think we ought to check out what’s going on back inside.”

  “Bet,” Scarn threatened.

  Turtle pushed a stack of magnetized food chits to the middle of the board and laid out his cards with confidence.

  Scarn placed his cards in the corners according to the arcane rules from their trashlife years. Then he looked up and smiled. “Bang.”

  Turtle slumped. “How did you do that?”

  “You never had a chance,” Scarn said. “It’s that other ‘thing’ inside me. After you re-sent me the cleaned-up alien personality code, there were a few subtle changes.”

  “Yeah? You haven’t talked about it, and I didn’t want to ask.”

  “He... or it, the thing in my head, I mean, figures odds and remembers details better than I do.”

  “That could be useful. Anything else?”

  “I’ll be doing some routine thing, and little ideas pop out suggesting how I can do the job better. More often, while I’m thinking about something, there’ll be a little ‘Ah-ha!” somewhere in the background, like it sees something new. That’s what it’s like to have an alien in your skull with you. Undramatic, but slightly interesting.”

  “Best of all, it helps you win at cards.” Turtle nodded to himself and then glanced out again at the rough hull of Tarassis. A dull metal joint connecting to a solar panel glided by. “I need to know what’s happening in there,” he said, and he reached over for the communications control. “This is shuttle 37. What’s up?”

  Dead air.

  “This is 37. What’s your problem?”

  No response.

  “Maybe it was serious?”

  Scarn gathered up the cards and squared the deck. “Maybe they can find the band-aids without us.”

  “We need to go see. We should at least check on Neva. What if Captain Venner changed her mind about pardoning us?”

  Scarn turned his seat to face the controls. “There is that.” The shuttle jerked as it began to move. “And I need to shake down Graff. Wherever we end up, cash speaks all languages.”

  They eased the hundred meters back to airlock 37A, bumped inside, and settled to a stop. Once it was re- pressurized and they opened the shuttle hatch, Turtle wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell what I smell?”

  They scanned the airlock.

  It was filled with the usual clutter of hoists, storage racks and parts, but at the entry to the control anteroom, a dark stain marked the door and splattered across the adjacent wall. Dried blood. They didn’t need to confirm each other’s thoughts.

  On highest alert, they moved toward the airlock.

  “Note the silence,” Turtle whispered.

  Usually, a murmur of noise constantly passed through the colony ship’s framework. Normally, the sound of thousands of footsteps, bumps, and thumps echoed throughout the decks—but now, there was silence.

  A tremor broke it. There wasn’t much sound, other than the distant groaning of old metal struts.

  “Did you feel that?” Turtle asked. He looked toward his feet.

  In moments, the tremor passed.

  “I hoped I’d imagined it.”

  Turtle looked up at Scarn. “A ship-wide quake?”

  “Let’s pretend we imagined it.”

  At the hatch, they saw that the dark smear was what it looked like: gore. Beside the door, gelatinous shreds of meat streaked the floor... it was nothing identifiable... just small bits of tissue and jellied pieces.

  “What would do this?” Turtle whispered. “Do you think the rebel guests and the crew are going at it again?”

  Scarn shook his head and whispered. “The crew wouldn’t like to mess up the equipment. I heard they like to use gas.”

  “What do you suppose is on the other side of this door?” Turtle looked concerned.

  Scarn went over to a work bench and returned with two half-meter-long wrenches that could be used as clubs—it was the best they had. He gave one to Turtle and put his free hand on the latch.

  “We wish us luck,” Turtle said. It was an old line from their garbage-eating days. It had been like a prayer to them, muttered in those moments when luck was all they had.

  Scarn eased open the door... opened it farther... and then shoved it wide.

  Inside the control room, no equipment was damaged, but the smell indicated something worse. In the shadows on the floor lay a mixture of shredded clothing, unidentifiable tissues, and quarts of blood.

  “I guess that’s what we all smell like inside,” Turtle said. “Makes you extra glad we have skin on.”

  Scarn stood with his hand on the next door latch which led into a hallway of Tarassis proper. “Ready for door number two?”

  Turtle nodded and Scarn pulled it open a crack. Turtle nodded again and Scarn pulled it farther.

  The passage was empty. Even in the colony ship’s chaos after Stattor’s death, there were always people in the passages, hurrying one place or another. Now all that remained were more stains and remnants.

  A dozen meters away, the walls had been sprayed a darkening brown, now almost black. It looked like someone had been thrown into a pureeing blade. Nothing remained but smears and stink.

  “What kind of weapon does that?” Turtle whispered.

  “Spacer shock troops testing out new toys?”

  “I sure wish we were down below again, wandering through tunnels. We only had to deal with guns and knives.”

  “People threw a lot of rocks.”

  “But they didn’t hurt that much,” he pointed at the stain on the wall. “I’ll bet that did.”

  Scarn took a fresh grip on his club. “I’m going to look closer.” He cautiously approached the bloodied area in the passage. After giving it a few scans, he returned. “Whatever killed the person got a lot of gore on him and then walked through it. There are some footprints down that way where some of the pieces fell off.”

  Turtle looked at him. “You said, ‘Whatever killed that person.’”

  “Let’s go. We can get to the next level through that utility module.”

  “You said, ‘Whatever.’ What kind of ‘whatever’ footprints were they?”

  Scarn had passed him going the other way. “C’mon. A janitor’s supply module is down here. We can jimmy the wall.”

  “Scarn, talk to me. Are we talking some kind of death squad?”

  “Not that.” He had the door open and was moving things away from the back wall. In certain areas, the Tarassis crew had skimped on construction costs that they considered non-critical. One of these areas was maintenance modules. Here, they found the decking panels to the next level down were barely held in place.

  Scarn had pried one section open far enough to get one of their wrenches behind it. When Turtle bunched up his big arms, the panel pulled loose in their hands.

  “Poor workmanship,” he commented.

  Below the open gap, just a meter deep, was an identical deck panel that formed the ceiling down on Deck 38. One little kick, and if no one tried to kill them, they could drop down onto an adjacent deck. Perhaps there would be less carnage down there.

  First they listened. There was not a sound from the other side.

  “So, I guess…” Turtle whispered, “that we could just push on it and see what happens?”

  Scarn took a breath. “It seems like the remaining option.”

  “Those tracks, Scarn. Were they human?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Big?”

  “Not too big.”

  Turtle took a breath. “Is there anything positive you can tell me about this situation?”

  “Whatever happens,” Scarn answered, “it’ll be quick. You won’t have to make any decisions.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “It’s better than what many people get.”

  Each of them lowered a booted foot onto the panel b
elow. Together, they pushed downward.

  Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  The panel section popped loose and gently swung down, still held by a fastener, and began rhythmically scraping the walls below.

  They listened again.

  Nothing.

  Scarn looked around and picked up a can of cleaning fluid. “Decoy,” he whispered and tossed it through the hole in the deck.

  The can never hit the floor.

  Instead, a barrage of stun pellets punctured it. Simultaneously, flash-bangs ignited the fluid. A wall of flame whooshed through the passage and up into the hole they’d pried open.

  The flame singed their faces before Scarn could shove Turtle away from it.

  “God damn,” Turtle said as they pressed themselves flat against a wall. “Your shirt’s burning, by the way.”

  Scarn slapped out the hot spots.

  From the open deck below, a rough voice floated up. “This is Petty Officer Jamison. If you’re human, come out with empty hands in front of you.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Jamison?” Turtle demanded. “Isn’t he brain-dead? I thought he got flashed while watching porn.”

  “Apparently the porn wasn’t lethal,” Scarn said. “Lucky us.”

  “You want to go first?” Turtle asked in a whisper.

  “Sure. If they’re going to kill us, they probably won’t do it till we’re both down.”

  “Let’s take our time.”

  Scarn went through feet-first. Next one leg dangled, then the other. He took a moment to look around. Luck was with them: These weren’t UT killers on a mission; these were Tarassis crewmen, a dozen of them. They were all looking at them—nervous and ready to vaporize something.

  By the time Turtle had come through, the crewmen had relaxed a bit. It didn’t seem likely that they were going to be executed on the spot.

  The petty officer was the obvious alpha male—huffy, brisk-moving, face tilted slightly down, bigger and older than any of the spacers. He approached with a swagger, his thumbs hooked over his belt.

  “We thought any humans in that area were dead. You, the freak with the arms, what was your name again?”

  “I’m Turtle.”

  “Oh yes…” Jamison said. His eyes narrowed. “I haven’t forgotten you two. You’re the clowns who like to destroy equipment and endanger others.”

  “We protect others,” Scarn said, looking him straight in the eye. “The stuff we broke was defective. That’s why you had your accident.”

  Jamison nodded to the crowd of spacers behind him. “These are trashlife boys. Breathers from below-decks.” Then he turned back to Scarn and Turtle. “How many of those things did you see up there?”

  “What things?” Turtle asked.

  “What things…? Strags, you freak. You been in a coma? Alarms are going off all over the place. Where the hell have you two been the last three hours?”

  “Out in a shuttle,” Scarn said.

  “What are these strags and where did they come from?” Turtle asked. “I think we need to know.”

  “Yes… of course you do,” Jamison sneered. “As a fail-safe, the guests planted and sealed these things on every level in unidentified out-of-the-way pockets, all of them just waiting for the call—in case aliens or unauthorized persons took over the ship. Well, apparently rewriting the drive codes is one of the things that sets them off. They’re everywhere, and they tend to kill anything in front of them. We’ve sliced up a bunch of them, but there are plenty more creeping around.”

  Jamison shifted focus and gave his men several orders; they grouped into threes and dispersed. He then turned back to Turtle and Scarn.

  “Come with us. We have a secure area next level up. No one needs to be out here longer than they have to.”

  Before they could set off, everyone froze: Beneath their feet, the floor shifted... another slight tremor.

  Turtle and Scarn gave each other confirming glances.

  “That’s right,” Jamison said. “It’s a ship-quake coming up from the engines. We’re working on it.”

  “What happened?” Scarn asked.

  Jamison looked uneasy. “We had a structural accident when we first encountered the strags.” He hesitated. “We were a bit heavy with the firepower.”

  Scarn eyed him. “You mean the crew cut through the Tarassis hull in the wrong places?”

  “We believe that may have happened, yes.”

  “And we thought it was the engines falling apart,” Scarn said.

  “Scarn’s a worrier,” Turtle said.

  “Actually,” Jamison said, “we’ve had some casualties in the engine rooms. But these strags—they get in your face for two seconds and then you die.”

  “So… these strag things,” Scarn asked, “how big are they?”

  “About your size, maybe a little taller. They’re bioengineered by guest scientists. They’re supposed to replace you guys—the low-skilled labor.”

  “But the guests turned them into weapons?” Turtle asked.

  “That’s what we think. Sure, they say some of them got infected and zerked out, but the crew isn’t buying it. First, they took over the captaincy illegally. Now, they’re releasing an extermination effort with these strags. Come on, dammit.”

  Reluctantly, Turtle and Scarn followed.

  “A strag is somewhere between a human and a praying mantis,” Jamison continued. “Where you’d have a head with a nose, mouth, and eyes, these just have a couple of eyes the size of two fists. When it feeds, it sticks its face into the victim and inserts a feeding tube.”

  Jamison led them through a hallway littered with papers, coins, a comb, and items of clothing. Walls had been blown away and water seeped through the ceiling in places. “It walks upright and has four gripping arms, two at the top of the torso and two at the bottom. But here’s the ugly part: Between the two sets of arms, it has four short shredders, right where you’d have your abs. It hugs you tight, and as the head goes into your face, the four rippers tear everything out of your midsection.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Scarn said. “The guest nerds put some thought into this, didn’t they?”

  “They made it a terror-weapon. If nothing else, they understand the use of fear.”

  They passed by a large strut that had been partially severed and thrust through the ceiling.

  “This morning, we calmed a situation here,” Jamison said.

  An adjacent section of the bulkhead had been flash-burned black, and where the wall met the floor were several heaps of tarry goo. The air was tinged with the smell of burned meat.

  Jamison stopped and directed them into an infirmary where half a dozen other security officers and several doctors stood in small groups and spoke in undertones. In addition to the smell of alcohol, there was a moist briny odor.

  “I notice you don’t have any wounded,” Turtle said.

  “Strags don’t usually wound people,” Jamison said. “They finish their kills.” He then announced to the room, “Two recovered survivors, Turtle and Scarn, uninjured. You may have heard of them.”

  One of the doctors, a casual-looking bald man, put his hands in the pockets of his lab coat and came over to them. Though he was probably in his thirties, his eyes had older wrinkles.

  “How do you do?” He held out his hand and Turtle shook it. “I’m Dr. Mellax.”

  “He’s a guest,” Jamison interjected, “but the good kind.”

  “Yes…” Dr. Mellax agreed, blinking. “We’re hoping you can help us with this emergency. In fact, the operation will be a child’s play for a couple of fellows with your background. We need—”

  “Hold it,” Scarn said. “Hang on. I’m sensing you have a job you want us to do?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “There’s an emergency on Deck—”

  “Hold it,” Scarn said again. “Is this a ship-wide emergency?”

  The doctor looked unsure.

  “Yes,” Jamison said. “Why?”

&
nbsp; “And you’re wanting us to do non-contractual labor?”

  Jamison didn’t like this, and the doctor seemed annoyed.

  “Just to clarify,” Scarn said, “if we’re assigned to something outside our psychonaut training during a simple emergency, we get regular compensation. I’m fine with that. But if there’s a ship-wide emergency, it’s quad-pay for any day where all or part of—”

  “You’re thinking of money at a time like this?” Jamison demanded loudly.

  Now it was Scarn who looked somewhat puzzled by the question. Finally he shrugged. “Well, of course I am.”

  “We’re former trashlife,” Turtle said. “Forgive us our rude and materialistic ways.”

  “Don’t pretend to be dumb-asses with me,” Jamison said. “You two know exactly what you’re doing. You might just as well have murdered our captain. ”

  “That was an accident,” Scarn said. “A bit of bad luck.”

  “Quite a pair,” Dr. Mellax said to Jamison. “I also hear that Mr. Turtle seems to like women quite a lot.”

  Turtle hunched his well-rounded shoulders.

  “Gentlemen,” Jamison said in a manner that conveyed no respect, “we have limited space, manpower, and supplies here, but we have something we need someone to do. You’re our volunteers today.” He stared at Scarn. “When you squirted Stattor through that hole into the plasma tube, you squirted on your paycheck. If you get out of this alive, consider living to be your bonus.” Then, louder, so others could hear: “I know about the publicity rip they did on you two, and I didn’t like it. Nonetheless, that’s all past tense. At this point, you’re part of my team. For the benefit of all Tarassis, which includes yourselves, you’re now taking orders from me.”

  “Are you authorized, then, to recognize us as crew?” Scarn asked. “Maybe we could get an official rank out of this?”

  “Cut the shit!” Jamison said sharply. “This is an emergency, not an opportunity for profit.”

  Scarn said nothing, but his attitude radiated defiance.

  Dr. Mellax stood beside Jamison and leaned close. “If I may. A few words?” He gently cleared his throat. “The important point in the matter is, when we’re lining up at the emergency shuttles, you want your names to be on the manifest, don’t you? At present, they aren’t.” He smiled.