by Allen Ivers
Irrelevant observations of a pest, offering nothing but noise into the night.
Gamble stalked around Jazmin now. Her prey bleeds, so she might take her time, let Jazmin fade, weaken. But growing impatient, Gamble lunged again -- too soon.
Jazmin caught her, scalpel high. They grappled with each other, as Gamble cinched a hand around Jazmin’s throat and Jazmin tried to drive the scalpel down into Gamble’s throat. The veins popped on Jazmin’s face, a heinous roadmap detailing her weakening state.
But Jazmin was, objectively stronger than the Doctor, and she drove the scalpel down where the shoulder met neck. Gamble loosened, shocked, as the blade pierced just about everything of importance. And as if to punctuate the victory, Jazmin slammed her fist down on the handle, driving the scalpel deeper like nail into wood.
Gamble stiffened, before dropping to the ground to thrash and bleed out. Blood pooling, tiny ripples with each convulsion.
Jazmin didn’t so much as catch her breath before lurching toward Raines, clawing at the air. The handcuff rattled against the handrail, just as blood oozed from the gash it was drawing on her wrist.
She would check in on Mathers’ condition, but she somehow knew it would haunt her, his twisted form battering against the side of the cell. She was left abandoned, the only sane one in the cabin.
She had to get free, get safe. Behind a door or under a bed.
No. They would hunt her, find her. They had to be stopped.
Medical bay. Where was the anesthesia? A pressurized gas she might deploy? She wriggled at her bindings, leather straps across her arms and legs. But the good Doctor Gamble had secured her well.
Don’t you find it curious yourself, why I leave you with your senses?
It was true. Had she really resisted the will of a god, or had it spared her for some other purpose?
No. This was how it worked. It wanted her to doubt her strength, make her lesser than she was. This was the very root of its power. Fight it now.
She had to believe in herself.
Jazmin twisted on her cuffs, her own slick blood easing her wrist through the grip.
Raines looked at her legs. Her amputated limb was the only one not secured, no reason for it. And that stump, she might be able to hook something, wriggle herself free. She scraped her stump against the strap on her other leg, hoping to loosen its vice hold on her.
“Jazmin, listen to me now!” Raines shouted, “It’s using your hatred, your anger! It will pull on your pains and your sorrows --”
“What is your concern, Doctor Eliza Raines?” Jazmin’s voice trilled through the air, puppeteered by a distant mind. “That I might show them all who they really are? Savage? Brutal? Destructive? Her love is dead, murdered. And everyone is to blame.”
That was it. “You blame yourself…”
Jazmin slowed, the chain of her cuffs drooping with slack. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. No words to the thoughts.
Raines kicked her leg strap loose. She was soon able to thrash freely, working herself free of the torso restraints.
As if this sight renewed her resolve, Jazmin growled and lunged again. She was almost free as well, the distinct pop of a thumb dislocating. It would be moments before the crazed woman could slip her injured hand right through the handcuffs.
Raines flopped to the floor, scrambling over to Jericho and the surgical bed. The canister under the bed was her best hope. Just a few more feet.
Jazmin wrenched free with a banshee scream, eyes glittering with anticipation of the kill. She leapt forward, snagging Raines’ good leg, pulling and scratching at her clothes.
Raines grabbed ahold of the canister’s pipe, and Jazmin’s grip supplied the energy to wrench it free. The gas poured into the space, colorless vapor betrayed only by a quiet hiss.
As Jazmin tore at Raines’ body, she was comforted in one of two results -- either she would sleep through her end, or they would awake when this was over.
Chapter 23
Murcielago
Leo wondered how fast Locklear could draw that pistol of his. They weren’t supposed to be loaded when sky-side, due to risk of explosive decompression.
But a puppet doesn’t care for its own safety. An expert marksman trained with his weapon could draw down on a target in less than a second.
One of Locklear’s hands wrapped tight on the pressure door’s lever. His fingers squeezing like he might draw blood from the alloy. The other hovering an inch above the pistol grip.
He could imagine what was floating through Locklear’s head right now. The faded colors and tableaus of a massacre, carnage, the base emotions swirling up paired with the electrical flow of ecstasy: a blood rage.
Kill him first, before he kills you. Before he kills everyone.
If Leo struck an unprovoked killing blow, what then? The crew wouldn’t forgive him twice. Does he take the shuttle and drift away, waiting for that distant civilization to pluck him from the void?
Does he not, in one strike, kill an entire civilization?
Raindrops in a storm. They are but raindrops before an oncoming storm, and we must seek shelter now.
Or he could swim in Poseidon’s waters and challenge the God to silence him.
Locklear’s hands came off the lever, dropping to his waist and wrapping about the pistol grip.
Leo did not hesitate.
He planted his hand down hard, pinning the pistol in its holster. A squeeze of the trigger dropped the hammer -- with a quiet click against the safety.
Locklear leered at Leo, his eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils dilated so wide and dark he could almost see the nerve bundles in the back. The blood vessels in his injured eye pumping with vibrant red, as though they were overfull to bursting.
If Locklear was still in there, he was committed to his course now.
The policeman had at least fifty pounds on the lean janitor, and threw a hard shoulder into Leo, driving him against the wall. His alien backpack pinched by the impact, Leo bit his tongue from the pain, taking an inadvertent light sip of his own blood.
The lack of gravity caused them to bounce, tangling about in each other. This was not a coordinated attack, but a blind scuffle in a dim room, as both men flailed for any kind of open patch to attack.
Locklear was a soldier, trained in close quarters and hand-to-hand combat. What he was not as adept with was zero gravity.
His targeted strikes would connect, and Newton’s Third Law of Motion would send him reeling and twisting out of control, with nothing to brace against and no gravity to anchor his position. With every successful strike to Leo’s abdomen, he would be exposed to Leo’s more careful work.
He had to separate Locklear from that gun. One careless shot and the whole ship was doomed.
Leo took a more a measured approach, striking Locklear from opposing sides, synchronizing strikes to minimize his spin. This made his attacks slower, more deliberate, and Locklear easily blocked most of them -- and each block would cause the two to tumble end over end. The world had been reduced to a colorful blur and it was a true test of memory for Leo to track where he was.
Locklear grabbed onto Leo’s shirt, and planted both feet against the bulkhead. He kicked off, slamming Leo into the opposing wall. He dolphin kicked them back and forth, dragging Leo around the hallway. This was problematic. Leo couldn’t break the much stronger man’s grip, as Locklear threatened to disconnect arm from socket.
But he could change the arena. With a simple twist, one of Locklear’s launches sent them down a hatch and into a prefab. They skipped off the ladder and walls, until Locklear hooked one of the steps. Leo looked up to catch a leathery heel in his face. If he hadn’t bitten his tongue before, he surely had now. He could even feel a tooth wiggling as he plummeted the rest of the way down, skipping like a stone off water.
He hit the ground, sliding just a bit as his body adjusted to the simulated gravity of the centrifuge.
He’s coming. Hide.
Locklear would ha
ve had ample time to arm himself, and while any gunshot would likely be catastrophic, there would be no gunshot if there was no reason to fire.
Leo shook off the haze, droplets of blood showering the floor in front of him. He must’ve scraped his scalp somewhere in that civil exchange of opinions. He was able to prop himself up on a bench, allowing him to survey his surroundings.
The Barracks. Tables, cots, and lockers broken up almost like quadrants, as though the construction team had given one task per person and never shall they meet. No adornments to the ceiling besides the recessed track lighting.
Where the hell was he going to go? No. Take the fight to him.
Locklear descended the last few steps, raising his arm. Pistol ready. The striations of the barrel taunting Leo from the abyss, calling him forward. Finger on the trigger.
Leo stepped forward, pinning Locklear’s hand in place as he slapped the gun’s barrel the opposite direction. Locklear’s finger caught on the trigger guard with an almost comical pop, hanging awkwardly to the side of his hand. The pistol dropped to the ground, skittering away.
But Locklear was quite literally on his own turf now. Broken finger and all, he stepped forward like a boxer, marching Leo backwards with rhythmic abuse. Leo could almost hear Locklear’s exertion over the buzzing in his ears.
Leo swung back, panicked and blind -- finding his knuckles cracking against what remained of Locklear’s twisted riot shield. Whatever cry of pain Leo let out was quickly snuffed by the snap kick to his gut that shoved the air out of his lungs.
This is what they did to your father.
Leo growled, a fire boiling in his belly. He planted a foot against the back wall, and launched himself forward, fingers burying into Locklear’s exposed throat like talons. Unprepared for the sudden momentum shift, Locklear tumbled backwards to the floor, with Leo perched atop him like an eagle over its kill.
Locklear should have hid behind his shield, but the possessed man couldn’t strategize that far out. Leo pinned the wrist down, twisting further and further until a deep bass snap vibrated up into Leo’s hands. Locklear grimaced against his him, as his dislocated shoulder floated outside of its socket, pulling on muscle and tendons in any number of torturous ways.
Satisfied that his foe was…. disarmed…. Leo set to Locklear’s throat.
They cornered your father. They killed your father. And they blamed your father.
Locklear’s hands grabbed at Leo’s fingers, his wrists, trying to wrench that iron grip off of his trachea. Whenever one hand loosened, Leo tightened with the other, pressing his thumbs down deep like he was looking for the spot where Locklear’s tongue started, so he could rip it out at the root.
That’s all they have ever done. Hurt you. Primitive brutes who only know pain.
Locklear’s eyes darkened, his struggles softened. It would all be over soon.
Savages. Beasts.
Leo loosened, letting go. Soft pained coughs torqued their way out of Locklear’s frame, as he twitched on the ground, helpless.
This was no beast. This was Kyle Locklear, the first Martian Cop, a man who stuck his head into danger to save whoever he could. He was a soldier who wandered into someone else’s war and found himself helpless to save even his own. There was a Beast out there, but not him.
He was prepared to kill you while you were his prisoner. While you were helpless, he was merciless.
Leo marched to the ladder, scooping up the pistol as he went. Sealing the hatch on the prefab was going to be the best he could do for Locklear now. Every instinct inside him told him to drain the oxygen, or crush his skull, or rip him apart. The Rung was no better than that Beast below.
You think me some kind of monster? A shadow lurking under your bed that consumes the light and drives out all hope? I am the only reason you still live.
It was the only reason so many were dead.
Hand over hand, Leo pulled himself upward. The hatch above seemed to pull away with each step of the way, as though his outstretched hands were pushing it further and further. Forty seven feet fore from the ladder, through two access hatches, was the docking collar. The shuttle should have more than enough fuel by now. He didn’t need a full tank. Not for this.
We are not some shadowy force. On the contrary, Leo Taggart. We are the Light that washes away the flames that might extinguish you. We are the gentle hand that would usher your kind to safer shores.
Leo slid out of the tube, swinging the hatch shut behind him. A simple crank of a lever dropped a steel pin in place, followed by a hydraulic seal. Locklear may not survive this experience. He may already be turning his rage on to himself. But better to contain it.
Perhaps my protection is not required. Perhaps I let you taste of the real darkness, and let you appreciate the grip of the hand that would snuff you out like a candle in a storm.
How many people had Locklear lost? Leo had sent them down there with no warning, no preparation. What had he missed that could have saved lives? What stupid little thing had slipped his stupid mind that got six people killed?
And not just killed. No, they didn’t just die. They were not unplugged. They suffered to their last. Because of him.
You should have done something, Leo. You could have stopped all of this. You are the spark that lit the fire, that burned the village, that devoured your friends. It all happened because of you.
You deserve this pain.
He glanced down at the red scratch marks his fingernails had sketched across his wrists, the blood seeping along the canvas of his skin, small droplets floating free like tiny red balloons.
It looked good. It felt right.
This is the work of a God. Perhaps you would reconsider your plot?
No.
Leo went for the bulkhead that would lead him to the shuttle when he heard the tell-tale gong of a hatch slamming open behind him. He had secured Locklear well enough. Then who could that be?
He spun on end to see Piotr Duchovney on the far end of the channel. Clothes ragged and torn, bruising about his eye and head, bleeding from a half-dozen self inflicted wounds. It was like someone threw him into a tumble dryer with dumbbells and razor blades. He sucked air like he had just finished a half marathon, or was preparing for one.
“Cabbie,” Leo croaked, hoping that there might just be a response, some words that might escape that hollowed out shell.
Piotr crept forward, like a tiger stalking up on cornered prey.
“Locklear blames me for killing his team,” Leo confessed, “The Beast could smell that. The bad blood. Something it could twist. So what’s it got on you?”
Piotr paused, scrunching down, ready to pounce. But he waited for something. Did the crazed really know how to use tactics, wait for openings? They didn’t seem the patient sort.
Leo gripped the bulkhead, ready to make a break for it. “I know you, Piotr. Your sister is waiting for you back home.”
He would kill his own sister if his reach were that long.
“No, you wouldn’t. Not Piotr. Not Cabbie. You don’t hate anybody.”
Leo cranked the bulkhead open. Piotr leapt forward, mouth open wide to reveal bits of flesh and blood-stained teeth.
But Leo slammed the bulkhead closed in his face, forcing the lock closed. Piotr scrambled against the tiny window, at any last image of Leo.
Piotr had tried to kill him. What had he done to spark any kind of hatred, anything that could have been seized upon?
Of course. He had killed Kieran and Rook. He had done so violently, without remorse, and without so much as a word of excuse. And Piotr had defended him to the last, when he should have dropped the hammer. Piotr was the only reason Leo was alive right now, and Leo had no respect for that simple fact. People had died, and Leo was to blame.
The Rung had tainted them all.
My reach is far more limited than you insinuate. Their hatred is their own.
Leo was afraid. Leo was angry. Leo was a murderer. And now, he could stop it.
The sounds that echoed through the hull of the ship, whispered up and down the walls, were enough to drive a sane man to the brink. It was the siren song of violence, a syncopated cacophony to accompany the melancholy strings of a family turned on itself.
This was the end of civilization, when the forces of Gods might turn companions against each other and arm them with their own hatreds, and warm their disciples with the self-fulfilling arraignment of their own savagery. To goad your apostles to violence and punish them for that violence. It would be a kindness to end the bloodshed that they themselves begat.
Leo consulted the panel on the shuttle’s hull. Final launch checks.
We could be safe from all of this, escape it all.
No. It would be safe. Leo would be, at best, a laboratory animal. It did not care for him anymore than he did his tool belt. Leo grabbed the shuttle door with both hands, sealing it behind him. He was on borrowed time, but plotting a course this simple shouldn’t be much more than high school physics. He wasn’t calculating re-entry in an asymmetric atmosphere, after all.
Piotr could do that in his sleep. There was not very much Leo could do in his sleep. He wondered if it would be boring, with so little to do. He probably wouldn’t care; ‘caring’ would be one of the things he could no longer do.
Epilogue
Nobody saw the impact. All they had to go on was the wreckage.
The T9-VDC drop shuttle weighed about two thousand three hundred tons and would have been traveling at a relative speed of sixteen thousand miles per hour on impact. Casual estimation brought the potential kinetic energy up to nearly 59.1 billion Newtons of force, or roughly that of a mid-size fission weapon behind the hammer driving into your side.