“Rosalyn?” he asked, turning and finding himself face to chest with Piero. “Oh. What did you . . . what did you do to yourself?”
Rayan wasn’t foolish enough to think his own grievous flesh wound, covered in a protective layer of Foxfire growth, was anything pretty to look at, but this was something different. Something ghastly.
Piero’s skin hung off his face and neck in chunks, pulsing blue light spearing out from between the tears. There was almost no flesh left around his eyes, making them protrude, bulbous and unnatural.
But his old friend—his old lover—smiled. His teeth looked whiter and more threatening with no lips to define the grin. “It’s only flesh. Flesh is not really part of us. The cluster, the connection, we’re her children and we should reflect her.”
Rayan swallowed with difficulty, choking back the urge to vomit.
“Am I speaking to Piero?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Rayan sighed. “Am I speaking t-to Mother?”
“Yes.”
He was cornered against the drafting table and all of his hard work. Piero inched closer, already crowding him uncomfortably but now actively pressing Rayan’s lower back into the lip of the table. The academic side of him had wondered what full integration with the Foxfire would look like, though perhaps his innocent curiosity meant he lacked the capacity to imagine this outcome. It was more terrible than he expected, and now he wished he didn’t know the answer to his silent question.
“So this is what will happen to me,” Rayan mused, trembling. His eyes bubbled with tears, every new rent discovered on Piero’s face making him feel more powerless with grief. “This is what the end looks like.”
Piero, or the Foxfire taking his form, tilted his head to the side. His expression grew blank and then puzzled. The connection he had lost to Piero now blazed, and he felt overwhelmed by the hurt and confusion radiating through their shared network.
His eyes were the same turquoise blue, but a dazzling white core stared out from each, a dollop of liquid mercury shimmer.
“I called you beautiful,” Piero said in a voice unnervingly mingled with a woman’s. “Am I not beautiful, too?”
“Don’t do that,” Rayan said, pushing against his chest with both hands. It was pointless. Piero was bigger and stronger, and they both knew the corruption dulled pain. Fully integrated, he probably felt invincible. “Don’t. Don’t use something good between us against me now. It isn’t fair. You didn’t call me beautiful, Mother, Piero the man did.”
“Fair.” Piero tried out the word as if tasting a new and perplexing flavor. “I see.”
“No, you don’t see.” Rayan sighed and beat his fists on Piero’s chest again. The other man took hold of his wrists, squeezing until Rayan saw stars. “You don’t get it because you’re not one of us. A human. Those memories are special. They’re not weapons. Do you hear me? They’re not weapons.”
He stopped fighting, feeling light-headed and disoriented. The familiar pulsing headache began at the base of his skull and he moaned. No, not like this. I wanted to be in control of when it happened.
We are in control together, dear one.
It was the voice of his mother, soft, sweet, flowing seamlessly in and out of Punjabi.
Why not join us? Why not be a true child and a true sibling? Struggling, struggling, struggling, and for what?
“Stop that,” Rayan whispered weakly. “I don’t want to talk with our minds. I hate that.”
“Everything in your mind is a weapon,” Piero said aloud, humoring him. “Every thought, every memory, every delight, every sorrow is a weapon she will use until she gains control. It’s painful, Ray, I know, but it can end.”
The table bit deeper into his spine and he winced, falling back against it, his elbow landing on the prayer rug he had folded there. One touch of softness, like a pleasant memory, the remembrance of a tiny joy long past and almost forgotten. The rug. The mosque. His talisman. Rayan reached for those hours upon hours in the VR Dome as a reflex, guessing it was fruitless but thinking that it mattered to fight all the same. Exhausted, run-down, he felt the temptation to surrender as it rose and crashed over him. But it was important to fight.
Fight back. That was the little tattoo on Tuva’s wrist; she had told him so, reluctantly. Fight back. He missed her, even if she never seemed to like him very much and her weird food stank up the lounge.
“What is this?” Piero had at last noticed what was fixed to the drafting table. He leaned down, his head looming over Rayan’s shoulder. Confusion. Amusement. Rayan now felt the other man’s emotions as if they were his own, and the whiplash of it was nauseating. Tiring. He was so tired of fighting, but the fighting mattered. His memories of the mosque were fading, disintegrating in front of his eyes as if burned away, one tile an ember that floated away, one window a bit of ash there and then charred beyond recognition.
She’s learning, Rayan thought. Not just learning but adapting. The biologist in him couldn’t resist asking Piero, “How did she get you in the end?”
Their eyes met, and for a brief instant the blue grew more powerful, bleeding over the white pupil. But it was just a flicker, and Piero’s lipless mouth drew down into a ragged grimace, more drooping hole than human mouth.
“You’ll soon know. Can’t you feel it? She’s so close. She’s felt even closer since the salvager came. There’s something about her . . . Mother will be stronger when the cluster has her, and we’ll have her soon.”
“Shut up about that crap for one minute,” Rayan said, irritated and angry. “We’ve all been resisting somehow. Yeah, it’s been getting harder but still . . . It felt like something I could maybe win over or, I don’t know, delay. What did it?”
The Foxfire considered him through Piero’s glittering eyes for a long moment. It was hard not to flinch away from his horrible face, but Rayan steadied himself. He wanted to know this one thing, because maybe if he knew, there was still a way to hold on. Yes, he had been ready to say goodbye, preparing for it, but if there was a chance . . . if there was a chance, however miniscule . . .
“What do you hate?”
Rayan blinked. “Hate? I d-don’t know, not much. It’s not healthy to hold grudges.”
Again Piero fell silent and again he considered Rayan, studying him, and he sensed an odd force tugging at his brain. An invasion. The Foxfire was searching for answers and it hurt, more than a headache, a needling, precise pain that blossomed over his right eye and spread.
“Shit! What are you doing?” Rayan tried to reach for his head but he was pinned to the table, able only to flail and groan with pain.
“There. Obvious but poetic. I can’t believe she didn’t find it sooner.”
His vision frayed at the edges, spots and spangles blotting out his sight, more and more, like raindrops collecting on a windowpane until everything was blurred. The sensation in his head was incredible, white-hot, lancing agony that made him finally go boneless. He would have collapsed to the floor if Piero weren’t keeping him upright against the table.
“Ignorance. You hate ignorance.” Piero was nodding, but he could only see it vaguely. He hadn’t expected the transition to hurt this much. Stupidly, he had assumed it would be gentle, just a gradual sinking into darkness. A fade to black. Rayan couldn’t see at all then, but he felt Piero’s breath on his face, warm and loamy.
“This is the key that fits any lock . . .” His voice sounded far away, trapped behind the wall of pain and muffled by it. “She’s found it, what you hate, and what you hate makes you vulnerable. Now unlock for her and the pain will stop. The pain will end and you’ll join the family.”
25
“Then we just need Piero to leave the cockpit, and—hey. Hey. Are you falling asleep on me?”
“Son of a bitch, sorry.” Rosalyn shook herself awake, sitting cross-legged with her back to a chair. There was no missing th
e deep blue smudges under her eyes, or the way her limbs sagged toward the floor.
“I haven’t really slept,” she added, glancing at her VIT. “In forty-eight hours. No wonder I’m agreeing to this insane plan.”
Edison shook his head, crouching down on the other side of the barrier. The diffuser cycle had switched, and now only a light vapor hung in the cold storage chamber. He wondered what would happen if the shield dropped and all that fog rolled out to him. Nothing good. Every treatment Rayan and Misato came up with only made them sick as hell and weak, which probably only made Mother Foxfire happier. A compromised immune system was a party for viruses; he could only imagine what it meant for the Foxfire.
“I know you’re exhausted,” he said, tilting his head to the side. She pulled her knees up to her chest and stuffed a yawn behind her fist. “But that doesn’t mean my plan can’t work.”
“Mm. Yes,” she mumbled absently. “Very achievable.”
“I’m gonna remember that you get real agreeable when you’re exhausted.”
Rosalyn narrowed her eyes, hugging her knees. “Agreeable can turn into horrifically grumpy, just you wait. And anyway I’m not much of a partner in this endeavor if I’m asleep on my feet.” Her eyes closed slowly, as if completely beyond her control. “I can’t sleep now. Not with Piero going completely AWOL like that. It creeps me out. You I sort of trust. Him? Nope.”
Edison didn’t know if he ought to tell her, but if this partnership was going to work, then honesty would be key. Frowning, he slid to the floor completely, sitting across from her with his hands resting on his ankles. “Rayan is missing, too.”
“What?”
“I know. Well, shit, no, I don’t know. I don’t know what it means, Rosalyn.” The hairs on his arms stood up and he patted them down nervously. “It just happened. He was in the lab, I could sense him there, now he’s . . . just gone. It’s like Foxfire disappeared him. Swallowed him.”
Her eyes were wide open now. “This is going to sound really cruel, but do you think . . . do you think it means they died or something? What if this stuff doesn’t want to control you but kill you?”
“That should scare me but it doesn’t.” Edison leaned his head against the barrier and sighed. He felt weary, too, though his body tended to resist sleep. The dreams he had lately were terrifying, nothing like the nightmares he experienced in the past. The worst part was that he knew why the dreams frightened him so much—they weren’t his dreams at all, but the thing inside him going into fitful rest, showing him a glimpse of its unconscious thoughts.
He shuddered just remembering it. “This thing is too virulent. It wants to spread. Killing my whole crew wouldn’t accomplish that.”
“I suppose,” Rosalyn granted him. She looked more alert, slightly panicked, her hazel eyes scanning the hall behind him. “But the spores are in the air. It just takes exposure, right? If those Merchantia ships turn up, the situation kind of takes care of itself.”
“No. They’ll be suited up like you are. You’re lucky Rayan met you at the cockpit. If it was Piero, he would’ve gone straight for your visor.”
Now it was her turn to shiver. “What an image.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine, you’re right.” Rosalyn shrugged, trying to conceal another long, long yawn. She stretched like a cat, and it was kind of cute, he thought. No. Not helpful. It was bad enough that she was prettyish, not his type, but maybe his type was changing. Or maybe the Foxfire is changing you.
“What?” he heard her say, and he coughed.
“What what?”
She rolled her eyes at him, which was becoming routine. “Your eyes went all soft focus. Don’t tell me we’re both falling asleep. Kiss your sweet plan goodbye.”
“It’s not that,” Edison said, flailing for a distraction. He found one, but it didn’t exactly put him off that dangerous path. “I was just wondering . . . your AR bio is blank.”
“So is yours,” she shot back ruefully. “Are you chatting me up to keep me awake?”
“Maybe. Is it working?” Edison smirked, then pulled his head back from the barrier. It had knocked his glasses askew so he fixed them. “Besides, what should my AR profile say? ‘Infected with alien fungus. Lost in space. Probably gonna die soon. Dogs, jazz, single malt.’”
“You’re a dog person?” she asked, laughing softly.
“Yeah. Is there any other kind?”
“Uh-huh, cat people, and they are completely terrible.”
“Amen to that.” Edison high-fived the glass and had to chuckle as she air-fived him back.
She rocked back and forth a little as if in thought, then pulled the chair behind her around and made a pillow out of her arms, laying her head on it. “I’m more of a double-malt girl myself, but nobody’s perfect.”
“Look at us building bridges. Next we might actually think our way out of this bullshit pit.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she murmured, scrunching up her nose and closing her eyes. “You’re the only one with a functional AR chip. How does that work?”
Edison made himself more comfortable, turning and leaning against the door frame, kicking his legs straight out to the front. His back didn’t ache, nothing ever did except his head, but it was still nice to feel casual. It was too soon to say if she really trusted him, but this seemed like progress.
“My guess is the Foxfire corrupted the others’ but managed not to fuck mine up. That’s just a stab in the dark, though. It’s been helpful to have it. The music, the photos, the memories . . . I can’t say for sure, but I think it’s keeping me closer to human.” And so is this. He watched her half nod, but he could tell he was losing her. She was drifting away and, selfishly, he wanted her to stay.
“Helpful for you,” Rosalyn remarked. “But also helpful for the Foxfire, don’t you think? It just has more information, more access, more ways to understand you and control you if you have a working AR chip.”
Edison paused. “I hadn’t considered that. Damn, and I thought I was the lucky one.”
Yawning, she replied, “You still might be. Maybe it’s still a net win if it helps you stay in touch with your human side.”
“How long do you need to rest?” he asked softly.
Her words were so slurred he almost couldn’t make them out. “Not long. Just an hour.”
“Sure,” he said. “I can give you an hour. I’ll post up here and make sure nobody bothers you, all right?”
“S’mmkay.”
She dropped like a stone. Edison hadn’t seen anyone fall asleep that quickly in, well, ever. It was like a spell had been cast, awake one second and gone the next. It wasn’t that he missed her, exactly, but that the silence afforded unique opportunities for the Foxfire to emerge. The quiet, lonely hours were always the hardest.
Because this is just a distraction, baby. “Buzz, buzz, buzz,” goes the bee, keeping busy, be as busy as you like, it’s only a matter of time. You’ll join us.
Edison sighed and rubbed his temples. Preventive measures needed to be taken. He summoned his AR display and brought up the music app, choosing his usual calming playlist. It could’ve been a salt circle, his spiritual protection against the coming Foxfire incursion. On a lark, he opened his AR public profile and changed it. Charming or desperate? He couldn’t decide. Either way it was something. Something for her. The monster inside him had been gaining ground steadily, it seemed, until the salvager arrived. It made him wish she had arrived sooner, the tossed pebble that rippled hard across the pond.
The steady mechanical thrum of the Brigantine normally put him at ease, but in that moment it was different. Time generally had less meaning in outer space, but for routine and health, MSC kept their workers on an established day/night cycle, synced to Earth. Most space stations did something similar, the prevailing national territory determining which time zone the
y chose to follow. Merchantia Solutions, based out of Vancouver, timed their workdays accordingly. He liked it. Even if the connection to Earth was artificial, it was still a connection, however tentative.
Several facts dawned on him at once as he sat in the semidarkness watching Rosalyn Devar sleep. One was that he would never see Earth again. In fact, this ship and the innards of Coeur d’Alene Station were likely the last places he would ever know. Fucking miserable. The second fact was that the ship was unusually quiet. Too quiet. Most hours Rayan could be heard tinkering away in the lab, dropping things with his clumsy enthusiasm or crying excitedly over a particular discovery. Even during the lockdown Rayan imposed, Piero made plenty of noise just to remind everyone he was still there and still pissed. Occasionally he could be heard punching or kicking the walls and door. Misato never made a racket, but Edison sensed her burning brightly in his mind.
It deeply unsettled him, this remarkable silence and the as-yet-unknown implications. He knew he couldn’t move from that spot as long as Rosalyn slept. Piero was up to something, and even if the questions and curiosity were eating Edison up, he couldn’t leave her. A captain didn’t abandon his crew, and Rosalyn had become part of the Brigantine whether she appreciated it or not. He had failed Piero miserably, and probably Rayan, too, but it didn’t have to be that way for Misato or Rosalyn. There had to be hope, or there was no point in keeping this vigil or resisting the voices in his head.
There was a third fact making itself known: Rosalyn drooled quite a lot while she slept.
The music twined softly through his head, the only noise beyond the hum of the ship. Free-form jazz worked the best against the Foxfire, he found; the unpredictable notes defied patterns, skipping and stopping at random, too wild for the monster to anticipate. Anything repetitive put him in the most danger. In the early days, those first ugly, awful days, they had all compared notes, trying to find ways to quiet the sudden voices in their heads. In the end, they each found a different solution. Rayan had his memories of Lahore. Misato had her coffee. Edison had his music. But Piero . . . Piero never told them what helped him. Maybe the horrible truth was that nothing helped and that was why he seemed to sink the fastest, with nothing there to hold on to.
Salvaged Page 18