The Lazarus War: Legion (11 page)

“We are,” Carrie said.

She sniffed loudly. I couldn’t bring myself to look round at her, because I suspected that she was crying. Not my Carrie; crying in a cop car.

“So there’s no need to take you to see the psychosurgeon, get a mind-wipe. All right? We got an understanding?”

“Yeah,” Carrie answered for both of us. “We understand.”

“That’s a deal then, and we don’t go back on deals. Did either of you take anything from the drain?”

“No,” Carrie said. “Nothing.”

I didn’t disagree with her.

“Good. Make sure this stays between yous two. Don’t tell anyone else, all right?”

“Yeah,” Carrie repeated.

“That’s real important – the most important thing of all. No talking about it.” He tapped the gun, sitting just above that creased photo of his family. “You seem like good kids. I’m sure that you won’t talk. But if you do, I’ll know it. I got people on the streets, even if I don’t answer call-outs. I hear any chatter, I’ll know it was yous that talked. I got your names now; I know you.”

Down in the storm drain, two of the forensics officers were carrying something bulky between them. It was a black body bag, I realised. They quickly moved between the drain and a waiting ambulance, doors shut immediately. Had to be the soldier. Gone in seconds. The robot was up and walking now, with big imprecise strides: eyes panning the storm drain. The thing looked frighteningly unpredictable.

“Cease and desist,” it blurted in an electronic voice, loud enough that we could hear inside the cop car. “Disperse immediately.”

Other officers were already clearing away the yellow crime tape, erasing any physical evidence that they had been here at all. The street people responded to the threatening cant of the metal man, and they had evaporated just as quickly. They wouldn’t talk, for just the same reasons as us: because they were scared.

The radio crackled, and Carrie and I jumped.

Romero laughed again. “So glad that we got that all cleared up. You kids want a lift back home? It’s getting late. On a warm night like this, street dogs’ll be out.”

“No,” I said. “We’ll walk.”

Carrie and I attempted to walk from the drain quickly and naturally, in a wasted attempt to maintain our dignity. I’m sure that it was pretty obvious we were shit-scared. As soon as the reflections of the flashing lights were no longer visible on the sidewalk, we broke into a frantic run. Took whatever back-routes we could to make ourselves invisible although no one gave chase. The cop’s message had been received loud and clear.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Carrie hissed at me, as we slowed down – a block or so away from home. “You going to listen to me next time?”

“I might. But no one will know that we called the cops. They didn’t want us to tell anyone, so they won’t tell anyone.”

“People will know. We stink of cop.”

“No one will know. The stink will wear off.”

“You even ate cop food.”

I laughed. “So did you. And you were crying in that car.”

Carrie rubbed at her eyes. Both were red-rimmed. “I had something in my eye, shithead.”

“We didn’t get the nose-filters.”

“Fuck nose-filters. Only pussies use filters. Fucking cop pussies.”

Carrie shook her head and tutted.

I stopped, watched her walking ahead of me.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just remind me of Mom sometimes.”

Carrie bit her lip, sighed. “That’s not a good thing. Mom was a stupid dipshit who got herself killed by the Directorate.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Jonathan is no better.”

“You still think about her?”

“All the time,” she said. “I wish I could forget. Sometimes remembering is more painful.”

She put a thin arm around my shoulder, hugged me tight. She smelled of sweat and fear but the human contact felt good. That was what I missed most about my mother, I decided.

We walked on through the plaza.

“Did you believe that cop?” she asked me. “About the soldier, I mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Carrie fumbled in her pocket and produced something. She pressed it into my hand.

“That look like something a kook would carry around?” she said.

I stared down at the scrunched-up and clammy banknote for a long time. I didn’t recognise the writing, nor the etched and ignoble face that was printed on it, though I’d come to do so one day. Eventually, I’d know both the image and the text very well. The UA had mostly filtered banknotes out of circulation – the unicard was the only official currency. Even so, I knew that this was something else completely.

A Chino banknote.

In the distance, the street dogs howled and howled: hungry and angry and left behind. Old Joel trilled a song in the shadow of the tenement. By now he was too drunk to bother with us.

Carrie ran ahead of me, feet pitter-pattering on the steps of the stairwell as she went.

“You’re too slow, Con!” she shouted, and I raced to catch up with her.

Pitter patter, pitter patter.

Rain on a tin roof.

A child’s feet on stairs.

No. Something else.

I awoke with a start.

Cold.

Dark.

The capsule had drained of cryogenic liquid, but only recently: I could still smell the cloying odour and feel the frost on my skin. It limed the glass canopy just inches from my face. Such that I could see, the world beyond was still dark.

Has the ship woken up? Why am I awake?

Thawing liquid dripped in heavy rivulets down the canopy interior. I shivered. I was naked. Still wired to the capsule I’d called home for months – or was that years? Time had passed, but how long was conjecture. A feeder tube – responsible for pumping my stomach with nutrients during the long night – rattled against the side of the capsule. I wanted to call out: to attract some attention, get help, an explanation. But an animal instinct instructed me to stay quiet. That sixth sense that you can’t justify following; that you can never adequately describe. The same sense that you learn to trust when you’re under fire.

Except that I wasn’t under fire.

I was in a hypersleep capsule—

There was a light above me. A brief stab of illumination. I reacted by closing my eyes.

Instinct, that wily old beast, told me to
stay the fuck alert
.

Voices outside. Harsh, disciplined.

Speaking a language that I didn’t understand.

My skin began to prickle.

More lights. I recognised rifle-lamps.

That meant soldiers, aboard the ship.

Then more noise. Boots on deck plating.

So multiple soldiers.

Oh shit.

A figure stood above my capsule. Through the layer of frost and excess cryogen, it was nothing more than an outline. The lamp beam stopped moving, focused on my capsule now.

A black-gloved hand reached for the canopy. Wiped at the frost, cleared the layer of condensation left by an age in the sleep.

I could see out.

He could see in.

Horrifying clarity hit me.

A soldier, wearing full vacuum gear: a helmet with attached combat goggles. Those two bug-eyes stared back at me. Red light played across the inside of those lenses – relaying data to the wearer.

For a long second, the soldier and I just looked at each other. That gear? It wasn’t Alliance issue.

I knew those eyes.

Directorate.

An alarm sounded.

It took me a few seconds to register the noise – to appreciate that it was real, not a waking dream or nightmare.
An alarm is a bad noise
, my subconscious insisted.
If you want to live, you’ve got to wake up.
Even in my drug-addled state, that made sense. Hands balled into fists, I started to slam against the inside of the canopy. Again and again. So hard that my arms ached.

Got to get out of here! Got to get—

Nearby, someone was shouting. It sounded like the noise was coming through water: distant, fuzzy. I couldn’t make out the words, but didn’t stop to try. Getting out of the capsule had become my priority. While I struggled to understand what was being said, I could easily understand the tone: desperate, panicked.

Inside my hypersleep capsule, I was still attached to the unit by a plethora of cables and pipes, plugged in at the base of the spine. My vision was blurred; eyes aching from the abrupt awakening. Everything was so white. The strip lights above were too bright for me to handle. I pounded both fists against the plastic canopy again. It was frozen cold, heavily frosted so that the outside world was just a haze.

“Open up!” I shouted.

With a mechanical whine, the canopy began to rise.

There was no soldier above me and there never had been.

I was surrounded by capsules. Some of those were opening now as well; the sleepers rising from their temporary caskets. Pale from the long sleep, all exchanging confused glances. Some of those turned to angry scowls now, responding to the alarm. The ship’s crew, I realised, were waking as well. That was something else to add to the list of things wrong with this picture: the Navy crew were almost uniformly awoken before ground troops.

Holy shit. Something is very wrong here.

A message was being repeated over and over, broadcast through the ship’s public address system. It took me a few tries to follow what was being said – to understand the message.

“This is not a drill. Emergency awakening in progress. All hands report to the bridge.”

I forced myself awake, shook out the freezer chills. I pulled out the attachments to my arms and legs – broke the connection to the hypersleep machinery. Climbed out of the capsule.

Martinez appeared over me. Clutched my shoulders.

“You okay, Major?”

“Yeah. I’m awake.”

Checking that the old man hasn’t died in his sleep?

Unplugged, I felt reality suddenly take on a new dimension: the absence of the hypersleep preservative had an immediate effect. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done – waking from the cold sleep was supposed to be a long and gradual process. A sudden awakening carried with it risks, carried with it the possibility of serious side-effects or even death. I swivelled my legs and slammed my feet down on the metal plate flooring.

Kaminski, Jenkins and Mason were doing the same.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Kaminski shouted above the alarm.

The ship’s PA shifted loop.

“There is a hull breach in Sector Three.”

I frowned. Stared up at the wall.

Words were printed there.

SECTOR 3: HYPERSLEEP CHAMBER.

The bay wasn’t filled to capacity but there were sixty or so sleepers. Just as many personnel were still in the freezers, either fighting to wake up or still in hibernation. The AI was attempting to awaken us all and through some quirk of programming this was being done in reverse: ground troops first, then medical staff, finally Naval crew.

Not everyone woke up. Perhaps that was a small blessing. Better, I told myself, that they passed sleeping than face what was about to happen. But I knew that this wasn’t how I’d want to go. Asleep in a capsule, somewhere in the Maelstrom, without a fighting chance. Snuffed out, just like that: regardless of what you’ve done with your life, who you are or were.

I probably had that programming fault – the error that had caused the ground troops to awaken first – to thank for my life.

The floor beneath me began to rumble gently. Heavy rain on a tin roof: pitter patter, pitter patter. I recognised the sound too well.

“Jenkins!” I yelled. “Door – now!”

Jenkins was nearest to the main bulkhead, thirty metres from our position. She stumbled towards it.

There were two red emergency boxes located on the far wall. Those were sprinkled throughout the ship, labelled BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCY! Crammed with the sort of safety gear I’d normally ignore but which had suddenly become incredibly relevant. Martinez dashed for the nearest box. I went for the other, willing my legs to move-move-move.

The floor continued to vibrate.

“Everyone – get out!” I shouted.

Confused faces stared back at me. Like geriatric patients, dressed in identical white robes: pale as ghosts.

A whistling sound filled the chamber. Despite my order, most of the inhabitants stopped to listen. Stupid fucks, one and all. Small black dots appeared on the ground. A man next to me – rank and role unascertainable in the gown – leant over one of the dots, inspecting it. He looked down, then looked up at the ceiling.

“Sweet Jesus…” he groaned.

Some of the hypersleep capsules wouldn’t be opening at all. Those canopies were peppered with the same shotgun pellet pattern – flecked about with brilliant red blood.

“We’re going to lose atmosphere in here very soon!” I shouted.

“Move people!” Mason yelled. “Get to the other side of that bulkhead!”

The hypersleep suite was about to become depressurised; provided that the corridor outside hadn’t been hit as well, we could use the bulkhead to seal off the area.

I smashed a hand into the emergency supply box, yanking out a vacuum-packed emergency environment suit. It was a brilliant yellow, condensed down to a package the size of my hand. I hit the USE button and the suit began to pop up.

Not a moment too soon. More peppershot hit the deck. Harder now: holes the size of my thumb appeared in the floor, reciprocal damage to the ceiling.

Meteor shower
.

The Maelstrom was replete with meteor and asteroid bands – constantly shifting due to the gravimetric storms and stellar winds. They came in all shapes and sizes, capable of causing minor damage to a ship or completely hulling it. There was no telling how severe this storm was until we’d weathered it and from inside the hypersleep vault there was little to nothing that I could do to evaluate the threat.

“We’re being hit in every direction!” Martinez yelled. He was half-dressed in his own suit.

I caught sight of Kaminski and Jenkins hustling sleepers towards the door. A man exploded in a bright red haze, punched through by a piece of debris no bigger than my little finger. People were screaming now.

The vac-suit was ready for use and I stuffed a leg inside. I clipped the hood into place, sealing myself in. It had a face-shield that inflated immediately, but also fogged with each breath. This wasn’t how I was used to operating: the tech wasn’t battle hardened. I was a blunt instrument and I needed my tools to withstand proper punishment. Inside the vac-suit, I was also out of communication with the rest of my team.

Jenkins reached the exit to the chamber. She looked increasingly pale, had started to tremble.

I knew that we had to get out of the chamber and we had to do it now.

Martinez nodded at me, starting off towards the bulkhead door as well.

Jenkins slammed her hand onto the control.

Nothing.

Another handful of scattershot hit the ship.

Fuck
.

She hit the control again.

Nothing.

The door sat resolutely shut, an emergency lamp overhead flashing red. From my position it looked like her face was covered in blood – like she was weeping from the eyes.

Maybe she is,
I thought.

I reached the door, bounding along on the spongy soles of the built-in vac-suit boots.

“Won’t open,” Jenkins gasped.

“Try it again!” I shouted, exaggerating the formation of my words: hopeful that Jenkins would see what I was saying even if she couldn’t hear.

The control console flashed with a red light.

LOCKED.

Kaminski, Jenkins and Mason stood at the door, all dressed in those ridiculous medical gowns.

“Nice knowing you!” Kaminski mouthed.

The nearest sleeper to me had started to asphyxiate. Atmosphere was almost gone from the room.

I pushed past the group, slammed my hand onto the control panel again and again.

LOCKED.

LOCKED.

LOCKED.

“Martinez! Get a tool from the emergency box! Anything!”

Martinez frowned at me and I motioned to him with my hands – pointed at the control panel. Maybe we could overload the unit, force the door open. If Kaminski was in a suit, he might be able to hack the box: fool the AI into opening the lock.

But he wasn’t. I was, and my team was about to die in that chamber unless I could get them out.

Around me, sleepers were wailing, bashing fists against the door. It would do them no good: probably use up what little reserve of stamina they had left.

Martinez bounced to the door, holding a powered wrench. He tossed another to me and I caught it. Activated the tool with a stud on the shaft and began working on the box.

“Please hurry!” someone shouted.

The whistling from the punctured hull had become a wailing now. The room lights were flashing erratically.

Something had gone so very, very wrong.

I hit the box, watched it spark momentarily. In the depleted atmosphere any ignition from the device was passing.

Why haven’t the null-shields protected us?

I hit the box again.

Martinez was doing the same; faster and faster. Rage built up behind his face-plate, spittle flecking the inside—

Both controls shorted.

The lights overhead flashed off.

Everyone seemed to pause for a moment.

Then the door gave an enormous rumble and started to lift into the ceiling.

The human wave poured through into the corridor beyond.

There were four Alliance Marines outside the room, in full vac-proofed battledress. Not sims: hardcopy soldiers. They hurried all of the survivors out of the chamber. When no one else came out, they sealed the doors shut.

At least they’re Alliance,
I thought, remembering my dream of the Directorate invasion.

The sleepers variously fell against the corridor walls, passed out on the floor, or fell to their knees. There were gasped prayers and thanks to a variety of deities; even some puking.

I tore off the vac-hood. Underneath, I was pouring with sweat. My hands were shaking; not from the effects of oxygen-deprivation but with plain anger.

“Clear,” the lead Marine said. He spoke into a communicator, one hand to his ear. “All survivors are out the chamber.”

“What the fuck just happened?” I yelled, my voice ringing in my ears and down the corridor.

“Hold on a second, sir,” the Marine said. He nodded. “Fine. Purge the chamber.”

“There could still be survivors in there,” I shouted.

“Hold on, sir!” the Marine yelled back at me. “We’re dealing with an emergency right now.”

Jenkins sat at my feet, wiping blood from her nose.

“You okay, Jenkins?”

“I feel like shit.”

“Better than being dead, I guess.”

“It’s a close run thing right now.”

I took in my squad. All four were alive, but a sudden panic gripped me.