The Lazarus War: Legion (33 page)

“Yes, sir?”

“You did good, New Girl. You did real good.”

“Thanks, sir. I appreciate it.”

I nodded. The amniotic fluid of the tank was warming. The canopy snapped into place and the respirator attached to my face. I sealed myself in my tank. Began to jack-in with the cables.

“If they make it through that door,” I said, into the communicator, “then you know what to do.”

“I won’t let them take either of us alive.”

She smiled; harsh and practical. Martian, through and through.

I bobbed in the simulator. Blood streamed from my tortured arm, clouding the perfect blue amniotic. The liquid was acidic against the open flesh and stung painfully – probably breaking down the cauterised layer, maybe even the plastic coating that the auto-doc had treated it with.

With my only hand, I keyed COMMENCE TRANSITION and closed my eyes.

I was resurrected.

I was whole again.

I flexed both hands and felt the powered gauntlets of the combat-suit responding. The aching in my head that I’d felt since the incident on the Run was completely gone. The dizziness caused by blood loss was replaced by hyper-vigilance.

TRANSITION CONFIRMED, my HUD indicated.

“This is more like it,” I said, my voice filling my helmet.

The combat-suit was booting up. The firing tube started to thrum. Machinery prepared to propel my drop-capsule out into space. Every remaining copy of me was inside the launch bay, every sim prepared to fire on the Artefact. But, for now at least, my fight was elsewhere.

My combat-suit read my thought-stream.

ABORT LAUNCH? the HUD asked.

“Abort,” I confirmed.

It was dark inside the capsule and I couldn’t see what was happening outside, but I knew the firing mechanism had begun the abort sequence. There was an abrupt jolt as the capsule was removed from the launch queue.

CAPSULE REJECTED – REMOVING TO LAUNCH BAY, my HUD explained.

I was being shunted past the queue of waiting sims, each individually sealed in drop-capsules. I felt the safety webbing relax. The capsule slid back up the firing tube, back into the launch bay.

“Open capsule.”

The coffin door slid open and I clambered free.

It felt like I was rising from the grave.

“You there, Mason?” I asked, over the comm-link. “Talk to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Transition confirmed. I’m in the launch bay.”

“I don’t have visual down there, but I’ve called up deck plans for the
Colossus
. Let me know what I can do to help.”

“I need you to be my eyes and ears. I’m broadcasting my vid-feed; patch in so you can see what I’m doing.”

“Affirmative. I have your signal.”

Like the rest of the ship, the launch bay was in darkness. That was no hindrance to me: my tactical-helmet activated night-vision. There were numerous other firing tube hatches set into the floor, each housing dozens of pre-armed and pre-armoured simulants: the Legion and the Warfighters.

I cycled my M95 plasma rifle and slaved it to the auto-targeting software. The HUD illuminated with indicators. I fixed a heavy strobe light to the rail mount, tested it against the wall. The bright lamp flicked rapidly: was often used to blind opponents, employed during ship-boarding operations. I had in mind just that use.

I did a cursory check of my equipment and weapons.

Assorted grenades on my chest harness.

Power cells clipped to my belt.

PPG-13 plasma pistol holstered on my right thigh.

A flame-thrower unit, with a full tank of juice, strapped to my back.

Sim-issue mono-blade sheathed on my left boot.

Null-shield generator attached to my right forearm.

Wrist-comp attached to my left forearm.

A full complement of twelve surveillance drones mounted in my backpack.

Thruster pack primed and ready to fire.

Oxygen tanks charged and good for twelve hours EVA.

There were crates of weapons in the corner of the bay, still sealed and awaiting distribution. I sorted through those; clipped some more grenades to my suit. Smokes, hi-ex, incendiary: anything that might be useful. I took two demo-charges, smaller low-yield versions of those Jenkins usually carried. I attached a simulant-sized shotgun to my back-plate; a monstrous Westington Mk 6 – a weapon that made the Remington 900 look like a toothpick. I took a portable plasma welder and clipped that to my belt.

“Do you have enough weapons now?” Mason asked.

“That last choice wasn’t a weapon. I have everything I need but I’m not done yet.”

I took one final look around the launch bay.

Each of the tubes set in the floor was labelled with the name of an operator. I crouched over four of the tubes, inspected the hatches. I primed four hi-ex grenades, twisting the manual activation caps, and tossed them down the tubes. Then I ran towards the bay exit doors. The grenades had a five-second fuse, and as I made it to the doors I felt the floor beneath me absorb the force of the explosion.

All four of the Warfighters’ firing tubes were disabled.

“Will that help?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. I expect that they have simulants among the fleet elsewhere. Even if it doesn’t, it sure felt good.”

“I copy that.”

I glanced back at the mess; savoured the sight. Smoke trailed from each of the armoured hatches, now buckled and shredded. The firing tubes for my squad were safe and useable but if Williams or the other traitors tried to make a drop direct from the
Colossus
, they would be shit out of luck. That felt like a small victory.

“Plot me a course to the brig,” I said to Mason. “Kaminski will be my first objective. Having two operators in the tanks will significantly improve our odds.”

“I can always make transition. I’m feeling up to it.”

“Negative, Mason. Stay put; defend the SOC and Medical.”

There was a lot more to it than that. I didn’t want Mason in the tank because I feared that she wouldn’t come back: that dying in her sim would mean real death. I had more than enough blood on my hands. True: another simulant would make a huge difference, but I’d already gambled with her life once, letting her come here and allowing a green recruit on the Legion.

There was a long pause, as though Mason was considering refusing the order, before she finally answered, “Affirmative.”

“Can you get the bay doors open?”

“I can do that. Williams’ DNA lets me into lots of the systems. He must’ve programmed viral loops into the
Colossus
’ AI.”

The enormous doors suddenly ground into motion, parting before me. I covered the corridor beyond with my plasma rifle. Let my bio-scanner probe the shadows.

Nothing.

The scanner could probably probe this deck; the ship’s heavy metal construction made the device less reliable in predicting signals above and below my location. Whatever was happening on the ship, it hadn’t yet reached the cargo decks. That didn’t mean much, because the launch bay was in the very bowel of the starship, but it gave me some breathing room if nothing else.

“Hangar bays are seeing the most activity right now,” Mason said. “I have some partial spy-eye footage.”

“What are they doing?”

“Docking and unloading Interceptors. Looks like they have a lot of manpower.”

“How many ships?”

“I don’t think that you want to know. I’m broadcasting the route to the brig right now. I’d definitely recommend you stay away from the hangar decks.”

The hangars were several decks directly above me. I scanned over the downloaded maps, considered the best course.

I crept out of the launch bay, closed the doors behind me. Once that was done, I activated one of my drones.

SENTRY MODE, I instructed.

The drone bobbed in the air. Hovered obediently above the bulkhead door.

“Stay with me as I go,” I said to Mason.

“I don’t have anything better to do.”

“And you never know,” I said, grinning in the dark, “you might even learn something.”

“Be careful, Major. You don’t know what you’ll find out there.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m stone cold.”

A corridor or so from the drop-bay, I found the first Alliance casualty.

A crewman in Alliance Navy fatigues. Hanging upside down, by the ankles, from a rafter in the ceiling. Although the body was still warm, vitals were completely extinguished. The man’s head had been punctured with two shots from a kinetic slug-thrower; a heavy-calibre pistol, I reckoned. The Directorate were old-fashioned like that – they preferred kinetics to energy weapons.

“Is that what they do to captives?” Mason whispered over the comm.

Thick blood pooled beneath the corpse. The man’s hands ended in stumps; likely hacked off with a sword or bladed implement. Probably one of their mono-swords, but through unarmoured skin that would be total overkill. I followed the line of the body to the ad hoc binding above me: noted that the poor bastard was missing his feet as well.

“Looks that way. I don’t have time to cut him down, but log the location on your terminal.”

“Affirmative.”

I edged around the corpse. It gently swayed.

“Do you remember Far Eye?” Mason said. She spoke slowly; almost reluctantly.

“Of course.”

“In the corridor outside Saul’s lab, you told me that the Krell always seemed to do just fine. You said that the Krell are one of nature’s bad jokes.”

I recalled the conversation well enough. “I remember.”

“You maybe think that we’re the other one?”

“I’ve known the answer to that for a long time.”

With nothing more I could do for the crewman, I prowled onwards.

Soon there were more dead.

Several had been displayed like the Navy man. Almost all looked as though they had been caught by surprise – execution-style shootings, sometimes at workstations or en masse in corridors.

“Let’s hope the Legion are buckled down somewhere,” Mason said.

“Just as long as they aren’t like that. No way for a soldier to die. I’ll save them all, then I’ll save Elena.”

“What was that, sir? I didn’t copy.”

“Nothing, Mason. Just talking to myself.”

“You’re coming up on the brig.”

“Ah, shit,” I whispered.

The bulkhead doors were all open and there was no one alive at the checkpoint. An Alliance Marine had been executed where he sat. I sent a drone ahead of me into the brig. It was dark and still inside, and I used the remote camera to ensure that the area was secure.

Jesus. Secure is the wrong word.

Inside the perimeter, another Marine had been shot in the stomach. Many of his organs were sluiced across the floor.

I switched on my suit-speakers. “Kaminski? You in here?”

No response. The drone reported no heat signatures, no movement. I stalked further into the brig, plasma rifle up. I was just looking for an excuse to shoot someone or something.

“Kaminski!” I called again. “Saul!”

Saul’s cell was ahead. It was dark and empty; the metal-barred door open. I flicked on my rifle-lamp: threw a beam of white light into the chamber. Better to see this with my own eyes – to face the horror of it.

A body had been hung from the ceiling. Same as the others: hands and feet gone.

“Fuck it!” I roared. “I’m too late.”

“There was nothing you could do,” Mason implored. “You went right to him—”

This body had been inexpertly hung. It had been tied with a length of cable, enough slack that the body twisted about-face. One of my drones flew ahead and scanned the corpse.

I frowned. Moved up on the cell, my lamp jittering over the body. It was surely dead – my HUD confirmed the lack of any heartbeat – but it was also wrong.

“It…it’s not him!” Mason stammered.

The body in the rafters was a Directorate Sword. Armour stripped back, face wearing an expression of surprise. Neither rifle nor sidearm were with the corpse; even the commando’s sword was missing from the holster on his leg.

“The blood,” Mason whispered. “Look down.”

There was plenty of it – liberally sprayed on the ground, up the walls. From the spatter-pattern, I guessed that the Sword had been killed in this chamber. Maybe coming to investigate Saul, maybe coming to free him. Could it be Kaminski in waiting?

“Yeah, I see the blood,” I said.

“Not that – I mean the marking.”

Daubed in blood, the crude drawing was instantly identifiable. A pyramid, with an eye at the pinnacle.

The Lazarus Legion.

Beneath that was an arrow, pointing back into the outer brig. The whole thing had been drawn beneath the corpse; like the insane iconography of some cult practising human sacrifice.

“He’s alive,” Mason said. “Kaminski, I mean. He wanted you to know.”

I followed the arrow, lighting up the floor with my rifle-lamp. Another appeared. Then another. All pointing to the back wall of the crew station. I traced the objective, searching for indications that someone was left alive back there.

“The wily little shit…”

The wall ahead of me was marked with the same symbol, on a piece of sheet-metal. That immediately looked out of place and I quickly identified that it was from the ceiling. I panned my light up, but found no movement. Instead, I wrenched the sheet of metal from the wall.

Behind the sheet was a warning in bold letters: EMERGENCY EVACUATION POD. A terminal screen – previously concealed by the metal cover – flashed with an update: POD FIRED – PLEASE PROCEED TO DECK A-19 FOR FURTHER EMERGENCY FACILITIES.

I smiled to myself. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it had obviously worked.

“So, that’s where he’s gone,” Mason said. “He’s alive.”

Some hope was better than none. Kaminski was probably, as of now, floating in near-space – with or without Saul – inside an evac-pod. It would be cramped but they’d survive for a few days; they had food and air. The pod would broadcast a distress signal, would await pick-up.

“I’m moving on,” I declared to Mason. “I need to get to the CIC – track down the rest of the Legion and order a pick-up for Kaminski.”