The Lazarus War: Legion (34 page)

“There are likely hostiles all around your location. You might want to be ready for a fight. I’ll send the fastest route to your suit.”

I checked over the maps again. On foot, it was a long journey to the CIC. The elevators were all down; I’d have to use the ladders and other access shafts. Even in a sim, that wouldn’t be an easy journey…

My audio pick-ups detected a sound nearby.

A child’s voice. Whispering from the crawlspace above.

“Carrie?” I asked. “Is that you?”

It was the voice I’d heard on the Artefact, when I’d first seen Elena.

Something moved in the ceiling, where the metal covering had been removed. There were airshafts and maintenance ducts up there; kilometres of empty tunnels used by the air-recyclers. Just like the storm drains. I heard someone moving above me, an encouraging whisper.

“Come on, Con,” came my sister’s voice. “You scared?”

“No, Carrie. Not any more.”

Mason was babbling over the comm, asking me who or what I was talking to, but I filtered her out.

My bio-scanner glowed with hot targets: too many to individualise. The sounds of gunfire and screaming had become defined. In the distance, my enhanced hearing detected the
boom-boom-boom
of heavy footsteps: someone or something starting a slow plod across the deck. I couldn’t tell what that was, but I didn’t like the sound of it one bit.

“I’m not taking the direct route,” I said. “These fuckers aren’t going to know what’s hit them.”

“If you say so,” Mason answered.

I gave chase.

Once I was in the tunnels, Mason’s maps didn’t help me any more. I was off the grid: only guided by Carrie’s voice. Sometimes, I saw her ahead of me. But she was always too fast to catch; always coaxing me onwards.

The tunnels were damned tight. They were barely wide enough to accommodate my sim in full armour and not made for supporting that sort of weight. But if I crawled on my belly with my rifle beneath me, they were just big enough; and although occasionally the structures creaked as I moved, they held firm.

I made fast and effective progress through the
Colossus
. No one suspected that Alliance personnel would use these tunnels. They stank of chemical residue, were sometimes scalding hot with steam-flows. I just switched to my internal oxygen supply and got on with it.

“They’re ahead!” Carrie called. “Don’t let them see me.”

“I won’t let them get you this time.”

I saw spikes of yellow light breaking the gloom: a grate set into the floor of the shaft. I shuffled into position. The grate was barely a metre wide but gave a perfect vantage point into the corridor below. The heartbeat sensor on my HUD identified four live targets.

“What are you waiting for, pussy?” Carrie said, with my mother’s laugh. She lingered further down the tunnel, still half in shadow.

The Directorate commandos were in formation, moving slowly: rifles up, covering the corridor. The graphics on my tactical-helmet painted them in perfect clarity. They were so close. Bloodlust arose within me like a hunger.

I disengaged a surveillance drone from my backpack.

REMAIN HERE, I thought-commanded.

ORDER ACKNOWLEDGED, the drone responded.

The Directorate commandos were directly beneath me now. I fought the compulsion to reveal my position.

I took a hi-ex grenade from my harness; checked the diameter. It was small enough to fit through the grate. Then I shuffled off further down the shaft, leaving the drone behind. I moved fast: conscious that I didn’t want the commandos going too far.

Once I was a few metres away from the grille, I issued more commands.

COMMENCE AUDIO ALARM, I told the drone. MAXIMUM VOLUME.

ORDER ACKNOWLEDGED, flashed on my HUD.

The drone suddenly began a loud beeping.

The Directorate Swords paused, all rifles aimed at the noisy drone.

I flipped a grenade. It bounced along the tunnel, between the spars of the grate and to the ground below.

A brief, irrelevant volley of gunfire stitched the thin metal surfaces around me. Then the grenade went off and the Directorate fell silent. I was well out of the threat radius. The explosive rattled the structure around me, releasing dust and fine particulate into the air, but the explosion was too far away to cause a collapse.

The four heartbeats on my HUD were extinguished: dead.

It went on from there. I remained quiet and used surprise whenever possible. It was easy to tag the Directorate: they were in far greater numbers than the Alliance resistance, and they were always on the offensive.

When I found the Swords, I killed them.

I used my combat-suit to mimic voices, called recorded phrases in Chino over my loudspeakers. When the commandos came to investigate, I dropped grenades from the concealed shafts, flipped overcharged power cells. Always moved on before they could find me; used smoke and flash-bang grenades as cover. Carrie’s aim was always true.

“I’d never have thought this was your style,” Mason said to me.

Her voice was a comfort in the organised chaos, but also an intrusion into the world I was suddenly sharing with Carrie.

“What do you mean?” I grunted, negotiating a bend in the corridor.

“Doing things discreetly.”

I gave a cold laugh. “Then there’s a lot you don’t know about me. I was Alliance Special Forces before I was inducted into Sim Ops.”

“I know. I read about it. But I thought that you’d left all that behind.”

“You never leave it behind. Fear is a weapon; you’ve just got to know when to use it. How many have I killed so far?”

“I’m not sure,” Mason said. “Thirty-seven?”

The sounds of battle were becoming more intense; the shaft walls and floor sometimes reverberating as a heavier weapon was discharged. People were shouting, yelling not in confusion but in a more ordered fashion. Someone was giving orders down there.

“How far to the CIC?” I asked.

“Your exact location isn’t that clear on my map, but maybe two hundred metres.”

“All right.”

“I’ve managed to reprogram some more of the spy-cams from the main approach corridor. It looks clear, if you’re quick.”

“Which way do I go?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Mason,” I said.

Ahead of me, Carrie was crouching in the tunnel: her eyes reflecting the low light like two small jewels. She grinned.

“This way, Con.”

By the time I reached the end of the tunnel, Carrie was gone.

I braced myself against the shaft wall. There was a hatch beneath me, near to a corridor junction. I raised both feet then slammed hard against it. The metal gave way with a gentle thump. I dropped from the shaft into the corridor below.

Gunfire, boots bouncing off the deck plating: both were nearby, but the activity wasn’t immediate. The distant mechanical thumping; probably a couple of decks away.
What is that noise?
There was no time to investigate. I dropped a smoke grenade and dashed for the CIC.

The bulkhead door was shut but it had taken a heavy toll. Burn marks, laser-fire and frag dimpled the outer door. That told me something. Loeb might be loyal after all. It also meant that the Directorate wanted the
Colossus
in one piece: if they had really wanted to burn the operation, they would have demo-charged the whole CIC. I reasoned that the officer cadre, or what was left of it, was probably locked down inside.

Behind me, two automated sentry guns dangled from the ceiling: no operating lights, no hint of movement. In ordinary circumstances, those would be tracking targets like crazy – defending the CIC. I registered Alliance Marines piled outside. The last line of defence, spent.

A lone security camera peered down from above the door. I looked up, let the lens focus on me.

“Callsign: Chicago.”

The doors to the CIC slowly opened, revealing the chamber beyond.

“R…response: cl…claret,” someone stammered in my direction.

My HUD flagged twelve Alliance Marines. They aimed carbines at me, laser dots from their weapon sights skating over my camo-skin.

“The area is secure,” I canted over my suit-speakers. “Get this door shut, and those guns out of my face.”

The officer in charge of the security team gave a slow nod, lowered his weapon. The others gradually did the same. The door hummed shut behind me.

I stepped over the threshold into the CIC and took in what was left of the
Colossus
’ crew. There were twenty or so officers, all hooked into their consoles. Loeb, over at the tactical display, with Flight Lieutenant James.

I blew the catches on my helmet. Made eye contact with as many personnel as I could.

“Anyone in here wants to declare Directorate affiliation, then do it now. It’ll be easier that way. I promise: if there are traitors here, I will find them. There’s nowhere to hide any more.”

No one dared move. No one came forward. I kept my finger on the firing stud of my rifle; watched for any reaction. The CIC was frozen.

I nodded. “Good. Then let’s save this fleet and as many Alliance souls as we can.”

Lieutenant James was in his simulant, dressed in his G-suit. He gave me a crooked smile. Loeb pointed an angry stare in my direction, but gave a slow nod. His dress uniform was in disarray, bald head sweated. I had never seen him look so dishevelled.

“We heard your performance over the PA,” Loeb said. “And rest assured that we want the same thing. But it could be too late.”

“It’s never too late. Who gave the dark order?”

“The Directorate have a fleet. When the initial proximity alarm went off, we mistook it for a Krell war-fleet. I issued the dark order.”

“Show me.”

Loeb swiped a hand at the tactical display. A holo of near-space appeared on the desk. The only familiar aspect was the Artefact – the ever-present focal point. The rest was completely new: the fleet was in total disorder, the cordon replaced by a ragged line of Alliance ships. Warning markers flashed over several of the holos, indicating severe structural damage. Smaller, unidentified starships flittered around the
Colossus
. Worst of all, the AI seemed to be having difficulty separating friend from foe – even as I watched, some vessels flashed red as hostiles, then flickered to green.

“We can’t even rely on our own systems any more,” Loeb said. “This will give you an idea of the scale of the problem.”

He called up some real-time vid-feeds from external cameras across the Alliance battlegroup.

“Jesus…” I whispered.

The Asiatic Directorate built their ships well. The Directorate had been in space for as long as the Alliance. The People’s Republic of China, as it was once known, had been one of the first Old Earth nations to enter the Space Race. They had been constructing ships, specifically warships, for a long time: honing the science, perfecting the art.

I took in every detail. The nearest Directorate starship was within a klick of the
Colossus
, moored alongside her. A name was printed on the flank – the tac-display gave a translation as
Shanghai Remembered
. She was much smaller than the
Colossus
, and in a stand-up fight would probably be outgunned and under-armoured. But this was no stand-up fight. From the jagged black-plated flanks, to the sharp-nosed bridge module – she exuded the menacing aura of an assassin. Small lights blinked along her belly as she disgorged another flight of Interceptors. Weapons pods mounted on her spine were trained on the
Colossus
. I couldn’t identify what firepower she was packing, but I guessed railguns of some description.
Shanghai
was the pinnacle of ship-building art; a primary example of the Second Space Race and the dark rewards it had yielded.

“She’s a destroyer-class starship,” Loeb muttered. “A fast-response ship. Manoeuvrable and light as they come given her pattern. There are sixteen of them out there.”

Directorate battleships mingled with the Alliance fleet – several destroyer-class vessels, but also a handful of other Directorate ships. They shared that common heritage: angry-looking, almost insectile in design, low-albedo.

“They’re using advanced systems jamming software,” Loeb said.

“Can we counter it?” I said.

“We’re trying, but our entire system has been compromised; even the back-up redundancies. There are a number of sleeper viral and malware programs infesting the AI – probably inserted into our command suite by Directorate agents. The rest of the fleet is in just as bad a condition.”

“Can you cancel the dark order?” I asked.

“I’ve been locked out of command access.”

“I’d say that they planned it that way,” said James. “Catching us when our guard was down.”

“I know who’s responsible,” I said.

“I assume Saul,” Loeb said. “But how could he have orchestrated this from the brig?”

I shook my head. “We were wrong when we identified Professor Saul as the traitor.”

I mentally crumpled at the thought of almost executing the Professor; stayed only by Jenkins’ hand.

“Then who is responsible?” Loeb said. “They must’ve had someone on the inside to pull this off—”

“Williams is the defector,” I said. “Mason killed him. Well, kind of.”

“That sly bastard…” Loeb gave an exasperated sigh, looked down at the floor. “What do you mean ‘kind of’?”

“He tried to kill me in the infirmary, but Mason shot him. We ran some tests on his blood: he was using a next-gen simulant.” I let that sink in, then added: “Mason can send the results to the CIC, if you want proof. She’s manning Medical.”

“But the Warfighters only have access to combat sims,” James said. “How could he…?”

“I don’t know. And right now, all that matters is that he isn’t to be trusted. I reckon that he has been using next-gen sims to get around the ship. The Warfighters’ tanks are gone from the SOC. They could be anywhere.”

“I’ll issue a detain-on-sight order,” Loeb said.

“I’d make that shoot on sight,” I corrected. “For him, and the rest of the Warfighters.”

Lincoln padded around the edge of the tactical display, snarling in my direction. An officer held him back, pulling at his collar. I shot the dog a glare and made a sudden movement with my head. Lincoln immediately leapt back, cowering from me.

“Looks like your method of sim detection just got a whole lot more complex,” I said. “Lincoln won’t do any more. Why aren’t the Alliance space force taking on the Directorate ships?”

James shook his head. “Because most of my flight crew are pinned down in the mess hall. They can’t get to the docking bay, so they can’t fly. And there’s another problem…”

“Tell me everything,” I said.

Even more colour seemed to drain from Loeb’s face. “Twenty-three minutes ago a Krell Collective made real-space in the Damascus moon-fields.”

This was getting worse by the minute. The tac-display expanded to show the entire Damascus Rift region; that shattered graveyard where the Krell had previously appeared. The shoal of xeno-ships was hunting through the assorted debris again. The sensor-reads were poor – sporadically descending into gibberish – but the message was clear enough.

The Krell were back.

“The same Collective as yesterday?”

“That’s what the bio-signatures suggest,” Loeb said, sullenly. “It seems like more than just a coincidence. The Directorate attack came within minutes of our detection of the Krell incursion.”

“God doesn’t do coincidences…” I whispered.

“They haven’t detected us yet but it’s only a matter of time. I don’t know what stealth systems the Directorate ships have, but it looks like they are running hot.”

It made a perverse sense. The Directorate had been organising this raid for a long time: it had probably taken months of planning. Their starships were faster than ours but even with a top-end Q-drive the journey from Directorate space to the Damascus Rift would’ve taken months of real-time. I rapidly made the calculations in my head and decided that the enemy fleet had likely embarked shortly after we’d left
Liberty Point
. I wanted to probe the implications of that – had the Directorate known about the mission? – but I reined my thought-stream back.

“The Directorate ships were probably waiting in Damascus Space,” I said. “Perhaps they were invisible to our sensors, but not those of the Krell war-fleet. Maybe the Krell were drawn here as a result.”

I considered the situation. Our guard was down: the Directorate were aboard the
Colossus
, and we couldn’t fight back.

“We need to take the
Colossus
back,” I said. “What about the Lazarus Legion? Where are they?”

Loeb punched more keys on the terminal. The holo shifted to show the mess hall, a direct vid-feed from security cameras. The place had seen better days. There were upturned tables across the hall; makeshift barricades which Alliance military personnel were using as cover. There, behind one of the tables, were two familiar figures: Jenkins and Martinez. Both in their real skins, dressed in shipboard fatigues. Looked like they had a shotgun between them, maybe a flare gun: no proper hardware. Other figures moved behind them, laying down a veil of covering fire.

I could see that Jenkins had been hit. She was bleeding from somewhere; a black stain over her stomach.

“I have to save them,” I said. “I have to get them out of there.”

“It’s gone too far for that,” Loeb said. “I have a duty to the Navy, to the Alliance. I can’t risk classified intelligence getting into enemy hands.”

“Then what are you proposing?”

Loeb sighed. “I have to blow the
Colossus
’ energy core and destroy our data-stacks. I should have given the order already, but we’re locked out of some of the subroutines. Lieutenant Udin thinks he can countermand those.”

Self-destruction. The ultimate sanction: a weapon to deny the enemy not just the starship, but also the intelligence engines that it carried.

That was an option of last resort. I wasn’t going to allow that, not on my watch.

“There has to be an alternative,” I said.

“I can’t see one.”

There was still anger in him; still the coals of hate, but he was tired – almost a spent force.
Aren’t we all?

“We need to create a distraction,” I said. The pieces were falling into place: slowly but surely. “A really fucking big distraction.”

“That would take the heat off the Alliance fleet,” James said. “Surely you can’t be suggesting…?”

“The Krell,” I said. “We call the Krell here.”

Admiral Loeb let out a pained laugh.

He faltered, and went chokingly quiet, when he realised that no one else in the CIC had joined him.

“Are you out of your mind?” he said. “We’ve got more than enough to deal with from the Directorate. And you want to bring another threat to our doorstep?”

I met Loeb’s gaze. A tension arose around me, between us, and the CIC settled into another anxious silence.

“The Krell are already here. It’s only a matter of time before they find us. I want to give the Directorate a distraction they can’t ignore. And I can’t think of a bigger threat than a Krell war-fleet.”

It was a simple matter of logistics: a callous numbers’ game.

Loeb pointed to the Krell fleet, still nosing through the moonlets. “If we alert them to our presence, they’ll destroy us all! They won’t care whether we’re Alliance or Directorate! It’ll be a death-sentence!”

James interjected: “I don’t want to do this either, but right now the Krell are the biggest Christo-damned guns we have at our disposal.”

Loeb searched the faces of his nearest officers – for allies among his staff.

He found none.

“How exactly do you propose to execute this plan?” he asked.

“I want to take the Key into the Artefact. I’ll take it to the Hub. I’ll activate the Artefact and it will start broadcasting. It’ll draw the Krell here.”

I left out that I also intended to save Elena; that my plan gave me another excuse to get aboard the Artefact and rescue her too. It was a selfish goal, but I couldn’t leave here without getting her out of that accursed place.

“That isn’t a plan,” Loeb went on. “You don’t know how long it will take the Artefact to start broadcasting – how long the Krell will take to respond! There are too many variables, and in the meantime the fleet are caught in the middle.”

“There’s more,” I said. “Saul told me what the Artefact really is.”

“And no one thought to share that intel with me?” Loeb said.

I left that question unanswered. Every passing second was wasted time, while my team were pinned down in the mess hall. While Elena was still aboard the Artefact.

“Saul told me that the Artefact is a gateway – a portal. I don’t know how it works, or even if it will work. But if he’s right, then we can use it to jump Damascus Space. Is the lab still secure?”

Loeb called up some security schematics, a handful of poor-quality vid-captures. He zoomed in on the spy-eye in the laboratory. The area was swarming with Directorate commandos. Terminals had been set alight, machines overturned. There, in the centre of the lab, still encased in the glass prison, sat the Key. It sparked, flickered: as though it was responding to the horrors elsewhere on the ship. Even the Directorate knew that it was too precious to be handled except by specialised staff. Those would come later, once the
Colossus
had been pacified.

“If you do this,” Loeb said, begrudgingly, “then what do you want us to do?”

“I want you to fight back. Get comms up and running – work on cancelling the dark order. I’m going to the mess hall to get my squad and the flight crews. Two more simulants will turn the tide of the war on this ship, and the Legion can escort the flyboys to the launch deck. We’ll get the Hornets spaceborne.”