Dead Space: Martyr (11 page)

He hadn’t heard from Hammond since the night in the bar, which concerned him a little but not too much. The security technician was probably lying low, being careful. When he wanted to get in touch, he would. In the meantime, it was up to Altman to find out what was going on.

He logged his results into the encrypted database and then looked to see if they correlated with work done by the others—the others in this case being the three other scientists who had, like Altman, been intrigued by the gravity anomaly and the pulse and wanted to pursue it: Showalter, Ramirez, and Skud.

Showalter, who had more powerful equipment than Altman’s simple sensor, had gotten the same readings. At 6:38 a.m., there had been an extraordinarily strong pulse, followed by a shift in the signal patterning. The signal was now perpetually amplified. There were still high and low points, but the basic profile of the signal was stronger, and had remained so ever since.

Ramirez had noted something else, something that he had picked up off the satellite images while trying to get a sense of whether there had been a change in the condition of the crater itself. A freighter, anchored about fifteen miles southeast of the crater’s center.

“At first I didn’t pay much attention to it,” said Ramirez in the vidfile he’d attached. “But then, I go back a day and it’s still there. I go forward a day and it’s there, too. If it’s really a freighter, what would it be doing sitting in the same place?

“So, yesterday morning, I hired a local man who called himself Captain Jesús to use his old motorboat to run me out for a closer look. I took a fishing pole with me. Once we were about two hundred meters from the freighter, I had Captain Jesús stop and cast my line into the water.

“The captain told me I wasn’t going to catch anything. When I asked why not, he gave me a long hard look and pointed out to me that I hadn’t bothered to put any bait on the end of my line.

“I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. Captain Jesús made a point of looking at the freighter and then looking back at me, then told me that it didn’t seem like it was fish I wanted to catch and that the kind of fishing I wanted would cost me extra.

“In the end, I had to promise to pay the good captain double his normal rate to stay there so that we could get a good look at the freighter. It didn’t have any markings. Other than that, it
seemed an ordinary enough freighter, except for the fact that it had a brand-new heavy-duty submarine lift attached to its deck.

“That was all I had time to ascertain,” Ramirez said. “We’d been there all of five minutes, two of which I spent bartering with Captain Jesús, when a launch appeared from the other side of the ship and pulled up alongside us, manned by four muscle-bound boys with military haircuts, but without the requisite military garb.

“ ‘Move along,’ one of them said.

“ ‘I’m fishing,’ I claimed.

“ ‘Fish somewhere else,’ he said. I was going to argue, but Captain Jesús threw the boat in gear and took us out. When I asked him why, later, all he would say was ‘These are not good men.’

“Which left me with three questions,” said Ramirez, concluding his vid-log. “First, what use would a freighter, if it really is a freighter, have for a submarine? Second, what makes them want to keep other boats at a distance? Third, what the hell is really going on?”

What indeed?
wondered Altman.

The last report, from Skud, a laconic Swede, didn’t arrive for another hour. It was a document instead of a vid-log.

So sorry,
his report read.
Had to double check.
What followed was a series of charts with captions in Swedish, none of which Altman knew how to read. After them, Skud had written:
Insufficient data for certainty.

For certainty of what?
wondered Altman. He tried to scroll down, but the report ended there.

He checked the network and found that Skud was still logged in to the system.
Skud,
he typed,
please clarify the conclusion of your report.

By insufficient data I mean there is not enough data,
he wrote.
Without enough data, we cannot be certain.

Altman sighed. Skud was a good scientist, but a little lacking in communication skills.

What is your data concerning?
he asked.

Seismographic data,
wrote Skud.

And what were you trying to prove?
Altman wrote.

That the seismic disturbance was something generated by a machine rather by ordinary seismological activity.

What kind of machine?

As I said in my note,
wrote Skud, and then there was a long moment where the screen remained blank.
Very sorry,
he finally wrote,
I see now I left it off my note. A drill. I do not have enough data to prove it, and maybe it is only ordinary seismic activity. But I think maybe somebody has been drilling, and maybe in the center of the crater.

Altman immediately disconnected from the system and went outside to call Skud. The man seemed startled, a little confused, but after a while, he started to fill in the details in a way that Altman understood. Skud was drawing his readings from multiple seismographs, some on land, some underwater, several very close to the center of the crater itself. Only those near the center had noticed anything. The reading, Skud said, was something that would normally be dismissed as insignificant, very minor seismic activity. But it was also possible, he claimed, that it could be from a heavy, industrial-scale drill. It was very regular, he said, which would not be typical of a seismic event.

“But you’re not sure if it’s in the center of the crater.”

“No,” said Skud. “Exactly, that is the problem.”

“Where else would it be if not the center?”

“It might be as far as fifty meters from the center,” said Skud. “I have done calculations but I am afraid they are inconclusive.”

“But that might as well be the center!” said Altman, frustrated.

“No, you see,” said Skud patiently. “As I said, it might be as far as fifty meters from the center. That is not the center.”

Altman started to argue, then stopped, thanked him, and disconnected. He stayed there, looking out at the ocean awhile and then glanced inside to the window. Field was still keeping to his side of the room, talking on the telephone now, seeming no more and no less animated than earlier. Altman turned back to the ocean again.

Slowly things were beginning to take shape in his mind. He wished that Hammond would get back in touch, since he’d been aware of it before anyone else. He might have a perspective that Altman and the others didn’t have yet. In the meantime, it was up to them.

There was nothing to say for certain that the pulse, the freighter, and the seismic readings were all connected. But then again, there was nothing to suggest that they weren’t. And all three had something in common: the center of the crater. Something was going on down there. Maybe something had been discovered, maybe it was some sort of weapons test, maybe it was some incredibly uncommon but natural phenomenon. But something was happening, something weird, something that someone didn’t want the public to know about.

He swore he would find out what it was. Even if it killed him.

24

“I’ve got it now,” said Tanner, his eyes red-rimmed, his face noticeably pale. He’d reached the limits of the anti-sleep medication. He had only an hour at most before either he collapsed or it started doing serious internal damage.

“Let’s see it,” said the Colonel.

“I should warn you—” Tanner began.

“—I don’t need any warnings,” the Colonel interrupted. “Just play it.”

Tanner sent the file through the screen and opened it. It started to play.

Tanner closed his eyes, but once the sound started, the dim hiss of static, the images flooded into his mind anyway, made worse by his imagination and his lack of sleep. He opened his eyes and looked.

There wasn’t much. The image had been broadcast through layers of rock and it was, in a sense, surprising that anything had gotten through at all. Tanner wished that it hadn’t.

At first there was only the sound of static, the image itself nothing but snow. Then, little bits and pieces started to emerge. In terms of the images, it was as if the snow was taking on texture, a vaguely human face forming and then dissolving again, what
looked like a hand, what could have been a fist around a pipe or then again been nothing at all. The sound went from a staticky hiss to a whisper to something that sounded like a man was speaking through a mouthful of bees. Something that sounded like a scream, bloodcurdling. A dull rhythm that might have been someone talking. Someone singing, a wandering, meandering nursery rhyme.

And then, suddenly, a brief moment of clarity, a man’s face, weirdly backlit and terrified, his skin covered with something, quickly bursting into fuzz again.

“Freeze that,” said the Colonel.

Tanner stopped the vid and spun it backward. The man’s eyes had an emptiness to them. His features were strangely distorted, as if he were screaming. His face was covered with strange markings, symbols of some kind, which extended down his neck and chest and arms.

“Hennessy? What’s he done to himself?” asked the Colonel. “What did he use to write?”

“Blood, we think,” said Tanner. “You can see it dripping off his hand to the left there, and there seems to be a cut on his arm. Maybe it’s his own blood, maybe Dantec’s. If you look behind him, you’ll see traces of the symbols on the walls as well, which, we assume, is also blood.”

The Colonel furrowed his brow. “What do the symbols mean?”

“We don’t know,” said Tanner. “Nobody has ever seen anything quite like them.” When the Colonel didn’t say anything, Tanner asked, “Shall we go on?”

The Colonel waved his hand. “All right,” he said, “go on.”

More hissing, more static, more vague and distorted images. At one point, a brief glimpse of an arm that had been torn free of its socket, its lifeless hand curled up like a dead spider. A bit of the command chair, spattered with blood. And then Hennessy
was back, humming to himself, swaying slightly, covered with bloody symbols.

“Hello,” he said, then dissolved again. He flickered in and out of existence, along with bits of words, nothing that could be sorted out, and then, something that sounded like
shame
or maybe was part of another word. And then “—something—eed to know.”

Onscreen, Hennessy clutched his head and then was replaced by static, in color this time. When he reappeared, he was giving the camera a strangely ecstatic smile.

“—track,” he said.

There was a long silence.

“—simply not en—” he said. Then, a little later, “—not care—will have le—usk.”

Hard to make much sense of it,
thought Tanner.
But whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Then Hennessy was back again, with that same intense smile. He had moved closer to the camera, almost filling up the screen.

“—virgins,” he said, and gestured offscreen. Then he was still there, still talking, but little more than a ghost in the static, the sound completely lost until, near the end he came back, the image almost clear now. “—understand the—” he said, then a microburst of static. Then “—destroy it.”

Hennessy moved out of the way, revealing, in the command chair behind him, the bits and pieces of Dantec’s body. And then the vid ended.

“How many people have seen this?” asked the Colonel.

“This particular version? Three or four technicians. But it was generally broadcast, so a lot of people may have seen different bits of it. No way to say who has seen what.”

“So, no point killing the technicians, then?” asked the Colonel.

“Excuse me?” said Tanner.

“This is big, Tanner,” said the Colonel. “Much bigger than you can even imagine. It’s much more important than a life or two. There are billions of people on the earth. People are expendable. But this thing, whatever it is, this is the only one we’ve ever seen.”

“Are you saying I’m expendable?” said Tanner slowly.

The Colonel gave him a shrewd look. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “At this point, you’re less expendable than nearly anyone else. But yes, if the circumstances develop in the wrong way, you’re expendable. Does that bother you?”

“Yes,” said Tanner.

“Then don’t let the circumstances develop in the wrong way,” the Colonel said. He looked at his chronometer. “I’ll give you until morning. Find out how widely the vid is spreading and how much of it people have seen. Get some people on the ground who can ask the right questions without raising suspicions. Once we know where we stand, we’ll figure out what to do.”

25

The call came around 1 a.m. Altman lay in bed, watching his phone buzz on the table beside the bed, like a trapped insect. It buzzed and buzzed and then stopped. He checked it—no number listed and the hologram image was blocked. Almost immediately it started buzzing again.

It could be Hammond,
he thought,
I should answer it. Or Showalter, Ramirez, or Skud.
But he just watched it buzz until it stopped.

The third time, it woke up Ada. She yawned and stretched, her body arching. “What time is it?” she asked drowsily, and then she sat up in bed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Michael, aren’t you going to answer that?”

He watched his hand reach out and flip his phone open, bringing it up to his ear.

“Hello,” he said. Even to him his voice sounded dry and crackly, as if he hadn’t spoken for years.

“Is this,” said the voice, and then paused. “Michael Altman?”

“Who is this?” asked Altman.

The man on the other end of the line ignored the question. “I have a simple question I need you to answer,” he said. “I’m curious
if you’ve managed to pick up anything unusual lately. Intercepted something.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“I can see that you haven’t,” said the voice quickly. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”