The Lazarus Particle (16 page)

“See to the assembling of the landing party,” she said, finally stirring from her languid, post-coital sprawl. “Make certain we do not lack for superior firepower. I believe I have had just about enough of Gatz and his preening snarrshit.”

“Yes,” he said, apparently surprised by the order. “Yes. At once, Tj.” He nodded smartly for emphasis and turned to take his leave. She noted with interest that her usual contempt for him had ebbed significantly. She made two decisions in very quick succession. One was predicated upon the purest and coldest of calculations, the other entirely upon her very efficient and uniquely intuitive gut.

“Jskaarl?”

Tj Yeleyhi had assumed a most erotic pose in the precious few moments his back was turned to her. The effect was visible as he caught sight of his mistress, every movement of his face betraying his crippling lust for her. The subtle shifting of his mandibles. The slight flaring of his nasal slits. The dilating of yellow pupils against black irises. She was certain if she were to look closely enough at his second skin she would detect the dimpling of his glans reemerging from within its protective sac. She elected not to avail herself of the opportunity.

“Yes, my Tj?” The words were spoken all of a hush, with almost worshipful reverence.

“You must understand this is a defining moment for me. For
us
.” She allowed a pregnant pause to underscore her use of the plural. “All I have done and all I may yet hope to achieve hinges upon the outcome of this exchange—”

“I understand completely, Tj Yeleyhi.”

“Do not interrupt. And no, you do not. You could not.” She rose liquidly off the nesting mound. Every subtle movement of her serpentine physique was part of a hypnotizing display designed to distract from the misting of fresh pheromones she excreted into the air. “You shall be my second in this, Jskaarl. I shall accompany the landing party in a ceremonial fashion, of course, but for all intents and purposes, it shall be you who directs the exchange.” She allowed a moment for the implication to sufficiently penetrate his thick skull.

Jskaarl’s eyes flared like sunspots catapulted into space. “Kerikeshaala, I… I do not know what to say…”

The result was just as she had expected. “The humans have a saying, you know. ‘Actions speak louder than words.’” With a practiced gesture she placed her hand just above his pelvis and ran it downward, between his legs, easily finding the hardened, nub-like protrusion of his glans. She traced it briefly with her finger, then for a single long second pressed her thumb over it, applying what she knew from previous encounters with the males of her species to be of the most achingly sublime pleasure. As if to confirm what she already knew, a ragged, barely audible moan escaped his mouth when she abruptly withdrew her thumb. “Act accordingly and you shall be rewarded beyond any measure you could possibly imagine.”

“I shall endeavor to do you proud, my Tj. On my own life, if required.”

Yes,
she thought, flattering him with another emboldening press of her thumb.
Yes, it will most likely come to that
.

18 • AFTERMATH

With news of the successful coup came a celebratory atmosphere. As predicted, the worst casualties were in the taking of the command staff. With Soroya and her people neutralized and news of the deadly ambush spreading quickly, the majority of Free Planetary Irregulars had laid down their weapons and surrendered when confronted. A determined few offered resistance. Token though it was, they were quickly and mercilessly put down. All told, the coup claimed the lives of twelve Irregulars but not a single Oviddian. There were other casualties on both sides, of course, though few rising above the level of cuts and bruises or the occasional light burn.

Less than two hours after it began, Gatz and Poe ordered a simple message transmitted in the clear:
We have control of the station. Forward forces will remain on alert while mopping up. All others stand down.

A wave of relief swept through the anxious Oviddians as this announcement filtered down through the ranks. Bottles of contraband booze materialized seemingly out of thin air (always, it was said, after having been confiscated from the defeated Irregulars). Toasts to their bravery and brothers- and sisters-in-arms were offered amid rowdy, spontaneous sing-alongs praising everything from their homeworld to the core of their convictions—even their newfound allies! With morale at an all-time high and inhibitions at an all-time low, couples and even the occasional small group of three or more were already starting to sneak off and engage in still more licentious forms of celebration.

In the midst of all this orgiastic jubilance and ego-feeding, Alexia was alone in her manifest sorrow. By the time she clomped her way into the galley, it was clear she was not of the same raucous spirit. Without so much as acknowledging the several dozen people who stood in spontaneous ovation to her, she picked her way through the crowd as if no one else was present. Along the way she claimed a bottle and a corner table for herself. Kicking up her feet, she turned her back toward the door and everyone else between her and it. Eventually the display became so awkward for the would-be revelers that they abandoned her to that lonely vigil.
 

After several minutes of relative peace, she discerned the cloddish dragging of feet behind her. If the greasy stench preceding him wasn’t enough, the familiar chuffing sound of his mouth-breathing confirmed it was Vron Dumphy come to test her patience. Appearing within her line of sight, he turned and scooted atop the round table so that there could be no ignoring him. He was obviously drunk, reeking of some horrible bathtub gin, and had that look about him. She’d seen it before, working on the birds together down in the bay, despite the fact she was utterly formless in her grimy jumpsuit. She would catch him leering and he’d look away, suddenly extremely intent on anything near at hand other than her. She’d seen it a few other times, too, after the rare faultless flight, when all the deck rats would pass the hooch around. The difference was that those times, as now, he wasn’t so quick to look away.

“Some are sayin’ in nine months we’re gonna be hip-deep in a baby boom,” he observed in what was no doubt meant to be a completely casual opening gambit. “Sayin’ in times like these it ain’t uncommon for people’s passions to just up and boil over.”

“Fascinating.” Her voice was flat and toneless as she stared forward.

“Speaking of hip-deep…” He lifted the bottle she was cradling in her lap out of her hands, took an emboldening sip. “You find someone to celebrate with yet, Lexi? ‘Cause I still got room on my dance card.”

She fixed him with a murderous glare as he sipped from her bottle. “Now isn’t that a fucking surprise.”

Lowering the bottle, he swiped the back of his wrist across his mouth. “You know, you don’t always have to be such a—”

“Vron, let me be as clear as possible: the thought of your defective, gin-soaked seed anywhere near my womb is so revolting as to make me physically ill. I would sooner flush myself out of the nearest airlock than feel your fat ass flopping around on top of me. Now leave the bottle and see yourself the fuck away from my area of operations
.
”

Vron leaned forward, sneering. All his lecherous confidence was courtesy of the generous quantities of drink coursing through him. “You come off as such a tough, stone-cold bitch. But you didn’t even buck when I took this bottle. I bet if I really wanted I could take—”

There was a soft
snick
as Alexia’s hand landed flush against the inside of Vron’s splayed right thigh. He started to smile until she flicked her wrist, pressing the blade of a small slipknife against the crease of his jumpsuit where thigh met groin. “Want to know what I could take? I could take your life right now, Vron. Just one flick of my wrist and there goes your femoral artery. You bleed out in two minutes and I never have to see you undressing me with your stupid moon-face again. What do you think? Should I do it, Vron? What’s one more death today? Huh? Answer me! What’s one more piece of shit like you when good men and women laid down their lives today for a cause they believed in?” She gritted her teeth, seething as she pressed the blade in so close it split fabric and made him wince for its presence against bare skin. “That
we
believed in, once upon a time?!”

Vron gaped at her as if she’d completely lost her mind. Probably she had.

Finally she pulled the slipknife away. “Get the hell out of here, you worthless sack of shit.”

His face twisting into an emasculated scowl, Vron shuffled off muttering something to the effect that he’d always known Alexia was a crazy fucking dyke anyway.

Alone again, Alexia traded the slipknife for the bottle. She made a point of wiping down the mouth with the sleeve of her jumpsuit, far preferring the familiar tang of grease and oil to anything left over from Vron’s mouth. Drawing deeply from the bottle after she felt reasonably sure it was deloused, she reflected on the grisly events of the last twenty-four hours.

People would think she’d leant her name to this coup because of her brother, she knew. In fact, the truth was anything but. The truth was that in those two days in immersion she’d had an epiphany.

She had come to forgive Vichante Harm for the death of her brother.

At first, of course, she thought it was just the loss of sensation getting to her. The feeling of formlessness, of non-being, like a bizarre and punitive sentient death. She screamed without hearing her voice, thrashed at the boundaries of her cell without injury, tried to taste and smell of the air only to find it devoid of even a hint of flavor…

It was maddening. Yet just when she was about to give up and let the madness take her, there was Dell. Not so much in person, not so much a ghost. Just that familiar voice in her head, so warm and easy and sadly melancholy.

Hey Lexi.

Dell? Is… is that you?

Who else would it be?

Where are you? Are you here?

Sure I’m here. I’m wherever you are now.

Does that mean…

Yeah. But Lexi.

Yeah, Dell?

I chose my own path. You know that. And you did everything you could to protect me.

Dell…

I know this was never really your fight. I know you were only here to look after me. You did the best you could; I just got unlucky early. It happens to the best of us.

I miss you so much, Dell. I don’t know what to do without you.

I miss you, too, Lexi, but I don’t believe that. You’re still there. You can still help make things right.

How?

Believe in Commandant Soroya and Commander Harm.

Why? They got you killed.

Something is coming, Lexi. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but something is coming. It’s going to change everything. Until then, you need to believe in them. Okay? You have to trust me.

I do trust you, Dell, but why? Please, Dell, you have to tell me—

Alexia felt her feet hit the floor and was already whirling into a fighting stance, holding one arm out before her defensively, the other reaching for the slipknife—

But there was no one there. The entire galley and stretch of corridor beyond were bathed in muted twilight. Had everyone gotten so hammered that second and third shifts weren’t even bothering to report for duty?

More to the point, had she just remembered that strange, ghostly exchange? Or was it a fresh construct of her grief-stricken mind?

She’d been dozing, she realized. She rubbed at her face. Closing the slipknife, she was in the process of collecting herself when something suddenly occurred to her. If everyone was so torn down from celebrating, then maybe, just maybe…

Poking her head out into the corridor, she saw people sitting and splayed wherever their last drunken steps had deposited them. She picked her way quickly but carefully through the sleeping minefield of bodies. As she went, Alexia stripped the weapons from anyone who had been careless enough to remain armed up to the point they collapsed under the weight of their own inebriation. Soon she had a nice little arsenal clacking softly against the small of her back as she darted here and there, nimbly avoiding the telltale sounds of the few Oviddian forward forces still actively patrolling the station.

Alexia reached the brig without incident. Even the immersion chambers were unguarded. She guessed that was due to a lack of able-bodied personnel. That, and the prisoners were hardly a threat. And with all their sympathizers killed or in custody, why bother posting a guard?

Well. All their sympathizers but one
, Alexia thought as she edged toward the chambers. She searched the keypad for any hint it had been adjusted or tampered with, but of course there were no outward signs. This was the biggest gamble yet; if she set off an alarm, would she have enough time to make herself scarce? Maybe. But then maybe not. She would just have to chance it and hope like hell everyone was still too seduced by Gatz and Poe’s regime change to worry over minor points of overlap.

She punched in the code she remembered from her brief rotation on guard duty many months earlier. Waited for the three quick beeps and the flash from red to green. Waited for the familiar
snick-snack
of the heavy magnetic locks unlatching (so loud on this side of the door!). Waited. Waited…

Success!

Carefully she prized open the heavy door, willing it not to squeak on its massive hinges. But no, it never had and never would. The immersion chambers were maintained to the highest, most exacting standard. One simply never knew when discipline might break down and they would be needed most; best to be certain they were ready for use at a moment’s notice.

Vichante had her on her back before she even knew what hit her. She grunted hard, trying to roll away even as she landed awkwardly atop all her pilfered firepower. Probably she should have figured that as seasoned vets he and his staff would not yet have succumbed to the more deeply unhinging effects of the immersion chambers. Already he had her pinned beneath his considerable weight, one hand closing tightly around her throat while the other blindly fished about for her flailing limbs. Her vision was already starting to squeeze in at the corners, her focus diminishing rapidly. Rather than fight back, she made a point of tapping his shoulder three quick times. Tapping out. Then again. Then again and again until she was pounding on his shoulder with her little fist and he seemed—finally, just before she was about to black out—to take the hint.