Virus (20 page)

He’d been so sure that the Russian had been lying, and who could blame him? An alien from the MIR, an entire crew throwing themselves at the mercy of a typhoon—anyone with half a brain in their head would call it bullshit. The creature that Baker and the other two had brought up to the bridge was amazing, true, but a team of scientists could have created something like that, what with medical technology being what it was these days; a Russian prisoner, experimented on by doctors as some kind of weapon, perhaps . . .

Seeing Squeaky had changed everything. There simply hadn’t been enough time to—to
alter
a man like that, no matter how sophisticated the process. It had killed Woods, the only crewman worth anything to him, and yes, he’d been afraid—but he was willing to admit that, and would have admitted that he’d been wrong, too, had anyone bothered to ask. It was nothing to be ashamed of, people make errors in judgment—but had they troubled themselves to see
his
side of things? Had they remembered that there was a lot to be considered, decisions to be weighed carefully before running off half-cocked? No. No, of course not.

And what do I get for trying to protect my interests, to look after
our
futures? I get decked by an uppity bitch who thinks she knows better than me—and deserted by the rest of them, my loyal “crew” . . .

He supposed that he shouldn’t have expected any better; times had changed, all sense of duty or honor lost to people like Baker and Foster. When Everton had first started out, he wouldn’t have
dared
to treat his captain so disgracefully, nor would his shipmates; disregarding an order would have earned any one of them a serious beating, and rightfully so. Discipline was a thing of the past, it seemed. The worst mistake he’d made had been to trust his own crew to do their jobs and follow orders—and he sincerely hoped that they all would live long enough to regret their betrayal.

He sighed, looking around the empty room aimlessly. It was pointless to curse them or his own rotten luck; the question now was how would
he
survive? The others didn’t stand a chance, which meant it was up to him to figure out a way to destroy the creature . . . except he had a single .455 and a mere handful of rounds—two speed loaders, ten bullets. The aberration that had been Squeaky had taken ten times that and was probably still running around . . .

I don’t stand much of a chance, either. If only there were a way to talk to the creature, make it see—

Everton’s gaze settled on the computers that the others had used to contact it. The alien had turned them off when it was finished talking to Richie and Foster—but it hadn’t talked to
him
yet, had it?

He walked to the silent machines, frowning thoughtfully. Assuming he could get through to it, what would he say? What
could
he say to get himself out of this with his skin intact?

That’s the wrong question—what I should be asking myself is what does the
it
want that I can provide, what would make
me
valuable to the creature?

“You want to talk to me?”

Everton smiled suddenly, sat down in front of the keyboard, and looked up at the surveillance camera, waiting. A second later, the screen blinked to soft green life.

He kept his message brief and to the point, pecking at the keys slowly with his index fingers. The computer searched as he wrote.

Everton is the dominant life-form.

I am Everton.

I will help you bring this ship to port. New Zealand, Australia, anywhere you want.

He waited, wiped nervously at his upper lip with the back of one hand. It wasn’t like he owed
them
anything, was it? If Foster or Baker or any one of them had been smarter, they’d have thought of it first; instead, they’d decided every man for himself,
they’d
set up the rules here. And it wasn’t like there was any other choice . . .

. . . and they’ll be sorry when they realize what a monumental error they’ve made, treating me this way—

Letters flashed across the screen. Everton frowned, squinting at the message.

E DECK, WORKROOM 14.

There was a clicking noise behind him. He spun around, heart pounding—and realized that it was the magnetic lock of the security hatch. The creature had unsealed it for him.

Everton stared at the door for a long moment, thinking about what this meant, what it
could
mean. Finally, he started to grin.

If he worked this right, he could end up a very wealthy man.

Richie sat on the floor of the dark missile room, carefully unscrewing the nose cap of the Russian grumble, his AK-47 close at hand. Technically the missile was a SAM-6, or at least he was pretty sure; it had been a while since he’d had to know specs and titles. All these things had their own little names, grunt, grumble. Range of around eighty klicks, this one, basic SAM with a flight speed somewhere about Mach three. Of course, it didn’t matter what it was called; the fuse, the triggering mechanism beneath the cap, was still gonna be the ticket to insuring the success of his operation.

The closest he’d ever come to combat had been back in 1975, straight out of AIT when the Seventh had been running refugee evacs from Cambodia and South Vietnam—and he hadn’t seen a single attack. But he felt like he understood the combat experience now in a way that he’d only heard about before. It was like he’d been asleep his entire life and suddenly woke up; his senses had sharpened, his thinking brain had been overthrown by an animal instinct that sought only to keep him alive. It was exhilarating, and he’d felt his fears and anxieties falling away with each step he’d taken away from the sheep back in the communications room. Their tensions had been jamming his frequencies and he hadn’t even realized it until he’d gotten away from them.

He didn’t really
know
any of those people, but he knew enough not to trust them with his survival. Hiko was a follower, no capacity for individual initiative; Everton had lost his fuckin’ mind, had shot at the radio a foot in front of his face with no thought for Richie’s life. Baker might’ve been okay, but Foster and the Russian had him thinkin’ like a civilian . . .

Can’t think like that, gonna get yourself offed in this place. Probably dead already listenin’ to those women, worrying about pullin’ plugs.

“I know what’s goin’ on,” he mumbled, comforted by the sound of his sure voice in the still room. He sounded confident; he sounded like a man with a plan.

“They ain’t gettin’ me, my brain’s not becoming a hard drive for some biomechanoid alien fuck—”

There was something behind him, somewhere in the room.

Richie froze. He didn’t breathe, didn’t twitch—even his heart held still as he listened to the darkness, feeling for the sound, the disruption of space—

A scratching on the floor.

Richie whipped around, the rifle up and firing before it could move. The bullets struck metal, sent something skittering backwards with a shrill steel screech. There was a drift of burnt circuitry—then silence.

He picked up the flashlight and looked. A ’droid, like the ones in that workshop. This one was crablike, a low, flat body with multiple legs. A long, thin cord trailed off through the battered hatch that Woods had found earlier, but he’d blown enough holes in it to kill it. There was a tangle of wire extending from the robot’s shattered belly, embedded with small, triangular metal pieces.

He reached over and yanked one of the components from the wire, holding it up in the beam of light.

“I could use this, this is a good part,” he said, nodding.

He went back to carefully unscrewing the cap of the grumble, still nodding. Nice of the alien to send down a few extra parts; if it wasn’t gonna phone home, it might as well make itself useful.

Richie stopped thinking, went back to simply being aware, feeling and being. He had a lot of work to do.

With each cautious step they took away from the stairwell, Nadia felt her fear grow. Steve walked with her, shining his flashlight down the first corridor and then the intersecting passage as she led them towards the main computer room on D. It was dark and silent except for the occasional rumble of the crashing seas outside and their own breathing, harsh and frightened in the stillness.

Where are they? The intelligence should have all of its creatures here, guarding its home.

That they had not been attacked already scared her more than anything; what weapon did the intelligence have, that it could afford to let them get this far? She could see the confusion on Steve’s face, see it on Foster’s each time she looked back; Hiko was concentrating too hard on walking for her to tell if he’d noticed . . .

She stopped at the turn to the next hall, then motioned towards a bulkhead hatch to the next corridor, what she’d always thought of as the Cold Hall; the temperature in the computer room was kept low. Now it felt the same as every other on the ship—strange and ominous, threatening, the air dead and still.

They all nodded and she led the way, gripping the Kalishnikov tightly. Her loose hair swung across her face, and she wished she’d thought to tie it back before they’d come down. She wouldn’t even risk brushing at it now, too afraid to take her fingers from the automatic weapon.

Nadia tilted her head at a closed door midway down the corridor, illuminated by Steve’s light.

“That door down there leads to the main computer room,” she whispered.

They moved in a tight group through the Cold Hall, Hiko leaning against Foster, Steve’s flashlight flickering through the darkness in shaking arcs. When they reached the door, they huddled there for a moment. Nadia felt adrenaline coursing through her veins, sweat matting the hair to her skull as she checked her rifle yet again.

“I thought you said this would be well protected,” whispered Steve.

Nadia shook her head. There was no explanation—

—except that it has the means to stop us inside the room before we can touch it. Instantly, perhaps. A quick electrocution, a biomechanoid with a rifle, a deadly force field.

Nadia shuddered, but there was no other choice than to see. It was this, or wait to be hunted down like animals . . .

She closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds and thought of Alexi. When she opened them, the others were ready. Foster nodded to Steve, who hit the latch swiftly and threw open the door.

Nadia was in first, the others an instant behind her. She leveled her weapon, her jaw clenched in fear and fury, ready to blast at the mainframe—

—and blinked in utter shock. She shot a glance at the others, saw the same stunned uncertainty mirrored there, then turned back to where the computer should have been.

The room was empty. The main computer, over four meters long and two thick, weighing hundreds of kilos and towering well above a man’s head, was simply—gone. It had been ripped from its mounts, had left behind only a crater of ripped cable and torn decking. A single tiny gatherer moved among the wires. Oblivious to their presence, it seemed to be bundling the useless cables in tiny, precise movements.

“It’s gone,” Nadia said softly.

Foster stared at the small robot, shaking her head. “Gone where?”

“The fucking thing
moved
itself,” said Steve.

Nadia looked away from the bare wall, looked at the other three and saw that they were all thinking the same things, perhaps visualizing it as she was. A computer altered and transformed, dragging its massive bulk through the dead corridors, trailing its electrical roots behind. An animated monstrosity, seeking a dark corner in which to evolve . . .

Silently the four of them withdrew. They backed up the Cold Hall to the hatch, Nadia feeling a sudden overwhelming urgency to get away from the empty room, the empty deck. Something was wrong here, they had to get to a safe place and decide what to do next—

The hatch was closed and latched. Steve pulled up the handle, put his shoulder to the door—and it didn’t move.

Nadia placed her hand against the inner seam and drew back quickly, the paint blistered and hot to the touch.

“Welded,” said Steve.