Pain Bringer (The Constant War Book 2), page 35
“Just take me to the bridge.”
“Right,” said Corman. “The bridge it is.”
The corridors of the frigate weren’t as narrow as those of the numerous military ships Rousseau had been assigned to. In fact, he might go as far as calling these roomy. They seemed designed extra-wide in case the crew needed to move equipment through the corridors.
However, this only highlighted the absence of crew. The wide berths were vacant of foot traffic. Rousseau craned his neck, peering down adjacent corridors.
“Where is everyone?” asked Rousseau.
“They’re around,” said Corman. “Busy mostly. It’s so close to the deadline, you can imagine they’ve got their hands full. There’s also a couple teams on the surface manually tending to the engines. I’ve got an entire engineering team keeping an eye on Engines 14 and 15. After the oversight the council pointed out, can’t be too careful, you know.”
“Did you determine the cause of the—” Rousseau choked on the word as he said it—“oversight?”
“Afraid not. Technical glitch most likely. We’ve been keeping a close eye and haven’t seen any other anomalies, knock on wood. We’re handling everything manually now, just to be certain.”
Rousseau nodded, offering nothing more in the way of response.
They came to the end of a corridor that dovetailed into a circular hub in which all corridors appeared to dead end. Corman punched a code into a security panel and a pair of doors slid wide, revealing the bridge.
Though it was smaller than Heaven, devoid of the tactical consoles, a trimmed down, more utilitarian version of Heaven’s bridge, everything appeared in order. Wireframe displays of Sindarhe and Earth orbited on trajectory around the sun. Even this simulation included the inevitable conclusion they were trying to avoid—the red ‘X’ and collision of two celestial bodies. In the upper right corner, there was a large countdown timer, displaying red numerals: 00:20:57:34.
“Do you have an ETA for all of this?”
Corman raised a brow and nodded toward the display. “We have the countdown, sir.”
“Right, but that’s how much time until the actual collision, when the things, ya know, ram one another. What’s the timeline for minimum safe distance?”
Minimum safe distance was information Einhorn and the council had gone over dozens, if not hundreds of times. Sindarhe needed to be pushed out of Earth’s path at least eight hours prior to final countdown to guarantee clearance. Anything less and there were going to be complications of a cataclysmic nature. Even a glancing blow would be devastating to Earth.
“Right. Minimum safe distance.” Corman walked over to the nearest console and swiped the monitor. “The setback put us off schedule a bit. We’ve had to tweak some numbers. We should reach minimum safe distance within the hour.”
Rousseau craned his neck, inspecting the readout over Corman’s shoulder.
Corman glanced at him, making eye contact. Then he gestured toward the console. “Take a look for yourself, if you’d like, Admiral.”
Rousseau did just that. He stepped up to the console and swiped through readout after readout of technical data about the engines on the surface and trajectories of the objects in orbit.
“As you can see, everything is perfectly fine,” said Corman. “We’re on track to achieve minimum safe distance within the hour.”
Rousseau tapped the monitor. “Why does this say Engine-14 is at seventy-six percent power?”
“What?”
“This here—” Rousseau jabbed at the screen several times. “Says Engine-14 is only seventy-six percent power.”
Corman nudged Rousseau out of the way. “Does it?”
“Yes. It does.”
Corman rapidly typed on the touch screen. “Huh, that’s weird.”
“Shouldn’t Engine-14 be running at full?”
“It certainly should be.”
“And you’re just noticing this now?”
Corman buried his head in reams of information scrolling past on the screen. “First I’ve seen of it.”
Rousseau stepped back, inching toward the bridge door.
Corman stopped typing. “Is there something you want to say, Admiral?” asked Corman. “You seem to have a lot on your mind.”
The major turned. His skin looked even more splotchy than when Rousseau had first arrived. It had been pale, but now it was practically grey. The wrinkles and folds in his skin were gaping fissures.
“I don’t believe you,” said Rousseau. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t believe you one bit.”
A shushing noise slooshed behind Rousseau. The bridge doors slid open and two crewmen entered. Their movements and mannerisms appeared normal, except that one carried a bone-white object not more than a meter in length. He held it to his side, trying to conceal it, but not making much of an attempt to do so either. A strange pattern of blood-red markings were inscribed along its length.
“Finally, some crew members,” said Rousseau. “But I take it this isn’t a coincidence.”
“No, Admiral. It is not.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“At this point, I don’t see why not.”
“What’s wrong with your face?”
Corman touched his cheek. “My face?”
Blistering pustules had formed. As his fingers ran over his skin, they bubbled and burst, oozing translucent fluid. Deeply carved wrinkles were now crimson valleys between patches of hardened skin. His skin cracked like arid desert bricks as Corman forced a smile. “Nothing is wrong with my face.”
“There is definitely something wrong with your face.”
Rousseau balled his fist and reared back his arm, but one of the crewmen caught it before he could swing. The other grabbed him and wrapped an arm around his throat, cinching down on his neck.
Violently, Rousseau twisted, trying to shrug off his assailants, but they held him steady. His hands went to his throat, prying at the grip on his neck. Unable to free himself, he blindly swung in all directions. Corman leaned back, dodging a wild strike.
He took the bone-white object with blood-red markings from the crewmen too busy wrestling with Rousseau to use it. He held it to the light, carefully inspecting it.
Despite his efforts, Rousseau was overpowered. The crewmen tackled him to the ground.
Corman towered over him, thumping his palm with the bone-white rod. “Well, well, well, Admiral. It seems you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament.” He swung a leg over Rousseau and sat on his chest. Forcefully, he grabbed Rousseau’s lower jaw and pried it open wide.
“This will only take a second. It’s best for everyone if you don’t resist.”
Rousseau snapped his head back and forth, trying to shake Corman’s hold on his jaw, and for a moment, it was working. One of the crewmen grabbed his head and held it face up. Corman lined up the bone-white object and jammed it into his mouth.
The instant it touched his tongue, the hard, rigid object became soft. It wriggled back and forth, expanding and filling up his mouth. It rammed into the back of his throat, forcing his gag reflex, causing him to cough, trying to expel the foreign object. He was choking, unable to breathe. On instinct, he tried to raise his hands to remove the foreign object, but the crewmen kept his body pinned. Inside his mouth, the object kept moving deeper, until it slithered down the back of his throat, and he could breathe again.
Above him, a twisted smile appeared on Corman’s deformed face. Rousseau’s consciousness was slipping. His surroundings were fading to black.
“Don’t worry,” said Corman. “This will all be over shortly, Admiral.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Stop him!” Char yelled.
Wilkins looked up long enough to catch a glimpse of Dr. Scott running across the camp, jumping into his MSRV, and flying away.
Char skidded to a stop at the edge of the mesa. Huffing, she doubled over, putting her weight on her knees.
Wilkins strolled to her side. “Is something wrong?”
Through heavy, panting breaths, Char wheezed, “I said stop him.”
“What for?”
Char pointed.
From their vantage, they overlooked the entire harbor. Dr. Scott’s MSRV soared above scattered islands and crossed the bay to the peninsula. Beyond that was ocean, and the horizon. Only today, instead of endless blue skies, the view came to an abrupt halt against a horizon filled by Sindarhe. The planet. The dead god. Dark grey lifeless flesh. Harsh sandy orange and black striped beaked mountains. Immense forests of fallen tentacles.
It was so close they could even make out the man-made engines strategically positioned across the floating corpse—humanity’s efforts to push it away from their home planet.
Dr. Scott landed on the parking lot tarmac next to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. The instant he disappeared inside, hundreds of full grown squiddies poured out of the building.
“Because he’s with them.”
Wilkins pursed his lips and made a popping sound. “Oh. That’s not good, is it?”
“That’s not even the worst of it.” Char nodded toward the sky. Tiny blue daggers jutted out from the engines on Sindarhe’s surface.
Wilkins cocked his head. “Are the engines supposed to look like that?”
“Probably, but you know, like, in the opposite direction.”
“Wait, Dr. Scott is controlling the engines?”
“Yup.”
“He’s driving an entire planet-corpse-thing at us?”
“Ah-yup.”
“At Earth?”
“How many times do I have to repeat myself?! Yes, yes, yes. He’s doing it.”
“But…why?”
Char’s mouth hung open. “You’d have to ask Dr. Scott about that one.”
“I—” Wilkins gawked.
Char patted him on the shoulder. “I know, me too, big guy. Speechless.”
Squiddies formed paths across the peninsula like army ant highways and funneled into the bay. As they hit the water, they extended their tentacles, floating bloated parachutes, swimming across the harbor, heading for the encampment on the other side.
“Good gravy. Do you think they’re coming for us?”
Char glared at him.
“What?” Wilkins shrugged. “How would I know? They could be doing something else entirely.”
“Like?”
“Morning exercise?”
Char punched him in the shoulder as hard as she could.
Wilkins didn’t budge.
The squiddies swam for an island that Char’s wrist display noted as Lido Isle. At least swimming around it would buy them some time. But that was wishful thinking. The squiddies simply climbed onto shore, scuttled across the sand bar, and funneled back into the water on the other side. Their path was a straight line that no impediment was going to stop.
Wilkins nodded. “Okay, so yeah, they’re coming right for us.”
Char shoved him. “Doi.”
“Is something the bother?” Marcia was behind them. Once again, she donned the bulky biohazard suit. The bits of her wardrobe that Char could see through plastic and glass were immaculate. Her makeup was flawless under crimson goggles, sharp angles and shimmer.
We’re in the field! And every freakin’ morning, she is able to pull this off.
How?
Wilkins waved Marcia away. “Nothing you have to worry about, Doc. But, uh, maybe you should head back to your tent.”
“I won’t be delayed from the day’s research.”
“Yeah, about that—”
Marcia followed his gaze out to the swarm of squiddies swimming across the harbor. “Oh my.”
“Research has been rescheduled for the day.”
Marcia may have been up at the early hour on routine, but the Marines were gathering from the commotion generated by Dr. Scott’s hasty departure. Fairhaven was the last to join them, waddling from her tent’s airlock.
“Holy crap,” said Fairhaven, catching sight of the massive alien-god-corpse taking up the better part of the sky. “Has it always been that big?”
Wilkins put his hand on Char’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare say it.”
“What?”
“I know you want to.”
Char shrugged off his grip on her shoulder. “You really think I’m so childish that I’d make dick jokes when we just found out one of our own is piloting a planet-sized corpse into Earth?”
Wilkins bobbed his head back and forth. Char glanced at the others. They all practically nodded.
“Oh my god. Just shove it, okay. All of you. I’m on this.”
Char spun, kicking up dirt, and sprinted to the Painbringer.
“But what about the squiddies?” Wilkins yelled after her.
“That’s all you. I’m going after Dr. Scott. We have to recover his remote control if we want to stop that thing from colliding into Earth.”
Fairhaven made a whirlybird motion above her head. “Everyone, to your mecha, now! We need to get off the ground ASAP.”
The Marines manned their Tigerclaws. One stopped en route and asked, “What do you want us to do with the pop tents?”
“Leave them. Get your butts in the air.”
He gave a stiff salute, returned to the other Marines, and relayed the orders. The Marines clambered over their Tigerclaws, undocking them from their recharging units. The vision of precision and efficiency.
And then there was Marcia.
Marcia staggered across the tarmac to her MSRV, her arms overflowing with research and samples. She deposited the armload and trotted back to her tent.
Fairhaven cut her off. “Where do you think you’re going? Get in your mecha.”
Marcia didn’t slow down, nor speed up. She simply walked around Fairhaven.
“Hey!” said Fairhaven. “I’m not asking.”
“I appreciate the seriousness of the circumstances, but I am not leaving without my research.”
“Fuck your research!” Fairhaven pointed at the MSRV. “Get that hunk of junk off the ground, now!”
“It is not junk!”
“Yeah, well, whatever it is, you need to be in it, now.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wilkins walk past. His biceps swelled, veins throbbing, under the load from the large machine he was carrying.
She grabbed his arm. “You’re helping her?”
He pivoted, jacking up a knee, and readjusted the weight of the machine in his hands. “We can stand here yammering all day or we can load her up and get out of here.”
“But—”
“There’s no point arguing with her. She’s gonna stay until her gear is packed up. And I know you, you aren’t leaving until we’re all safe and in the air. So we might as well expedite the process.”
Fairhaven wanted to argue. She was in charge. She called the shots. People were supposed to listen. Chain of command, God dammit!
Except Marcia was on her own schedule. She was making trips from her tent to the MSRV. As slow as humanly possible!
Far below, the squiddies had already made it across the harbor and were climbing onto shore.
“Fine, whatever,” said Fairhaven. “Get her loaded.”
Wilkins nodded, which was all he could do with his hands full.
Fairhaven ran to the temporary landing site.
Three of the five Marines were already in their Tigerclaws. The stench of burning fuel permeated the air. A fourth Marine climbed into the cockpit and began his startup sequence. The fifth made a final pass of the launch zone, making sure the recharging units were depowered, and then loaded the last portable generator into his Tigerclaw.
“We all good here?” asked Fairhaven.
“Yes, sir. Just loading this last one, and I’m right behind the others.”
The first three took flight. The fourth’s engines ignited. As the fifth secured himself in the cockpit, Fairhaven saluted him, which he promptly mirrored. Already, she could hear the roar of his engines powering up.
She returned to the encampment. The temporary tents were largely untouched, still arranged in neat rows. But abandoned. It was a shame to waste equipment, but the squiddies left little choice.
Marcia pushed a cart overflowing with instruments toward her MSRV. Glass vials clinked as she rolled it across the ground. A few steps behind her, Wilkins carried a scanner of some sort, a large piece of tech with a glass dome covering its upper portion.
The back of the MSRV lowered, and Marcia pushed the cart into it. Automated arms stripped the cart and arranged the materials inside in a predetermined manner.
“Are you loaded?” asked Fairhaven.
Marcia pointed at her temporary living quarters. “There’s still my personal effects and the tent.”
“Is your research onboard?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave the rest. We need to get out of here. Like now.”
Marcia glared at her, frozen in place.
With the flat of her palm, Fairhaven pushed Marcia’s forehead. “I don’t know what you aren’t getting here. Seriously dangerous mob of squiddies are about to swarm this encampment any second. We need to leave. Now.”
Marcia looked toward the mesa’s edge. Hundreds of squiddies were climbing over one another up the side of the cliff face. That seemed to finally sink in with her. She nodded, gave a last glance at what quite literally could have been her inflatable coffin, and climbed into her MSRV. There was an extended pause while Marcia ran through her start-up procedure. Fairhaven found it hard to believe that Marcia was still taking her sweet time. When the launch routine finally completed, Marcia saluted Fairhaven and Wilkins. The MSRV engines chugged and the bulbous vehicle ploddingly took flight.
Fairhaven turned to Wilkins. “Now you.”
“You first.”
“I’m not sticking around. Get to your mecha. Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wilkins snapped off a salute and sprinted to his Tigerclaw.
Fairhaven yelled at his backside. “Ma’am?”
Wilkins shouted over his shoulder, “You know you like it!”
