Blue Resurrection, page 9
She slammed her palm against the access panel to Comms Node Alpha. Hydraulics hissed, and the metal wings parted.
The squad poured inside. They stopped dead.
The usual hum of the cooling systems was buried under a tense silence. No one spoke. The console operators stood rigid, frozen in some grotesque tableau, their faces turned upward toward the panoramic screens covering the entire northern wall.
Anika looked up, and reality slammed into her with full force.
The central screen wasn't displaying a tactical map. There were no movement vectors, no green dots for friendly units. There was only a single static frame, torn by digital interference, and one line of text, large and black against a blood-red background:
THIRD FLEET // STATUS: LIQUIDATED.
"No..."
The word, ripped from Nara, sounded like a bone snapping.
The video feed beneath the header activated. Cameras from some automated probe, drifting through the wreckage, transmitted a live feed. No sound. The cosmos swallowed any possible gasp. Massive chunks of titanium hulls spun uncontrollably, shrouded in clouds of frozen oxygen and fuel. The engine section of a Chimera-class cruiser passed through the frame—cleaved in two, its guts spilled into the void. Sparks jumped between exposed cabling, the only light in the graveyard.
This isn’t war, Anika thought, her pupils constricting as she tried to comprehend the scale of the destruction. This is slaughter. Annihilation.
To the right of the video, a stream of text flowed. Names. Thousands of them. The lines scrolled with such speed they blurred into a smeared, gray haze. The casualty list. The ship's algorithm was spewing data from biometric telemetry, signals extinguishing by the dozens every second.
Anika felt herself tense, her teeth grinding as she clenched her jaw. She had to hold her crew together. She had to be the anchor.
Nara stared at the screen, her mouth agape, her fists trembling at her sides. Next to her, Milo was mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath—his hand moving toward his chest, where he wore a locket, but it froze mid-gesture, unfinished. Elliot, ever the cynic, ever the calculating one, was blinking rapidly now.
But Seila...
Seila stood a step ahead, separate from the group. The red emergency light bathed her in blood-red. She wasn't looking at the burning ships. She wasn't looking at the debris.
Her eyes were riveted on the right-hand column. On the stream of names.
Her gaze jumped from line to line. Down the screen at a frantic speed, trying to catch letters in the blurred torrent of words. Her lips moved—she was reading the names silently, with just the motion of her facial muscles. Every name not yet found plunged her deeper into panic. Her breathing became staccato, half-formed—inhaling, but not exhaling.
Anika's gaze followed hers. The scrolling was impossibly fast, unreadable to the human eye, but sometimes, just for a moment, the stream would halt to buffer new data.
In that microsecond of stillness, one line froze in the center of the screen.
PRIVATE MIKA VOREN// MEDICAL CORPS // STATUS: BIOSIGNAL: TERMINATED.
The world around Seila froze.
Her chest rose for a breath—and stuck there, mid-inhale. A second. Two. Three. Without inhaling or exhaling. Her face drained of blood under the red flashes, becoming waxen and lifeless.
Anika saw her pupils shrink to pinpricks. Saw her jaw tremble uncontrollably as her teeth clenched so hard the muscles in her neck stood out like cords.
Then Seila drew in a breath. Not gentle, not calm—she wrenched it from her chest with a sharp, savage, pained sound.
Tears began to flow—two thin, silver streams cutting through the red reflections on her cheeks. But it wasn't just grief, wasn't just loss. Something dark and hungry flared in her eyes.
Anika took a step forward, instinct urging her to offer comfort, but she stopped. Something in Seila's posture held her back.
There, before the screen, the girl she had been was dying. Seila, who had believed in negotiations, who carried extra rations for civilians and quoted the conventions... she burned with the Third Fleet.
The medic was dead. Her brother. He didn't carry a rifle. He carried bandages. And it hadn't saved him. His helplessness wasn't a shield; it was an invitation for execution.
Seila slowly raised a hand. Her fingers pointed at the cold glass of the screen, right where Mika's name had already vanished, swept away by dozens of new casualties.
Her hand curled into a fist. Her knuckles turned white.
"He wanted to save people."
She whispered it not to anyone in particular. Her words were both for everyone and for no one.
"He... he didn't even carry a weapon."
Her voice broke on the last word and was replaced by something low, rasping, choked with fury.
"They killed him."
Anika looked toward Milo. He had closed his eyes, trying to suppress what lay behind them. Nara let out a choked sound—a cross between a growl and a sob—and kicked a nearby metal chair. The clang echoed in the room, but Seila didn't flinch.
She slowly lowered her hand. Her fingers were still curled. Her eyes—no longer wet, no longer pleading—had turned into black craters. There was no plea for comfort in them, nor for justice.
There was only one thing. A desire for vengeance. Pure, focused, merciless.
Anika scanned their faces again. The shock was giving way to something darker, denser. In Nara's eyes burned a fire—pure, untamed rage. She wanted blood, now, no matter whose. Elliot had stopped blinking. His face was a mask of cold acceptance. He was no longer seeking logic in the loss; he was calculating the price of retribution. Milo was hunched, his breathing barely audible—stilled, drowned by unspoken words.
There's no room for people anymore, the thought thundered in Anika's head. We need monsters. We need weapons that don't ask questions.
She looked at Seila's back.
"Seila?"
Seila turned slowly.
Her skin still showed the wet tracks of tears, but her eyes... her eyes were dry craters. There was no plea for sympathy in them, no search for justice. Her irises reflected only the burning skeletons of the ships and the desire to do the same to those who had killed her brother.
She met her commander's gaze. All the arguments from the previous scene hung in the air between them—ghosts of an obsolete morality. Anika raised an eyebrow—a silent question demanding confirmation. Are you ready to cross the line? Are you ready to burn it all down?
Seila said nothing. She nodded. One slow, measured movement of her head, which was not an agreement for survival, but a promise of vengeance.
The fear evaporated, giving way to an icy, metallic will. The air grew thick with violence—still unrealized, but now inevitable.
Anika drew herself up to her full height, feeling her heart turn to stone. She gave a curt nod to her crew.
No orders were needed.
The sirens continued to howl, but they no longer heard them. The war was over. The hunt was beginning.
* * *
The hydraulic locks hissed, and the airtight door of the office sealed shut behind her. The clang of the magnetic seals severed the outside world—the wail of sirens, the smell of defeat, even the muffled breathing of her team in the corridor. Anika was alone.
Vane stood with his back to her. His hands were clasped behind his back, his uniform—impeccably smoothed, without a single crease. His silhouette was etched against the black expanse of the massive display descending from the ceiling. A burning horizon. Orbital bombardments had turned Sector 4 into a jagged smudge of carbon and molten metal. Orange reflections from the explosions danced across the polished floor, creeping toward her feet like a tide of radiant energy.
She didn’t wait for permission. The rulebook was for another time.
"The platoon accepts."
Her voice sounded solitary in the muffled room. It was hoarse, raspy from what she had experienced mere minutes ago in the hangar.
Vane didn't move, not even his shoulders twitched. He continued watching a transport ship disintegrating high in the atmosphere—just another dying light in the night.
"You missed the debriefing, Lieutenant," he noted. His voice sounded monotonous, mechanical, like an artificial intelligence. "And I don't recall giving you the floor."
Anika felt the muscles in her thighs tighten. Combat fatigue settled heavily upon her armor—a hundred kilos of ceramic and nano-weave that now felt like a lead coffin. She swallowed the bitter taste of ash.
"We don't have time for theatrics, Admiral. You wanted an answer. You're getting it: we go into Blue Code."
This time, he reacted. Vane slowly pivoted on his heel with the calculated lethargy of a predator sensing a locked cage. His face, illuminated by the cold blue diodes of the console, created a frigid contrast with the fire behind him. His eyes swept over Anika—from the mud-caked boots, past the cracked chest plate, to the dried tear on her left cheek.
He wasn't looking at her as a soldier, but as a tool. As a damaged mechanism in need of repair.
"I'm glad reason prevailed." He stepped toward his desk. "Patriotism demands sacrifices few are capable of..."
"Don't talk to me about patriotism," she interrupted him.
The words flew out like a shot. Vane froze, his hand hovering over the sensor panel. A tense silence descended. Breaching subordination at this level was punishable by court-martial or execution on the spot. Anika knew that. And she didn't care.
She took a step forward. The ceramic soles clicked sharply against the floor.
"The Federation abandoned us on that rock," she continued, lowering her voice to a dangerous whisper. "You abandoned us. I watched my people die. Probably on this very screen. We waited for an evac that never came..."
The pause stretched. Anika felt her jaw clench, her teeth grinding together. The screams on the comm channel from an hour ago still echoed in her mind. The transport ship breaking apart in the atmosphere, Lieutenant Karval's words: "I can't see them, I can't—" before he fell silent forever.
"We're not doing it for the flag. We're not doing it for you," she finished.
Vane watched her with cold interest. There was no anger in his gaze, just a slight lift of an eyebrow.
"Then why, Lieutenant?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "Why voluntarily subject your bodies to experimental gene therapy with a ninety percent mortality rate in the preparatory phase?"
Because death is better than helplessness. The thought was sharp and painful. Anika clenched her teeth. Her jaw ached.
"Because I want the weapons to kill them," she said. "All of them. I want the power Blue Code promises. You provide the technology and the virus. We provide the flesh."
She pointed toward the burning screen.
"The entities out there... they don't stop. Standard ammunition only slows them down. We need to become something like them to stop them."
The last word came out quieter than she intended. To become something like them. The words had a bitter, metallic taste. A taste of finality.
"That's the deal, Vane."
The Admiral leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. His uniform remained flawless as Anika stood before him—dirty, broken, internally wounded, the very shadow of war.
"You are setting terms?"
"In my office?" he asked softly.
"I set the terms for the use of the resource," she corrected him.
A lie, I know it. And he knows it. But it's the only way I can keep my dignity.
Her gaze remained unwavering. Her nails dug into her palms, hidden in her gloves. Her legs begged to step back, to flee—from the room, from the deal, from everything.
"You get our bodies," she continued. "Turn us into monsters. Pump us full of nano-catalysts, swap our bones for titanium, do whatever it takes. But the will remains ours. We choose the targets. We lead the pack."
I'm selling my soul. But I'll do it as if I'm the one deciding.
She latched onto that thought. She had to believe in it. She had to believe that after the procedures, the pain, and the mutation, behind the monster's eyes, Anika would still be there.
Vane watched her for a long time. An indecently long time. The silence stretched, taut like a wire, brushing the edges of her consciousness, making her breathing more labored. Red reflections from the screens danced in his irises, staining his eyes a sinister purple.
He possessed knowledge hidden from her. Something about the nature of the Blue Virus. About its impact on the limbic system, on memories, on the very human self.
The smile that appeared on his lips was thin and predatory. Not a crack—a full predatory arc. The smile of a hunter who knows the prey has just stepped into the trap. Of a merchant buying a diamond for the price of glass and watching the seller convince himself he's made the deal of a lifetime.
"An interesting... vision," he drawled slowly. "Unit autonomy."
Silence followed. Vane measured her, as if tasting poison before offering it. His gaze remained locked on her eyes.
He's mocking me, Anika realized. He knows.
"Efficacy can be enhanced," Vane finished, "if the subjects believe they control the process."
The words were spoken quietly, almost softly. But they cut the air sharply. There was nothing to hide. He told her the truth to her face: Believe your own lies. It will make you better killers.
Anika felt the pain in her jaw again. She knew he understood. And still, she didn't stop. Because this wasn't a choice. It was surrender, masked with dignity.
Vane extended a hand and pressed a single key on the console. The light in the room shifted from sterile white to an uneasy orange.
"I accept your terms, Lieutenant."
A moment of silence followed. Anika felt something tighten in her chest—both relief and horror.
"Your platoon is being transferred under the direct command of the Science Development Division. The procedure begins in one hour."
Vane stepped closer to her, erasing the distance between them. He smelled of expensive soap and cold confidence.
"I hope you've said goodbye to your former self," he whispered, leaning slightly toward her ear. "Because Blue Code doesn't give change."
Anika didn't retreat. Her stomach knotted, an icy chill crawled up her spine, but she held her gaze steady on his. She was selling her soul to save other lives. There was no going back.
She had made the decision before she even entered the room. Perhaps even earlier—when she saw Seila crying silently in the corridor; when Milo had asked, "There's no other way, is there?" and she hadn't been able to answer.
We both know we're heading into hell, she thought, staring into his face. The difference is, you designed it. I'll be the one living there.
"We are already dead, Admiral," she replied evenly. "We just haven't stopped moving yet."
She turned sharply, with a military precision she had stubbornly refused to show just a moment ago. Every step toward the door was a step toward the electric chair.
When the door opened, the noise of war surged in, swallowing the sterile silence. Anika crossed the threshold. Vane remained behind, watching her back with that same thin, predatory smile. He knew he had just acquired the deadliest weapon in his arsenal. And the most obedient one.
Because the will she was fighting for would be the first thing the virus consumed.
The door closed.
The trap snapped shut.
CHAPTER 7
The clacking of her boots echoed sharply against the polymer floor. Behind her, the platoon dragged themselves forward — exhausted to the bone, resembling shadows. Anika looked up. What lay before her wasn’t a room, but a hangar, lined in white and chrome. A merciless, shadowless light poured from the ceiling panels, exposing every pore and scratch on their armor. Towering in the center of the hall were six vertical cylinders of reinforced glass, connected by thick bundles of cables and pipes that vanished into the ceiling. Around them hung mechanized manipulators of medical steel, equipped with injectors and probes. They suggested dismantling more than healing. She stopped, and her platoon stopped with her.
They moved closer together instinctively, forming a tight-knit group, though there was no enemy in sight to meet with weapons. Their eyes darted across the gleaming surfaces, the screens streaming rivers of biometric data.
This is no hospital, Anika thought. It's a morgue where the patients walk in alive.
From the far end of the hall came a rhythmic sound—the tapping of heels measuring steps on the polymer surface. Dr. Krouse emerged from the white sterility. She wore a lab coat of a blinding whiteness. Her face was expressionless, devoid of warmth. She didn’t look them in the eye. Her gaze swept over their bodies, pausing on the outline of muscles under their armor, on the bulging vein in Dane’s wrist, on the bruise under Nara’s eye. She was measuring them. Muscle mass, hydration levels, tissue damage.
In her eyes, they were soulless material.
"Prepare them."
She didn’t even slow her step, passing by them, her eyes glued to a holographic tablet.
"Protocol Seven. I want full hydration before agent introduction."
There was no "welcome," no "thank you for your service." And why would there be? Anika clenched her teeth. To them, we ceased being human long ago. Just vessels for the virus.
Shadows stirred from the periphery. The orderlies. Large figures clad in synthetic protective suits, faces hidden behind dark visors. They moved in sync, without a single superfluous gesture.
"Hey, wait a minute..."
Milo stepped back.
The orderlies didn’t respond. They kept approaching. Hands covered in nitrile gloves seized shoulders, elbows, wrists. Anika felt someone grip her left arm. She tensed, her muscles coiling to resist, but reason prevailed.
The deal is struck. She had sold their bodies to save... what? Their souls? Or just prolong their agony?
"Steady."
She tried to inject confidence into her words, but her voice sounded uncertain.
