Alien--Echo, page 24
She shudders, turning her face aside, and touches her stomach again.
“I’m already dead,” she says softly. “You have to go, and you have to go now. I don’t want you to see the way this ends. I don’t want the thing that’s feeding off my body to see you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry. I was greedy and I was foolish and it’s only fair that I should pay the price for that, but there’s no reason for any portion of that bill to fall to you. This isn’t the way things were supposed to go.”
“Mama,” gasps Kora, tears running down her cheeks. She grabs for Delia.
Delia pushes her away, gently but firmly. “No,” she says. “Go. Leave me here, and let me die knowing that you got away. That’s the only thing you can do for me now, and it’s enough, baby, it’s so much more than enough. Run. Run, and never blame yourself for what happened here. If there’s anyone at fault, it’s me. I love you. Run.”
She sounds so much like my mother that I have to look away. Kora sobs, and I know they must be embracing, mother and daughter clinging to each other for the last time. I look down at Viola, my hands cradling her cheeks.
“I need to put you back in the bag now,” I say softly.
“I know,” she says, and smiles, somehow looking more untouched than should be possible, given that she doesn’t have a body anymore. “We’re almost out of here. It’s going to be fine, you’ll see. We’re going to get to the ship, and we’re going to be fine.”
Tempting fate is never a good idea.
That’s when the floor explodes.
21
ADAPTATION
It’s not a literal explosion, although it feels that way in the moment. Chunks of masonry and artificial wood fly everywhere, driven upward by the force of the impact. Kora screams, clinging to her mother as the beast breaks through the floor between us.
“Oh, crap,” says Viola, and she speaks for everyone in this room, and I can’t stop staring.
It’s definitely one of the creatures that have been chasing us across Zagreus, and it isn’t at the same time. It’s wrong.
Its head is still a long curve of black chitin, featureless and awful, but its jaws aren’t blunt, toothy things anymore. Instead, they push out into a beak, and when it opens its mouth and hisses, the second mouth that emerges for a moment is like a terrible serrated flower, cutting surface upon cutting surface upon cutting surface. It looks like it could gnaw through the foundations of the world.
It’s larger than the others, with a thicker body, a shorter neck. Its arms are as long as the rest, with clawed hands prepared to rip and slice, but below them waves row after row of golden cilia. It looks like one of the creatures somehow successfully melded with a lion-worm.
That’s impossible. Even if they were genetically compatible—which they’re not; the lion-worms are virtually mammalian, and the creatures secrete an acid powerful enough to dissolve glass and steel; there’s no way their biology could blend—there hasn’t been time. There’s no way they could have mated, reproduced, and raised an offspring to this size in the time they’ve had available to them.
But somehow, they have. The proof is in front of me, roaring its terrible roar, pulling itself up through the floor.
“Kora!” I scream. “Get back!”
Delia should be safe. She’s not in her cocoon, but she’s gestating one of those creatures in her abdomen. They won’t attack their own young. That would be reproductively unsound.
The creature lunges toward Kora. Delia responds by shoving her daughter away from the creature’s clashing jaws, grabbing a gun from the rubble of the cocoon. I realize with a pang that it’s Rockwell’s gun, the one I took from Alisa.
Delia lines up the gun on the creature’s head, aiming for the place where the eyes should be, and she fires, again and again, cracking the chitin without breaking it. That, alone, is horrifying.
The creature howls in fury, the sound filled with strange, terrible harmonics that make my skin crawl until it feels like it’s going to rip right off of my body. Then it lunges for Delia. Delia, who has another creature growing inside her, Delia, who is already dead. Delia, who should be safe.
It grabs her head in its jaws and her hips in its claws and it tears her in half like she’s nothing, like she’s a discarded flimsy bound for the recycle bin. Kora screams as her mother’s blood drenches her in a wet wave. I shove Viola’s head back into my bag, not bothering to zip it as I sling it over my shoulder and run across the room to grab Kora’s wet, wildly waving hand.
Delia is still thrashing, and that seems to be enough to keep the creature’s attention on her, at least for the moment. Something pale and broken and not yet ready to survive slides out of the hole where her midsection used to be. The creature, unheeding, steps on it, and it splatters, yellowish goo like sticky paste spraying everywhere and beginning to eat through the floor and Delia’s flesh and everything as soon as it makes contact. More acid.
Kora is wailing, the sound high and shrill and unrelenting. I pull harder, until she staggers to her feet, letting me haul her toward the door.
“Mama,” she gasps. “Mama.”
“She’s gone, she’s gone, it’s over,” I chant, rapid-fire, and keep pulling her until she gets her feet under herself and starts moving under her own power. That’s how we make it to the door, and out onto the landing, with the sound of the creature ripping her mother apart still echoing in our ears.
That thing, it was like a mixture of the creatures from the shuttle and the lion-worms. I think of the lion-worm we saw outside the cave, the one that looked like it had burst from the inside out. Is it possible that their eggs or embryos or whatever they are can somehow take on attributes from the non-creature parent? Will the ones that hatch from the colonists be smarter, or more dexterous? It’s a horrifying thought. We don’t need these things to improve.
But maybe that’s why the creature we just saw was willing to kill Delia despite the fact that she was being used as an incubator. It didn’t recognize the infant inside her as a member of the same species. For a moment—just a moment—I allow myself the fantasy of the creatures going to war against themselves, the two breeds plummeting toward a mutual extinction. I don’t allow the image, pleasant as it is, to slow me down, because I know it’s just that: a fantasy. If that thing is a blend of the creatures and the lion-worms, clearly something about their biology allows them to harvest DNA from other life-forms, probably in the pursuit of making themselves over into better predators, better suited for the worlds they’ve come to devour. There may be some initial hitches in the process, but it has to settle out eventually, or it wouldn’t happen.
These things are too efficient, too good at filling their evolutionary niche, to go around holding on to an adaptation that doesn’t benefit them.
We run down the stairs, and Kora weeps silently the whole way, tears running down her cheeks and snot running over her upper lip. I want to comfort her. We can’t afford the time. We have to run and keep running, away from the ripping, tearing sounds still coming from her residence, which is never going to be home to her again.
We speed up once we’re through the door and back outside. There’s no telling how many more creatures might be here, patrolling, hunting for survivors like Alisa—although I don’t think there are many, if there are any by this point. Alisa was an aberration, like the antelope that walks through the middle of a pride of lions without being taken down. Even prey species can get cocky when they start to think of themselves as somehow inexplicably invulnerable.
If she’s not dead already, she will be soon. I haven’t seen any signs of other humans. There are probably survivors, but they’re probably all like Delia, silently affixed to the walls, waiting to die. This is a killing field now. The best thing we can do is get away.
We run until we reach the bottom of the stairs, and then we run across the street, past the first three turnoffs, to a small, artificially forested cul-de-sac ringed in old Earth trees. There isn’t much blood here, maybe because most people don’t like to come here. The Earth natives find it too much of a reminder of everything they’ve lost, while the Zagreus-born generation can’t understand why their parents bothered to bring such funny-looking plants across the great vastness of space. We always forget where we came from, if given enough time. That’s part of how we adapt. It’s part of how we survive.
We stop in the shadow of the trees, both panting, and I put my hand on the grip of Mom’s gun as Kora sinks slowly to her knees, covering her face with her hands. We can’t stay here. This isn’t any safer than anyplace else in the colony. If I don’t give her a moment to grieve, she’s going to start screaming, and then we’ll both die. This is practicality in mercy’s clothes, and it’s the only thing I have to offer her. At least for right now, there’s nothing else that I can do.
“Olive.” Viola’s voice is low, flat, and pitched barely loud enough for me to hear it. “I need to talk to you.”
My backpack is only slung over one shoulder; I’m lucky I didn’t lose her during our flight. The thought turns my stomach as I shrug out of the bag and swing it around in front of me.
My sister looks up at me from the nest of supplies, blue eyes wide and somewhat pained. The reason becomes apparent when she speaks.
“You have to leave me here,” she says.
“What?” My voice comes out louder than I intended. I swallow, hard, and follow it up with a whispered, “What? You’re not—I’m not going to leave you behind, Vi. We’re almost in the clear. All we have to do is get to the ship and we’re free. We can leave. You and me. Shipp sisters forever.”
And Kora, who is still crying, hands still covering her face, shoulders shaking like the world is crumbling around her, which it is, in a very real way. She watched her mother die. That breaks something that never heals.
I should know.
“Back in the cave, when you called the lion-worm to fight the creature,” says Viola. “Some of the pheromones got on my skin, in my circuitry. Olive, I think that creature just now came because it has enough lion-worm in it to follow the scent. It thought it was chasing prey. It was chasing prey, because you, and Kora—don’t you see? This is where you leave me behind to save yourself. I’ll attract the thing to me, and you’ll have more time to get away. This is how I save you.” She smiles, thin and pained and terrified. She’s a head without a body, she’s an orphan as much as I am, and she’s still worried about saving me.
I have the best sister in the universe.
“No,” I say. “We save each other, remember? That’s how this is supposed to work, now and forever and always. I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to.” Viola looks at me gravely, smile fading. “If you don’t leave me, that thing, and any others like it, will keep following the scent. You shouldn’t even be standing here. You should already be running. I’m not worth it.”
“Not worth—you’re my sister.”
“I’m your sister, and there’s a backup of my program on the transport.” She grimaces. “I’ll lose everything that happened here on Zagreus, but you’ll be able to bring me back, if you want to.”
Mom and Dad don’t have that option. They’re gone, forever. I stare at Viola, trying to find the words to tell her how offensive this idea is, and how unfair. I’m not going to save myself at her expense.
Kora rises, cheeks still wet with tears, and moves to stand next to me, so she can look down into the open bag. Viola’s eyes dart to her, studying the puffy, tear-streaked lines of her face. Then she relaxes, and actually offers Kora a smile.
I know that smile. It’s her “I’m going to get away with something” smile, the one she uses when she wants our parents to let us stay up late, or let her order some technically restricted piece of media or information file. I’ve been protecting myself against the consequences of that smile for my entire life.
“You understand why it’s essential to leave me here, don’t you?” she asks. “I’m a liability. I can’t fight. I can’t help you escape. I’m deadweight—and worse, I’m deadweight that’s going to attract monsters to your location. Tell Olivia to leave me. She’ll listen to you.”
I don’t have time to get mad at my sister for thinking I’ll prioritize my girlfriend over her, because Kora is already shaking her head, a firm negative that only gets firmer when she opens her mouth.
“We’re not leaving you,” she says. “There is no way we’re leaving you. Olivia, do you have any more of that pollen?”
I blink at her. “What?”
“If the thing is tracking Viola by scent, we cover her in the pollen that makes it impossible to smell us. Easy. Right?”
“Maybe,” I say carefully. “I mean, it might work. I don’t know whether it does, and it doesn’t matter, because I don’t have any more. We used it all.”
“Oh.” Kora’s face falls. Then she shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We’re all orphans now, Viola, and we went too far to get you back. I’m not leaving you. I’m not telling Olivia to leave you. We get away together, or we don’t get away.”
I want to put my arms around her, to hold her until it feels like there’s nothing left between us. I want to kiss her until I find that engine oil taste under the sweat and the fear and the blood, and then I want to keep kissing her, maybe forever. I haven’t decided yet. But there isn’t time, there isn’t time for any of that, so I just offer her a thankful smile before turning my attention back to Viola.
“We head for the launch, and we get in our transport, and we go,” I say. “The three of us. We’re all that’s left of Zagreus, and we’re going to make sure people know what happened here. People have to know.”
This isn’t just a matter of biosecurity. This is a matter of survival, maybe for the entire human race. That feels like a big way of putting it, but …
These things can survive in conditions that would kill almost anything, can survive reentry without it noticeably slowing them down. They’re fast and they’re hungry and without an accurate count of how many were on that first shuttle, I can’t even begin to guess at their reproductive rate, but it’s more than high enough to constitute a threat to even the most advanced colonies. This isn’t the sort of thing we can afford to let be buried. This has to get out. Otherwise …
Otherwise, this is only the beginning. Colonies like Zagreus, they’re not prepared to defend themselves against things like this. I don’t think anyone is prepared to defend themselves against things like this.
We have to live, or a whole lot more people are going to die.
“Don’t you ever ask me to leave you behind again,” I say to Viola. “We need to move. Did you want to say anything else before I put you back in the bag?”
She smiles lopsidedly. “Only that I’m glad you’re my sister. I don’t think I could ever have found myself a better one.”
“Me either,” I say, and press a kiss against her forehead before I tuck her back into the bag. She closes her eyes, and somehow that makes it easier to fasten the flap, shutting her away from the world. She can rest while we run. That’s fine. We’re going to need her soon enough.
I adjust the backpack until it’s good and secure on my shoulders, trying to take as little time as possible, then turn to Kora.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
She nods, although her expression is unsure. “I don’t think I have a choice, do you?” she asks, and there has never been anything truer on this distant, backwater world, under that ashen orange sky.
I take her hand. She steps closer.
Together, we walk away from our momentary peace, and into whatever hell Zagreus has left to offer us.
22
FLY AWAY HOME
We’ve only been walking for a few minutes when we find Alisa. She’s sprawled in the middle of the blood-soaked street, and there’s a hole where her throat used to be, red and raw and gaping. She has a surprised look on her face, like she can’t believe this is how her story ends; like she thought she was somehow going to be the one who made it out, the one who got away.
I guess everyone feels like that. I guess everyone needs to feel like that, because the second you stop believing that you can somehow be the one to bend probability and get away, that’s when you die.
Kora pauses when she sees Alisa, putting her hand briefly over her mouth, but she doesn’t stop walking, and neither do I. We haven’t lost faith in the idea that we’re going to survive yet, and stopping … stopping would chip away at that faith. At least Alisa isn’t glued to a wall somewhere, waiting for the moment when her deadly cargo decides it’s time to emerge.
I can’t stop thinking about the thing I saw slide out of Kora’s mother when the creature ripped her open. It had been small, and pale, and not ready to survive in the world yet, but it had been close to being ready—I’d seen that closeness in the angle of its long limbs and the slope of its eyeless head, in the way it had twitched and thrashed before going finally, lifelessly still. It was so close to being ready, but there was no way it had been inside her for more than a few hours. These things don’t just reproduce fast, they mature fast, and that means we’re not running out of time: we are out of time.
I don’t say any of this. Kora knows how high the stakes are, and all I can do now is frighten her. Scared people don’t move faster or more efficiently. Scared people fall apart. We’re plenty scared enough already.
The colony lights click on as the last of the sunlight slips out of the sky, and everything is bathed in the cool electric glow of the power grid. It’s a sterile light, with none of the color of the Zagreus sunlight, and that somehow manages to make things even worse. This light is unforgiving. This light calls out the blood on the ground, on the walls, on the windows. There’s a perfect human handprint on a partially open door, and I know that if I stopped long enough to look inside, I’d find a cocoon at best and a creature at worst, and either way, it wouldn’t make this any easier.
