There was light on at the far end of the chamber. She headed toward it.
At the end of the long room was a wall of plastic bins. Some had been pulled down and were now scattered across the floor; the ones she could see into were empty. In the center of all that mess a Variant knelt, and he looked up as she approached. Tiger-like markings framed a face in which amber eyes gleamed like polished gemstones: Sarkassan. He was wearing some armor, but not a full set, and a bright pink shirt was visible between its segments, jarringly incongruous. His headset was shaped like a golden dragon, its serpentine body coiled around his head, its bright ruby eyes peering out at Ru from beside his left temple as he looked up at her. His hand went reflexively to his belt, as if reaching for a weapon, but he lacked the militant aspect of the others, and didn’t seem anxious to fight. Not from Shenshido, she guessed. Not a victim of the terrible paranoia that had possessed this station, but someone from the outside, like she was. Maybe even sane.
“There’s no smell,” he whispered hoarsely.
Startled, she stared at him without comprehension.
He tipped up the box he was kneeling in front of, so she could look inside. “See?” He shook it slightly. “It should smell, but it doesn’t!”
She leaned forward to peer into the box.
It was empty.
Hell, she thought. Her mind and body were numb from exhaustion. So much for sanity.
* * *
They hunger to kill, Micah thought.
Crouched in the hidden staging area, waiting for action, his legs as tired as his spirit, Micah studied his companions. Three men and one woman. They had all been normal people once, working at normal jobs, facing normal life challenges, just like him. Now they were something else: creatures whose eyes were alight not only with excitement and fear, but with something else, primitive and terrible. Bloodlust. What could transform a normal person into that? Micah knew the story of this place in words—they’ve been fighting for two years, constantly afraid, constantly desperate—but deep inside, on a visceral level, he had no real understanding. He could not imagine the circumstances under which his own essence would transform like that.
There hadn’t been enough working coms for Micah to have his own—or perhaps they just didn’t trust him with one—but the woman in his group, Leila, took hers from her ear and turned up the volume so that he could listen in on everyone’s chatter. The reception was terrible, but that was to be expected, since they were sending their signals through the tech-caverns, old style. If they used the innernet instead they would have perfect clarity, but they’d also be vulnerable to having their messaging hijacked. Since no one knew what kind of hacking skill the exos had, it seemed best not to risk it.
With all the static it was hard to tell which voice belonged to whom, much less hear all they were saying.
. . . nothing on screen yet.
. . . sure they’re coming?
. . . not working right.
. . . they need supplies.
. . . they’ll come, they’ll come.
Hours had passed. Hours would continue pass. He couldn’t call up one of his projects to work on, to kill time, because then he might miss some crucial instruction arising from the sea of static.
But when those words finally came, they were clear enough.
They’re here.
The others in the staging area rose to their feet, drawing their weapons. Two of the men were grinning. So anxious to kill. In a way that was more frightening than the thought of battle.
. . . how many?
. . . motion sensors say eighteen.
. . . so all of them.
. . . looks like it.
. . . Damn. This really is Armageddon.
Laughter: callous, blood-hungry. It was doubly harsh filtered through the static.
. . . now?
. . . No. Wait for my signal. We need them all to be past the chokepoint, so no one gets away.
Seconds passed.
. . . two just split off, a voice said.
. . . where?
. . . They’re going into one of the access rooms. A pause. Shit. I think they’ve found the portal.
Should we attack? a woman’s voice demanded.
. . . Negative. The others aren’t in position yet. We can’t tip our hand so early. Try a distraction instead.
Crackling and popping, sans voices.
. . . took the bait . . . back in the corridor now . . . moving forward again . . . go?
. . . wait for my signal.
. . . nearing the chokepoint now.
. . . what about the others?
. . . forward scouts have reached the cache. Others close behind.
More laughter: cruel, hungry.
. . . those two strays are entering Apollo now . . .
“Sorry,” the woman whispered to Micah, as she clipped the com back onto her ear. A moment later, all four of his companions were in motion. Micah stepped back quickly to get out of their way, stumbling over a severed pipe. By the time he had his balance again they had reached the secret door and swung it open, and were rushing through. The same was happening up and down the line, he knew: warriors bursting from the walls in a dozen strategic locations, taking the exos by surprise, cutting off every possible escape. He’d designed enough ambush scenarios for his games to know how deadly such a plan could be, if executed properly.
Noises could be heard coming from the world outside the tunnels. Cries, crashes, the soundtrack of war. His hand closed on the grip of the plasteel baton they had given him. It wasn’t the world’s most sophisticated weapon—they’d wanted to reserve the best ones for their own people—but it was better than nothing.
You wanted to see battle, an inner voice whispered. So go. See.
He stepped through the secret opening warily, into a large room filled with banks of machinery. The noises were louder now and seemed to be coming in through an open door at the far end of the room. He edged toward it, listened for a moment longer, then peered around the edge.
His companions had engaged the enemy some distance down the corridor outside. People were massed together so closely it was hard for him to make out details of the fight, but he saw flashes of masked faces, weapons swinging and blood spattering and bodies falling . . . there were cries of rage and pain, hate and fear. The chaos was both repellent and compelling, and he felt himself drawn to it, hungry to see the action more clearly. This was what he’d come for, right?
Suddenly someone in the center of the fight threw a fist-sized object at the ceiling. When it hit, it shattered, releasing red dust that rained down upon the battle. Micah took a few steps back as he watched, wary of getting too close to it. Some of Serjit’s people started gagging and coughing. Then more of them. Then all of them. Some tried to escape the dust cloud that had enveloped the group, but the few exos who were still alive, bloody apparitions in masks and goggles, cut them down. Micah watched in horror for a moment, then began to back away, more and more rapidly. The red cloud was spreading beyond the battle, and since the station’s environmental control kept the air circulating, it would reach him soon.