The Candyman kept trying to engage him in banter about Pop and Lara while they loaded the drop-ship, but Jess ignored the efforts. He wasn’t in the mood for Pulaski’s juvenile humor, at least not at the moment. There was a glitch in the systems program that wouldn’t let him get a solid read on the shuttle’s plenum temp, and it was starting to piss him off; they were almost ready, lives were at stake, and this machine had gone and decided to play “insufficient data” on his ass.
Jess punched in the program mark again and cursed. The piece of shit was pathetic, it was shit; in fact, he wanted to smash the monitor’s stupid fuckin’ blinking head in, and as soon as he realized that, he realized how much stress he had been under lately.
It had taken him a long time to learn how to handle his temper; all his life, he’d been angry about something, and that aimless rage had led him to nothing but trouble. It had taken prison and a shitload of psychology tapes to develop some control, and he wasn’t about to let it fuck things up for him now; angry men didn’t think, and the team couldn’t afford that.
Jess took a deep breath and blew it out slow, tightly gripping the edges of the stand-up console until he relaxed. He looked at the screen again with a clear head and saw the problem, human error, he’d mixed up a line, transposing a three and an eight. He fixed it and the check was finished, all systems go.
“Teape, you’re wobbling. Adjust your helmet,” said. Pop, his voice echoing dully through the wide, empty drop bay. Except for the armored aerotransport they were prepping and a single loader strapped to one wall, the large-capacity bay was barren and cold. Maybe it was the cavernous space, but Pop sounded a lot less buddy-buddy than he had in front of Sturges.
…can you say halle-looya, amen.
Teape cinched his chin strap and went back to putting on his gloves, looking a little better than he had earlier; Jess was relieved. Teape had gotten some color back in his face since they’d been briefed. He still looked haggard, just not as… distant.
Chocolate-scented breath blew across his face. “Sounds like our commander and lieutenant had a li’l knockdown, don’cha think? And Lara stomped him, right?”
Jess smiled and looked up from the console, still amazed at just how huge the Candyman was. Persistent, too; Pulaski wasn’t smart enough to take a hint.
“I gotta say yes to that,” he answered, but quietly; the shipwide was open. The fact that their supervisors had been screwing didn’t shock him all that much—perky young tech and older pilot, no news there. It was Pop trying to slip off Lara’s duties that had surprised him; Jess had never figured Pop for the romantic type. Though if he’d read the signals right, Lara had most certainly kicked Pop’s ass for it the second the team had walked out. Even Pulaski had it scoped; now that was funny.
Pulaski grinned and nodded to Teape, who walked over.
“Any thoughts on the topic of love gone bad, Teepee?”
Teape smiled weakly and leaned against the ship. “Not really. Let’s just hope they didn’t have some kind of a suicide pact worked out.”
Jess laughed softly, and Pulaski was still chuckling when Lara came on deck, fitting her helmet over a short ponytail. She joined them, handing her tool pack over to Teape for loading.
In spite of a warning glance from Jess, the Candyman smirked down at Lara and dropped his voice to a whisper.
“Didja give that dog the boot?”
Lara’s light skin flushed slightly but she played along, having to lean back to meet Pulaski’s gaze. “What dog is that?”
Pulaski chortled. “That dog that tried to keep you from kickin’ some ass with the big boys,” he whispered loudly.
Lara didn’t blink. “Oh. And where would they be?”
Pulaski cracked up, and Jess couldn’t help a grin; nicely done. He liked her, a lot more than he liked Pop just lately.
“Switch to remotes, people,” echoed Pop. “I’m not reading ya’ll too good up here. Let’s get on board, I want countdown in two.”
Lara and Pulaski followed Teape into the small belly of the transport, basically an APC with wings and less “comfort” for passengers; it only seated six. More room for Max, but Jess was fairly certain they wouldn’t be using him at all this time around; there was a good chance that this would be a nuke-from-distance, and they all knew it. For now, though, they were going in blind to a two-week infestation.
Jess flipped the console panel closed and climbed on board, sealing the door behind him. He just hoped that they weren’t walking into the heart of the hive.
* * *
Ellis sat alone in the lab, watching the Nemesis air lock seal and filter from one of the bay’s cameras. The Company’s security modifications for volunteer ships included coded locks on every door and video hookups in every conceivable place. Although the info was piped directly to ops, any secured terminal on board could access the surveillance.
Pop’s voice suddenly blared over the intercom. “No Max, no duties. You’re off, Ellis. I’ll call you if we need you.”
“Yes, sir—” The ’com clicked off before he could ask to come up and watch from ops; great. He’d just fuck right off then, was that okay?
He sighed. Why did Pop Izzard dislike him so much? He hadn’t been incompetent or disrespectful, but Pop had treated him as though he’d come on board to screw things up and then laugh about it. Like he was somehow intruding on Pop’s territory.
Maybe it had something to do with Lara; he’d overheard the start of an argument after the team had been briefed, having to do with Pop’s trying to assign her duty over to Jess. Ellis wasn’t sure why exactly, but he got the impression that their relationship was a little more involved than either of them had let on. Maybe Pop just didn’t like her paying attention to anyone else.
Ellis frowned. He liked Lara, but thought of her as a supervisor more than anything; she hadn’t come across as though she were attracted to him, either. On the other hand, Pop was kind of an asshole, and assholes didn’t generally bother with logic when it came to stuff like that.
Ellis had plenty of experience with the asshole type, growing up the smallest kid in his community. His own father had been kind of like Pop, bluff and macho to the point of ridiculousness, a hands-on machine tech who believed that men shouldn’t cry and women stayed at home; the shame of fathering a small and physically weak boy had made him an overbearing brute, patronizing and sarcastic. He had pushed his thin and awkward son to fight his tormentors at school and then shaken his head sadly when he came home bruised and afraid…
And look at you now, Brian, still shying away from battle like a cowering little rabbit. Using a man in a suit to feel like a man yourself…
Ellis shook his head of his father’s voice. Jack Ellis had been dead from a massive coronary for over six years; he hadn’t even been around to see his son shoot up to an average height in his last year of high school—but Ellis knew that that’s what he would have said. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t true, but he felt the same useless frustration he’d felt growing up, trying to defend himself against the embarrassing remarks and cruel, red-faced distance…
He powered off the monitor and went to Max’s room, thinking about his childhood and the decisions that led him to working with synthetics. It had started as a fascination with the programming of “artificial” people, but hadn’t he been intrigued by their physical power, too?
Ellis walked into the cold space and sat at the edge of Max’s table, studying the formidable countenance of the silent machine. He had enjoyed operating Max, there was no question. And there wasn’t much of a doubt about where it had come from, the desire to be powerful; he’d suffered a lifetime of feeling weak, of being told that he was hopelessly incapable of aggressive behavior.
But I’m not using anyone; he’s a volunteer, an antisocial, and it’s the Company that owns the copyright, not me….
Now who sounded like Izzard?
The drop-shuttle was probably docked by now, but he didn’t want to watch with Pop—and actually, he didn’t think he wanted to watch at all anymore. Ellis frowned thoughtfully and stared at Max for a long time, wondering about the man inside and about what strength really was.
* * *
Pop deftly maneuvered the Nemesis toward the bay marked “B-3,” responding to Lara’s directions with efficient ease. They paused in front of the dock for Jess to trip the air lock with a slender mechanical arm, getting it on the first try; the four thick lock panels slid away, revealing a bay much smaller than Lara had expected, empty and apparently in order.
Air lock sealed, sensors checked and cleared, they stepped out into the smell of machine lube and recycled dust. The station’s backup system was on, lights cut down, and the air decidedly stale. Lara could feel the pulse jump in her throat as they checked weapons, hoping that the command center hadn’t been taken early on.
Jess looked at Lara, who motioned in front of them with one gloved hand, “your show.” Jess smiled and stepped in front of her, seeming calm and in control. Lara had admired that cool capability more than once, and although he was technically supposed to defer to her, she was fine with letting him lead. This was his crew.
“Dropping relay,” said Lara, and she placed a receiver next to the high doorframe, activating the lock.
“Relay check,” said Jess.
“Check.” Teape was flushed and sweating, eyes wide— anxious, but not like the pale and trembling demeanor that accompanied infiltration.
“Check!” Pulaski grinned and adjusted his harness, eager as always. The Candyman was wearing an M56 setup, the automatic weapon mounted to his chest and hip armor by a stabilized articulation arm; if they were attacked in a wave, Pulaski would be in heaven.
“Coming through clear as a bell, over,” said Pop.
Lara grit her teeth against all thoughts of Eric and unslung her own M41, reflexively setting the rifle to four-round burst with her thumb. She hadn’t hit a sim range in over six months but had always been comfortable with weapons, expert capacity throughout training. Still, she should have practiced more recently; she’d gotten lazy.
Teape checked the tracker and shook his head. “Got nothin’.”
Lara breathed deeply and stayed ready.
“Opening internal door, over,” said Jess. He tapped the control panel and stepped back.
The tall doors parted with a soft hiss and revealed a polished, silent corridor, easily lit by soft yellow light. Nothing moved, no shadows; it would have seemed like a perfectly normal station corridor except for the dark, chunky mess about halfway down its length and the smell that washed over them in a warm and humid wave.
Jess pointed position and Teape took the lead with the sensor, flanked by Jess and Pulaski; Lara brought up the rear, sliding sideways up the hall, already knowing that she didn’t want to look; the stink was violent.
“Looks like you can start that body count, Pop,” said Jess.
Lara swallowed dryly and looked down at what was left of a human being, lying in the rotting dark mush that was his or her entrails. One leg was missing, torn off above the knee; the other had been stripped of flesh and muscle, the dried sinews hanging like black fibrous threads from the skeletonized limb. The corpse’s midsection simply wasn’t there, the shriveled hands clawing up from a tacky puddle of almost black decay. The faceless skull grinned at them, flaps of striated muscle drying on the bones.
Teape’s tracker suddenly ticked to life and they all tensed, turning away from the stripped human and raising arms. Teape turned and pointed with the tracker at a closed elevator door a few meters down the hall.
“Multiple readings here, small—”
Jess raised his weapon. “Lara, get the controls.”
She moved quickly to the door, heart pounding as the team trained their rifles in line, Pulaski at the center. Adrenaline coursed through every part of her, psyching her up for the fight.
She flipped the override and put her finger on the release. Jess took a deep breath and nodded. Lara hit the. button and jumped away, spinning to target—
—as dozens of face-huggers leapt and skittered out of the open shaft and the team let loose in a blaze of explosive fire.