“So I guess we’re heroes now,” Boffin said, killing the sound as the broadcast looped back to the beginning and started to replay Prime Minister Pepper’s rousing address to New Albion.
Tom Moran looked out of the comms tower window at the Union Flag, soaked by rain and wrapped around the antenna they’d flown it from. Not exactly fluttering in the breeze of a new dawn, but he supposed the rhetoric was more important than the reality.
“How long are we going to have to stay on this rock?” Teesha Bromley said, using a fork to dig into a can of peaches. “We’re traders, not soldiers. It’s not up to us to hold a whole goddamn colony.”
“That’s not our main concern,” Moran said, and he called up the schematic map of the colony on the central hub. “What’s bothering me right now is Boffin’s seventeen life forms. That means a clutch of people survived whatever happened here, and they are hidden away somewhere. Which could cause us lots of problems.”
“Especially if they’re the ones responsible for those corpses,” Mir said. “What happened here? Did half of them go insane and slaughter the rest? The way those bodies were mutilated…” She shuddered visibly.
“The army will be on its way from New Albion,” Moran replied. “Then it won’t be our problem. We can get the hell off here.”
“The Duke of Wellingtons,” Mir said in disgust. “Bunch of weekend warriors. You’d have thought New Albion might have developed a proper military before, oh, you know, declaring war on the rest of the bloody universe.”
“That’s certainly unpatriotic,” Priestley said, joining Moran at the control hub. “Our boys are as good as anyone’s. The Duke of Wellingtons are a fine body of men and women.”
Ignoring them, Moran pointed to the map. “So we’re here, on the east side. There’s the landing platform. Under here is the fusion reactor that keeps this place going. There’s two klicks of corridors, labs, recreation facilities and living quarters between here and the west side, where the canteen, stores and command deck are.” He moved his finger south. “These must be the oil and ore storage tanks. How are they accessible? Tunnels?”
“I think you have to go overground,” Priestley said. “You thinking that’s where the last colonists are, guv?”
Moran nodded. “Want to go check it out? See what the situation is? Not to the actual tanks, just to this area here… looks like it might be a dispatch point. There are probably buggies, or maybe fliers. Take the pulse rifle.”
“And what if I find anyone?” Priestley said.
Moran looked at the others, then at the Yorkshireman. They’d already killed one survivor, albeit by accident. Seventeen more accidents… that would take a bit more explaining. But the Prime Minister had already declared LV-187 deserted and claimed by New Albion. Moran held Priestley’s gaze for a long time.
“Best of British to you, Frank.”
* * *
Priestley set off along the corridor that connected the comms tower to the main colony buildings, the pulse rifle slung over his shoulder. Boffin was working on getting the power back up to full capacity, which couldn’t happen soon enough. The metal and glass thoroughfare was lit by dull striplights in the ceiling, which barely illuminated the scattered corpses splayed out in his path.
The majority of the dead were at this end of the colony. God knew what had happened here. Frenchies. Priestley shook his head. Who could tell what they’d got up to? Probably had some bad frogs’ legs or something, and all went crazy.
Priestley whistled tunelessly as he rounded a bend that took him past a series of research labs. He stopped and peered through one of the glass doors at the benches and computers. They’d lucked out with this place, the Frenchies. Little old turd of a planet, but must be ninety bloody percent oil below the surface.
Something caught his eye in the room and he tried the door, which easily swung open. In the middle of the tiled floor was what looked like… He squatted down in front of it. Looked like a burn hole, like something had gone straight through into the warren of maintenance conduits below. He poked at the hole with his finger; it was hard, like lava that had set. Priestley glanced up and saw that directly above him was another hole. Whatever had made it had burned through the ceiling and straight through this floor.
Some kind of… acid?
There was a sudden clatter, and Priestley jumped up and whirled round, the pulse rifle off his shoulder and in his hands. He scanned the gloomy lab. On one of the benches a plastic beaker was rolling gently, as though it had been knocked over.
“Who’s there?” he said loudly. “Come on out, it’s alright, I won’t hurt you.”
There was no sound. Priestley moved cautiously forward. Unlike the others, he relished this. He’d already applied to join the Duke of Wellingtons, and was waiting for the call for an interview so he could sack off all this trader malarkey and do some proper work for the glory of New Albion. With him being a bona fide hero and all, he might even get a commission straight off the bat. “Sergeant Priestley” had a nice ring to it.
A sudden flash of movement at the periphery of his vision had Priestley whirling around and letting loose a short, sharp blast from the rifle. A computer terminal exploded in a shower of sparks and plastic. He shielded his eyes and peered at the smoking wreckage, but there was nothing. He hadn’t imagined it, though. Frank Priestley wasn’t given over to imagination and fancy. Something had moved.
“Come out now,” he said firmly. “Or it’ll be bad for you. You’ve seen I’m no slouch with this thing. Next shot’ll be between your eyes.”
Apart from the faint fizzing of the striplights above him, there was silence. Priestley pivoted on his heel, doing a full three-sixty survey of the lab. Then he noticed the big glass tank on the far wall, fractured at one end, revealing a gaping hole in the glass.
He went over to investigate. Straw was scattered on the bottom and drinks tubes attached to the sides. In the middle were two very dead white rats. Lab rodents. These had died of starvation, probably. The glass had been broken somehow, and one or more had got out. He sighed and relaxed.
Just a bloody rat. There was a skittering sound behind him. Priestley turned and smiled into the empty gloom. “As you were, Ratty. I’ll not waste rifle charges on you. I’ve got bigger game to hunt.”
He let himself out of the lab and continued along the corridor, then stopped dead. There was something ahead of him, close to the intersection of another corridor that ran across his. Something he’d been pretty sure hadn’t been there before he went into the lab.
Priestley raised his rifle, and advanced.
* * *
Merrilyn had not slept a wink during the night. When the ship had arrived, she’d led Therese cautiously and silently along the dim corridors to the garage where the colony’s vehicles were housed. She had no idea how the creatures operated, whether they were nocturnal or active during the day, whether they even slept at all. She didn’t know if they could smell her or hear her or sensed her brainwaves or her heart beating. All she knew was that if they met one of them—and she had no idea how many they actually numbered—then they were dead.
The canteen wasn’t viable because she knew the newcomers would make their way to it eventually, probably in search of supplies. The death of François might have been an accident, but she couldn’t take the risk—not until she knew more about these people. Not with Therese to think about.
In the garage bay there was an array of vehicles, including some big old armored trucks with huge solid rubber wheels which were used for negotiating the rocky landscape in search of new oil and ore deposits. At first Merrilyn had an idea that they might get out of the hub altogether, escape to the far side of the planet, and wait it out there. But she hadn’t taken enough supplies, so when she crept into the garage and located one of the big trucks, she decided that they would spend the night in the cab—surely it would offer protection—and then if the coast was clear, head back to the canteen to grab as much food and water as she could.
She’d probably have to wait until the night again, when the crew of that ship were hopefully asleep, before rolling out of the hub and heading off into the wilderness.
Surely somebody else was on their way. Surely the ICSC was sending someone to find out why LV-187 had gone dark. Surely help must come soon.
They just had to survive long enough.
These were the thoughts that occupied her mind all night as Therese snuggled against her under a pile of blankets in the cab of the truck. Merrilyn constantly scanned the dark garage, looking for a telltale movement, the whipping of a tail, the reflection of the dim striplight off a shining black carapace. There was nothing, but every time she tried to close her eyes she saw images of the things, their rapacious slaughter of the colonists in a melee of blood and screams. So she didn’t really try to sleep, just held Therese close.
She didn’t know why—there was no logic to it, and she was a scientist, so she chided herself for the thought—but she felt that the daylight hours, such as they were on LV-187, were safer from the creatures. At least she hoped so. Of course, now she had the humans to deal with, but if the worst came to the worst, at least she could try to negotiate with the ship’s crew, bargaining for their lives. The monsters didn’t have a better nature to which she could appeal. She had seen the colony’s pastor try, as though they were just another type of God’s creatures.
She would never forget seeing Father Henry’s face ripped off.
* * *
Merrilyn wanted to leave Therese in the cab of the truck while she went for supplies, but the child refused point blank, and she didn’t have the heart to insist. If something did happen to her out there, the thought of her Little Flower sitting there alone, waiting for her mama to return when she never would, broke her heart.
So. Cautiously. Quietly. Slowly.
Retracing their steps from the garage to the canteen, where she saw evidence that the crew had already been rifling through the cupboards and fridges. Merrilyn filled her bag with the remaining tins and bottles and then led Therese back toward the garage. They were almost there when Therese suddenly gasped and pulled her hand free of Merrilyn’s.
“Pinky Ponk!” Therese whispered, pointing back to the intersection of two corridors, where the soft toy lay. She must have dropped it.
“No!” Merrilyn whispered fiercely as Therese set off at a run for the toy, but it was too late. Merrilyn swore, hitched her bag higher on her back, and ran after her.
* * *
It was some kind of child’s toy, Priestley realized as he walked toward it, and it had definitely not been there when he was walking down the corridor before. Which meant…
And then the child it belonged to, a small, dark-haired girl of about six, he estimated, skidded from the corridor branching off to the left, looking first at her toy and then, wide-eyed, at Priestley.
She was followed by a slim, long-haired woman in her thirties, wearing fatigues and a vest, with a stuffed pack on her back. The woman gaped at him.
“S’il vous plaît, ne blessez ma fille!”
“You’ll have to speak English, love,” Priestley said calmly, though he got the idea of what she was on about. “Name’s Frank Priestley of the New Albion trade ship Victory.” He paused, and then lied, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Thank you,” the woman said in English. “My name is Merrilyn Hambleton and this is my daughter Therese. We must get off the colony at once. You are all in grave danger.”
“No can do, love.” Frank smiled and shook his head. “We’ve claimed it for New Albion, you see. We’re just waiting for the military to arrive to relieve us.”
The woman, Merrilyn, frowned. She was quite fetching when she did that. Little button nose.
“Claimed? This is an ICSC colony. But that doesn’t matter now. Your ship is flight-worthy? We need to leave. Now.”
“What exactly went on here?” Priestley said. “Why did you lot kill each other like that? Did you all go bonkers? That famous Gallic hot-headedness?” He had to admit, she was a bit of a looker, this Merrilyn. The guv hadn’t said anything about not having a bit of fun before he took care of any survivors he might meet. He’d have to off the kiddie first, though. He wasn’t going to make her watch.
It wasn’t as if Frank Priestley was some kind of monster.
“Oh, mon Dieu…” Merrilyn whispered, pulling the child close to her.
“I said English, love,” Priestley said, wondering whether he should just do it in the corridor or find a nice quiet room, when he suddenly felt a chill. The hairs on his neck stood up.
Something wet and viscous dripped on to his shoulder and he turned his head, looking right into the face of a demon.
It was suspended from the roof-space above the corridor, held there by a thick, prehensile tail. It was like a black, skeletal insect, but would have been taller than him if it stood on its muscular legs. Its head was a distended, shining dome with a gaping mouth and rows of vicious, dripping teeth.
“What. The. Fuck?” Priestley said slowly. He felt a warmth in his pants and dimly realized he had pissed himself. Vaguely aware of the woman and child fleeing back the way they’d come, he couldn’t think of what he should say or do. All he could manage was to gaze into that gaping maw like an animal entranced by a cobra.
Then something emerged from the mouth, a muscular, thick… tongue? Limb? His mind failed to cope with what he was seeing. It was shedding words and thoughts and memories and just filling his head with one single thought.
Run.
But it was too late. The thick tongue had a mouth of its own on the end, which opened and hissed, as strong, clawed hands gripped his shoulders and he felt himself hauled off his feet. Needle-sharp teeth sank into his face and with his final breath Frank Priestley began to beg for a quick death.