Dead Space: Martyr (17 page)

“Proceed as planned,” said Markoff. “I’m having the station towed into position now. It’s a slow process, but it’ll get there. We can start on salvage operations for the submarine and take steps to prepare the object for extraction in the meantime.”

“We still split the profits down the middle?”

“Right down the middle,” said Markoff. “But profits are hardly the point. Six months from now, we may well be the two most powerful men in the world.” He gave Small a cold smile. “Think about that while you’re drinking your coffee.”

31

They ordered their beers at the counter and took them to a table in the back, all four of them: Showalter, Ramirez, Skud, and Altman. It was isolated enough that there was little danger of being overheard, and from where they were sitting, Showalter and Ramirez could keep an eye on the front door, Skud and Altman on the back door.

“So, it’s gone,” said Altman. “The signal pulse has stopped.”

Skud made a face. “I would not say it has stopped,” he said. “I would only say that
perhaps
it has stopped.
Perhaps
it has only become so attenuated as to be undetectable to our instruments.”

“That’s as good as stopped,” said Ramirez. “It has the same effect.”

“But it is not the same thing,” said Skud.

“All right, Skud,” said Altman. “Point taken. The first question is what does it mean that we can no longer detect the signal?”

Nobody said anything.

“The anomaly is still there,” said Altman. “At least last I checked.”

“Yes,” said Showalter. “It’s still there.”

“Sure, there’s currently no signal, but it could simply be part of a larger pattern yet to be determined,” said Skud.

“Well said, Skud,” said Altman. “So, the signal has stopped, we don’t know if this is permanent or temporary. We also don’t know why.”

“We may never know why,” said Ramirez.

Showalter and Skud began to argue with him, in muted whispers. Altman waved his hands to silence them.

“The real question is, Do we move forward now that the signal has died?”

The other three stared at him. “What do you mean by ‘move forward’?” Showalter asked.

“Until now we’ve been investigating quietly, covering our tracks. Now DredgerCorp has made a public arrangement to dig down to the center of the crater, ostensibly to rescue their submarine. No doubt while they’re there, they’ll investigate whatever it is that lies at the heart of the crater.”

Skud made a noncommittal grunt.

“DredgerCorp has come out into the open. Or rather, they’ve pretended to come out into the open. Is it time for us to do the same?”

“What?” said Ramirez. “What do you mean? You want us to knock on DredgerCorp’s door and say ‘Excuse me, we’ve been observing you and we don’t think you’re being entirely honest’? Sounds to me like a good way to get killed.”

“I don’t mean that,” said Altman. “I mean we go public. The four of us together write up a rigorous and well-reasoned proposal to the North American Sector Science Foundation to investigate the crater. We cite the gravity anomaly and the pulse signal, perhaps even say something about the broadcast from the
submarine. We call for a public, government-sponsored excavation of the center of the Chicxulub crater.”

They sat together silent for a moment, nursing their beers, except for Skud, who had almost immediately finished his.

“What if they say no?” asked Showalter.

“Then we start approaching other granting organizations. We submit the proposal to as many places as possible, at once trying to get funding and trying to make sure that as many people as possible know about the pulse signal and the anomaly. Someone is sure to begin questioning DredgerCorp’s motives. At the very least, they’ll have to operate on a shorter leash.”

“It could be like stirring up a nest of hornets,” said Ramirez.

“Maybe,” said Altman. “We won’t know until we start stirring. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe, God forbid, we will put ourselves in jeopardy. But maybe we’ll find ourselves in a position to figure out what’s at the bottom of that damned crater.” He took a sip of his beer. “Who is with me?”

The other three looked at one another. Skud was the first to raise his hand. “I am with you,” he said. Ramirez followed. Showalter hesitated for a long time and then finally nodded his head.

“Very good, gentlemen,” said Altman. “Let’s get to work.”

PART FOUR
THE DESCENT

32

He was asleep, having nightmares again. He was running in a strange pressurized suit, through narrow, bleak halls. Part of him knew it was a nightmare for a while, but knowing that didn’t seem to help him control it, and gradually he forgot it wasn’t real. Something was pursuing him, something with strange tusks in the place of hands and horns sprouting at the joints of its limbs. Its body looked like it had had its skin flayed off. Or even worse, like someone had taken a human skeleton and pressed raw hamburger to it. The bottom half of its face was falling apart. Its eyes gleamed yellow, glittering and burning.

He realized he had some kind of weapon: a gun that sent out a whirling blade projected on a beam of light. He kept turning around and firing the thing, watching it cut with a grating sound through the creature’s legs, spraying blood and gore all over. Its legs were gone, but it still kept coming, posting the tips of its tusks against the ground and dragging itself forward, moaning. He cut off its arms and then its head, and finally it stopped.

Thank God,
he thought, and wiped the blood off his face.

He had started to turn away when he heard something behind him. The creature was still writhing, flopping this way and
that,
changing
. With a wet sound, it sprouted new arms and legs. It clambered up, roaring, and was after him again.

Screaming, he turned and ran.

“Bad dreams?” asked the man beside his bed. He was a large man with a square jaw and white hair, dressed in the dark uniform of military intelligence. He was regarding Altman with a steady, aloof gaze. To either side of him were two even larger men who looked like they might be twins, dressed in street clothes. At a little distance was another man, smaller and wearing glasses. He looked vaguely familiar, but Altman couldn’t quite place him.

“Where am I?” asked Altman.

“You’re in your house,” said the military man. “In Chicxulub.”

“Where’s Ada?”

“You’re girlfriend? She’s not here. She’s safe.”

“What do you mean, safe?” asked Altman, starting to get out of the bed.

The man raised a finger. Calmly but forcefully the twins to either side of him took Altman by the arms and lowered him back onto the bed, holding him down until he had stopped struggling.

Warily, Altman eyed them. “What are you doing here?” he asked the military man.

He made a gesture and the other two let go and stepped back. “I came to see you,” he said.

“And who are you?”

“Markoff,” he said. “Craig Markoff.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” said Altman.

“No,” said Markoff. “It doesn’t.”

“And who are they?” he asked, gesturing to the other three men.

Markoff looked left and right. “These?” he said. “These are my new associates.” The man with the glasses gave a smirk. “Tim, Tom, and Terry.”

“Which one is which?”

“Does it matter?” asked Markoff.

“Look,” said Altman, “you can’t just break in here like this. You have no right to be here. I’m going to call the police.”

Markoff just smiled. When Altman reached for his phone, he said, “Tom? Tim?”

The twins moved slowly forward. One of them put his hand on Altman’s wrist and squeezed until he dropped the phone. The other punched him once, softly, almost lovingly, in the side.

He fell back on the bed, gasping. Tim and Tom wandered back behind Markoff, watching Altman struggle to catch his breath.

When he had calmed down, Markoff said, “Feeling better, are we? Would you like a drink of water?”

Altman shook his head. Markoff snapped his fingers, and the man with the glasses tossed Altman a shirt and a pair of pants.

“You’re in the right frame of mind now,” said Markoff. “Get dressed. We’re going to have a little talk.”

A few minutes later, he was sitting across the kitchen table from Markoff, the other three standing next to the doors leading in and out of the room.

“It’s very simple,” said Markoff. “You filed a grant to investigate Chicxulub crater.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” argued Altman. “That’s what scientists do.”

“I’ve already spoken to your friends,” said Markoff. “Or, rather, my associates have. We’ve determined that the person motivating this grant application was you.”

“So?”

Markoff gave him a cold look. “Don’t get cocky. If I have to, I’ll have Tim break your arm,” he said.

“Or Tom,” said one of the twins from where he stood near the doorway.

“Or Tom,” said Markoff. He turned and looked at the twin. “Don’t worry, Tom. He has two arms. Enough to go around.” Then he turned back to Altman, looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” Altman said.

“That’s better,” said Markoff. “Your proposal for investigating the crater has been pulled from the grant proposal pool. It is now classified. The investigation of Chicxulub crater has become a military matter.”

“So, I was right,” said Altman.

“About what?” asked Markoff.

“You’re not just trying to retrieve the submarine. You’re trying to get at whatever is in the crater.”

“You’re a clever boy,” said Markoff. “Maybe too clever for your own good. The reason I’m here is to find out how much you know and evaluate whether you would be a valuable member of our team. If you are, I am prepared to allow you to join us—in a limited capacity, of course. If not, I’ll have to figure out something else to do with you.”

“What do you mean by ‘something else’?”

Markoff shrugged. “Could be ship you back to your own sector. Could be having you put in confinement for as long as it takes us to complete the project. Could be something a bit more
serious.” Behind him, the twins exchanged glances and smiled. “I suppose, Mr. Altman, that it’s up to you.” Markoff straightened in his chair, put both his hands palm down on the table. “Well, Mr. Altman, shall we begin?”

Markoff started off slow.

“How did you first realize there was something unusual going on in the crater?”

“I detected a gravity anomaly.”

“It wasn’t the pulse signal?”

Altman shook his head. “The pulse signal came later.”

“Who told you about the pulse signal?”

Altman hesitated, tempted to lie, and then he realized it didn’t matter: Hammond was dead.

And then, suddenly it clicked: he knew where he had seen the man with the glasses.

“Charles Hammond told me,” he said. “I believe your associates knew him.”

Markoff looked back at Terry. The latter hesitated a moment, nodded.

“But we didn’t kill him,” said Tim.

“No, we didn’t kill him,” said Tom.

“No talking shop here, boys,” said Markoff. “Terry, why don’t you take Tim and Tom and wait for me outside?”

The three of them quietly left the room.

“How do I know you are who you say you are?” asked Altman.

Markoff turned back, his gaze steady. “I wondered when you were going to get around to that. Either I am or I’m not,” he said. “If I am, then it’ll be worth your while to cooperate if it will get you on the expedition. If I’m not, then there’s very little you
can do about it. Whether you tell me the truth or not, you’re probably in trouble either way. Tell me . . . what do you think you know?”

It’s a reasonable enough gamble,
thought Altman.
I know that DredgerCorp is working with the military to salvage the submarine, so chances are he is what he says he is. The trick is knowing how to tell him enough to get him to bring me aboard on the project, but not so much that he thinks he’s already gotten all he can out of me, that he doesn’t need me anymore.

He took a deep breath. “I’d guess there’s something in the heart of the crater,” said Altman. “Not a natural phenomenon, but something else.”

“Go on,” said Markoff.

“Considering its location, it must have been there a very long time.”

“How long?”

“It might have been there thousands of years. Or even longer.”

“Why do you think so?”

“The Yucatec Maya have a kind of mythology surrounding it. They call it the tail of the devil.”

He saw a gleam of something in Markoff’s eye. “You’ve told me something I didn’t know, Altman,” he said. “How did you find this out?”

“I’ll give you more details if you bring me in on the project.”

Markoff nodded, his lips tight. “I’ll let you get away with that, for a few minutes, anyway. What do
you
think it is?” he asked.

“I have no fucking idea,” said Altman.

“There’s no room on the team for someone who doesn’t have imagination. What do you think it could be?”

Altman looked down at the tabletop, at his hands resting
clasped together on it, at Markoff’s hands still palm down on the other side. “I thought at first it might be a relic from some ancient civilization, but . . . I’ve thought a lot about it,” he said, “and the only other thing I can come up with frightens me.” He looked up, met Markoff’s gaze. “An object, sending a pulse signal from the center of a vast crater, perhaps buried since the creation of the crater thousands or hundreds of thousands, even millions, of years ago. What if it wasn’t an asteroid that made the crater but the object itself, striking the earth?”

Markoff nodded.

“Which suggests that it was something that came from outer space,” said Altman. “Which in turn suggests that it was something sent here by intelligent life outside of our galaxy.”

“Which raises the question of why it was transmitting,” said Markoff.

“And who it was transmitting to,” said Altman. “And what.”