Dead Space: Martyr (28 page)

He put a vidlink through to Krax. From how quickly he answered, it was clear he’d been waiting beside the monitor for the call.

“You’ve had a chance to look over the data?” Krax asked.

“Yes,” said Markoff. “What is your recommendation, Officer Krax?”

“An unequivocal refusal to meet any of their demands. Once we begin to do so, we’ll never stop. They’re crazies. They shouldn’t be tolerated.”

“It won’t end there,” said Markoff.

“Maybe not,” said Krax, “but we have the firepower and they don’t.”

“All right,” said Markoff, “see to it.”

Two days later, Krax had a call from one of the guards in the Marker chamber.

“It’s the scientists, sir,” he said. Krax could hear a steady rumble of noise in the background. “They’re protesting. They won’t leave the chamber.”

“Make them leave,” said Krax.

“It’s not as easy as that,” said the guard. “There are a lot of them. We’ve had to call for reinforcements. What should we do?”

“Don’t do anything until I get there,” said Krax, and disconnected.

By the time Krax and his team reached the chamber, things had become more serious. The scientists, led by a pudgy man named Field, had encircled the Marker. They had locked arms
and were attempting to keep the guards at a distance. The guards had their weapons out. Many of them were visibly upset.

“What is it?” Krax asked one of them. “What happened?”

“You’ll have to ask that one,” he said, and gestured at Field.

“All right,” said Krax. He removed his plasma pistol from its holster and walked forward to the line, to where the man was.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked.

“We sent you our demands,” said Field.

“We read them and rejected them,” said Krax.

“We’re here to protect the Marker until you agree to them.”

“Starting an insurrection, are you? This will surely end poorly for you.”

A few of the men in the line rustled and looked at one another, though fewer than Krax hoped. Field looked a little nervous, but his voice was still steady when he spoke.

“We’re trying to do what’s right,” he said.

“What’s right,” said Krax, “is for you and your friends to go back to your quarters.”

“You’ll respect our demands, then?” said Field.

Krax levelly met his eye. “You shouldn’t be interfering in something you don’t understand,” he said. “I’ll ask you again to break your line and go.”

Field gulped and then shook his head.
Honestly,
thought Krax,
to look at the guy, you wouldn’t think he had it in him. But belief makes people unpredictable.

“I’ll ask once more,” said Krax. “After that, I’m done asking.”

Field had started to sweat. His eyes seemed strangely glazed, but still determined. He tightened his lips into a white line and shook his head.

Krax smiled. Raising the pistol slightly, he shot Field in the foot.

He went down in a heap, screaming, and the room broke into chaos. A plasma beam fired by one of the believers cut close across his cheek, singeing his hair, and struck a guard just behind him full in the face. He went down, bleeding, blinded. Krax crouched, shot another scientist in the leg. Shots flew back and forth on both sides.

And then Krax had an idea. He fired directly at the Marker, watched the blue fire splat on the surface and flicker about before going out.

He darted forward to Field and knelt beside him where he lay grimacing in pain. He forced Field’s head around to look at the Marker and then fired at it again.

“No!” said Field, clearly terrified. “You’ll hurt it! Don’t!”

“Tell them to stop!” shouted Krax. “Tell them to put down their weapons and surrender or I’ll have every guard in here shooting the thing.” And to show he meant business, he fired at the Marker a third time.

Suddenly he was overwhelmed with pain, his head feeling as though it were ready to explode. He gasped for breath. People all around him were doing the same. Field screamed and then began to yell for the believers to listen to him, to stop the violence, to put their weapons down. At first the believers were too distracted by pain, but gradually they gathered themselves and stood as if stunned. Krax bellowed and raised his open palm to stop his guards from resuming firing. God, his head hurt.

“For the good of the Marker, we must concede the battle,” said Field, wincing from the pain in his leg. “Lay down your weapons, brothers. Do not resist.”

Krax was amazed when he found that, to a man, they did.
Just more proof,
he thought,
that religion is a dead end.

The next twenty minutes were spent imprisoning the believers
and attending to the wounded. There were four dead: two guards and two scientists. He ordered them dragged off to the morgue.

Krax smiled. He hadn’t had so much fun since the moon skirmishes. It had been a very satisfying day. If only his head didn’t hurt so much, it would have been downright perfect.

49

“It’s started again,” said Altman. “The pulse. I’m sure of it.”

He was clutching his head when he said it, clearly in pain. Ada, too, was rubbing her forehead, though absently, not suffering as much.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said.

“Then I’ll see her again? My mother will come back?”

Altman turned away, frustrated. They were in the land compound, which had become, as they immediately found out, more like a detainment center than a research facility. Their labs were empty, containing only the most basic equipment. There was only one way out of the center, and that was guarded day and night by a rotation of the three men who had originally corralled him for Markoff, before he had come to the floating compound. All had names that started with
T
. Terry was thin with glasses, but he carried a large-caliber gun. The other two, Tim and Tom, were brothers, large men who looked enough alike to be twins.

On the first day, Altman had tried to go outside and was stopped. “But I just want to—” he started to say.

“Nobody in or out,” said the bespectacled Terry. “That’s the rule until the boss says otherwise.”

When he tried later, with either Tim or Tom on duty, he met a less verbal refusal, was simply pushed back and then, when he persisted, punched in the stomach.

“Go away,” Tim or Tom said.

There were maybe twenty of them in the compound, including nearly all the scientists from Chicxulub except for Field and, for some reason, Showalter. They tried to continue the research they had been doing on the floating compound, but without proper equipment, it was impossible. Instead, they compared notes, shared information and research.

Like Ada, many of them had become believers. Many of them had been part of Field’s flock and looked up to Altman, recognizing him as a reluctant prophet.

“The Marker has chosen me,” an icthyologist named Agassiz confided in him. “I don’t know why, but I know it to be the case.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I know you speak to it,” said Agassiz. “Ask it about me.”

Others were like that as well, approaching him, hoping for a sign or a blessing. At first he tried to tell them that it wasn’t possible, that he wasn’t a prophet, but it was difficult enough to convince them that he found a few cryptic words or a muttered blessing was quicker and would get them to leave him alone.

Speaking with Agassiz, he realized that it would be a simple matter to manipulate them. He could tell Agassiz that he had a role and that his role was to obey Altman. There were enough believers that he could use their belief to get them to help him break out. But he hesitated. If they were to try to leave now, they might manage to overpower whichever of the three guards was on duty, but probably not before a few of them were hurt or killed. The last thing he wanted was more deaths on his conscience.

·  ·  ·  

Despite the lack of equipment, Skud somehow managed to create a limited set of research equipment, partly by stripping out the wires of the security system, including something to provide a crude measurement of the pulse. He was able to confirm that yes, in fact, the pulse was up and functioning strongly.

“I cannot say exactly how strongly,” he said. “There is a limitation of equipment.”

“Yes,” said Altman, “but within that limitation, you can confirm that it seems strong.”

“There is a limitation of equipment,” Skud insisted.

But as it turned out, Altman didn’t need Skud to tell him. He could tell by the way the people around him changed, becoming either withdrawn or violent. And by the fact that he kept turning the corner and running into ghosts.

Help us,
they pleaded.
Make us whole.

He brooded, wondered what he could do. He had to go public, but how? He couldn’t escape.

And then suddenly, late one night, walking down the hall, he realized that the guard on duty at the front door, Tim or Tom, was talking to himself. He watched him gesture to empty air and then hold out his rifle and let go of it. It clattered to the ground and he just left it there, and then went rapidly down the hall, passing Altman without a second glance. Nobody was guarding the door.

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his wallet, his holopod, and Ada’s hand and immediately rushed to escape. Sure enough, there was still no one there, the key left in the lock. With shaking fingers, he turned it and opened the door.

What if it’s a trap?
he couldn’t help but think.
Maybe it is a trap, but it might also be my only chance.
He crossed the threshold and ran, dragging Ada reluctantly behind him. He was already formulating his next steps: a car or bus out of town, then a flight back to the North American sector. He’d have to move quickly, but if he did, he might get word out. It was time to go public.

50

Tim was on duty, standing watch at the outer door, when his father appeared. This didn’t surprise Tim, apart from the fact that his father had been dead for twenty years and, when alive, had lived several thousand miles away.

Hello, Tim,
he said. He was smoking his pipe and wearing the sweater that he had always worn. Well, not always, but a lot.

“Dad,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

I came to see you.

“You didn’t need to do that, Dad. You didn’t need to go to the trouble.”

I’ve been worried about you, Tim,
he said.
About you and your brother.

“Why, Dad? Tom’s okay. I’m doing okay, too. We’re both working. And we’re making good money.”

It’s not that,
said his father, drawing deep on his pipe.
It’s just that, well, I don’t know how to put this, son, but are you sure that you’re ready?

“Ready for what, Dad?”

If you have to ask that, you’re not ready, son. And what about your brother?

“I haven’t talked to him about it,” said Tim. “I’m not even sure what you’re talking about.”

Things are going to change around here, son,
said his father.
Which team will you be on? Will you be on the winning team? Do you have good hustle?

“I want to be on the winning team, Dad,” said Tim eagerly. “I’d like to think I have good hustle.”

Your brother, I think he may have dropped out of the game,
said his father.
Are you ready to sub for him?

“Tom?” he said, his voice rising. “What happened to Tom?”

I can’t rightly say,
said his father.
One minute we were talking and the next moment he wouldn’t speak to me. He was listening to the opposing coach at the same time as me. I think he got confused. He was like that when you were kids, too. Tom always did tend to misunderstand what I said. You won’t do that, will you?

“Where’s Tom, Dad? Tell me what happened to Tom.”

But his father was already gone, vanished into thin air. Or maybe he was still there but right behind him, always just behind him, just out of sight. “Dad?” he said. “Dad?”

He paced back and forth anxiously for a moment but he couldn’t stop thinking about Tom. Tom was his older brother, born nine minutes earlier, and he had always looked up to him. And they had always looked out for each other. It was almost like they weren’t a full person unless the other one was there, that together they were two people but that one of them taken separately wasn’t even one. Which was what made guarding the compound door alone so hard sometimes.

What was it his dad had said? That Tom had stopped talking. Maybe he was just mad at Dad. Tim didn’t understand how you could get mad at Dad, Dad was a great guy, but Tom often had
been, and sometimes stopped talking to him. Maybe that was part of being the older brother.

By maybe it was more than that. Maybe there was something else wrong. He owed it to Tom to check on him. After all, wouldn’t Tom have done the same thing for him? And if he didn’t do it and then something turned out to be wrong with Tom, how would he ever manage to forgive himself?

There was only the problem of the door. He was guarding the door. He needed someone to watch the door while he was gone.

“Dad,” he asked, “could you do it?”

Why, sure, son,
said his father. He was just lighting his pipe.
What do you want me to do?

“Take this,” said Tim, and gave him the gun. His father couldn’t hold on to the gun, dropped it on the floor. That was okay, Tim thought, he could pick it up later, after he’d finished with his pipe. “If anyone comes,” he said. “Pump them full of lead.”

His father grinned.
Will do, son,
he said, and gave Tim a little wave.

Yes, sir,
thought Tim as he headed down the hall in search of Tom. His father was a good egg, that was for certain. He was certainly understanding. Not everybody was lucky enough to have a father like that.

He smelled his brother before he saw him, though he didn’t know it was his brother at first. All he knew was that he smelled blood. And that it was coming from their room.