Dead Space: Martyr (29 page)

He went into a crouch and moved in, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for someone to attack. But the attack never came.

His brother was in his bed, turned on his side.

“Tom,” he said to him. “Dad said you weren’t talking to him. Is anything wrong?”

Tom didn’t say anything.

“Tom?” he said.

Not only did he not say anything, but he didn’t even move. Tim moved forward and touched his shoulder.

He was cold to the touch. Tim suddenly couldn’t breathe. Tim pulled him toward him and he came all at once, and Tim saw that his throat was cut, and that there was a knife in his hand.

51

“Have you seen this?” asked Stevens. Krax was with him, standing just behind.

“Seen what?” asked Markoff.

Stevens reached out and opened the vid. “It was just broadcast,” he said. “Still fresh.” They stood there together, watching it.

It showed Altman before a podium at a press conference. The tickers on the bottom ran the line
SCIENTIST ACCUSES MILITARY OF COVER-UP
and then
ALIEN LIFE CONFIRMED
? Altman was describing the Marker and the expedition.

“Where is this?” asked Markoff.

“Washington, D.C.,” he said.

“How the hell did he get to Washington, D.C.?” He turned to Stevens, who in turn looked at Krax.

Krax shrugged. “Security failure,” he said. “Not my men,” he claimed. “Leftovers from Tanner.”

. . . every evidence that what we are talking about is the first evidence of alien life,
said Altman.
But this is not something that the military should be investigating. This is something that should be investigated by scientists from all the sectors, a coalition of experts from all over the world.
. . .

Altman’s image disappeared, was replaced by images of the Marker itself, taken from within the underwater chamber.

“Where the fuck did he get those?” asked Markoff.

“I don’t know,” said Krax.

“Find out who does!”

. . . the military wants to cover it up,
Altman was claiming.
They want to control the investigation so as to use the alien technology to manufacture weapons. We cannot let this happen. There needs to be a public inquiry about the Marker’s use and its function.

Below him, on the ticker, were the words
MICHAEL ALTMAN: WHISTLEBLOWER OR PARANOID
?

Krax had already started for the door, when Markoff stopped him. Stevens was speaking to Markoff, whispering quietly, both of them just far enough away that Krax couldn’t hear anything. He watched Markoff nod, then nod again.

“Belay that,” said Markoff to Krax. “You can worry about it when you get back. Find out what hotel Altman is staying in and make whatever arrangements you can to book us into the neighboring room. Handpick three additional men. I want all of us on a plane fifteen minutes ago. We need to stamp out this problem right now.”

PART SIX
HELL UNLEASHED

52

It had been a long day. First the press conference, then other questions, individual interviews. The first one he tried with Ada at his side, but her obsession with the ghost of her mother made her come off as a nut. For the others, he tried to stick to the basics. Yes, there was an alien artifact that they had dubbed “the Marker.” Yes, it had been found at the heart of the Chicxulub crater under layers of rock, which suggested that it might well be older than human life. No, this was not a hoax. Yes, he was convinced that the military was trying to cover up the existence of the Marker. What the rest of the government did or did not know, he couldn’t say.

He did not bring up the hallucinations. He wanted to avoid the notion that the Marker was sentient, and in any case, he wasn’t sure the hallucinations really came from the Marker—maybe they were simply triggered by it. He didn’t talk about the strange creature on the beach or show them the sign of the tail of the devil, or tell them that the Yucatec Maya believed the devil’s tail was deep beneath the waves, just where the Marker had been found. Most media outlets, he quickly realized, saw him as an interesting curiosity, an extremist whom they could parade before their viewers and listeners. They were more interested in poking
holes in his story. Couldn’t the vid be faked? How did they know that it was actually the size he said it was? Size could be simulated on a vid, and there were no human figures in the vid to compare it to. Hadn’t he gone to Chicxulub to work on a university research grant? Then how was it he had ended up working for the military, living on this alleged floating island? Didn’t that sound a little too much like something out of a sci-fi novel?

But there were a few people who asked more serious questions. And once he had answered, they looked at him in a different, more thoughtful way.

They arrived at the historic Watergate Hotel late, past midnight. There was another round of interviews the next day, requests still coming in over the phone. Also a meeting with a lawyer about possibly filing an injunction against the government. Public opinion seemed to be building; maybe it would be enough to apply the right amount of pressure on the places that needed it.

“It’s going to work,” Ada said as he opened the door. “Markoff won’t be able to keep the Marker for himself. Everybody will know about it now, everyone will have a chance to share in its message.”

Not knowing what to say, he didn’t answer. They opened the door. He flipped on the light and then stopped dead.

One of the walls had a large hole in it, plaster scattered all about the floor. Just behind it, sitting in a chair beside the bed, was Markoff.

“Hello, Altman,” he said.

Altman started to turn toward the door, but found a gun with a silencer on its end pointed at his eye, another pointed at Ada’s
chest. Krax was holding one, a guard he didn’t recognize the other. There were two more guards deeper in the room. They came forward now.

“I don’t need to tell you that I’ll shoot your girlfriend first. No screaming,” said Krax. “Nothing but polite silence unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”

Altman nodded.

“Move into the room,” he said. “Get on the bed.”

They moved in, were pushed onto the bed. Krax stepped back and sat in a chair that he’d set up across the threshold of the bathroom, keeping his gun trained at Altman.

“I take it you’ve seen the press conference,” said Altman.

“Shut up, Altman,” said Markoff. “Nobody likes a smart-ass.”

“It’s too late, Markoff,” hissed Ada. “Word is out.”

Markoff ignored her. “Let’s have a little talk, Altman,” he said. “Talking can’t hurt, can it?”

Altman didn’t say anything.

“I don’t suppose we could encourage you to drop everything,” Markoff said. “Hold another press conference, let them know that you were only joking, that there is no Marker, that there is no conspiracy, that you’ve been the victim of an incredible hoax.”

“No,” said Altman.

“If you do,” said Markoff, “we could come to some sort of arrangement. You’d be allowed to come back to research the Marker.” When Altman didn’t say anything, he added, “With total access.”

Total access?
It was tempting. But no doubt Markoff was lying. And in any case, he was far enough along that there was no going back. The Marker had to be investigated openly.

“He doesn’t answer to you,” said Ada. “He answers only to the Marker.”

Markoff reached out, cuffed her hard. “Shut up,” he said.

“Don’t touch her,” said Altman.

“What’s your answer, Altman?” asked Markoff.

“I’m sorry,” said Altman. “No.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Markoff. “That’s it, then. You’re going to have to come with us.”

“I don’t think so,” said Altman.

“We’re not asking you if you want to come or not. We’re giving you the choice between coming or dying.”

“Then kill me,” said Altman without hesitation.

Markoff looked at him coolly. “Call me superstitious, but I think that Marker has something in store for you. I don’t want to kill you yet.” Markoff nodded toward Ada, and Krax’s gun slowly swiveled until it was pointed at Ada’s head. “But I don’t have the same reservations about your girlfriend.”

Altman looked over at Ada. She didn’t look afraid, but it was that very fact that made
him
afraid. She was eager to die a martyr. “So the choice is either both of us go with you or just I go,” he said.

Markoff smiled. “Got it in one,” he said. “Krax here has a sedative for both of you.” He gestured to the others. “These fine boys will repair the hole we made, make everything as good as new. As far as anybody knows, you simply got cold feet and disappeared.”

“You’re a real bastard,” said Altman.

“Takes one to know one,” said Markoff. “Now be a good boy and take your medicine.”

53

And so Altman was back where he’d started, though also a little surprised that they hadn’t simply killed him. He suspected a trap, something awful they were saving him for, but didn’t know what it would be. He wondered if his press conference or his disappearance following it had had any effect, but doubted he’d be able to find out while inside the floating compound.

As for Ada, when he awoke from the drug, she was gone. When he demanded to see her, they just laughed.

“She’ll be safe,” Krax had said. “As long as you cooperate.”

A few hours after waking up, still a little groggy, he had found himself in Stevens’s office. The latter sat with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his fingers tented in front of his face.

“Why am I here?” Altman asked. “Why am I still alive?”

“Markoff is curious about you,” Stevens admitted.

“Curious?”

“You have some resistance to the effect of the Marker, a resistance that most of your colleagues don’t have. Markoff realizes you might be of use for his project.”

“And what project is that?”

Stevens smiled. “You can understand why he might wonder
about you,” he said. “You’ve survived trips in the bathyscaphe that have driven other people mad. Even when you’ve had headaches and hallucinations, they haven’t caused you to degenerate into violence or madness the way so many of the other hallucinators seem to do. Many of the believers on board have an almost religious awe of you. And I have to say that I find myself half sharing their belief. I suspect that a few of my colleagues feel similarly.”

“That’s insane,” said Altman.

“They think you’re a reluctant prophet,” said Stevens.

Altman shook his head. “The Marker is dangerous,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

“And yet you’re fascinated by it,” said Stevens. He leaned forward. “We still suspect you know things that you’re not telling.” He opened his desk drawer and removed from it the chunk of rock from the Marker. “This was found in your jacket pocket while you were unconscious,” he said. “Care to explain?”

“No,” said Altman.

Stevens nodded. “Up to you,” he said. “If you don’t want to explain to me, perhaps you can speak with Krax.”

But Krax didn’t seem to want to talk exactly. “You know why you’re here?” he asked.

Altman nodded. “You want to know about the chunk of the Marker.”

“That’s part of it,” he said. He led Altman to a chair with leather straps affixed to the arms and legs. “Sit here,” he said.

“Why?” said Altman. “Where’s Ada?”

“Don’t worry about Ada. Just sit,” said Krax, pushing his chest lightly so he tipped back into the chair. “Now I’m going to strap you in,” he said.

“There’s no need to strap me in,” said Altman, panic starting to rise in him. “I’ll stay as I am.”

Krax shook his head and began affixing the straps. “You won’t,” he said. “I’m afraid, Mr. Altman, that this is going to be a bit of a bumpy ride.”

“What do you mean, a bumpy ride?”

“How do they feel?” Krax asked as he tested each strap in turn. Not uncomfortable? Not too tight?”

“I’m fine,” said Altman, “but what—”

Krax pulled the left wrist strap painfully tight, then the right. Altman could feel the strap cutting deep into his flesh. “How about now?” he asked.

And then he left the room. For a moment Altman was alone, straining against the straps, and then he stopped. Maybe he could tip the chair over, break it somehow. But when he tried to rock it back and forth, he found that it had been bolted to the floor.

A moment later, Krax was back, bringing a wheeled cart with him. On top of the cart was a tray covered in a white cloth. Krax brought it close, pulled the cloth off it with a flourish. Beneath was a row of scalpels and knives, a pair of pincers as well. Krax ran his hands slowly over them.

“You didn’t think you could just waltz off and report on us and suffer no consequences, did you, Mr. Altman?”

Altman tried to speak, but his mouth had gone suddenly dry.

Krax selected the smallest knife. “Let’s start small and work our way up, shall we?” he said.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Altman.

“Just a few small cuts at first, Mr. Altman. Just something to make it interesting and to make you respect my artistry.”

He grabbed hold of Altman’s index finger and very carefully
crosshatched the tip of it, the knife just cutting through. At first it didn’t hurt, just felt warm. And then the finger began to throb, a drop of blood forming on the tip. He went on to the next finger and then the next, just three or four small cuts per finger, hardly deeper than papercuts. Altman watched a drop of blood collect at the end of each finger, the hand feeling like it was on fire.

“We’re going to be here for days and days, Mr. Altman. We’ll get to know each other very intimately.”

He left the room again. Altman tried not to look at the hand, tried to ignore its throbbing, but he couldn’t help it. Before it was all over, it would, he knew, become much, much worse. He’d wish he were dead.

And then Krax was back, a bowl full of salt in one hand.

“Have you heard the expression ‘rubbing salt into a wound,’ Mr. Altman?”