The Lazarus War: Artefact (14 page)

“This is Olsen,” came a distorted voice in response. “The firefight is interfering with communications. How goes the repair?”

“Well enough. Are we holding out against the enemy ship?”

“So far as I can tell. Captain Atkins has things in hand.”

“Good enough for me.” I turned to Kaminski, switching comms channels again. “How long, Kaminski?”

“Another minute.”

Do you really know what you are doing down there?
I was starting to wonder whether Kaminski was telling me the truth. But there was nobody else to turn to.

Then back to Olsen: “We’ll be done in another minute. Keep me posted of any developments.”

“Copy that. Olsen out.”

Another long, cold minute passed. EIGHT MINUTES REMAINING, my HUD flashed. Then something else appeared – a further warning marker.

“You done yet?” I barked at Kaminski. “My suit tells me that another fault is developing in life support. What are you doing down there?”

Kaminski grappled with the edge of the ruptured armour plate, and ungraciously pulled himself out of the hole. He gave an exaggerated nod.

“Nearly,” he said. “Another minute. It isn’t my best work, but it will have to do. I just need to reset the outer heat exchange.” He swallowed anxiously. “That’s the other fault. Rerouting the cryogen flow through the outer exchange has caused—”

“Just tell me what you need done.”

“It’s further down the hull, under an external maintenance plate. Someone will have to go down there and manually open the release valve.”

I sighed. “I’ll go. The rest of you, cover Kaminski. Blake, watch me as I go.”

“Affirmative, Cap.”

My HUD lit up with the location of the release valve: fifty metres aftward of our position. It was painfully slow going. I presented an easy target for any watching snipers. I bounded on, each step a leap through the unknown. I immediately wished that we had been better equipped for this. We hadn’t figured on any EVA; the newer Class V combat-suits carried specialist thrusters for use in deep-space, but as we hadn’t figured on this part of the operation these Class IV suits didn’t have them.

A small city of sensor-masts erupted from the hull, housing local comms gear and other life-support apparatus. My HUD suggested the location of the release valve, hidden behind a bolted metal plate on the hull.

Seven minutes
.

Helios’ primary star cut a crescent behind the arc of the planet below, big and yellow. Beyond, barely visible, was Helios Secondary. That star was pale and distant, having long ago lapsed into decline. The combination of both light sources threw bizarre and awkward shadows over the surface of the hull; as a result, this area of the ship was in almost total darkness.

“I’m at the release valve now. Moving to activate.”

There was no time to safely remove the metal plate, so I grappled with my fingertips and tore it free. Bolts and secreted dust floated off into space. Beneath, there was a nest of electronic components and wires.

Kaminski’s voice broke into my comm: “You need to reset the valve intake. Should be a button.”

Six minutes
.

I hurriedly scanned the maintenance duct. A label proclaimed WARNING! COOLANT RELEASE VALVE. DO NOT OPERATE UNLESS OUTER EXCHANGE IS CLEAR! There was a flashing red button beneath.

“You sure about this, Kaminski? There are warnings on this panel.”

“Ah, I think so. I hope so. It’ll work. It should work.”

“I’m activating now,” I said, and thumbed the button. “For all our sakes, I hope that it does.”

“Copy that.”

I paused over the maintenance plate, watching for any immediate response to my actions. My HUD hadn’t updated: the warning continued to flash. That didn’t look good.

“Kaminski, did it work?”

“I think so. Give me another minute to confirm.”

“You keep saying that! My HUD is still reporting a problem.”

I looked back at my squad. They were assembled around Kaminski and the hull breach, rifles panning back and forth. The hull itself reverberated underfoot as the
Oregon
took another hit.

Five minutes
.

I turned to take in the vast, empty landscape of the hull, and plodded over to the nearest comms mast to evaluate the shadowed area. Just then, an enormous explosion flared overhead. The
Great White
had taken a serious hit to the bow. She seemed to teeter, briefly, turning away from the
Oregon
to prevent a further shot at the damaged area. Pieces of the
Great White
were thrown out into space, blazing as they hit the
Oregon’s
null-shield. The
Oregon
certainly seemed to be putting up some resistance.

“You know, Jenkins, we just might make this,” I said, more to myself than to her. “That was a good shot. I don’t think that the Krell ship will take much more—”

I saw them before my suit bio-scanner did.

Oh shit
.

A horde of Krell primary-forms.

In an effort to stay attached to the
Oregon
’s hull, they were anchored to every possible surface feature. Some had crawled into gaps between armoured plates, using them as cover from the battle above. Six or seven hung on the shadowed underside of the comms mast. These were specialised Krell forms, bred for ship-to-ship combat. Protected from vacuum inside their bio-suits, with enormous globed helmets and clawed gauntlets to attach themselves instead of mag-locks – up-armoured like lobsters. Among the horde, there were also secondary-forms – gun-grafts – evolved for ranged combat. One clung to a piece of piping, much bigger than the others, directing them on. My HUD identified the xeno-type immediately, flagging the bastard as an alpha-level threat.

A leader-form
.

The Krell equivalent of an officer for the massed primary-and secondary-forms. It was a nasty fucker; armour weathered from exposure to space, back-plate erupting with quivering antennae.

The Collective moved along the hull, and for just a second they didn’t seem to see me.
They’re creeping – moving slowly to avoid bio-scanner sweeps
.

“Contact,” I whispered into the communicator.

I knew full well that even the briefest radio communication would alert the mass of aliens to my presence. At this range – virtually on top of them – their delicate sensors would be preternaturally responsive.

Four minutes
, my HUD told me. I cancelled the warning.
Let me deal with one problem at a time
.

The Krell didn’t disappoint.

The Collective looked up, as one. The leader-form evaluated me with alien eyes under the globed helmet: perhaps wondering why a lone human would be out here in the dark. Its communication spines bristled angrily.

Need to see how many of you there are out here
, I thought.
Better to know exactly what I’m up against
. Any advantage of surprise that I might have achieved was already lost and I needed proper intel.

I activated my rifle and fired a starburst flare overhead. Brilliant red light flooded the area, glinting off armoured bodies, and the flare floated off into space.

Finally my suit caught up and relayed a brief tactical analysis: there were at least a hundred Krell. A terrifying picture developed. Slowly, surely, signals began to build all around me.

“Contact on my three o’clock,” I yelled, firing my rifle – this time, a volley of plasma pulses. “Weapons free.”

I turned to take in my team, but the Krell had cut me off. They were suddenly everywhere, streaming along the hull towards the squad.

“I see you,” Jenkins shouted. “They’re moving in fast from your direction.”

“Take down all confirmed targets,” I ordered.

Three minutes
. I kicked off my mag-locks and pushed my body back towards my team. Unhindered by gravity, I sailed backwards and away from the massed Krell. I fired a volley of unaimed shots. Thankfully, the M95 had no recoil, and I could fire on the move even though my aim was shit. As the pulses penetrated their protective bio-suits, Krell bodies exploded and drifted into space. My suit confirmed three hits.

I landed hard on the hull, and my mag-locks activated again. The force of the impact shook my legs and my whole body absorbed the landing.

The leader-form waved the swarm onwards. They moved relentlessly under my fire, ignoring casualties. It didn’t matter to them: so long as one of them survived, then their mission would be accomplished. They were moving in literally every direction, and now that the pretence of stealth had been lost they were engaged in a frontal assault.

Was this a sabotage operation? Had the Krell been tasked with damaging vital shipboard technology? Or had they been sent as a boarding party, intending to breach the
Oregon
and take the fight to us while we were still on the ship? Whatever their objective, the Krell were
here
.

I stole a glimpse at the positional relay projected onto my HUD. It showed that the squad were formed up on Kaminski, firing in controlled bursts into the mass of Krell. Still thirty or so metres between me and the rest of my squad. The annoying, ever-present countdown overrode other warnings on my HUD.

“Two minutes left, Kaminski. Please tell me that you are done.”

Kaminski didn’t answer.

“They really do
not
want us landing on Helios,” Jenkins remarked, crouching to aim at the incoming mass of xenos.

“Just makes me want to get down there all the more,” I replied. “Must’ve landed on the
Oregon
during the battle – they were probably outflanking us all along.”

The gun-grafts were armed with boomers – a long-barrelled organic weapon, capable of firing ranged energy blasts. One of them fired in my direction, sending a bright multi-coloured pulse across my flank. I returned fire into the horde, then steadied myself – ready to take up a better position to fire on the aliens below.

The nearby sensor-masts were like miniature towers, topped by aerials as thick as my neck. I quickly decided that those posts would give me some range over the battlefield. The tallest had the best vantage point. I had to get up there.

There was no time to properly prep myself for the jump. I just leapt onwards.

Fuck it!

I sailed over the Krell, too focused on landing to return their fire now. I realised that I had overstepped – I was going to hit the mast hard and fast. The Krell responded immediately: like a volley of arrows, stinger-spines filled the area.
Am I hit?
I asked myself. SUIT INTEGRITY MAINTAINED, the AI responded. I reached an arm out to snag the sensor-mast and managed to hold on to it. Again, the landing was bone-jarringly hard. I awkwardly repositioned myself, firing at the group below. More stingers sailed past, some slashing into the hull, others impacting the mast.

“Kaminski!” I shouted. “
Tell me you are done!
”

I looked down at a sea of Krell, from my position on the mast. They were everywhere. When one was cut down, two more appeared. Out of frustration more than any strategic initiative, I activated the underslung grenade launcher on my M95 and fired an incendiary round. It exploded, sending a ripple of xenos off into space and charring the hull armour. I pumped the launcher; fired again and again.

One minute
. My HUD was still flashing the secondary life-support warning – whatever I had done to the exchanger hadn’t resolved the problem.

The tac sit was quickly dissolving into absolute chaos.

More Krell fire flew past my head. My suit continually warned of potential impacts. I returned fire again, ducking back behind the sensor-mast for some cover. Not that there was any of that; the Krell swarmed around the base of the mast, some starting the slow and interminable climb to my position. Another grenade: another handful of dead Krell.

“Kaminski! Update
now
!”

Then my AI auto-targeting programme crashed – reporting too many viable targets to operate effectively.

But I wasn’t a spent force yet. As I gazed out into the sea of xeno-forms, an idea formed – an irrational, impossible suggestion, but the only thing with any chance of success.
Cut off the command chain. Only way to do this. There are too many of them out there to kill individually
.

Now or never
.

I leapt out into the horde, plasma rifle pulsing continuously. A primal sense of purpose drove me on. This foreign body, this simulant built only for war, did what it had been made to do. I selected an impact point in the midst of the mass of bodies – targeting the enormous Krell leader-form crouched there. It was easily twice my size and dripping with bio-tech.

The force of my landing among the Krell sent a wave of invaders off into space, scrabbling to regain purchase. I fired wildly, again and again, at anything nearby. It was impossible to miss at such close proximity. There, ahead of me, was the leader-form. The Krell closed ranks around the vital battlefield link—

My suit warned me of the tactical implications of engagement with the leader, especially in zero-G. Data scrolled across my HUD. The message was clear: retreat was essential for survival. This beast was the very pinnacle of evolution. A dose of combat-drugs hit my bloodstream, calming my pulse.

The leader-form roared behind its bio-helmet, scattering lesser-forms out of the way.

I immediately understood what it was doing: the leader was issuing a challenge.

“Nearly done, nearly done, nearly done,” Kaminski suddenly broke in over the comms, panting as he worked.

I had to tie the xeno up, give Kaminski and the others some precious time.

My rifle was up, firing—

The leader-form launched forward, head lowered. Leaping over bodies to reach me, smashing primary-forms aside. It closed on me in a heartbeat; slammed an enormous claw against my rifle. The weapon slid from my hands.

The leader-form hit me like a battering ram, full on in the chest-plate. Something cracked either inside me or in my armour; I had no time to check what. The force was immense. I flung an arm, grabbing the xeno’s body to make sure that I didn’t sail off into space. Joined, the xeno and I spiralled out between two sensor-masts.