Toxic (6 page)

On the contrary, catching one single individual was a challenge. Naakrit, analyzing the images of the dome, whistled several times. This affair looked delicate. “You want to interview that one in particular?”

Jave moved his fingers across the display panel, through which he made out the towers of the city. “Yes, exactly.”

Sitting down in the middle of a group, he resembled his neighbors, captured during a veritable human hunt. The people surrounding him wore clothing displaying camouflage patters of two or three shades of beige. The insignia on their shoulders indicated that they came from different nations on Earth. Those surrounding him all had the same one: three horizontal stripes. When the emissary shared his observation, the smuggler consulted the database.

“This group belongs to a Russian Federation. Is that important?”

“I don't know. Possibly.”

Jave crossed the holographic projection and stopped in front of the window. The sun, saturated with an intense red, crushed the golden view. The desert stretched out to the north until reaching the turquoise shoreline. To the south, it froze in an ocean of motionless waves.

“I make an effort to avoid contact with the products. Also, it's very likely that he won't let himself be captured or that the other units will try to oppose this. This can quickly get ugly.”

The reptilian brought up reasonable arguments. He anticipated difficulties and likely saw things in more depth than him. Jave didn't presume the contrary. “I need to speak to him. One on one. Find a solution.”

Naakrit's ocular slits opened and his mouth flapped in a rapid movement. “I would need a squadron with drone support, and they would need to isolate the target. The intervention will cause panic reactions. Or worse.”

He brought up a video clip which he projected on the surface of the holographic display. “This is what happened the last time. We were looking for a scientist.”

The scene showed a dome with maybe four thousand units, Jave surmised. Mercenaries in decontamination suits entered and positioned themselves along the marked pathway. Up until then, the humans were content to observe them. The smugglers activated their weapons, simple sonic models designed to stun as to preserve the merchandise. Already, a strange occurrence was surfacing within the crowd. It could have been compared to a sort of electrifying charge, as if this species were regaining its collective instinct, united when faced with the threat. Jave was aware of this behavior, common in a number of races.

The situation evolved very quickly. The mercenaries advanced and the crowd of creatures contracted on one side of the dome. All of a sudden, they charged. All of them. Males, females and children. Without exception. The emergency combat drone intervention led to carnage. The slaughtered corpses released such quantities of blood that a thick river poured onto the grates of the excrement disposal area.

“I lost the entire lot. This can't be allowed to happen again, most of all right now. Every capture must be profitable.”

“I understand.”

Jave approached the Primark. “I need that human.”

Located three levels below, his quarters, with three times the surface area as his cabin on board the megatransporter, delighted the emissary. He walked towards the two trunks in the middle of the room. The first contained his personal belongings, a standard model blaster as well as clothing adapted to his morphology, masks and CO2 supplements in the form of micro-pills. He activated the mechanism of the second trunk. The lid lifted up and the panels lifted to reveal a Polyvalent Armor Shell. He started the PAS's auto-diagnostic, which didn't signal any problems.

The mercenaries didn't have any armor suited to his species available. He had therefore brought his own. Unfolded, it was bigger than him and offered a substantial number of useful options on the battlefield. Others less so, like the chrome points on top of the purple shoulder armor.

Jave closed the trunk once again. He allowed himself a moment of rest, plunging himself into a peat planter.

He enjoyed the comfort which he didn't expect so far from home. His senses were aroused as he slid around with an expert slowness. The smell of earth hung about him. He closed his nasal vents. The odor surprised him, but he didn't find it unpleasant. On his skin, rootlets absorbed nutritional elements packed with nitrogen compounds. He felt the energy of this foreign soil spread out within him. He opened a small transparent box within the reach of his legs and grabbed a sort of reddish earthworm, winding it around his claw.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

The emissary sucked in his snack. “Careful attention on your part. I thank you for it.”

“I spoil my clients.”

“So, you've captured the human?”

“We're launching the operation. I though you would like to attend.”

“Yes. Is it feasible?”

“Clearly.”

The view changed, showing an access hallway occupied by a squadron of troopers dressed in sterile clothing. Jave straightened up and his large torso emerged from the soil. “Are you planning on intervening the same way as last time? I thought you had excluded that possibility.”

“The troop is only there as support. We’re testing out a new approach.”

“I’m very curious.”

“Watch for yourself.”

One of the mercenaries entered the dome. Alone. The airlock closed behind him. He approached with a steady step until the middle of the pathway. He pointed to the sign under his arm. The angle of vision didn't allow the spectators to see what was below there. The smuggler stopped in mid-step and raised the sign up high so that as many people as possible could see it.

He held a giant portrait of the human. His name passed just below with a few words in English inviting the individual in question to hand himself over and that no harm would be done to him. In exchange, he would be rewarded. Outside, the reptilian’s soldiers prepared a smorgasbord of food.

“You impress me,” Jave declared.

“Don't celebrate yet. I have no idea if this is going to work. The products have always shown themselves to be uncooperative.”

Strangers from a tiny satellite galaxy had just conquered their world with the aim of reducing the population to the rank of merchandise. What did he expect in return?

Jave stretched his legs.

The floating buffet crossed the airlock and levitated along the main walkway. Things became interesting. Groups of humans formed and murmurs rose from the crowd. Many glares were fixed on the target. The emissary took everything in.

The man advanced in the direction of the walkway delimited by the fluorescent band. He stopped just before it. Then, he said something in Russian, his native language.

“What's he saying?” asked Naakrit.

Jave didn't respond.

Following orders, the mercenary activated an opening in the barrier across a section corresponding to the size of the food tray. It then entered and hovered for around ten meters before stopping. The man crossed the barrier in the opposite direction.

The pigments of Jave's head took on color and he felt the rootlets of his skin contract with excitement. “You see, it wasn't that complicated,” he said to Naakrit.

The Primark cut the transmission after indicating to him the floor on which the interrogation room was to be found.

Jave adjusted the caps of his nasal vents and checked his micro-diffusers. The local civilization had caused an explosion in carbon dioxide levels. Studies agreed on a level of four hundred parts per million, which would last for a while longer, despite the invasion brining the hunger for fossil energy to a standstill. This was far from a comfortable optimum, but it was better than on many other worlds. Here at least, he could get by with a light apparatus and avoid wearing an integral mask.

The Sybarian was waiting for him at the tube's exit. The abza'n, with her rank displayed on the reverse side of the collar adorning her neck, accompanied him to the entrance guarded by two mechanical guard dogs.

“How many have you interviewed?”

The question seemed to surprise her. Even though she kept her head straight with the proud look distinctive to the members of her race, a brief and instinctive movement shot through her long hands. “Several octans, of course. Scientists for the most part, sometimes soldiers.”

“Do you have recordings of these sessions?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. I'll need them all.”

“Truth be told, they didn't really know much.”

Jave stopped in front of the entrance. “About the virus?”

“The Prim spent a lot of time on this. Without results. The epidemic that transforms the healthy products remains unexplained.”

The shortening of the rank was a sign of disrespect, especially in the presence of a Combinate official. Either Naakrit's discipline was growing lax or his troopers were starting to doubt his ability to fulfill his promises of fortunes.
Did the Sybarian want to deliver some sort of message
?

“Thank you, abza'n Sarejt,” he concluded, pushing open the doors.

First impressions are always registered as long-lasting feelings, and overcoming them requires a capacity for intellectual abstraction hard to come by. The sickly creature barely filled half of the armchair made for the size of a mercenary. At once, the Russian seemed ridiculous to him, weak. He could have been lost, almost flattened by the immense table. The sparkling white walls made him look even smaller, and his skin even paler. His clear eyes rolled around, looking for some decorative element to fix themselves on. He wedged his hands between his thighs, which he shook in a maniacal rhythm.

Jave observed for a few more seconds before entering. The man had been waiting here for several hours.

Immediately, he stopped moving and his anxious gaze was fixed on him with the swiftness of an animal who has just detected danger. The Lynian sat down calmly in front of the product, as Naakrit liked to call him. He set down a transparent tablet which he held with one claw. The Russian gulped.

“ Zdravstvouïtie, kak diela?”

He let a jerk of surprise escape him, but kept his mouth shut.

“Miniya zavout Jave. I'm a sort of... how do you say it in Russian?”

His claw slid along the tablet and then stopped. “An advisor.”

Petrified, the human didn't display any reaction. The Lynian started his confidence-building routine. “I won't do you any harm and I don't work with these mercenaries. I stick to examining the situation, observing. That's about all I'm authorized to do.”

Frustrated by the meager result obtained after several minutes of monologue, Jave played his first trump. He raised a leg in the direction of a botcam wound up in the corner. Right away, the door slid open and an oblong tray levitated to the end of the table. The smell, which the emissary found he was barely able to stand – how could they cook meat? – spread around the room. The nostrils of the Russian quivered and he noticed his hands do the same.

“If there exists one cult which reunites or motivates the species of the three galaxies, it’s food. The quest for vital energy is based on it. I'm offering you a feast. According to your culinary preferences. Mine differ notably, but just like you I understand the importance of eating.”

Jave paused. The copious meal slid between them. “I only need information. Nothing more.”

His interview subject wiggled in the over-sized chair and put his two hands on the table. “I'm Oleg.”

Naakrit couldn't get over it.

He followed the interview from the main room, sitting on his command chair. When the tray entered into the scene, he let loose a whistle.

“He adapted and transferred human cooking programs to the memory of a robot responsible for provisions,” specified his officer. “He spent a long time consulting the database and accessed the tera-servers multiple times.”

The Primark didn't take offense. He had insisted that his troops satisfy the requests of their guest, including his eventual whims. However, he didn't understand one important point. “And Russian? He learned it by loading software as well? Find me a translation system! I want to understand what they're saying.”

He propped himself up against the volcanic rock back, feet on his armrests. The product was eating without restraint. The pitiful spectacle of the creature in the middle of stuffing himself took up the entire size of the holographic display.

“I know what that symbol means,” declared Jave. “The one that you're wearing under your home country's insignia.”

Oleg shot a glance towards the slate.

“I stole my uniform from a dead person before landing here. I have no idea whatsoever what you're talking about.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course. It was chaos on the way, just before your damned drones turned up to cripple us.”

The emissary scratched the base of his neck. The smell of the food was getting to him more and more. He continued the questioning despite everything and played his second trump, a lot less festive than the first.

“Here's an image of you, taken during your stay at Sector 77 of Zelenogorsk Gorod, in Siberia. It's meta-marked, which tells us the location and date: May 14, 2037, three years before the invasion.”

The Russian stopped eating. He looked at the slate with a neutral stare. “Where did you dig up that photo?”

The image changed. The face of Oleg was replaced by another.

“Valery Orlov worked there as well.”

The Russian shook his head energetically. “I don't know him. My assignment was made up of secondary duties.”

“Sector 77... it's a special weapons complex, a city if I believe your country's military archives.”

“Possibly. For a while, there were more secret cities in Russia than vacation camps.”

Without warning, Jave exploded. The tray flew across the room and broke against a wall, spraying it with food. The massive table was moved a meter when he pounced with predatory agility on the human, whose fragile neck he clasped between his fingers, raising him up from the floor. “I want the truth!”

“I... I don't know anything.”

The Lynian increased the pressure. “You worked in this bacteriological warfare laboratory, correct?”