Bekmer stood waiting in the cavernous flight deck of the Zhadersil, an ancient and automatically maintained carrier ship that had managed to survive the destruction of the V’strak war machine that had spawned it a fifth of a galactic cycle ago [~50 million years] in the last Age. That it still existed in one piece was astounding, that it had still been somewhat functional when Bekmer and his team moved in had been nothing short of a miracle. Nobody would have normally thought to investigate a chunk of space rock orbiting an unremarkable Class 10 Deathworld – the latter was more worthy of attention by any measure – and yet a routine scan had uncovered something astounding. The outer hull had been pock marked and covered with enough space dust to credibly disguise the ship as a natural piece of space debris, it had been a simple case of being in the right place at the right time.
Bekmer, and the few members of his salvage crew, had stumbled upon the find of a lifetime – the Corti Directorate would be particularly pleased, once they found out about it – and it was certain to make the entire crew wealthy, and Bekmer himself fabulously so. The ship was in no condition for movement, however, and as a result Bekmer had kept the discovery quiet for the past few cycles while the many necessary repairs were made to restore the ship to even a mere vestige of a threatening military vessel. This deathworld was uninterestingly known only by its coordinate set, cursorily scanned by exploration drones and was well beyond the borders of any recognized government, and Bekmer was damned if he was going to try and fly a barely space-worthy fortune through uncontrolled space.
“Remind me why we are doing this again?” Bekmer asked, his gaze set disapprovingly on the Micro-Freighter that had just put down. Even the smallest freighter ships were large vessels, dwarfing the smaller salvage vessel that had borne the salvage crew to the Zhadersil, but against the vastness of the ancient ship’s flight deck it seemed ridiculously toy-like. “Restorations are proceeding as scheduled, and the weapons will soon be active. This is a distraction we cannot afford.”
Treoffa, his immediate subordinate and sometimes mate exhaled sharply through her nostrils in a show of indignant frustration. “They’re not active yet, and our sensor buoys have detected faint Hunter activity in systems nearby. Not to mention the possibility of any pirate vessels who might have chosen to make their base out here.”
“Still…” Bekmer said, although more hesitantly after the mention of the vicious creatures who ate the flesh of fellow sentient beings, “we’re practically invisible here. We barely found the ship by accident, we weren’t even looking for V’strak relics since you’ll recall that none were supposed to exist. Besides, we’ve even got the cloaking field up, now.”
“We are acutely vulnerable!” hissed Treoffa. “We both know the extent of the Hunters’ expertise with cloaking technology! Do you wish to underestimate their expertise at detecting the cloaking fields of others? This is a microscopic expense compared to what we stand to lose if this vessel is taken from us!”
Bekmer opened his mouth to make some retort, but was interrupted by the hiss of machinery as the Micro-Freighter opened its containment bay for inspection, lowering the cargo lift on powerful pneumatics to reveal four white and gleaming cylindrical pods that hinted at containing something more interesting than everyday weapons. These were stasis pods, and from the way the indicators blinked on them they were all occupied with the internal temporal suppression fields fully active. The devices used a variant of the FTL drive to store whatever was inside of them in total suspended animation for as long as they had power.
Azhiz, the Robalin the two Corti entrepreneurs had entrusted with the task of returning with such cargo, crawled forth from his pilots hatch with an eager grin on his face, as if barely able to contain his excitement. He was an uncivilized sort, even for a Robalin, wearing clothing with highly contrasting colours and with many of his soft green scales stained into a vibrant yellow. No doubt some preposterous attempt to declare his individuality to the galaxy. He was, however, refreshingly mercenary and had thus far served the salvage crew well, although Treoffa and Bekmer had both ensured that the Robalin had had nothing to do with his species’ ambition to uncover the ultimate bio-warfare weapon.
His lack of involvement did not mean that they had to like him.
“Azhiz,” Bekmer greeted the Robalin coldly, “you have been asked to bring us soldiers. I trust you have not wasted your time or our funds?”
Azhiz was used to such a reception, and if he was still bothered by it he didn’t show it. “Master Bekmer,” he softly hissed as he bowed subserviently, “I have done entirely as you wished. All are combat-capable individuals and each has been… enthusiastically encouraged to follow any orders given to them.”
“Cerebral Detonators?” Bekmer asked. It was what he had asked for, but it never hurt to confirm – especially when dealing with a Robalin. Cerebral detonators were cheap, inobvious, and exceptionally effective at ensuring that the implantee followed orders. They would eventually degrade, but only long after the ship had been salvaged and as such long after the implantees services were required.
“Indeed,” Azhiz asked, maintaining his subservient posture. “However I regret to inform you that one of the subjects was… damaged.”
“Damaged?” Treoffa interjected sharply. “The pods appear to be functional and undamaged. What have you done, Azhiz?”
Azhiz grew outwardly uncomfortable, his posture more submissive. “The fourth subject awoke during surgery,” he said, with slow deliberation. “The fault was with the surgeon.”
“Brain damage?!” Treoffa asked. “We can’t have a brain-damaged soldier running around! That’d be more dangerous than the Hunters!”
“N-no,” Azhiz replied, “he had not yet been operated on. He was damaged as necessary to capture him, and it proved necessary to employ a Strike-Drone’s main cannon.”
The two Corti paused, exchanging worried glances. Strike-Drones were a new war technology the Corti Directorate had intended to sell to both sides of the Celzi-Dominion conflict, ensuring impartiality in their enterprises while reaping a considerable profit. They were a hover platform carrying a heavy kinetic cannon, and had been intended for use on tanks, Vulza, and unfortunate infantrymen. Bekmer wasn’t sure why a science vessel would have one, since there were so few reasons why they’d ever need one, and they almost never met with unfortunate… his thoughts trailed off as the pieces began falling into place.
“You said ‘damaged’,” Treoffa mused, “but I take it you are not suggesting that one of those pods is filled with mopped up remains.”
“It can’t be…” Bekmer breathed, horror finding its way to his face and contorting it. “They’re under containment! There’s no way in!”
“What?!” Treoffa asked, the truth of it dawning on her at the same time. They’d been all over the news, in every important conversation, and they were exactly the sort of thing an idiot Robalin like Azhiz would have thought perfect for a soldier.
“It’s a human,” Bekmer spat, “isn’t it, Azhiz?! You’ve brought a human aboard our ship!” Azhiz recoiled at he vehemence of Bekmer’s reaction. “I- I had just thought… the one on the news was fighting Vulza!”
“Where did you even get it?!” Bekmer demanded as Treoffa stood by in clear shock. “Their homeworld is under containment!”
“A Corti science vessel had one they’d not yet returned,” Azhiz explained quickly. “They were going to destroy it, or try to destroy it anyway. I convinced them of a more lucrative alternative.”
“And then?” Treoffa asked, finding her voice. “Was it they who did the surgery?”
“They tried to,” Azhiz continued, “but the dose they used to put the human to sleep was based on records from another human recorded on a hospital ship. This one was more resistant.”
“Did it kill everyone on the ship?” Bekmer asked coldly. He’d lost old companions to accidents in human containment breaches.
“It would have if they had not had a strike-drone aboard,” Azhiz replied. “It still got twelve out of thirty before it was hit, and would have been more if it wasn’t for the fact that they were ready for something like that. Once it was down, they prepped him like they originally intended and set him up with a cerebral detonator, basic translator, and a big dose of the new frontline protection serum.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Treoffa said. “We haven’t got any of that on hand.”
“They left it injured, however?” Bekmer asked.
Azhiz nodded quickly. “I think they were angry at him. Understandable.”
“Unprofessional,” Bekmer replied. “We will review the damage to it, and see if it can be put to use before we need to destroy it.”
Treoffa nodded in agreement. It seemed that neither Corti wished to have a human running around on the ship.
“Now,” Bekmer continued, “What else did you bring?”
“It’s conscious,” a voice said, and bright white light seared the eyes of Adrian Saunders, blinding him even as he opened them.
He felt as though he was drifting, a strange sensation compounded by the fact that there were two clearly alien beings standing by consoles around him, although at this point the strangeness of little gray men being real had somewhat lost its edge.
Not Heaven then, he thought dreamily. Not that he had ever believed in that, or had ever expected to end up there even if he had. This state was not entirely unfamiliar to him – he recognized the effects of too many pain-killers when he felt them, although he’d hoped never to be shot again after leaving the military six months ago. Much like the rest of Adrian’s hopes, however, that one had also turned to shit.
“Does it understand me?” one of them asked, turning to the other. It’s voice was clearly male, but there was a strange dissonance in Adrian’s head where alien sounds were twisted into his native English. It also sounded like a total arsehole.
“It should,” said the other, this one with a female, but not feminine, voice. She looked at Adrian with all the empathy of a five year old boy pulling the wings off of flies. “At least the translator isn’t showing any errors.”
The male turned to him again. “Can you understand me?”
“Get fucked…” Adrian replied. “Don’t need none’ve that…”
“It seems he hears you,” the female noted wryly.
“What you need,” the male continued, more intently now, his tone ice cold, “is for your ribs to be re-assembled and for emergency action to be taken to stop your organs from dying. Do you understand?”
“You fuckers shot me,” Adrian said, or mumbled. “Flying thing with a big gun on it…”
The male leaned in, scowling – or at least what Adrian thought was a scowl. “Two things: That wasn’t us, and those ‘big guns’ are meant to assault armoured vehicles. You are lucky someone cared enough to keep you alive so that I could put you back together. We are salvage hunters, and today you are our salvage.”
“We brought you out of your stasis to run our demands past you,” the female interjected.
Adrian processed this for a moment, trying to figure it out through the fog that covered his thinking. “Demands?”
“If we save you, we will feed you, we will arm you, and we will help you get home,” the male said. “In return you work for us. You protect us.”
“Protect you?” Adrian asked, confused. “What about the flying thing? The… drone thing…”
The two aliens shared a brief glance before turning back to him. “We prefer you for the job. But if you don’t want it, then our medical resources are better spent elsewhere. Do we have a deal?”
Adrian was silent for a while, long enough that the two aliens shared what might have been a worried glance.
“Yeah,” he said, albeit unhappily. “I guess we have a deal.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
The human was returned to a medical coma with the addition of more drugs. Treoffa decried the sheer amount of medication required to achieve this as a waste of resources better used elsewhere, but Bekmer had ordered her to continue – Treoffa was only second-in-command.
“Ensure his survival,” Bekmer had told her as he’d left the human in her care. “Ensure he is returned to a combat ready state as soon as possible. Do whatever you have to do, and remember… the soldiers were your idea.”
Bekmer had other things to attend to, such as three somewhat disgruntled soldiers currently awaiting an explanation for their abduction and temporary enslavement.
They awaited him in the Zhadersil’s brig – the small hold of his salvage craft was not enough to cope with all three – and none of them looked happy.
They rose as he entered the room, separated not only by thick metal bars but a kinetic shield similar to what had encapsulated the human’s home star system. The latter was pointless, the bars were heavy enough to contain an enraged Vulza – a curious thing to consider, Bekmer thought – but this was as much about making a statement as it was about containment.
“I am Bekmer,” he told them, behaving as much like a commander as he was capable of achieving. “All you need to know is that you have been brought here to protect the salvage opportunity of a thousand lifetimes, and of course the crew carrying it out. Of that crew you have now met the Robalin and myself. There is another Corti, as well as two Rrrrtktktkp’ch, currently involved in this operation.”
He stepped closer to them, ignoring their glares of animosity. “Your compliance has been ensured by the addition of cerebral detonators.”
They were so shocked that he almost revealed amusement, but that would have been unprofessional. It was more common for slave-soldiers to be unaware of the modification, to be tempted with a prize until they threatened disobedience, but with these three that chance had come and gone well before they’d woken up from suspended animation.
“You,” he said, pointing at the Chehnasho, a gaunt amphibious creature with bulging eyes and slick brown-green skin. Chehnasho were frequently employed as mercenaries in conflicts for their cunning and rapid movement in combat. They were an androgynous species, with each individual able to adapt its gender as desired, and this had ensured their spread throughout a multitude of worlds. “Your name?”
“Zripob,” Zripob replied with a harsh, croaking voice. “We are slaves, then?”
“For the time being,” Bekmer told him. “Work well and you will be released when our work here is done.”
Bekmer didn’t wait for the Chehnasho’s answer, instead turning to the bone, fur and leather arrangement that was a Rauwryhr. They were often employed as scouts for military forces, where they decided to involve themselves, and were able to see well at night as well as take flight to provide an aerial advantage. “And your name?”
The creature gazed at him hatefully before answering. “Trycrur,” she replied, her voice so surprisingly feminine that Bekmer nearly revealed his shock. It didn’t matter, of course, which gender the creature was so long as it could fight, but Rauwryhr bred with difficulty and rarely allowed their females to risk themselves in combat roles.
Bekmer nodded, pretending that this was what he had been expecting all along and moved to the next caged alien – this one a powerfully built Gaoian male who’d thus far been standing in silence and giving him a black look from beneath fur very nearly as black. “And you, Gaoian?”
“I am Chir,” the Gaoian said forcefully. “You’ll pay for what you’re doing to us!”
“I doubt it very much, Chir,” Bekmer replied, tapping the side of his head. “Cerebral detonator, remember?” Chir grunted and threw himself at the bars, grunting with surprise as he was thrown back by the kinetic shield.
“You will be released shortly,” Bekmer told them. “Ponder your circumstances until then. Consider how good work and obedience may be rewarded, and how defiance-” he turned his eyes to look at Chir, “meets with destruction. No more warnings.”
Bekmer turned on his heel and strode from the brig, leaving sight of the soldiers before exhaling a trembling breath. It was obvious that they hated him, that they may well risk detonation to get at him, and that if that did occur that Bekmer would be in a very poor position to respond in any way that not result in brains splattered everywhere. The human, as far as he could tell, was the only one who didn’t have any reason to completely despise him, and was the only one to who Bekmer could offer something beyond the simple prospect of freedom following the work – even if that prospect was a false one. He had to hope that that would be enough.
His communicator beeped, and by reflex he allowed the link to connect before quickly checking the name on it to sound like he had everything under control. “Treoffa? What do you want? Don’t tell me the human has-“
“Died?” Treoffa asked, finishing Bekmer’s question for him. “No. Although that would have been better, perhaps.”
Death would have been better? Bekmer could not hide his surprise this time. “What are you talking about?” he asked irately.
“Come and see,” she replied. “Now.”
The link disconnected before Bekmer could respond, and he hissed in irate fury while he remained unseen in the empty corridor before hurrying to do as instructed.
Treoffa was not given to fancy, and aside from her enjoyment in taunting Bekmer she was entirely professional – that, after all, was what he found so welcome in her as an occasional mate.
“This had better be important,” Bekmer snapped as he entered the room where Treoffa was busily running scans on the comatose human.
“It is,” she assured him.
Undisguised concern was now so evident in her voice that it gave Bekmer pause. “Tell me.”
“The damage was severe on a cellular level,” she began to explain. “Organ tissue was dying, as was muscle, and that is not even taking into account all of the bone fragments.”
“Azhiz told us that much,” Bekmer replied impatiently. “A cellular regenerative should have alleviated the former problem.”
She nodded. “That was my first step, but there is no information on how to reassemble a human this badly damaged, and so I initiated localised trials for the various possible drugs.”
“At least one should have worked,” Bekmer said. “We’re not entirely unfamiliar with human physiology.”
“They all worked,” Treoffa replied. “The problem is that the Cruezzir formula had an unexpected result when introduced into the human’s gut bacteria.”
“Ah yes,” mused Bekmer, “the unfathomable infestation of competing microbes living inside an even more unfathomable host. What was unexpected?”
“There was a rapid mutation,” continued Treoffa. “One I did not notice until it was too late. The bacteria in question have started producing the same regenerative proteins that the Cruezzir was intended to elicit only whilst it was in the subject’s system. He is now effectively self-producing the protein.”
Bekmer was silent, looking down at the still body of the human. To his unaided eyes nothing seemed to be changing – it wasn’t as if every injury the human had obviously endured was sealing up in front of him. “What is the outcome?” he asked.
“The protein has started to flood his body,” Treoffa said, “and all damaged cells are regenerating. There are signs of new growth on the bones already.” Bekmer produced a strangled noise, and it was a moment before he could talk again. “Are you telling me you’ve just taken the most dangerous species in the recorded history of this galaxy and made it stronger?”
She nodded slowly. “What do you want me to do?”
The answer to that took a long time for Bekmer to consider. He stared at the motionless human without thought, numb shock filling the space where logic and cunning usually resided, and a cold knot of fear resting in his gut.
“Follow my original orders,” he said at last. “May the Directorate be merciful on me if I am wrong.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Time had passed. Chir wasn’t sure how much, since the ship did not simulate day/night cycles and the Corti slave-masters had not seen fit to provide their slave-soldiers with any means of telling the time. The ‘soldiers’ had worked out a haphazard roster on their own, based on their varied needs for sleep, and had done their best to work as required. Even Chir had been quiet and obedient, although he considered the chances of ever seeing his beloved homeworld again to be slim.
He was at least not the only soldier in the group; Zripob had served in two major engagements on behalf of the Celzi before the Dominion had paid his company more to serve them for a third. Mercenaries were a rarely advertised part of modern war, and usually took on roles for ship-to-ship action rather than getting blasted into shreds of meat in the planet-bound infantry, and Zripob’s experience in this would prove invaluable.
Trycrur, on the other hand, was no soldier at all, but was apparently considered a highly competent weapons designer and had worked in a Dominion military department before she had been snatched. She had been dressed in military colours at the time, however, and it was unsurprising that anyone simply searching for a lone individual in soldier dress would have identified her as anything other than a soldier. She knew, at least, which way to point a gun, but from what Chir could tell this was about the entirety of her soldier skills. If they were attacked by anything other than an immobile target, he doubted she would be of any help.
The three of them rarely moved from their patrol lines around the salvage crew’s own ship, although Chir had every indication that there was a lot of ship he did not see. The flight-deck alone was big enough to fit two full Gaoian cruisers, and he wondered at the use its previous owners had put it to. From what he had overheard they had been named the V’strak, and although he was entirely unfamiliar with anything by that name it was clear that the ship was truly ancient and that they valued a great ruggedness in all of their structures. Judging by the lack of cushions, they also valued discomfort – truly alien beings.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Zripob asked him as they met to change over patrol shifts. “The Corti, I mean?”
Chir displayed surprise, and turned his attention to the Corti who had emerged from some other part of the great ship and were proceeding towards their salvage vessel. They were speaking quietly, but the conversation was clearly quite heated. They’d been getting more like that lately, and Chir did not like it – angry slave-masters did not make for happy and free slaves.
“I’ve heard the word ‘Human’ being said a few times when they thought I couldn’t hear,” Zripob confided with him quietly. “The way I hear it, Corti haven’t exactly got the best relationship with those monsters. Do you think they’ve pissed one off?”
“They’re not so bad,” Chir replied. “There is one on my homeworld who has been adopted by the females as one of their own. An excellent protector, and one not aligned with any of the male clans. She is even well respected by our leaders.”
“That doesn’t help us if these fools have managed to get ones attention,” Zripob said. “Who do you think gets sent to fight it first if it turns up looking to turn Corti into gwalish [cold meat stew]?”
Chir clicked his acceptance of the fact. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Treoffa said. “I don’t think we have enough medicine left to kill him.”
“We could eject him into space,” Bekmer suggested, “or we could just start stabbing and see where that takes us!”
“He’s not unconscious anymore,” Treoffa chided. “I think he may object if you try any of that, and then he’ll tear your limbs off and beat us all to death with them.”
“But he’s mutating!” Bekmer replied angrily, glancing about to make sure the slave-soldiers couldn’t hear him. He could see two of them, the Gaoian and the Chehnasho staring in their direction. “Let’s get into the ship and talk in private!”
He opened the hatch and allowed Treoffa to enter first, then he closed it behind him before continuing. “He’s mutating!”
“He’s not!” Treoffa replied sharply. “The gut bacteria have continued to flood him with the formula, and it is affecting his body in unforeseen ways.”
“You said his organs have grown!” Bekmer said, almost accusing in his tone. “That doesn’t normally happen with Cruezzir! I should know, I’ve used it myself!”
“Scans do indicate growth in the lungs, most likely compensating for the thin air,” Treoffa said. “Although that has ceased since his ribs have regrown. Other organs which appear to be responsible for toxin filtration have also grown somewhat, most likely in response to the drugs we’ve been feeding him. It now takes thirty percent higher doses to achieve the same effect.”
“He’s bigger!” Bekmer said, flustered for claims to throw at his second-in-command.
“Yes,” Treoffa said, “his muscles grew slightly when I exposed them to mild electrical stimulus. I increased the stimulus, with proportional effects, although it seems to have plateaued for now. It took seventy percent of our remaining food supplies to achieve this, and we’ll have to get Azhiz to go and get us more before long.”
“Seventy percent…” Bekmer repeated, dumbfounded by the number. That was an incredible amount of food, enough to have lasted them until the end of their work here. “And yet you say he hasn’t mutated!”
“He has grown,” Treoffa said, “but he is now simply a prime version of a human, and probably biologically immortal if my cell scans are accurate.”
“This is too much for my judgement, Treoffa,” Bekmer said weakly as he flopped down into his command chair. “He’s too dangerous to let survive, and we certainly can’t send him back to Earth even if the shield fails. Can you imagine a planet full of biologically-immortal super-beings? We couldn’t find a decent attack vector with regular humans, how are we supposed to deal with this?”
“Well whatever you do, don’t go threatening him with his cerebral detonator,” Treoffa warned him.
Bekmer got to his feet at the mention of the device, suddenly rather more pleased with himself. “I nearly forgot about that! Those idiotic researchers put on in his head as well, didn’t they? We can just activate that, and-“
“It’s been effectively destroyed,” Treoffa interrupted. “His immune system recognised it as a foreign object and has ruined it. I can’t say that it’d explode even if you reached into his skull and pressed the button yourself.”
“Then there is no helping it, Treoffa,” Bekmer said with enormous disappointment. “We have to inform the Directorate.”