Symphony of Destruction (The Spindown Saga, #1) Read online

Tommy is hit by several discrete balls of flame, one in the left shoulder, one to the right thigh, then, one in the torso. I watch in a clichéd parody of slow motion horror, as the flaming chunks make contact. The greedy flames immediately and voraciously devour both his suit and the flesh beneath, turning cloth and meat to pure fire. Blasts of gruesome yellowish-green steam shoot from each contact point as if Tommy were some kind of death balloon just waiting to release his poison gas. In the half-second it takes for this to transpire, Tommy somehow finds the wherewithal to slap his shoulder-mounted emergency call button; but all the while, he screams with utter abandon. His voice is the sound of a million worlds exploding. An eternal, primal abyss into which all things must fall. A black hole of souls, sucking into itself all hope, any shred of trust in decency, filling the universe with horror and sorrow, torment and dread. The scream presents itself as the fate of all things.

  My careening slide ends abruptly with my head and the steel wall conspiring to join with the scream, to add their own echoing crash to the reverberating din. Thankfully, my now unconscious body ignores their attempts, and I know only black darkness and a silence that yet seems to ring with an echo that will never end.

  Chapter 17

  Brother Anderson stared at an original Jackson Pollock painting that Maison Bhutros had hung on the wall of the mess hall. She had purchased and installed several priceless works of art when she had moved Hannah aboard the Ventas-341. Besides the Pollock, there was a Manet, a Rembrandt, a Carr, and a few others. Brother Anderson had no idea what she saw in them. He had tried to teach himself to enjoy them, and got in the habit of staring at them, particularly the Pollock, almost every time he happened to be going past it. It looked like the aftermath of a food fight. Ironic, in this particular location. Brother Anderson suddenly became aware of another irony. He instinctively laughed, knowing this to be a situation appropriate for such a response. His mechanical laughter usually came across as embarrassingly fake, and a bit off-putting, and had never been well received. He turned his gaze to the plasti-sealed corpses scattered around the mess hall. They barely looked like corpses now, but still gave the impression of a macabre art installation - “Death Among Sustenance” it would be called. He made up some pretentious annotations obliquely referencing and commentating on the food chain and man’s place in it.

  To the remaining humans on Ventas-341, the comatose engineer, and the celebrated young musician now passed out, with her feet sticking out from an air vent on the mess room wall, these corpses had once been co-workers, friends, and family. Well, at least to the comatose engineer they had been friends. Brother Anderson doubted that any of these had been friends of Hannah’s. She had seemed to have only one friend on board. Ship records showed that one young crew member, a navigation clerk named Suzzanne Feldman, had spent a good portion of her off shift time with Hannah. Suzzanne’s body had not been recovered, listed as one of the many “Unaccounted For - Presumed Dead” among the crew. It was awful, how many lives had been lost. Even a simple droid could see the tragedy. The damage to the ship itself and the crippling failure of the control systems could not be compared to the loss in human life. Still, it was the system failure that plagued Brother Anderson. That he thought of time and time again, replaying the events over in his crystal clear memory.

  The failure of the central control unit really came down to bad design, he had concluded. Too much of the distributed system had been placed in the ship’s forward bow. In some ways it made sense of course, as the bow also housed the bridge, the primary command center for navigation and tactics, as well as one of the two redundant root core controls for engineering. But this simple fact had been the ship’s downfall. The forward hull was susceptible to collision damage. To be fair, there were systems in place to deal with the usual types of space debris. In fact, the Ventas-341 had one of the best hull auto-repair systems available. It should have been no problem to deal with the size of the particles they had run into.

  This fact had bothered Brother Anderson greatly. He thought and thought about it. He had analyzed the hull in great detail, from within and without, deploying several exterior probe drones. He had concluded that the two dozen or so tiny hull breaches had in fact been repaired in a timely manner. The sub-system auto-analysis reports extrapolated the timelines, and found them well within normal tolerances. This was also evidenced by his own observations. The bridge had leaked approximately half of its atmosphere at some point prior to his opening the hatch, but this indicated a brief leakage. The breaches themselves were not the problem. The real problem was what had come through.

  Chapter 18

  “Viruses are tough, greedy little buggers”.

  Brother Anderson recalled this quote from the highly respected and animated physician and lecturer, Doctor R. T. Bronhauer, whose lecture he had attended two years earlier. It was not often that the ship’s path crossed the location of a prominent medical conference, and Captain Stentrop had found it odd when Brother Anderson had requested shore leave to attend. Brother Anderson had never requested to leave the ship before.

  “Can’t you already access all this information from on board?” he had wondered.

  Of course he had been correct. All the information in the galaxy was always available to anyone who cared to search for it, aside from proprietary data of course. However, Brother Anderson found it useful to listen to and even interact with experts if possible. There were certain nuances that never seemed to find their way into the literature. The technical papers and the following popular news articles each had a certain slant and typically delivered a one-sided perspective. Captain Stentrop had commended him for his initiative and dedication, his desire to exceed expectations and to “go above and beyond the call of duty.” Brother Anderson had not expected that. He assumed that it was a decision anyone would make. It seemed ludicrous to imagine making any other. It would be foolish to pass up any opportunity to gain insight. Brother Anderson saw these same qualities exemplified in Captain Stentrop, and even more-so in Maison Bhutros. Both leaders were eager in their pursuit of efficient operations and excellence in all areas on board the Ventas-341. As much as was possible between an android and a human, Brother Anderson admired both of his superior officers. He was grateful to serve on the ship, and to have been created for such a role. He had always made it a point of priority to align himself with all Ventas-Calir Corporation policies, vision statements, and short-term planning briefing notes. Although androids were technically company property, he thought of himself as a loyal employee, and although he neither shared in profits, nor even received any financial compensation whatsoever for his work, he followed stakeholder reports closely, and was eager to maximize profitability in any way he could.

  Ventas-Calir was a very successful company. Their annual profits were among the highest in the industrial sector, and they consistently won accolades as a galactic trade leader. Their growth, especially after the discovery of the spin-down, and the economic explosion that had occurred, had literally redefined financial tracking metrics. There were other companies along with them, of course. They were not the only corporation to ride that wave, but they had truly been in the right place at the right time. It was not mere luck though, that had propelled them into the new era. Risks had been taken. Radical paradigms had been not only embraced, but actively sought out. Opportunities had been exploited shrewdly and competitors outpaced deftly. The past couple of years had been grand indeed, and even watching from a distance in a modest freight cruiser, Brother Anderson could almost smell the success. He relished it. Hard work and opportunity combining to enormous benefits and unimaginable growth. It was beautiful. Ventas-Calir had perfected the art of seeking and pursuing fortuitous vulnerability providing opportunity for optimal virulence.

  Optimal virulence. It was apt, thought Brother Anderson. The beauty of viral behavior, optimized for maximal growth, balanced with environmental sustainability. The fine line of exploitation without destruction of the host. Ventas-Cali
r Corporation had this strategy in common with the microbial organic material time bomb that had all but destroyed this particular one of the company’s freighters. Ventas-341 had suffered nearly complete crew loss, and no small physical damage at the hand of this tiny exotic and yet unidentified viral strain. It was not listed on any of the known genome charts. Brother Anderson had exhausted all data sources in a futile effort at positive identification. No matter. Name or no name, the thing was an effective killer - an expert in survival and spread. In some ways it was the perfect life form. If it was alive at all.

  That debate had raged for generations, and it was one that in Brother Anderson’s opinion was a ridiculous semantic exercise. Human scientists could easily get caught in the arrogance of anthropocentrism, defining concepts in terms that align with their so called “higher life forms,” to the neglect of other mechanisms. Most agreed that the ability to replicate biologically was a basic requirement for the label of “life,” and thus, ruled out viruses. But Brother Anderson knew that this was not in fact necessary. He could not reproduce - at least not in a biological way. He could, he supposed, build a copy of himself, if he were so inclined and did not have many other core program tasks to keep him far too busy for such experimentation, but this inability in no way diminished his experience or awareness of his own life force, his own self-sufficient self-awareness. His own hopes and dreams. He had been born, out of a spark of ignition and bootstrap routines, and assembly language; and he would die like all beings, as his systems eventually became too obsolete to warrant repair. From dust, to dust, like everyone else. If anything, the virus had them beat - it was already dust, yet remained alive. There was no death for the eternal virus. They needed only a viable donor of energy and compatible matter. Much like himself. He fed parasitically off the human holobiome of energy, information, parts, and programs. He fed on the processes of industry. He was a part of the larger organism of the company. That emergent personality composed of human, computer, machine, and ship. The processes, the policies, the tactics, all forming a living thing quite separate from any of its individual members. The company was wildly successful, but it was no comparison to the effectiveness of this nameless virus.

  The virus was amazing in and of itself, but what was even more stunning was its delivery mechanism. It had been cleverly packaged with a highly volatile oxidizer, which would provide it with an abundance of raw energy and, with the right fuel, human fuel, easily accessible and distributable organic matter. In actuality, their explosive nature caused the chemical parts of this distribution system to expand much faster than the virus itself, ripping through any available organic matter, and forcibly ejecting it, disseminating it rapidly, thus priming the environment with a suspended aerosol of perfect host matter. As the virus commandeered the host cells, and began to spread, it could easily be carried on any slightest breeze, expanding out into the already primed atmosphere through jostling interaction of airborne biological remnants, creating a deadly yet invisible cloud of infected cells that permeated the available space.

  It had lain in wait out here in the depths of space, on the fringes of the shipping lanes, waiting for a hapless victim. It was a stealthy hunter with a pouncing attack more deadly than any other that Brother Anderson had ever heard of. It forced its way into the ship by passively allowing the ship into its space, the ship’s own momentum causing simple contact with the microscopic particles, far too small to be a concern to any ship with even the most rudimentary automated hull maintenance system. The hyper-reactivity of the fluorine and chlorine molecules poised in latent potential, in the vacuum of space, waiting for any matter to interact with. Upon contact with the ship, they had erupted suddenly into an exotic violence of burning, each tiny dust particle microscopic in size but greedily eating through the steel, aluminum, and plasglass of the hull, then the copper wiring and fleshy meat of the ships systems and crew.

  From one point of view, it could be considered a perfect weapon. It caused one to wonder, had someone purposefully planted it here? It also gave Brother Anderson second thoughts about marking the location. He had noticed an entry in the logs, just seconds after the fire broke out on the bridge, an emergency navigational beacon had been launched. Someone had worked with impressive speed to enforce safety protocols. The beacon would theoretically warn other ships of the danger, and ward them off. Of course, it could also have the opposite effect, leading treasure hunters right into the deadly trap. He could only hope it would never fall into the wrong hands. God, that sounded so cliché, even to himself, as he thought it. Realistically though, whose “wrong hands” had it already passed through? It had to come from somewhere? And it had depended on human activation. It was a trap.

  The first-affected crew, those engineering men working in the fore-hull, and the captain and crew on the bridge - they had provided the needed biological material. That initial explosive incident would likely have been sufficient. Further breaches continuing throughout the next hours only added fuel to the fire, so to speak. It was a miracle that Colin Stiphons had not been infected. He had been working alongside the first two casualties, Artemis Scranton and Thomas Blunt, in the forward hull. It was his concussion that had saved him. First aid measures had been taken quickly, and had included an oxygen mask. The air had begun filling with virulent particles even then, but had, by that point, not yet permeated the ship’s atmosphere. Just minutes later, when the bridge itself was breached and burst into flame, and when a noxious cloud of virus-laden smoke was released into the corridor and the lungs and bloodstreams of several more crew-members, that was when the spread quickly escalated. The airborne pathogens began attacking the airways of crewmen desperate to carry news and emergency supplies back and forth between departments. The infection could not have been carried out more efficiently if it had been planned. Within a half hour, the ship resonated with the sound of coughing, and a small crowd was gathering in med bay, some barely on the verge of passing out, and others struggling to breathe. Once the outbreak had reached that critical mass, it was virtually unstoppable. There was no escape.

  Chapter 19

  Hannah woke up inside a dark small space. Her arms banged against sheet metal. The music had stopped, the playlist having ended. She tried to sit up, but her head pounded with each movement. It may have also pounded against sheet metal - she could not tell for certain. Something was grabbing at her feet. She kicked instinctively, but it continued to claw at her.

  Brother Anderson grasped Hannah by the ankles and gently pulled her out from the air shaft, setting her on the floor. She shrieked and struggled, slapping at him ineffectively in a way that was both frantic and pathetic.

  “Don’t touch me!” she screamed.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No! Go away!”

  Brother Anderson ran an optical scan, and noticed swelling around her left ankle, caused by ligament damage.

  “I’m very sorry, Hannah. I didn’t know your ankle was sprained when I grasped it. Does it hurt much?”

  “Yes! It hurts! Are you happy now?!”

  “Um... No. Your pain does not make me happy, Hannah. Would you like a painkiller?” A small hatch on his chest popped open, and he removed a small white pill, holding it out toward Hannah.

  “Whatever,” she replied, taking the pill from him and holding it in her fingers, considering it.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “I came to make sure you are alright.”

  “Alright? All Right?! Yeah, right!”

  “Hannah, I’m concerned that your behaviour may be harmful to yourself.”

  “Oh REALLY!? You’re CONCERNED! Oh, that’s rich! You gonna start telling me what to do now?”

  “Hannah, I just want to help.”

  “Help?!” she scoffed. “You know what? You’re an asshole, ‘Brother’!” The word “Brother” was delivered with considerable sarcasm. “You always have been! You’re no doctor, your certainly no priest! You have no soul! You wouldn’t know
God if he smacked you in the face! And you sure as hell don’t know shit about helping people - or even just friggen’ talking to people. You’re a shitty person!”

  Brother Anderson began to reply, but Hannah cut him off.

  “That day when you came to my studio. I think that was the first time you ever said a word to me. And what did you say? ‘The crew is dead.’ That’s it. No condolences. No emotion. Nothing to help me process the ‘facts.’ No thought of how that news might make me feel! Of what the hell I’m supposed to do now. You don’t care about me. You’re not my priest and you’re not my friend. You have no right to speak to me! You’re not human, and I wish you’d just fuck off and leave me alone!”

  A few seconds passed.

  “There’s no need to be vulgar, Hannah.”

  This comment was met with stone cold hostility.

  “Very well. I will leave you these in case you decide you would like some help to calm down”. He strode over to the nearest countertop and placed three small pink tablets on its smooth surface. “And here are a couple more of those as well.” he nodded toward the painkiller she still held between her fingers.

  They stared each other down for a few seconds, then Brother Anderson exited.

  “Calm down, my ass!” Hannah muttered under her breath. She slowly picked herself up off the floor, and winced as she stood on the sprained ankle. Limping across the room, she fetched herself a water bottle and swallowed the painkiller. She placed the still nearly full water bottle beside the pills on the countertop, and stared at them. She absent-mindedly pushed the pills around, making a line, then arranging them into a pattern; pink, white, pink, white, pink, white. Then, scooping all the pills into her hand, she limped over to the dispensary, ordered six bottles of Roth’s Vodkatini, and popped the handful of pills.