Brian Evenson - Dead Space - Martyr

He realized he had some kind of weapon: a gun that sent out a whirling blade projected on a beam of light. He kept turning around and firing the thing, watching it cut with a grating sound through the creature’s legs, spraying blood and gore all over. Its legs were gone, but it still kept coming, posting the tips of its tusks against the ground and dragging itself forward, moaning. He cut off its arms and then its head, and finally it stopped.

Thank God, he thought, and wiped the blood off his face.

He had started to turn away when he heard something behind him. The creature was still writhing, flopping this way and that, changing . With a wet sound, it sprouted new arms and legs. It clambered up, roaring, and was after him again.

Screaming, he turned and ran.

“Bad dreams?” asked the man beside his bed. He was a large man with a square jaw and white hair, dressed in the dark uniform of military intelligence. He was regarding Altman with a steady, aloof gaze. To either side of him were two even larger men who looked like they might be twins, dressed in street clothes. At a little distance was another man, smaller and wearing glasses. He looked vaguely familiar, but Altman couldn’t quite place him.

“Where am I?” asked Altman.

“You’re in your house,” said the military man. “In Chicxulub.”

“Where’s Ada?”

“You’re girlfriend? She’s not here. She’s safe.”

“What do you mean, safe?” asked Altman, starting to get out of the bed.

The man raised a finger. Calmly but forcefully the twins to either side of him took Altman by the arms and lowered him back onto the bed, holding him down until he had stopped struggling.

Warily, Altman eyed them. “What are you doing here?” he asked the military man.

He made a gesture and the other two let go and stepped back. “I came to see you,” he said.

“And who are you?”

“Markoff,” he said. “Craig Markoff.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” said Altman.

“No,” said Markoff. “It doesn’t.”

“And who are they?” he asked, gesturing to the other three men.

Markoff looked left and right. “These?” he said. “These are my new associates.” The man with the glasses gave a smirk. “Tim, Tom, and Terry.”

“Which one is which?”

“Does it matter?” asked Markoff.

“Look,” said Altman, “you can’t just break in here like this. You have no right to be here. I’m going to call the police.”

Markoff just smiled. When Altman reached for his phone, he said, “Tom? Tim?”

The twins moved slowly forward. One of them put his hand on Altman’s wrist and squeezed until he dropped the phone. The other punched him once, softly, almost lovingly, in the side.

He fell back on the bed, gasping. Tim and Tom wandered back behind Markoff, watching Altman struggle to catch his breath.

When he had calmed down, Markoff said, “Feeling better, are we? Would you like a drink of water?”

Altman shook his head. Markoff snapped his fingers, and the man with the glasses tossed Altman a shirt and a pair of pants.

“You’re in the right frame of mind now,” said Markoff. “Get dressed. We’re going to have a little talk.”

A few minutes later, he was sitting across the kitchen table from Markoff, the other three standing next to the doors leading in and out of the room.

“It’s very simple,” said Markoff. “You filed a grant to investigate Chicxulub crater.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” argued Altman. “That’s what scientists do.”

“I’ve already spoken to your friends,” said Markoff. “Or, rather, my associates have. We’ve determined that the person motivating this grant application was you.”

“So?”

Markoff gave him a cold look. “Don’t get cocky. If I have to, I’ll have Tim break your arm,” he said.

“Or Tom,” said one of the twins from where he stood near the doorway.

“Or Tom,” said Markoff. He turned and looked at the twin. “Don’t worry, Tom. He has two arms. Enough to go around.” Then he turned back to Altman, looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” Altman said.

“That’s better,” said Markoff. “Your proposal for investigating the crater has been pulled from the grant proposal pool. It is now classified. The investigation of Chicxulub crater has become a military matter.”

“So, I was right,” said Altman.

“About what?” asked Markoff.

“You’re not just trying to retrieve the submarine. You’re trying to get at whatever is in the crater.”

“You’re a clever boy,” said Markoff. “Maybe too clever for your own good. The reason I’m here is to find out how much you know and evaluate whether you would be a valuable member of our team. If you are, I am prepared to allow you to join us — in a limited capacity, of course. If not, I’ll have to figure out something else to do with you.”

“What do you mean by ‘something else’?”

Markoff shrugged. “Could be ship you back to your own sector. Could be having you put in confinement for as long as it takes us to complete the project. Could be something a bit more serious.” Behind him, the twins exchanged glances and smiled. “I suppose, Mr. Altman, that it’s up to you.” Markoff straightened in his chair, put both his hands palm down on the table. “Well, Mr. Altman, shall we begin?”

Markoff started off slow.

“How did you first realize there was something unusual going on in the crater?”

“I detected a gravity anomaly.”

“It wasn’t the pulse signal?”

Altman shook his head. “The pulse signal came later.”

“Who told you about the pulse signal?”

Altman hesitated, tempted to lie, and then he realized it didn’t matter: Hammond was dead.

And then, suddenly it clicked: he knew where he had seen the man with the glasses.

“Charles Hammond told me,” he said. “I believe your associates knew him.”

Markoff looked back at Terry. The latter hesitated a moment, nodded.

“But we didn’t kill him,” said Tim.

“No, we didn’t kill him,” said Tom.

“No talking shop here, boys,” said Markoff. “Terry, why don’t you take Tim and Tom and wait for me outside?”

The three of them quietly left the room.

“How do I know you are who you say you are?” asked Altman.

Markoff turned back, his gaze steady. “I wondered when you were going to get around to that. Either I am or I’m not,” he said. “If I am, then it’ll be worth your while to cooperate if it will get you on the expedition. If I’m not, then there’s very little you can do about it. Whether you tell me the truth or not, you’re probably in trouble either way. Tell me… what do you think you know?”

It’s a reasonable enough gamble, thought Altman. I know that DredgerCorp is working with the military to salvage the submarine, so chances are he is what he says he is. The trick is knowing how to tell him enough to get him to bring me aboard on the project, but not so much that he thinks he’s already gotten all he can out of me, that he doesn’t need me anymore.

He took a deep breath. “I’d guess there’s something in the heart of the crater,” said Altman. “Not a natural phenomenon, but something else.”

“Go on,” said Markoff.

“Considering its location, it must have been there a very long time.”

“How long?”

“It might have been there thousands of years. Or even longer.”

“Why do you think so?”

“The Yucatec Maya have a kind of mythology surrounding it. They call it the tail of the devil.”

He saw a gleam of something in Markoff’s eye. “You’ve told me something I didn’t know, Altman,” he said. “How did you find this out?”