Brian Evenson - Dead Space - Martyr

It’s time, she said. You’ve learned too much. It’s time.

Time for what? He hadn’t felt whole since he lost his grandmother. And now she was here again, but not here at the same time. He could see her and hear her but not touch her or smell her. His whole life had been like that, a life of loss, first his parents gone and then his grandmother. In the end, all that was left was just his laboratory, the only thing he could count on. His laboratory had never let him down.

Are you listening to me? she asked, snapping her fingers. Do you understand what I’m saying? You must stop this research at once!

Stop his research? He felt a rage rising in him. She had never understood what he was trying to do, so why should it surprise him that she didn’t understand him now? “But I’m doing important work,” he said. “I’m making discoveries beyond human imagination.”

What you are doing is dangerous, she said. Trust me, child. I say this for your own good. The Marker will destroy you. You must stop before it is too late.

His eyes were stinging with tears. Stop his work? What else did he have? It’s not really her, he told himself. The Marker has just borrowed her image and voice. Why couldn’t it have stayed with being the girl? He had loved her but never really had her, so he couldn’t miss her in the same way that he missed his grandmother. And now it was trying to manipulate him, trying to use his grandmother to get him to stop.

“Please, go away,” he said, trying not to look at her. “It’s too much.”

Too much? she was saying. Her voice was a little shrill now, grating on his nerves. I need you to listen to me, Grote. This is very important.

He groaned. He couldn’t listen; he couldn’t bear it. He covered his ears, but somehow he could still hear her anyway. He shook his head back and forth and started to sing as loudly as he could. He could still hear her, could still tell she was saying words, but couldn’t hear what they were exactly. But she just stood there, still talking, refusing to go away.

He closed his eyes, her voice still humming on. What could he do? He was so tired, he just needed a rest. How could he drive her away?

Confusedly, he told himself she was a mental construct: his mental construct. If he simply stopped thinking, he could drive her away. All he’d have to do was knock himself out and he’d be all right.

There was a syringe in the drawer, a fresh needle. He had to uncover his ears to reach for it, and suddenly her words were spilling louder through his head. No, Grote! she yelled at him. Stop this foolishness right now! You haven’t understood at all. You’re going to do yourself harm.

He shuddered. He needed a sedative. There it was, already on the table.

Grote! she said. Can’t you see? This is what the Marker wants! You are not thinking straight. Stop and listen!

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled.

He affixed the needle and sucked the fluid up and in. It was thicker than he thought, hard to get into the needle. Still listening to his grandmother’s yammering, he tied his arm off and flicked the vein, then held the needle to it.

Grote, why are you doing this? she asked.

“I just need to sleep,” he said, and plunged the needle in. “Just a few hours’ sleep.”

It burned going in, and then his arm began to tingle. His grandmother gave him her awful, heartbroken stare.

You think that is a sedative? she said. She shook her head and drew back, a look of horror on her face. That is not what it is. You have hastened the Convergence. You must hurry to the Marker, she said. Surrounding the Marker is a dead space that will stop this thing in you from progressing. Go there and show the others what has happened to you and warn them. You must convince them to leave the Marker alone. You must try to stop the Convergence before it is too late. It is urgent that you convince them, Grote. Very, very urgent . And then slowly she faded away into nothingness.

He sat there for a moment, relieved, before realizing that she wasn’t saying it just to needle him; she was telling the truth. Oh, God, he thought, staring down at the empty receptacle, the empty syringe, realizing what he’d just injected. He looked at his arm, the strange swelling in the vein, the painful undulating movement that was not his own now deep within his arm.

He reached out and triggered the alarm, but then found he couldn’t sit still. Something was wrong. Something was already starting to change. His arm was tingling, had gone numb, and the undulating movement was larger now, had spread. He had to get out, had to see the Marker, had to talk to it. The Marker would save him, his grandmother had said.

He rushed out and down the passage, took the spiral down. The alarm was howling, people starting to appear, confused. He stumbled through two laboratories he had a passcard for, then through a transparent corridor with the move and shift of the water playing on its walls.

There, at the end, was the door to the Marker chamber, two guards standing in front of it.

“Let me in,” he said.

“Sorry, Professor Guthe,” said one of them. “There’s an alert. Can’t you hear it?”

The other said, in a strange voice, “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“I sounded the alert. That’s why I have to get in. The arm,” he babbled. “I need to talk to it about the arm.”

“Need to talk to what?” said the first guard suspiciously. Both guards had their weapons raised.

“The Marker, you idiot!” he said. “I need it to tell me what is going to happen to me!”

The two guards exchanged looks. One of them began talking into the com unit very quickly; the other now actively pointed the gun at him.

“Now, Professor,” he said. “Calm down. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“No,” he said, “you don’t understand.”

There were other people in the hall now, people behind him, watching, puzzled.

“All I want is to see it,” he pleaded to them.

“What’s wrong with his arm?” someone behind him asked.

The arm was twisted now, his hand facing backward as if it had been cut off and flipped over, then reconnected. It was not just in his arm now, but in his shoulder and chest, too, everything changing.

He tried to speak, and it came out as a deep retching sound. The alarms were still going off. He took a step forward, and now the guard was shouting. He held his arm out in front of him and they shrank back, moving slowly out of the way. I’ll shoot! I’ll shoot! one was yelling, but he didn’t shoot. Guthe was at the door now, swiping his card. A bullet thudded into his leg, but it didn’t matter, he hardly felt it. And then the door opened and he fell in.

The chamber was empty except for him and the Marker. He moved toward it, his injured leg suddenly giving out underneath him. He pulled himself along on his knees until he could touch it.

Whatever was happening in his arm seemed to have stopped. It wasn’t getting better, but it wasn’t getting worse. The Marker was helping. The Marker was stopping it. He breathed a sigh of relief, then winced from the stabbing pain in his leg.

He would stay here, protected by the Marker. Once he figured out what had happened, he could put his team to work helping him to get better. If worse came to worst, he would have the arm amputated.

The alarm stopped and he found he could think better. He would have someone move his laboratory down here and would continue his work. He moved his leg, winced from the pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door to one side opening. He turned, recognized one of the leaders, the man who ran the guards, the one with the brutal face. What was his name again? Ah, yes, Krax. He was just the one to help move his lab. And he had brought others with him, lots of men, healthy strapping lads. They could all help.