Past Dark

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 22876 Terran Expedition: Australia

Muriel Reinhard crouched behind a stack of crates. Clay Yeager, arm in a sling, breathing heavily, sat against the crates and closed his eyes which were red from tears.

Nearby, Dyami loomed over both of them. He was one of the good aliens, but the emergency lighting heightened his look of being a nightmare monster, emphasizing his orange and black stripes and the bristles on his thick skin. His heavy head rose up as he checked over the crates for any Nosferan invaders or crew. He cradled his injured arm, scored by molten fire from a Nosferan railgun.

His head dropped down. Muriel felt the deep infrasound rumble that passed through the deck. The Galactic translator on his arm picked up his words and spoke.

“All clear. Passage is wider.”

That was a relief. When Clay had led them in here, through a storage bay, she hadn't thought that Dyami would even fit. The aisle was only wide enough for one person at a time, and Dyami was much bigger than a human. His broad shoulders would never have fit, but by lying on his side, he had managed to squeeze through the tight fit. He had scrapes down his back, had lost bristles, and was oozing blood in several new spots.

If they could get around to the Australia's shuttle bay without being stopped by the crew, or killed by the Nosferans, then they had a chance of escaping. The Tretan shuttle, piloted by the Tretan's cybernetic mnemonic clone, was still there. If the pilot was functional, if the ship's repair systems had finished repairing what was wrong, then they had a chance to escape.

The Australia was a Terran Exploration vessel in orbit around Cyeechie, CY-HC-2347, a habitable moon orbiting around its gas giant parent. And it was the ship that had instigated the Human-Nosferan War a hundred years ago. Except that was now for her and Dyami. They'd already seen that the past could be changed when Helen Shaw was killed right in front of them. Originally, she was one of the survivors of the ill-fated expedition, but now she was lying dead in a corridor with her head blown off.

Dyami used sign language. Go now.

Muriel rose, helping Clay up and went around the crate. Distantly there was the sound of gunfire. Dangerous on a spaceship where a shot could puncture the hull and vent compartments, but that didn't seem to stop any of them. Constantine, Australia's head of security, had deployed his people throughout the ship at key points knowing that the Nosferans were going to board.

Because of her. Because she broke under their questioning and told them what she remembered about the Australia expedition and the start of the war. She wasn't an expert by any means, but she knew enough.

Enough to know that Olivia Blackstone wasn't going to back down. Even with the warning, she had taken the Australia in exactly as she had done in the past. Which was now Muriel's present. Whether Blackstone did it to preserve the timeline, or because her bosses wanted to profit from the war, it didn't matter right now.

All that mattered at the moment was getting to the Tretan's ship. It might be the only chance they had of getting back home.

Clay moved ahead, leading them through the cargo bays to a side door. “Out this corridor, down to the junction, right, and then all the way to the end. That will be the door to the shuttle bay where they have your ship.”

Good. Dyami signed. He had picked up some sign language when the crew had denied him his translator. Go now.

Clay bit his lip.

Muriel nudged him. “Come on, Clay. We have to get out now. It's what Helen wanted.”

He took a deep breath, let it out. “Okay. Yeah, I know. Let's go.”

He touched the panel. The door slid open.

Smoke billowed into the cargo bay and Clay fell back, covering his face with his good arm and coughing. Muriel stepped around him and simply held her breath. As a Moreau, she'd already incorporated traits of several other species, improving her lung capacity among other improvements for deep diving. Holding her breath for several minutes wasn't an issue.

The smoke was diffuse, not thick. It smelled of hot melted wires and the acrid odor of fire suppressants. Wherever the fire was, it wasn't right in this corridor.

Muriel moved out, beckoning to the guys to follow.

Dyami moved forward, favoring his injured arm as he loped forward on all fours. Clay hugged his own broken arm and stayed out of Dyami's way. Technically the broken arm was their fault since it happened when the Australia had maneuvered to avoid the Tretan's shuttle when it appeared along the Australia's flight path.

She still wondered about that. How was it that they had appeared right in that spot? The shuttle had been thrown back in time, apparently due to some sort of interaction between the displacement drive and weapons fire from the ship that had captured Brock.

Muriel still didn't know what had happened to Brock. They had been going after Kelwyn, a rogue Moreau Society member who had perverted the Moreau Pod technology to create a terrible weapon. It was a beam that mutated people at great distance, turning them into Dumpties. Brock had become a target himself, scrambled into a mutated horror that would have died had they not gotten him into his Moreau Pod in time. A failsafe he had designed had reversed most of the damage, except for the C'lacktal tentacles that had replaced his left hand. Then they'd gone after Kelwyn, and it had all gone wrong.

Muriel reached the junction first and checked each direction. The smoke was thicker here, but still diffuse, most likely carried through the corridors.

A loud crack sounded like a cannon going off. Clay jumped and put his back to the wall.

A woman started screaming. “Oh God! No! No! Help—”

The sounds were muffled by distance, maybe the deck above, or in a chamber not too far away.

Clay paled. “What do we do?”

Muriel shook her head. “It doesn't sound like we can do anything. We have to go.”

Clay still wasn't moving. Muriel stepped in front of him and reached up to touch his chin. “Clay? We need your help. History doesn't say anything about us being here when the Australia is attacked, if we stay, I don't know what the ramifications will be. If the Nosferans get a hold of our shuttle, it might change the course of the war.”

She hadn't really thought about that, but it was true. And terrifying to think about. Helen's death showed her that history could change, at least to some degree, but how much? The Tretan's shuttle might contain technology to tip things in the Nosferans' favor, and humanity might lose the war.

Earlier she had been willing to change history by telling Olivia Blackstone what she wanted to know. At the time she had thought that the information might convince Blackstone to change the course of history by changing the Australia's course. She hadn't done that, and she'd gone on to give the same speech that Muriel had seen in the historical accounts of these events. She didn't know a whole lot about the details of the war, but everyone saw that speech.

The first time she'd seen it she had thought it was heroic, even given the fact that Blackstone had known about the Nosferans. They had attacked and killed the crew of a scout ship, but not before the crew managed to get off a message about the attack. Blackstone had followed orders to keep the alien presence around Cyeechie a secret until they arrived. Even knowing what Muriel had told them hadn't been enough to get her to turn back.

Clay finally moved. “Yeah, okay.”

He went into the corridor, and she followed him. The hazy smoke obscured the corridor. Her second eyelid closed against the smoke, and it helped, just as it did in the ocean. She could see without her eyes burning. She took small breaths and frequently checked behind them. Dyami kept moving, but he was clearly hurting and laboring to breathe in the bad air.

Against the odds, they reached the hangar doors. Another corridor ran along the hangar but was empty both ways at the moment. The doors themselves were in an alcove, providing some shelter. Clay went in and touched the panel immediately and then keyed in an access code.

The panel flashed red. SECURITY LOCKOUT.

“That doesn't look good.”

Clay rubbed his lip. “Constantine has locked down key areas. Give me a second.”

He accessed the holographic screen beside the door and was soon lost in a maze of command screens. Dyami heaved a big sigh and sat down with his back to the hangar door. His heavy head hung low as he sucked in the air.

Muriel went to him and gently touched his uninjured shoulder. “How're you doing?”

He lifted his hand and signed, “Okay.”

“We're going to get to the shuttle,” she said. “Then we can get out of here. We'll figure out a way back.”

He spoke, and the Galactic translator on his arm translated his words. “Yes, and help Brock. He needs our help.”

“Yes.” Muriel's throat tightened. She looked over at Clay, but he was still working. “Although I'm sure Brock is okay.”

Brock was strong, smart, and given his experience and genetic enhancements, not someone that Kelwyn should have messed with. Kelwyn always wanted to take shortcuts but holding the planet hostage in an attempt to join the Glittering Throng was just insane. Turning the weapon on Brock hadn't been enough to stop him. Even if they didn't get back, she was sure Brock would deal with Kelwyn—and then probably come looking for them.

A scream came from down the corridor on the right. Dyami stood up, and Muriel looked around his shoulder. Several unarmed crew members ran out of a room into the corridor and pelted through the smoke toward the hangar door. They were clearly panicked.

Four dark shapes sprang out of the door behind them. The same sizzling fire lanced out from their weapons. Nosferans.

A woman at the front of the group screamed as a shot burned through her hair and hit a panel beside her face. Molten metal droplets sprayed across her. She staggered but kept running. A man behind her fell heavily to the deck, his back a bloody, charred ruin.

Another door opened between the two groups, and a man in a dark security uniform lunged out into the Nosferans. He brought around a rifle in a hard crack that caught the first Nosferan across its chest and knocked it back into the others.

The distraction was enough for the other crew to recover and run.

“Come on!” Muriel yelled, beckoning to them.

Beside her, Dyami thrummed deep and menacingly in his chest and took a step forward.

“Brock!” Dyami's translator yelled.

The security man fighting the Nosferans fired his splat gun, catching one of the Nosferans in the face. He spun around, grabbing the arm of another and threw the small figure over his shoulder crashing to the deck. As he straightened, he looked down at the corridor, and his eyes met hers.

It was Brock! Yet there was no recognition. He turned, slamming the butt of his gun into another. Muriel watched, amazed. There were no Euzebian scent slits on his neck. And his hands, they were both human.

The remaining three crew reached the hangar door.

“I've got it!” Clay yelled.

Behind Muriel the door slid open.

She turned. “Go! Go to the shuttle!”

She shoved the crew members after Clay and turned back.

Dyami roared. The Nosferans reacted, and Brock shot a second one with the splat gun, and the other two jumped on him.

Muriel grabbed Dyami's arm. “Come on, we have to get the shuttle.”

He looked at her, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“That's not our Brock,” she said, even though she wanted to go to him. “That's Brock from this time. We can't interfere.”

Dyami turned away, moving. She wrapped her arms around his nearest arm—like hugging a tree trunk—even though there was no way to stop him if he wanted to go.

“No, Dyami. That's young Brock, from this time. Look at his hands. If you interfere, that'll change his whole life.”

Dyami stopped. He shuddered and then turned away.

He made it as far as the entrance to the hangar before stopping again. Down the corridor, the younger Brock reeled back from a blow. Both Nosferans leaped toward him.

“Dyami, we have to go.”

“We should help,” he said.

“We don't understand the consequences. In our time, Brock was alive the last time we saw him. He survives that long. If we interfere, that may not be the case.”

Dyami let out a deep, unhappy rumble.

“I need you, Dyami,” Muriel said. “Help me. I can't do this without you.”

Big, sad eyes looked at her, but then Dyami limped forward into the cargo bay. Muriel looked back one last time, her heart aching, as the younger Brock threw one of the Nosferans into the other and then snatched up one of the weapons they had dropped.

Muriel stepped through the door and slapped the panel. The door slid shut, and the panel flashed red, showing the lockout had reengaged.