it was some sort of weapons test, maybe it was some incredibly uncommon but natural phenomenon. But something was happening, something weird, something that someone didn’t want the public to know about.
He swore he would find out what it was. Even if it killed him.
24
“I’ve got it now,” said Tanner, his eyes red-rimmed, his face noticeably pale. He’d reached the limits of the anti-sleep medication. He had only an hour at most before either he collapsed or it started doing serious internal damage.
“Let’s see it,” said the Colonel.
“I should warn you—” Tanner began.
“—I don’t need any warnings,” the Colonel interrupted. “Just play it.”
Tanner sent the file through the screen and opened it. It started to play.
Tanner closed his eyes, but once the sound started, the dim hiss of static, the images flooded into his mind anyway, made worse by his imagination and his lack of sleep. He opened his eyes and looked.
There wasn’t much. The image had been broadcast through layers of rock and it was, in a sense, surprising that anything had gotten through at all. Tanner wished that it hadn’t.
At first there was only the sound of static, the image itself nothing but snow. Then, little bits and pieces started to emerge. In terms of the images, it was as if the snow was taking on texture, a vaguely human face forming and then dissolving again, whatlooked like a hand, what could have been a fist around a pipe or then again been nothing at all. The sound went from a staticky hiss to a whisper to something that sounded like a man was speaking through a mouthful of bees. Something that sounded like a scream, bloodcurdling. A dull rhythm that might have been someone talking. Someone singing, a wandering, meandering nursery rhyme.
And then, suddenly, a brief moment of clarity, a man’s face, weirdly backlit and terrified, his skin covered with something, quickly bursting into fuzz again.
“Freeze that,” said the Colonel.
Tanner stopped the vid and spun it backward. The man’s eyes had an emptiness to them. His features were strangely distorted, as if he were screaming. His face was covered with strange markings, symbols of some kind, which extended down his neck and chest and arms.
“Hennessy? What’s he done to himself?” asked the Colonel. “What did he use to write?”
“Blood, we think,” said Tanner. “You can see it dripping off his hand to the left there, and there seems to be a cut on his arm. Maybe it’s his own blood, maybe Dantec’s. If you look behind him, you’ll see traces of the symbols on the walls as well, which, we assume, is also blood.”
The Colonel furrowed his brow. “What do the symbols mean?”
“We don’t know,” said Tanner. “Nobody has ever seen anything quite like them.” When the Colonel didn’t say anything, Tanner asked, “Shall we go on?”
The Colonel waved his hand. “All right,” he said, “go on.”
More hissing, more static, more vague and distorted images. At one point, a brief glimpse of an arm that had been torn free of its socket, its lifeless hand curled up like a dead spider. A bit of the command chair, spattered with blood. And then Hennessywas back, humming to himself, swaying slightly, covered with bloody symbols.
“Hello,” he said, then dissolved again. He flickered in and out of existence, along with bits of words, nothing that could be sorted out, and then, something that sounded like shame or maybe was part of another word. And then “—something—eed to know.”
Onscreen, Hennessy clutched his head and then was replaced by static, in color this time. When he reappeared, he was giving the camera a strangely ecstatic smile.
“—track,” he said.
There was a long silence.
“—simply not en—” he said. Then, a little later, “—not care—will have le—usk.”
Hard to make much sense of it, thought Tanner. But whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Then Hennessy was back again, with that same intense
He swore he would find out what it was. Even if it killed him.
24
“I’ve got it now,” said Tanner, his eyes red-rimmed, his face noticeably pale. He’d reached the limits of the anti-sleep medication. He had only an hour at most before either he collapsed or it started doing serious internal damage.
“Let’s see it,” said the Colonel.
“I should warn you—” Tanner began.
“—I don’t need any warnings,” the Colonel interrupted. “Just play it.”
Tanner sent the file through the screen and opened it. It started to play.
Tanner closed his eyes, but once the sound started, the dim hiss of static, the images flooded into his mind anyway, made worse by his imagination and his lack of sleep. He opened his eyes and looked.
There wasn’t much. The image had been broadcast through layers of rock and it was, in a sense, surprising that anything had gotten through at all. Tanner wished that it hadn’t.
At first there was only the sound of static, the image itself nothing but snow. Then, little bits and pieces started to emerge. In terms of the images, it was as if the snow was taking on texture, a vaguely human face forming and then dissolving again, whatlooked like a hand, what could have been a fist around a pipe or then again been nothing at all. The sound went from a staticky hiss to a whisper to something that sounded like a man was speaking through a mouthful of bees. Something that sounded like a scream, bloodcurdling. A dull rhythm that might have been someone talking. Someone singing, a wandering, meandering nursery rhyme.
And then, suddenly, a brief moment of clarity, a man’s face, weirdly backlit and terrified, his skin covered with something, quickly bursting into fuzz again.
“Freeze that,” said the Colonel.
Tanner stopped the vid and spun it backward. The man’s eyes had an emptiness to them. His features were strangely distorted, as if he were screaming. His face was covered with strange markings, symbols of some kind, which extended down his neck and chest and arms.
“Hennessy? What’s he done to himself?” asked the Colonel. “What did he use to write?”
“Blood, we think,” said Tanner. “You can see it dripping off his hand to the left there, and there seems to be a cut on his arm. Maybe it’s his own blood, maybe Dantec’s. If you look behind him, you’ll see traces of the symbols on the walls as well, which, we assume, is also blood.”
The Colonel furrowed his brow. “What do the symbols mean?”
“We don’t know,” said Tanner. “Nobody has ever seen anything quite like them.” When the Colonel didn’t say anything, Tanner asked, “Shall we go on?”
The Colonel waved his hand. “All right,” he said, “go on.”
More hissing, more static, more vague and distorted images. At one point, a brief glimpse of an arm that had been torn free of its socket, its lifeless hand curled up like a dead spider. A bit of the command chair, spattered with blood. And then Hennessywas back, humming to himself, swaying slightly, covered with bloody symbols.
“Hello,” he said, then dissolved again. He flickered in and out of existence, along with bits of words, nothing that could be sorted out, and then, something that sounded like shame or maybe was part of another word. And then “—something—eed to know.”
Onscreen, Hennessy clutched his head and then was replaced by static, in color this time. When he reappeared, he was giving the camera a strangely ecstatic smile.
“—track,” he said.
There was a long silence.
“—simply not en—” he said. Then, a little later, “—not care—will have le—usk.”
Hard to make much sense of it, thought Tanner. But whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Then Hennessy was back again, with that same intense
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