Authors: Brian Evenson

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Horror, #Media Tie-In

Dead Space: Catalyst (35 page)

Still, Jensi tried to tell himself, Istvan would never do anything to put humanity at risk. But it rang hollow. Maybe if Istvan was sure that he was putting humanity at risk that was true—Jensi wasn’t even completely sure about that. But Istvan was so convinced that he knew what he was doing that he wasn’t going to listen to reason, not until it was too late.

And yet Jensi had traveled millions of miles just to find his brother, to protect him, to save him. What was he to do? He could protect his brother, but he couldn’t do so without potentially sacrificing everything and everyone else. Not just himself, not just lives already lost on the way to this moment, but perhaps every human life. He wasn’t willing to sacrifice all that to save his brother, he just couldn’t do it. But the question was, what was he willing to sacrifice to save all the rest of it?

“Are you with me, brother?” asked Istvan. Perhaps, Jensi realized, he had asked it before. When Jensi didn’t answer he said, “Brother?”

“Of course,” said Jensi. “When have I not been with you? We’re brothers, aren’t we?”

Istvan smiled broadly. “Brothers always,” he said.

“Where’s my gun?” asked Jensi. “Have you seen my gun?”

“What do you need a gun for?” asked Istvan. He gestured to the Marker. “We have something much more powerful than a gun.”

“I’m just used to having a gun,” claimed Jensi. “It makes me feel safe. Can you find it for me?”

“But you don’t need it,” said Istvan. “I already told you.”

Jensi stared at him a long moment, pondering. “Istvan, will you do this for me?” he finally said. “As a brother?”

Istvan hesitated a moment and then nodded and went to look for Jensi’s gun.

Jensi let out his breath and closed his eyes.
Please forgive me,
he thought, directing the thought into the void.
Let it be quick,
he asked,
and as painless as possible.

A moment later, Istvan came back with a gun. “Is this yours?” he asked his brother. “It may have been hers, hard to tell.”

“It’ll do,” said Jensi. “Now put it in my hand.” And when Istvan started to do so, “No, the other hand.”

“But you’re not left-handed,” said Istvan.

“My other arm is hurt,” said Jensi. He turned his head, spat out blood.

“Did I do that?” asked Istvan. “I’m sorry, brother. We’ll get the Marker to fix you, to make you whole. It’ll make you better, I promise.”

Jensi nodded. “Now help me up,” he said. “Gently now.”

Istvan wrapped his arms around his back and pulled him up in a bear hug. Soon they were both standing, Jensi sagging against his brother’s side.

“Istvan,” said Jensi. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.”

“Do you trust me to do what’s best?”

“Sure,” said Istvan. “You always used to. You always looked out for me.”

“Then close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“It’s for the best,” Jensi said.

For a moment Istvan looked confused, but then he closed his eyes.

“You’re my brother,” whispered Jensi. He slowly raised the gun and held it near his brother’s chest, the barrel wavering. “No matter what you’ve done, no matter what it’s done to you, you’ll always been my brother. I’m sorry.”

He pulled the trigger and the shot burnt its way through Istvan’s chest, through the heart. Istvan drew in a huge shocked breath, opened his eyes wide in astonishment, and collapsed, taking Jensi down with him, landing on top of him. Jensi lay there underneath him, feeling the dead weight of the flesh that had once been his brother as the blood and last bit of life slowly leaked out of him.

* * *

At one point he passed out. At another point he came conscious gasping for breath, with the impression that his brother’s weight was suffocating him slowly. It was a horrible feeling. Maybe minutes, maybe hours later, Jensi struggled his way free. He was in bad shape—his ribs were broken and it hurt to breathe. His arm was broken as well, his face puffy and swollen. Probably there was serious internal damage as well, organs and cavities slowly filling with blood and preparing to fail.

He stumbled his way to the door. When it slid open, he saw not the scientist who had been there before, but more of the creatures. They hissed when they saw him, but hesitated, seemed unable to cross the threshold.

He could feel the Marker still there, prodding his mind, trying to contact him. It was not painful this time, but unexpectedly gentle as if it was looking for someone new to communicate with now that Istvan was dead and that it was finding the composition of his particular mind sympathetic. He did his best to ignore it.

So much to do,
he thought. First he had to destroy the complex and everything inside it, the Marker especially. Then he had to sort out some way to wipe out whatever knowledge or information he had felt the Marker put in his brain. He’d be damned if he’d be its host and help it spread itself elsewhere.

* * *

And then it was as if he had blinked and fallen asleep on his feet, perhaps only for a second or two. When he was conscious again it was to find the barrel of his gun in his mouth. He had no memory of putting it there, but there was Istvan beside him, smiling, egging him on.

Yes, that’s right,
Istvan was saying.
Go ahead and pull the trigger.

Horrified, he took the gun barrel out of his mouth. He pointed it out the door and at the creatures, or thought he did, but no, it was in his mouth again. He took it out, saliva gleaming on the barrel and pointed it again, again at the creatures, but no, it wasn’t being pointed at them at all, it was back in his mouth; it kept slipping back into his mouth. What was wrong with him, why was this happening to him, how could it really be happening, was he going mad? And how could he know for sure now what he was pointing the gun at? Wasn’t there always a chance, more than a chance, that when he pulled the trigger his own head would explode?

Go ahead,
said Istvan next to him,
go ahead. Pull the trigger.

Was that the taste of gunmetal in his mouth? He tried to step out of the door frame and back farther into the room, but that was a dead end as well. No, the only way to go was forward, but how was that possible? He had to move forward, had to point the gun at the creatures and know, or at least hope, that he was pointing it at them and not at himself. And then fire. How would that ever be possible?

He stayed there, leaning against the door frame, on the verge of passing out.

And then finally he closed his eyes and pointed the gun straight ahead of him, or at least he hoped so. He tightened his finger on the trigger. He took a deep breath and fired.

ALSO BY B. K. EVENSON

Dead Space: Martyr

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Evenson is the author of
Immobility
(Tor), which was called by NPR “a driving, terrifying tale that wavers between hope and despair.” His other books include
Windeye, Last Days
(American Library Association Best Horror Book winner), and
The Open Curtain
(finalist for an Edgar Award). He lives and works in Providence, Rhode Island, where he directs Brown University’s Literary Arts Program. Under the name B. K. Evenson, he has published
Dead Space: Martyr, Aliens: No Exit,
and a Halo novella.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

DEAD SPACE
^™: CATALYST

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor
^®is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Evenson, Brian, 1966–

Dead space: catalyst / Brian Evenson. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”