XXXVI.

Before Burnstyle and Marlowe had any results from their second round of tests with the gene sequencer, Dale’s data pad began vibrating, continuously. Dozens of notifications began to pop up. Albert’s was the same.

Dale started to skim through the messages. “Doc, uh…” he began, but then he brought his data pad closer to his face and left the rest of the sentence unfinished. He started skimming messages. “Alberts, we should—”

The foreman, his eyes also glued to his data pad, interrupted. “Yeah, we should go.”

Together they hurried out of the MQ towards the front of the ship.

Marlowe got up and called after them, “Hey! What’s going on?!” but they did not respond. Marlowe hesitated, then rushed after them half a minute later.

Dale and Alberts rushed toward the CIC and pushed their way through the crowd. 

“Holy ___!” Alberts exclaimed, nearly falling onto the dead animal as he burst out of the crowd.

The crew cleared a path for the Captain when they became aware of his presence. He stared down at the body, not understanding.

“It’s one of those beasties from Shropshire!” someone called out. “Those acid-spitting things!”

“What is it doing on my ship?!” Dale demanded, looking around at the assembled crew members.

Hearing raised voices emanating from the conference room, Dale moved forward, stepped over the creature, and joined Hillman, Rachaels, a handful of other Feds, and Marala inside the room.

Marala was clutching herself and appeared to be in quite a bit of discomfort.

“What is going on?” Dale demanded, but the Feds ignored him. He caught the tail end of what Rachaels was saying, however.

“It transformed into that thing!” Rachaels explained. “It tore itself open and that came out!”

Dale did not like the sounds of this, but he went over to the girl. “Are you all right?” he asked, taking her arm.

The girl grimaced and shook her head. Her arms were bleeding. “It spits acid now,” she told him. “It’s your vent creature, I think. It turned into that. I saw it happen.”

Dale looked at the creature, then back at the girl. “You killed it?” he asked.

Marala nodded. “There’s at least one more. It got away.”

“Did it get you?” Dale asked. “Did it sting you?” He backed away and started looking for any other signs of injury.

She shook her head. There was a long bony thing in her hand that Dale had not noticed before. She held it up. “The stinger,” she told him.

“Drop it,” Dale exclaimed. It fell to the floor. He helped her up. “Let's get you to the MQ.”

With an arm around her, Dale began to lead the girl away, but then he looked up and found his path was obstructed. The crewmen outside in the hall outside had cleared away, and now a group of Feds stood there.

“Stop him!” Hillman called. “You have some explaining to do, Captain.”

Dale cursed at him. “___ you! This woman is hurt. I’m taking her to the MQ.”

Marlowe’s voice came from down the corridor. “What’s that? What’s wrong!?”

Hillman stepped forward. “You’re not going anywhere, Captain. Have someone else escort the young lady.”

Dale glared at the man, then turned toward the Feds in the doorway. “Marlowe! Come here!” he shouted.

The Feds made a path for the professor, and he appeared in the door. Dale passed Marala over to him. “Take her down to the MQ. She’s got chemical burns, I think.”

Marlowe very quickly sized-up the situation and very gently took Marala under his wing. He led her away and Dale turned back towards Hillman.

“Now, Captain,” the Fed began, “feel free to explain to us exactly what is going on on board your ship.”

Dale’s eyes began to wander as he began to contemplate the possible implications of what Marala had told him.

Rachaels snapped his fingers in front of the Captain’s nose. “Hey! We’re talking to you.”

Catching the strong language that almost rose unbidden to his lips, Dale calmed himself, then went over to take a seat at the table. He supposed there was no going back now, no point in trying to conceal anything.

He began to explain. “A few weeks ago, one of my crewmen, Constantini, went extravehicular during a ballistic maneuver and shot himself. He attempted to blow himself up, but was unsuccessful. When we retrieved him, we discovered that the lower part of his body had been… transformed into something that was not human flesh but was somehow still ambulatory. His head appeared to be normal, but his DNA was all screwy.”

“What do you mean, ‘not human flesh’?” Hillman asked.

“I can’t really describe it, but there’s pictures in the file I gave you.”

Hillman eyes darted for a moment. “File? What file?”

“The one I gave you on Shropshire,” Dale told him.

Hillman grimaced and shook his head.

“You knew about this?” Rachaels asked his superior.

“No!” Hillman exclaimed. “Let me see…” He opened his briefcase and began rummaging. Eventually he pulled out some papers. “Here!” He skimmed the contents. “Burnstyle-Marlowe Disease. Look at that.” He took a seat at the table and continued reading. “Says here it’s a fungal infection?”

Dale shook his head. “That’s just what we called it because we didn’t know what else to say.”

Hillman continued scanning. “Gene sequencing was unsuccessful? What does that mean?”

“It means our machine could not extract a genetic profile from the samples we took.”

Hillman went back to skimming the documents, but then he put them down and his eyes became unfocused for a few moments. “Wait a minute,” he said, turning to the Captain, “you must have known how valuable this thing might be, right?”

“Oh?” Dale said, somehow raising his eyebrows and scowling at the same time.

Rachaels had picked up the file and was examining it himself. “You cremated the body. Why? Shouldn’t you have brought something like that to a lab for examination? Try to find an inoculation or something?”

“Yeah,” Hillman agreed. Then he exclaimed, “Yeah! Why didn’t you do that!?”

“It was too much of a threat,” Dale said, looking from one Fed to the other.

“Foolishness!” Hillman muttered.

Rachaels flipped through the file again. “There’s nothing here about an infection form or a ‘macropathogen’ or anything like that.”

“That’s because we didn’t find the macropathogen until much later. It was dead, but it was pretty clear it was connected to what happened to Constantini. We think the thing stings you, and that’s how you get infected.”

“What did it look like?” Rachaels asked.

“An alien octopus.”

“You cremated that too?” Rachaels asked.

“Yes.”

“What about this… shape-shifting ability Rachaels says he saw?” Hillman asked. “What do you know about that?”

Dale swallowed. “This is new to me. I didn’t know they could do that. What exactly happened?”

Rachaels frowned. “Well, it started…rippling, then it turned all bloody, then pieces started flying off it, then that popped out.” He gestured toward the dead creature in the hallway just outside the room.

Dale looked at the Fed. “Wait… did it make a huge mess on the floor when it transformed?”

Rachaels nodded. “Yeah, huge bloody mess.”

The three of them sat in silence for a minute. Dale pressed his thumb into his chin.

Rachaels watched the Captain. It was very clear there was a lot going through his mind. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

Dale looked at him, then pointed to where the dead creature lay. “I’m thinking about that thing. I don’t recognize it, but some of my crewmen say it looks like the animals they saw at Shropshire. How is that possible?”

Rachaels stepped over to the door to examine the creature. “I was on Shropshire. This is almost identical to some of the predators that live there. If it weren’t for all the blood, I’d say it was identical.”

Hillman spoke up. “Does that mean the local wildlife on Shropshire can shape-shift like that?”

Rachaels and Dale stared at the other man, then replied, “No,” at the same time.

Dale glanced at Rachaels, then back at Hillman. “No,” he repeated. “That is not the presumption I’m working with right now. There’s about a million things I don’t understand, but what I’m thinking is… if the macropathogen can mimic one of the Shropshire creatures, could it mimic a man?”

There was silence for a few moments, then Hillman exclaimed, “Seriously? That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

Rachaels looked torn. He turned to the Captain. “Do you have a way to test if someone’s infected with this ‘Burnstyle-Marlowe Disease’?”

“Yes!” Dale exclaimed. “Gene sequencing. If it doesn’t work, that means they’re infected.” He paused. “Maybe,” he added.

Rachaels thought about this for a moment, then turned to his superior. “We should start testing people.”

“We should test Grady,” the Captain said, darkly. If crewman Grady was some kind of shape-shifter that erupted with blood and viscera when it transformed, that might explain some of the remains found in the lunchroom—except that Burnstyle said the DNA matched Keir…

“You don’t think…” Hillman began, “that if someone got attacked by an alien octopus, they’d keep it to themselves? No one’s that stupid!”

Rachaels and the Captain shook their heads. Dale looked down at his arms. Rachaels spoke up. “Hillman, I don’t think we can assume anything here.”

“You should test me,” Dale said, still looking at his arms.

“What? Why?” Rachaels demanded.

Dale looked up at him but did not respond, letting the man come to his own conclusions.

Eventually Rachaels capitulated. “He’s right,” he announced. “If we’re going to check everyone, we might as well start with the Captain, if he insists. Grady can go after that.”

XXXVII.

Marlowe took Marala down to the MQ and helped her up onto a patient bed. She sat with her feet dangling over the floor as Marlowe got out some bandages and other supplies.

Doctor Burnstyle was still working with the samples Captain Dale had brought him. He looked over at the other two but did not ask what was going on.

“Let’s take a look at those arms,” Marlowe said.

Gingerly, Marala stopped clutching herself and extended her forearm for the man to examine. There were some deep, self-cauterized burns there, marring her skin.

Marlowe winced in sympathy and produced an aerosolized can of something. “This is topical anaesthetic,” he explained. The relief that Marala expressed felt the moment it hit her skin seemed to be nearly instantaneous.

Marlowe lifted up her arms one by one to assess the damage. “I know you’re different from other people,” he said, “but I presume I should just treat these the same way I would for anyone else?”

Marala nodded. “Yes, please.”

“They’ll heal the normal way, too?” he asked.

She nodded again.

Marlowe grunted and proceeded to clean the wounds. Then he applied ointment and bandages. From there, he moved on to her shoulder, where there was another burn. Finishing that, he stood in front of her again and held up one of her forearms for another look.

“How’s that?” he asked. “Can you move your hand?”

Marala wiggled her hand for him, then he picked up her other arm and repeated the procedure. When that was done, he leaned in to take a closer look at her wrist and palm.

“Remarkable!” he said, quietly. “Look at that! Look at the veins! I hope you’ll forgive me for taking advantage of this situation, but you are an absolute work of art!”

Marala gently pulled her hand away, but did not react as if what the Doctor had said was unusual or inappropriate. She smiled. “I’m pleased you’re so enthralled by my circulatory system, Doctor, but I think you may have the wrong sort of idea about what sort of woman I am.”

Marlowe began putting away the extra supplies he had gathered. “Oh, I don’t think I am,” he said. “I think I know exactly what sort of woman you are.”

“One who’s susceptible to flattery?”

Marlowe exhaled sharply through his nose and leaned back slightly. “Haven’t met the woman yet!” he said. “I have about a million questions, but I don’t want to pry. I find you people so very intriguing.”

Marala remained seated on the patient bed as the Professor continued cleaning up. “I have a question for you, Doctor, if you don’t mind.”  She held up her arm and began examining Marlowe’s handiwork.

Marlowe looked at her for a moment. “Yes? What is it?”

“How is it that you could tell what I was the moment you laid eyes on me? Not everyone can do that. Have you met people like me before?”

Marlowe frowned. “I don’t know. Intuition, I suppose. I can’t always tell. It’s the… perfection, I think. Not all of you are so… perfect.” He turned to the girl and gestured awkwardly to indicate the entirety of the woman seated before him.

Marala held out her arms, palms upward, showing him the bandages. “I have flaws, and not just these—Character flaws.”

Marlow snapped shut the bandage container he was holding. “That’s not what I meant. It’s the way you carry yourself.”

The girl smiled and hopped down off the patient bed. “What?” she asked. “Is it that rare for people to smile and share a kind word? Isn’t everybody taught to do that?”

Marlowe cleared his throat. “Wish my ex-wife could hear that!” he said, quietly. Then, a bit more clearly, he responded. “No, my dear, they’re not. In fact, a lot of people would look at you, at the way you behave, and be absolutely horrified. They’d call your behaviour obsequious or demeaning. They’d also be horrified at the people who made you this way.”

“Why? Because I’m content to be a servant?”

The Professor nodded and the girl looked thoughtful. “Isn’t everyone a servant?” she asked. “I mean, even if they don’t officially have a contract like I do? That’s the way I always thought about it.”

Marlowe agreed. “Yes, I also see it that way. Choose you this day whom you will serve, and all that. The desire for freedom turns people into demons, but a servant’s heart can transform even the basest thing into an angel. I think so, anyway. A lot of people find this attitude horrifying, though, particularly in a woman.”

Marala frowned. “I… I thought I was… normal.”

Marlowed started to shake his head, then changed his mind and began nodding. “Perfectly normal,” he agreed.

XXXVIII.

The hatch to the MQ opened, allowing Captain Dale, Hillman, and Rachaels to enter. A moment later they were followed by a handful of other Feds carrying something weighty in a heavy-duty waste bag. It was the body of the shape-shifting creature Marala had killed in the engine room. The Feds unceremoniously plopped it down on the floor and moved back. Rachaels had instructed them to carry it down here rather than leave it near the CIC.

Marala, Marlowe, Burnstyle, Jenner, and Lombard stared at the newcomers, and the waste bag. A few of the creature’s legs were protruding from it.

“What’re the results from the other samples?” Dale asked, referring to the materials he had collected from the scene of Keir’s murder.

Burnstyle hesitated before answering, looking like he resented having his work area invaded. “As far as I can tell, Captain, all of these remains are from Keir. I can’t explain it—he’s not missing anything.”

“OK. Forget that for the moment. We’re going to start testing everyone for DNA abnormalities again, starting with me.”

Marlowe frowned. “That’s going to take a very long time—testing everyone.”

Dale did not respond. Eventually Burnstyle clicked his tongue and said, “I’ll take a swab, then, I guess.” As he was swabbing the inside of the Captain’s mouth for a DNA sample, another group of Feds entered the MQ  accompanying Grady, the man who had been accused of murdering the unfortunate Keir. The handcuffed man looked extremely uncomfortable and afraid to say anything.

“Grady!” Dale called. “Did you murder Keir?”

“No, sir!” the man protested. “What in the world is going on?”

“Just sit tight,” Dale told him. “We’ll figure this out.”

When Burnstyle sat down to prepare the sample from Captain Dale for the gene sequencing device, the Captain explained what he wanted next. “When that’s done, I want you to test Grady.”

When he heard this, Grady made a strange, choking sound in his throat, prompting both of the Feds on either side of him to give him a look. “What’s your problem?” one of the Feds exclaimed, but the handcuffed man had his eyes fixed on Dr. Burnstyle.

Burnstyle locked eyes with Grady for a moment, then squinted and began to shake his head. As he did so, his gaze flickered over to the waste bag lying on the floor not too far away. “What is that?” he demanded. “Another macropathogen?”

Dale tried to explain. “Not exactly. The macropathogens can shape-shift. That appears to be one of those predator-things from Shropshire, but it popped out of a macropathogen.”

At the word ‘macropathogen’, Burnstyle frowned. Looking around at the Feds, he asked, “I presume you’ve explained to our guests about… Burnstyle-Marlowe Disease, then?”

Dale nodded.

“It attacked the girl?” Burnstyle asked, nodding toward Marala.

“Me too,” Rachaels answered. “There’s another one, but it got away.” 

“At least one,” Marala added. “Weren’t you burned?”

Rachaels glanced down at a few holes in his shirt. “Not as badly as you. I’ll be fine.”

Burnstyle got out of his chair and went over to the waste bag. Using a pen, he lifted a flap and took a look at the creature Marala had killed. He frowned. “You’re saying a macropathogen were-wolfed itself into this?”

Rachaels confirmed it.

“So, what’s that mean then?” Burnstyle demanded. He stood up and carefully deposited the pen in a biohazard waste bin. “Is Shropshire infected?  Is there a pandemic starting and we’re just the first people to start noticing? How’d this get on the ship? Did it come up with us on the landing craft?”

No one had any answers for these questions. Then Captain Dale slowly turned toward the Professor. “Marlowe,” he said, menacingly, “did you bring any samples back from Shropshire for your little science-experiments?”

Everyone turned to look at Marlowe, who responded with a simple, “No, I did not. I was with Dr. Burnstyle the whole time.”

“No you weren’t,” Burnstyle said. “I remember. You stepped outside in the evening to take a look at the local wildlife.”

Marlowe nodded. “Well yes, but that was for only a few minutes. I didn’t get anywhere close to those predators, though.”

Spying the looks that Dale was throwing at the Professor, Hillman started pointing from one to the other. “What’s with all the suspicion here?”

“Marlowe works for Lexbridge Pharmaceuticals,” Dale explained.

The name, however, meant very little to Hillman.

“The bioweapons company?” Rachaels asked.

Marlowe took a deep breath. “I do not work for Lexbridge. I work for SNU.

“It’s the same thing,” Dale insisted. He looked over at Rachaels. “Marlowe is a passenger. We’re transporting him back to Earth after he spent a year on some ice-planet doing who-knows-what with the lifeforms there.” Rachaels cast an appraising look at the Professor, who shook his head but did not respond verbally.

Hillman continued to eye the Captain and the Professor, then said, “Well, isn’t this interesting! But rather than standing around here chewing the fat, perhaps we can actually get to work! Doctor Burnstyle, if you would proceed with your tests.”

Burnstyle sat down and began to comply.

Rachaels cleared his throat. “We should probably send a message back to Shropshire and another to Sol Central Medical—see if they know anything, tell them what’s happening.”

“What exactly is happening?”  Hillman asked. The question was aimed mostly at Rachaels.

“I really have no idea,” Rachaels said. “Obviously, we’ve got some sort of infestation or pandemic here, possibly on Shropshire, possibly at other places this ship has been. According to these people,” he gestured towards the crew of the Pater Noster, “it’s capable of infecting human beings. All I know is that two of these things attacked me and the tech girl the moment no one would be able to hear us calling for help. What this all means, I don’t know.”

Rachaels was looking at Captain Dale as he spoke. When he was finished, Rachaels asked, “You have anything to add to that?”

Dale  shook his head.

“All right.” Rachaels turned to Hillman for approval. “I’ll go send the messages.”

Hillman gave him a dismissive wave.