“Just how big is this place?” Viker wondered in exasperation as the squad walked down yet another perpendicular passageway.
“One central chamber, eighty sub-chambers, and 264 connecting corridors,” Bale answered, “according to the map, at least.”
“Speaking of which, what kind of fricking place is this?” Viker continued.
“Your guess is as good as any of ours.” Bale replied.
Cato pressed his hand against the wall so that his suit sensors could scan the material.
“It’s a metallic substance of some kind. Composition, unknown. Faint but uniform traces of energy beneath the surface.” Cato announced mysteriously, “Definitely alien.”
“We’re here.” Gabriel announced, leading the way to the end of the corridor.
Unlike the maze of identical, cube-shaped sub-chambers they had passed through, the central chamber was a perfect sphere the size of a small stadium, with a disorienting lack of visible angles. Extensive scaffolding encircled the rim of the chamber, extending down for several levels, resembling an archaeological site at a geometrician’s tomb.
At the centre of the enormous chamber was a single glowing light, floating in mid-air in the centre, and illuminating the enormous chamber with an unearthly glow. Bale, Cato, and Viker stared at the light like moths entranced by a flame.
“Keep an eye out for hostiles.” Gabriel ordered, snapping them out of their awe.
Cautiously, the squad ventured into the chamber, descending a ramp onto the topmost level of the scaffolding. On the other side of the scaffolding, a short distance from the light, was a raised dais, like a jumping board from which to leap towards the light…or perhaps an altar from which to worship it. As they approached, the squad could see that the light was actually a faintly glowing sphere of translucent energy with a silver orb suspended at its heart.
Atop the platform, a lone figure stood with his back turned to the squad. He was wearing what looked like snow white hazmat overalls, but which had been covered entirely in dark red symbols, like the macabre scribblings in the main facility.
“Finally, you have come.” The figure proclaimed, turning around to face them.
He had the look of a mad scientist who had spent years in the wilderness, complete with a full beard and untamed, greying hair; and his skin was covered in what looked like microdots which glowed faintly under the dim light. The squad saw another figure on his knees with the speaker’s hand on his shoulder.
It was Ogilvy.
“Ogilvy, status!” Gabriel shouted through his helmet speakers.
“He cannot hear you,” The figure spoke with a mocking grin, “the Voice instructed us on how to cut through his armour and disable its systems.”
Ogilvy’s helmet had been carefully removed, revealing closed eyes and features that looked weighed down by exhaustion, and a gravity belt had been strapped around his waist. Although he didn’t look injured, he was clearly out of the fight.
“Who are you?” Gabriel demanded.
“I am the Leader of the Faithful,” the figure replied grandiosely, “the Slave of the Voice. The Prophet to whom the Voice’s knowledge was first revealed.”
“Is the Voice that thing in the containment shield?” Gabriel asked.
“It is the physical vessel of the Voice.” The prophet replied, looking back at the silver orb, “We thought it to be merely a xenotech artefact, albeit one ancient beyond compare, even more ancient than the place in which it has been imprisoned. But none dared approach to study it. None, that is, save for me.”
“So, you’re responsible for this madness?”
“Madness?” the prophet said with a grin, “I was mad before the Voice spoke unto me. Now, I have been cured of the madness and ignorance that plagued my mind, just as I have cured all those who now follow me.”
The squad’s motion trackers flashed red.
“Contacts!” Bale yelled, “And lots of them!”
All around the enormous central chamber, figures began to appear. More disorienting were the figures who appeared directly above, spilling out onto the ceiling as if defying gravity. The squad spread out to cover as many angles as they could, but it was impossible. The enemy was all around, oozing out of every entrance and blocking every avenue of escape.
“The Faithful are numerous,” the prophet gloated, “you cannot hope to kill them all.”
He was right. They were exposed, outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded on all sides. Not only that, but the enemy had cannibalised xenotechnology for much of its weaponry, making it vastly superior to what they had.
“We have attained peace through submission,” the prophet declared, “and so shall you.”
With those words, he shoved Ogilvy over the edge of the platform. Instead of falling, the unconscious Ogilvy was borne aloft by some kind of gravity field and drawn, spread-eagled, up towards the spherical containment field.
Gabriel opened fire on the prophet, but the microdots all over his skin lit up in response. Gabriel’s bullets rebounded in a series of sapphire-coloured energy flashes, leaving the target unharmed and grinning triumphantly at his invulnerability.
“Subdermal shield emitters,” the prophet explained, “the knowledge required for their manufacture is one of innumerable gifts bestowed upon us by the Voice. You cannot hope to slay me, for I am its messenger.”
Ogilvy was pulled inside the containment shield. The prophet and his followers watched in awe – and the squad in horror – as the silver orb disintegrated into a cloud of particles which swarmed in through Ogilvy’s mouth. As the cloud of particles took over Ogilvy’s body, the containment shield suddenly dissipated, repelling Ogilvy back towards the platform.
The squad trained their weapons on their squad-mate as an invisible force carried him back towards the platform, where he landed on one knee. Gabriel primed a high-powered shot; whatever had happened to Ogilvy, he was better off dead. The colour had drained completely from his skin, and his eyes were shut as he rose slowly to his feet.
When they opened again, it was clear that Ogilvy was gone.
His eyes were now jet black as he focused his gaze on the squad. He opened his mouth, and from it poured forth the multitude of silver particles that had taken over his body. They swarmed around him, enveloping him entirely like a shimmering cloud of miniature locusts. Gabriel took aim at the possessed Ogilvy’s exposed head and fired.
The high-powered shot was fired at high-hypersonic velocity, giving it enough power to punch through vehicle armour. But the swarm of particles around Ogilvy’s body generated their own shield around him, and the bullet was violently slapped aside. The possessed Ogilvy began to walk towards them, each footstep punctuated by an ominous, echoing thump.
“Colonel, I seriously fricking hope you’re not out of ideas, yet.” Viker spoke for the remainder of the squad, a note of panic creeping into his voice.
“Steady.” Gabriel replied calmly, removing a grenade from his belt and primed it.
He felt anything but calm.
The possessed Ogilvy and this so-called prophet were impervious to their weapons, and intended to kill them or worse. The chances that they would all die in this xenoarchaeological madhouse were growing by the second. If they stood and fought, their possessed former squad mate would make short work of them. But if they retreated the way they had come, they would be caught between the possessed Ogilvy and the ‘Faithful’, and be finished off anyway.
Gabriel glanced up and saw that even the ‘ceiling’ of the chamber was swarming with the Faithful – standing upside down relative to where he stood. If every wall and surface had artificial gravity which varied in different parts of the complex, that would explain why the researchers had brought along gravity belts.