“It will take some practice, but it makes sense; however, I doubt my Templars will be of much use. Perhaps we should program the drones to act as our bridge crew?”
“It truly is not that hard, Father” Flaimeson insists. “Watch again. I will use another written language. How about the fifth basic language? I know Amine prefers to write using that one.”
“Amine’s not here right now, so perhaps another time. Votary and Bill need to focus more on training the Templars. The drones will be able to handle it. Either that or assemble an auxiliary keyboard for them to use.”
Flaimeson finds it amusing that such a simple lesson requires too much time to learn, but he relents to Abel’s suggestion.
“Whatever you say, Father,” Flaimeson says. “We should at least talk about the transporter tags.”
“We should,” Abel agrees.
“What are those?” Smith asks.
“Follow me,” Flaimeson instructs. “I have a few interesting things to display for you in the armory.”
The Templars follow Flaimeson as he leads them through the vessel to where the Malignant left replacement armor and weapons, all lava orange.
Flaimeson grabs a small device that resembles a human nail gun. He, without asking permission, presses it against Gallery’s neck and squeezes the handle. A loud shunk rings out as Gallery instinctively swats his hand away.
“What the hell?” she demands.
Flaimeson moves on to Patrick and injects the elderly man with a second tracker.
He explains as he does this to each Templar. “These tags will make it possible for this ship to teleport you back here from anywhere within a twenty thousand mile radius. As long as the web is down.”
“What’s the web?” Kimmy asks while rubbing her sore neck near the injection site.
Flaimeson is about to inject Votary when the fully armored Templar holds up a hand. A shake of the head from Abel and Flaimeson moves on to Power.
“The web is an anti-teleportation device that every ship is equipped with,” Flaimeson answers. “Without it, anyone would be able to hop over to anywhere on an opposing vessel. It takes the sport out of the fight, so the web was created to make warriors earn their victory.”
“What’s up with the new armor?” Gallery asks. “We already have enough.”
“Speak for yourself,” Akio says. “My armor was turned into Swiss cheese during the attack. Amine’s isn’t looking too good either. I can use an upgrade, but can we trust this armor?”
“We are not going over that again,” Flaimeson says. “It is all good armor. In fact, it is optimal to the archaic armor you currently wear.”
“Why?” Julie asks.
“Because this armor allows you to use your augmentations with it,” Millantra answers.
“Big deal,” Power boasts.
“Regard this,” Flaimeson says as he addresses Akio specifically. “Come here and put this on.”
Akio obliges Flaimeson. The process takes some time as the Malignant armor is one continuous piece that splits along the side to allow access. It originally resembles an ancient iron maiden; however, this quickly changes. The Templars stand there as they wait for the suit to fully power up. It is a painfully slow process that takes over twenty minutes to complete. The suit tightens across Akio’s body and integrates with him at the cellular level. Eventually, Akio stands in a metal suit that conforms to his fully covered body.
“Finally,” Power mutters what everyone else seems to be thinking.
Flaimeson ignores the grumbles. “Akio now wears proper armor along with a comfort suit underneath. Both can replicate your powers.”
“Why do we need both?” Patrick asks.
Flaimeson gestures toward Votary with his head. “Despite what certain people may have led you to believe, we do not live in our armor. It can get rather rank inside after a few weeks. When we are not officially observing our duties, we wear the form-fitting comfort suit Akio first put on. Not only does it replicate our powers, but it also has an adhesive quality that reacts with the elements inside Malignant ships.”
“Why is that important?” Smith asks.
“Because if your ship loses structural integrity, gravity, or cabin pressure of any kind, you will gladly appreciate knowing that any part of your body could save your life by attaching to the floor, ceiling, or even an errant table,” Millantra answers.
Flaimeson nods. “It will secure you, but your own physical effort can easily overcome it. You will not be hindered in your movement. A battle going poorly will not necessarily lead to you swimming in space.”
Power sighs obnoxiously loud. Many Templars look at him with annoyance, but the collective feeling seems to be to get on with the demonstration. He simply expressed himself with less tact. Flaimeson turns his attention back toward Akio.
“Now flatten your hand,” he says.
Akio follows the order and appears pleased when he sees the armor flatten with his hand. Akio transforms his hand back and forth many times as the armor follows. He then flattens his whole body at various intervals and executes numerous karate techniques. The armor flawlessly keeps up with him.
“You no longer have to use light armor. With this optimal variant, you will be able to go in fully armored and not have to worry about being naked after a transformation. It will also make your attacks stronger with the addition of bluk metal.”
“Awesome!” Akio says as he continues to play with his new toy.
“Plus, we can still change the color and emblems on them so we do not have to look like Malignant kaufiebucks,” Millantra proudly states. “I miss being an individual.”
“Okay, what the hell is a goddamn kaufiebuck?” Smith demands.
Millantra, Flaimeson, and Abel laugh among themselves. The remaining Templars appear annoyed.
“It is a mutated giraffe that has a uterus that only produces stillborns,” Millantra answers between giggles.
“And that’s an insult?” Power asks.
“Focus!” Votary shouts. “I’m keeping my armor, but if you take the Malignant armor, make sure you don’t keep it orange. It’ll be too confusing.”
“Not to mention that I draw the line with bright orange armor,” Smith adds.
“Just make sure mine is blood red this time. I’m sick of the bloody green shamrock stereotype,” Patrick says.
“Ah, c’mon, dawg, you’re our good luck charm,” Power protests.
“Not anymore,” Patrick says. “I want to honor our fallen. Give me red armor with their names written in black along my left arm.”
“Quibble about that later. Anything else you have to show us, Flaimeson?” Votary asks.
“Just this,” Flaimeson says as he holds up a black ring with a thin band and large diameter.
“What’s that?” Votary asks.
“Except for Smith, you have all had to carry your weapons in active mode at all times,” Flaimeson answers.
Smith reaches into his pocket and pulls out his golden pearl.
“So, this is passive mode?” he asks.
“It is,” Flaimeson answers. “We can add these rings around the handles of your weapons. They’re adjustable, so we can fix it for everyone. Then each of you will have an optimal weapon that can minimize for easy storage on the inside of your wrists. Votary, if you do not mind?”
Votary shakes his head.
“I’ll do it,” Gallery says.
Gallery hands her weapon over to Flaimeson. After a few moments of tinkering, Flaimeson demonstrates that it can now transform between a marble and bow. He hands the weapon back to Gallery in active mode.
“So, if the Gudz crashed here so long ago, how come my trident can already do that?” Smith asks.
“I do not have a detailed hypothesis,” Flaimeson admits. “This technology is old by Malignant standards.
Perhaps Poseidon was able to get one from a Malignant soldier. Who knows.”
“It’s unimportant,” Votary affirms. “Anything else you need to show us?”
Flaimeson shakes his head.
“Good. Father, do you have anything to say?”
“No, Votary.”
Votary now assumes a commanding voice that makes it clear his orders will be obeyed.
“Good. Everyone to the conference room now. Make sure that Karmic and Lottery come, too.”
“You want DJ?” Smith asks.
“Everyone needs to hear this. Father, I’d like you to come as well.”
“Sure, Votary.”
“The meeting starts in twenty minutes,” Votary says.
As the Templars file out, Power grabs Kimmy by the arm.
“Kimmy, can I holla at you a minute?”
“Sure, Power, what’s up?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, but could you cure my paralysis real quick?”
Kimmy’s eyes widen.
“Of course, I’m embarrassed that I never thought to offer. Would you sit down and turn full human for a moment?”
“Sure.” Power grabs a seat at the armorer’s desk and reverts from a cyborg to a crippled human. His sweatpants become baggy as his atrophied legs replace the robotic ones he usually operates. He uses his arms to keep himself upright. “How long is this gonna take?”
“Not very long,” Kimmy answers. “Just a moment or two.”
She places her hands on Power’s legs and concentrates. Nothing happens for several minutes. Power becomes increasingly upset, and Kimmy looks equally embarrassed. She eventually gives up.
“I’m sorry,” she admits. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe it has to be a fresh wound.”
Power swallows his emotions and transforms his legs back into robotic prosthetics. “It’s okay, girl. These work just fine.”
“Everything works just fine?”
Power looks away and leaves the room. His silence is a depressing answer.
Keith, Tina, and Nick are seated as a family at Captain Crawdaddy’s by a crayfish-attired hostess. They each grab a menu that rests in a sleeve next to the wipes and paper towels at the end of their picnic table covered in newspaper.
“I’ve never tried this place,” Tina admits. “What should I get?”
“Beats me,” Keith admits. “It’s my first time, too.”
“The guys at work boast about the endless bucket. They say it’s the best thing for virgins because we can try a little of everything. You just pick a protein and they send the buckets. We can change from shrimp to crawdads to mussels, and the steamed vegetables are always included,” Nick says.
“Challenge accepted,” Keith boasts.
“How much does it cost?” Tina asks. “I assume I’m buying.”
“It’s fifteen bucks a person, but I got this one,” Nick answers.
Keith flips the menu over to the back side. “We should try the ice cream lobster, too. They say it can feed a whole family.”
“Perhaps next time,” Tina says.
“Go ahead and ask, Son,” Nick says.
“What?” Keith innocently asks.
“I know you want something; we both do, so just ask. What do you need, more concert tickets?” Nick presses.
Keith sighs. “Since you brought it up, I want to go back to Chamberlain for the rest of the summer.”
Nick and Tina share a look that Keith interprets as fragile denial. He decides to push the issue.
“Jenny is terrified about Mother and the Malignant. She barely leaves her house, she says,” Keith explains.
“We’re all scared,” Tina says as Nick scoffs with bravado. “You can’t do anything about the Malignant.”
“No, but I can help her feel better,” Keith argues. “She was there for me. I need to be there for her.”
“I spend more time in Colberton these days,” Nick counters.
“True, but you didn’t lose your housing on Fort Chamberlain,” Keith argues. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Nick and Tina share a look.
“Not normally,” Tina says, “but when Jenny is involved, that isn’t necessarily true.”
A waitress comes by and cheerfully introduces herself, clearly unaware she just interrupted a conversation veering toward the awkward side.
“Hello,” she says. “My name is Jen, and I’ll be your server tonight.”
“But of course you are,” Nick says with a chuckle. “Jen, we’d like the endless bucket for three people and three Augmented Colas.”
“Just two,” Tina says. “I want a water with lemon.”
“Sure thing,” Jen says with a chipper smile. “Would you like to start things off with any of our appetizers? The stuffed mushrooms are delicious.”
“No thanks,” Nick says.
“Speak for yourself,” Keith blurts. “I want to try the mushrooms.”
“Fine,” Nick corrects himself. “We’d like the endless bucket for three, stuffed mushrooms, two ACs, and a water with lemon.”
“Sounds great,” Jen says. “I’ll get that order in. What do you want to start in your buckets?”
“It’s called Captain Crawdaddy’s for a reason, I hope. Bring on the crawdads,” Nick answers.
“You got it,” Jen says.
She leaves the table. Nick and Tina immediately go back to Keith’s challenge on not needing a babysitter.
“Why would we let you have a mostly empty house and a sexually active girlfriend in close proximity?” Tina asks.
“Because you want to keep me safe?” Keith offers. “Colberton isn’t secured like Chamberlain is. There are minor riots here all the time and very few police, fire, and paramedics.”
“Clever little bastard is using my own argument against me now,” Nick remarks.
“Nick?” she asks.
“He’s got a point. Besides, the only thing keeping him abstinent now is his honor. He could always change that on a whim.”
“I’m not a cheat!” Keith says a bit too loudly.
“Fine,” Tina relents. “You may go back to Fort Chamberlain for the summer, but you better behave.”
“Use the damn condoms,” Nick adds to Tina’s obvious chagrin.
“Thank you,” Keith says. “I need to do this for her. It isn’t the end of the world any more than it was when the sky turned green last year.”
Tina and Nick seem hopeful that their son’s optimism is well placed. The stuffed mushrooms arrive at the table along with three buckets with a pound of seafood and vegetables each. The family members begin to sample from the various flavors, and each share an approving nod as they smile throughout their meal.
All the Templars except for Darsh and Votary are assembled around the table in the conference room. Even the recently freed prisoners, all eight, are present for the meeting. They decided as a group to do what they could to help the Templars defeat the overwhelming Malignant. The Templars pivot in their chairs as they wait for the remaining two to arrive from med bay.
Power looks at an empty table that lines the wall behind the north side of the main conference table.
Power clears his throat to quiet the idle chatter and get the attention of his peers. Power, satisfied that he has the floor, addresses Abel.
“Yo, Abel, while we wait on Votary and shit, I couldn’t help but notice this table here could have snacks on it. You know, the delicious and calorie-free kind?”
Abel nods and provides a banquet behind the Templars to his right side. The group cheers, but Power isn’t finished with his list of requests.
“Yo, Abel, how about some risk-free weed? I’m trying not to blaze up on the real stuff, but I’m thinking that maybe a little puff puff pass might be good for this group.”
“Don
’t listen to him, Abel,” Smith says.
“No, don’t listen to him,” Gallery counters while pointing at Smith. “I don’t have my weed guy with me.”
“I’m sorry,” Abel says. “I’d love to oblige you, but I’m sure Votary would become annoyed. We need her collected right now.”
Some of the younger Templars slouch in apparent disappointment. Power isn’t willing to give up easily.
“So, what you’re saying is that after we kick some Malignant ass, you’ll give us a guilt-free high?”
“Sure,” Abel promises. “Even Votary will loosen up under those conditions.”
“What conditions, Father?” Votary asks.
He enters the room with Darsh. The Indian man looks annoyed.
“Looking good, DJ,” Smith says. “Please have a seat.”
Darsh looks rigid, even more so than Votary, as he takes a seat near the end of the table. Votary walks around to take the seat immediately to Abel’s right.
“Thank you, Bill. We are well,” Darsh says.
Referring to himself in the plural form is still unnerving to the Templars, despite the fact it isn’t likely to change. Only Abel seems unconcerned.
Once Votary adjusts himself in his chair, Abel begins. “This is not for me, my Templars, so I formally turn the meeting over to Votary.”
“Thank you, Father,” Votary begins. “We only have thirty-six days left until the Malignant are allowed to attack us. My discussions with Flaimeson and Millantra have confirmed for me that Mother will order such an attack the second she’s afforded the chance. This means that we have five weeks to prevent the end of the world. I shouldn’t have to tell any of you that this means we’ll have to train constantly while we search for any edge. I’ve asked Lottery here today because we’ll need him.”
“Naturally,” Darsh says. “We should be reading already instead of sitting here.”
“Soon, Lottery,” Votary says. “You’ll have access to whatever files or technical manuals you need. Just promise to keep the clone rate below a dozen. We’re still worried about you.”
“That is folly,” Darsh says. “We are capable of infinite multiplications.”
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