In the Wake of the Kraken

by C. Vandyke

  Boateng knew Wulf was going to tell him nothing about their mission until they needed to, but it had been worth a try. He had heard tales of the deadly Ludanite pack, whispered in taverns across the system, and didn’t fancy incurring the wrath of one of them, especially on his own ship. Instead, he’d console himself with thoughts of the generous payday.

  The captain turned away from Wulf. “We should be docking at Restless Home in forty minutes— unless we need to dodge any particularly large chunks of debris.” Boateng left, the door closing behind with a heavy clang.

  Restless Home’s port was, much like Cold Harbour, devoid of pirate activity, all of them having followed the infamous Midnight Scythe on a mysterious crusade across the system a few days ago, to the distant colony of Tunis. The Salem’s crew was already swinging into action. Deckhands with lifter trucks loaded fresh supplies, whilst the sailors and officers visited the tavern for much-needed rest and relaxation. Boateng’s mechanics huddled around one of the ship’s exhaust ports, looking at a damaged component.

  The Captain examined the battered hull of The Salem. He’d always run a tight ship, his crew respected him and they had many successful raids over the years. Hearing footsteps, he turned away from the ship and held back a sigh.

  The assassin approached. “I’m heading to Delving Prime. Ensure your ship is ready to leave in thirty minutes’ time.” Wulf said, towering over the captain by a foot.

  Boateng stared into the blank visor. “We’ll be ready,” he growled in reply, finally letting out that sigh.

  The rust pocked service elevator screeched to a halt. Wulf pulled the doors aside and stepped out onto the rough stone of Shaft Four. Switching his heads-up display to low-light mode, it enhanced the dim glow from the flickering lanterns overhead. The natives, living rough in the tunnels closer to the surface, had been quite vehement in their warnings for him to not descend to the fourth shaft, some five hundred metres below Restless Home. They claimed it was haunted. Ghouls and wraiths down here put visions of death into people’s heads, leaving them insane.

  Wulf paid this no heed. They were no stranger to death, and the departed could not harm them. What could cause damage, however, was a lack of preparation. Before continuing further into the pit, they took a minute to bring up public access maps and blueprints on the suit’s visor, overlaying them onto their own view through the helmet. Wulf ran a quick scan of the map, searching for the large machine room in which the target was reportedly being held. Thankfully, it wasn’t too far away from the shaft four entrance, down a series of tunnels and a staircase.

  Seven minutes into the projected thirty-minute window, Wulf encountered another life-form, their visor identifying them as human. Lightly armoured in a tactical vest and combat fatigues, they were no match for the power and aggression of a Ludanite Assassin in full armour. Wulf scoffed, the ancient submachine gun at the enemy combatant's hip was a mere peashooter.

  Under the thick plate of their helmet, Wulf smiled with anticipation. He drew one of the large handguns and thumbed off the safety before holding the weapon in a firing position. Wulf then double-checked the helmet’s augmented reality matched up to the sights.

  The enemy combatant spun in surprise, bringing the old automatic to his shoulder. “Who goes there? Is that you, Grell? Thought I told you not to...” interrupted by a booming gunshot, the body fell to the ground.

  This was Wulf’s favourite part of the job. With the first shot fired, others wouldn’t be far behind. The heightened tension as the enemy awoke to the approach of their imminent doom, was like a drug to the Ludanite.

  Wulf loped toward a duo of enemy foot soldiers with their flashlights waving erratically. The human opened fire. Small pings of enemy rounds echoed off Wulf’s chest armour. Two hefty punches from the hand cannon saw both drop, one missing an arm, the other with their torso rearranged.

  Wulf continued toward the target. Their visor automatically picked up seven more enemies jogging toward them. A couple carried shotguns, and a few heavier ballistic armour. Not that it would do them any good. Shouting threats and obscenities, the cultists closed the gap. Wulf drew the second hand cannon from its holster. If there was one sin the Ludanite Assassins couldn’t stomach, it was inefficiency.

  The soldiers' fear was like sweet nectar to Wulf. Their heartbeat quickened with anticipation, and the Ludanite raised their handguns. The release of adrenaline was blissful as all seven cultists went down in a fountain of blood.

  Biting back a howl of delight, Wulf picked up the pace, continuing toward the narrow metal stairway that spiralled further into the blackness. According to Dillinger’s intelligence, the old equipment hangar was just past these stairs. Keeping a close eye on the heads-up display for any sign of movement, Wulf descended, the rusting steps groaning under the weight of their armour and hardware.

  Two more cultists tried to stop the Assassin in the stairwell, firing wildly. One assault rifle round ricocheted from Wulf’s visor, snapping their head back painfully. The Assassin retaliated with a snarl, firing two shots in return. One a shot to the chest, the other removed a forearm. It was an acceptable way for Wulf to burn off anger.

  Wulf preferred to kill slowly, but the mission timer was still ticking. So, a windpipe crushed by a steel boot had to suffice. Eleven minutes in, nineteen to go. Guns still in hand, Wulf continued down the stairwell.

  It took three minutes of further exploration to find the man-made cavern in which the target was located. Years’ worth of dust covered the bare stone floor but many fresh trails criss-crossed its span. Old mining machinery languished around the expanse. A rickety-looking metal catwalk ran along the walls, creating an observation deck.

  Noting a new burst of data rolling down their visor, Wulf walked into the centre of the vast hall, nerve endings buzzing with excitement.

  They spotted a hastily built stage of wood with a stack of rusted crates serving as a dais at its centre. Several warnings lit their visor, internal systems picking up the laser sights illuminating his armour.

  “Stop right where you are,” a voice echoed from the shadows. “Who in the name of the all-consuming Kraken are you, and where are our brethren?”

  “Dead, all twelve of them. Bring your captive to me and I’ll be happy to stop the body count there,” Wulf replied in a low growl, the helmet’s audio array amplifying it across the machine hall.

  Several laughs and catcalls answered before their appointed representative responded. “You really think that old armour will save you? You’re surrounded. There’s one of you and forty of us. Those big revolvers are no match for our combined fire, you mangy, psychotic freak!”

  “Wrong on both counts. First, there aren’t, as you claim, forty men in here, there are twenty-two. Six on the upper catwalk, sixteen on the ground, most of which are maintaining line-of-sight to me from behind those machines. Two of them are blocking the way from which I came, and one is hiding behind that little dais you made and is unarmed. Second, you have overlooked my loadout. I agree, two Glosters would have a hard time dealing with you all, though the automated twin coilguns on my rig were designed to deliver unto you one serious fucknado.”

  With a jerk of their head, Wulf activated the rig built onto the back of their armour. Two mechanical limbs, like those of an arachnoid, unfolded from their back. The two huge coilguns mounted on the ends of them were already cycling into life. With an ear-splitting sound of tearing nylon, reverberated to a Hellish roar by the stone walls, the supersonically charged rounds punched through the dense metal of the mining machines to find their targets, the automatic weapons shredding the remaining cultists like confetti.

  Twelve seconds later, Wulf crossed over to the stage to find the remaining unarmed cultist.

  Crouched on the ground, an older woman garbed in black robes and gaudy jewellery, reminded Wulf of cult leaders often portrayed in movie vids and old pulp novels. Wulf holstered the hand cannons and hoisted the woman up by the collar of her robes, dangling her feet
off the ground. “The Duchess, where?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he had far less patience than remaining ammunition.

  The woman locked eyes with Wulf, her own full of madness, or perhaps pure belief in their inscrutable cause. “They foretold your coming, primal one. I saw you in my dreams, saw the lives of my brothers and sisters blotted out by your lust for death. If only the elders had listened, or foreseen the girl’s father going to one knee before your feral brood mother, begging for the girl’s life to be saved before the Kraken could feast on her royal blood… but it doesn't matter anymore, the Kraken is already on its way, and the galaxy will burn, along with you, you pack of animals!” she hissed. Her bony hands clenched and unclenched with rage and despair as she spoke. A thick, silver necklace in the shape of a strange cephalopod beast, swayed pendulously against her chest.

  Wulf grew impatient and shook the robed woman forcibly. “One more time, crone, where is she?”

  The woman, never taking her tear-filled blue eyes from Wulf, raised a pointed finger to a stout metal door set into the stone wall between two stacks of crates. Wulf snapped her neck A small price to pay for besmirching the name of the Ludan brood mother and their glorious pack.

  The door, locked with an old-fashioned tumbler system, required a physical key. Wulf was about to place a thermite charge into the lock when somebody unlocked it from the other side. Drawing a Gloster, the Assassin stepped back and took aim, ready to put down another cultist. But, when the door opened, Duchess Grace Hortencia Caranthem IV stood before them, handcuffed, dirty and covered in blood. In her pale hand lay a large, decorative dagger, drops of blood falling from its tip.

  “I take it you killed the last one, then?” Wulf asked, holstering his weapon as their armour’s systems ran a check on the girl. To their relief, it indeed was the target. She was overall in good health, apart from lacerations on her wrists from the cuffs, and a black eye. As the check finished, they couldn’t help but notice that she scrutinised the Ludanite in return.

  “Indeed, that unholy racket you made in here was all the distraction I needed to steal his knife and sink it between the brute’s shoulder blades. I daresay the prick had it coming too,” she replied glibly. Her eyes shone with adrenaline and malevolence. “Now, what is a Ludanite Assassin doing down here? Were you sent to kill these psychopaths—or me, perhaps?”

  Impressive. The last thing they expected this young woman to be was cocky. But then, she was the infamous Muffy Dillinger’s illegitimate daughter. “Were I here to kill you, you’d be dead already. No, I’m here to take you to my client, alive, with all of your digits intact. That was the order, at least.”

  Still on the clock, Wulf led the girl out of the chamber, stepping through growing puddles of blood without slowing, waving their charge into silence whenever she tried to ask questions. It wasn’t until she crouched next to a dead cultist and picked up a submachine gun that Wulf spoke.

  “Looks like you’ve had some formal training in weapons handling. Baagh College?” Wulf asked, recognising the smooth drill steps as those taught by the ancient and lethal academy of combat tutors.

  “That is correct,” the Duchess replied proudly. “My instructor, the great Guru Khatri, taught me to use concealable weapons, so this little submachine gun will be perfect, should more cultists show up. Unlike you, I don’t need those gigantic coilguns. What are they for anyway, bringing down ships?”

  When they were standing in the safety of the elevator, they replied. “I only got to put down a few cultists with them today, but they do have two ships to their name, pirates both.”

  The Duchess said something in reply, her words suddenly drowned out by static as Wulf’s communications array sprung to life. “Wulf, can you hear me? I really hope that you can!” shouted Boateng, the audio warping slightly, the sound of small arms fire in the background.

  Wulf held up a hand to silence the girl’s one-sided conversation. She rolled her eyes, but they ignored her and replied to the radio. “Captain, you have company? I hear several automatic weapons back there.”

  It was a few seconds before the Captain of The Salem responded. “Yes, Assassin, we have company alright! An old skiff arrived at the port, full of armed fools wearing black hoods. I think they were looking for you. They took the port by force, and have a skiff hovering overhead to suppress us. I'd love to get airborne to mop them up with artillery, except half of my crew are pinned in the tavern. Tell me you’re on the way,” Boateng shouted desperately over a litany of gunfire.

  Wulf looked down at the rescued Duchess beside them, glaring back at him impatiently with cerulean blue eyes. “I did say thirty minutes, didn’t I? We’ll be there to bail you out.” With that, he cut the comms.

  It was a short walk back down the rocky path from Delving Prime to the town of Restless Home. The strange nebulae above them bathed the road in purple and pink hues, in contrast with the thick smoke surrounding the ramshackle town. As they drew closer, they spotted the cultist’s skiff, hovering above the port. It was pouring automatic fire down into the buildings below, keeping The Salem’s crew pinned down whilst the cultists came looking for their fallen kin and the escaped girl.

  “Did Guru Khatri show you how to put down a small skiff’s worth of soldiers?” Wulf asked drily. They drew the twin hand cannons as they weighed their options.

  “I believe that was in an upcoming lesson, Ludanite,” she snapped in reply. “Besides, I already know the answer: let you go in first, and shoot any survivors.”

  Wulf once again was impressed, despite their usual disdain toward humanity. This privileged, pampered girl was masking her fear and was prepared to point her liberated gun at anybody who came close.

  “Almost right, girl. There won’t be any survivors. You can bet the cultists on the surface are here for you; therefore, they will most likely focus fire on us the moment we’re seen. As we reach the port, I need you to find a hiding place near my location and stay there. If any cultists somehow sneak by me, feel free to test that education of yours. Understood?” The girl looked as if she was about to argue about hiding, but conceded with a grin.

  They encountered the first group of cultists from the skiff on the outskirts of the town. They barely had the time to shoulder their weapons before Wulf’s visor lined them up, and the two high calibre handguns knocked them down.

  “That targeting system gives you quite the advantage. Switch it off and I might put a few of these bastards down myself!” pouted the Duchess, stepping over what was left of their would-be attackers. Realising that her surly rescuer wasn’t stopping to assess the dead cultists, the girl ran to catch up.

  The Ludanite and the Duchess encountered no further resistance until they reached the port. The Salem sat in place, the exhaust port half-built and crates of victuals left in the middle of the access road. Members of the pirate ship’s crew darted behind cover on the jetty, exchanging fire with more black-robed figures. The tavern, in which the remaining pirates were hiding, was surrounded by cultists. Wulf spotted Boateng as they approached the middle of the wide service road. The Duchess kept close behind.

  The Assassin grinned as the visor lit up with multiple targeting warnings, at least fifteen from the cultists on the ground. Wulf unceremoniously shoved the girl from behind his back, and into the cover of a pallet of abandoned thick metal crates.

  “Remember when you asked me what my weapons are capable of?” Wulf asked.

  She crouched into cover, glaring at Wulf. But the glare soon melted away, replaced by an understanding of what was about to happen. “I simply won’t believe you until I’ve seen that skiff plucked out of the sky,” she replied.

  Wulf aimed to do just that. Huge coilguns tallied up the targets in front of them as all hell broke loose. The cultists on the ground opened fire, forcing Wulf to brace against a withering hail of bullets that slammed off thick, tempered layers of armour. The Ludanite hissed in pain as several bullets punched through the armoured plate, with only the underlying
ballistic fibre suit saving the Assassin’s life.

  Whilst the rounds hitting the armour did their damage, Wulf’s own rounds dealt out far more. The coilguns opened fire with a thunderous roar. The Duchess covered her ears and screamed. Thousands of supersonic explosive bullets tore into the pockmarked hull of the skiff above, shredding it from bow to stern as if it were paper. The ship’s reactor core, its containment compromised, lit up the port with a huge, green-flamed explosion, vaporizing several of the cultists beneath it instantly and knocking the wind out of Wulf. A quick glance at the Duchess saw her pressed up to crates, her eyes screwed shut and earlier bravado forgotten. At least she was unharmed.

  The skiff, shedding chunks of deck, reactor, weaponry, and crew, yawed to port, passing over The Salem’s bulk, and fell away from the asteroid’s gravity well. The Ludanite, firing until every round was exhausted, dealt with the remaining enemy targets. Wulf let out a howl of satisfaction as the surviving cultists panicked, and attempted to disperse into the streets.

  Wulf picked off a handful more with the hand cannons as they fled, and the formerly besieged pirates sallied forth from the tavern, looking for revenge. The enraged crew sent the rest of the cultists to their Kraken’s side with shotguns and automatic weapons. As the final enemy combatants fell, Restless Home fell into a death-filled silence. The only sound came from the crackling of fire dancing merrily atop the debris from the gutted skiff littering the access road.

  The Ludanite holstered the handguns and retracted the spent coilguns, setting off a medical status check as he did so.

  The Duchess, albeit a little shell-shocked, appeared unharmed. “You could have bloody warned me!” she shouted, her ears ringing in the aftermath.

  “Loud, was it? Should’ve stood further back.” Wulf replied, limping toward The Salem. The Duchess followed, and the Assassin noted the young woman’s concerned face.