He somehow managed to dodge a few blasts, and he was quite proud of that as he fumbled for his original detonator. It fell from his mouth, and he dove for it, landing on the floor with a thump. A red bolt pierced the floor and caught him through the stomach. He hollered through clenched teeth, grappling the detonator.
It occurred to him then that he wouldn’t be leaving the tower. It had to fall, but he couldn’t detonate it if he was dead. Given their random firing, death seemed inevitable. With a sigh, Boomer realized that the beauty of the explosion would have to be felt, not seen: the last great work of any true artist. Still, in his heart, he considered the piece a dedication. As time slowed for him, as his thumb drifted to the red button, he grinned from ear to ear. “Josie.” The whisper of her name was the last thing to fill the room before the fiery bursts.
Sabile:
Base of Operations of the Eighth: West Landing Pad Entrance
“What’s taking so long?” Gally rushed him, looking behind her for any incoming automatons.
“It’s not so easy!” Harper snapped, having discovered a nest of wires for coms, video display, sound, card readers, and finally locking mechanisms. That should be four wires maximum; this was a labyrinth of nest upon nest that was certainly made to deter this exact scenario. Hotwiring was not a universal craft, as Harper was discovering. He missed the old days of knobs and key fobs. Not that he’d ever picked a lock before, but that must have been easier than this. That’s when he realized that this wasn’t a ship. It didn’t have to fly or work properly afterwards. All Harper had to do was get it to break enough to open. Red wires were crossed to orange wires, blue wires were connected to yellow, and all the black wires were rearranged. Finally, one combination sparked, and the door flew open. “HAH!” Harper cheered before a slight zap flew at his fingers. “Ow!”
Ula cheered as they ran through the door. Gally looked up to see several of the Eighth standing in their way. Ox swiped his staff from left to right, and a large wind carried several crates in front of his crew, providing cover. Harper ducked down, though his bag stuck out. He felt a push with each shot the bag took. He glanced up at it, annoyed, as he tried ducking down further, to no avail.
Gally’s eyes scanned the landing bay and found a ship the perfect size for a crew of seven: a black vessel that seemed just small enough to get out of here quickly. She fired at some of the Eighth, and Harper gave her a surprised look. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” he called to her.
Without looking at him, she replied. “Dad’s in the military. Tell me you’re better at hotwiring a ship.”
He glanced up as he counted both times he’d actually done it. “Yeah!” he squeaked, just a bit confident in his abilities.
Ox raised the end of his staff up vertically, and the stone beneath the structure roared through the steel, creating a large wall between him and the Eighth. From there, he calmly grasped the staff and whispered to it once again. “Lend me your hands.” Within a split second, he felt his consciousness rip from his body and fly into the staff. From there, it whipped around the stone barrier. He cracked around in a serpentine motion, no longer as slow as his corporeal form, but as powerful and fast as a bolt of lightning. He spun around a corner and leapt into the face of one of the Eighth, downing it instantly. And just as quickly, Ox was back in his own body. He repeated this twice more.
Harper pretended he wasn’t watching Ox take out most of the hostiles, but it was just so fascinating. The Waykind nearly went limp as the lightning left his staff. Not to be outdone, Harper popped out from cover to take out a few as well. He grinned to himself, realizing he was starting to enjoy this job.
When the last guard had been taken out, they rushed into the small ship, and Harper was relieved to finally drop the large bag off his back. He stretched as Ox stood watch at the bay.
Gally led Ula to the co-pilot’s seat and buckled her in. Seeing the girl up there, Harper gave Gally a nervous look. Ula sat, comfortably, looking up at Gally, who sighed. “Just uh, don’t touch anything, okay?” She looked back at Harper, who seemed to give her a nervous nod. Gally smirked as she patted the girl’s helmet before making room for Harper, who immediately began disassembling components and bulkheads.
The ship was larger than the Atticus, and it seemed more complex for no reason. The pilot’s eyes darted from wire to wire, taking more care this time than with the door.
An explosion rocked the building, and an alarm sounded. Gally grinned as she held her earpiece in place. “Felt that from here, Boomer. Nice job. Are we clear?” She noticed Ox stumble. She thought it was from physical pain, so she rushed to help him. When she arrived, Ox looked up at her, slowly, with telling eyes. “Ah, no.”
8
It was a quiet life, for a while. Maxia was a great little colony, and we were all very close. Martin was—peaceful. Well, as peaceful as he could be.
I know he was arrogant about his work, and everyone loved to parade him around as some mad scientist because of what he did, but that’s not how I knew him.
I knew him as a man: slightly flustered, troubled, and complicated. He had demons, sure, but who didn’t after that war. He was brilliant and a bit arrogant, but he was also kind, gentle.
He had to take something to help him sleep, almost daily. He regretted what he did, and it kept him awake at night. Which is one of the reasons he surrendered the way he did.
They came for him, in their white armor, all militaristic and stiff. We all went to see him off. Everyone there did.
But he walked with me. And I was—God, I was so weak back then.
Ah, I’m sorry, I just, sorry.
Do you have a tissue or something?
Thank you.
I just—
I wanted to help him. I wanted to give him a way out.
If, for some reason, he had any regrets about going, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to suffer. So I handed him a vial, and he said, ‘What’s this?’
And I hugged him and whispered in his ear: ‘Poison’.
‘Windows: The Amateur Scientist Pub-cast’
Interview with Elizabeth Bowman
August 2nd, 2315
Sabile:
Base of Operations of the Eighth: West Wing
Nitro was humming a song. It wasn’t a particularly good or clever song. It was just some jaunty sailor tune that Zerich had ingrained into his mind over the years. And while it wasn’t hopping or leg bouncing, the song kept him focused, while the memory of his late friend kept him angry.
As he stood in the communications relay, the captain removed a bandolier from his shoulder. Upon the bandolier sat many batteries, usually reserved as ammunition for a plasma rifle. But he was a new man now. And he had ample laser rifles.
He took the dead Eighth body in front of him and propped it up, having found it to be the only one with all its limbs still intact. It stood leaning against a wall as Nitro wrapped the bandolier over it. He pressed a button on every single one of the batteries, until they let out a high-pitched whine.
The whine was remarkably off-key from the tune Nitro was humming, but that didn’t stop him. When all the buttons had been pushed, and all the batteries gave off a whine that sounded like the galaxy’s worst choir, Nitro gave a proud look to the Eighth’s body and grinned. “Ham-fisted,” he scoffed as he looked over his work. Soon enough, his face drifted from proud to reflective. “Eh, maybe.” After a shrug, he dragged the body over to the door, propped it against the door, and ran behind a distant row of terminals for cover.
Looking over the terminals, Nitro saw the console for the door ahead, which led to the large room with the cells he believed Martin to be in. He threw a piece of debris at the console and missed. The second piece of debris connected, and the door slid open. Without the door as support, the body toppled over toward the next room, which, as anticipated, was packed with the Eighth.
It hadn’t even hit the floor before it was blazed by enemy fire. Laser after laser after la
ser battered the body. Nitro dropped below the terminals again and shoved his hands under his helmet to cover his ears. Just as the body was about to hit the floor, one of the laser blasts pierced a battery pack. Granted, one battery pack wasn’t enough to blow up a whole room, but a whole bandolier full of them was.
Purple light burst out into several flashes, lighting both rooms like a strobe before a booming crash decimated the room full of the Eighth. Dust and debris splattered into the communications relay, covering the very satisfied captain. Having full knowledge of the base—thanks to Ox’s incredibly useful trick—he knew that plasma would not get through the light-walls with which the cells were lined. The doctor would be well protected. Nitro uncovered his ears, though he could not shake a distant ringing, and brushed off the dust from the blast. He cracked his neck, grinned, and stepped into the large room.
Now whistling the tune, he strolled through the room. He found every cell empty; not a single light-barrier was activated. Some even had chunks of the Eighth tossed in from the blast. ‘The next one,’ he thought each time. Upon reaching the very last empty cell, Nitro’s grin faded quickly.
Another explosion rocked the base, and Nitro looked in the direction where he last left his demolitions expert. He heard Gally over the coms. “Felt that from here, Boomer. Nice job. Are we clear?” There was a long silence. Nitro stopped.
“Boomer, acknowledge,” Nitro cut in. He hoped he was wrong; hoped he was too quick to assume the worst. But the silence continued. “Shit.”
Nitro leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Gally’s voice came over the coms once more. She sighed before she spoke. “Captain, we’re in position. Do we have confirmation that the tower is down?” He wiped his eyes. “Captain, come in?”
After some time, he responded with a voice that almost cracked. “No visual.” His next words were about to be a declaration of faith in his team: that if Boomer died, he died completing his mission. But he knew that wouldn’t be enough for the stubborn girl and her green pilot. “But we can get that on the way out.” He blinked, realizing what he said probably sounded worse. He hoped they didn’t have a response.
“Acknowledged,” Gally responded, sounding more vulnerable than she would have liked. “How’s Doctor Collier?”
Nitro kicked some nearby debris into one of the empty cells. He collected more laser rifles and moved to the door. “Tell you when I see him. Don’t wait for us. I’ll have him before you get that thing in the air.” The captain heard Gally respond, but didn’t pay it any mind. He opened the next door and charged through it.
Sabile:
Base of Operations of the Eighth: Central Factory
On his long walk with Rook, Martin paraded himself as a parody of his former egotist self. He was overly cooperative, overly friendly. “Never could get the thing working, but good luck explaining that to the higher-ups,” he rambled as they walked.
“I see.” Rook looked to the doctor, lacking empathy and patience. It refused to partake in Martin’s sudden good mood.
“Anyway,” the doctor continued. “We settled on just throwing the whole proximity station at the planet, and you know those government types.”
“I do not,” Rook stated plainly.
“Well, they wanted to make it look real.” Truthfully, Martin was recalling a terrible fact, a horrible memory that had been chewing at his soul since its inception, but he was talking about it as if it were some work-related anecdote. His smiles—rare and temporary—never reached his eyes. “Of course, they didn’t tell me this at the time, but they didn’t even evacuate the damn thing.” He threw his hand in the air, as if tossing something. “Twenty five hundred innocent souls.” Martin’s jovial tone dissipated for a moment, his eyes revealing a deep regret. “And they weren’t even part of the war.”
Martin’s sudden dark tone fell on the indifferent general. A small explosion rocked the complex. Martin looked toward the sound. He’d anticipated some explosions, but tried to look at least a little surprised. Rook appeared annoyed and calculating, as it had already known about the problem and was dealing with it.
Martin recovered from staring at the Eighth and finished his thought. “But it taught me a lot.” He shrugged, glancing at the large automaton. “Like the price of doing what’s right.”
As casually as he could, he dipped his one hand in a nearby vat, scooping up some of the clear, thick liquid it was producing. He noticed his hand was freezing, but it wasn’t cold. He just lost feeling in it and was unable to move it. With a weary smile, he looked to Rook. “Fascinating substance, by the way.” A second, larger explosion rocked the base from the opposite end. Again, Rook seemed to notice, but not be surprised. “Always enjoyed chemistry.” Martin grew nervous.
Rook’s eye twitched as it closely monitored and commanded its troops remotely as they defended the base. “Doctor, I’ve moved your equipment, like you asked. Can we now discuss your mutator?”
“Oh!” Martin nodded, putting his frozen hand into the pocket of his environmental suit. “Yes; let me just get to my tablet, and we can discuss it.” He gave Rook a smile, which was returned with forced patience. For a synthesized being, the automaton’s face ran the gamut of emotions. It was very convincing, albeit disturbing.
They’d arrived at a large, exposed walkway, with adjacent chrome rooms that were somehow even less fit for living creatures than their assigned guest rooms. Within the room was a small, green trunk. It was in perfect condition, and the doctor was nearly grateful for that.
His left hand appeared from out of his suit, and he wiped it on the front, gaining more and more feeling and movement in it as he wiped the substance off. He opened his case with his teeth and unmoving hand. Humming as his stiff hand grazed over the many tiny bottles, he managed to pluck a specific one from his case. Holding the bottle in his mouth, he slowly turned his head and dripped the green liquid onto his hand. The clear liquid that held his hand in place immediately dissolved and regained feeling. A very satisfied, victorious smile appeared on the doctor’s face. “That’s what I thought, fucker.”
After putting the container with the green liquid into his pocket, he closed the trunk, finding it much easier to do with one hand than none, stood up, and exited the room to see Rook looking out over the factory. The sound of laser fire ripped through the factory. When Martin approached, Rook stretched out a hand toward the doctor. “Stay there,” it said.
It was watching Nitro. The captain was in full sprint, screaming at the top of his lungs, firing randomly behind him. Martin watched the pursuing Eighth—too many to count—suddenly become very careful with their shots upon entering the room. Martin immediately realized why. Their target was running serpentine, which would have been easy for a computer to lead a target, but the patterns of the captain’s jukes and jives were untraceable. A blast from a laser rifle, Martin concluded, could easily pierce either the equipment or the transport ships. A single missed shot could mean releasing the Carrion.
A smile appeared on Martin’s face as he dropped his case. He stepped back quite a bit, and made a running leap, forcing his shoulder into Rook’s back. The Eighth general barely had time to react as it toppled over the railing of the walkway. It hit two landings on the way down, and finally landed on the floor. Instead of reacting as Martin had expected—taking a bit to recover and then firing at the doctor—the general leapt up nearly instantly and darted forward, toward Nitro.
“Oh, shit,” Martin sneered, realizing his mistake. “Look out, Captain!” he shouted before running for the steps.
Nitro followed the sound of his voice and found Martin on the platform above him. “Doc?!” He was relieved, though that was short-lived. Rook had intercepted him at a ninety-degree angle, landing a fist into his chest. The captain fell to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. He gasped as he struggled to stand.
Rook gave him no time to recover and fired at his chest. Had Nitro not leapt to the side when he did, it would have killed him. Instead
, the hard laser put a large hole in his right shoulder.
The captain screamed, but kept moving. Quickly on his feet, he put his back to the outside wall of one of the transport vessels. He looked behind him at the large, square container that housed the Carrion within their incapacitating liquid. While he didn’t know what the container held, he was smart enough to notice his pursuers had stopped firing so recklessly when he entered this room. And they certainly weren’t firing at him now. Nitro wobbled, smearing blood against the vessel as his tired, daring smile shifted to his foe. “Whatcha got in there?” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “Goodies? Explosives?”
Rook approached, furious. The several Eighth, standing behind it, held their fire as their general approached the man. “You give me no alternative, captain.” Rook attached its rifle to its leg, and it stepped forward. “Though I must admit, this will be satisfying.”
Nitro, with a hole in one shoulder and a severe burn on the other, looked up to see Martin running down the ramps of the walkway as quickly as he could. His attention turned to Rook, who stepped toward him. The captain barely put up a fight, swinging a wounded arm at the automaton best he could. Rook’s first swing was directly into the captain’s midsection. Nitro took the hit, and attempted to swing again. Rook dodged it easily. “I don’t know what you hope to gain from this,” it said, before landing a well-placed punch against Nitro’s jaw.
Stars Gods Wolves: Book One: Carrion Page 19
