Action Figures - Issue Seven: The Black End War

by Michael Bailey

  On a long straightaway, Erisia and I go high, skimming the ceiling to avoid a cluster of soldiers. I take advantage of the drag strip of a corridor and, for a split-second, go supersonic. In these tight confines, the sonic boom is devastating. Bodies go flying. Black Enders outside the shockwave are laid out by the thunderclap as it ricochets off the floor, walls, and ceiling. Beings collapse, screaming in agony, their hands (or whatever) clamped over their ears (or whatever).

  The rest of the way is clear after that.

  We touch down in the secondary engine room, on top of some kind of observation deck looking down on a proper plasma reactor, a three-story tower of roiling energy contained behind a glasslike barrier. It reminds me of the gigantic central tank at the New England Aquarium (if said tank was filled with enough ionized plasma to power North America for a century).

  “We might have a problem,” I say.

  Erisia laughs nervously. “We have a lot of problems, Fargirl, care to narrow it down?”

  “I don’t know whether Mova deactivated the failsafes on the backup reactor. She disabled the ones for the slaved reactors but I don’t know if she got this one too.”

  “So blasting it might not do a thing. Well, prahsk,” hye spits. “Now what?”

  I’ve been told by people I consider informed sources that, with obvious exceptions for individuals with specific superhuman abilities, what we often call intuition is really a lightning-fast response to information we pick up on a subconscious level with our five basic human senses. It isn’t some sixth sense telling me to throw up the biggest, strongest shield I can, but the faint groan of steel sinking under a great weight accompanied by a low, guttural growl; a sudden whiff of ozone stinging my nostrils; and a painful tightness across my back as a blistering heat source draws near.

  I whirl around and put up a wall of energy in front of us. It’s not enough. It isn’t nearly enough. Galt’s blast punches through the shield like it isn’t even there and launches us over the railing.

  I’ve known for a long time that my energy form is, to put it mildly, weird (Dr. Quentin described it as impossible, and that is not a word she employs often or lightly). My entire body transforms into coherent, supercharged plasma, turning me into a living star that looks and acts like Carrie Hauser and behaves like a human body — to a point. While in my energy form I don’t need to breathe, eat, drink, or sleep and, strictly speaking, I have no bones to break or blood to spill or a brain to concuss. However, that doesn’t render me totally impervious to physical harm; my body reacts to extreme physical stimulus, and if my energy form suffers a severe enough disruption, it can kill me.

  My three-story fall onto an unforgiving steel floor doesn’t kill me, but it does hurt like hell, and the shock of the impact causes me to revert to my human form, at which point the last God-knows-how-many hours catch up to me with a vengeance. Every muscle in my body seizes up, and I let out a cry that’s just short of a scream.

  The real scream comes next when Galt drops on me, crushing my forearm under his foot. My right hand goes instantly, completely numb. He steps off, seizes me by the throat, hauls me up and, almost casually, pitches me overhand across the engine room. I cartwheel through the air and bounce off the containment chamber before returning to the floor. A dull knife saws through my ribcage. A thick, wet cough brings up blood. A shrill ringing fills my ears, and my one feeble attempt to get to my feet fails when a crippling dizzy spell puts me back down.

  “Little girl,” Galt snarls at me. “You’ve plagued me for too long.”

  Traditionally, this is where I would throw out a defiant, smart-ass retort to show Galt I still have a lot of fight left in me, but a burning agony is chewing its way up my arm and into my chest. I can barely breathe, much less throw shade.

  But who needs sass when you have backup? That’s much better.

  Erisia nails Galt with a tightly focused beam that slices through his shoulder. He staggers, clutching at the joint, but that was a lucky shot. I catch a glimpse of Erisia and hye looks as rough as I feel. Hye stumbles drunkenly, fighting to stay upright, and lets off another clumsy blast that misses Galt by a country mile.

  I’ve gotten spoiled by dealing with chatty bad guys. Galt doesn’t say a word as he turns away from me and marches toward Erisia. Glowing steam drifts off his body. His stolen astrarma glow like hot coals under his skin. He’s going full burn. I tell myself he can’t keep this up forever, eventually he’ll go critical and do the job we came here to do for us, but at this point, I’ve lost all faith anything is going to go how I hope it will.

  Galt, with a dismissive sweep of his hand, nails Erisia with a wave attack that throws hyer across the engine room. He takes his sweet time closing the distance. Droplets of supercharged plasma fall from his fists like sweat and hit the floor with a hiss before dissipating in tiny puffs of iridescent vapor.

  Erisia curls into a ball, throws up a flickering ghost of a shield, and braces for what’s coming next. Galt’s hands erupt like twin flamethrowers that bathe Erisia is cosmic fire.

  I power back up. It doesn’t help much. The pain and exhaustion stay with me, and my hand refuses to move (unless you count uncontrollable trembling as movement). I scream Galt’s name, my voice raw and ragged. He doesn’t stop. I manage to get to my knees, but that’s as far as I’m going. I lean back against the containment chamber to stabilize myself and open fire. My first five shots miss completely thanks to the fact I’m shooting lefty (and that hand is shaking too). The sixth pings off Galt’s back, and finally, he turns to face me. A torrent of threats and insults and profanity that’d shame Astrid pours out of me like I’m spraying them from a fire hose. I channel every last ounce of fury into a black-hearted tirade. I tell Galt how I plan to kill him and every last member of his family in horrific ways and commit bloodcurdling atrocities with their corpses. I cycle through every application of the F-word I know. I say the most vile, repulsive things I can imagine, and Galt stands there and glares at me with an expression that rotates between bemusement and annoyance.

  As I’ve said before, there are a lot of similarities between humans and all the advanced alien races I’ve met. The tendency to fall for cheap distractions, for example.

  Erisia puts a tight beam right through the back of Galt’s head. As disruptions to the physical form go, that’s the best you can get. Galt pitches forward as though tripping over his own feet but catches himself, and I think that’s it, we took our very best shot, and we still couldn’t stop him — and then he sinks to his knees. He blinks once, slowly, and when his eyes open, there’s nothing behind them. His aura fades like the flame of a dying candle, and he slumps over like a dog lying down to take a nap.

  Then it’s my turn. My legs give out, and I pitch over, my energy form flickering. I can’t die. Not yet. I have to hold on for a few more minutes.

  Erisia tries to get up, but hyer legs aren’t being team players. Hye crawls over, one pain-wracked inch at a time, and flops onto hyer back next to me.

  “This day kind of got away from us, huh?” hye says.

  I don’t have the strength to offer any more than one wheezing laugh. “Got one more thing to take care of,” I slur as a gray fog settles over my vision, “but I think it might be all on you.”

  “You giving up on me, Fargirl?”

  “...I think I might be.”

  “Uh-uh. Not letting it happen. Come on,” hye says, rolling up onto an elbow. A rivulet of thick maroon blood drips from the corner of hyer lips. “I can’t do this by myself. I need you for one last push. That’s all I need. All we have to do is hold on long enough to destroy the reactor and finish the mission. It’s not like we need to save our strength to warp out before the —”

  Erisia’s face lights up with sudden inspiration, and against all reason, hye smiles.

  “What?”

  “We warp out,” hye says.

  “We won’t have time. We knew going into this we weren’t going to —”

  “No, I mean
that’s how we take out the reactor: we warp out. The gravitational backlash would overpower any safeguards still in place. And if the other teams warped out too —”

  “We’d obliterate the ship and get our people clear before it went up. Great idea,” I say, closing my eyes. “Let me know how that works out.”

  “Damn it all, no,” Erisia says, wrapping hyer arms around me. “You refused to let me go, I’ll be damned if I let you go.”

  “Erisia...”

  “Shut up and get ready.” The bleep in my ear tells me our comlinks have come back on line. “All units, this is Sergeant Pwamee. Get ready to warp out. I don’t care where you go, just get as far away as you can.”

  “Sergeant,” Johr responds from one of the slaved ships. Of course she’s going to protest what is, admittedly, the cherry on top of this party-sized insanity sundae.

  “That’s an order, wing sergeant,” I say. “Don’t make me come down there.”

  “On my mark, people,” Erisia says. “You ready?” hye asks me.

  “No.”

  “Me either.” Erisia hesitates long enough to utter a short prayer to whatever god or gods hye believes in. Hyer arms tighten around me. “Love you, Carrie.”

  For what might be the last time in my life, I smile. “Love you too.”

  “GO.”

  ***

  My eyes flutter open.

  It takes me a minute to realize they’re open because all I see is black — the perfect black that is deep space.

  Except it’s not so deep after all. A faint glow appears at the edge of my vision. Instinctively, I try to turn around, but what precious little strength I have left is going toward keeping me powered up, so I have to wait until I float around on my own. In time, a planet, huge and blue and beautiful, fills the endless sky with its radiance. Somehow, I know it’s not Earth, but I don’t care. I’m going to pretend it is. I’m going to pretend that I’ve gone home to die.

  Stuart.

  Missy.

  Matt.

  Dad.

  Mom.

  Sara.

  I’m so sorry.

  I’m —

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  One by one, my senses return to me.

  The first thing I become aware of is the familiar sensation of zero gravity — except that it’s not really zero gravity. I am floating, but it feels like I’m floating in something rather than in the eternal nothing of space. Whatever it is, it’s warm and soothing and pleasant.

  I open my eyes, but all I see is an ugly orange haze. I can make out the vague buzz of conversation, but it’s oddly muffled, like there’s a pillow — no, like there’s an entire mattress wrapped around my head. I draw a breath to speak and suck in a lungful of fluid, and that’s when the panic hits. I let out a startled cry that comes out as a bad imitation of a humpback whale song. In my hysterical flailing, my hand hits something solid — glass, or some similar material, surrounding me on all sides and containing the thick fluid I’m totally submerged in and am, somehow, breathing.

  A watery shape devoid of any telling details appears in front of me. A speaker comes on with a sharp electronic snap, and Dr. Forre says, “Calm yourself, sergeant, it’s all right. Your injuries were quite severe so we had to put you in a regen tank.”

  Which is where I’ve been for a little more than three days, he informs me, ever since I was recovered from high orbit over Joenn — Erisia’s homeworld. Dr. Forre leaves the story there and begins the flush cycle, which he warns me will be “a little uncomfortable.”

  That is the understatement of the century. Dr. Forre purges the tank of its oxygen-rich suspension fluid, and I settle onto the floor so I can expel the syrupy goo from my system. I’ve never vomited from my lungs before. Definitely adding that to the stupidly long list of totally new kinds of misery I hope to never again experience.

  Once I’m out of the tank, Dr. Forre sprays me with a fire extinguisher-looking thing that instantly dries up the fluid clinging to my skin, turning the slime into a fine orange powder. Satisfied I’m not going to drip all over his medical facility, he guides me to a private recovery room so I can shower, and I seriously can’t remember the last time a simple hot shower felt this amazing.

  I step out of the shower to find a pair of standard Vanguard civilian support team coveralls waiting for me. As I slip them on, someone knocks on the door. Commander Do doesn’t wait for me to answer before entering.

  “Sergeant,” she says with a guarded smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m alive,” I say. “Beyond that? Might depend on how much trouble I’m in for disobeying a direct order.”

  Commander Do’s expression remains locked in place. “In light of how things played out, I suspect any reprimands from the Council of Generals would be purely symbolic.”

  Our plan, as desperate and as improvised as it was, worked. Smiv returned to Alliance space to bring Commander Do up to speed — right after the Vanguard finished wiping out the Black End scrub fighters, that is, but that didn’t take too long. Once the Frankenship warped out, the Black Enders who didn’t surrender on the spot were unceremoniously blown out of the sky.

  Commander Do was in the process of personally assembling a team to assist us when Johr returned, wisely warping straight to Kyros Prime to report in to the council. They tasked Alliance deep space sensors to sweep for any recent, sudden, massive spikes in ionized radiation. It took a while because, apparently, such spikes are fairly common in space, but a plasma reactor going critical has enough of a unique signature that the Alliance was able to locate what remained of the Frankenship in a heretofore uncharted area of the Lehzutan Arm — practically in my back yard, cosmically speaking — and confirm our success.

  (And, for the record, the radiation field was all that remained of the warship. Any physical debris is currently hurtling across the galaxy in every direction at thousands of miles per hour.)

  The generals wasted no time broadcasting the news to every single member and nonmember world. Things are still developing, but several nonmember worlds with known or rumored ties to the Black End suddenly became very chummy with the Alliance. A few even turned over Black End cells they’d been harboring.

  “Does that mean we’ve won?” I say.

  “The generals have stopped short of declaring the Black End crushed,” Commander Do says, “but they have been firmly routed. We’ll continue to hunt down remaining cells, apply some diplomatic pressure to nonmember worlds we suspect might still be loyal to the Black End’s cause...”

  “No rest for the weary, huh?”

  “No, but have faith, sergeant; we will finish the job — and that goal is finally within reach, thanks to you and your people.”

  “Don’t be too quick to thank me, commander. I might have gotten us in but Erisia deserves the credit for taking out the ship. Hye made the call to —”

  I stop mid-sentence. Commander Do’s thin, hard smile wavers ever so slightly, and a wrecking ball caves in my chest. She gets as far as “I’m sorry, sergeant,” before I’m on the floor sobbing so hard I can’t draw a breath. There’s no shock, no numbness, no denial, just heartache so deep and powerful and ugly it crushes what little remains of my soul to a cold, dead lump. Commander Do kneels down and wraps her arms around me, but I barely feel it. There’s nothing she can do for me, and she knows it, but she stays with me anyway. She stays until the sheer exhaustion of mourning my loss drags me into unconsciousness.

  I almost hope I never wake up.

  ***

  “Come in.”

  Hef’Mrnan steps into my quarters. He looks somehow older. Maybe it’s my imagination. Or maybe this war took a toll on everyone, regardless of whether they served on the front lines.

  “Sergeant,” he says, his head bowed respectfully. “Forgive the intrusion. I know your session with the Council of Generals is today...”

  “It’s all right, Hef,” I say as I check myself in the mirror. My uniform is clean and neat, my boots are nic
e and shiny, and my eyes are two empty holes in my head. Ready for inspection, generals. “What’s up?”

  “You have a visitor. I informed hyer that you had a busy schedule today but hye insisted on speaking with you.”

  The pronoun catches my attention. “I have time.”

  Hef’Mrnan nods and gestures to someone standing in the hallway. The person who enters is Joennese. Hye’s my height, has shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, and looks every bit as empty inside as I feel. Hye doesn’t need to introduce hyerself; I know exactly who this is.

  “You’re Ava,” I say.

  “Yes. Hello, Sergeant Hauser,” Ava says in a tiny voice. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

  Hef’Mrnan quietly slips out.

  “I understand you were with Erisia when — you were with hyer at the end.”

  I nod.

  Hye stands there for a moment wringing hyer hands, then laughs nervously. “I really don’t know what else to say.”

  “I understand. Ava, I’m so sorry. Erisia died saving my life. Hye warped us out of the Black End ship and it...the strain was too much for hyer. Hye was hurt as badly as I was but hye — hye somehow found the strength to pull me out. Hye should have left me,” I sob. I’ve spent all week crying. I didn’t think I had anything left, but here it is. “I asked hyer to leave me. Hye wouldn’t. If hye’d left me behind hye’d be alive and —”

  “Sergeant, stop, please,” Ava says. “Erisia spoke of you often — very highly, I might add — and hye told me what you did on Han-Yu Seven. You refused to leave hyer behind; why should I expect hyer to leave you behind?” Hye gives me a sad smile. “It was hyer nature to sacrifice hyerself for others, and I am proud — so proud that hye died as nobly as hye lived.”

  “But it should have been me.”

  “But it wasn’t. You live, and you should go on living. I can think of no better way to honor Erisia.”

  I know enough about Joenn culture to know that hugging a stranger who badly needs a hug is perfectly acceptable behavior.