Before I know it, break time is over and we are moving again.
Everyone gets scared and for good reason. Kraggit are too small to travel alone and there was only one way it could wander so far from the pelt on its own. Some unseen terror lurks on the battlefield.
Some unseen horror that–
Chapter Eight
Monk Mode Rhapsody
call sign: Callstack
unit type: kernel engineer
location : Trumpets of Jericho (orbiting Debron IV)
* * *
“YOU WANNA SEE TITTIES? I’LL SHOW YOU TITTIES.”
Talk about the magic fucking words.
Regrettably no one has ever said them to me.
I find it’s hard to say I’ve lived a fulfilled life when I’ve never even seen titties.
Mammaries. Yeah, both of ‘em. Two great big bags of such wonderful fun.
The good ‘ole days. Not like now.
Life back then was just titties, titties, titties galore! They were everywhere.
Couldn’t walk down the street without seeing titties.
Titties in your face!
Titties in your drink!
Damn, can you imagine?
Titties and beer at the same time. Did they know how good they had it?
I think I missed my calling in life. I would have made a great titty-washer.
Just kick back with a cold one and a washcloth with some sudsy water, do what comes natural.
I know I got the talent for it. It’s in the blood, man. Just an aptitude for the vocation, like how some men excel at sports or math. Surely my uncanny titty-washing skills would have been recognized from a young age.
Woulda gone to a good trade school, probably gotten a scholarship. Studied under the masters, dedicating years of my life to the craft.
Perfecting my technique.
Maybe even invent a few of my own.
Revolutionized the industry with the under-the-nub-scrub.
I’m sure all my job performance evaluations would be glowing. Noted for my unwavering devotion for the job. Praised for my rigorous pursuit of perfection.
Instead…
Sigh.
Instead, I’m just trapped in here in this orbiter without any beer.
Monk mode my ass. Call this what is is. Incel Paradise.
Fuck no I don’t feel a damn bit more productive. The only thing I feel is pissed off. And kinda horny.
Ah well fuck it.
Break time’s over. Back to the shit code.
This life sucks.
Chapter Nine
C-Type
call sign: Grim Sleeveless
unit type: currently untrained
location : The Good Shepherd (Grim Sleeveless quarters)
* * *
I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SLEEP ALL NIGHT. It’s not surprising. When you are doing something you love it fills you with an energy. Even if your body is tired and wants to rest your mind keeps pushing you to do your best and work even harder.
I get like that when I work on this pathogen stuff. I can read about them all night. I never want to stop. Always thinking, just one more page. Just one more chapter.
Still, I took a little break and skimmed some of the apocalypses that just sync’d from the first wave on Debron IV. Wow! It sounds dangerous down there.
I wonder who the scrawny little scarecrow guy that bothered Six-by so much is? I thought I was the only young kid aboard The Good Shepherd. I better find that little guy quick, he’s in danger!
We could be friends. I’ve never had a friend before. The first thing I would do is make sure he’s eating okay. Put some meat on that annoying little guy’s bones. I don’t have much, but I’m happy to share.
We all have to stick together, help each other out. That’s what we’re here to do, help each other out. My Grandma taught me that.
So I’ll do just that. I’ll help him out. I’ll find that annoying little guy and explain to him how important Six-by is for the war effort. We need to keep Six-by in the best fighting shape possible. So no more annoying him!
I wish I had a way to message Six-by. I’d let him know that he can count on me!
Speaking of wishing I could message Six-by…
Everyone does know about Type-A and Type-B New Guys. But not so well known are the C-Types. They are very rare, but they do exist.
My Grandma used to tell me stories about them.
Hidden deep inside their heart, where they never knew it existed, lies the strength of the hero they didn’t know they were. And only in times of great difficulty can their inner strength be drawn forth to awaken the hero within. Just when it seems all hope is gone and things are at their worst the hero will rise, defeat the bad guys and change the world. Their heroic actions and brave deeds inspire those around them to do great things.
They’re my favorites.
Six-by, I think you have it in you to be a C-Type. That’s what I would say to you if I could send you a message.
Well, I would tell you that and maybe to smile more. No matter how heroic your great deeds are I think you’re going to have a hard time inspiring people to do great things with that scowl on your face all the time. You are a seriously very scary looking guy and I think a nice smile would go a long way towards helping people see the heroic side of you.
Okay, I gotta get back to the pathogen studies. I’m a busy man, with a lot on my plate!
Chapter Ten
Don't Question The Light
call sign: Leather Apron
unit type: corpuscler
location : The Good Shepherd (The Light's refuge)
* * *
IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO NOT BE IN AWE. He is The Light, Supreme Unified Commander of all human forces. And you must look up to him. He is our leader and he is unquestionably not entirely human. Not anymore.
His personal chambers are spartan. No furniture, no personal effects. It’s a small room, filled with the quiet hum of electricity and automaton.
The Light himself is an old man. His face cracked with wrinkles, his hair gray. His body, his human body, what is left of it, is stretched out prone, facing the floor. He is suspended from the ceiling, hanging above us by thick cables that pump energy and fluids into him. A maze of wiring and circuitry surrounds him, extends him, completes him. Although he appears to have two arms, two legs, and all his fingers and toes, parts of him are missing. Many parts. A segment of leg here, a chunk of finger there. A kidney is missing, half of his left lung. Some of his missing pieces have been patched with machine replacements. Others left absent. To my professional eye he looks to be in grueling pain–why The Light would choose to live like this is a mystery to me.
It is rumored Whitechapel has asked him many times to let him restore The Light’s human body and each time he has been refused. Why, I can not say. Whitechapel has secrets, even from me.
There are just the four of us in the room. The Light ensconced in his mainframe that keeps him alive. Fleet, his expression dour. Whitechapel quietly demurring. And me.
“We will dispense with formalities.” Fleet wastes no time. “I would like for your opinion on this.” He passes a link to Whitechapel, it’s an assessment from the rationalists. With the relevant parts highlighted.
Based upon our preliminary analysis of the first set of apocalypses received from Debron IV, we hazard the following: It has long been suspected that the mass of a Krag unit is proportional to the amount of time it takes for it to traverse the barrier. It is conjectured this is why smaller, weaker units enter the battlefield from the first few cycles, and with each cycle progressively more powerful units break through.
We theorize one of the phase disruptors malfunctioned, creating an inconsistency in the protective field it establishes. In essence it appears to have allowed Krag units and structures that normally take several thred cycles to penetrate the protective barrier of the Trumpets of Jericho to do so nearly instantaneously.
The phase disruptor malfuncti
on and it’s corresponding solution–the successful formation of a Dark Triad, which until now was only a theoretical conjecture–was an unexpected phenomena, however despite the hardships endured by the advance team this does present an unexpected opportunity.
This opportunity, however comes at significant cost…
Whitechapel scanned it quickly, as did myself.
“The kernels have made their final assessment of the cracked fold drive.” says Fleet when we finish reading. “As it stands now the ship will last five more sync cycles before it tears itself apart. That’s not theory.” He smiles, echoing the rationalist’s assessment. “That’s just math.”
“If we maximize our supply chain operations on Debron IV–sending down nothing but vurkers and sending back nothing but material and energy–we can expand that to twelve cycles. Essentially sacrificing material and energy for time.”
“Twelve cycles.” Fleet spells it out, nice and easy, just in case anyone misunderstood. “I assure you, best case scenario, in twelve more syncs, The Good Shepherd will be no more.”
“Of course, this is impossible.” Fleet’s voice is surprisingly calm for someone who just spelled out doom for the human race. “If we only sent vurkers to the planet surface in a few cycles our defenses there would be wholly inadequate. After a few thred cycles it is reasonable to assume that as the larger, more advanced and powerful Krag units cross the protective barrier they would easily overpower the marines defending our operations, and destroy our supply chain. Cutting us off from the material and energy we so desperately need to evacuate the ship.”
“Evacuate the ship?” asks Whitechapel. My ears prick up as well. This was getting interesting.
“Correct.” The Light speaks for the first time.
I like it. His is the voice of command.
“If,” The Light emphasizes the word, “we exploit this opportunity,” The Light can not move his hand so Fleet gestures for him, indicating the abstract we just read, “intentionally creating Dark Triads and using the fourth disruptor as a kind of wild card… Think of it as a tunnel or a temporary extension of the battlefield. A safe zone we can drill through userspace to encompass previously unreachable sync locations. We can double, possibly triple the number of syncs opportunities before the damaged fold drives destroy The Good Shepherd.”
“Operation Tick Tock Bootstrap Slingshot Hail Mary.” finishes The Light.
I can’t believe they have given a name to such madness. I never expected someone so close to death to have such a sense of humor.
The Light is oblivious to my disappointment. He continues, “We evacuate the entire ship. We salvage enough gear and transport it, along with everyone still alive to the planet’s surface. There we establish a true colony. Mine for energy and materials. Scuttle The Good Shepherd. Fabricate armaments, defend the colony, rebuild our forces and return to the stars.”
I want to laugh out loud. They are talking madness. This is beyond lunacy. Do they truly not know when to give up and admit they are beat?
“As much as I appreciate your confidence, it is outside of my area of expertise.” says Whitechapel. I am impressed at how calm he keeps his voice. “I’m not involved with war strategy.”
I’m glad that Whitechapel said that, because I’m not anywhere near high enough rank to open my mouth in a meeting like this. And I have no clue why they would want his opinion on their strategy. As bat shit crazy as it is.
The Light says, “The space fold drives are leaking contaminant and will continue to do so for some time. After the fifth sync any man who still remains aboard The Good Shepherd will have been exposed to lethal levels. We have two choices. Either triage the men into two groups, those who live and those who die or…”
Now we know why Fleet wanted to speak with Whitechapel. This opportunity, however comes at significant cost? The rationalists who wrote that had no idea. Whitechapel and I have dedicated our lives to the search. Now, when it is finally in our grasp…
“You are asking me to volunteer.” From his voice you would never suspect how much those words torment Whitechapel. “You need a traumist. To stay here, with the remaining men, and treat them until the last cycle.”
“Correct.” The Light makes it clear what he expects the answer to be.
Well now we are in a pickle. Aren’t we?
Chapter Eleven
Girls In White Dresses
call sign: Six-by
unit type: field marine
location : The Maggot Colony, makeshift medical ward (Debron IV)
* * *
I DO NOT HAVE TIME TO FUCK AROUND.
I am not wearing my armor. In fact, I’m naked. I assume whoever stripped me did so for good reason. Everything aches. I’m scared. There is nothing more frightening than fear. And I’ve forgotten damn near everything that’s going on.
I don’t care. It’s not important. Everyone gets scared. I’ve been scared my whole damn life.
Can’t move. There’s a binding across my chest. Sitting up isn’t happening. My arms are strapped down to my sides. I’m on some kind of cot. Room I’m in has a bunch of cargo and gear. The usual miscellaneous stuff everyone thinks they need that gets shoved into a store room kept out of the way until it is needed.
I’m not going to sit here in the dark, shaking. Wondering what might happen.
That’s not me. This isn’t me. It’s what you do in the face of fear that defines you.
Yeah. Everything hurts. Nothing works out like I’d hoped. My leg is gone. My hand is gone.
Whoever stripped my armor left the bracer on my fore arm–wrist to elbow. I’m sure I bled all over the place. Probably saved my life. My arm–in its bracer–tapers at the end to a crude point. Even strapped down like this I can see that’s bone. My bone. Chipped and ground like something was chewing on it.
What kind of a twisted psychopathic mother fucker would gnaw the bones of my arm into a point?
Let the winner out. Free the animal. Quit hiding behind what’s supposed to be.
I trust instinct.
So I am not gonna lay here like this. Scared. And hope everything works out.
I’m getting up. I’m getting back on my foot. I’m getting off this damn cot. I’m getting back into the fight.
I just gotta figure out a way to get whatever the hell this is that has me strapped down off of me.
Chapter Twelve
Through A Holocauster, Darkly
call sign: Hangman
unit type: space marine (heavy weapons specialist)
location : The Maggot Colony garrison (Debron IV)
* * *
The ground shakes. The garrison wasn’t built for something of its size. We can hear it approaching. Its footsteps make deep booming noises that echo down the prefabbed hallways. Tiny dust clouds swirl from the ground as the heavy tread of its passing shakes and disturbs the ground.
The four of us stop. Alert. Listening for clues of where it may be lurking.
We hear the groans and shrieks of metal as it squeezes through the passageways. The sounds of it moving reverberate eerily through the Maggot Colony. Harrowing twisted sounds, confusing our attempt to pinpoint its location.
Best guess, it’s dead ahead. Maybe 50 meters. The corridor ends in an intersection. Branching left and right. There is a rough scratching sound from the far wall ahead. It’s on the other side.
From the sounds of it, waiting.
Big Bro flashes Omen and Deamos.
They copy. Immediately, like twin ghosts, they fall back silently. Then disappear down alternate side passages. They’re going to try approach from the side passages and flank it.
Big Bro and I are the bait. We’ll hold its attention here in the main passageway.
I’m three steps behind him.
I have enough energy remaining in my gencel for one last shot. I ratchet up the target reticle and aim it where I think the Fist will break through the wall. The tip of the charged Ouroboros glows pink casting a haunting
pallor.
I get jumpy sometimes. Even nervous. And it’s true what the others will tell you. I’m naturally a trigger happy guy.
I hold steady. One shot. Wait for the signal.
It begins.
A thick pole of off-colored shale punctures the thick steel wall like it was paper. One of its leg like things scrapes through the hole. Another smash, and another chunk of the steel walls rips free. Widening the aperture.
It’s coming through.
Big Bro’s hand is extended. Ready to give signal.
Rock steady. I’m not going to fuck this up.
Another of its leg things smashes through.
It’s now more on this side of the wall than the other.
It begins to pull the torso through, expanding as it comes like a balloon shoved through a tight hole. It is dripping long strands of vetchy nastiness–likely from where we shot it earlier–thrashing wildly about.
Instead, I wait. Patiently. Blanking all thoughts. Letting all fears slip away. Ignoring the world around me. Reality shrinks into the targeting crosshairs and the Fist. Waiting for enough of it to crawl through the wall it is destroying.
Waiting for Big Bro to give the signal.
The Ouroboros blast will not kill it, of this we are certain. It will only send it spiraling into thick strands of vetch that will reform and attempt to burn and scrape us as the regrowth lashes about seeking to protect itself.
The beast pulls itself through the wall. Into the corridor with me and Big Bro.
Fuck. The gun makes a sound I’ve never heard it make before. There is a red warning light flashing. A rumbling, almost mechanical sound. It’s a failure sound. Big Bro notices it as well. He takes his eye off the beast and turns to look at me, signing a question.
The Maggot Colony Page 5
