The Tarantula Nebula

by David Kantrowitz

  “Are you all right?” Christie asked.

  “Give me... here...” John gasped.

  Christie juggled her rifle around as she unlimbered John’s Garand from her shoulder. John accepted the weapon and went down to one knee. Ray took his M1A from Dana as well as Richter’s rifle.

  “Get back to the ship and fire her up,” panted Ray.

  “No problem,” said Dana.

  “I’ll cover you until you catch your breath,” said Christie.

  “Watch the left side,” Ray said. “I’m going to check on the action.”

  Ray tucked the stock of his rifle into his shoulder and ran across the causeway. He looked up. The platform was a few levels above. At least one person aboard was still returning fire upward. Ray looked down onto the shipping and receiving area. A loading dock had just opened across the atrium. Four Rakhar dressed in black came through.

  “Shit,” muttered Ray. “Three hundred yards...”

  Ray dropped to one knee and adjusted his rear sight. He took aim on the lead Rakhar as the group got their bearings. They were distracted by the fight going on overhead. Ray breathed carefully and slowly pulled back on the trigger. His shot caught the Rakhar in the torso, and he collapsed. Ray fired more quickly at the others as they began running, without any apparent results. The group got to the bottom of the corkscrew and had begun ascending when they fixed Ray’s position. Ray retreated back to the entrance to the causeway as blue energy bolts began streaking in his direction.

  “We’ve got company coming in from the right,” he cried.

  “High or low?” asked John.

  “High,” replied Ray.

  John remained where he was as Ray joined him at the corner. Ray stood up and aimed over John’s head down the concourse.

  “Keep your sights on the left side, Christie,” said John.

  “Okay.”

  The Rakhar appeared from the right, kicking over tables from the food court to use as cover. John and Ray began firing on them.

  “Move a few feet back, Christie,” began Ray, “you’re in enfilade.”

  Christie did so. A moment later the vending platform appeared a few dozen meters to the left. As soon as it was reasonable to do so, Ari and Richter jumped onto the concourse. A vicious slew of energy bolts rained down from above, much brighter and larger than they’d seen before. The platform exploded into orange flame and crashed into the bottom of the atrium. John and Ray fired rapidly at the Rakhar to cover Ari and Richter as they ran towards the archway. Richter’s right arm was slick with blood and his pistol was empty. Ari looked no worse for wear.

  “Reloading,” said John, ducking back to do so.

  “Christie, cover right,” said Ray.

  Ray ceased firing and grabbed Richter’s rifle from his shoulder. Richter accepted it immediately upon arrival, closing the slide on his pistol and jamming it into his holster.

  “Are you all right?” asked John, slapping another clip into his rifle.

  “Piece of cake,” said Ari. “We should try something harder next time.”

  “I’ll take low,” Richter said to Ray.

  Ray nodded. Richter took John’s position, and the two of them leaned around the corner to resume firing.

  “Christie, Ari, fall back to the ship,” said John, moving to cover the left side.

  “What, and let you have all the fun?” asked Ari.

  “Just fucking go!”

  Ari looked insulted. Christie grasped her arm and all but dragged her toward the ship.

  “Get ready to do a banana peel,” said Richter.

  The other men nodded in the affirmative. The mechanical object that had been hovering far above appeared in the atrium on their level. It was a humanoid-shaped battle robot, bristling with weaponry. A single pilot was visible through a cockpit hatch in the torso. The laser Gatling-style cannon that made up the bot’s right arm was obviously responsible for the destruction of the vending platform. As the men gaped in awe at the device, it pointed the cannon toward them.

  “Holy shit!” yelled John. “Run for it!”

  John and Ray turned and ran as fast as they could. Richter hesitated just long enough to grab a cylindrical object from his belt and drop it in place before joining the others. Three seconds later the object began belching thick gray smoke. Random fire began zipping down the causeway.

  “Go, go, go!” Richter yelled ahead, swapping magazines.

  The archway was just about a foot too short for the bot to fit through, so Richter was surprised to glance behind him and see the bot emerge through the smoke, bent over at the waist. It straightened up and brought the cannon to bear. Ray and John arrived at the ramp of the Faith, and turned to see the same.

  “Somebody get on the ventral fifty!” John screamed into his radio.

  Richter stopped running. He turned around and flipped the selector switch on his rifle to full auto. With unerring precision he emptied his magazine into the cockpit of the bot. The rounds barely scratched the cover. Richter smiled, rolled his eyes, and sprinted for the ramp.

  “Come on, Richter!” Ray yelled.

  The bot began firing the cannon at the Faith. A cascade of energy bolts collided with the hull. The metal seemed to ripple like water as Seth attempted to shunt the energy away. Richter reached the ramp at the same time as the ventral fifty came to life, spinning up with a whine. John hit the button to close the ramp as the fifty began firing, and the three men clamped their hands over their ears. About a hundred fifty caliber rounds caromed off of the bot, forcing it to stop firing. When the fifty stopped, there was no appreciable damage.

  “Everybody’s aboard!” yelled John, running up the stairs to the bridge. “Get us the hell out of here!”

  The ship lifted off from the landing platform. The bot began firing again. Whomever was piloting the Faith swung her around to port. The forward thirty millimeter cannon spun up, and the resulting two second burst reduced the battle bot to scrap metal. John arrived on the bridge to find Dana in the pilot’s seat. She spun down the thirty as she guided the ship upward into the sky.

  “I never did care much for mechs,” she said.

  10.

  Fernwyn Rylie was pissed. She had just finished a double shift on Beta Station and had flown all but ten minutes back to her apartment on the surface when the call came in. She was flying right by Gleeful Complexium, so she had little excuse to pass the buck.

  Fernwyn sighed and pressed a few keys. Her onboard computer communicated with the Complexium and gained permission to land. She reminded herself that this could be an opportunity to ingratiate herself to her superiors, despite how tired she felt or how much she’d rather simply fall into bed. Her computer beeped at her, and a graphic of which landing platform to use appeared on her screen. As she rounded the complex, the graphic became redundant. The wreckage of something was smoking on the causeway to the noted platform.

  Guiding her twin-seat fighter craft down, Fernwyn tried to identify the wreckage. As she grew closer she realized it was a combsuit. Only another combsuit or ship-mounted weapons could do that much damage to one. Fernwyn’s adrenaline spiked. This was definitely worth checking out. She sent a signal back to the Solar Police Force network to let them know she was on the scene. On the platform, a Rakhar with Empire Security waved her down. Fernwyn stabilized her anti-grav system and waited until her landing gear contacted the platform. Pulling back on the engagement lever, she shut down the engine and opened the cockpit cover.

  “That was fast,” said the Rakhar, a rare jet-black variety.

  Fernwyn jumped to the deck. “I was in the neighborhood. Officer Rylie of the SPF. What the hell happened here?”

  “What are you, an Umberian? No, you can’t be.”

  “I’m a Residerian, not that it’s relevant.”

  “Oh, you must be one of those genmods.”

  “Tell me what you’ve got, sergeant.”

  “Sergeant Nathalier, Rylie. Thanks for coming by so quickly. This was
a real screwfest. Rakhar mercenaries from the Black Crest guild tried to grab what they thought were Umberians. We thought they were Umberians, too, but the empirical evidence doesn’t bear that out. Their ship had an Umberian energy signature, but it didn’t look like any Umberian ship we’ve ever seen. We have a new guy working the flight control, so he didn’t know to red-flag the ship before it landed.”

  “He must be pretty green. So to what empirical evidence are you referring?”

  “Come see for yourself.”

  The guard led Fernwyn a few meters down the causeway, and pointed at the deck.

  “What the... cartridge casings?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Fernwyn bent down and picked up one of the bottle-necked shells.

  “Who the hell is still using projectile weapons?”

  “These guys. We don’t know where they’re from, but they registered a new language with our central database. They called it ‘English.’”

  “Never heard of it. Well, projectile weapons or not, I’m guessing they fought off the mercs.”

  “Yeah, and they wrecked half the complex while they were at it. I have a lot of respect for most mercs, but these guys were just plain reckless. They even shot and wounded one of our guards!”

  “You know Rakhar mercs, they think they’re above the law. Not this time, though, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you, officer. The guilds can lean pretty heavily on people.”

  “I used to be in the UMG. I know how to deal with them.”

  “You were in the UMG and now you’re in the SPF? Your genmod must have been quite successful.”

  “Perhaps, but you don’t succeed in those organizations by physical ability alone.”

  “I suppose not,” said Nathalier, smirking.

  “What’s the casualty report?”

  “Five mercs were killed and three wounded. Two civilians were killed and ten wounded, the latter mostly when a mobile vendor took a dive into the shipping/receiving level. One merc was operating that combsuit when the Umberian ship, or whatever it was, blasted the hell out of it.”

  “And the ship itself?”

  “We lost it from tracking shortly after it took off.”

  “You did?” Fernwyn raised her eyebrows. “That sounds like a pirate move.”

  “Yeah. That would also explain why non-Umberians are running around in an Umberian ship, an apparently heavily modified Umberian ship at that.”

  “God damned pirates. I hope I’m wrong about that.”

  The guard suddenly yelled at two of his compatriots further down the causeway. “Get that fire out already! What the hell are you doing?”

  “The extinguisher ran out, Nat,” came the reply.

  “Well, get another one! Aren’t you capable of operating without leadership for one damn minute?”

  Fernwyn smiled, and asked, “So were there any mercenary survivors?”

  “Oh, sorry, yeah. They’re being held. I’m sure as soon as word comes down from on high they’ll be released. You’ll be lucky if you get a class D misdemeanor to stick, then.”

  “I really hate the politics of this job.”

  “Ha! Try Rakhar politics on for size.”

  The whine of a Z'Sorth-manufactured atmospheric engine wafted down from the sky. Fernwyn turned to see a marked SPF transport come into view. It landed on the next platform over.

  “I’ve got to go give my report to my pals over there,” said Fernwyn.

  Nathalier nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

  Together, the two headed past the combsuit wreckage and down the causeway. Through the archway, many more cartridge cases could be seen littered about. Shopkeepers on the concourse were beginning to reopen, and a few custodians tidied up. Smoke was rising from the level below and billowed upward into the atrium.

  “Looks like it was quite a fight,” said Fernwyn. “I’m surprised only one of your men was injured.”

  “The strangers weren’t firing at us. When the overzealous merc shot our guy, we were given orders to stand down and observe only. Rakhar or no Rakhar, I would have rather lit them up. This kind of crap shouldn’t fly around here.”

  “It shouldn’t fly anywhere.”

  Fernwyn and Nathalier arrived at the next archway. Two Kau’Rii and one Rakhar in SPF uniforms greeted them. Fernwyn took a few moments to relay the situation to the Kau’Rii lieutenant who was now in charge. He identified himself as Durring, and he had streaks of gray through his brown fur. Fernwyn thought he looked like he should have made captain by now.

  “All very mysterious,” Durring said. “Let’s have a chat with the mercs before their guild representatives show up.”

  “The security office is on level fifty,” Nathalier replied.

  The sergeant motioned towards the nearest elevator and the group began walking. Fernwyn’s exhaustion had begun to return, to her annoyance. Showing weakness in front of her peers would be disastrous.

  “You must be familiar with this place, Rylie,” said Durring.

  “More or less. I prefer to spend most of my free time at the beach.”

  “Have you ever considered asking for a transfer to this beat? Your commute would be nicer.”

  “I like working on Beta Station.”

  The group moved into the elevator. Nathalier hit the key for the fiftieth floor, and they began to move.

  “You don’t think you’d get along better with your own kind?”

  Fernwyn was shocked. “Excuse me? With all due respect, sir, you have no idea what it’s like to be a genmod. Besides, Gleeful Complexium is just as diverse in the races as Beta Station.”

  Fernwyn didn’t like discussing the matter in front of the others, but it wouldn’t have been good to tell the lieutenant to shut up.

  “Here we are,” said Nathalier. “The security office is this way.”

  “Damn it,” said Durring. “Rylie, I just realized you’d be better off keeping an eye on the platform. We’ll handle it from here.”

  “Empire has the scene secured,” Fernwyn said, irked. “Plus, you know the procedure. I should be present for all questioning since I was the first one on the scene.”

  “It’s more of a guideline than a rule. So if you don’t mind...”

  “I do mind. Send someone else.”

  That did it. Fernwyn was sure to be inspecting garbage transports for the rest of her career. The lieutenant rolled his eyes, and pointed at the other Kau’Rii officer.

  “Binter, go secure the scene.”

  The other Kau’Rii returned to the elevator without objection. Nathalier led the group a few strides to the well-marked security office. Inside, Rakhar security guards milled about and conversed over hot yutha. The sergeant was met by a corporal, a young, fawn-colored Rakhar with a deep, gravelly voice.

  “The planks are here already?” the corporal asked, using a pejorative term for the SPF.

  “These officers are our guests, corporal,” Nathalier replied. “What’s the story on the surveillance?”

  The corporal led the group to a computer station. He sat down and began bringing up images recorded earlier that day. He described what they were seeing.

  “These are the unidentified strangers. At first glance they appear to be Umberian, but if we zoom in we see that their ears are different. I’ve never seen them before, but they identified their language to the central computer as ‘English.’ They could be genmods, or they could be Umberians surgically altered to look like... I don’t know.”

  “They look like me,” said Fernwyn. “Maybe they are genmods, but I doubt it. It would certainly be easy enough to find out.”

  “I thought the database was ordered destroyed,” said Nathalier.

  “That’s what the Residere government would have you believe.”

  “That’s not a topic for discussion, Rylie,” said Durring. “Any idea why they were here, corporal?”

  “If you watch the recordings you’ll see that
after they visit the information booth on level one, they split up into two groups. One group speaks with Graheim’s Spirits, then returns to their ship to get what is certainly alcohol. Upon returning to the shop, it looks like they sell the alcohol. We can’t get any closer to the interior than what you’re seeing now.”

  “You don’t have security cameras inside the shops?”

  “One reason why this place is so successful is that we don’t pry into the private dealings of our tenants much at all. We keep order on the concourse and the public areas, and that’s usually sufficient. Anyway, the other group, the one with the female, they begin to search Z'Sorth shops. They went to two of them before the trouble started. No idea what they were looking for, or if they got it.”

  “When we’re done with the mercs, we’ll have a word with the proprietor of Graheim’s Spirits. We might be able to learn a little bit more about our visitors from him. Now as to the mercs...”

  “This way, sir,” said Nathalier.

  The sergeant led the group down a long hall. They passed two security checkpoints before arriving at the jail section. Fernwyn reluctantly handed over her sidearm to a Rakhar guard before entering, as did the other officers. In the jail area, the Rakhar mercenaries had been separated one to a cell. They were all wearing the same uniform: black pants, black tunics, and black duty belts, the last item stripped of all gear. The sergeant stopped in front of one cell, which contained a Rakhar with chocolate brown fur. While the other imprisoned mercs looked rather upset, this one was calm.

  “This man identified himself as the surviving clan leader,” said the Nathalier.

  The corporal reached for a dial on the wall. The energy barrier between the hallway and the cell was almost opaque and emanating a buzzing sound. As the corporal turned the dial, the barrier became transparent and the buzzing decreased appreciably. Fernwyn knew that a determined individual could push through this level of energy barrier, but the priority at the moment was conversation.

  “I am Lieutenant Durring of the SPF.”

  “I am Esteemed Commander Trarkek of the Noble Guild Black Crest,” the merc said with flourish in a low, guttural tone.