by Sara King
“Forget that nonsense,” the Dhasha snorted, clawing its way back up the wall again. “I have…heirs. Hundreds…of them. Good boys, all of them. Jemria will take care of them.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Bagkhal?!” Joe screamed, hurling his PPU across the tunnel. “He doesn’t care about you. He sent you here to die! All of you! Goddamn it!”
The Dhasha prince made what sounded like a sad chuckle.
Flea watched his Prime steel himself. Over the com, he said, “Galek…” He hesitated, his small brown eyes catching on Flea. Flea froze, knowing his Prime was about to do something incredibly stupid. He nervously crawled up the wall, away from the Dhasha. But Joe said, “Kid, your job is done. Get back here.”
To the Dhasha, Joe swiped his arm across his face and whispered, “What the hell were you thinking?”
“God hates a coward, Joe.”
Joe flinched as if the Dhasha had hit him. “You dumb furg,” he whispered.
The Dhasha prince could not respond. He couldn’t get his head high enough above the churning water to breathe.
Flea and Joe watched Bagkhal struggle for air, still as statues on the rim of the pit. The Dhasha’s every breath ended with him spraying water and gasping. His body was too dense to swim. In moments, it was over.
“Well,” Flea said, staring down at the Dhasha prince, “That was the easiest one yet.”
Joe cast him a dark look and said nothing. He slammed his rifle over his shoulder and again swiped his arm across his eyes, then stalked around the pit without even glancing down. “The prince is dead,” he sent to headquarters. “Send us a pickup.” Flea followed at a wary distance, stopping to pick up his Prime’s PPU, which Joe had simply left where it had fallen.
Jer’ait and Daviin were coming down the tunnel at a run, and hesitated upon seeing their Prime. Joe just brushed by them, headed for the surface.
“What happened?!” Daviin roared at Joe, twisting back on himself to follow the Human. When Joe didn’t respond, he frowned down at Flea. “What happened?”
Flea dropped their Prime’s PPU into Jer’ait’s hand. “I don’t know,” he said, still confused. “It’s like Joe knew him.”
Daviin flinched. “The Dhasha?”
At the same time, Jer’ait froze. “Merciful dead. He just killed Bagkhal?”
“Yeah, that’s the name he used,” Flea said. “Bagkhal.”
“Mekkval’s brother?” Daviin demanded. Daviin and Jer’ait glanced at each other. In the silence that followed, Joe said, “Mag, you’re gonna send us a pickup, or you’re next. I don’t care how many Dhasha I’ve gotta kill. I’ll find you.”
“Thirty-two hours,” Phoenix said. “Miss the drop and we won’t be back for you.”
Up ahead, Flea watched his Prime stiffen. “I don’t like the way you said that, Mag. It’s almost like you’ve got more important things to do than pick up a groundteam that’s gonna get you that Corps Directorship.”
“Oh, you’re too late for that,” Phoenix said, “Rat already killed the Vahlin. That’s why shuttles are scarce. They’re on the other side of the planet, digging him out.”
CHAPTER 29: Mission Over
Joe tossed another stone across the clearing, furious they’d abandoned his team in enemy territory to wait while they dug out an oversized Dhasha. He checked his watch again.
Two hours to go. He dropped his wrist and hurled another stone, imagining it was the Geuji’s face. He’d kill him. He’d murder the Takki scum. Bagkhal was…
…good.
The only good Dhasha Joe had ever met. And he’d killed him. For that, the Geuji was going to die. Joe hurled another stone so hard it exploded a small alien tree-trunk.
“You really should stop doing that,” Daviin said from thin air beside him. “A Dhasha might hear it.”
“Let ‘im,” Joe muttered. “You can bet they plucked Rat and her crew off the surface the moment the Vahlin was dead. They’re probably being paraded around Dayut right now like heroes.”
Daviin cocked his big head and considered that. “You really think they killed the Vahlin?”
“No,” Joe said. “But Headquarters thinks they have, so they’re gonna get every gift in the book.” He threw a stone hard enough to disintegrate another alien trunk. Joe looked down at his biosuit appreciatively. Its ebony surface was covered with slightly acidic water droplets, leaving him completely comfortable despite the whipping wind and the rainy, wretched weather. Then he thought of the water droplets sliding like oil off Bagkhal’s scales and his mood soured again.
“Daviin!” Galek called from across the foggy clearing. “We found a dead Dhasha! Come help me move this body before Jer’ait sees us! Flea wants to get at the claws!”
Daviin snorted. “Let him get his own claws! And stop shouting!”
“Go help him,” Joe said tiredly. “We’ve cheated him out of enough trophies, and I doubt he’s ever gonna see the money from that kasja, now that they’ve got what they wanted. This might be his last chance.”
Daviin sighed and slid his huge bulk out of the fighting pit. He paused at the edge and looked back at him. For a long moment, he said nothing. He knew how much Bagkhal had meant to Joe. Joe had told him so many war stories in the hundreds of hours since the Jreet Sentineled him that, at times, Joe had found himself wondering if that’s all the Jreet thought he talked about.
And now he was dead. Because Joe killed him.
“I wish I knew what the Geuji wanted from all this,” Daviin offered.
Joe’s hand fisted on the stone. “I intend to find out.”
#
Daviin crossed the clearing and hesitated. “Galek?”
“Over here!” Flea called. “Ten rods in.”
Daviin peered into the dense alien brush. “Joe wants us to stay in sight.”
“You big Takki,” Flea laughed. “He’ll still be able to hear you if you scream.”
Daviin narrowed his eyes and peered over his shoulder at Joe. Their Prime was still sulking, tossing stones across the clearing. He wasn’t even watching Daviin.
“This better not be a game,” Daviin growled, pushing his way through the brush.
He was about to turn back, uncomfortable at being out of sight of his ward, when he saw a body crumpled near a stream. There was no Dhasha in sight.
“I knew it,” Daviin snapped. “Baga, if this is your idea of a joke, you’re a furg.”
Daviin only had a moment to register Flea’s irritated, “What’s a joke?” before he noticed the tentacle pushing under his scales. He opened his mind to warn Joe, but the warning never came.
#
Joe waited for Daviin’s response, and when it did not come, he went back to lobbing rocks. Guess they worked it out, he thought. Then he winced, imagining Daviin confronting the Baga, especially now that Flea was in such a bad mood.
“You guys play nice,” Joe said. “Any fighting and I’ll be peeling your face off the bottom of my boot. Get me?”
Neither responded.
Joe sighed and chucked another rock.
Jer’ait climbed over the edge of the pit and settled down beside him.
“Find anything?” Joe asked.
“There’s a couple active dens nearby,” Jer’ait said. “Nothing close enough to hear us.”
“Good.” Joe threw another stone. Then he yawned.
“Tired?” Jer’ait asked.
“Yeah,” Joe muttered, rubbing his eyes despite knowing it would do no good with the biosuit on. “Can’t wait to get back to my bed. We haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a couple weeks.”
“I’ll take shift for you,” Jer’ait said. “If you want, you can take your biosuit off and get comfortable. Shouldn’t be long, right?”
Joe frowned at the Huouyt, irritated and increasingly tired. “Job’s not done. Not taking my suit off ‘til we’re back on Jeelsiht.” He glanced at the rain. “Besides, it’s cold as hell.”
“Think of how comfortable it woul
d be.”
It would be comfortable. Joe was tired of having to relieve himself in his suit. He wanted to feel the freedom of air on his skin for once. But, more importantly, he wanted to go to sleep.
“Might take you up on the shift,” Joe said, yawning, “But biosuit stays on.” Ghosts! What was wrong with him? Surely he could stay awake two more hours, couldn’t he?
Jer’ait glared at him. “Four members of your team go without biosuits every crawl. Are you so weak you can’t expose yourself once?”
“Yep,” Joe said. He could barely keep his eyes open, now. The lids felt so heavy…he hadn’t thought he was that tired.
I’m not this tired, Joe realized, stunned. His eyes widened. The Huouyt is drugging me somehow.
“I’m sorry, Commander,” Jer’ait said softly. “For what it’s worth, I think Yua’nev is wrong.”
As Joe was trying to comprehend this in his foggy state of mind, the Huouyt lunged forward, attempting to push a tentacle into Joe’s mouth, to touch his tongue. Joe yanked the arm away and closed his mouth. Then he closed his eyes, too. He curled into a ball, feeling his body rhythms slow further.
“Daviin, I need help! Jer’ait drugged me!”
There was no reply.
Joe pressed his biosuit-covered hands over his face, blocking Jer’ait from reaching any orifices, and mentally told his suit to go into lockdown.
His last thought as the suit shut down his biorhythms was, He was lying all along.
#
“Baga, if this is your idea of a joke, you’re a furg.”
Flea halted in carving his name into the side of one of the grotesque alien trees. “What’s a joke?” He was irritated, in a foul mood, and ready to spit at something.
The Jreet did not bother to answer. Flea returned to scratching symbols into the weepy yellow bark.
“You guys play nice,” Joe said. “Any fighting and I’ll be peeling your face off the bottom of my boot. Get me?”
Flea snorted and said nothing.
Earlier that morning, Jer’ait had shown him how to spell ‘Flea’ and had told him how Va’gans left a calling card whenever they visited a victim. Since Flea had killed a prince by himself, he should at least mark a few of the trees outside the den where he’d killed the prince.
It had been a long flight, almost twenty tics, but when Flea reached high altitudes and had clear skies, he could travel at almost the speed of sound. He hadn’t told Joe he was leaving—only Jer’ait, who had promised to keep it a secret. He had two whole hours to get back, so he wasn’t worried.
“Daviin, I need help! Jer’ait drugged me!”
Flea snorted and continued drawing the final symbol. Shouldn’t a pissed him off, he thought. He almost wished he could be there. It was always funny, watching the Huouyt drug their Prime to put him in his place.
But Daviin never replied.
Flea hesitated, his claw sticky with cloudy sap. He slowly realized that aside from Daviin and Joe, the frequency had been utterly silent, more silent than usual. No one was talking. “Daviin? What joke were you talking about earlier?”
Daviin did not reply.
A tingle of dread was worming its way under Flea’s carapace. “Daviin? You all right?”
Nothing.
“Joe?”
The frequency remained silent.
Flea launched himself off the branch and tore into the atmosphere, fear gnawing at his insides. “Is anyone there?”
“I’m here,” Scarab said.
“Scarab,” Flea called, relieved. “What’s going on?”
“Jer’ait just drugged our Prime and is carting him off into the woods.”
Flea blinked. “He is? Are you following him?”
“Why should I?”
Flea sped up. “What do you mean? Is he hurting him?”
“Don’t know,” Scarab said. “Waiting for my pickup.”
Flea was outraged. “Scarab, is Joe in trouble?”
“Don’t know.” The Grekkon sounded bored.
“Well go find out!” Flea cried.
“Why should I? Mission’s over.”
“Why…” Flea could not comprehend the Grekkon’s response. “Because he’s your ground leader!”
“Mission’s over,” Scarab repeated.
“He’s your friend,” Flea snapped.
“Grekkon don’t need friends.”
Flea opened his mouth, unable to believe what he was hearing. “That Huouyt is probably killing him right now, counter! Go help him!”
“I’m Battlemaster. You’re a Squader. I stay. Wait for pickup.”
“You’re not gonna help him? Really? This is a joke, right?”
“Mission’s over,” Scarab repeated. “Don’t need him anymore.”
“What the crack is the matter with you?!” Flea screamed.
“Grekkon don’t need friends. Now enough. Grekkon don’t like talking, either.”
Flea flew faster.
By the time he reached their intended pickup zone, Joe and Jer’ait were gone. He could see Daviin’s scarlet bulk stretched out in the forest beneath him, as still as a corpse. The way he was sprawled out, his back twisted sideways, he was not faking.
Flea gained altitude and scanned the area. “Scarab, which way did they go?”
Scarab said nothing. At first, Flea thought he was dead, then he saw his beady black eyes hunkered in the darkness of the fighting hole. Scarab was watching him.
Only a rod away, lying empty on the dirt, was Joe’s headcom.
Seeing it, Flea spat at Scarab.
It landed on the Grekkon’s spearlike arm and solidified, leaving a mottled bump where it had hit. Scarab simply backed deeper into the darkness, saying nothing.
“You bastard!” Flea snapped. “You’re the spy, aren’t you?!”
“No spy,” Scarab said. “Waiting for pickup.”
“So you’re a coward,” Flea raged. “Scarab, come help me.”
“Mission over. Don’t need friends.”
“Tell me where Jer’ait took him or I’ll come in there and spit in your eyes, I swear it.”
The Grekkon hesitated. “South.”
Flea glanced to the south. “Why?”
Scarab ignored him.
Furious, flea spat a few more times into the darkness, hoping he hit the Grekkon. Then he took off after his Prime.
He caught sight of Jer’ait less than a tic later, dragging a black Human shape balled up in a fetal position.
Joe locked down his suit, Flea thought, both relieved and worried. If it was locked down, there was a chance Joe was still alive. It also meant he was in mortal danger.
Apparently, the Huouyt heard the sounds of Flea’s wingbeats. He dropped his stiff prize and swirled, a tiny, oblong object in his tentacles. Flea heard a tiny pop. An instant later, a thin black dart whipped past his head, just missing a wing.
Flea twisted in the air, easily missing the next one. He pulled out of range and landed on a treetop. He and the Huouyt studied each other.
“Let him go, Jer’ait,” Flea said through his chip.
Jer’ait ignored him and picked up Joe by the elbow again. He began dragging the Human once more.
Flea watched, curious, until he realized where the Huouyt was taking their Prime. An open, gaping hole stood out in the center of a small clearing, its yawning depths dark and unobstructed.
He’s taking him to the Dhasha den, Flea thought, confused. He jumped from his branch and caught up. The Huouyt swiveled again and shot another dart at him.
“You missed!” Flea cried. He was angry, now. He aimed his spitter and spat.
A wad hit the Huouyt in the chest and solidified there. Flea let out a triumphant cry and spat again. A miss.
The Huouyt’s eyes never left Flea as his wormy red zora emerged from the slit in his head and he fed something to them.
Flea laughed and spat at the zora. Another miss. He needed to get closer, but if he did, the assassin would be able to hit him wit
h the dart gun. He spat twice more before he realized the Huouyt was changing shape.
When he realized what pattern Jer’ait had chosen, Flea stopped spitting. He hovered there, stunned, fear crawling under his carapace like a cold wind. Meanwhile, the Huouyt was growing the heavy, leathery black wings of a miga.
He was taking the pattern of the one thing in the world that could outfly a Baga. A fearsome, unchallenged predator of the skies, the likes of which no other planet had had the bad luck to evolve. When the evil black head began to form, it drew out a coil of instinctual fear within Flea’s gut.
Flea was so stunned that he didn’t turn to flee until the Huouyt gave his wings a test-flap. His smooth, aerodynamic black head stared up at Flea with cold, merciless red eyes. Then he launched himself into the air with an unmistakable snap of wings.
Flea ducked under the canopy and flew for all he was worth. Unobstructed, the miga could catch up to him in a heartbeat. Even then, Flea could hear the sharp cracks of its wings as its backward strokes broke the sound barrier.
Don’t panic, Flea thought. It’s just a Huouyt. Just a Huouyt. He won’t know how to maneuver…
But he did know how to maneuver. Flea could hear him getting closer, shooting over the treetops as he closed the distance.
Crack, crack, crack! Gotta hide! Flea twisted, sank deeper into the canopy, and when he found a tree big enough, he dropped suddenly and climbed up the yellow bark and over the underside of a huge limb until he was hanging upside down, hoping the miga hadn’t seen where he stopped.
It’s not a miga, Flea reminded himself. Not a miga. Just a Huouyt.
But the ancestral terror was thick in him as he waited, listening to the thunderous cracks get louder as the miga approached.
They feed on our abbas, Flea thought in a panic. Just one gives them all the energy they need for rotations. But they keep killing anyway. They think it’s fun. He’s gonna kill me and feed on my abbas and…
Flea froze when he heard the miga land on the branch he was clinging to. The whole tree shuddered. He wanted to scream, wanted to move away, but knew the sound of his feet changing position would result in the miga’s evil head ducking down and its demonic red eyes locking gazes with him right before it tore him apart.
