Syn-En: Pillar World

by Linda Andrews

  “It is three years out of date.” Omest stroked the side panel. “I do not question our Head of Family, but am only happy to obey his wishes.”

  “I do admire the traditionalists.”

  Bei had better hurry it up. She could only tolerate so many insults before she unleashed her fermites and fixed these grays, the old-fashioned way, like they did dogs on Earth.

  *

  I can’t believe there are no guards, no cameras, no… nothing. Shanghai coasted in front of him.

  In single file, they followed the inspectors’ tracks to the black door in the side of an ice cliff.

  Given this is a secret base and the cannons at the jump gate, I believe they thought they didn’t need any boots on the ground. Covering their flank, Bei puffed small bursts of air into the snow to smooth over their bootprints.

  Those space munitions tell another story. Keyes leapfrogged the line. Two glowing probes zoomed ahead, scanning for traps. It’s clear. One guard inside.

  Bei’s skin itched. Things were going a little too smoothly. In his experience that meant FUBAR was just around the corner.

  Shang’hai paused by the door leading inside. Her heat signature rose as she evaporated the moisture from her skin. Manual doors. I fully expect these ETs to be banging rocks together to make fire.

  The door rattled in a gust of wind.

  They could use that. Flattening himself against the ice wall, he burned off his own trace evidence. They would leave nothing to give themselves away. Open it at the next opportunity.

  As if on cue, another blast of frigid air rushed down the ice cliff.

  Shang’hai turned the knob and the door banged open.

  Looking through her eyes, Bei watched the guard turn. The fool didn’t even draw the energy weapon on his hip. Bei pierced the wall of warmth.

  His team jogged by the ET.

  Only the stirring of his hair indicated the Syn-Ens’ passing, but that could be attributed to the wind. Cursing, the guard stalked forward and dragged the door closed.

  Two hallways branched off the empty foyer. Thick insulation formed wavy lines on the wall. The invisible probes separated, each taking a hall.

  Activating beacon in the dead Syn-En’s armor. Keyes paused by the divided corridor.

  The probes sent back telemetry, forming a map in Bei’s mind. The branch on the right dead-ended in a stair well. It recorded information on the switchbacks as it rose. The probe on the left relayed heat signatures inside the line of offices and the appliances.

  Nothing resembled a lab.

  Some military research base.

  Bei would retrieve his men’s remains and leave. The left probe hovered by a closed door at the end of the corridor. A humanoid heat signal approached from the other side. The probe pinged Bei’s interface. We found the remains.

  We found more than that. Shang’hai switched to the data from the right probe. Hovering near the ceiling, it formed a picture based on the energy readings. Sculpted metal ships filled the cavernous vault.

  Keyes hissed. Six, no, seven ships. They don’t match anything we have on file from Surlat.

  Weapons aren’t a match either. Shang’hai bounced on the balls of her feet. They also have a mainframe.

  Bei’s circuits tripped. Fresh intel on the enemy. Since they were here, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. Retrieve what intel you can and return in five minutes. London, Ecuador go with them. See how it’s done. Bei turned to his three remaining crew. Mumbai take point. Let’s bring our dead back.

  They glided past closed doors. Conversations leaked through the thin walls. Each spoke of wardrobes, parties, and impending leaves.

  A Munician exited the room at the end of the hall. The probe slipped inside.

  Mumbai caught the door and slowed its closing until the four of them penetrated the room.

  The ET never looked back.

  Bei stopped to the right of the entrance. It was an arena, complete with audience bleachers on the side.

  A lone evil elf swept up scraps of Syn-En armor.

  Near a furnace in the corner, a purple Munician melted down the bits of Syn-En. Against the far wall, humanoid shells stood in glass cases. They were reusing the NDA for their own purposes. Well shit. He wasn’t getting his men’s remains back.

  Since Bei couldn’t retrieve them, he would leave them on eternal patrol. Mumbai check out the strength of that armor and give me a schematic.

  At the far end of the room, laser cutters, particle weapons, and energy guns were displayed on a table.

  Santa Fe and San Fran, give me data on those weapons.

  The teenage inductees glided across the polished stone floor. Santa Fe’s boot hit a scrap of armor. It skidded across the floor. The sweeper maneuvered his broom to catch it. The purple ET didn’t glance up.

  Bei bared his teeth. Leaving without the enemy figuring out the Syn-En had visited would work out better than if he’d retrieved the empty armor.

  The enemy would go into battle confident it had the upper hand, while the Syn-En knew their every weakness, courtesy of this little visit.

  Bei couldn’t wait to exploit his advantage.

  Chapter 16

  “I don’t see any ships.” Groat braced his feet apart and clasped his pinschers behind his back. Outside the clear portholes of the circular bridge, walls of ice thrust from the planet’s surface. How could there be a military base on this world? Nothing could survive here.

  Mopus’s eyes fluttered in annoyance. “We would hardly have battleships out in the open.”

  Standing on the other side of the stinky politico, Tridit aimed his eyestalk at the view. The camera slipped inside the stalk should have another hour or so left of recording time. If this was a trap, Groat needed Mopus to reveal it soon.

  Groat’s Second-in-Command chewed on the tip of his mandible. “I see a ship.”

  He raised a soot-stained claw and pointed outside the porthole.

  Striding forward, Groat peered into the white mist of blowing snow. The pink light from the red dwarf sun glinted off a silver saucer. A Munician craft. Not a current model either. Given the blackened surface near the fuselage, he’d bet those stinky Founders weren’t the most affluent. “Did you invite your wife to visit, Mopus?”

  The politico stiffened and flicked imaginary lint from his shoulder. “Certainly not. That ship must be at least two years out of fashion. An Argent would never stoop to being seen in such an outmoded vessel.”

  Groat’s waste flaps tightened. The Municians consider three year old craft out of date, yet they hadn’t updated the Scraptor fleet in nearly a century. The very thought of it made his armor itch. Still, Groat had seen no sign that the Founders were conducting research to render his people obsolete.

  Tridit picked fruit pulp from his incisors. “Are you repurposing them for the Fleet to use?”

  Mopus’s lime-colored skin turned a deep green. “What could a Scraptor need with such a vessel? It is for pleasure and comfort, not war. You would destroy it with your bumbling in days if not hours.”

  Tridit’s air flaps cinched at the insult.

  Groat opened and closed his claws. He could snap through the Munician’s scrawny neck in seconds. “Then where are these ships you promised?”

  A small bounce marked their touchdown.

  He would kill for such a smooth landing from his shuttles.

  After cuffing the pilot upside the head, Mopus spun on his heel. “Work on your landing or I will have you fired.”

  The pilot ducked. Black hair came free of his braid and curtained his gray face. “Yes, my lord.”

  The com chimed. “Greetings, fellow Municians. Please welcome our inspectors aboard. I regret that this request is not optional.”

  Groat cracked his knuckles. He should have known this was a waste of time. Even the politicos wouldn’t be so dense as to protect a research base with a politely phrased request. Power did not ask, it demanded.

  Snapping his fingers, Mopus headed f
or the spiral staircase descending from the cockpit to the lounge below. “Come along.”

  Tridit growled.

  The stinky politico had better not grow accustomed to giving Scraptors orders. Groat’s humanoid hand twitched with the need to make an obscene gesture. He remembered the camera in time to prevent it. “Follow me.”

  His boots clanged on the metal stairs, and his claws scraped the filigreed ironwork decorating the bannister. He trailed after Mopus through the empty lounge. The stone table he’d cracked had been removed. The shards of crystal had been cleaned up. Only the sweet scent of soap and damp spots marked where the flowers had stained the white furniture.

  A frigid draft snaked through the cabin.

  Under his armor, Groat’s skin prickled with goosebumps. Cold. He hated the damn cold, and the Founders didn’t believe in insulating layers. Armor was for battle not comfort. He pulled his limbs in tightly against his body, protecting himself from the frosty temperatures.

  “Make way. Make way!” Mopus barked the order as he turned toward the stairs leading outside.

  Indistinct mumbling floated on the wind.

  “Why do the politicos save their manners for everyone else but the Scraptors?” Tridit groused.

  Why indeed? Since being promoted to Fleet Commander, Groat had noticed the disparity in treatment. The other Founding Five dealt with the Scraptors much as they did the inferior races. “That will change once we win this war.”

  And when they have the weaponry to enforce their will.

  At the end of the lounge, Groat turned toward the exit. Saliva formed ice in the seams of his mandibles and his armor pulled on his flesh as it constricted in the low temperatures. Muscles clenched tight, he stomped down the steps.

  Two gray Municians in lower caste clothing of shirt and pants stood at attention near the bottom of the staircase.

  Mopus’s blue robes fluttered behind him as he stalked toward a black spot in the cliffside. “Hurry along. I believe your species is intolerant of the cold.”

  Increasing his pace, Groat skidded along the icy path. Yet another thing his armor hadn’t been designed for. He would add the requirement to his list of suggested improvements.

  A thud sounded behind him and he turned.

  Tridit sprawled in the dusting of snow. Curses heated the air over his chattering teeth. Rolling over, he pushed to his hands and knees only to fall flat on his face again.

  Mopus’s laughter was sweetener in an open cut.

  Just another insult that would need to be repaid. Groat stomped toward his friend. Crouching, he stabbed his claws into the landing area. The tips pierced the brittle stone, anchoring him, while he reached out his hand.

  Following his example, Tridit drove his claws deep into the ground. He grasped both of Groat’s hands then pulled himself to his feet. His boots threatened to slide out from under him, but he found his footing at the last second. His eyestalks aimed for the divots in the ground. “My apologies for embarrassing you, Fleet Commander.”

  “Do not apologize for the flaws in our armor.” Releasing his friend, Groat shook off his anger. Was the oversight deliberate? The presence of a secret base on an ice world was tailor-made for such a flaw. But which came first?

  “If you’re finished with your little chat, I would like to get something warm to drink.” Mopus glided toward the entrance of the base.

  Tridit released Groat and pulled his claws from the ground. “The politico takes great pride in humiliating us.”

  “That, too, will change.” Groat stomped after the stinky Munician.

  The door to the facility banged open. Another gray inspector stood at attention as Mopus passed. The politico was checking the device in his hand before Groat reached him.

  Respect. His allies didn’t respect him, his rank, or his species. He stormed into the hallway. Beige foam dripped in frozen waves from the bare walls. No plush furniture, frothy plants, or liveried servants waited. He squared his shoulders. This was how a military installation was supposed to be.

  Rubbing his green hands together in anticipation, Mopus turned left at the dead end. “We’ll start with the small stuff first. I wouldn’t want you to shed your armor in surprise.”

  Groat doubted there was anything that could surprise him.

  Colored doorways made indentations in the long hallway. Voices drifted out of the thin walls. So not everything the Municians touched exuded luxury, comfort, or privacy. He scanned the ceiling. Not a camera in sight either. If this truly was a treasure trove of weaponry, the Scraptors could overrun the facility easily.

  Once they modified their armor for the cold.

  The double orange doors ahead opened.

  Heads close together, two purple Municians exited. The one on the left drilled his finger into the pad in his hand while the other shook his head and dug his hands deep into his lab coat pockets.

  The doors swung slowly closed. Light shimmered and blurred in the room beyond.

  Odd. Groat tightened his optical balls in his eyestalks, and the glass niches filled with armor came into focus. He longed for his new armor to be repaired so these glitches wouldn’t happen.

  Mopus snapped his fingers.

  The two scientists caught the doors by the handles and pulled them wide. Mopus sailed inside the room.

  Groat thundered after him. The closing doors brushed his armored shoulders as he squeezed through. The bastards must have pushed the doors closed when they released them. They hadn’t closed this fast before.

  Hinges creaked as Tridit wrenched the door open so he could enter.

  Bleachers lined the sides of an arena. Brown stained the polished stone floor. Obviously, some tests had been performed on live subjects. Crossing the open space, Groat ignored the unattended tables laden with weapons on the right and headed toward the armor. No claws, no stabbing appendages, not even a tail. The armor had only two sets of limbs.

  He and his men would fit.

  But they looked too Human-shaped. Or Munician. Neither were particularly safe in a Scraptor battle.

  Mopus waved at the armor. “The next generation. Lighter, and more durable.”

  Groat fingered the material. Soft, pleated fabric connected the green plates. The Argent family crest blazed from the right breast. “It’s thin.”

  And would fit a Munician just as well as a Scraptor. But the armor was hardly proof of an underhanded plot to get rid of his people.

  “Don’t be deceived by the aesthetic design.” Mopus clapped his hands. “Prepare a demonstration for our glorious Fleet Commander.”

  Now the stinky politico flattered him? Groat’s muscles clenched. He didn’t like it when a Munician was being nice.

  A gray servant bowed out of the arena through a side door.

  “What weapon would you like to try?” Tucking his hands up his turquoise sleeves, Mopus strolled to the display table.

  Groat quickened his pace to walk beside him. The Fleet Commander should follow no one.

  The double doors opened again. Two gray servants dragged a scarred, bald creature into the arena.

  “Human!” Tridit hissed.

  Groat’s claws rose up, preparing to strike.

  The Human groaned and the skin around his sealed mouth tightened. Muscle corded his neck and red scar tissue wiggled over his pale flesh.

  “Yes. A Human.” Mopus’s fingers danced over the laser cutters before settling on a projectile weapon. “We kept a few subjects for our tests.”

  The stench of deception polluted the air.

  Groat stared at the politco. Why would he lie about the Human?

  Mopus deftly loaded the weapon then offered it to Groat on an open palm. “We would have liked to practice on a few Skaperians, but until a year ago, we’d believed them to be extinct.”

  Extinct by a plague created by the Founders. The same disease that had decimated the Scraptor ranks. Could the illness have been designed to annihilate both species? Rumors of a base called Sentinel had begun c
irculating only months before the Plague had hit. Groat ignored the gun and picked up a laser cutter. Humans should suffer before they died.

  Snot bubbled out of the target’s nose and he shook his bald head. Tears streaked his pallid cheeks.

  Pathetic. Death would be too great a mercy. Perhaps, Groat should stop short of killing him.

  A new gray Munician appeared. He snapped the lightweight armor into place on the Human.

  Mopus fingered his smile. “Do you wish him chained in place, or would you prefer the chase?”

  “The chase.” Groat wanted to give the illusion of escape before the pain began in earnest.

  “Why doesn’t he speak?” Tridit snatched the projectile weapon from Mopus’s hands.

  “We cut his vocal cords and excised his tongue. Our scientists spend months testing our new weapons, and the subjects blathering is bad for morale.” Mopus nodded.

  The gray servants released the armored Human, selected a weapon to prevent the target from escaping, and retreated to the door.

  Instead of fleeing, the pathetic creature stumbled toward Groat. His mouth moved, his glassy eyes pleaded, and his throat constricted.

  Familiarity trickled through Groat. Obviously, some Human trick. He slashed the enemy’s arms and torso with the laser cutter.

  His target gurgled and his face turned red, but the armor remained pristine.

  Groat retreated to the table.

  The Human stumbled after him.

  He selected a plasma sword and swung for the target’s shoulder. The blade stopped dead, and the vibration rattled up Groat’s arm. One weapon after another failed to penetrate even the fabric joints. Sweat trickled down his bullet-shaped head piece. He slammed the butt of his energy weapon against the Human’s temple.

  The enemy fell to his knees from the blow.

  Tossing the last weapon on the table, Groat wiped his hands on his armor and clasped the target’s armor-clad ankle in his pinscher. Not even a dent. “What is this made of?”

  “The enemy calls it NeoDynamic Armor. NDA for short.” Mopus grinned, then selected another weapon. “After the disaster on Isea, we acquired a limited supply of it.”