by S. A. Lusher
As he sprinted through the forest, dodging the hail of debris, he managed to get eyes on both Callie and Keron. They kept going and soon outran the metal rain, and by then they were almost to the agreed-upon LZ, a clearing in the forest.
“Well, I think that went well...all things considered,” Callie said.
“It could have gone better,” Keron replied quietly.
“We're alive, they aren't, we got the data,” Allan said.
“Yes, let us just hope that it contains the information we require.”
Allan nodded. He'd been thinking the exact same thing. If this didn't produce the intel they needed, they were at another dead end.
Up ahead, he heard the engines of the Raptor.
It was time to head home again.
CHAPTER 04
–Echo Team–
Briefing One again.
Allan felt good to be settling down into the seat next to Callie. After they'd made it back to the Raptor, they'd risen into the air and he'd had Weller do a sweep of the area. They found only a handful of stragglers and put them down, Porter leaning out of an airlock while Weller kept it steady. She'd used her sniper rifle, not missing once.
Weller had confirmed, to the best of her ability, that no distress call had been sent, no communications of any kind. But that didn't mean that whoever was in charge didn't know that someone was on their trail.
Once they'd gotten back, Allan and Callie had done their usual thing: training, sex in the shower, a big meal.
The meal always had to come after any activities, business or personal, because neither of them performed at all well on a full stomach.
Finally, the call had come, and the two of them were in a dim, cool room, sitting around the table with only Hawkins.
“All right, time's shorter than ever, so let's cut to the chase,” Hawkins said. “The data you recovered from the outpost revealed quite a lot. A motherlode of information, compared to the scraps we've been getting so far. First of all...”
Hawkins typed something into his laptop and a human figure appeared over the table. A man, an old man, by the looks of him. He was tall, whipcord lean, gray hair pulled into a tight, businesslike ponytail. He had what some people might call aristocratic features, the kind of features you'd see on paper or metal money, back when that was a thing. He stood ramrod straight, his arms clasped behind his back, wearing an old school military uniform and high, black combat boots. One eye glowered an angry neon green.
“This is Werner ReSequez Esquire the Third,” Hawkins said.
“That's a hell of a name,” Callie murmured.
“Indeed. The name seems to fit the man. Now, the information we have about him is sketchy at best, but based on the intel we've pulled from that data and cross-references with Galactic Alliance archival databases, this man is the one in charge of this...cult, for lack of a better word. They believe him to be some kind of living god...inasmuch as dead men and women driven by technology can believe anything.”
“So who is he?” Allan asked. “Where the hell did he come from?”
“Okay, this is where it gets weird. ReSequez was born in 2152.”
Callie frowned deeply. “That would make him...”
“Yes, nearly two hundred years old. One hundred and ninety six to be precise. In the early twenty two hundreds, he rose to power as a military figurehead, a four star General. He was supposed to be enigmatic and persuasive and charismatic. The more time went on, the more disenchanted he became with the Galactic Alliance and the direction he thought they were going in. And he wasn't alone. For a few years, there was talk of civil war, but ReSequez became...unstable. Several reports at the time suggest he was suffering from some kind of mental illness. Eventually, he and about a thousand loyal followers headed out into space, declaring that they were going to build their own empire, somewhere out there, in the darkness.”
“So what happened?” Callie asked.
“No one knows. Officially, he's been labeled as MIA, but common belief is that he died somewhere far out there. He owned a castle, a genuine castle made of black rock that they broke down entirely, packed up into a ship and carted off with them. Apparently, according to this intel, he's still alive.”
“Is that possible?” Allan asked.
“Technically, yes. There are ways of extending lives, and cryogenic technology had already been perfected about ten years previous to his disappearance, so it's more than possible that he put himself on ice. As to why this is happening, why they are doing this...it's not there. We have no idea. But we do know that they need to be stopped. So, the mission, officially, is to head to their headquarters and assassinate their leader, and use any other methods possible to put an end to this situation, before it gets out of hand.
“Now, there were star charts in the data as well. The HQ is located on a jungle planet a couple lightyears past the Far Reach, which explains why it was never discovered, even now. They obviously must have gone quite a ways out there. Now...” Hawkins frowned, sighed, ran a hand over his bald head, “the bad news.”
“Which is?” Allan pressed.
“I'm afraid I won't be able to provide you with any help. Not even a ride out there. A couple more missions cropped up while you were gone, so I need the pilots and Keron and Porter, and everyone else. Obviously I can grant you your gear. However, I managed to scrape something together, since you obviously need backup and a ride there. I called in a favor and got a speedship and a Spec Ops team, fully armed and armored. They'll back you up. They're all pros. Echo Team. They're flying out to meet us and they'll be here within half an hour. I've worked with most of them before. You can trust them...” he hesitated, looked at each of them.
“I am sorry about this. I know it's horseshit but honestly...I'm doing the best I can. We're still walking that tightrope. We're still feeling the effects of what Enzo did. They're all too happy to jump down my throat for mistakes or big budget concerns or shortcomings, but god fucking forbid they acknowledge the fact that we've saved the galaxy a couple of times over now...” he stopped, probably realizing that he was letting his misery and lethargy get the best of him. “But we're making progress...good luck out there.”
“We'll get it done,” Callie said, standing up.
Allan nodded. “We'll be back before you know it.”
He laughed. “Good. I'm very glad to have you two aboard.”
“Glad to be here,” Allan said.
They headed out of the briefing room.
* * * * *
Callie examined the speedship through the window beside the airlock bay they were preparing to go through. They'd ended up retrieving their own arms and armor pack, which was basically just a heavy cargo crate of shiny silver. They'd loaded them up onto hover-dollies and had walked them through the Dauntless. Callie could feel her frustration mounting. She was very grateful for Echo Team, but all this that had happened was bullshit. The Galactic Alliance kept jerking them around. It had been a year now and still they were dealing with this shit. How many times did they have to do almost literal miracles before getting real respect and trust?
There was a dull clang as the speedship finished docking.
It was a larger, older model than the Raptors they had. According to the intel, it would take them about fifteen hours to get there.
“Let's go,” Allan said, pushing the dolly into the airlock.
Callie followed him inside. They cycled through the airlock bays and were met at the other end by an enormous pale man with an easy, broad smile and a shaved head. He wore the black-and-silver uniform of Special Operations.
“Hello,” he said, helping them get the hover-dollies onboard. “I'm Sergeant Hollis. Hawkins gave me and my team specific instructions to, and I quote, 'Do whatever the fuck they tell you to do.' So I'm guessing you two are pretty competent.”
“I'd sure like to think I am,” Allen replied.
Hollis laughed, then marched over to the airlock and closed it. He keyed the intercom
next to the airlock door. “We're clear and secure, take us away.”
“Roger that, Sergeant.”
Callie felt the ship shift and move, more dull clangs as it disengaged from the Dauntless. “I'm Callie Ward,” she said, introducing herself.
“Allan Gray. We're...Specialists,” he said.
“As I understand it, this is a no-questions-asked kind of operation. I'm hoping, however, that you'll be able to fill in a few blanks. I like to know who I'm shooting and why.”
“Oh, don't worry, we'll fill you in and I promise you will be eager to gun these fuckers down,” Callie replied.
“Glad to hear it. Let's get your gear to the armory, and then I can introduce you to my crew,” Hollis said, leading them out of the airlock bay.
They followed in his wake. “So, have you worked with Hawkins before?” Allan asked.
“Not directly, but he's briefed me more than once on some pretty high profile mission and he went to bat for me when the shit went down, as it sometimes does. He's a good man, as far as I'm concerned,” Hollis replied.
“He is,” Callie agreed.
They turned into a doorway further down the corridor and came into the armory. They off-loaded their crates there, then turned back to face Hollis. “Okay, we're ready to meet your crew and fill everyone in on the details,” Callie said.
“Excellent. Come along.”
He led them through the ship after sounding a general call for the crew to meet in a briefing area. Within minutes, Callie found herself in a relatively cramped area with Allan and the entirety of Echo Team, which numbered eight.
“All right, this is Echo Team,” Hollis began. “This is my second in command, Corporal Lang,” he said, pointing to a tall, trim, terse-looking woman with close-cropped black hair and a stern gaze. “Our scout and sniper, Lance Corporal Han.”
Han was a short, trim, Japanese man who offered them a small smile and a silent nod.
“Lance Corporal Nelson...what the fuck is it you do around here, Nelson?” Hollis asked.
A man with a heavy tan and very short blonde hair of average height and weight grinned from around a cigarette. “I'm just here for the laughs,” he said.
“He's our tech. He's a lot more competent than he looks.” Next Hollis pointed to a sullen, well-built woman with a shaved head. “This is PFC Shaw, our medic. Next up is PFC Morris, our demolitions expert. Don't worry, he's solid.”
Callie didn't blame Hollis for the warning. The man was tall, gangly and had dark bags under his eyes. He looked a little whacked out...and apparently liked playing with explosives.
“Private Hernandez has a knack for big fucking guns,” Hollis said, nodding to another tall, well-built Spanish woman with a bright gaze and tight smile.
“Finally, there's Private Pendleton. He...is kind of a jack of all trades. Picks up the slack. What little of it there is,” Hollis said, indicating a bald, black man of average height and weight who seemed content to sit back and relax. There was an air of enormous calm to the man, but his razor sharp gaze belied his easy demeanor.
“So, now we know each other, perhaps you would care to fill us in,” Hollis said.
“Gladly,” Callie replied. Allan seemed happy enough to let her helm this part of it. “I'm Specialist Ward, he's Specialist Gray.”
Hernandez let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Never got a chance to work with Specialists before,” she said.
“Consider yourself blessed,” Hollis replied. “Now shut up.”
Callie pressed on. “We're hunting a group of...cultists, I suppose you could call them.” She felt like Hawkins now as she programmed the holographic projector in the room to show the image that had been captured of one of the meat puppets. “As you can see, they sport heavy tech modifications. They're strong, fast and often have weapons of some kind grafted directly onto their bodies, usually ranged weapons.
“I'm going to be completely honest with you here: we have very little intel on them. We've only ever personally engaged them once and that was earlier today...”
She went over all possible relevant data they'd gathered on the creatures so far, and was glad to note that the Spec Ops team seemed to be giving her their undivided attention. It seemed a combination of both professionalism and genuine interest. She imagined that none of them had ever faced down anything like this before.
By the time she finished the briefing, Callie felt like things might actually go okay this time around.
* * * * *
Time passed aboard the speedship.
After the briefing, the crew split up, tending to their chores.
Allan and Callie went over their armor and guns and gear as they always did, and found themselves talking about what was now a familiar subject.
“So you think any of them would be down for some fun?” Callie asked.
“I hope so. I think so. It seems to me that when you hit Spec Ops levels, you've been through a lot of shit, and a lot of 'rules' of society kind of lose their meaning,” Allan replied. “And I sure fucking hope Lang is down for it cause I fucking love Australian chicks.”
Callie laughed. “Come on, she's such a hardass.”
“That doesn't mean anything. Honestly, though I'd be okay with any of the three. I mean, Shaw does have her head shaved. That's not really my thing...though I wouldn't say no if she propositioned me. But she seems really...gloomy. And then there's Hernandez. She's fucking tall and built and I bet she fucks like crazy.”
“Yeah, she really looks that way...I have to agree with you on the shaved thing. I wish so many guys didn't do it. I like at least some hair.”
“So who's your top pick?”
“I'm kind of drooling over Hollis, honestly. I've always had a thing for tall guys and he is seriously fucking tall. And then Pendleton is really fucking hot...” She trailed off, then sighed. “But I doubt we'll have the time for fun. Maybe after we get back. We'll see if we can arrange for some shore leave and take one or two, or maybe three of them on vacation with us.”
“That'd be really nice...” Allan murmured.
But he didn't want to say what he knew they were both thinking.
How many of them weren't going to make it back from this mission? The jobs they pulled were hard, really fucking hard and more often than not someone ended up dying. Spec Ops troopers were tough, toughest in the galaxy as far as Allan was concerned, given that he'd been working with them almost exclusively since coming onboard and he was in love with one, but that didn't seem to mean quite as much in the face of unmitigated chaos.
He finished checking over his gear and locked it back up.
“I'm going to go mingle with the others, get a feel for them,” he said.
“I'll do the same,” Callie replied.
They left the armory and split up, moving to opposite ends of the ship. Allan moved along one of the corridors, finding the first of the crew in a small galley, drinking Vex and smoking cigarettes. Nelson and Hernandez.
“Hey, Specialist,” Nelson said, noticing him first as he emerged into the room. “Come over here and grace us with your presence.”
“Knock it off before I knock you out,” Hernandez said, kicking him in the leg. She offered Allan a smile that suggested a roll in the hay might not be too much to hope for. “So, Gray, what do you really do?” she asked.
Allan crossed the room, opened the fridge and grabbed a can of Vex. He sat down at the table with them. “I hunt monsters,” he replied.
Both of them stared at him. “Monsters?” Nelson said finally. “Like...what do you mean? Alien wildlife? Cause I-”
Allan shook his head. “Genuine monsters. I can't really go into detail, but you saw that thing in there. That's a monster.”
“I suppose it is,” Hernandez murmured, considering it. “That's gotta be interesting.”
“It's terrifying, but apparently I'm good at it. What about you two? Either of you ever fight anything weird?”
“Not too weird,” Hernandez replied
. “Nelson and I have been working together for about nine months now. We fought these like...armored tiger things. Can't remember what they called them. An outpost had been hit, some important government outpost, and when we showed up, we found those things inside, tearing the place up. Took a lot to put them down.” She turned to look at Nelson. “What about you?”
“Yeah, I fought a monster once,” he replied, his face taking on a somber, serious look. “He was six feet tall and weighed a buck eighty. His name was Micheal and he was my second boyfriend.” He couldn't maintain the serious face as Hernandez rolled her eyes and sighed. “He was! Guy was a mean fuckin' drunk and knew just what to say to make you feel like shit.”
“Nelson's greatest failing is that he doesn't understand what it means to be serious. Or adult. Or mature in any way.”
“I'm real mature,” he protested, “they wouldn't give me a gun otherwise.”
Hernandez fixed Allan with a hard gaze. “I think,” she murmured softly, “that Nelson is one of those people that's really, really good at one thing and shit at everything else. Kind of like a computer that gets all of its memory taken up by just one thing.”
Allan laughed. He kept talking with them, getting to know them. They both seemed pretty solid, the jokers of the group, (every group had one or two, it seemed). After he'd finished off his can of Vex, he left them laughing and in seemingly high spirits, though he could sense an undercurrent of apprehension, and he didn't blame them for it. He went looking through the ship for some others to talk to, and he found them not much later.
Hollis and Lang were back in the briefing room, going over the intel again. Goddamn, did Lang look good, but Callie was right: she was fucking intense. Here was a woman who didn't give a shit how she looked, she cared about how she functioned, and Allan had more than a little respect for such a mentality.
He could remember all too well what that felt like. But where his stark functionality had grown out of a dark seed of insanity, Lang's seemed to grow from a solid core of responsibility, of duty and honor and all the good things that went into being a professional solider, someone who others relied upon when the shit went down, as it inevitably did.
