by Tripp Ellis
“Petrov, see if you can connect remotely and run a diagnostic,” Tyler commanded.
“Aye, sir.” Petrov pulled out his PDU and tried to interface with the ship’s central computer. “Got it. Running a diagnostic now.”
A moment later, the computer spit back the results. Tyler could tell by the look on Petrov’s face that it wasn’t good. “How bad is it?”
“Bad frequency modulator, thermal exchanger, fried quantum coil.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I’m not a mechanic.”
“I know my way around a quantum array,” Horton said.
That got Tyler’s attention.
“If I had the right parts, I might be able to do something.”
“Can you pilfer them from the Vantage?”
Horton shrugged.
Petrov’s eyes went wide. He didn’t want to trek all the way back to the Vantage with hordes of those creatures out there. “Even if we could get back to the Vantage, then make our way back here, there's no guarantee that we’d find the parts we need, and there's no guarantee they would work in the freighter."
“There's a command station deep underground, in the tunnels,” Dr. Noble said. “There's food and living quarters. It was designed to withstand several atmospheres of pressure."
“Let me get this straight,” Petrov said. “You want us to go underground to avoid the blast?"
"There are over 700 miles of tunnels down there. The command station is deep enough underground that it may protect from the blast,” Dr. Noble said.
“May?" Petrov’s eyes bulged.
“Would you prefer to be on the surface?”
“I’d prefer not to be on this goddamn planet."
“Well, that’s just not an option, now is it?” Dr. Noble said.
Petrov grumbled under his breath. "Those tunnels are going to collapse and trap us down there. We’re going to die one way or another."
“We all signed up to die," Tyler said. "That's what Reapers do."
“Yeah, but it seemed a lot cooler in the recruitment brochure,” Petrov said.
Tyler pulled up the surveillance imagery on his PDU. He studied the area around Station 5. There were two excavators on the far side of the compound, near the mine entrance. They looked like tanks with a giant drill bit on the front end. They were built on the same chassis as the M2 Brahms-Dieter tanks. Old school, with actual tread. The tanks could hold up to four people—Tyler figured the excavators could hold the same.
“We’ll take these down to the command station,” Tyler said, pointing to the excavators on his PDU. “Worst case scenario, we dig our way back out.”
The platoon looked skeptical.
“Worst case scenario, we get flattened like pancakes down there,” Petrov was starting to meltdown again. “Those things are 200 yards away. We’re not gonna make it 10 feet out there with those things running around."
“You're welcome to stay here, Petrov,” Tyler said.
Petrov didn’t seem to like that idea either.
39
Tyler
The platoon stood ready as Tyler opened the main doors to the substation. Hot, sticky air rushed in. Tyler scanned the perimeter—it looked clear. But it wasn’t going to stay that way for long. Those things would be scampering about soon enough. Tyler could only hope the repellant still had some effect.
Tyler led the squad out of the substation. He ran to the freighter and hugged the hull, near the bow of the ship. He swung the barrel of his weapon around the corner. He could see the excavators 200 yards away.
Tyler crept along the length of the freighter. The barrel of his weapon swiveled across the perimeter. The stern of the ship was their last bit of cover. There was an open path to the drill rigs with plenty of foliage on either side to conceal the insects.
The night air was calm and quiet. Too quiet. Just downright spooky.
“I gotta bad feeling about this,” Faulkner whispered.
“Did you just volunteer to take point?” Tyler asked.
Faulkner frowned. “Yes, sir. I guess I just did.”
Faulkner heaved his M640 into the firing position and jogged toward the drill rigs.
Tyler motioned the rest of the platoon forward. They streaked toward the excavators. Donovan brought up the rear.
Halfway down the path, they encountered their first visitor. Faulkner unleashed a flurry of gunfire at the gnarly insect. Muzzle flash lit up the faces of the platoon. The creature burst into pieces.
The cat was out of the bag. More creatures scampered toward the sound of the gunshots.
The DETMT was still repelling some of the creatures. But many seemed unaffected by it. Still, anything that helped keep these monsters away was better than nothing.
Bullets ripped through the air. Bugs were leaping from all angles. Clouds of gun smoke danced with the breeze.
One of the creatures broke through the wall of gunshots. It pounced on Petrov, knocking him to the dirt. The bug’s mandibles tore into his throat, severing his carotid artery. Blood spewed from the wound. Petrov gurgled and twitched as the creature devoured him.
Tyler blasted the damn thing, but it was too late. There was no time to stop and treat his wounds. Nothing could save Petrov anyway.
The platoon had barely made it another ten yards, when a creature charged Faulkner. He fired until the barrel of his M640 was smoking, but the creature kept coming. The thing finally flopped to the ground just as it reached Faulkner’s feet.
The remaining squad members dashed to the excavators. Tyler climbed atop one of the rigs and opened the hatch. “Load up!”
Tyler blasted away at the oncoming creatures. Muzzle flash spewed from the barrel of his weapon. Spent shell casings rained down, pinging off the metal excavator.
Faulkner tore the creatures to shreds with his machine gun. The barrel was glowing, and smoke was rising.
Dr. Noble and Elliott climbed inside the drill rig.
“Faulkner, get inside!” Tyler yelled.
“You don’t gotta tell me twice.” He climbed on top of the vehicle and dropped down through the hatch.
“Donovan. Get your ass in there.”
“After you, sir. I insist.” Donovan unloaded at a creature that was barreling toward her. She blasted the thing to pieces. Its carcass fell at her feet.
Horton was atop the other drill rig. He pulled the hatch open and dropped down into the bucket.
Donovan continued to hold the creatures off. She almost looked like she was enjoying herself. “Go on, sir. I’ll catch a ride with Horton.” She fell back to Horton’s drill rig.
Tyler climbed into the bucket and pulled the hatch shut. He slipped into the command seat. Unlike the M2 tanks, these drill rigs didn’t have a dedicated driver under the front gun. The vehicle was controlled and driven from the command console.
Tyler powered up the turbine engine. The thing roared to life as dozens of creatures clattered onto the rig. There was no way they could gnaw through the composite metal. The rigs weren't armor plated like the M2 tanks, but it would take a hell of a lot more than razor-sharp mandibles to cut through the metal hull.
Donovan crawled into the other rig. As she pulled the hatch shut, a creature lunged for her. It blocked the hatch, and Donovan wasn't able to close it.
Horton squeezed off several rounds from his pistol, pulverizing the bug’s skull. Donovan slammed the hatch shut with a clank and locked it. Her heart was pounding in her chest. It was a close call. She gave Horton a quick nod of appreciation.
Tyler lurched his rig forward. The powerful tracks spit mud. The VHT engine put out 2500 hp. The inside smelled like steel, grease, dirt, and stale sweat. The rumble of the engine was almost deafening. This thing was far from a luxury vehicle. You felt every bump on the road. If you didn't have a bad back to begin with, you would after a few hours in this rig.
The massive vehicle lumbered toward the tunnel entrance. It crushed anything in its path. Tyler flipped on the exterior lights
as they plunged into the darkness. Video monitors provided an omnidirectional view.
Tyler could hear the bugs scratching and clawing on the outside of the rig. But after several hundred yards, it seemed like the bugs lost interest in the excavator. The creatures were primarily surface dwellers. They didn't seem to much care for the cavernous depths. Tyler could see them fall away from the rig. But one thing he didn't see behind him was the other excavator.
Horton and Donovan were having a tough time. Their rig wouldn't turn over. By this point their excavator was covered in creatures scraping at the hull. They were stuck on the surface.
40
Walker
THWACK!
The AED jolted another charge through Slade's body. Her chest arched, her body tensed, then fell flat against the gurney.
The was a long moment of silence.
The AED re-calibrated. It hummed as it recharged.
Then Walker heard a blip. Then another. Followed by another.
“I’ve got pulse, and respiration,” one of the corpsmen said.
Walker exhaled with relief. His knees were quivering. His hands were shaking. He had never been so scared in his entire life—and Walker didn't scare easily. But the thought of losing Slade was devastating.
Now that she was somewhat stable, the corpsmen rushed her to the med center. Doctor Jackson greeted them and ushered Slade into emergency surgery.
Walker paced frantically outside the OR, praying for Dr. Jackson to work his magic. He saw Zoey enter the med center. Her face was drenched with worry. “How is she?"
Walker shrugged.
Zoey lifted on her toes and peered through one of the portals in the OR doors. Doctor Jackson and his surgical assistant were working frantically. Jackson guided robotic arms that moved with precision.
Zoey dropped down from her tiptoes. “She’s gonna be fine. You’ll see.” Her tone was struggling toward optimism, as if she was trying to convince herself.
“I hope so." His face was pensive.
“Just FYI… We intercepted several data packets emanating from the gunship you stole. It was trying to reconnect to the network. I'm not sure if it was able to relay position data. We may have an entire fleet of synthetics show up at our doorstep.”
Walker cringed. It wasn't like him to slip up. "I wasn’t thinking. I should have disabled the system.”
"You had a lot on your mind. Keep me posted on the Admiral.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zoey spun around and marched out of the med center. Walker went back to pacing and fidgeting. Nearly 2 hours later, Dr. Jackson emerged from the OR with a grim face.
Walker's heart sank. "How is she, Doc?”
"I repaired the soft tissue, re-vascularized the subclavian artery, removed the bone fragments, and reconstructed the bone. She's going to be just fine."
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I've got a little heartburn. I think it was that chili cheese dog from lunch," he said. He walked away, grimacing.
Walker chuckled and shook his head. He waited for them to wheel Slade out of the OR and bring her to a recovery bay. By the time he saw her, she was coming out of the anesthesia. She was still pretty loopy.
Walker sat beside her bed and clasped her hand. “How do you feel?”
“Fuzzy," she said. She tried to sit up and winced with pain.
“What do you think you are doing?”
"I don't know if you've been keeping up, but we need to serve an eviction notice to a bunch of robots." Slade lowered the rail, and slung a leg over the edge of the bed.
“Oh, no. You need to get some rest."
“Let's get a few things straight, Commander. I outrank you. And if this… thing,” she motioned between them, “is going to work out… you don't try to control me.”
Walker flung his hands in the air. "Okay. You're the boss.”
Slade smiled. "Now, find me some clothes, and help me get out of here."
“Aye, sir.” Walker went through her state room and rummaged for a clean uniform. He brought it back to the med bay and helped her out of bed. She slipped out of the ridiculous green hospital gown with the tiny blue snowflake pattern. Then he helped her get dressed. It's the simple things, like buttoning your pants, that can be almost impossible when you have a shoulder or wrist injury. She felt like a kid letting him do her buttons up.
She was still weak and wobbly. She threw an arm around Walker, and the two eased their way out of the med center. But not without a fight from Dr. Jackson first.
“You people are all the same," Jackson grumbled. "Don't expect me to keep patching you together if you're just going to tear yourself apart again."
“That's my job, Doc,” Slade said.
Doc shook his head and muttered something under his breath as he strode away.
"Prep a shuttle. I need to get down to Zeta 9 Centauri."
“That isn’t exactly the place I had in mind for a weekend getaway.”
“Cool your jets, lover boy. We’ve got work to do.”
41
Walker
Zeta 9 Centauri was a red rocky dustbowl of a planet. Jagged peaks and uneven terrain. It had been terraformed, so it had a breathable atmosphere. But it wasn't quite the lush garden that the original settlers hoped it would become. Not yet, anyway.
There were a few scattered outposts, but it wasn't a dense population center. Land was cheap, and there was little regulation, which made it an ideal location for industrialization. Sokolov Industries had snatched up a third of the planet. It was the perfect location for the shipyard. And one day, when it became a lush green oasis, Sokolov Industries would sell resort condos.
The camp commandant was waiting for them on the tarmac. The complex wasn’t unlike the one the robot had built on New Earth. Only now, Slade had a little more compassion for the Decluvian POWs.
Walker piloted the shuttle over the barren landscape. Angular peaks clawed at the sky. A deep canyon carved through the rugged terrain. The sprawling complex appeared on the horizon. Next to the camp was a massive manufacturing plant. Scrap aluminum was melted in a furnace, cast into billets, ultrasonically tested for structural integrity, then extruded into sophisticated aerospace aluminum. The facility also manufactured plate and redraw rod. Almost every spacecraft throughout the colonies, civilian or military, had components manufactured by Sokolov. They dominated the marketplace.
Protesters were still marching outside of the factory. Next to the plant were the dry docks. The facility had halted construction of new destroyers, and was focusing on the repair of the Decluvian fleet that had been captured. 30 massive warships were collecting dust in the shipyard. Slade hoped that Violet and Mitch were ahead of schedule.
Walker made his approach to the compound and landed on the pad next to the administrative office.
The facility was staffed by a private security force, mostly former military. The camp commandant, Sawyer Collins, was waiting for them on the tarmac. He wore a suit and tie, and was more like a CEO than a warden. He had a glowing smile on his face as he greeted Slade and Walker, but it had a phony quality to it. “Such a pleasure to meet you.”
They shook hands.
“I need to speak with the ranking Decluvian officer,” Slade said.
His smile started to droop, then he propped it up again. “Certainly.”
Slade tried to decipher his reluctance.
"Come with me.” He led them into the administrative building. They weaved past office spaces to a conference room. Sawyer held the door open for them. “Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee, tea, soda, bottled water? Something harder, perhaps?”
"Water would be great," Slade said.
Walker nodded in agreement.
“Excellent,” Sawyer said. “I’ll return momentarily with your beverages, and with the prisoner. Please let me know if there's anything else I can do to make you more comfortable."
Slade and Walker took a seat at the conference table in the plush l
eather chairs. Slade grimaced as she sat.
“Are you okay?” Walker asked.
“I’m fine. Pain meds are wearing off.”
A few moments later, an assistant stepped into the room with two bottles of water. She smiled and set them on the table. Half an hour later, two guards ushered Nimval Baarluc, the ranking Decluvian officer, into the room. His wrists and ankles were cuffed, and he walked with short strokes into the room.
He looked like hell. His skin was covered in red dust. It was difficult to see his brilliant blue skin under the thick coat of dirt and grime. The Decluvians had large protruding eyes, and colorful skin. They could be blue, yellow, orange, green, red. Some of them had a combination of colors. Their skin was spotted, and their amphibian fingers were long and slender.
They typically looked slick and shiny. But Nimval was dry and weathered. He looked frail, and he had a cough, like a smoker with a three pack a day habit. He sat at the end of the conference table and eyed the bottles of water.
“Remove his shackles,” Slade said to the guard.
He looked at her like she was crazy.
“Do it.”
The guard cringed, but complied. The cuffs clanked as he pulled them away. The Decluvian rubbed his wrists and sneered at the guard.
“Thank you, that will be all,” Slade said.
“I’ve got to warn you, these scumbags are dangerous.”
“I’m well aware of what they are capable of.”
The guard reluctantly backed out of the room.
Slade slid her unopened bottle of water across the table to the Decluvian. Nimval twisted open the cap and guzzled it down. He poured the last remaining drops over his face, hydrating his dry desiccated skin.
“I have a proposition for you,” Slade said.
“Why should I listen to anything you have to say?"
“Because you're dying. It's easy to see.”
His eyes narrowed at her. "Everybody dies." He tried to act disinterested.
