by Yronwode
“There ain’t no cure for serpent’s blood!” Goten roared.
“Trunk Slamchest!” K-Rock ordered, and the guard by that name brought him a knife, with which he swiftly cut open one of the veins that bulged from the serpent’s neck. K-Rock held it up the snake for all of them to see and let several drops of the blood fall directly on his tongue. He swallowed it.
“That is 10 times the dose that has soaked into your skin,” K-Rock told them, still holding the snake aloft. “Bring 10,000 men from each of your phalanges to the city of Nimali. I’ll deliver to each of you the antidote to the serpent’s venom as soon as your men arrive.”
He held the snake by the neck as it coiled around his arm, raising it on one arm and his battlestaff in the other as he proclaimed. “The days of tribal division are over.
This is the Dawn of the Union of the Snake. We shall drive the Theocrats into the sea, and we shall rule this world ten thousand years beyond eternity.” CHAPTER: 12
Yronwode – Midian Security Base 1 (The Barracks)
The Midians were unwilling to share unrestricted access to their command center with General Kitaen and his men. Instead, the operations for the Pegasus teams were led from windowless room in the barracks, with limited technology and communication access, relying on Midian intelligence, which came to the crew only after it had been reviewed and redacted by their “Intelligence Service.” The crew had to manage with what they had brought in the escape pods and what was in the wreckage of Zilla and Prudence. They also found the barracks to be thoroughly equipped with listening devices. After a while, the crew gave up on disabling them, and took to communicating via the Discreet Communications functions of their battle gear. These devices could take one person’s thoughts and transmit them to another person, who would receive them through direct stimulation of the audio center of the brain and hear them as though they were spoken words. These silent conversations did tend to produce headaches, however, when they went on for too long.
Meanwhile, the warfighters talked endlessly about groundball, quoits, and discussions of weapons technology they either didn’t have with them, or didn’t have at all… just to make the Midians crazy looking for it.
“General Kitaen,” Specialist Cowboy reported silently one morning, a few days after arrival. “I’ve been able to access secure Midian military channels using the AI from Prudence . As we suspected, they are hiding a lot from us.”
“For example?” Kitaen asked mentally.
“They recovered another escape pod from Zilla in a settlement called Bood-Al-Boondi, thirty kilometers northeast of where we found the first escape pod.
They also think it possible the inhabitants have recovered a survivor. They had been making plans for an incursion, but they’ve been scrubbed.”
“Scrubbed?” Kitaen asked.
“Za, there’s some new threat they’re concerned about. Some new leader among the Xirong. He’s planning some kind of massive attack. They’ve actually taken resources away from the search for our survivors to try and spy on this new guy.” Cowboy paused. “I can’t prove it, but I am beginning to think they’ve given up on the commander and Stratos.”
Kitaen stood and spoke out loud to his men. “I’m going to go visit General Parka and see if he can do something about these accommodations. My bed is as hard as a stone, and this food would choke a Hill-Monster.”
“Parka?” Cowboy asked silently.
“He has bent the rules on our behalf before. If God is with me, I think I can persuade him to do so again.”
Yronwode – Midian Security Base 1 (General Parka’s House) General Parka’s personal quarters were located in a three-story townhouse in a village of stone townhouses occupying a corner of the base nearest the access road. It was shielded by some low, eroded foothills at the base of the Pontifex Wise plateau.
Parka met him at the door, dismissed his escort and offered him tea. “How can I assist you, General Kitaen,” he said politely. It was early in the day, and Parka was out of uniform, dressed casually in the tunic and trousers favored by Midian Civilians. “I hope this will not take long. My son has a game of hoops this afternoon.”
“I wish his team triumph over their enemies.” Brief pleasantries aside, Kitaen came swiftly to the point. “My men have reason to believe that the Midian military has more intelligence information than it is sharing with us.”
“I assure you, Lieutenant Commander Kitaen, that all relevant information is being shared with you. Although, there may be some delay in its release. Do you mind if I watch some teleprogramming while we talk?” Parka activated his entertainment system, which displayed a two-dimensional projection of some kind of sporting event.
“My entertainment system produces out of spec EM interference, plays havoc with listening devices. I’ll have to have that looked at some time,” Parka told him. “You are correct. Very little intelligence is shared with you, including information that may help locate your missing men. For this, I am sorry.”
“Why are your people withholding this intelligence from us?” Kitaen asked.
“My people?” General Parka chuckled, amused by the choice of words, but then his tone turned blunt. “I will tell you why, but you probably already know. They don’t trust you. They can not take the risk that your people will upset the planet as the Kariad did. I understand your predicament. Despite my years of service, they withhold intelligence even from me, because my parents were Xirong.”
“They made you a General,” Kitaen pointed out.
“That is true. Primarily to assuage their own egos. They idealize themselves as an inclusive society. My position is offered as evidence of their inclusiveness. But that is a topic for another discussion.”
Kitaen sensed that he could come to the point with General Parka. “We have reason to believe another escape pod has been located, in a place called Bood-Al-Boondi.”
Parka sipped his tea. “I was aware that they suspected a pod had landed there, I did not know it had been confirmed.”
“Do you know if they are planning a search and rescue mission?”
“Bood-Al-Boondi is in Headhunter Territory. If your man landed there, he is most likely dead.”
Kitaen had anticipated this. “I would like to send a squad of my warfighters to Bood Al-Boondi to investigate for themselves.”
“They will never authorize such an incursion,” Parka stated with assurance.
“Then the devil may take them,” Kitaen told him. “I’ll order my men to go in. And they will.”
“They will stop you,” Parka warned. From the look on Parka’s face, he was repressing a dark smile. “But I see an opportunity to kill two blood serpents with but a single blow. I will send your crew on a search mission into one of the areas we have previously searched. If the Generals question it, I will tell them I was getting you out of the way, which they will be grateful for. Due to a navigation malfunction, you will find yourselves in the vicinity of Bood-Al-Boondi. Send a communication that you have encountered mechanical trouble and are sheltering for the night in your vehicles. We will send a recovery force at dawn. By then, you should have repaired the problem with your Sandcrawlers, and have no need for assistance.” Kitaen gave a respectful half-nod. “General Parka, I knew you were a man of honor and deviousness.”
Parka appeared unmoved. “You will have between midnight and sunrise to complete your mission. Try to avoid gunshot wounds. They may be difficult to explain.”
Yronwode – The Wilderness of Howling Zeal
Much later, in the darkness of the moonless and almost starless Yronwodean night, Johnny Rook, Max Jordan, and six of General Kitaen’s men moved quietly toward the darkened outpost of Bood-Al-Boondi.
They had abandoned the Sandcrawlers (Midian military transports with caterpillar tracks) eight kilometers outside the settlement and made the rest of the way on foot. The terrain was rough, cold desert hardpan baked into pottery by the sun then chilled to iciness at night. But cutting through the bleak landscape was a railw
ay line that led directly into the village. They walked along the tracks, exposed, but only if someone looked right at them really hard from a close distance. The active camouflage of their battlegear blended them into the night like shadows.
Dayvan Cowboy transmitted his thoughts. “These rails will lead us to a large building about 3 kilometers from here, an abandoned shoe factory. That’s where the Midians think the escape pod was taken, and where any survivors would be held.” He transmitted a map to accompany them, with some dated Midian aerial reconnaissance of the shoe factory.
“Do we have interior maps?” a warfighter asked.
“Negative,” Cowboy transmitted.
Just before they reached the factory, they came to a derailment. More than a dozen box cars and a locomotive had jumped the tracks at some episode in the near past. Their great hulks were left rotting in the desert, to be slowly corroded by the wind and the sand.
Caliph appeared in Max Jordan’s visor, “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Good,” Max Jordan answered, meaning it maybe for the first time ever. “But I’m sort of busy right now.”
“This train wreck was caused by an act of sabotage. They set explosives on the
tracks that were triggered when the train went over.”
“I figured,” Max Jordan answered out loud. Dayvan Cowboy’s voice was projected into his head. “Quiet, soldier. We’re in stealth mode. Remember?” When Max transmitted, “Sorry, Cowboy. My mistake, hope you can forgive me for that,” it took the squad by surprise. It was a little out of character for Max to apologize, let along so floridly.
“I’m detecting a faint electromagnetic power signature coming from the factory. It
is consistent with the escape pods carried aboard an Aves.”
“Tell the others,” Jordan thought. And Caliph’s data was transmitted across the squad. Cowboy ordered them to dismount the tracks and move out among the junked rail cargo transports (box cars) that littered the area immediately before the shoe factory.
Caliph shimmered into view in the vision-field of Max Jordan’s helmet.
“This area has been seeded with land mines. Petro-chemical and nitrogen-based
explosives. Killing radius of approximately 6.5 meters.”
“Relay to team,” Max Jordan ordered. Caliph relayed a map of where the mines had been deployed in the ground around the box cars.
“I like having her around, whoever she is,” a warfighter thought-transmitted.
Caliph told Max Jordan, “There are eight hostiles in attack positions within 300
meters of us. They are armed with exploding projectile-based weaponry.”
Jordan ordered Caliph, “Interface the data with my tactical display and transmit to the rest of the team.”
“You bet!”
“How is she detecting that?” Dayvan Cowboy asked.
“I’ve developed a multi-plexing overlay that enhances the data from Jordan’s battle
gear sensors.”
Cowboy issued orders. “1st Team, sweep and destroy, vector northwest 44, 2nd Team, sweep and destroy, vector northeast 100, 3rd Team, go in an find Stratos. On my mark, Rally at coordinates South 00.”
Rook and Jordan made up the second team. They broke east around the wreck of a boxcar and avoided the remains of the crates that had been inside of it.
“Got one,” said Rook. He had sighted a sentry at the factory’s side door. He adjusted his pulse weapon to sniper mode, targeted, and killed him with a single shot to the base of the neck. “3rd Team, East entrance is clear.” Caliph messaged Jordan and Rook. The message displayed in their vision-fields: 4 HOSTILES . She helpfully displayed their positions.
Jordan signaled Rook. “I’ll take these on the ground behind the structure.” Rook signaled back. “I’ll take the two dug in behind that cargo container.” Caliph signaled. “One of the hostiles is carrying a rocket-based weapons system.
Your battle gear is insufficient to take a direct hit and survive.”
Rook answered her. “I’ll just have to make sure I shoot first, then.” Max Jordan ran across the frozen ground to the dried up riverbank at the rear of the shoe factory and opened fire with a spray of pulse rounds. One of the headhunters went down, and the other blazed at him with some kind of automatic firearm. The sand began to kick up in little bursts around him and a stray round occasionally deflected off his shield. The gear increased his speed, enabled him to dodge the exploding bullets, and deflected those he couldn’t dodge.
Jordan answered the fire with a few well-placed shots that took the headhunter down in a way that he would never get up again.
“I’m done,” he transmitted.
Johnny Rook jumped on the roof of the boxcar above the Rocket Squad’s Nest.
“Surprise, you’re dead,” he said out loud.
Several blasts from his battle rifle accomplished that.
He transmitted on an open link to Max Jordan, “I wish the wife were here. She loves shootin’ stuff.”
Cowboy and his two men were preparing to storm into the factory through the loading dock on the front side, but by this time, the headhunters were aware that most of them had just died.
Caliph transmitted. “I just picked up a tactical transmission from the leader of the
headhunters. He said, ‘It’s time.’”
“All teams, converge!” Cowboy ordered. He charged through the door. Rook and Jordan regrouped at the side entrance, and burst their way in. They encountered no resistance.
The interior was a vast space filled mostly with broken machinery, lit by a few extremely bright lights affixed to the ceiling. A catwalk surrounded the factory floor. “I’ve
detected Specialist Stratos,” Caliph reported, and transmitted his position in the form of a pulsating orange dot on their tactical displays. She showed the Pegasus teams as pale blue dots, and the headhunters as red triangles.
Rook and Jordan came from the side while Cowboy’s team moved in from the front, trying to stay in the shadows because the bright lights made their active camouflage almost useless.
They came to a cleared space in the center of the factory, were recording devices had been set up to record the execution. Stratos was lifted up by his arms and forced to kneel in front of a man with a knife as long as a person’s arm. Three other headhunters began making a noise. Not a chant, not a song, but just a sustained C
note that reverberated in the empty factory. The fourth raised his knife, and added his voice to their own, until they were howling together in a one note chorus of hate.
And then the Warfighters saw something that totally blew their minds for a few seconds.
Max Jordan had deactivated his tactical gear’s shadowflage and was walking straight up toward the headhunters, his arms raised in a pose like he was surrendering.
“Hey, guys, c’mon. You don’t wanna do that. Let’s work this out.” The headhunters were stunned, and the chorus of their chanting broke into discord, except for the executioner, who was absolutely focused on cutting Stratos’s throat.
Johnny Rook came out from behind a machine, aimed, and fired. The pulse rifle was silent but deadly. The executioner’s trilled high C note dropped abruptly as the charge hit him directly in the larynx. The man crumpled to the ground before the others were even aware that he’d been hit.
Cowboy and one of his men took out two of the others with quick shots to the head. Rook killed the other one with another headshot. Rook signaled to Cowboy, four fingers up, then four fingers down.
Cowboy reached Stratos first, and Stratos screamed as the blindfold was taken from his eyes. “It’s okay, Anton, it’s us,” Cowboy said. The rest of the warfighters moved around him protectively.
One of Stratos’s eyes had swollened shut and the other was open just barely a crack. He screamed, then collapsed sobbing. “Just get me the hell out of here.”
“Easy, assol, we’re going to get you out of here,” Cowboy said in a calming voice. “Let Speciali
st FiveStars check you out.”
“Get me out of here, please,” Stratos sobbed again.
FiveStar Barlass was the unit’s medic. She gently placed her hand on his neck and felt what was wrong with him. “Fractures in both legs, not from the crash. There are burns and abrasions on his skin. They tortured him.”
“They wanted to know what we were doing here,” Stratos sobbed. “They wanted to know if we were siding with the Midians or not.”
“Do you know what happened to the commander?” Cowboy asked.
“I don’t know. He made me eject first. Now get me out of here.”
“That’s why we came,” Max Jordan said, raising the visor on his own helmet, showing a smile. “Buck up, little camper. You’re going… some place safe.” Cowboy and Rook looked at Max Jordan oddly. Then, Cowboy asked, “Do we have a clean exit?”
“No life signs in the vicinity. We eliminated 26 headhunters.”
Rook chuckled. “We just did the Midians a huge favor… and they’ll never even known about it.”
Stratos blubbered something. Barlass touched his neck and injected a calmative into his bloodstream.
“How’s your leg? Can you walk?” Johnny Rook asked.
“Negative,” Stratos answered. “Just get me the hell out of here.”
“We’ll get you back, don’t worry about it,” Dayvan Cowboy said.
Max Jordan smiled. “That’s right. Don’t worry about a thing. Everything’s gonna be great.”
The look in his eyes was so peaceful and assured, it was almost terrifying.
Yronwode – Xiyyon - Emissarial Complex of the Starcross That same night as Kitaen’s men were out in the desert rescuing Anton Stratos from the clutches of the headhunters, Eddie Roebuck was sleeping fitfully between golden sheets of silk. An empty cardboard bucket of fried bird parts and two empty jugs of wine lay at the foot of his bed, as his telereceiver flashed images of a jiggly, late-night sex comedy that washed him in strobes of pale blue-white light.
Eddie dreamed.
The woman in Eddie’s dream was very beautiful, and somehow familiar. He knew the place where he had seen her,, too. But he had never been there before.
