by Mark Wandrey
He watched the pilot flip out and punch the ascent engines, summersaulting hundreds of tons of steel and alloy as it rocketed across the bay.
“You don’t see that every day,” he said as the ship slammed into the water and, remarkably, rebounded back out and straight toward him. “FUCK!” he yelled and dropped to the rubble-strewn floor.
The stricken dropship missed what remained of his cabin’s roof and blasted over, the rocket backblast tearing already loosened tiles from their moorings. He craned his neck to follow the dropship as it corkscrewed through the air, climbing slightly. He thought maybe the pilot might manage to regain control of the craft, just as it plowed into the cliff with a thunderous crash.
“That was awesome,” Vince said, having poked his head out of the bunker a second after the dropship careened by.
The dropship’s hull was folded in half by the impact. Its fuel tanks ruptured and detonated in an impressive hydrogen fireball. The remnants of the once-graceful spheroid dropship cartwheeled down the cliff face to land in a burning tangle of trees.
“I told you to keep your ass down there until it was over,” Murdock yelled at the kid.
“Looks over to me,” Vince said and climbed out.
Murdock cursed as he stood up from the mess and dusted his fatigues off. His shoulder hurt, his hip hurt, and his hand hurt. But damn, he felt good! The bay was a mess. The dropship had shot the shit out of every house around Margarita Bay, and for some unknown reason, had put a rocket in Dod’s place, blowing the holy shit out of it.
“We clear?” a voice called from the bunker.
“Yeah,” Murdock said and climbed down the ladder. Inside were most of his friends. The twenty by twenty bunker he’d dug out of the sand and lined with concrete after they’d given him the cabin had felt a little like paranoia when he’d started it. Now he felt fully justified. Of course, the design had been taken from Dod. He wondered if the old fart was still alive; he’d refused to go anywhere other than his own bunker. So they’d been hauling the cagey bastard down into the bunker every night and back out in the morning.
“Sounded like a real shitshow,” Mika said. She was readying a highly-modified laser rifle, checking the computer-controlled optics and connecting it to her pinplants. She and Greenstein were the only ones among them to have the brain implant.
“One dropship,” he said, “unknown origin.”
Greenstein had climbed up when Murdock came down, and he now yelled down to them. “I can’t be sure, might be a Razor-class,” he said. “Man, Murdock, you killed the shit out of that thing.”
“Damned good thing you kept the laser,” Dandridge said, climbing up the ladder behind the pilot. Everyone in the bunker was in some form of fatigues, many from their days as mercs, and all were now armed with everything from shotguns to laser weapons. Once a merc, always a merc.
Murdock had risked a shitstorm by hacking into the island’s power plant to hook up the laser. It was too difficult to connect and disconnect from the skiff’s power supply. Besides, he couldn’t be convinced any attack wouldn’t destroy the boat. Amazingly, they’d left it alone. “Tully, Kelso, Dolan,” he said, “go check on the others along the bay.”
“Roger that,” Tully said, the other two nodding as the three climbed out as quickly as they could.
“Dandridge, Mika, Dolan, give me a hand getting Ripper out of here, then let’s go check out the crash with Greenstein.”
“I can get myself out,” the legless merc complained.
“Just let us help,” Murdock said. “If your mobility chair is still in one piece, you can help check the rest of the island for survivors.” He nodded reluctantly. “Just wish I’d managed to convince the rest to hunker down.”
Despite missing both legs just below the hip, Ripper was in great shape and strong as an ox. It didn’t take too much help to get him up and into his mobility chair. Damned thing is more like a tank, anyway, Murdock thought as the man powered up the little machine and shot off down the gravel road in a swirl of dust. The rest of them set off toward the dropship.
Of course, Vince was tagging along. Murdock briefly considered telling him to wait in the bunker. Only problem was, the kid would probably take off to help the others, and that was worse, because the kid wouldn’t be within view at all. Letting him tag along was the best choice in a list of bad options.
When they were a few yards from the dropship, Murdock stopped and waved the kid over. “Look,” he said, “this could be dangerous. Someone or something might have survived. I don’t suppose you’ll wait here?”
“I want to help,” the kid said, emphatic in his demeanor.
“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Murdock reached into a pouch attached to his fatigue leg and pulled out a belt with a holster attached and a weapon inside. The kid’s eyes lit up, and he ground his teeth in frustration. “Yeah, this is for you. It’s the same as the practice gun we’ve been using, only this one can kill.” The kid stared at the gun, so Murdock smacked him on top of the head.
“Hey!” he said, rubbing the spot.
“You listenin’ to me?” Murdock asked. Vince nodded. “Good, because this isn’t a fuckin’ game. We get in the shit, you run. Got it?” He nodded again. “Okay.”
“They why give me a gun?” Vince asked, looking hurt.
“Because it offers a last resort if we get pasted.”
The kid looked around at the other retired mercs, and for the first time, saw the grim resolve on their faces. These weren’t the looks of fond remembrance he’d seen before. Danger wasn’t a memory now, it was here on their island and had tried to kill them. He looked down, chastened about being so excited. Murdock glanced at his friends, who all nodded.
“Okay,” he said, “just stay back behind us and be ready for anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Vince said. They moved toward the smoldering wreck.
Greenstein, as their only pilot, moved in first. Now that they were closer, he was certain of the design. “Razor, for sure,” he said. “Izlians made a fuckton of these things. Never liked them myself, too heavy and slow.”
“Vulnerable to ground fire, too,” Murdock said with a wink. “Who uses them?”
“Just about everyone,” the pilot admitted and shrugged. “Even a couple Human units have used them.”
Murdock let out a grunt, then gestured for the pilot to proceed. They used what cover there was to slowly creep up right next to the wreck. Once they were next to it, he could see just how badly he’d chewed the thing up. It was amazing it had been able to stay in the air at all, with as many rectangular laser holes as there were. As they moved around the side, they saw the superstructure was completely torn open, revealing the trooper bay. Dozens of huge, shelled carapaces littered the ground, all cracked and leaking blue blood.
Dandridge stepped up and put a shotgun slug through one still moving, while Mika fired a laser bolt through several more. After a few seconds of grisly work, the aliens were all very dead.
“Well, great,” Murdock said and spat on one of the Xiq’tal corpses. “We’ve got crabs.”
* * * * *
Chapter Eleven
Ironically, Murdock’s house was the one in the best shape. With a little help, he managed to get some tarps up to keep the coming rain off their heads as the fourteen survivors of the Battle of Tahiti all gathered there.
The main power breaker to his house was out, so he put all the beer in a cooler and had Vince grilling up the meat from his fridge. It would go bad anyway. In the center of the room, looking as surly as ever, Dod Richie was the guest of honor.
Not only had Dod survived, they’d found him wearing body armor and armed with a no-shit AK-47. It took Tully, Kelso, and Roberts five minutes to talk the crazy old coot down enough to get into the basement and haul him out. The old coot looked salty enough to take on the crabs all by himself.
“Thanks for coming,” Murdock said, a fresh cigar clamped between his teeth giving off a curl of smoke.
<
br /> “Thanks for saving our asses,” someone yelled, to which they all applauded.
“Wish more of them had listened to you,” Mika said. Everyone who’d survived had taken cover overnight. The rest all died in bed. Murdock had just gotten that feeling. Every merc knew what it was. You couldn’t quantify or explain it, and it wasn’t always right or in time. So eight of them were dead, and fourteen survived. His seven closest friends, who’d shared his bunker, were unhurt, as well as Dod by some miracle. The others were all at least slightly injured. He’d tended to them with the help of Leif, who in addition to being a tanker was also a qualified field medic.
Looking around the room, it reminded Murdock of a post-mission briefing when they’d gotten their asses kicked. Quite the collection of bandages, bloody wrappings, and scowling faces. Only all of these were gray-haired or balding, and not in peak condition any longer.
“So what’s next?” Ripper asked.
“Yeah!” a bunch of them chimed in.
“We wait and see if help is coming,” Murdock said. “I sent a request as soon as Mika got the computer link with Atlantis working again.
“Only they ain’t responding,” the aforementioned lady said. “Come on, Murdock, you know they got pasted.”
“No doubt about it,” Tully agreed. They’d all seen the distant glow just before the sun was high enough to blot it out. Huge fires to the east, toward Pinnacle Island.
“Sooner or later more crabs’ll be coming to see what happened to their buddies,” Kelso said.
Murdock nodded; there was truth in the statement. And with a shot-to-shit dropship in his back yard, it wasn’t likely the second wave of crabs would be in a talking mood.
“I say we go find ’em and fuckin kill ’em,” Dod said, to a loud round of cheers, whistles, and clapping.
“Maybe you haven’t been keeping up with current events, but we just got our asses kicked,” Murdock said.
“Yeah, and you kicked them back,” Vince said, coming in with a huge platter of barbecued pork, which was instantly set upon by the retired mercs.
He put the cigar out and stashed it. “I got lucky,” Murdock insisted.
“One shot is luck,” Mika pointed out, “drilling that dropship like a hot prom date wasn’t luck.” Laugher rippled around the room; Vince looked confused. “Some damned fine shooting,” she said and lifted her beer. Everyone in the room did likewise. Murdock scowled and felt his cheeks getting warm. “I say we need to get out of here, didi mau.”
“Okay, sure,” he agreed, “but someone needs to take charge of this dog and pony show.”
“Well,” Mika said, “I say it’s you.” A cheer went around again.
“Oh, no, no fuckin’ way,” he said, holding up his hands. “I was just a sergeant.” He pointed a finger at her. “You were a lieutenant!”
“I was promoted the day I was retired,” she said and pointed to the line of scar tissue running back from her hairline to the crown of her head. “Never went above first sergeant.”
“You were a captain,” he said, looking at Greenstein.
“I was a pilot, dude. I’ve pulled a hand weapon trigger in anger exactly one time, and it was over a girl.” A few catcalls echoed, and he grinned.
“Betcha missed, too,” Dod cackled.
“The guy and the girl,” Dandridge laughed.
“Okay, okay, we’re getting off target here,” Murdock said.
“Yeah, we are,” Dod said, “all in favor of appointing Murdock the commander of our militia, say aye.”
“AYE!” the whole room yelled before Murdock had a chance to say a word.
“Fuck,” was the only word he got out, which earned him a round of applause.
“Okay, commander,” Kelso said and saluted. Murdock flipped him the bird. “What’s your orders, sir?”
* * *
With many injuries, no response from Atlantis, and the possibility of another attack hanging over their heads, Murdock elected to have them go into Atlantis. At the least, medical support should be there.
Nothing about the attack looked like a normal merc operation. It made no sense to hit Valais; what did they have besides fish? The whole reason Humans had a colony there was no other race wanted the planet. The chemistry of the ocean was less than ideal for most aquatic races.
The problem, Murdock decided, was why someone had figured it was a good idea to flatten an island populated entirely with has-been mercs. That was a bigger mystery than the attack itself. While he didn’t tell the others, he also suspected his house had been the real target of the missile that took out Dod’s place.
One of the dead residents had kept a large, slow fishing barge big enough for all the wounded. While most of the others got everyone on the barge, Mika and Greenstein helped Murdock move the crew-served laser. As soon as the barge was chugging out of the harbor toward Pinnacle Island, his ‘command’ piled into the skiff.
He’d had a fight with Vince when he’d tried to convince the kid to go with the injured, telling him the wounded needed someone to watch over them. The kid hadn’t bought it for a second. He knew the people on the skiff were the ones with the best chance of seeing action, and he’d flatly refused to go on the barge, to the point of continually trying to slip away. In the end, Murdock relented. The kid was a fair hand at driving the skiff anyway.
They shadowed the barge all the way to Pinnacle Island, maintaining a top speed of five knots. Even underwater, the skiff was creeping by comparison.
“Why don’t we just race ahead and meet them there?” Vince asked.
“Because aliens are shooting the shit out of stuff,” Murdock told him. “We don’t know if they’ll think the barge full of people is just a fun target.” The kid glumly nodded. And I wouldn’t mind shooting holes in some more crabs, he thought.
While they slid beneath the surface a short distance behind the barge Murdock evaluated their condition as a fighting force. The youngest was fifty-five and missing both legs. The oldest was ninety years old, mean as a shark, and with a cybernetic leg as old as the youngest member. They all either had parts missing or were PTSD as shit, or both. Still, it wasn’t the worst group to have in this situation.
First, they didn’t look like a merc unit. It was just a bunch of old farts, and any alien race would see they weren’t normal mercs. Second, they were chewed up, and that would further the first impression. Lastly, if the enemy had sent the dropship to kill him, they likely believed him dead.
The harbor wasn’t terribly deep, so Murdock took the controls as they rounded the headlands. He closed on the barge, so they were only a few meters behind and below it. Safely in their wake, he raised the skiff’s periscope. He grinned, feeling like one of those submarine captains in World War II movies he’d seen as a kid in Arkansas. When the camera came online, he gasped.
The harbor was destroyed. In the viewing area alone, he could see several sinking or sunk fishing ships. The barge maneuvered and gave Murdock a clear view of another wreck. It was hard to miss the Northern Lights, the biggest ship in the fleet. It looked like the ship had been chewed by a dog. It was still afloat as a slowly drifting, burning hulk.
The skyline of the city was subtly different. The few skyscrapers were chopped off, burning, or smoldering wrecks as bad as the ships in the harbor. Murdock couldn’t guess how many had died in the city. He felt an icy hand begin to close around his heart as he thought of Sheela and her daughter, somewhere in the burning ruins of the city. Any doubt he’d had about fighting was gone in an instant. Oh, there’s going to be hell to pay, he thought.
“What’s the sense of it?” Mika asked, her face ashen. “Wanton destruction for destruction’s sake.”
“Murderous fuckin’ aliens,” Dod said, and spat on the deck.
Murdock glanced at Vince observing the destruction, and saw the boy clenching his jaw in rage.
He was forced to slow their progress to a crawl when the skiff’s sonar began detecting one sunken ship after another. God
, he thought, is Shell Game II down here? he quietly wondered. He’d become friends with the men and women on the fishing boat. Captain Orlan was an honest and good man; he didn’t deserve to be killed by some alien mercs for unfathomable reasons.
With the barge out of sight, he was faced with a choice. Either follow it as best as he could by picking his way through the wrecks, or simply find a place to go ashore. Anyplace at all. He elected to go with the latter plan and link up with his wounded neighbors later.
Murdock guided the skiff over to the largely empty docks. Picking one of the slips at the far end closest to the town, he slowly slid all the way in. The skiff was a wonderful hybrid between high-speed surface boat and submersible. While it was better as a surface boat with an extendible hydrofoil, it also managed okay as a submarine with its ballast tanks. Using cameras on the periscope, Murdock took a careful look around. A few fishermen were on the docks, apparently tending to the wounded. There were a fuckton of wounded. He surfaced the skiff.
To their credit, when he popped the hatch on the skiff, a dozen various guns were pointed at him. He held up his hands to show he was unarmed. They immediately lowered their guns. “Friendly,” he said.
“Hey,” one man with a bloody bandage on his head said, “you’re that guy from Shell Game, right?”
“The one who blew up the pirates?” an uninjured man asked.
“Just a rumor,” Murdock said. “Can we get out?”
“Who you got in the fancy sub?” the first man to speak asked.
“Just some friends.” All the nearby men looked around, then gestured for Murdock to come up.
“Best hurry,” the injured man said, “the lizards are patrolling for armed people.”
“Lizards?” Murdock asked as they gave him a hand up. “What kind?”
