Death Drop (The D-Evolution)

by Sean Allen

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Why so upset, my Mewlatai friend?” Slaag’s body continued to rasp heavily for air between words. Choking clicks still rose from his throat as before, but the voice that issued from the contorted mouth on his face was not solely his own. It was still shrill and piercing, but a second, distinctly guttural intonation was laid on top of it, and the two resonated in a cadence of wickedness. “I see you have been touting your supremacy to my underling while threatening to kill him.” Slaag’s mouth stayed frozen in a grin, opening and closing as the words slithered past his needle-like teeth. “Come, tell me why I should fear you so,” the wretched voice goaded.

  “Do not play games with me, Helekoth!” Blangaris snapped. “You have sought to destroy the Mewlatai from the moment you knew you couldn’t control our minds! But you don’t seek to do battle with honor; you would use your mechanical monsters or perhaps your servants—like the dog I’m holding now—to do your treacherous bidding!”

  “You talk about honor like you still have it!” The voice pierced Blangaris’ head and grated against his eardrums. “You’re the one that was stripped of his honor, were you not?”

  Blangaris looked away and growled. He had heard enough.

  “You were killed for dishonoring your House, isn’t that right, Blangaris Daelekon?”

  Blangaris erupted into a vengeful roar and bared his teeth, microns from the cloudy eyes that stared lifelessly back at him.

  “Hahahahaha!” The sadistic grin on Slaag’s misshapen face remained unchanged as the voice’s maddening laughter caused his mouth to open and close rapidly like a demented puppet. “It seems I have touched upon an unpleasant subject.”

  “Just remember, Helekoth, when I’ve destroyed the Serum and the House of Daelekon, my blade will not rest until it has cut through your flesh.”

  “There’s no need for such threats. But I understand your fury. If my brother had killed me, I would want revenge as well. Blangaris, we work so well together. You’ve helped me undermine the Dissension’s faith in the Serum, and I’ve given you the perfect plan for striking down the life’s work of your enemy and drawing him into the open. But just in case our partnership is not enough to quell your wrath, remember it was I that resurrected you. By the Mewlatai law of the beating heart, I am part of you now.”

  Blangaris spat and snarled at the lifeless, talking corpse. “You made me an abomination!” he boomed in a deafening roar. “And for that reason alone, you’ll die a death a thousand times more painful than anyone who falls under my blade! I think I’ll amuse myself by imagining that you not only share a mind with your servant Slaag but also his body, as I crush the life out of him.”

  “What is his offense?” the voice rattled.

  “He left the cargo hold against my orders and deliberately tried to sabotage the surprise attack on the Dissension. He planned to fool you by leaving me to die on the planet’s surface, killing Krex and convincing you he had no choice but to leave in order to save the mission. He was hoping you would reward him for his service, but don’t take my word for it—not the word of a dishonored Mewlatai! Search his mind and learn the truth for yourself!”

  Slaag’s head shook from side to side as Helekoth scoured his thoughts and memories. It could be a difficult process. The Durax were a vile and twisted race consumed by their own greed and ambition. Many had found ways to conceal or disguise their thoughts from other Durax, to their own benefit. This was known to them as blurring. Slaag had intended to blur his memories of the Dissension ambush by convincing himself that Blangaris was attacked before he had opened the cargo hold door and was justified in fleeing to save the mission. It was a simple lie. He needed only to concentrate on the fabrication and visualize it happening in his mind’s eye. His was a masterful deception, and it would have fooled almost all of his kind, but Helekoth was no ordinary Soldier, General, or even Overlord—he was king. He was the most powerful Durax that ever lived, and he laid bare Slaag’s betrayal in an instant.

  “It would seem that Slaag gave in to his greed for power—a trait that all Durax share, I’m afraid. All the more reason to complete our work together, my Mewlatai friend. The amplifier will begin working on our Dissenter momentarily,” Slaag’s body wheezed with sickening delight.

  Chapter 7: Malo’s Lament

  “Where’s Lieutenant Schunkari?”

  “He’s on the west ridge singing his lament for Captain Zandre, sir. None of the men can bear the sound—so sad it makes them all want to weep. He’s up there just cradling his injured arm and singing, sir.”

  “How long’s he been at it?”

  “Almost seven hours, sir.”

  “Damn!” Colonel Jerrel Abalias was as tough as he was cunning. He closed his ice-blue eyes and put the tips of his fingers together. “Any word on the men we posted as lookouts in the valley?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “What the hell happened out there, Major? We’ve got four men missing, my best man is dead, and my second best man is so torn up about it that he won’t come down off the ridge! I don’t suppose anyone has tried to get him to come down,” he said, then dismissed the notion as completely foolish.

  “Everyone knows that Talfus and Malo were like brothers. There isn’t a soul in this compound that could make him stop before he’s ready, sir.”

  Colonel Abalias’ skin was as white as the snow-covered planet that he called home, but every inch of him turned impossibly paler as he considered the pain and anger Malo must have been feeling over the loss of Talfus. He let out a long sigh, and the exhaled air issued in a visible puff as his warm breath clashed with the chilled air surrounding his body. “He needs to get that arm fixed, and I need to know what happened, dammit! I’ve got the entire base evacuating as we speak because he’s mumbling something about the Mewlatai being in league with the Durax and killing Talfus with poison. And now they know there’s a Dissension brigade hiding out in this abandon network of old mines—I just can’t believe it—I need more damn details, Major! Go up there and see if he’s ready for debriefing.”

  Major Otto Von Holt cocked his small ears back in disapproval and stared gravely back at the colonel through keen, brown eyes.

  “Captain Zandre worked under you in Aquatics Battalion, did he not, Major?”

  “Yes, sir. I was the one who recommended him for Special Ops. He was one of the best all-around soldiers I’d ever seen. His death is a tremendous loss.”

  “Otto,” Abalias’ tone had softened to match his informal address of his old friend, “I’m going to speak candidly. This is a terrible turning point for the Dissension. We’re losing soldiers faster than we can recruit them, and without the promise of immunity to the powers of the Durax, no one will want to join our ranks and take up the fight. Without the Mewlatai and the Serum, we’re finished and the universe is…doomed.” The colonel’s radiant blue eyes stared past him, and as he looked closer, Otto noticed a flash of something he never thought possible: Abalias was afraid. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Otto, but please ask Lieutenant Schunkari to come down from the ridge. Ask as a friend, Otto. If he won’t move, then order him down as his superior officer. We’re running out of time. I’ll be waiting in the infirmary for you both.”

  Otto lowered his head with regret. “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  His furry, webbed toes sent up small clouds of dust as Major Otto Von Holt scampered up the crudely excavated trail that lead to the west ridge. He slowed and pulled himself to an upright walk as the sound of despair descended on him from above and weighed on his limbs like heavy chains. Otto crested the apex of the hill and couldn’t keep his heart from sinking as he took in the melancholy scene. Malo stood in the open, his profile clearly visible under the pale moonlight, his enormous head craned toward the sky. Except for his mouth, and the gigantic tears that sporadically rolled down from his eye, the Moxen giant didn’t move.

  Always the soldier, Otto’s mind began calculating the chances that Malo would survive if h
e was spotted, or heard, on the ridge and attacked by an enemy. Everything in his countless hours of training and years of leading troops in battle told him that Malo didn’t stand a chance; but his heart ached to the contrary. A song drifted from Malo’s lips in heavy dark curtains of sweet melancholy, and the notes blanketed the surrounding stone with sadness. The entire valley seemed joined in reverence and mourning. There were no other sounds. The wind did not blow the slightest breeze, and even the moon shined down in the deepest shade of blue Otto had ever remembered. Only an army without ears could have hoped to fell Malo. No living creature that could hear was immune to the gloomy spell cast by the Moxen’s song, and Otto’s mind could not stem the flood of woe that had broken loose in his heart. His eyes welled with tears and he sat silently and wept for some time as he listened to Malo’s beautiful refrain in honor of their fallen brother.

  “Waadi there.” Otto had drifted into a trance and didn’t notice that Malo had stopped singing. His back was turned and he was gazing at the heavens.

  “What was that, Malo?” the Major said, sniffing heavily and wiping the last of his tears away from his cheeks and whiskers.

  “Malo face Waadi and sing to fish man’s home.” Malo’s deep voice was shaky, and he tried hard to speak in his normal, deep timbre as he pointed to a faint blue glow in the sky with his good arm.

  “You’re a good friend, Malo—an honorable friend.” Otto was still affected by the power of Malo’s song, and he spoke in a gentle voice. “You’ve done everything you can for Talfus. It’s time to go. You have to give Colonel Abalias your report. We must know for sure what we’re up against.”

  “Malo not done all he can for fish man—could not save…fish man.” Malo’s voice broke again, and his huge upper body shook with sorrow as he choked out words between sobs. “Malo do two more things. Malo kill Mewlatai…Malo bury fish man under waves of home.”

  Otto looked at the giant in amazement. “You can’t be serious,” he said in disbelief. “We have to bury Captain Zandre with the other soldiers that’ve fallen on this planet. That’s our protocol, Malo—you know that.” Otto’s eyebrows were raised in concern as he stepped slowly toward the grief-stricken Moxen.

  “Malo and fish man made promise. Bury friend at home. If one alive and other…dead—take friend home.”

  “Malo, as your commanding officer, I can’t allow that,” Otto said half-heartedly as he tried to overcome his emotions and speak with authority. He furrowed his brow over his small, dark eyes and stood up as straight as he could, mustering all of his resolve. “I can’t let you do that, Lieutenant Schunkari.”

  Malo turned slowly to face him, and Otto saw that his left arm hung lifeless at his side. Otto stepped closer and could see that the arm was noticeably swollen and, even worse, bent at an unnatural angle. The gruesome sight of Malo standing in the eerie blue moonlight with an arm bent the wrong way at the elbow made his skin crawl beneath his underfur.

  “Malo! Malo, that arm’s gotta hurt like hell! We’ve got to get you to the infirmary now or you’re likely to lose it!” he said, panic cutting through his despair.

  Malo moved forward until his gigantic form towered over Otto, who was still fixated on the injured arm. “Malo promised fish man. Malo die to keep promise. Fish man done same. Malo freeze fish man and take home.”

  Otto’s cheeks puffed as he let out a deep breath that caused his whiskers to twitch slightly forward around his nose. He stood silently for several minutes staring into Malo’s tear-soaked face as he considered his options. He thought about his words carefully and finally spoke in the most authoritative tone he could muster. “As your commanding officer, I cannot allow you to take Captain Zandre’s body to Waadi, Lieutenant Schunkari.” Otto gave Malo his most unwavering stare and waited for a reply.

  If Malo was disappointed at Otto’s response, it didn’t show, and he continued to stare down at the major without moving, while a huge tear swelled beneath his eye and then cascaded quietly down his face.

  “As your commanding officer, I cannot allow this to happen…but,” Otto relented, “as your friend, I’ll help you fulfill a promise to a good soldier.” He reached out and placed his small paw on the back of Malo’s right hand. The lips beneath Malo’s wet snout curled in the best smile he could manage given the circumstances. “I’ll help you in your two tasks, my friend, but in return, you have to do two things for me. First, you have to follow me to the infirmary and get your arm fixed, and second, you have to tell the colonel what happened on that plateau. Lives depend on it, Malo. Truth be told, every single life that exists in the universe and every single life to come—depends on it.”

  Chapter 8: Tasks Owed

  Colonel Jerrel Abalias was pacing the floor of the infirmary examination room as green-frocked medical officers and technicians packed equipment in haphazard containers and busied themselves with making the medical unit disappear as quickly as possible along with the rest of the Dissension base.

  Tap, Tap, Tap.

  A slender silhouette appeared on the other side of the door. The figure stood alone, and the colonel could feel his disappointment and anger swell as he prepared to order Major Otto Von Holt into the room and tear into him. But the growing fever in his mind cooled as he became aware of a distant echo in the corridor. The faint sound steadily increased until it transformed into the unmistakable clap of hooves against stone, and an enormous shadow rose against the frosted viewing pane outside the door and dwarfed the outline of Von Holt.

  “Come in, Major.”

  Otto walked across the floor, came to attention in front of the colonel, and snapped a salute. “I’ve brought Lieutenant Schunkari down from the ridge as requested, sir.”

  “At ease, Major. Well done. Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, will you please come in?” Malo stepped through the opening to the examination room, stooping considerably to keep his horns from hitting the top of the doorway. Once inside, the Moxen lifted his head and shoulders to their full height and released his mangled limb so he could salute the colonel. His injured arm, now unsupported, began to throb, and a small grimace twisted his lip as he held his right hand just beneath the curled horn on his brow.

  “At ease, son,” the colonel said, in awe of the horrific, swollen pulp of flesh that used to be Malo’s left arm. “I’ve seen some battle wounds in my time, son, but that’s got to be one of the worst I’ve seen on a soldier still walking around.” He reached for the holodex on the empty desk in front of him and punched a button. “Doc, we’re ready for you in here.

  “Lieutenant, I’m going to ask you some questions while the doctor tries to save your arm. I’m going to ask you about what happened on the ridge—I’m going to have to ask you to recount what happened to Captain Zandre. I know it’s going to be hard for you, but we’ve got to be certain of what went on—you have to tell me everything you can remember about the goddam Serum drop!” The colonel slammed his fist down on the abandoned desk with a loud thwack that echoed in the empty room.

  Before Malo could nod his head in agreement, the door slid open and a large object, steadily rolling forward on treads circling a network of interlocking cogs on either side of its long body, entered the room. Perched above the treads was a flat expanse flanked by four mechanical arms with interchangeable ends for various medical tasks. On its right hand side, the device currently sported a lighted attachment on one arm and a hand, complete with four fingers and an opposable thumb, on the other. The left side of the machine had a similar setup except, in place of the lighted attachment, there was a curious-looking instrument made from two lengths of metal tubing connected to each other at a slight angle. Both sections of the tube had two sets of heavy manacles in their open position. Otto gave a slight shudder as he tried in vain not to imagine what purpose the odd-looking attachment would soon serve.

  The device circled to Malo’s side and slowed down. As the machine came to a halt, the flat portion above its tr
eads tilted forward until it stood on end facing the colonel, and the right arm with the hand elevated upward in a gesture that looked like a salute, although the machine did not have anything resembling a head. Behind it followed a bespectacled, spiny mammal with a white lab coat and small beady eyes quickly darting from side to side over an illuminated rectangular object grasped in his hands.

  “Oh, my,” he said in a squeaky voice, shaking his head and sucking the back of his large front teeth. “Oh, at ease, Bertie!” he said testily as he looked up from his report. “How many times do I have to remind you, you don’t have to salute anyone anymore?” Bertie the machine lowered his saluting arm, and Otto could have sworn he saw the now vertical portion of the device tilt minutely forward and all four of its arms slouch slightly. “Blasted thing thinks it’s still in the service of Her Majesty’s army. Sorry about that, Colonel.”

  “It’s quite all right, Artemus,” Colonel Abalias said, eyeing Bertie curiously. “I wasn’t aware that your race had a queen, Artie.”

  “Ah…well…yes—of course we did,” Dr. Artemus Blink said awkwardly as he cast a regretful glance at the colonel. Abalias recognized the pained look that so many members of the Dissension shared, a look brought about by agonizing memories of slaughter and destruction at the hands and minds of the Durax, and he quickly changed the subject.