The Wikk became agitated. They skittered backward.
“Look at that,” Caputo said, befuddled. “Bugs don’t much like me doing that, do they?”
“Now let me try the reverse.” Hannig raised his own weapon at Caputo, as Caputo lowered his. The Wikk quickly reassembled and began to advance again.
“What the hell,” Caputo said.
But Hannig didn’t hear him. His mind raced. The implications were monumental. The big question: Why would the Wikk react any differently to him, a being from Khantam Lom, than to a human from Earth? The answer came to him immediately. And perhaps he’d always known on some level—it made sense. That the Wikk and probably many other intergalactic societies answered to a galactic force that was far more advanced, both intellectually and technologically, than their own. Khantam Lom—more specifically, the Cablah. The ever-watchful governing collaborative that had strived for millennia to maintain societal equality and fairness. The avoidance of hierarchy was a preeminent axiom—they’d gone so far as to genetically modify the population’s sexes. Could it be? That the Cablah had such influence so far beyond Khantam Lom’s own star system? That the rules of his own world did not apply everywhere?
Hannig now looked to Caputo. Had the Wikk arrived here, not just at the permission of the Cablah, but at their direction? To enslave humans, or worse? Yes. That made the most sense.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Hannig?” Caputo asked.
Startled, they both jumped as The Watcher Craft appeared at the railing. The aft hatchway opened and Matteo was there, waving them in. “Come on, come on, we need to go!” Neither Caputo nor Hannig needed any further encouragement.
Hannig kept an eye on the Wikk combatants as they now clamored forward. Before entering, Matteo said, “You’ll need to shove your way in—it’s packed pretty tight in here.”
Matteo wasn’t exaggerating. The aft compartment was a compact mass of humanity. An acrid smell of human body odor filled the space, and Hannig involuntarily started to gag. Everyone was talking or crying or simply moaning, some doing all at the same time. He moved forward through the claustrophobic space, prying himself between the shoulder-to-shoulder bodies. Once he’d made it to the control center, he found he could move freely—apparently, the rescued hostages had been relegated to the aft section.
“Come sit next to me, Hannig!” Lori said, piloting the Watcher Craft up and away from the Dominate’s Communications Center. She glanced his way. “Oh my, you look like a bloody mess.” Her eyes went to his hands. Hands that still clutched an assault rifle. “Sorry, Hannig. Sorry that you had to go through all that. All that violence.”
Hannig sat quietly as Caputo, standing behind them with Matteo and Carlo, relayed the previous course of events. The attack by the seemingly endless Wikk. What had happened to poor Elmo, and the spider-like robot. “But I guess we completed our mission. I hope it was worth it.”
Hannig said, “You have done well, Lori. Rescuing so many hostages.”
She nodded. “Took me a few minutes to get my brave on . . . but yeah. Still haven’t found those little Kenya kids yet, though . . .”
Hannig thought about that. If she had come back to rescue them first, perhaps Elmo and LOP would still be—he forced himself not to go there. All three squads had had their respective missions to accomplish. The truth was, no one was expected to get out of this alive. Saving so many hostages certainly outweighed the importance of their small team.
“And Dominic? Bravo squad? Tell me. What is their status?”
Chapter 41
Dominic Moretti
“Armory’s less than a half mile up on our left, guys” I said.
Georgina tapped the brakes, causing a loud, shrill squeal that made me wince. The front of the Stryker, it seemed, had taken more damage than just a blown tire.
“Copy that,” Gordo said. “Where’d all the bugs go?”
I’d been wondering the same thing. That was, until I saw what lay directly in front of us. Not a firing squad formation like before, but maybe some kind of physical barricade.
“Should I try to ram it?” Georgina asked.
“Um . . .” I squinted my eyes, trying to make out what the hell it actually was. “NO! Hold up.”
She did as asked, braking so hard we skidded to a stop. As the big C7 450 horsepower diesel engine idled, I continued to stare. Thankfully I’d seen it in time.
“Yeah, that’s not a barricade,” Gordo said.
“Not unless barricades have four legs, and look like an oversized rhino . . .” Georgina said.
“And it’s charging us.” Shit! The animal, whatever it was, was bigger than the Stryker. A lot bigger. And unlike a rhinoceros, it had a wide, plow-like appendage out front, reminiscent of a hammerhead shark.
“Back up!” I yelled.
“Um . . . not sure how to do that, “ Georgina murmured.
“Gordy, can you help her out?” I asked, now seeing great bursts of steamy snot spewing from the charging beast’s nostrils. “Two hundred feet out!” I yelled.
I heard Georgina and Gordy start to bicker about the shift location of reverse. Finally, the gears started grinding. We began moving backward. Slowly. Only then did I acknowledge the .50-cal machine gun positioned right in front of me. I’d have to be careful. Wouldn’t want stray rounds piercing the outer bulkheads, or we’d all be toast.
“Where the hell did that thing even come from?” Gordo asked.
“Containment cells down below,” I said. “Used the ship’s oversized lifts to get it up to this level. Earth evidently wasn’t the Wikk’s first planetary stop.”
My guestimate—we’d only managed thirty miles an hour. The hammerhead Rhino must be going fifty or sixty.
“I don’t know what to do! We’re dead just sitting here,” Georgina added.
Quickly, I checked the mounted ammo box to my left and ensured the ammo belt was fed properly into the weapon. By the time I looked up again, the beast was nearly upon us. Locked and loaded, I aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The big gun roared within the corridor’s tight confines. The first five to ten rounds missed the beast completely, going low, churning up the deck plates. I hoped they wouldn’t penetrate too far. Adjusting my aim, I fired again, and these next rounds found their target. A chunk of the wide snout turned to pink mist. But the thing must have had a hide like tank armor. Sure, it was bleeding, but it hadn’t missed a step.
“Just shoot the damn thing!” Gordo yelled.
I zeroed in on one of the beady eyes—an eye as black and lifeless as coal. I fired again, and this time the beast did falter. It didn’t stop, though. I knew my ammo should be running low about now. I had another box at the ready, but it would take far too much time to make the swap. When the machine gun clicked empty, I was encouraged to hear both Gordo and Georgina had taken the initiative to join in with their assault rifles.
Slowed and stumbling, the animal was at most fifty feet out now, flailing its massive great head back and forth, back and forth, as if trying to free itself from another’s clutches. I almost felt sorry for the creature. But then again, it would have had no second thoughts about tromping right on over us.
I reloaded my M4 and joined my two squad members, directing my added firepower into the mix. The beast raised its mangled head, its hide now turned to a crimson pulp. It bellowed into the smoke-filled air, an agonizing cry that seemed shockingly self-aware—it knew its end was near.
When it dropped, it dropped like twenty tons of cement. The Stryker rocked and swayed. One last snot-filled snort gushered up from the beast’s snout.
We sat there in the all-so-sudden stillness, wary, waiting for it to rise again. For something else to happen. Nothing did—the beast was dead. We’d actually done it.
“This is all well and good, boys. But how are we going to get around it?” Georgina said.
I saw Gordo open his door and step out onto the deck. “Why don’t we try pushing it.”
The truth w
as, the animal was a bloody mess, so much so that it might be slick enough we could nudge it along back down the corridor. “Sure. Give it a try, Georgina,” I said.
Gordo hopped back in as she put the armored vehicle into gear and slowly crept us forward until the nose of the Stryker came into contact with the beast’s not-insubstantial backside. She gave it a bit more gas, the engine roared and strained, and then we were moving. Hitting patches of blood, the vehicle’s eight wheels spun while trying to gain purchase. Within a minute, we were moving at a good clip—armored personnel carrier and dead hammer-headed rhino beast, scooting right along the corridor.
Down below, I heard Gordo let out a triumphant warrior cry. Georgina laughed, then followed with her own victorious holler. I raised my two big fists over my head and yelled the Marines’ infamous battle cry: “Oorah!”
With our celebratory moment passed, it was evident our troubles were far from over. Up ahead I saw green. Lots of green.
“Looks like they got that armory pretty well guarded,” Gordo said. “You have the better view from up there.
“I’d say two, maybe three hundred bugs.”
Boom! Boom!
Energy pulse fire cracked to life, forcing me to hunker down low in my seat. Bright blue streaks flashed by to the left, to the right, over my head. If it weren’t for that dead carcass in front of us, we’d have already been dead.
“What do you want me to do, Dommy?” Georgina asked. “Slow down?”
“No, speed up. And when I say when, slam on the brakes.”
“Oh yeah, bowling for dollars. I got your intent, brother,” Gordo said.
I figured the Stryker was chugging along at close to sixty miles an hour by now—we were re coming up on the armory fast. We were also nearing the mass of Wikk combatants. I yelled, “Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . Okay! Hit the brakes!”
All eight wheels simultaneously locked—rubber grabbed and smoke billowed into the air. The Stryker skidded to an abrupt stop, having angled us askew within the corridor. But my eyes were still fixed upon the dead beast. As hoped, the big carcass continued on its way—I saw in my mind the shockingly out-of-place image of the neighborhood fat kid gaining momentum on a wet slip and slide.
Screams arose, or the Wikk equivalent of such—sound and tones that went well beyond mere communicating. These were the kind of sounds that influenced one’s emotions, like unsettling, sorrowful, music that plucked at the heartstrings and transported you to nostalgic times, to places seeded with pain and regret. It registered with me that these were, in fact, highly emotional beings. I momentarily felt a pang of sorrow for the carnage—and then remember that these creatures viewed us as nothing, as prey, and reminded myself that I must thus do the same with them.
“Clean up on aisle six,” Gordo said.
“Funny,” Georgina said, getting us moving again.
“We’re here. Go ahead and take a left at this next juncture.”
She made the tight turn. I was impressed by her ability to drive this brute of a vehicle with such finesse. We cruised up to what looked to be a large, roll-down, garage-style door. “So, what should I do? Plow on into it? Seems to be my modus operandi as of late.”
I was about to say sure, give it a try, but something wasn’t right. “This is too easy.”
“What are you talking about?” Gordo said. “You didn’t catch those energy cannons the bugs are firing at us? Or maybe you missed that prehistoric monstrosity that almost stomped us into pudding? What’s easy about any of this?”
I ignored Gordy while taking in this supposed entrance to the armory. “No guards? No automated guns to ward off intruders? This is the armory. You’d think a little extra protection would be in place.”
“Well, I’m certainly no expert about such things,” Georgina said. “But I can see your point.”
Gordo opened his door partway and stood, half in and half out of the cab. “I don’t know. I say we just plow into the damn thing and be done with it.” He turned his upper body and looked up at me. “Your call, boss.”
That’s when I saw them. Thousands of them—maybe millions . . .
Chapter 42
Commander Prime Strength
Below her, the Dominate’s bridge was literally abuzz with tension and frenzied clicking motions. Commander Prime Strength—standing high upon her raised perch—stared at the view screen, simultaneously astonished and enraged. How had that archaic, black-smoke-belching Earth vehicle landed aboard her ship? Again, she watched the replay as the immense creature’s carcass plowed forward into their defending, unprepared-for-such-assaults squadrons. She could not recall a single historical occurrence when a primitive enemy had successfully infiltrated a Wikk warship—it had to have been decades, centuries since something like this had happened. This would destroy her legacy. Scar what had been, up until now, an impeccable military career. But in her own defense, she thought, what human species would be so brainless as to use projectile-spewing weapons when up in deep space? Those weapons had made all the difference. She inwardly fumed, although all such short-lived human success would soon be dealt with. Death would come to anyone who dared to commit these transgressions. They had made it personal—not with the massive carnage, but with the threat to her future. So she would personally ensure these humans suffered.
Damage reports were already coming in. The many high-velocity bullet holes denting the ship’s outer bulkheads, if left unattended, could eventually rupture and depressurize the Dominate. But ordering ship-wide maintenance was the least of her problems right then. The humans had destroyed her vessel’s communications capabilities, both internal comms and the ability to transmit and receive interstellar messages from far beyond this reclusive star system. There was still one option though . . .
The fact that these Earthlings had shown some initiative—were fighting back—was not ultimately that surprising to her. It was even admirable. She expected as much from all species defending their homeworld. But the presence of that lone Khantam Lom was most unexpected—and very disturbing. She had been assured that crossing into Khantam Lom spatial territory would evoke no response from those highly advanced aliens. In fact, the Cablah, their governing body, had encouraged it—albeit secretly. How lofty and superior the Khantam Lom always acted. Evolved beyond the necessity for all violence—self-described as pacifists. Kack-shit! A series of angry-sounding tones emanated from her abdominal gortch. The Cablah didn’t just turn a blind eye to violence when it served their purpose—they even sometimes promoted it. Hypocrites, the whole lot of them.
Beyond all doubt, at least one stealth craft now navigated the corridors of the Dominate. It had to be a Khantam ship. A Temporal 5, most likely, with the capability to become virtually invisible and penetrate solid matter. Firing on the small ship now, as well as on the odd-looking alien, would have to be avoided at all costs. Starting a war with the Khantam Lom would be catastrophic—despite her confidence in the Wikk’s capabilities, she did not see that as a war that could be won. But there were no such worries when dealing with humans. Prime watched as her second-in-command, Colonel Prowess, strode awkwardly up the mezzanine-level ramp. Not an easy feat, considering how much of a fight the human child in her grip was giving back, even with the tight, binding collar almost choking the little girl’s neck.
The child screamed unintelligible words. Her platinum blonde ponytail whipped about as she first tried to punch, then kick at Prowess. Prime, certainly no expert on human physiology, guessed the young female to be no more than ten years of age. Her pink shirt was ripped, and a dried smear of blood spotted her left cheek. But it was all the flailing-about motions that most captured Prime’s attention. All this energetic flapping was making her hungry—getting her stomach juices flowing. Prime’s elasticized jaws involuntarily snapped open and closed several times, anticipating an imminent meal.
Upon their approach Prime loomed tall, standing still as a statue. The child was flung onto the deck beneath her. The young gir
l gazed up. At over seven-and-a-half feet, Commander Prime Strength knew she was the tallest of the crew. She often used that to her advantage. She noted the fear shining in the eyes of the small human. That pleased her. It connected her to the feeling of the hunt—even here in these sanitized conditions.
The girl narrowed her eyes and said something.
Prime did not understand the ranting shouts from this barbaric offspring. She looked upward. “Translate that!” the commander ordered.
The Dominate’s central AI responded back with a series of tonal chords and clicks: Back home, in the Bronx, I step on bugs like you. Because bugs are stupid, and dirty, and I hate them!
Brought to anger by the child’s insolence, and before the girl even had a chance to flinch, or react, Commander Prime Strength jabbed outward with a sinewy appendage. The green limb encircled her small torso—a tightening, twisting vine that compressed all the air from the girl’s lungs. With no actual breath left, the child’s subsequent scream came out more like a pathetic squeal.
Prime brought the wide-eyed child up to head level. She had now stopped squirming, ceased all kicking—she’d fainted, from the lack of air or maybe just from fear. As a warm, fetid, pungent odor filled the air, Prime held the child away from her. Yellow urine dripped down and splattered onto the deck. “Disgusting, stinking creatures, these humans . . .” Prime was no longer hungry. That god-awful smell had momentarily saved the little Earthling’s life.
Colonel Prowess bowed her head then said, “Commander, with the Dominate’s internal comms still down, we need to utilize the emergency klaxon as a means to broadcast your vocal message ship-wide.”
Commander Prime Strength, somewhat lessoning her tight hold on the young girl, gave her a little shake. The youngster was rousted awake. “Initiate broadcast. “ Prime, bringing the child’s face closer to her own, opened her insectile mouth. The youngster could easily be devoured in one big bite.
The panicked girl screamed out, a plea of some sort
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