by Jake Bible
Drop Team Zero
Jake Bible
Copyright 2016 by Jake Bible
www.severedpress.com
One
The Borgon Eight-Three-Eight stealth incursion ship hovered two kilometers above the planet’s surface, its presence invisible to any and all scanners. The only way it could be discovered was if someone out on a joyride at that altitude came within three meters of its cloaked hull.
And considering that the atmosphere of the planet was filled with densely packed clouds made up of sulfuric acid and iodine vapor, the odds of someone out for a fun family flight was almost nil.
“Okay, Zero, everyone should be in position and ready for go,” Lieutenant Bish “Motherboard” Falk announced into the com, commander of the elite Galactic Fleet Marines SpecOps unit known as Drop Team Zero. “I have readings from Cookie, Wanders, Mug, and Hole. Geist? I am not picking you up. Does anyone have eyes on Geist?”
She swiped the metallic fingers of her right hand through the holo that showed her Team’s positions. The holo rolled right, right, then back to the left, completing a full circuit of the target below. Only four blips when there should have been five.
“Are you joking?” Sergeant Nox “Cookie” Schturm replied over the com. “The whole point is to not see Geist.”
“I understand that, Cookie,” Motherboard replied. “But I’m not even seeing his transponder signal.”
“I had eyes on him,” Sergeant Woo “Wanders” Calli-Fa said over the com. “But he did his chameleon thing. He blended into the lawn then the palace’s walls as soon as he broke cover.”
“Small mercies there, I tell you,” Sergeant Zelaron “Mug” Guspo laughed over the com. “I’m a little tired of seeing his naked ass all the foing time.”
“Only way he can blend in to his surroundings,” Motherboard responded.
“Yeah, I am aware of that, LT,” Mug replied. “Just saying. That bony butt of his ain’t exactly my cup of Ichterran tea.”
“Eight Million Gods, Mug,” Cookie said. “How can you drink that stuff? You know they brew from the water exhaled from their gills, right? That is some nasty fish tea.”
“I’m Urvein, Cookie,” Mug replied. “I love me some fish tea.”
“Can we stop the chatter?” Master Sergeant Hole interrupted. “We’ve got movement on the east side of the palace.”
“Listen up, Geist,” Motherboard said, knowing the Tcherian could hear her, but couldn’t respond without giving his position away. “You are the inside eyes and ears. The second you see something off, I need you—”
“I know my job,” Sergeant Ja’le’fa “Geist” Tog’ma whispered over the com. “And something is seriously off, LT. Our intel is way wrong on what to expect.”
“Way wrong?” Motherboard asked. “How way wrong?”
“This may be Sha Morgoal’s BOP, but he isn’t exactly having a meeting of the criminal minds,” Geist replied.
“Then what is he doing?” Motherboard asked, pinching the holo so she could zoom in on the image. The landscape was rocky and inhospitable. Add the noxious cloud cover and it was perfect for a galactic crime lord to call his own. “I have signatures from vehicles of half the crime lords that live here on Monia’Ja and signatures from ships of most of the criminal element within six wormholes. I’d say he is up to something.”
“Yeah, he’s up to something, but it’s not a crime council or some crud,” Geist replied. “It’s a foing wedding.”
“A what?” Mug growled, her voice a thundering rumble even through the com. “Our op is to crash a wedding?”
“Our op is to recover Councilman Keer’s son with extreme prejudice,” Motherboard said. “If there is a wedding going on then it is about to be ruined.”
“Yeah, it’s a little more complicated than that,” Geist said. “Fo!”
“Geist? Geist? Come in,” Motherboard ordered. “Crud!”
“Are we a go or are we on hold?” Mug asked.
“I can get in there and make this happen right now, LT,” Cookie said. “Just give me the word.”
“Keep your Cervile claws retracted, Cookie,” Motherboard ordered. “Everyone hold. Geist probably went quiet because of company.”
There was a click in the com.
“There we go,” Motherboard said. “That you, Geist?”
Another click.
“Is it go time?” Motherboard asked.
Two clicks.
“Then we hold until Geist gives the word, Team,” Motherboard said. “Acknowledge.”
“Hold,” Cookie said, his voice betraying his obvious displeasure with the order.
“Hold,” Wanders replied, his voice like thick gravel, normal for the stone-skinned Gwreqs.
“Hold,” Mug said, her voice no longer the thundering grumble, but a calm, patient sigh.
“Hold,” Hole agreed in her flat, android voice. It had a hint of the feminine, only because that was her body structure and designed gender identity. “But go in five if Geist doesn’t give the all clear.”
“You seeing something I’m not?” Motherboard asked.
“I’m seeing everything you’re not, LT,” Hole replied. “My scanners detect enough weaponry to take down a quarter of the Fleet Marines.”
“Great,” Motherboard sighed. “Go in five if Geist doesn’t give the all clear.”
A single click indicated Geist was perfectly fine with that plan.
Motherboard eased back in her chair, rotating her mechanical right arm in its cybernetic socket. The science was precise and millennia old, but there was no way a human being could ever get used to her body being half machine. She cracked her neck and waited.
Two
Tcherians were a genetically engineered race. No one knew who engineered them or why. The Tcherians themselves didn’t even know. Many theories were that they were intended to be a race of assassins, their chameleon abilities, which included not only near invisibility and total camouflage, but also eyes that could rotate and see independently of each other, were perfect for use as covert weapons.
Unfortunately for their creators, the Tcherians were natural pacifists, a race that abhorred violence in any form. Legend on their planet had it that they were dumped there to die when their creators couldn’t breed or engineer the pacifism out of them.
But, as with every race and species across the galaxy, there was always at least one or two outliers that refused to conform to genetic or cultural norms.
Geist was that outlier to an extreme.
After giving the last click of ascent to the rest of Zero over the com, Geist focused one eye one way and his other eye the other way, taking in both the left and right directions of the stone corridor he stood in. His back was pressed firmly against the wall, his naturally cold-blooded body not even feeling the chill of the stone. Servants hurried back and forth in front of him, none the wiser to his presence, as they rushed to deliver food and supplies to the grand ballroom that bustled with activity only a few doors down.
Geist slowed his breathing to almost nothing and waited. He’d been able to make it that far inside the palace only because of the chaos of the wedding reception. But the sharp, loud clinking of a glass, and subsequent silence of the guests from the grand ballroom, meant the chaos had come to an end and he was cemented in his spot or he risked discovery. Even with his body’s ability to blend in to any and all surroundings, movement still produced enough of a shimmer that a servant that wasn’t completely distracted with his or her task could detect him.
If that happened then the eight-inch talons that extended from the middle knuckle of each finger would have to come into play. When they decided to play, there was always a great deal of blood. And no matter the species, or the color, large quantities of blood s
praying everywhere was always a dead giveaway that maybe things weren’t how they should be.
While his eyes were exceptional, Geist’s hearing was no better than a human’s, so he strained to make out the toast that was going on in the grand ballroom.
“…gentlemen…species and castes,” the faint voice said. “…together for this occasion…occurrence for our….thank you…glass high…”
Geist made sure none of the servants were looking in his direction and eased two steps to the side, moving slightly closer to the open double doors of the grand ballroom. He froze in place when a female Shiv’erna servant lifted her elongated nose and took a deep breath. Geist had shut down every pore on his body, making sure he didn’t emit any tell-tale scent before entering the palace, but Shiv’ernas had proboscises that were lauded throughout the galaxy for their ability to detect scents down to the milli-micron.
The Shiv’erna woman sniffed again then a third time. She turned and looked directly at Geist, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Musho?” she asked, pressing her stunted hand to her throat. “Musho? Is that the terpig quiches burning that I smell? Musho, I swear to the Eight Million Gods that if I come back into that kitchen and find burnt quiches, I will have the chefs chop you up and serve you to the guests!”
The woman tilted her head, obviously listening to a response, and frowned.
“I am checking the buffet then I will be right there,” the woman snapped. “The nuft pudding had better not be ruined either. These guests are tearing through that like a Cweatt dragon through a field of C sheep. Do you hear me, Musho? Musho!”
The Shiv’erna woman spun about on her rounded, elephantine heels and stomped back the way she came. Geist counted to ten before he let out his breath and moved closer to the grand ballroom doors.
His internal clock told him he had two minutes before Hole gave the order for the rest of Zero to come in with plasma rifles hot. Lieutenant Falk, known to everyone on the Team as Motherboard, was Drop Team Zero’s commanding officer, but Hole was the assault leader when boots were on the ground. If she gave the order in that android voice of hers then Zero went to work. Geist needed to verify and make sure one hundred percent that Zero wasn’t rushing into something they couldn’t handle.
As he got closer and closer, and his eyes focused together on what he saw through the grand ballroom doors, Geist quickly realized that, yes, Zero was about to rush into something that they could not handle. Not without turning the palace into foing Hell, at least.
He clicked his com over and over until he heard Motherboard’s voice in his ear.
“I assume that an assault is not in our best interest,” Motherboard stated.
Geist gave one click to let her know she was correct in that assumption.
“How many are we looking at?” Motherboard asked. “Give me clicks by the dozen.”
Geist clicked eighteen times.
“Fo,” Motherboards said.
“Are you saying we have over two hundred galactic criminals to deal with?” Mug asked over the com.
Geist clicked twice to indicate a no.
“Don’t tell us that number is just the bodyguards present?” Cookie asked.
Geist clicked once to confirm it was.
“Crud,” Cookie hissed. “Crud, crud, crud.”
“Hey!” Motherboard snapped. “We knew the security was going to be heavy. That’s why the brass sent us. They don’t activate Zero if it’s a couple of Jesperians or Jirks hanging out with pistols.”
“Heavy security is one thing, LT,” Mug said. “But two hundred armed bodyguards is another.”
“They are only an issue if they come into play,” Hole said. “If we do our jobs then they won’t know we were even here. Full assault is now off the table. Cookie? You’re up.”
“Roger that, Hole,” Cookie responded. “I’m making my way around the palace now to the detention side. Intel better be right on the location of the intake vents.”
“It is,” Hole said. “I verified when we dropped. You’ll have a three-story climb, but you are more than equipped to handle that.”
“Wanders, you have overwatch,” Motherboard ordered. “Move your position so you have eyes on Cookie.”
“Roger, LT,” Wanders said. “Moving now.”
“Mug, you are Cookie’s backup,” Motherboard said. “This goes south then you do that break everything in sight thing you do. Stealth be damned.”
“I hear that,” Mug said.
“I’m tapped into their com system and will monitor all communications,” Hole said. “I’m sitting tight until it’s time to leave or Mug needs to do her thing.”
“Good plan, Hole,” Motherboard replied. “I’m relying on you to keep things moving on the ground.”
“That’s my job, LT,” Hole said. “I plan on doing it perfectly.”
“Ain’t no thing as perfect in the field,” Mug said. “Unless by perfect you mean total SNAFU as usual.”
“I mean perfect,” Hole replied, her android voice a couple degrees colder than before.
“Quiet on the coms until we have the target,” Motherboard ordered. “Geist? If you see any indication that those bodyguards have gotten even a hint of our presence, you click the crud out of that com then get your naked ass out of there. Do you copy?”
Geist clicked once that he copied then settled in to his position across from the grand ballroom’s double doors.
Three
The intel was right as to the location of the intake vents.
Cookie stared up at the three stories he had to climb to get to the first vent, the only unguarded access point into Sha Morgoal’s crime palace. The vents should have been on the first floor, just a quick leap and grab from where Cookie stood, like the vast majority of galactic structures.
But that would have been too easy and easy wasn’t why Drop Team Zero was sent to Monia’Ja.
Vapor droplets from the noxious clouds that loomed above coated Cookie’s full-flex carbon-armor drop suit. But he didn’t care, he was protected. At least until he had to extend his razor-sharp claws from the tips of his gloves in order to gain purchase on the slippery rock that made up the palace’s outer walls.
The atmosphere burned, singeing the outer chitinous layer of Cookie’s claws, turning them a coppery black. But Cookie wasn’t too worried despite the intense pain it caused. Being a Cervile, a feline race from a planet considerably more hostile than Monia’Ja, Cookie had healing abilities that rivaled a full-functioning med chamber. That ability was coupled with a dense, wire-haired fur that made any attack short of a plasma bolt pointless.
Still, Cookie was not happy about the damage being done to his claws as he carefully selected handholds on the wall, letting the claws slide into the minute cracks and crevices for purchase. His instincts were to growl low in his throat and complain about the slippery, precarious climb, but he couldn’t risk making a sound that close to the palace.
Intel may have been wrong about the intake vents, but it was not wrong about the surveillance array the palace had. Even getting as close as he was had been a difficult task that took Fleet tech, his natural abilities, and a healthy dose of luck from the Eight Million Gods. He glanced up at the vents and hoped his luck would hold out for a few more meters.
Hand over hand he climbed. He didn’t bother extending the claws from his toes. His drop suit boots were designed to handle the rigors of space warfare and even his claws couldn’t pierce their shell. He just kicked the toes hard against the wall and let the gripping tech keep him from slipping. As long as his claws held the majority of his weight then he was good to go.
But all of that was assuming the surface he was climbing was good. Cookie had been on many a covert op and he’d seen structures intentionally designed to look old and stressed when they were in fact state-of-the-art fortresses without a single flaw. That was not the case with Sha Morgoal’s palace. It was almost as old as the planet it rested upon.
A hunk of stone kic
ked loose and tumbled the one-and-a-half stories to the ground below. Cookie didn’t watch it fall; he just froze in place and tensed as his highly sensitive hearing listened to the whoosh whoosh whoosh then thump of the stone falling and landing. He waited. An impact like that should have set off some type of alarm. His worry was it was a silent alarm and he wouldn’t know he’d given away his position until it was too late.
Three seconds, five seconds, eight seconds and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He scrambled the last meter to the first intake vent. The claws on his right hand retracted and he hissed as the vapor droplets that had formed on them burned through his skin. But that didn’t slow him from removing the multi-tool from his belt and dialing it to the correct socket setting.
He placed the tool against the first bolt in the vent and let it do its job. The bolt came loose and a small net under the multi-tool caught it before it could clatter down the face of the palace. Two more bolts and Cookie was able to pry the vent open enough that he could slip inside.
He stared at the atmospheric conditioning webbing that filled the vent. Cookie debated whether to use his claws or activate the cut-torch in the multi-tool. Claws were silent and didn’t produce a heat signature that could be detected. They were also slow when it came to handling webbing like the type he was staring at. A cut-torch would slice right through the webbing, but would also be a high risk with the surveillance system.
Slow and silent or fast and risky. Those were his choices.
The debate took half a second and Cookie switched the multi-tool to the cut-torch setting. He didn’t have time for slow and silent.
Four
Geist looked one way then the other and took a huge risk. He removed himself from his hiding place against the wall and sprinted the couple meters across the hall to a position right next to the grand ballroom doors. He was not ordered to do so, but a strange sight had caught his eyes and he needed a better angle to confirm what he thought he’d just seen.
