by Greg Sorber
Unexpected Contact
A Mechhaven Novella
Greg Sorber
Gregeration X Entertainment
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Next Steps
Newsletter Sign Up
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
The events of this story take place during The Mechanai War, about two years following the events of Duel of Destiny and about five years before the start of Pax Machina (Mechhaven Book 1). This story can be read on its own or as a follow up to Duel of Destiny. I hope you enjoy Unexpected Contact.
Chapter One
Sigrid was in trouble.
Again.
This time, it wasn’t her fault.
At least that’s what she kept telling herself.
She’d broken three of her own rules, so maybe she bore a little responsibility? — Nah.
Sigrid’s first rule was to never take a job at the last minute. That was really more of a suggestion than a rule, wasn’t it? After all, if she didn’t take jobs at the last minute, she’d have to give up half of her clients. She’d worked with Chruckariat Metatarsarian a few times before, and so far he hadn’t let her down. Why would he start now? Besides, if she took the jobs after someone else had bailed, it made her look that much better, which ultimately led to more work.
Her second rule was to never use someone else’s equipment. She tended to follow that rule. You could only rely on your own gear. You knew what worked, what didn’t, and how much abuse it could take. In her current predicament, Chruckariat needed her in a hurry, and she hadn’t finished retrieving her gear from her previous job. Chruckariat assured her that he had everything she needed. He might have stretched the truth there. She had to admit that, while she preferred black, or very dark gray, she looked fantastic in the red jumpsuit Chruckariat had given her. At least it looked good when she first put it on. Now, though, it clung to her, torn and tattered, by whatever creature was flailing its tentacles all around, trying to kill her.
The crack in her helmet was more alarming. The helmet was an awkwardly large, clear bubble made of some transparent alien material. Again, it was Chruckariat’s gear, made for his species, not for her. The tentacles had appeared suddenly and knocked her flying a few meters away. Her head had hit the ground, causing the crack. So far it hadn’t leaked, but if she got hit like that again, who knew. She hoped the air on this planet wouldn’t kill her right away. The green and yellow fumes worried her. She should have asked about that earlier.
That brought her to the third rule — if you’re guarding a box and your client says not to look in the box, don’t look in the box. That was a long rule, and she didn’t look in the box — at first. Chruckariat told her to sit on the cyro-alloy container, so that’s what she’d done. He needed to make a quick rendezvous to pick up his client, and she just needed to guard the container until he got back. Sitting on a cyro-alloy box was easier said than done. It was like sitting on a block of ice. Yet, like the professional she was, she sucked up the cold and sat on it. It wasn’t until it started shaking that she got off the box, after which it sprung open on its own. That’s when she looked inside. She wished she hadn’t. The creature within was disgusting, terrifying, and now it was trying to eat her.
The alien creature’s tentacles swatted at the mech Chruckariat had loaned her. Calling the stumbling decrepit bucket of bolts a mech was a huge stretch. It was little more than a glorified security bot. It was no use in a fast-paced, high-pressure situation and kept getting in her way. He’d mentioned that the mech was the creature’s caretaker, but so far she hadn’t seen it take care of anything. She was about to shoot the copper-colored clunker in the head herself, and get it out of her way so she could get back to fighting with the creature. Before she could take care of the mech, however, the tentacles wrapped around its limbs and torso and ripped it apart with the snap and crackle of electronic connections severing. Well, at least now she wouldn’t have to explain to Chruckariat why she’d shot his mech.
The gun Chruckariat had given her was ineffective against the creature as well. She checked the settings, and even at its highest level she wasn’t having any luck. So she avoided the tentacles and tried to stay alive until Chruckariat got back. The only problem with that was the creature kept growing, and the tentacles kept multiplying.
Chruckariat had insisted that he’d be back in a day or two at the most. Three days later, whatever he’d sedated the creature with must have worn off. Either that, or it had woken up hungry. Regardless, she wouldn’t be its next meal. Being eaten by an alien creature was not part of the deal and was contrary to all her long-term planning.
As much as she enjoyed a good workout — and avoiding the tentacles was testing her gymnastics skills like she hadn’t tested them in a long time — she would tire and make a mistake at some point, resulting in her being eaten. She got the distinct feeling that the creature was playing with its food before indulging.
A tentacle wrapped around her leg. It constricted until her leg felt as if it were going to be crushed. She tried the useless stunner on it, to no avail. She flipped the gun around and bashed the alien’s limb with the stock of the weapon. It released her leg in an instant. Well, it was nice to know the creature reacted to blunt impact, though she was still a long way from defeating it. If more than one tentacle grabbed her at the same time, she wouldn’t be able to exert the same level of force.
Sigrid hopped, weaved, and danced out of the way to avoid several swipes of the tentacles. But she felt the compressive grip wrap around her leg again and pull. Sigrid planted her feet and lowered her center of gravity so she wouldn’t get yanked off her feet. She raised the stock of the rifle again to break the creature’s grip as another tentacle snared her arm. She tried shifting her weight to slam down on the creature’s appendage, but was pulled off of her feet and into the air. Great! Now she was going to be pulled apart like that stupid mech.
Reaching down, she slid out her boot knife and sliced at the tentacle holding her arm. It sliced most of the way through the tentacle, and she heard a shriek come from the crate where the tentacles originated. That was another good thing to know. She cursed as she cut the rest of the way through the tentacle clutching her arm. Slimy goo squirted from the amputated limb, spraying all over her helmet and blocking her vision. She fell headlong into the ground, smacking her helmet. Cracks spread outward in a web-like pattern before her helmet burst. At least she could see again, which was nice. But shattering the helmet caused alien goo and broken flecks of glass to fall into her hair. That was a good way to piss her off. She had to put her anger on hold, because her lungs burned as she inhaled her first full lungful of the alien atmosphere.
Sigrid landed near her stun rifle. The impact knocked the wind out of her. While she was catching her breath, she had an idea. The blasts themselves might not do any damage, but if she could invert the weapon’s power core and cause a feedback loop, it might generate enough of a blast to knock the creature out.
The process would be tricky though. She didn’t have time to take the gun apart, and if she paused for more than a second or two, the creature would grab her again. She remembered some old marines telling stories in a bar that her grandfather used to take her to when she was little. Yes, her grandfather used to take her to a bar with old marines. He was an awful influence on her and mad
e her father angry every time he found out. That could be why her grandfather did it. It was also why she liked it so much.
One story she remembered was about a particular model of stun rifle that had a flaw so bad, that if it were fired in a certain sequence, it would cause a feedback loop resulting in an explosion. The military discontinued that model and sold the remaining inventory to alien traders. What was the likelihood of Chruckariat having one of those exact models of rifles? It was worth a try. If only she could remember the exact firing sequence. What had the marine said? She had an excellent memory, but remembering something that random from that long ago wasn’t easy. Especially when she was having trouble breathing and trying not to be eaten. She laughed. Of course she remembered. The sequence was to the tune of an annoying pop song that was popular when she was growing up.
Sigrid charged up the weapon and then fired it in the sequence necessary to replicate the notes of the song. She sang the lyrics as she fired the rifle. The alien atmosphere must be affecting her. Once the vibrations and hum of the feedback loop reached critical levels, she charged toward the container the main body of the creature still inhabited. She slid to a stop right in front of the container and tossed the rifle into it. She dove for cover as the feedback-induced blast knocked the creature out. Flailing tentacles flopped to the ground. Trying to catch her breath, she was surprised she managed to render the creature unconscious — or had she killed it? She hoped she hadn’t killed it... she’d just remembered Chruckariat said he needed it alive.
Oops, she’d done it again.
Sigrid lost track of time, but eventually Chruckariat’s ship, The Drifter, came into view. Sigrid had been sitting with her back against the crate, tentacles still lying limp upon the ground. It hadn’t moved. Perhaps she had killed it. Her helmet was shattered, her clothes torn, and she felt the effects of the alien atmosphere. Maybe if she got some human-rated oxygen soon, she’d survive... she might even avoid any long-term brain and physiological damage.
Chruckariat rushed from his ship as soon as the cargo ramped finished lowering. He ran to her side and said, “What did you do to my daughter’s dowry? Did you kill it?”
“Dowry?” Did she hear him correctly? For his daughter? “What type of dowry is that monster?” Oh yes, she was feeling the effect that of the atmosphere.
“The creature isn’t the dowry. I’ll be selling it to some xenobiologists to study. They’re difficult to capture, so the scientists will pay a premium price for it. That’s what will pay my daughter’s dowry.”
Another alien, much younger looking than Chruckariat, shouted in a language she recognized as being the from Chruckariat’s race. Sigrid hadn’t learned enough to comprehend what he was saying yet. She’d need to study it some more. She didn’t like not knowing what was being said about her.
“My future son-in-law says if you hurt or killed his syrampa you’ll owe him restitution.”
“Tell you future son-in-law that he’s lucky I don’t take some restitution out on the two of you for leaving me here alone with that thing.”
“Alone? Where is my mech?” Chruckariat asked.
“Your bot didn’t make it. And don’t blame me. It was your syrampa that did it.” Sigrid pointed to the pieces of the mech.
Chruckariat withdrew a small instrument from his sleeve. “I hope this works, Sigrid. My son-in-law’s family is powerful. They’re on the shady side, too. One way or another, they’re going to get the dowry.”
Sigrid shrugged. She’d made enemies before. They’d either forget about their problems with her, or she’d make them forget. Either way, she was fine.
Chruckariat blew into the instrument and played a note. Nothing happened. He blew again, playing a few more notes. Then he strung the notes together to form a melody. After a minute of playing, several of the tentacles twitched in sync with the song. As Chruckariat continued to play, the tentacles retracted back into the box. She noticed the tentacle she’d sliced with the knife had grown back. Once the tentacles had completed retracting back into the box, Chruckariat and his son-in-law replaced the lid and sealed it tight.
“My apologies, Sigrid, this syrampa was more mature than my contact led me to believe.”
The son-in-law chattered in their language again. Chruckariat translated the words. “He says that he will bill you for any damage that is permanent.”
Sigrid looked at Chruckariat and his son-in-law, and flipped them off with both hands. Judging by their reactions, the human gesture was universal, and was even understood by alien cultures. Chruckariat laughed, which is why she liked him. He found humor and opportunity in any situation. His son-in-law crossed his arms and stomped away. Sigrid didn’t give a damn about his petulant ass.
Once they’d loaded the syrampa back on to The Drifter, Chruckariat converted the atmospheric composition to human normal to allow Sigrid time to recover from prolonged exposure to the alien atmosphere. She had a splitting headache and would need a few days of breathing human-optimized atmosphere before it went away. Chruckariat’s species had more flexibility in what they could breathe, so it wouldn’t bother him or his son-in-law to breathe human-optimized air for the time being.
Chruckariat kept his word and dropped Sigrid off at the planet of her choosing. She chose Dhera. There she had an apartment with a decent stash of equipment. From the banks on Dhera, she could access accounts to pay for anything else she needed. Chruckariat paid her the agreed upon fee, minus the cost of the borrowed jumpsuit, helmet, and rifle. He tried to deduct more for damaging the creature and the wrecked bot, but she convinced him she’d never work with him again if he went through with it. So, with a decent paycheck and some time to kill, she was looking forward to a few days of R & R. It wasn’t the most luxurious planet, but it was cosmopolitan enough to suffice.
The first thing Sigrid needed to do was to find a good hair salon. The goo the syrampa had excreted messed up her hair beyond belief. As hard as she tried, the dried globs of goo and shattered helmet particles just weren’t coming out. She was going to have to cut her long, beautiful locks, and it was going to have to be really short.
Before she’d settled in, her communicator beeped. She checked the contact information. It was the special number. She accepted the call and said, “Hello, General.” Sigrid always answered when the General called.
“A job?” Sigrid asked. The war had been good for business. “What do you need me to do?”
Sigrid listened as the General explained the details of the job, then said, “Sure, I can do it. When do you need me there?”
“The day after tomorrow? I just arrived on Dhera,” Sigrid said.
She listed to the General for a few more moments. “A bonus? No problem, I’ll be there.” General Dirksen paid well — very well. Rule number one was just suggestion though, wasn’t it?
She hung up. She had another job. To get the bonus, she needed to be on Ramor by the day after tomorrow. It would be close. She’d have to hire an express shuttle. Some R & R would’ve been nice, but it could wait. Another payday would be even better. One thing that she couldn’t wait on was her hair. That was a problem that needed resolving before anyone important saw her.
Chapter Two
Tala finished fastening the buttons on her blue and gray dress uniform and took a final look in the mirror. Everything was in order. Cleaned and pressed. Insignias and decorations were placed and aligned according to regulations. In a few short minutes, she’d receive her commission into the Officer Corps of the Alliance of Independent Systems. If that wasn’t awesome enough, she already had what others in her cohort considered a choice assignment. She was personal assistant to General Dirksen, Supreme Commander of the Joint Forces of the AOIS. That wasn’t a job they gave to just anyone.
While Tala was more than grateful for her position, the other officer candidates had no clue of how challenging an assignment it was. Even during Officer Candidate School, the General had her working on special projects above and beyond the packed
curriculum and training schedule. Once she returned to the General’s staff, she would not only be responsible for the everyday duties a personal assistant takes care of, but the General had her and TH3R working on several extra assignments, including hunting Imperium SPDR mechs.
General Dirksen had planned to come to the ceremony herself to pin her lieutenant’s bar on her uniform. But the military and civilian leadership of TexaNova called for last-minute strategy meetings, which they expected her to attend in-person. Tala’s parents had already declined, since they couldn’t leave Quandar-3 during harvest season. Instead, one of her instructors would have the honor of pinning her bar on her uniform.
The ceremony was full of the usual pomp and circumstance. The war had taken its toll on the officer corps, and new officers were constantly in demand. The academies made up the bulk of the officers, but the war created opportunities for those enlisted soldiers who had proven leadership, shown initiative, or exhibited other talents the top-brass desired within their ranks. With General Dirksen’s sponsorship, there was little doubt Tala would be accepted into OCS. However, once she was there, it was up to her to prove that she belonged.
Tala’s mind wandered during the speeches. She was surprised when her name was called. What had the speaker just been talking about? Several of her fellow officer candidates nudged her forward. She marched to the front of the stage, stopped in front of Colonel Yakubu, and saluted. He returned the salute and handed her a plaque.
