Alien Alliance Box Set

by Chris Turner

  “Guys you’d rather not meet,” murmured Yul.

  “What do you mean? You seem a little tense, Yab. That posse is offworld, like you. Can tell from the dicky accent. Out for your blood, spaceman? Yeah, they’re out for your hide. Can smell the fear from here. Man doesn’t get all worked up over a few fuckboys passing by when there’re bugs galore on the loose ready to slap ass in tanks.”

  Yul’s fingers clenched. A new sheen of sweat broke out over his brow. “You don’t want to mess with Regers.”

  “Regers, is it? Ratshit, he’ll soon be. This is my turf. Nobody comes in unless I say so.”

  “Yeah, like the locusts?” sneered Cloye. “Not looking much like anyone’s turf to me.” She waved an insolent hand. “Mostly bug-fucking ground from where I’m looking.”

  Smacky rolled over closer, one eye scrutinizing her with a critical glint. “You speaking to someone, sister?” He reached out to clout her but Yul caught the hairy arm in a metal fist. “Relax, chief. We’ve got other problems to deal with than slapping women around.”

  Smacky pulled himself away, “I’ll bitchslap who I want.”

  The blond gang girl of the group snarled, raising a misshapen club of home-crafted wood.

  “Back, all of you,” Smacky commanded. Scrambling to his feet, he whirled his gun like a parade leader. “Think I’m up for a bit of knock on wood. In the mood.”

  Yul held up his hands. “Bugs are on the hunt and you’ve got a lot of wild and crazy people about. Better things to do, Smacky, so let’s think it through.”

  “Trying to tell me another thing I don’t already know, spaceman?” He fingered his sawed-off rifle.

  “No need to get blast happy on us.” Yul gritted his teeth. Of all the lowlifes he had to get waylaid by, it had to be these mouthbreathers.

  “Mick, you got any explosives left?” bawled Smacky.

  “Fresh out of bombs, sorry, Smacky.” He scratched at his brown-tousled hair. “Wasted them on the last bug ship that came down snatched Artha and her brats.”

  “Shit, we’ll have to get back to camp then.” Smacky blew air out of his chipmunk cheeks. “No way we’re going to blow that EV without heavier weaponry.”

  “Your call.”

  Chapter 27

  The ragged group ducked back into the daytime shadows, retracing their steps through the scattered pockets of survivors and the endless rubble. Smacky and Wilb prodded Yul and Cloye along like pet animals, hustling them toward a low-rise apartment flat, the lower level bombed and the glass shattered. They stepped across broken glass to a stairwell half clogged with masonry and broken bricks then down to a cut-out gap: a doorway of sorts covered by a thin strip of canvas.

  Smacky and Wilb herded Yul and Cloye into a large, one-room apartment.

  “Inside,” Smacky ordered.

  In the gloom, Mick and Marv lit some kerosene lamps.

  Yul opened eyes wide to adjust to the murk. The place was a shambles. Lingering reek of molder, sweat, and rankness to go. Fist-holes in the walls, crumbling plaster, a cracked holo screen tacked on a nearby wall. A warped floor, broken bottles, bits of old fried meat and busted plates, ale-stained garments slung across a low, ripped-up couch. This rattrap must have seen some wild parties and drunken fights. A pile of charred embers sat in the center of the room on a thin, raised sheet of metal. Yul frowned. What could that be? His brain unlocked the mystery: a communal campfire. Some jerkoff had built a fireplace with a jerry-rigged stove pipe, soot-black, and installed an electric fan to draw smoke up the air vent. Could actually see these yobos smoke-cooking weenies and marshmallows all day when they were as drunk and high as glowworms.

  The girl went over to the mangy couch and plopped herself down and helped herself to some gummy brown stuff stuck in a broken dish.

  Yul moved further inside. A small workbench with electric components and circuits lay against one wall, having the look of an amateur electrician’s workspace. Odd. Spike cleared a space on the cluttered bench to set a lamp down.

  Yul turned at a sound to his left. Struggling under a beat up table were three Mentera strung up in chicken wire. The table’s legs acted as posts to barricade them in. The creatures chittered and sputtered, spitting white fluid from their clacking mandibles. They pulled at their chicken-wire bonds, though it cut into their black and green chitinous hides.

  Yul choked. “You aim on rustling up some cricket stew, Smacky?”

  Smacky just chuckled. “Mickey here wants ’em as pets. On account of how they shot up his place and took his pa and sister away in a big space blimp. These bug-rats were the last of their squad before we gunned them down and took them prisoners. Now I told him you can’t make pets out of such bloodsuckers, but Mickey’s an optimist and an obstinate one, ain’t you, Mick?”

  “Sure thing, Smacky. Bet your ass.”

  “Good, then—”

  “Nice,” derided Cloye, shaking her head.

  Smacky padded over, eyeing her with deeper curiosity. “You’ve got yourself one sharp-edged tongue. Rough crowd here, and rough times, tough situation, miss. How far you want to play it?”

  “How deep can you go?” she challenged.

  “Woo hoo.” There came a flurry of cat calls as the ruffians slapped their clubs against the scored plaster walls. Smacky hissed for silence.

  Yul stared in horror upon a situation rapidly escalating out of control. What could he do to stop it? He moved to her side to catch any heat he could and caught her sly look at him. A dangerous game, but Cloye seemed to know what she was doing. She had not been a Cyber Corp spy for nothing.

  “I think you should waste this chick, Smacky,” grumbled Marv. He shoved Yul aside. “Don’t like the sound of her, or her slutty looks. As much as I’d like to make use of them. She almost tagged me back in that culvert.”

  “I second that,” said the gang girl, still smacking her lips. “Don’t need no more than one sassy gal here.”

  “You’re just jealous, Lace,” said Smacky, “over another choice piece to share among the ranks.”

  Her mouth dropped and her face grew livid. “Am not, Smacky!”

  “You know I just say everything straight as it is, Lace.”

  She shook her head, still fuming.

  “Don’t give me that saucy look. You’re like a four-year old.”

  Cloye’s lips curled in a snicker.

  “What’s so funny, bitch?” called the girl.

  “Just remarking how gentlemanly your bully boy friends treat you. You going to stand for that talk? How you expect them to respect you?”

  “Yeah, Lace, you going to stand for that?” mocked Marv.

  The woman shrieked and sprang at Cloye, made a claw grab for her eyes. The move startled Cloye. She turned aside as sharp nails flicked across her cheek, nails that drew blood.

  “What the fuck—are you loco?” She grabbed the girl’s hair and flailing arm and let the gang girl’s momentum crash her into the two yobos behind her.

  Lace was up in a flash on the balls of her feet. She sprang forward like a sprung coil. The others gathered around stomping their feet, clapping their hands, hooting and hollering, like a bunch of ranch-hands at a stampede.

  “Hey, boss, think we got ourselves a cat scrap here!” yowled Marv.

  “Hot damn!” cried Wilb.

  Smacky stood apart, lips set in a firm line.

  Yul dropped his head and sighed. The young female hood reached and pawed again for Cloye’s eyes. Cloye feinted to the side. She kept those nails back then jabbed an elbow into the girl’s midriff, knocking the wind out of her.

  Lace gasped. Before she went down, she hooked a foot under Cloye’s left leg and the two crashed to the floor. Yul heard a distinct smack.

  They were rolling around like a couple of momma cats on a spring day, with the young one kicking and biting, cursing like there was no tomorrow, when Wilb hitched his squat, rank frame in like a happy gnome. “You show ’er, Lace! She’s a real scrapping tigress, our Lace is.
” Smacky growled, bare arms laced across his wide chest while Marv whistled encouragement through his gap teeth.

  The two rolled close to Smacky and he kicked Cloye in the ribs. Cloye wheezed out a hoarse curse and lost momentum. Yul started forward but Spike held a gun on him. Tired of the game, Smacky hauled Cloye up. She drew back a fist, sucking air through her split lip, ready to lay into Smacky for putting boots to her. She clubbed him good just above the left ear.

  A heavy red welt began to brew, but he blocked Cloye’s second fist, looking to do something nastier. Yul moved in despite the gun trained at him and blocked Smacky’s blow.

  “Enough already.” Smacky faced Yul in sullen mood. “Okay, your bitch bests mine. Bravo. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.” He slapped the others away, shoulder-checked Wilb and Marv back. He turned to Lacey, snatching at her wrist. “You happy now, Lace, you dumb slut? You go off shooting your mouth, get your ass whipped. Clock you up a bunch of bruises, lose you some pride, skin and a front tooth.”

  Lace spat out an uprooted tooth, wiping her bleeding lip.

  “Smacky, my arm hurts. Don’t pinch it so hard.”

  “I’ll pinch it if I want to. Here, lemme see.” He squinted at her bruised forearm, poked and prodded around at the swelling and she yowled some more, sucked in a pained breath at his rough touch.

  “It’s nothing, girl. Just a chicken scratch. Maybe a small sprain or two. Nothing to bawl over.”

  Her eyes brimmed with anger. “What d’you know, Smacky? You some doctor?”

  “Don’t talk back to me. It’ll heal.”

  Marv tapped Smacky on the back. “We ought to—”

  “Shut up. I know what we ought to do, Marv. When I need your tongue I’ll pull down my leathers. We’re heading out, Lace. You can stay behind if you’re hurting too much.”

  “Naw, Smacky. I’ll be coming. Boring as shit in this filth crib.”

  “Suit yourself. Yab or Yulb, whatever the fuck his name is, is coming. Get your woman cleaned up, and wipe that smug grin off her face or she’ll be eating it. And get your ass moving out the door. Mickey, bring all the explosive gear you can carry.” He kicked at bottles, tin cans, old ale-stained clothes. “Sick of this fucking dump. Told you bastards to clean it up, and what do you do, sit here and yak out more filth from your gobs whenever you get high and wasted.”

  They made for the hall and moved up the rubble and plaster-strewn trail clogging the stairwell.

  “Don’t like that redneck crew on our turf,” Smacky mumbled. “Seen it in all the holo movies. About Armageddon. Planet goes to shit. Guerrilla warfare in the streets. Turf wars to the end of time with some highbanger moving in, trying to take over the local creed. Blows the head off the competition, sets up shop and becomes the new head hog. Seen it a million times. Only one Smacky round here, that’s me.”

  “You tell ’em, Smack,” said Wilb.

  Smacky turned at the half-sagging railing. “Don’t call me ‘Smack’ or I’ll smack your fucking ass. Want me to call you Wib instead of Wilb?”

  “No, wouldn’t like that, Smacky. No need to get sore.” Wilb shook out his shoulders. He looked away with a sullen grin.

  “Why don’t I get a gun?” Lace bawled, keeping her distance from Smacky, eyeing Cloye with contempt.

  “Because you don’t need one, Lace. And I don’t trust you with a gun. You’ll blow off somebody’s head.”

  “Aw, Smacky, you always give Mickey the good stuff,” she whined.

  “Give Mickey the good stuff,” he echoed. His eyes scrunched up like raisins. “Don’t ‘aw Smacky’ me. What is this, kindergarten?”

  The others guffawed. Wilb grabbed her in a head lock and gave her a stiff, hard noogie. “Hey, cut that out, you dipshit!” Lace cried.

  “Knock it off, you asswipes. Move out!” Smacky slapped some heads. The pale light showed ahead through the broken glass that gave way onto the street. “Enough horseplay. Day’s still young, we’ve got some bugs to hunt.”

  The young blonde hesitated, rubbed her head and swatted at Wilb, nursing her sore arm. “Think he should get punished for that. Why I always get beat on?”

  Marv hunched in toward Smacky and muttered, “Don’t you think it’s a bit risky out there after the last bug blast? We’ve already got some crickets here to play with—maybe, Spin the bottle, Matchsticks, Blow the gasket. Whole pile of smash to smoke. You know how kinky Lace gets after a bit of Zombie.” He grinned and nudged Smacky in the ribs.

  “Are you fucking brain dead? There’s a war out there and you want to play Spin the Bottle and smoke smack?” He herded Marv, Mickey and Wilb out with a rough push and painful prod of his gun.

  The others lanced Marv a scowl.

  Chapter 28

  A view to the street showed no improvement from the last time. An aphid and NOA fighter had crashed down and more humps of unmoving bodies lay in heaps. Yul looked on with little hope. Casualties during the Mentera raids.

  Smacky groused. “Gotta put a stop to this. They’ve infiltrated our turf. Not to mention they’ve snatched friends and innocent citizens.”

  “Very noble of you,” said Yul.

  “Yeah, I think so…and don’t get too glib with your two-toothed remarks, spaceman. You’re already in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Smacky, I say we—” bawled Lace.

  “Shut up, bitch. Move!” He grabbed a hankful of her hair and herded her through the broken glass and into the street.

  The bright light stung Yul’s eyes. He took a deep breath, paused to get his bearings. The square was as before: overturned vehicles, scattered mobs of people, distant screams, the thump-thump of locust blasters.

  His eye caught a sparkle of metal across the square. Out of the third floor window of a soot-grimed apartment building, some amateur sniper had gone ballistic and was taking pot shots at anything that moved in the street below. Dumb fool.

  Smacky danced to fire that had him kicking up his heels like drops of oil on a frying pan. “Jesus H Christ…Get the hell out of here!”

  All of them made a mad scramble for the downed airbus. Yul hunkered down, his back sideways to the bus. He saw dead faces with staring eyeballs peeking out at him from the blood-grimed glass.

  “On my count.” Smacky heaved himself erect. They scrambled for better shelter after him while Spike and Mick gave back cover fire.

  The shooting stopped. A body slumped out of the window, doubled over the sill.

  “Good shot,” commended Smacky, “whoever took out that screwball.”

  “Nailed that smarmy bastard myself,” crowed Spike.

  The situation was completely screwed, Yul concluded. These Mayberries were going to fuck up badly and get everyone killed. If he couldn’t get away from them, he’d have no chance of surviving. He and Cloye could make a break into the ruins, for safety, provided some other menace didn’t catch up with them first. Only a matter of time before those bloodsucker locusts swarmed in and blew the shit out of the bottom of the barrel. He glanced over at Cloye, saw she was taking the situation very coolly, especially after her cat scrap, wiping at her split cheek and flexing her wrist. Smug too. Never one to be intimidated.

  A high-circling Orb came angling out of the sky. The thing was spiked like a murder ball on the end of a demon’s mace. Copper-colored, menacing, though the crude armored outer plates were closer to the color of old bronze.

  “Holy shit, Smacky!” cried Wilb. “What the fuck is that?”

  “A squid ship, what you think? We got ourselves an alien party. Guess Yab was right.”

  “Holy Jesus shit fuck.”

  Yul sighed. Jesus shit fuck was right. What to do now? What else could go wrong?

  Back the other way they loped off, opposite from where they’d entered this doomed square. Ever vigilant, Spike kept Yul and Cloye covered. Not much wiggle room for a breakaway. Even if they could give old Spike the slip, Smacky’d blast their asses in a flash. Whether their new meandering course included commande
ering a ship was anyone’s guess. The man seemed impervious to suggestion and had an agenda of his own.

  Unfortunately, one that brought them closer to hell. Around a bend came the low whine of a small flying vehicle, an amphibious vehicle, with globular fuselage, and twin AK4 blasters. The thing hovered overhead, covering the four men below as they walked like street kings.

  A dark figure in the lead on ground pointed at them. Regers. He mouthed words into a com. The APV twisted and turned as bright fire splashed out of the twin guns mounted on either side of the turret.

  Yul dove for cover. On the way he shoulder-checked Cloye out the way. She fell in a heap at the foot of the alley.

  Others weren’t so lucky.

  Shells sprayed by, reaming the air. The excess bullets skimmed off down the alley.

  The APV angled in. Yul gave a cry of warning.

  “Now, Mickey, you fuck!” bawled Smacky, ducking behind a rubble pile.

  With a grim leer, Mick lobbed the first artillery shell at the incoming APV.

  For a moment the air froze. Then kaboom.

  A major pressure blast hit the APV dead on and set it spinning out of control to the ground. It lay in a crumpled heap. The pressure wave and fragments from its hull knocked Regers and his crew backward.

  The smoke cleared and Yul peered in apprehension. Whoever was in the APV was toast.

  Smacky squinted into the sun, signaling Marv and one of his henchmen to poke around the ruined glass and smoking, twisted metal.

  “Hody ho. Anything interesting? What’ch you got, Marv?”

  “We got one dead Jakru, horns and all, lying in the cockpit.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just a fancy assault rifle, an E1 mangled up with cracked stock.”

  “That ain’t doing us no good, Wilb. Why even mention it?”

  “This fusebox and weapons kit has live ammo we can use.”

  “Good man, Marv. Wilb, you get up there and help the man yank it out.” He gestured. “Spike, you and me’ll head over and take out the rest of those gun lords. Don’t want them creeping up on us from the back and blasting us. Spike, you with me?...Spike?”