0039, Saturday, July 3, 2027
+61 Hours 10 Minutes SMT
Low Orbit, Septus Minor
Aboard the Porsavar
I know that Yrag said these beasts have controlled density something or other—aka blaster proof blubber. I fire anyway, because that’s what Marine Raiders do. We shoot and kill the enemy. But in this case? It’s more like shoot and royally piss off the enemy. Just before blaster fire hits the hide, the skin looks like it turns to dark grey stone. After the strike, the hide returns to its previous fatty state. Splick. But that’s not the best part. There are three of these ugly bastards in the mix.
“Move, Patrick,” Chuck yells.
I don’t have time to reply, just to do as he says. The Odob is about three meters away—too close for comfort—when I abandon my shooting efforts and lunge left. The monster’s hand grazes my leg and sends me rolling to the deck. But health status checks out, and suit integrity is still full.
The Odob skids to a stop while I fire from my back and pummel the side of its head. It raises a bare dull-blue arm to block the shots. In spite of the sparks, I see the beast’s arm hardening like his belly did moments before. Hell, even where I hit the side of its head had turned to stone. I need to get a target on the back of his neck, but that’s gonna be tough on this three-meter hulk.
“He’s charging again,” Chuck informs me.
“Can see that!”
The Odob jumps—like, full-on Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka—and drops both fists on the deck plate as I roll off. The metal pops from its cradle supports.
I’m two meters away when the Odob seems to tire of the cat and mouse game and pulls out its sawed-off blaster.
“Patrick, you need—!”
“I know!”
The blaster fires, and I dive left, but the spread clips my armor. I know that my PSG had been at 50 percent roughly. Now, as I scramble to cover behind a metal container that’s first in several long rows, I’m back down to 5 percent. Still no permanent damage to my suit, but I’m sure the big guy’s next shot will take care of that.
“These things are tough as shit,” Sugar yells.
I bring up the team HUD and move further down the row of containers in the hopes that I can buy a little time. The rest of the team is split into three groups: one grappling with the remaining trio of Shershen and the other two dealing with the pair of Odobs.
“Remember to go for the soft spot under the chin,” I say to Hollywood as she fires on a Shershen.
“Roger!”
I move deeper among the containers. “Chuck. I wanna know something about these Odobs.”
“Their skin is largely impregnable to standard blaster rounds.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Where to start…”
Goddammit. “Can we hurt them by unloading a full mag in one shot?”
Behind me, the Odob raises his weapon, so I shuffle-step between two crates and narrowly avoid a spray of blaster rounds. Sparks leap off the containers and splash against my armor.
“It’s risky,” Chuck replies. “If you miss—”
“But will it work?”
“Low probability. But you can kill them with a point-blank shot on the back of its neck. Of course, you need to keep in mind they are far bigger, stronger, and tougher than you. Although slightly slower. Most of the time.”
“I know about the risks, pal.” I scan the team topo to see who’s least engaged. We’ve gotta put these tangos down before reinforcements arrive. “Vlad! On my position. Need you to draw fire.”
“Of course, USA.” He changes mags and starts running. “Am coming now.”
My tango thumps down the aisle and shoves his blaster into the gap, but I shimmy to the far end and roll out just as he fires. With the team behind me, I push forward, and the spaces between containers flash on my right. The Odob is trying to keep up, looking for another shot.
He fires, but I’m behind the next container.
He grunts, but I’m still faster.
“Hey, big gross face with horns and droolings,” Vlad announces over externals. “Over heres!”
Several CHK rounds smack the tango and surrounding crates.
“Yes! Is you I speak things to. Come here!” Vlad fires again.
The giant beast growls.
“I see your mother last night. She too ugly even for me. So I sex ant bug instead.”
Thermal shows the tango slow and turn around.
“You got it, Vlad.” I move across to the main aisle and see the tango’s back moving away. “Just like that.”
More CHK rounds strike the enemy, and a few hit the container I’m hiding behind. “No more shots, pal! I need to get behind.”
“Copy rogers,” Vlad says. “Hey! Did you go to schools in Siberia? I am seeing this.”
Chuck lowers his voice to me. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Normally, my guesses are better.”
This is my chance. I change mags, slide out of cover, and charge the Odob. At the same time, I ready my jetpack and prep for a short jump—just enough to gain a few meters of elevation to put me even with the enemy’s neck rolls.
The beast hesitates. He hears me. Dammit.
“No, no,” Vlad yells. “I lie! I sex your mother. She likes. Hey! She likes!”
I fire the jetpack and jump. At the same time, I point Chuck and use my HUD to aim. But my reticle is jumping the target area. Vlad’s yelling louder, and I’m speeding toward the tango. Steady!
The Odob pivots and throws an elbow. The blow hits my right side like a bulldozer. I hear myself grunt, and the next thing I know, my body slams into a wall and drops to the ground.
Vlad’s yelling louder—this time in my head.
“Get up! Move, USA!”
Son of a—
The Odob pounds toward me. I push myself up and scan my systems. PSG: off while recharging. Armor: multiple points of damage. CHK mag level: 100 percent.
“One shot, max yield,” I say to Chuck.
“But we’re not behind him!”
“We take what we can get!” I roll to my back, jam my rifle into my shoulder, and brace myself. Then I squeeze.
The weapon kicks like a mule, and light fills my visor. Above the concussion, I hear the tango roar. And when my sight returns, the Odob is heading toward me in an uncontrolled fall. Arms out, body lurching.
I scramble away, but not fast enough. The body careens into me, and we slide into the next container. I at least have the presence of mind to push myself off the floor and onto the monster’s back before he crushes me against the crate.
“Mag,” Chuck yells. “Change your mag!”
I’m on the Odob’s back. Shit! I’m on the Odob’s back!
I hit the button to eject the magazine. It clatters away, and I pull a fresh one off my hip. But the beast is starting to move.
“Faster,” Chuck says.
I ram the new mag with the flat of my hand, but the tango jostles me. I hit it again. It drives home. I charge the weapon and attempt to place the barrel against the back of the goliath’s neck.
“Not that close,” Chuck yells.
The hesitation is costly as the beast lurches sideways, and I slide to the left. But I’m still holding on. Then it corrects to the right, getting both arms underneath it for a push-up.
“Get ready,” I say to Chuck, then I press into a stand on the Odob’s back with my muzzle one meter away. “This do?”
“Sure will.”
I squeeze, but I’m off balance and fail to keep the buttstock compressed into my shoulder. Freakin’ boot. The blast knocks me backward. I stumble across the Odob’s ass, trip in his legs, and then lose my balance. But the tango’s calves break my fall.
Even before I’m oriented, I start crab-walking away double-time, calculating my next move. But then Vlad’s helmet appears overhead.
“Nice shoots, USA! Orange juice with pulps. Ha!”
“What?”
The big Russian offers me his hand and hoists me to my feet. Vlad points at the Odob’s head—or, what’s left of it. I get the comparison. Apparently, these particular aliens have orange insides. Weird, but it does look like a frozen juice container with high pulp just burst across the deck and continues to spill out of its neck.
“Doubtful it tastes as good,” Chuck adds as if reading my mind.
We double-time it back to the hangar’s center where the Phantoms square off with the last of the Odobs and Shershen—two each. Despite being outnumbered, the enemy still has the advantage. For one, it seems the Odob’s only weakness, besides the vacuum of deep space, is a bitch to target.
The Shershen guard their weak spots with vigilance too, keeping their heads down and maintaining a steady fire rate on our forces from behind crates. Both enemy species have clearly picked up on the fact that we know their secrets.
Worst of all? The team’s mag-count is getting dangerously low.
“Any ideas?” I ask the team.
“Yeah.” Z-Lo sprays and prays from behind a Jersey barrier. “We kill ’em.”
“Any other ideas?” I slide behind a hip-height crate around the action’s perimeter.
Bumper says, “I could use some God Cake if I could get close enough to one of the big boys.”
“Too dangerous,” Hollywood says.
“So is sitting here, bae.”
Bumper’s right. This is the first of three sections of the ship with multiple floors each. I’d bet Bratva poker chips on the odds that our skirmish is drawing lots of attention.
“You got enough for both?” Sugar asks.
Bumper nods, but it’s Ghost who waves off the suggestion. “The second one will get wise. We can’t repeat without putting Bumper in more jeopardy.”
“Have an alternative?” I ask.
He nods and then demags the Verv sword on his back.
“Awww, hell yeah,” Sugar says. “You going kung fu on that bitch? Shiat. I’m ready for this!”
“You sure?” I ask Ghost.
He nods.
“Alright. You’re both up. We’ll cover you.”
Bumper and Ghost confer for five seconds and choose their routes while the rest of us formulate a plan to separate the Shershen from their minders.
“Now,” I say.
Vlad jumps up, waves his arms like a child, and runs away. “Oh no! I am having no chances! I run this way in fears and much shaking!” He’s halfway down the hall Hollywood emerged from originally when he adds, “I am having very little chance surviving big insect appetites!”
Not exactly what I had in mind, but…
The two Shershen zero in on Vlad and see a victim. They check their flanks, but the rest of us act like we’re reloading. It’s an easy kill if they want to.
“Come on,” I say. “Take it.”
The Shershen exchange looks and then pursue Vlad.
I warn him and then nod at Lada and Aaron, who will tail the insects.
Ghost and Bumper have crept along the opposite sides of the melee and moved to the back. Meanwhile, Z-Lo, Sugar, Hobbs, and I stand and fire on the Odobs. The beasts wail with deep-throated elephant-like blasts and return fire. But we duck and avoid an untimely death.
Once the tantrum subsides, we pop back up and fire again. This time, however, the beasts charge.
“Move!” I shout and dash away from our cover.
The tangos bound toward us, drop their shoulders, and plow into the crates. Hobbs rolls and takes a knee like she’s a freaking gymnast. I, on the other hand, slide to a stop on my belly. Across from us, Sugar and Z-Lo are in the clear and looking for cover. But then their Odob gets distracted. It lets out a loud wail and claws at the back of its neck. A small grey splotch disappears into its skin while the beast tries to scrape it off. But the deed is done.
I glance left and spot Bumper.
“Fire in the… head.”
A bright explosion hits my sensors, and then a shower of orange pulp shoots out in a ring. The headless corpse tilts forward and slams into the ground.
I’m faintly aware of shouts and whoops going up from the others, but I’m too busy backpedaling from the remaining Odob chasing Hobbs and me. We shoot, but it does nothing against the tango’s chest.
“Ghost,” I shout. “Now would be good!”
When the sniper’s helmet appears over the Odob’s shoulder, propelled by a jetpack hop, he adds, “With pleasure.” Ghost drives his sword into the back of the creature’s head. Then he twists the blade and shoves it back and forth like he’s churning butter.
The monstrosity’s eyes bulge, and its arms twitch as if Ghost is some kind of puppeteer controlling a marionette. With a final jerk, Ghost rides the beast to the ground where it crashes, dead on arrival.
Ghost looks up at me, still clutching the sword. “It worked.”
I chuckle and help him up. “Guess so.”
“Still only counts as one,” Bumper adds out of breath, clearly not happy that Ghost beat him to the kill. He maglocks his sword to his back and gives the sniper a fist bump.
Hobbs checks in with Vlad. “SITREP?”
“Nasty insects are dead like doorbells.”
“That’s doornails. Good work.”
I update Insarka, who’s also encountered resistance where we have, while the team collects anything of value from the bodies and maglocks it to our armor. The finds include cap mags that we’re in desperate need of. The Verv swords, in particular, have become quite the collector’s item. I don’t see the need for one, but Z-Lo, Sugar, and Vlad claim a blade.
“Are you sure you can’t find the fourth one?” Chuck asks anyone willing to listen.
Hollywood replies, “Sorry, buddy. Looks like you’re outta luck this time.”
“And we’ve gotta keep moving,” I add.
“Eh, stinky bucket-o-flounders.”
I hold Chuck up and cast him a curious look. “What the hell do you want a sword for?”
“Why, Patrick, you’ve never heard of a bayonet?”
“You? Want a bayonet?”
“Wouldn’t I look regal?”
“Wasn’t the word I had in mind.”
“Majestic?”
“Nope.”
“Stately? Noble? August?”
So I’m a fan of bayonets, if for nothing more than that they scream, “Don’t mess with me.” And they’re old school, so, ya know—I’m down. But I’m sure as hell not gonna tell Chuck this.
“I was thinking pompous, pretentious, and ludicrous, Charles. Not to mention a real pain in the ass to haul around.”
With a highbrow tone, he replies, “Maybe for you. But some of us are naturally used to handling longer weapons.”
Hobbs tries in vain to hide her amusement.
I tilt my head at her. “You just snort?”
“Heh heh. Yup.”
“Good Lord.”
We recover several cap mags, a handful of VODs, and one of the Odob’s snub-nose blasters that Z-Lo lovingly cradles.
“I’m going to call her Yordanka, after my mother,” the kid says.
Bumper rears back. “That’s unfortunate.”
To which Hollywood elbows him. Hard.
“What was that for?”
“That’s his mom’s name, jerk.”
“I know!”
“Alright, everyone. Good teamwork, but we’ve still got a fight ahead. Least that’s what we need to expect. The elevator behind us is permanently closed for repairs, so I’m marking it no-go for exfil.” I add the necessary indicator on the team’s topo map. “We’ve secured this hangar, so it’s a potential fallback, but we’ll need new exits if things get tight.” Likewise, I mark the space as a secured position.
“Chuck,” Bumper asks. “What’s your best estimate for contact on the other side of these blast doors?” He pings the threshold of the next hallway toward the stern.
“The enemy is most certainly expecting us now. But since we haven’t been overrun in the last few minutes, I’d say Srin Ock Tall is drawing back his remaining forces in the hopes of reinforcing his position.”
“How’d they pull this surprise attack on you anyway?” Hollywood asks.
“Crafty voodoo magic?” Chuck says. “I wish I could say more. And truthfully, please know that I regret letting you down in this way. My only consolation is in knowing that none of you were harmed, maimed, or worse, killed.”
“We appreciate all you’re doing, Sir Charles,” I say. Anticipating a litany of verbal appreciation from the rifle, I charge ahead. “What’s important now is that we return the favor to our hedged-in adversary. Chuck, is it safe to assume that he’s watching us now?”
“Yes, Patrick. Apparently this section of the ship is a shared middle ground, if you will, in which sensors and security are mutually compromised. I took over the systems, Srin Ock Tall regained them from me, and now I have taken them back. If I was a lesser ASIK, say like the one in Ghost’s ASS-CHK, or Veronica—God rest her soul—this exchange could go on and on indefinitely.”
“Got it. You predict Ock Tall will take it back?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. However, I feel inclined to remind you that you are indeed dealing with this galaxy’s most advanced ASIK.”
“And what makes you so special again?” I ask.
“Why, you, of course, Patrick.”
That’s a new one. “How so?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not exactly.”
“When you gave me permission to be myself, to spread my wings, to take flight on the winds of—”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Hmph . Well, needless to say, you released me to ‘better myself,’ as it were, which I took to include advanced operations that the Anderbabies never saw fit to let me do. Therefore, in this case, you have access to certain sensors that provide me unprecedented awareness of and domination over the enemy’s activity.”
Hobbs casts me a “yeah, right” look. “So, like, not knowing we were walking into an ambush a few minutes ago. That kind of unprecedented awareness?”
“Exactly.” Chuck pauses. “Wait, no. That was—”
“That’s all fixed now, right, pal?” I ask.
“Yes, Patrick. I have learned from my mistakes.”
“Who has control now?” Bumper asks.
“Why, I do. Of course.”
“And how long will you have it?”
“Indefinitely, assuming someone doesn’t figure out how to boot me out of the system.”
Bumper looks at me, and I’m reading his thoughts.
“A screen,” I say.
He nods.
Back to Chuck, I say, “We’re gonna need a list of your favorite access points to engineering, Chuckles. Time to create an ambush of our own.”