0040, Saturday, July 3, 2027
+61 Hours 33 Minutes SMT
Low Orbit, Septus Minor
Aboard the Porsavar
Vlad flies past me and crashes into crates near the orb. This Odob is pissed and charging like a bull. It’s also a head taller than the other ones we faced.
“You can’t let it damage the orb,” Chuck yells.
There’s no time to reply. I dive down the aisle to my right and let the beast charge into the room. Once I’ve taken a knee, I fire to get the alien’s attention. Drawing it back down the hallway seems like the best option, so I sidestep toward the entrance, careful to keep my fire rate up, and then walk backward.
The giant blocks my shots with its forearms, then scowls at me.
“That’s right, asshat,” I say. “Come on.”
Unexpected fire from the left lands on the beast’s head. He turns to face it.
“Cease fire,” I shout over comms.
But it’s too late. The tango grabs a crate and heaves it to his right. I don’t see where it lands, but I hear Z-Lo holler.
I’m pissed. “Let him track me back down the hall! We need to keep the bull out of the China shop.”
“Pretty sure the kid screwed the pooch there,” Bumper says.
“Dammit.”
I reload Sir Charles and move back toward the control room. With Chuck’s magical assistance, Lada keeps Ock Tall pinned down in the far right corner while everyone else focuses on the giant Odob. Apparently, the Sci-Rung saved the best for last because this thing is not going down easy. It uses its sawed-off blaster to keep everyone back and then roars in defiance between shots.
I take cover behind the entryway bulkhead as more blaster fire comes off the balcony above me. Likewise, Aaron shoots from the near left corner while Hobbs and Ghost assault from the near right. Our angles of attack are great, but the only place for the tango to go, if it wants, is toward the orb. That’s bad.
“Put it down,” I roar. We have to end this. I can’t believe the alien is taking the punishment we’re dishing out. I’ve got Chuck on full-auto again and drilling the tango’s abdomen. The Odob’s attire is shredded, revealing more of its hardened skin. But still, the beast is on its feet. Maybe we can overwhelm him with blaster fire like we did the Shershen. Damn, I hope so.
“I got it,” Z-Lo yells. He’s overhead but out of sight, so I pull up his helmet cam to see what’s going on. By the time I do, however, it’s too late to say anything. Z-Lo’s using his jets to fly across the room with his combat knife in one hand. I’m not the only one who thinks this is a bad idea; Hollywood and Lada are both yelling for him to stop too. Ock Tall senses their change in focus and returns fire, but the Minxes get back on him fast with Chuck’s help.
Z-Lo, however, is on a mission. He lands on the Odob’s back, starts stabbing, and yells, “Die, you big piece of splick.” The kid connects at least once with the soft spot of the giant’s neck, and orange flesh covers the blade. But rather than fall, the Odob roars in fury, grabs Z-lo like a rag doll, and flings him aside.
The helmet cam twirls and then comes to a jarring halt.
“Z-Lo,” I yell. “You good?”
There’s a brief delay, then, “Ouch.”
“He’s good,” Bumper says.
I consider breathing a sigh of relief, but we’re not out of this yet. The Odob decides to charge Aaron’s position. I change mags again—my last one—and track the enemy left. Aaron dives out of the way as the tango crashes through racks and equipment bins. I keep waiting for the destruction to blow up the orb, but the yellow light stays steady.
Then an idea hits me. The gantry crane. It has a hydraulic arm with a multitool at the end.
“Anyone have eyes on the controls for that crane arm?”
There’s a beat before Bumper says, “On it!”
I pull up his cam just to track movement. He’s on the balcony at a workstation that our HUD translates as Aerial Tools. Works for me. Bumper selects Crane, Arm, Center, and two holo rings appear, much like the ones in the dropship cockpit. Having seen Z-Lo do his thing, Bumper sticks his hand through the rings, and the mechanical arm responds immediately. The SEAL does a quick left and right turn, then says, “Oh, hell yeah!”
Next thing I know, the mechanical arm dangling from the ceiling zips across the room from left to right with a whir of high-speed electric motors. The arm apparatus rotates into place, and the multitool pivots toward the Odob.
“Suck it, you son of a bitch,” Bumper exclaims just as the tango turns its head. The crane’s arms grab ahold of the Odob’s shoulders, and the beast struggles, but it’s no good. As the arm begins to lift him, the multitool slowly pushes against his face. His skin does it’s hardening trick, but after a couple seconds of hearing the machine whine, cracks start to form on the Odob’s head and orange puss squirts out. The tool rips into the tango’s face and exits out the back of its head. Then the arm drives the Odob against the left-hand wall with a sickening thud .
Bumper lets out a victory yell and throws his arms up. But he’s forgotten about his connection, and the arm scrapes the Odob up the wall and pummels it into the ceiling.
“Dayum.”
He drops his arms, then the apparatus shoots back down and slams the limp corpse against the deck.
“Here. Let me.” Hollywood moves beside him, turns off the holo control rings, and pats him on the ass. “Computers can be hard, I know.”
* * *
The post-fight pause sets in as everyone checks their fields of fire and clears the room. My first concern is Sugar.
“Yo, I’m okay, Wic-Pops,” the kid say as he walks toward me. He holds up his left arm and stares at the stump below his elbow. His suit seems to have reformed around the wound. “I don’t even feel it, man. Just… can’t believe that bastard cut my arm off.”
“Be glad you’re alive, kid.” I turn to Bumper. “How much did you give him?”
“I didn’t give him anything. By the time I got to him, his suit had taken care of it. Even sealed the wound.”
Chuck chimes in. “Your suits are capable of many first aid and advanced medical treatments, especially if I am able to interface with them.”
“Huh. That’s good to know.” I don’t doubt that Sugar’s gonna need additional medical treatment, but I just don’t know when that’s gonna be. I’ve seen what untreated limb wounds turn into, and I don’t wish that on anyone, least of all him. “Think you can still shoot, Sugar?”
“Hell yeah, Wic-Pops! I got my trusty right hand. Hasn’t let me down yet.”
I point to Z-Lo. “Don’t.”
“But—”
“Just don’t.”
“Copy.”
Back to the team, I say, “Someone help get Sugar a rifle. And then let’s take care of our host.”
The only tango left alive is Srin Ock Tall, who, by the time we converge on him, is hiding underneath his control console in the far right corner.
You’d think the Sci-Rung leader would be more respectful of us after everything we just did, but he’s not. He’s smug and defiant—even considers whether or not to drop his gun despite Ghost having a pistol to his head.
I’m glad Ock Tall is still in one piece because I want more intel about the other humans he’s purchased and what the hell he’s done with them. At the same time, I recognize that’s not information I need , just what I want . What I need is to know more about this orb and how to turn it off. I also need Chuck to work his magic so more refugees don’t get flushed out of an airlock. I know purple face won’t comply, especially if he can use the refugees as leverage, so I cut out the middleman—or, alien .
“Chuck. Can we call off the dogs?”
“Stand by. Almost there. Also, please remove the comms device from his left pants pocket.”
I nod for Z-Lo to search the alien’s pocket.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Bumper says as he readjusts his rifle grip and aims at Ock Tall’s forehead.
“Oh, I won’t,” Z-Lo replies innocently. “I’m not into the weird stuff.”
Bumper looks repulsed. “I was talking to the damn alien!”
“Oh.”
A beat later, Z-Lo pulls out and hands me a jet black rectangular device. It looks similar to a smartphone, but I don't see any buttons or slots on it.
“Press it against my upper receiver,” Chuck says.
I comply and then wait a moment. “You gettin’ it?”
“Almost. Now, cut off his right pinky finger.”
“His what?” I’m not the only one who gives Chuck a wary eye. “You sure?”
“Do I sound sure?”
I nod at Z-Lo, but Ghost maglocks his pistol to his hip. “I insist.”
Because our sniper is missing a digit of his own, I’m guessing this is some sort of therapy. Hey, I don’t judge. Just making an observation. Of course, if Chuck needs the finger, then inflicting pain doesn’t upset me in the least. This is, after all, the bastard responsible for buying a few million humans as merchandise.
Ghost draws his Duradex combat knife, jerks the needed finger out of joint, and then whips the blade through the bone. The whole thing happens so fast that I wonder if Ghost has done this before.
Ock Tall seethes in a whisper-like chatter that my helmet loosely translates as, “You foul ground wallowers. Expire!”
“Easy with the language,” Bumper says. “What a potty mouth, this guy.”
Ghost sheaths his blade, demags his pistol, and hands me the finger. “Here.”
I take the bleeding digit that’s dripping iridescent yellow blood and offer it to Chuck. “Your pinky finger, Lord Charles.”
“And?”
“And… you… need it to scan or something?”
“I got the scan a minute ago. I was just joshing around, as you Americans like to say.”
“Oh my God,” Hollywood lets out. “You’re a sick little bastard.”
“Eh. I’ve been called worse.”
Time to move on to what we need to know. I thumb at the orb and talk through my helmet’s translation software. “What is it?”
Ock Tall lets out some weird rhythmic noises.
Hollywood squints at him. “Is he laughing?”
“God, that’s hideous,” Bumper replies. “Mom, make him stop, please?”
I ask the Sci-Rung again, more slowly this time. “What is it?”
Ock Tall says, “This is the gods’ gift to light creatures, not worm heads.”
I get the gist. So does Charles, who I use to check the alien across the face.
“Ouch! A little warning next time, Patrick?”
“Sorry, pal. He had it coming.”
“Oh, agreed. Just, I need to brace before you strike ugly aliens in the face with my buttstock. Hemorrhoids, you know.”
“Things you don’t hear every day,” Hobbs says.
To Charles, I ask, “You find an off switch yet?”
“No. My apologies, Patrick.”
I look back at Ock Tall. “Shut it down.”
“It is past time, worm.”
“Charles? I’m hitting him.”
“I’m braced.”
I swing the buttstock around and open a wound on the alien’s cheek. More iridescent yellow seeps out; some of it seems to be moving on its own.
“Yo, man! That’s nasty-ass splick, right there,” Sugar says.
Ock Tall lowers a hand to touch his face, but Ghost shakes his head and looks down his pistol’s sites. “Tch-tch-tch . Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The alien thinks twice and puts his hand back up.
“Good boy.”
Ock tall hisses at me. “This is the bad question anyway. You want to keep activated, not closing. But unsurprising. Worms don’t have support knowledge.”
“Toast ’em,” Bumper says. “He ain’t telling us splick.”
“We’ll keep him for intel. He might wanna talk eventually. Ghost, bind his—”
The Sci-Rung leader snatches Ghost’s pistol, flips it on a finger, and fires point-blank. Ghost’s PSG takes the hit and saves his life, but the enemy tries to fire again. So Ghost shoves the alien’s wrist up with his right hand and steps inside for a quick punch to the enemy’s ribs. But Ock Tall is one step ahead, dodges the blow, and produces a small dagger from behind his back. Then he stabs Ghost in the side between armor plates.
The whole thing is a blur, even with Chuck’s magic back on. Ock Tall pivots and pulls away so that Ghost is between him and us. Vlad reaches for the enemy, but the tango lashes out with his knife and strikes the Russian’s forearm. Bumper risks a shot, but the hostile rears back and avoids the blaster round, using Ghost as a shield.
Ghost still has a hand on the enemy’s left wrist and demags his Duradex combat knife in his right hand. Then he thrusts the weapon toward the enemy’s abdomen.
Ock Tall not only avoids the jab, but he drops the pistol, pulls his wrist free of Ghost’s grip, and snatches the combat knife from the sniper’s hand. The movements are impossibly fast. Now the tango has two knives, and Ghost has both arms up, hands empty.
Srin Ock Tall skewers Ghost in the gut with both blades. “Die, worm.”
Ghost grunts from his injuries. “You missed one.” Then he grabs the sword handle behind his head, whips the blade free of his back, and brings the weapon down on the enemy’s skull. The Verv weapon splits the tango’s head in half down to the neck. Then Ghost shoves the Sci-Rung’s body back so the hands release the knives. But before the corpse hits the deck, the sniper slashes a single cut across the enemy’s gut that disembowels him. When the body hits the floor, yellow entrails spill out—half of them moving on their own.
“Didn’t miss this time,” Ghost adds and then stumbles sideways.
Hollywood catches him. “Gotcha.”
Z-Lo helps her ease Ghost to the floor while I review the sniper’s medical diagnostics.
“Three puncture wounds,” I say.
“I’ll manage,” Ghost says. “Is what it is.”
But I’m not leaving this to chance, or Ghost’s stubborn fatalism. “Chuck, can his suit stop the bleeding?”
“Of course, yes. And I’m overseeing the automated nano repair. But he’ll need to stop moving and rest. As should Sugar.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening anytime soon.”
Chuck waits a beat, then says, “I’ve taken the liberty of increasing his pain medication in the meantime.”
Ghost lets out a whisper. “Much appreciated.”
“Hey. Uh, are we not gonna talk about this?” Sugar points his rifle to the yellow entrails slinking across the floor. God, it looks like someone spilled a pack of giant neon nightcrawlers. “That’s some zombie ass shit right there. I don’t think he’s dead.”
Bumper fires twice into Ock Tall’s vitals. The things squeal like a balloon leaking air and eventually stop moving. “Now he is.”
“Patrick, the orb,” Chuck says.
It’s brighter than it was a moment ago. It’s also letting out some sort of low-frequency hum—and getting louder.
“Can I say it now, Bumper?” Z-Lo asks.
“Go ahead, Han Solo.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
I start looking around the equipment. “Chuck, you sure there’s not a… I dunno, a power strip or circuit breaker or something?”
“Of course there is. Oh, wait. This isn’t Earth, is it. Shame.”
“Flounders, Chuck.”
“What’s the play?” Bumper asks.
“Yeah,” Sugar adds. “Cause I’ve seen how this movie ends, man. It’s like a doomsday bomb or some shit, right? We gotta haul ass!”
I do need to double-check this with Chuck. “It’s not a bomb, right?”
“Well, anything can be a bomb, Patrick. All you need is—”
“Probability?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
Hollywood swears. “We’re all gonna die.”
“No one’s dying yet.”
The sound grows louder and the light brighter.
“You sure about that, Wic?” Hollywood asks.
I shrug. “Fifty-fifty.”
Just then, the orb emits a light wave that makes me wanna piss and vomit all at the same time. Then, just like that, the sensation is gone, and the orb dims. In fact, the light reduces to a soft glow, inviting enough that I almost wanna try touching the geodesic orb’s crystalline-like surface. But this ain’t no sightseeing tour.
“What the hell was that?” Hobbs asks.
I ping Insarka. “Something happening with your orb?”
“Massive power discharge,” she replies. “You?”
“Same. I think.” I look at Chuck. “SITREP?”
“Honestly, I have no idea, Patrick. It seems that the orb has gone… well, dormant. As in sleeping. But all the ship’s systems appear to be nominal. I see nothing to indicate otherwise.”
“And the pancakes?”
“All systems check out there too. The next batch of refugees is sixty seconds from delivery to both haulers.”
Bumper lowers his rifle. “Then what the hell was that?”
“Dunno. But right now, all the ships are in one piece, and that’s what matters. Once we’ve taken out the rest of the hired help, then we can worry about whatever this thing is. Copy?”
The team nods, as do Insarka’s people.
“Question,” Hobbs says. “How do you intend to deal with the hired help ? I’m not trying to be a Derek Downer here, but I’m not sure we’re up for more of those.” She nods toward the Odob smeared across the far wall.
“I’ve got an idea so that we won’t have to. That’s the good news.”
“And the bad news?” she asks.
“Telling you how I got my good idea.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we’re back on the bridge. Ghost is walking, and feeling pretty good from his chemically improved life, but we need to get him off his feet. For now, that means sitting front and center in the captain’s chair.
Everyone else is standing around the bridge where I’ve just finished showing the footage of a thousand people being jettisoned into space. It’s a blow to the team’s morale, especially coming off the high of our win in engineering. Having so many innocent lives snuffed out right in front of you is a difficult thing to watch. But I know the team would ask to see this if they found out about the mass execution from evidence on the ship or testimony from the people. Better to take it head-on.
“Lemme guess,” Hobbs says when the silence gets to be too much. “You wanna return the favor.”
“Yut.”
Aaron points toward the holo window floating in the middle of the bridge’s lower floor. “You’re just gonna flush a few hundred enemy lives into deep space? Just like that?”
I don’t expect my childhood friend to get it. “I understand your objection, Aaron. But we don’t have other options, and we can’t face them head-on.”
“Of course we have other options. There are always other options.”
“Like what?” I know I sound sarcastic, and I don’t mean to. Force of habit, I guess. When you know how your enemy’s gonna move their pieces on the chessboard, and you know how you’re gonna counter, it’s pretty easy to work out the rest of the game.
“Like… offer them options before we flush them.”
“Which would be?”
“For one, we could deliver them to Septus Minor and let them live out their lives like the refugees would have. I have to think any reasonable sentient being would take that over death. And, before you object, I didn’t suggest my first idea, which is to take them captive and deliver them to some governing body elsewhere in the multiverse because, yeah, that sounds crazy. I get it. And I’ve seen all the movies where people break out of jail and slaughter their captors. So don’t tell me I haven’t thought this through. I know what I’m talking about. Well, mostly.”
He always was an honest one.
I look around at the rest of the Phantoms and ask for their input. My rank means that I bear the burden of making this decision in the end, but they know I like being well-informed and offer their support and criticism freely. But the most insightful question comes from Sugar.
“Did they have anything to do with buying humans?”
All eyes go to the kid.
When no one replies, he asks again. “Did the Verv, Odobs, and Shershen have a part in harvesting Earth?”
Insarka chimes in over comms. “I can answer this. No, Sugar. The three you listed are client species. Mercenaries to a certain extent, yes. Paid killers. But it is more nuanced than that, as all agreements during conflicts tend to be. Each species has its reasons for being here, and none is quite like the rest.”
Sugar nods as if putting it all together and absently touches the stump of his left forearm. “So, they just doin’ a job. That job happens to involve us humans this time. I mean, I hate these little shits as much as any of you, but I guess, well, sometimes people just need work, and they kinda get stuck with a job, ya know? They part of the problem, I can see that. But they ain’t the reason this splick’s happening. It’s just, sometimes, people need a chance. These pieces of splick might not deserve to die for what they did, but maybe they deserve each other once let go from the Sci-Rung’s employment, feel me?”
“I can groove to that,” Bumper says. “Let them deal with each other. Keeps our consciences clear—if that was ever a thing—and lets justice take whatever form nature wants.”
Everyone seems to accept this position, some more readily than others. Chuck is the only one against it.
“Why?” I ask him.
He hems and haws for a second and then finally says, “Ugh. I just really got my hopes up about venting them.”
The Phantoms laugh.
I do a little too. “My, Sir Charles, this is a new side of you.”
“You’re kidding. Patrick, I’m a rifle. A rie-fulll . I’m either talking to you or killing everyone else.”
Hobbs whispers, “And we all wish it was more of the latter.”
“Copy that.”
“Copy what?” Chuck asks.
I ignore him. “All in favor of dropping the aliens off in the Hunger Games?”
Our team’s hands go up. I check Insarka’s roster, but only hers is raised. She takes a second to say something in Androchidan, and then the rest of her team’s hands go up.
“I had to explain the Hunger Games,” she says as naturally as if she saw it in the theaters growing up. I still don’t understand how she’s absorbed so much of our culture so fast, but I’ve got a horizontal mouth instead of a vertical one, so who am I to say?
“Chuck?” I ask. “You in?”
He lets out a long sigh. “Only because of peer pressure.”
“Noted. Motion carries. Charles, you get to pick the spot.”
“Oooo. I saw a volcano on the planet’s far side.”
“No volcanos.”
“Desert?”
“Something survivable.”
“I can survive in the desert.”
We shout in union, “Chuck!”
“Blimey. Sor-ry .”
Hollywood motions to an orbital view of the planet’s surface. “What about the combatants already down there who are pushing the people toward the beach?”
“We’ll just say that we’re changing plans and want everyone on board ASAP.”
Bumper nods at a screen displaying the two hangars on the Porsavar . “Speaking of the ones on board. What about them?”
“We’ll say the change of plan is everyone investigating another pocket of humans before we continue here.”
“What if they get suspicious and don’t want to come?” Chuck asks. “Can we vent them?”
Hobbs smiles at me. “He’s just not gonna let this one go.”
I smile back. “Yes, Chuck. You can vent them then.”
“Yes! Victory is mine! I knew you’d come around to my way of seeing things.”
“But only if they don’t come along easily. Alright?”
“Oh, of course, Patrick. Absolutely. Fair chance, and all. But… one more request?”
I roll my eyes. “What?”
“May I be Seneca Crane if they don’t end up getting suspicious?”
I look around for help.
“Head Gamemaker for the seventy-fourth Hunger Games,” Z-Lo says. “No? Anyone?”
“You got it, Charles.”
“Huh,” Z-Lo says, looking down. “I thought everyone knew that.”