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“Behold, Mister Decker.” Amali's glee knew no bounds and for once, Zack was too horror-struck to make a smart remark.
On the other side of the window, a grotto bathed in dim red light cut a picture of the Hell foretold by so many human faiths. A hell populated by man-sized, six-limbed demons with huge composite eyes.
The Quas were much more hideous in person than their pictures on Korden's computer screen could convey. Insectoid down to every detail, their reddish-brown exoskeletal bodies looked like those of giant ants. On some of the creatures, the lower segment tapered into a short, powerful tail ending with a long stinger, a refinement Amali and his tame academic had forgotten to mention. It didn't take Zack long to realize that these were soldiers.
The most horrifying feature of the Quas was its head. A flattened ovoid that sat on the upper segment like a malicious tumor, it sported two huge, multi-faceted eyes, eyes that never closed, never blinked, and never showed emotions. Beneath the eyes, a mouth like something out of a nightmare glistened. Its jaws were able to open wide enough to swallow a small pig. Blackened pincers as long as Zack's forearms framed the mouth and long, thin antennae grew out of either side of the head.
They walked on the rear two limbs, but the other four could be used as additional legs for climbing and running. Each arm ended in three sharp claws.
In the grotto, drones and soldiers skittered around, their limbs scraping across their chitinous bodies. It sounded eerily like the rustling of dead leaves. They chattered among themselves in a language that resembled the high-speed clicks of a beetle, if it had been fed amphetamines, but alien as they were, Decker could see that they belonged to a structured, disciplined and organized society.
What most held his attraction were the rows of pulsating, semi-translucent white globes: Quas eggs, hundreds of them.
“What do you think, Mister Decker?” Amali leaned languidly against the window, arms crossed, a look of intense satisfaction on his face.
“You have a producing queen,” the gunner replied, mind still reeling from the sight of the Quas hive.
“But of course. You helped bring it back here.”
He touched a key on a hidden pad by the window frame. The milky whiteness returned, only to dissolve into the image of a small cavern. In the middle of the chamber, gross, distended, and nightmarish, a Quas queen wallowed in a nest built out of a vaguely aspic-like substance that pulsed every time she moved. Her distended, lumpy egg sac filled most of the space, glistening and shining with an inner light of its own. As Zack watched, mouth hanging half-open, another egg slid out of the sack, sticky and gelatinous.
“Another soldier, Mister Decker,” Amali smirked. “Two out of three eggs are.”
A drone picked up the egg with loving care and skittered out of the queen's chamber, chattering away in its clicking tongue. The image faded as Amali fiddled with the controls. It reformed, this time showing a honeycombed cavern of indeterminate height. Each alcove contained a whitish, fibrous mass, held into place by thin filaments. The masses moved and writhed in their nests.
“These are the pupa hatched from the eggs you brought back from Ventos Prime. All are doing well. I have twenty new soldiers, ten drones and,” Amali's voice dropped to a whisper, “one new queen.”
“She will be ready for impregnation in less than a year,” he continued, “a ritual I shall be most interested in watching. You see, the drones compete for the favor of a single moment of sex, but at what cost, Mister Decker, what cost?” His eyes gleamed with perverse pleasure. “I shall tell you what cost: the queen eats her mate after the act.”
Decker snorted.
“I know a few human females who'd do the same thing, given half a chance. Like your whore, Nihao Kiani. Who knows? You might meet one like her soon, and good riddance.”
“You are mouthy for a man about to undergo the ultimate test, Mister Decker,” Amali snapped irritably.
Zack snorted. “Oh? And what would that be, asshole?”
“Laugh and insult me all you want, Decker.” Zack noticed that Amali's urbane politeness had vanished: he no longer rated the 'Mister' in front of his name. “But before you have too much fun, watch this.”
The window faded to white again before opening on yet another view of the hive.
“Unfortunately, we must make do with a recording. I would have liked to show you a live example of Quas feeding, but...” He let the rest of the sentence hang. It didn't matter. Zack felt sick to the stomach as he realized what he was about to see.
A human, disheveled and gaunt, filled the center of the screen. Dressed in simple gray coveralls, like the ones Zack wore, he was tied to a stake with a chain that wrapped around his waist. The chain had maybe two meters slack. Zack recognized the prisoner and his nausea intensifed.
“Failure must be dealt with swiftly and harshly, pour encourager les autres, right Decker?” Without waiting for a reply, Amali continued. “It was Captain Strachan's misfortune to hire you aboard Shokoten and jeopardize my plans, the second time he has made the mistake of taking on Fleet infiltrators. He will not make that mistake again. Another good officer lost because of your meddling, Decker. Oh, have no fear; he is alone in paying the ultimate price. Your former shipmates, whom I cannot blame as they don't even know they serve me, are alive, and still aboard Shokoten, under a new master.”
“Still, Diego Strachan gave me one last instance of usefulness, by 'volunteering' as our first test subject, just as you will be our next.” Amali's voice was flat, unemotional. Zack glanced over at the Professor and saw she mirrored her patron's blank expression.
A Quas soldier appeared on the screen and the gunner caught a flash of patched chitin at the back of the head.
“The specimen you see is under the direct control of Professor Rocheford.”
She nodded absently, her dead eyes staring at the view without seeing it.
“Now,” Amali's cruel smile reappeared, “the Professor will release the soldier from her control and let it act naturally.”
It was as if a connection had been severed, or more accurately, re-established. The creature's composite eyes focused on the helpless Strachan, who screamed. In a flash, it closed the distance to the human and its four upper limbs grabbed him, drawing blood where they punctured the skin. Black jaws slid out of the skull and homed-in on Strachan's head. Antennae twitched in a macabre dance as the mouth pincers took hold of his ears.
Then, the stinger whipped around and impaled the prisoner through the back, its length piercing right through to gleam redly in the middle of the chest.
Strachan's screams ceased abruptly as he died. The creature’s jaws opened wide and engulfed the bearded head. They closed with a snap, severing the neck. Blood gushed, splattering the Quas' shiny body. But the bug didn't seem to care.
It methodically tore the arms and legs from the torso, snapping them as easily as Zack would snap the wings off a broiled chicken. The limbs followed the head down its maw. All that remained was the bloodied trunk of what had been, moments earlier, a living, breathing human being, who for all his faults and crooked transactions, didn't deserve such a fate.
Zack felt fury rise in him, a rage that burst through his self-control, smothering all of his other emotions.
“You'll die for this, Amali,” he hissed. “I'll make damn sure of that myself. And so will you, Professor.”
He turned to look at Rocheford and was astonished to see her sit rigidly, like a statue, eyes unfocused and lifeless, tears streamed down her cheeks, trembling hands clenched in her lap, the knuckles white.
“You must forgive the good Professor,” Amali's silky voice insinuated itself through the layers of Zack's fury. “She is somewhat sentimental.”
“Maybe it’s because she has a fucking conscience, you sickening shit.” Decker's shout echoed across the room. “But then, I suppose you wouldn't know what a conscience was if it bit you in the ass. You'll pay for that poor sod and everyone else you've murdered. That's a Pathfinder's oath.”
Amali laughed with derision.
“You’ll make me pay? I seriously doubt that Decker, unless, of course, you find a way to return from the dead and haunt me.” His laughter was rich, melodious and filled with contempt. “What you just saw, my oh-so-tough friend is your destiny: food for a hungry Quas soldier, a soldier in the future Coalition Auxiliary.”
“Then get it over with, asshole,” Zack snarled.
“Not so fast.” The magnate's face became serious again, though a dark malice burned in his eyes. “We must still conduct many tests before I can field my army, and one of those is to see how effective Quas soldiers are against Marines. You, my uncouth friend, are a heaven-sent means to test this: the best of the best, a Marine Pathfinder.”
“A hand-to-hand fight with that? You won't enjoy the experience. The bug has me cold with his fucking stinger.”
“No, no, Decker.” He shook his head. “Something more enjoyable: a manhunt. Quas hunting Marine. On this island.”
Zack tried to shrug, to hide the terror gnawing at his innards, but the restraints turned his movement into a spastic jerk.
“What's my motivation? If I survive, you'll give me my life?”
“Of course not. Your life is forfeit either way. But you have the choice to die like Strachan, without a struggle, howling in terror.” He waved at the screen. “Or you can die like a Pathfinder, fighting to the end. The Quas will kill you, no matter what you do. I’m counting on your survival instinct and that unreasonable belief you Marines have of fighting against any odds. Like your spiritual forebears on Farhaven. Interesting that your Marine Corps' most important moment in history is a bloody defeat. Yes, you will fight, Decker. You may even kill a Quas or two.”
“You're right. Give me a chance to fight, and I will.” Zack snarled. “Marines never surrender. I don't fucking expect you to understand, but your bloody monstrosities don’t have me yet, and neither have you.”
“Ah, Mister Decker.” Amali shook his head again, smiling. “Brave to a fault. If only I could find a way to distil your spirit and inject it into the sorry excuses that pass for soldiers on Pacifica, I wouldn't need the Quas.”
“If you were hoping to swim off this island,” he continued, “disabuse yourself of the notion. The seas are infested with a fish resembling Earth's sharks. Only these are more vicious. You will not pass the reefs surrounding the island. Assuming, of course, the Quas are not after you. They can survive under water for short periods. As I said, they're the ultimate soldiers. Perhaps you may hope to sneak into my little colony and steal a ship or weapons or who knows what.”
Amali shook his head. “Please disabuse yourself of the notion. A fence able to prevent Quas and humans alike from entering surrounds the estate. Of course, sensors cover the island so I will always know where you are. So, Mister Decker. Are you game?”
“Fuck you, Amali.”
But the target of the profanity was already turning his attention to the mercenary guards.
“Take him to his cell. Make sure he eats well tonight. Give him anything else he wants, within reason, of course: whiskey, holovids, pen, and paper to write his will.” Amali chuckled, pleased by his wit. “Tomorrow morning, Decker. Until then.”
*
That night, Zachary T. Decker, late command sergeant in the 902nd Marine Pathfinder Squadron, fought off despair by trying to convince himself that Amali's Quas manhunt would turn into a Marine bug hunt.
Don't count a Pathfinder as dead until you've seen the body, and even then make damn sure.
But try as he might, Zack couldn't find a way out. Amali had this place sewn up. The guards won't let him make a single step sideways while he was within the compound and once out in the island's jungle-covered hills...
The only question was how long he could stay alive out there. He knew more than just a handful of dirty tricks, but nothing about his opponents, apart from the fact they had one hell of a built-in weapon, could shrug off small caliber plasma, and ate their vanquished enemies.
His only consolation was that they hadn't found Avril Ducote yet. Otherwise, Amali would have thrown the fact in his face, or changed his perverted little game to give Zack even more incentive to fight. The gunner tightened with fury at the thought of her in Amali's hands.
His last meal was excellent and came with a glass of vintage red wine and a snifter of Dordogne brandy. Amali had a strange sense of humor, wasting the talents of his chef and the contents of his expensive cellar on a smart-ass ex-Marine who was about to die.
Decker slept, after a fashion. But it was a rest tormented by dreams of chasing Quas soldiers, and each dream ended with a long, black stinger piercing his body.
*
The mercs came for him as a dazzling tropical sun washed away the last of the night's chill, painting the island's hillsides with vibrant primary colors. For all that Amali despised Decker, he took no chances this morning.
His escort numbered eight silent guards, each carrying his carbine at the ready. They clamped a thin steel collar around his neck and took him through an underground warren to a large, plascrete walled room. It was unfurnished but sported a wide ramp sloping upwards. At the top of the ramp, sliding doors had opened on a rich tableau of native vegetation. A soft breeze strummed strangely shaped leaves in multiple hues of green, turquoise and blue, stirring scents of sweet life and dark decay. The sounds of the living jungle made a pleasant backdrop to the grimness of what would be Decker's last morning in this life.
Amali, dressed in expensive, tailor-made fatigues, waited at the foot of the ramp, hands joined in the small of his back. He was alone.
“Good morning, Mister Decker.” He nodded. His politeness had returned overnight, though he looked tired, with red-rimmed eyes. For a moment, Zack wondered whether the man wasn't a junkie himself.
“I trust you are ready to, as they say, 'show your stuff.' Did you enjoy last night's supper? My cook is such a splendid artist.”
“Does your cook have a nice, peachy butt too, Amali? Or are you that impressed by his ability to use an autochef?” Ave Amali. Those about to die smart-mouth you.
Zack’s fear had given way to recklessness ever since waking, and that sense of recklessness kept growing. It was the feeling of a man who had nothing left to lose, and therefore nothing more to fear.
“Spirited to the last. Superb, Mister Decker. You will give us a grand show, I’m sure.” The magnate smiled, but it didn't reach his narrowed eyes.
“The rules are very simple. You shall have an hour's head start. The entire island, except the estate, of course, is your battleground. You may use whatever you find to defeat the Quas. As long as you stay alive, the game will continue, even if it takes days, which I doubt.” He paused, trying vainly for dramatic effect with a man who didn't care anymore.
“And for each Quas you kill, I will release two more.”
“Any weapons?” Zack's voice was steady, even bored.
“No, Mister Decker. They say a Pathfinder's body is a finely honed weapon. So is a Quas soldier's body. Any other questions?”
“Yeah. In case I don't get the chance to ask later, do you want me to bury you on this island, or feed your body to the fishes?”
Amali laughed.
“Excellent, Mister Decker, keep up the spirit.”
He pointed at the jungle.
“I will start the clock the moment your feet leave the ramp. It opens outside the fence, right into the forest. One last thing, Mister Decker, just so you know I do have a healthy respect for you. That collar my men have placed around your neck is not only a transponder that will permit me to keep track of you, but also an explosive device. Should you, by some miracle, leave my island, it will detonate the moment it no longer receives its telemetry signals, which will happen approximately five hundred meters from the shoreline. The charge will sever your neck cleanly, I’m told. Like a twist of detcord.” He paused, looking at Zack as if for the last time.
“Goodbye, Mister Decker. It’s been an interesting few days.”
Zack gave Amali the rigid digit salute and walked up the ramp. He wore the same gray coveralls as before, with a pair of sturdy combat boots on his feet. And that, with light underwear, was the total of his possessions. No, not quite. A slanting ray of sun glinted off the gold Master Gunner's badge pinned to his chest, briefly catching Zack's eye.
As he stepped off the hard surface of the ramp and onto the spongy carpet of tropical decay, the armored doors slid closed. The timer had started to tick on his one-hour head start.
Decker remembered the aerial view of the island from his first visit. With the rising sun as a guide, he headed for the saddle between the two hills dominating the center of the landmass, trying to put as much distance between himself and the compound. The jungle was thick, and he struggled to make headway.
When the undergrowth finally thinned as the ground rose, his hands were scratched and bloodied. His boots were already soaked through, thanks to a short stroll into an overgrown slough. It had occupied the center of a minuscule clearing, and Zack wanted to take advantage of the open space, no matter how small. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again. Thumb sized leeches had attached themselves to his legs as he crossed the stagnant water and their bite had stung.
Along the way, his trained eyes spotted small receptors mounted in trees. They were simple, passive devices, good only for getting signals from his transponder, but they could come in handy if Amali lets him steal a few. He had said Zack could use anything he found, but men like him had no sense of honor.
The hour's head start passed quickly, judging by the sun's climb into the dark blue sky. Temperatures also rose, and the jungle became a sweltering steam bath that soaked Zack's skin and painted irregular patches of sweat on his coveralls.
Perspiration ran into his eyes, and he swore at the salty sting. He removed his t-shirt, ignoring the myriad insects fighting for a bite of his bare torso and, with a savage gesture, tore the khaki fabric into strips, tying one around his shaved head as a sweatband. He tucked the others into his pocket after pulling the coveralls' upper part back over his arms and shoulders. They might come in handy later.
The jungle had cleared sufficiently to give him a decent line of sight and let him move fast. He would be able to hear and see the bug approach early enough to run. Though where exactly he would run was a question to which he found no answer.
Going through the motions, Zack took a short stroll in the middle of a narrow fresh-water stream that flowed between the two near hills, just in case the Quas could track him by smell, though he doubted that was one of their built-in strengths. They had no visible nose, or ears. But whether they didn't have good hearing or a good sense of smell depended on what those antennae did.
One thing was sure, with eyes like that, they likely saw much better than Decker and into the extremes of the visual spectrum too, such as infrared. Which meant the bugs could probably track him and pin him down by the heat his body gave off, and there would be little he could do about it.
He reached his chosen battleground and turned his attention to weapons. Rocks and sticks were out, for obvious reasons. He needed something more, preferably a twenty millimeter rocket rifle, or a light Gatling gun. And while he was at it why not ask for a full Pathfinder squadron with all the trimmings?
Another of the passive receivers caught his eye, and he decided to investigate. The native tree's bark was rough and the climb among its turquoise fronds easy. When he reached the fist-sized oblong, Zack saw it wasn't connected by wires and grinned. It had to work on internal fuel cells. He braced himself and slammed the heel of his hand into the device's side sending it plummeting to the ground. Zack jumped after it, landing smoothly on the carpet of rotting vegetation.
He picked up the sensor and examined it. It was of the disposable type, with a simple plas shell and mass-produced innards. Finding two flat stones, he held it sideways on one of them, and carefully hammered the shell with the other, hoping to crack it at the seam between the two halves. It split open on the fourth hit. Zack grinned. For all his riches, Amali had skimped on quality.
He examined the inside and nodded, satisfied. It would be an easy job to cross-circuit the fuel cells and set them to overload. If the cells held a sufficient charge, the sensor could blow like any decent hand grenade, sending shrapnel in all directions. Whether it would do anything to a bug was another question, but homemade grenades were better than bare hands any day.
Zack stripped the connectors, ending the sensor's incarnation as tracking device. Somewhere on Amali's estate, a merc guard must be wondering why this unit suddenly went dead, just after reporting good old Zack Decker near it.
A circuit overload was seldom, if ever, instantaneous. Even a starship's antimatter reactor took a few moments to go from a short circuit to a big bang. That time delay would be his fuse, and if perchance the buggering things didn't behave like typical power units, then it didn't matter whether he killed himself with a jury-rigged grenade or a barehanded attack on a Quas soldier. Dead was dead, on any planet and in any language.
Ducking behind a large boulder, Zack slapped the shell halves together, leaving two exposed strands of wire hanging out. With a quick wrist movement, he twisted the wires together, counting the seconds from the moment they touched, and threw the sensor over the rock. It bounced off a tree and landed with a muffled thud.
At the count of thirteen, the fuel cells exploded with a loud bang that echoed between the hills. Shards of plas, superconductor and metal, flew in all directions, slashing through the leaves.
“Hot damn! Those fucking bugs are going to experience some serious indigestion from my homemade bombs. And all I have to do is pick 'em off trees, like little red apples.”
Zack collected five more devices in the immediate area, clearing out the wide space between the two low hills, and quickly transformed them into hand grenades.
Then, pockets bulging, he turned north and climbed to the summit of the higher knoll, which was as bare as a monk's tonsure, or his own skull for that matter. At least three hours had expired since his release, which meant a bug had been hunting him for two, and if Amali was vectoring the thing onto him, it should show up soon.
Decker slipped between the quartet of large, black rocks that crowned the hill, taking advantage of the natural cover and the vantage point that gave him a clear view of the slope. He lay down on his stomach, facing the estate and, making sure his throwing arm had room to swing, stacked his grenades within reach, careful that the exposed wires didn't touch by accident. Now, all he had to do was wait, and that was the hardest part.
*
The minutes stretched out as the sun beat down on his exposed scalp. A headache began to throb in sync with his heartbeat. Perspiration soaked him from head to toe while the pebbles beneath his body dug into his bruised flesh. He was preternaturally alert, eyes searching the dark tree line, adrenaline keeping his body at peak readiness.
After a wait that seemed to last an eternity under the unrelenting tropical sky, the sound of rustling leaves reached Zack's ears, the sound of a Quas' limbs rubbing against its chitinous armor. The opening round was about to be decided. He picked up a grenade and prepared to join the wires.
The Quas burst through the tree line twenty meters below Zack and stopped, head swiveling, antennae quivering. It chattered softly to itself, its deadly tail swishing through the low vegetation. Then, like an anti-tank missile on terminal guidance, its cold, dead eyes locked onto Zack's hilltop hideout.
Decker twisted the exposed strands of his first grenade together, counting down the fuse delay time.
Six, five, THROW, three, two, one.
The grenade exploded three meters to the bug's right, and Zack raised his head to look. He swore at the sight. Shards of shrapnel stuck out of the thing's body, but it seemed to treat them as annoyances, brushing them away as if they were lint specks. He primed another grenade and held it until the last moment. Then, he reared up and threw, shouting in defiance.
The goddess who watched over all reckless old Pathfinders had a light workload that day. By an incredible chance, the jury-rigged grenade blew in mid-air, less than a meter in front of the Quas, at the height of its head. Jagged shards of hardened plas and metal sliced through the bug's composite eyes and penetrated its brain.
The creature let out a bone-chilling scream and keeled over, bluish ichor flowing from multiple gouges. Zack shivered at the sound and absently brushed a sting from his cheek. His hand came back bloody, and he realized he'd caught shrapnel from his own grenade. A few centimeters higher and he would have lost an eye himself.
Like a man hypnotized, he watched his alien hunter twitch and thrash on the rocky slope as its autonomous system refused to follow its higher functions into oblivion. Decker stayed at a healthy distance, lest he was caught by the long stinger as it swept the ground with a horrible rasp. The Quas soldier took a long time to die.
“Good guys: one. Bugs: zero,” Zack whispered, stunned at his own success. “So now I know your weak spot, you bastards. Aim for the eyes and you kill the Quas.”
With a last look at the dead creature, Zack turned to pick up his three remaining grenades and stuffed them in his pockets.
“Time to make tracks, Decker, you're about to have two of the critters on your tail.”
*
“You’re sure it’s dead, Professor?”
“Yes, Walker,” Rocheford replied in a dull voice. “It suffered massive trauma to the head and died within minutes.”
“And we have no idea how he did it?”
“No, sir,” the mercenary tech replied from the sensor console. “The guy busted every receiver in the area. Six in all went down right after he came within range.”
“Why would he want to do that?” Amali wondered, frustration replacing his earlier good mood. Then, an ugly thought made him frown even more.
“Captain,” he turned to the mercenary commander, “can those sensors be used as weapons?”
The stocky, flat-faced man scratched the side of his head
“Anything with fuel cells can be made to blow, if you know how,” he replied in his low, raspy voice. “Those little things wouldn't generate much of an explosion, but if it's strong enough, you have yourself a grenade. It could be enough to kill the beasties with the shrapnel.”
“Would a man like Decker know how?”
“Marine Corps Master Gunner and Pathfinder to boot? If anyone can, he'd be the one to bet on, sir.”
“But to kill a Quas soldier?” Amali shook his head in disbelief. “It has to be a fluke. Professor, release the next two soldiers. Captain, put a pair of drones in the air and find Decker. If he’s using my instruments as weapons, I want to know, preferably before he causes any more damage. You shouldn’t have any problems vectoring on his position. Just wait until the next unit goes offline.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once you’ve found him, make sure you don't lose him. I want the Professor to steer the Quas to his position. Then, I want to see how he killed a soldier.”
“Sir,” the tech turned his head towards Amali, “we have him again! He's backtracking towards the estate.”
A small red blip appeared on the schematic of the island.
“Good.” The magnate smiled, eyes narrowed in malice. “That will make life simpler for us. Tell me, Captain, do you think he intends to use his new-fangled weapon to penetrate the estate?”
“It would take more than a grenade, sir,” the merc replied. “I don't -”
“Another receiver down,” the tech interrupted. “He's off screen.”
The red blip had disappeared again. And this time, it didn't come back. After a wait that seemed to stretch for hours, Walker Amali’s anxiety grew and he began to fidget. Zack Decker had already killed one alien warrior. What else was he capable of doing?
The drones couldn't find Decker through the thick foliage; the Quas couldn't find him either, and the sun was setting. Somehow, Amali got a mental picture of a grinning Zack thumbing his nose at them all. It wasn't until the captain gave him a strange look that he realized his hands were gripping the back of the tech's chair so hard he was shaking.
*
Hunger gnawed at Zack’s innards as he slipped back into the saddle between the two hills. Pacifica’s sun was kissing the horizon, turning the ocean into a fiery sheet of molten lava, and it would be night soon, with the abruptness so characteristic of the tropics on any planet. The darkness would enhance the bugs’ biggest advantage, the eyes, while it would blind him. He had heard the two new soldiers move through the trees, talking to each other, searching for their prey. He had also spotted the dangerous drones. They were looking for him, and once they found him, the Prof would vector the bugs to his position. Amali wasn’t playing fair, but the gunner hadn’t expected him to do so.
Zack had spent the afternoon exploring the area, secure in the knowledge that his captors could not know where he was, and what he was doing. Had Amali invested in better gear, things might have been different, but he figured he’d earned a break.
Decker crawled into the little tunnel he’d found hidden beneath a bush, just a stone’s throw from the stream. It was narrow, barely big enough for a Quas soldier, but not big enough to let the bug swing its tail. And it had a smaller exit, which Zack had enlarged just enough to make a human sized escape hatch, at the price of bloody, torn hands.
He made a final check of his dispositions, and then tossed a bloody rag, a strip of t-shirt with which he’d cleaned his hands, out of the tunnel. The drone couldn’t help seeing it if it came over the spot before full darkness and if the tech at the other end was alert. Many ifs. With luck, he’d be able to take a break in the underground warren, sleep all night if they didn’t find him, but the first sound of chitin against stone would wake him in a flash.
It was infiltration training all over again. Except the Corps’ Pathfinder School didn’t use human-eating Quas as opposing force.
The sliver of light at the mouth of the tunnel vanished as the sun set, plunging Decker into blackness. Now was the time at which Quas composite eyes became an asset no human could match unless he wore a Marine battle helmet, with built-in night vision gadgets. He chuckled at the thought. If he had a battle helmet, he’d have the rest of the armor suit too, and a plasma rifle, and a whole damn troop of Marines, while he was at it.
Soon, he fell into a light sleep.
*
Decker's eyes popped open as alarm bells went off in his head. He knew instinctively it was late, well past midnight. A faint rustle of dead leaves had woken him. He strained to listen again, heart racing, blood pounding in his ears. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up in fear, and he shivered. Quas raised a primal terror within him, now compounded by the obscurity.
There it was, in front of him, near the entrance to his tunnel. He groped for the grimy, rubber-sheathed wires he'd found near the estate earlier, part of an older system. The long wires were connected to a grenade tied to a stick wedged into the tunnel, at what he judged would be the level of a crouching bug's eyes.
Zack listened, trying to decide whether the creature had entered his burrow or whether it was still screwing around outside, trying to figure out what the bloody rag on the ground meant. Then, he heard it: a scraping of chitin on rock. But it wasn't coming from the front. It was coming from the back, from his emergency exit.
Panic closed his throat at the thought of being boxed in by the bugs, to be torn apart underground without seeing the stars one last time. He tried to breathe in and couldn't. His fear rose further when he heard what sounded like strong claws tearing at the rock and dead coral, widening the hole. Then, a slithering from the front made him turn his attention back again. The bug was in the tunnel. He could smell it, sense its mindless, evil presence, its instinctual desire to kill and devour. Closing his eyes he asked for the intervention of a deity he had long ago abandoned and joined the two wires.
The grenade blew after only three seconds and Zack's first, irrelevant thought was short fuse!
Then the horrible screech of the wounded Quas drove out everything else. He had to exit the tunnel.
Amali would know his little insect friend had taken a hit, know where he was. A new duo of bugs could be here in an hour or less.
The scrabbling and anxious chattering behind him reminded the gunner he had no way out. Grabbing his three remaining grenades, he screwed up his courage and headed for the front entrance, thankful that he couldn't see the damaged face of the Quas. When he neared the ambush site, he turned around so he could go out feet first. Within moments, his boots touched something sticky, wet, and crunchy: the bug's ruined head. Its body blocked the entrance, arms twitching in death, scraping against the rock.
The stench of the dead alien made Zack nauseous, and he gagged, thankful that his stomach was empty. If it hadn’t been for the live soldier behind him, he might not have been able to keep up his courage. Steeling himself against what he was about to do, Zack kicked the Quas' body with both feet to drive it out of his way.
His boots sank through the shattered eyes and into the creature's primitive brain. Ichor splashed all over the enclosed space, spattering his exposed skin with something that burned like a slimy acid. He retched again, tears flowing out the corner of his eyes from the stinging ichor mist. Zack stomped the dead body over and over, swearing and cursing in more languages than he could remember
Finally, the body rolled away as it popped out of the tunnel. Decker scrambled out behind it, sobbing as he saw the stars. He took several deep breaths of fresh night air to calm his racing heart. This was as close as he'd ever come to losing it. Not even the worst on Hispaniola had ever made him panic like that.
The bugs had been smarter than he thought, much smarter. He doubted that the drone had shown them the way. No, the Quas must have found his bloody rag and made the correct deductions, exploring the area and cooperating to corner him. That realization frightened him all over again.
A loud rustling drew his attention back to the here and now. The second bug was about to burst out of the shaft. Zack armed a grenade and tossed it in. Then, without looking back, he ran into the jungle, intend on reaching the shoreline on the other side of the island.
Smart as the Quas were, the second bug didn't recognize the grenade for what it was. A muffled bang and a loud screech marked its passing.
“Good guys: three. Bugs: zero,” Zack muttered to himself as he pushed through the dense foliage, feeling his way through the darkness, ignoring the thorns tearing at his skin.
“Now it'll be four against Zack. The odds are getting even.”
Decker knew it was just bravado. Without food, he was weakening fast, and with four of the things on his back, cooperating in a way he hadn't expected, his improvised grenades would no longer suffice.
If the next team of Quas didn't end his illustrious bug-hunting career, then Amali would. He wasn't the type to continue the game for sport with losses climbing so fast. At least he'd have shown the bastard that Marines died hard.
*
Zack reached the pristine beach on the far side just as the first light of dawn brightened the western horizon. He washed off the dried, caked-on ichor in the shallow waters, leaving red burn marks behind, his tired eyes were alert for any sign of Amali's killer fish.
By now, he must have passed at least one operational receiver, which meant they knew where he was. The next batch of bugs would be along soon.
He stretched, causing his muscles to protest in pain. His stomach rumbled in protest again, and Zack did his best to ignore it. The cold light reflecting off distant clouds made the reality of his situation frighteningly clear. He had nothing to eat, no way out and no hope of survival. All he had was his damned pride and an unquenchable desire to go down fighting.
For lack of a better plan, he returned to the tree line along the black beach and slowly made his way to the southern end of the island where an extinct volcano towered above the jungle. He had a vague notion of drawing the Quas into a wild chase through the crater if only to make a change from the jungle hunt.
Along the way, Decker took down three sensors, which he modified as he walked. The sun soon rose but cast an ominous, dull red glow behind the low clouds and growing haze.
With detached fascination, the gunner watched roiling, black thunderheads form an unbroken carpet of darkness that threatened to occlude the newborn light, giving the day a sick hue. High waves broke against the coral reef as surface currents fought the onrushing storm.
Sudden gusts of wind tore at the palm trees, threatening to topple them. Then, a steady gale slammed into the island and snatched the breath from Zack's lungs. He withdrew deeper into the forest, but the elements found him nonetheless, drowning his hearing in white noise, the rain stinging his eyes.
A palm tree toppled across his path, almost crushing him under its weight. Even the jungle had turned against him.
He burst through the tree line back towards the shore, right into a driving, dense rain. Lightning flashed in the distance, blinding him for a moment. Straining to take each step, Zack walked into the ocean, in a half-baked attempt to blur his trail, even though what little remained of his rational mind knew it would be useless.
He needn't have bothered. On the spit of land ahead, four reddish shapes broke out of the undergrowth, tails swishing. They spread out and moved in, struggling against the chaos just as Zack was doing. The gunner stopped and tried to pull a grenade from his pocket. A wave toppled him over, and he went under, losing the plastic package.
When he came up for air, spluttering and wheezing, the Quas had come closer. The salt burned his eyes, and he tried to rub it out, but only made things worse. Tears streamed down his face to mingle with the downpour.
Zack could no longer escape. He knelt in the shallow water to keep his balance and pulled out another grenade. A blinding, suicidal madness grew out of a dormant part of his soul, pushing aside his rising panic. He raised his fist at the soldiers.
“Come on, you fucking bugs,” he yelled, the force of his shout searing his throat. Howling winds snatched his words away, and anyhow, the Quas couldn't understand him. “Come and die with Zachary T. Decker, Command Sergeant, Commonwealth Marine Corps, retired. The first of those who will wipe you out.”
He twisted the wires of his grenade together and counted down the fuse delay. At four, he threw it with all his might at the leftmost Quas. The grenade blew in mid-air, driving a spray of shrapnel into the creature. It staggered and was knocked over by a tall wave that almost drowned the human.
Coughing, retching and fighting the raging surf, Zack pulled another mini-bomb from his pocket and prepared to arm it. Just then, the water around the nearest soldier erupted in a violent boil. Decker nearly dropped his grenade in surprise.
“You can forget the heroic last stand, Sergeant Decker.” A loudspeaker-amplified voice behind and above him momentarily drowned out the tempest. “Stand clear and prepare to climb aboard.”
He didn't dare look for the source of the voice. Two bugs remained standing and were still advancing on him like automatons. The plasma cannon erupted again, spitting a flash of super-heated matter on the next Quas, vaporizing it and a lot of seawater around it. While the gun cycled, Zack armed the grenade he was holding and tossed it at the last Quas. The bomb exploded as the cannon spoke again.
“Good guys: seven. Bugs: zero. Eat your heart out, Amali.” Only the wind heard him, but it was enough.
Now, Decker could look at his mysterious savior. He turned just in time to see a sleek assault shuttle, unmarked but liberally streaked with black from hard use, land in the pounding surf. A forty-millimeter cannon poked out of its nose like the beak of an alien bird of prey. Heavily modified and camouflaged, Decker nonetheless recognized the naval Warthog attack boat, with its swept back fuselage, stubby wings, and graceful engine pods.
A hatch beside the cockpit opened, and a black-clad arm beckoned him inside.
“Hurry, Sergeant. Their air defense system spotted me on the way down. They don't know what I'm about, but they'll put two and two together fast enough now that we've killed their tame bugs.”
Stumbling through the surf, blinded by the rain and his tears, Zack Decker reached the shuttle just as legs were about to give out in sheer relief. He was about to climb aboard when he remembered the collar around his neck.
“Hang on,” he yelled at the woman in the pilot's seat. “I gotta take this crap off me, or I'll make a bloody mess in your ship the moment you lift off. It has a dead man's switch.”
She nodded and pulled a small tool case out from under her seat. “I've seen these things before. They’re a variation of the ordinary slave collars,” she shouted at Zack as she opened the case and selected her instrument. “Hold steady.”
Reaching out, she did something and the collar snapped open. Zack tore it off his neck and tossed it into the surf.
“Thanks!” He climbed into the cockpit, dripping water everywhere.
She shut the hatch behind him, cutting off the roar of the storm. In the ensuing silence, Zack slipped into the co-pilot's seat and, with her help, he strapped in, hands trembling. Shock at his unexpected rescue was beginning to numb his senses.
The woman turned her full attention back to the shuttle and lifted it out of the waves. Moments later, buffeted by the wind, yawing and tossing, the Warthog rose towards the black clouds at a steep angle. Gravity and speed pressed the two humans into their seats. When they broke through the clouds, high up in Pacifica's atmosphere, the sun caressed Zack’s face through the thick cockpit window, and the abrupt change from storm to calm snapped his mind back to the present.
He glanced at the woman beside him. She was tall, slim and long-limbed, but wiry, judging by the strong tendons in her hands and wrists as she gripped the shuttle's controls. Her black hair, cut just below the ears and swept back, showed strands of silver at the temples. The lines around her mouth and crow’s feet in the corners of her dark, deep-set eyes marked her as mature, a few years older than Zack, but not by much. Definitely military, he decided and not only because she wore an unmarked battledress that had seen a lot of use.
Attractive, the gunner thought, his mind seeking refuge in the irrelevant and innocuous, but in a tough way. Sort of like Raisa. Officer, if I know my old Navy.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Zack's voice, worn out by the effects of his harrowing experiences, was no louder than a harsh whisper.
“You're welcome, Sergeant, though I apologize for taking so long.” Her voice, now that she wasn’t shouting, had a rich alto timbre.
“Huh?” Decker frowned in puzzlement as the use of his former rank and the apology finally cut through the fog in his brain.
The woman chuckled.
“Sorry, Sergeant. Let me introduce myself. I'm Commander Hera Talyn, Naval Intelligence. We've been looking for you ever since you vanished on Deveaux station. It's a minor miracle they let you keep the Master Gunner's badge.”
“Why?”
“It's what we used to find you. Actually, keep track of you for the last year or so.”
“Amali had it checked, and it was just a piece of metal alloy. Otherwise, he wouldn't have let me keep it.”
“Our dear Walker was only partially right,” she replied, amusement plainly visible on her lean face. “That alloy has an unusual characteristic: close to a human body’s energy field, it becomes a beacon that a properly tuned sensor can spot at one hell of a distance. We were glad you decided to wear it after our operative slipped it to you on Pradyn. It made our jobs a lot easier.”
“So I was set up as a dupe to infiltrate Amali's organization?” Zack countered angrily. The force he put in his words strained his vocal cords, and he coughed.
“It was not quite that easy, Sergeant. I’ll explain everything once we're back on the ship and away from Pacifica. By now, I suspect Amali has discovered you’ve left his island and has scrambled his resources to stop us.”
“Damn!” Zack shook his head. “Next time a buddy sets me up with a job offer...” Then, “Say, Commander, what sort of ship is waiting for us? A frigate?”
“No, Sergeant,” Talyn smiled again. “Demetria. Captain Ducote will be overjoyed to find you're alive and well.”
“Damn!” Decker repeated, a slow grin spreading on his battered face.
