So, back in the day I aspired to be a game developer. I went to college and aced out of all my software engineering classes, as much as I was able to impress the locals and even the teachers with an ability to flex programming languages, I knew there were people out there much more savvy than I. After years of introspection I guess the thing I've learned is, that, the one thing I love the most in life is being creative. I like to take something plain and turn it into the extraordinary, and then to communication that to an audience. I believed my talent with math would put me in the programming hotseat, and that that's where I wanted to be, if I could just get over the learning hump and make it to the chair then everything would play out like a magical melody.
To my horror, I one day came to the realization that the hump I was trying to ascend was no mountain of technical knowledge like I thought before--i could deal with that--, but rather, it was a wheel of evolving paradigms and techniques. The simple act of trudging uphill to the top was something I was prepared to do, I do enjoy learning new things. I don't want to need to continue learning all the time with literally no possibility of ending, which is what it means to stay up to date in the software field. I mentally removed myself from the frame and took a step back, there I looked to the core of what I wanted to do, to design. I want to create a world and fill it with all the detailed intricacies that I find in the fantastical worlds I love.
To that end, I started a heartfelt journey in pursuit of a publisher. Yes, writing, no computers or data streams, just a blank page. That was no small feat, or quick fix. Writing prose is much more complex than following the firm rules of a programming language. Countless characters and stories swirled around in my head and found there way to the page, and eventually a world was born. The following, is that world, in words... Ive been told my writing is like eating too much chocolate, so be prepared.
End Age: Stranglehold
by
Jon M Lee
Year 5697--Alpha Orion Sector--Uncharted Planet Melb IV
Marcus awoke to the sounds of laser-shot and throe-screams. Memories--like the fluttering of emotes invading a dream. His ears echoed recorded perceptions from just before he crumpled senseless to the floor. He struggled to open matted eyes as his sensations switched back on one at a time. A single thought looped in his mind, where am I?
The stiffened flesh at the base of his right thumb wiped hard across his face. The smell of stale fruit spurred him along. Feeling the pain of an ice pick jammed under the base of his skull, he lurched up and took in the situation of his surroundings from a sitting-on-the-floor perspective. Marcus immediately felt disoriented; he clearly remembered going to bed after a long day in the machine shop spent making a new compression chamber for his plasma rifle.
He lived on the United Military Cruiser Neptune, but this room looked like budget civilian accommodations and smelled worse--the room clamored with virtually no integrated electronics. He pulled himself up and stumbled forward into the squat chest-of-drawers. He looked into the mirror with a lifeless stare. His ragged brown hair hung far enough to slightly obscure vision and his face sported two weeks worth of untrimmed gruff.
A shrill scream pierced the door; dismissive, unable to distinguish real screams and manifested dream-echoes, he stood unresponsive. A physical force thudded against his door--someone in a dying collapse. The knock sent a rush of blood through his body. His thoughts fortified and constructed a course of action; he felt no fear, not allowing dwell consideration, and only seeking to help and save human lives.
Marcus grabbed up his plasma rifle, he started to sling the weapon’s strap over a shoulder, but remembered leaving everything disassembled back on a workbench. His hands shook, transmitting vibrations of violence. He fully expecting half the pieces to fall off, but none did. The parts he machined before going to bed integrated with new pieces he planned to make the next day--someone apparently finished the work while he slept. Looping the strap over, his hand brushed a piece of equipment latched to his belt. He reached around, feeling a laser pistol, laser torch, and a whole box of incineration strips--standardized chemical ammunition to power lasers.
More stability returning every second, Marcus rushed over to the door and tapped some icons on the touch panel. The screen flashed a few times and then fizzled out with a horizontal slash of fuzz. Seconds later, the lights in the room powered down and the digital window shut off. An eerie silence swallowed the dull hum of flowing power. Consumed by the pitch, his hands probed like a blind rodent’s whiskers. He touched a rough steel rib, the seam of an access panel. With a quick tug, the panel ripped from its emplacement.
A tiny red flashing outlined shiny silhouettes of hanging wires wrapped in reflective insulation. Marcus dropped the panel at his feet, the flimsy metal warbled with a neck-stretching echo. He reached through the cavity, parting the mass of dangling cords, and touched a companion panel mounted from the outside. His fist balled stiff and punched the flat. The pierce of a metal prick raced outward from his knuckle.
The disjoined panel caused a wave of storm-thunder to ripple through the halls of the ship. A dim yellow glow shone through the open passage with pyramid shaped halos of light--the emergency illumination only activated with a loss of main power. The musty smell of stagnant water and the sounds of distant gunfire launched an assault through the opening. Marcus squeezed through the portal, ripping out a few wires as they tangled around the tip of his rifle.
In the hallway, he looked both directions. Gouges and ricochets covered the metal walls. Bits of debris and trash formed a smooth layer over the bodies… dozens of dead humans littered the passage. They all wore civilian clothes, brutally mangled in various states of unnatural contortion. Marcus bent over the corpse of one man and searched for a wound. The dead flesh felt cold, supple. He found eyes filled with blood, a clear sign of unprotected wormhole transit.
He looked across to the corpse slumped against his door. The body marked up with three clear burns from a laser weapon, one still smoldering. Some of the people naturally dead, others apparently murdered--the highest of crimes among human society. Marcus allowed a single curse to escape his lips--he knew death in this setting carried permanency, simply because transports never maintained restoration centres.
#
Ninety-Five Hours Later
Marcus brooded in the corner of an empty cargo container floating in deep space. A blue and green planet hovered outside the single glass window mounted on one side. His thighs pressed up against his chest and his arms rested atop weary knees in a tight crunch. A drip of drying blood fell from his fingertip; both his hands dunked in justified red wetness. Mounted overhead at the container’s center, a single block-light sent down dancing illumination.
His eyes locked on Nexa’s corpse, mutilated, across the room. His breathing intensified, harder and harder, as he stared at her bulging eyes and broken neck; the natural blue streaks of her skin glowed in shadow. He felt cause for action, but those feelings offered little comfort in the face of handiwork murder. The sharp thud of a magnetic clamp sent simmering vibrations through the entire shell of the container and into his bones. After a minute of bumps and bangs associated with a ship grabbing up a piece of space debris, the door of the container opened.
Five Special Assault soldiers paced in through the door. Bright cones of light burst out from their shoulders and weapons. A few beams locked onto Nexa’s beaten corpse, moved to the bloody floor, and then to Marcus--sitting silently in the corner. The squad leader, Talun Gann, slid his weapon back, knelt down in front of Marcus and looked him over for a minute.
He asked in a sandpaper voice, “What happened out here?”
“My transport hit a wormhole.”
“This debris field is not from a transport ship.”
He responded with a prearranged explanation.
“No. My transport is on the planet, what’s left is. We didn’t have a warning, and the wormhole shock killed virtually everyone. Me and a few others survived. The computer caught some images of an advanced civilization on the planet, but elected to land anyway because of all the damage. Those high-altitude images of cities and developments didn’t show the complexities of an oppressed culture.”
#
Marcus stood behind the controls of an information kiosk and looked over photos of their landing site. Emergency lights in the corridor dropped a sharp glare on the console screen. A timer at the top of the display flashed as another minute ticked off--the battery backup did not have enough charge to last much longer. He tapped a few buttons to pull up a schematic of the ship and pressed the imprint button.
Reaching down to grab the emerging piece of plastic, he noticed the light’s glare recede. A shadow fanned over the whole room, drawing intersecting lines at his feet. His hand slowly slid back and found a strong grip behind the trigger of his plasma rifle. His neck hair stood erect on paralyzing tension. Seeing the action play in his mind, Marcus spun around smoothly and dropped to one knee. His rifle pointed across the room, sucked tight to both gloved hands. Two men stood in front of him, they jerked back, holding up prone palms.
Marcus barked, “Who are you?”
“Easy, don’t shoot. I’m Ben and this is Dew. We woke up back in the guest lounge a bit ago.”
Marcus eased back the tip of his rifle to a skyward angle. He utilized lingering silence to scrutinize the two, both armed. Ben looked like an average light-skinned human with blonde hair. He wore a solid brown jumpsuit and carried a matching set of rocket pistols, one slung over each hip. Dew stood a good foot taller, flush faced with black scraggily hair. He sported low-class civilian clothes covered in smudges and carried some type of heavily modified plasmathrower--four fuel canisters latched onto the weapon instead of the normal one. The three men shared a semblance of proactive brethren--each carried a few devices hung on their belts.
Marcus let his rifle hang from the strap. He stood up with a question, “Do you guys know where we are?”
Ben said, “I know this ship, but everything is a little vague right now. I remember being in the Alpha-Norma sector, but even those memories seem like a long time ago.”
Knowing his proof of lost time raced to digital eternity, Marcus turned to the waning console and waved his hand inward--indicating an expected approach. Ben and Dew closed in and followed Marcus’s finger--directing attention to the screen corner. After a second glace, Ben took three steps back and shook his head with violence. One of his hands slid down and firmly gripped a rocket pistol. A bead of sweat instantly pooled on Marcus’s brow; he bit his tongue, wanting to give a rhetoric speech about composure and willpower.
The kiosk power flashed off and a synthetic voice enunciated, “power drained”. Attracted by activity, Dew’s attention flipped to the console for a moment. Marcus stood transfixed on Ben’s next action. For a miniscule period of tension, only the rugged noise of growled breathing filled the intersection. Marcus’s calculated voice opted in with a stress-deflating course of action and ultimate goal--to find a vehicle and get off the ship.
The group of three coincidental companions followed winding corridors interspersed with doors and corpses; their course targeted the command-decks and an adjacent garage. Marcus perceived the weak smell of new-death, the natural emissions amplified on the heel of a gruesome visual--dead humans sprawled out in every corridor and room without exception. Dew brushed back his overgrown hair while studying the plastic hall diagram. His finger pressed a mechanical slider with enough friction to move the internal piece of attached material. As the dummy-mechanics slid into place, the engraved image swiped in with changes and showed a new detail scene.
Dew said, “There is a security checkpoint behind da-next door. Then we just have two more hall sections and we’re campin out in da-garage.”
Unable to force the door open, Marcus whipped out his laser torch. He pulled a small piece of red ribbon from the incineration strip box and tipped the end against a slot in the handle. The laser torch sucked up the strip and he flipped the power on, in seconds a series of rectangle heat-dissipation slots radiated yellow light from an internal chemical combustion.
He placed the pitted nozzle against the door edge and squeezed tight. Globules of molten metal dripped to the floor and the stench of re-burnt plastics clouded about as the cut proceeded quickly; the heat started Marcus on a sweat-binge and the hair atop his fingers singed away. Ripples of jacked up fever ran through his body with every crawling second.
Ben said, “Caution is warranted. The automated security systems run on independent generators. I installed them a week ago, or rather, a month and a week ago.”
The door released clear and smashed down inside the security room with drum-bursting piccolos. A half-dozen laser lines streaked through the open portal. Marcus dove to the left side and the others slide down to the right just as an uncorked projectile-storm washed through. Every type of common weapon added ammunition to the stirring battle-storm. Dew screamed something at Marcus, but the thunder-wall divider canceled out any volume behind his vocalization.
Dew pulled his plasmathrower up to his chest, spent a moment twisting a few valves, and then jerked one of the four fuel canisters free. He waved three fingers and then pointed to the room. Marcus nodded and slid his rifle around to get a firm grip; he didn’t know the entire plan, but wanted to carry his load without hesitation. Dew started to throw the plasma canister up into the destructive stream, but Ben grabbed his arm. After a second of discussion, the improvised bomb changed hands and the two shifted positions.
Ben worked up to his knees, squeezing his profile behind the doorframe with less than a few centimeters to spare. He held the plasma canister high overhead and power-slammed down into the room. The round-tipped tube spiked hard against inner deck plates, ricocheted back up into the projectile-storm, and exploded deep inside the room. A litter-field blast vomited from the cut opening with grease dripping entrails. The three men spurred up on kickstand rage and reciprocated trigger-pulls.
Twenty warning-sign-yellow spheres hovered across the room. Each menacing ball lugged an under-slung weapon, aimed at the cut down door. Marcus fired a volley of selection shots; the muscles of his trigger hand corded with precision tension--his skill in speed targeting earned highest honors among last season’s Battle Sport. Each plasma slog tore through yellow and shredded a floating drone, five dropped before any re-opened fire. A soft smile spread across his lips.
Ben’s pistols unleashed a rocket requiem. Every shot cratered into metal and insta-ballooned with razor shrapnel, he didn’t need to actually hit on eye point. Dew gripped tight around the handle trigger of his plasma thrower; jets of stream flared from muzzle vents in symmetry. He leaned back, bracing for the coming torch. A violent funnel of energetic plasma lurched from the tip of his rifle; in seconds, every drone disappeared behind the expanding and enveloping rage-cloud. A rumbling ultra-growl from hostile chemical reactions reached out, stretching human hearing to stress limits.
Marcus watched as the room’s savor disintegrated, no surface escaped the combined assault untouched. The three recoiled in unison, putting backs and shoulders to the fresh cut frame. Dissipating waves of plasma rolled out over the sliced lip; the visage reminded Marcus of fresh waterfalls and smell of newly churned mist. Shivers of post-climax rolled down his spine. No sounds garnering significance ever emerged from the receding corrosion of a plasmathrower stream.
Marcus stood and glazed across the devastation, his focus danced swirls around wrecked cluds of butchered drones. Chips of highlight yellow littered the floor. His vision carried up to a door across the room. A man in black clothes stood framed by the open portal. Marcus grunted a message of attraction. Ben and Dew followed his eye-line to the stranger’s silhouette.
A name escaped Ben’s lips, “Novak.”
Marcus keyed in on the signage of consensual recollection, Novak bolted to the left. Marcus rushed forward en-chase, Ben and Dew in tow. The call for appeasement fell on unaware, or uncaring ears--Novak scrambled ahead, adding to an eluding gap. About a dozen steps delayed, Marcus turned a corner and lost sight of his chase companion. Ben stepped up, shoulders aside, and joined in bewilderment. The intersection offered three escape courses and a dozen corpses. Dew knelt down, looking over one of the bodies.
He said, “Dear god, da-people have wounds. They must have died before we hit da-wormhole. Murdered…”
Ben knelt over the same body and touched the flesh around one exposed wound. The blackened skin ripped open to reveal a deep soaked scorch. He said, “These look like laser scars, low-power, but deadly all the same.”
“You know this guy, Novak? Did he do this?”
“Yeah, I remember him, Nick Novak, new guy. I don’t know.”
Marcus heard a tipping or dripping sound obfuscated to the others. His hands tensed around the contoured grips of his plasma rifle; he stared down the source corridor. With his attention focused one direction, he perceived nothing from another until a buffalo shoulder slammed into his back and bulldozed him forward. Novak and Marcus tumbled to the ground in a mesh of slip limbs; Ben and Dew lurched ahead and tried to restrain the fleet stranger.
Novak kicked Dew square in the jaw on incoming, collapsing his gruff face on the metal deck. Ben grabbed Novak’s clothing and secured a grip. Novak found leverage on one knee, gripped Ben’s rifle, and slammed the butt into his forehead--disconnecting grip and putting Ben out. Marcus reached out from his back and locked his fingers around the Novak’s belt. The stranger started to run off, dragging Marcus on a slide board. Novak jerked, shutter-stepped, and twisted off Marcus’s grip; knocking a weapon from his own belt in the process--a laser pistol with a dead energy cell.
#
Talun reached out and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
Marcus gripped his hand and pulled himself up. The two shared a bond of blood-laced gloves. Talun turned to his men and said, “Jettison the container, leave the body.”
Without delay, the four men turned, left the room and proceeded with dump-prep. Marcus and Talun walked out of the container and continued their conversation.
“So, did you find the guy?”
“Naa. We searched around for an hour before finding an escape hatch opened to the grass below.”
The door of the container closed shut.
“He ran on foot?”
“Yeah, we let him run. Dew pushed us to head back to the ships hangar to see what kind of vehicles we could find. Not knowing what waited for us on the surface, we all wanted mobility and speed.”
Marcus turned to watch the container slide into an ejection tube--a launching device used to dump standard-sized blocks off-ship. The inner door slid down and the container, carrying Nexa’s bloody and beaten corpse, drifted off into space. The steel box left, destined to meet fiery disintegration at the hands of the planet’s pull. A shiver streaked down his veins, his mind superimposed her lingering feelings--the cold metal coffin, the frost of outer space. For a fleeting moment, he felt remorse at the loss of another person, but Nexa didn’t share human heritage, and grief evaded.
#
Dew dug though an open access panel outside the garage’s main doors. His right hand held a power-converter with a long exposed probe on the end, wires hung from the bottom and ran up to three more probes balanced between the fingers of his other hand. Marcus watched the closed seam barring a path to the garage for any activity. Switched, the lights dropped off. Ben pressed a button on his tool and a reclusive, unidirectional light flooded from inside the access panel. Straggled shadow-lines decorated the walls, cast from behind hanging wires.
Marcus took a deep breath while looking over the faces of his human brethren. He could see anxiety in Dew’s exposed teeth and softly bitten tongue. The gleam of highlight down Ben’s profile slid with every twitch of the power converter. His eyes danced with passion, ready to storm headlong into another firefight. Marcus knew the grimace well, for he carried the same--a desire for battle, the want of a will to oppress, bloodlust in the space where others kept hearts.
Marcus turned to the door, pulled up his rifle and put the muzzle to the seam. Ben drew his rocket pistols and stepped ready to blast a hole in any obstacle. Dew moaned with a hint of pleasure as the door started to open. A constrained vertical plane of gold light slashed out from the spreading crack--emergency lights in mechanical areas often carried colors designed to highlight disparate metals. The doors opened fully to reveal no threat, only a collection of thycycles--a new model of an old design, electrical-lift motorcycles. Tension feathered away with every fresh step into the room.
Apart from the dozen or so bikes, a few tons of support equipment gave the garage lavish functionality. Marcus followed the smell of early morning sunshine to an opened outer door and a picture-framed scene of rolling green--the autopilot opened the garage after making the emergency landing, before main power dropped off. Dew pulled a long-range scanner from his belt and stood motionless, looking outside. He called Marcus’s attention, and then handed off the device.
Seeing the picturesque valley of grass injected a flash of memory. He remembered standing atop the great impact rim on Delax and looking down on the endless sea of grass--the difference being, he relied on a pressure suit because those planet produced poisonous gas. After minute direction, Marcus locked onto the incoming obstacle, a wheeled military transport loaded with black-clad soldiers. Ben took his turn looking through the scanner, after a few seconds he lowered the device and turned to his equally imperiled brethren.
Without a word, the three men shared an expression of agreement. They all felt the need to depart, the sooner the better--Marcus may like a good fight, but he’s not after any fight. He hopped onto the nearest thycycle and kick-started the power cell with a few button presses. The three men jetted out of the hangar and down a ramp on pulsing cushions of energy. The cycle’s hum oscillated in a musical chorus of seam-bursting energy. They looked around for a safe departure direction; a female native, Nexa, watched from the driver’s seat of a four-wheeled truck stopped under the transport ship.
Her lightly tinted skin exuded streaks of blue in shadow and her bright eyes sent out an open welcome. The passenger in her vehicle looked like a large chimpanzee from ancient earth history, but carried the glossy features of an android. Nexa stood up and waved inward, calling Marcus and the other humans in. Nails of distrust and caution punctured every bone-deep sensibility in his body, but he turned the hand-bars to her invitation regardless of fear.
#
Talun touched the tip of his finger on a flat metal plate by the door. The washroom lights popped on and flooded white over every surface. Marcus followed him in as crystal-orange water rolled through a faucet and dumped into the sink. The two men pulled off bloodstained fingerless gloves and placed them on a pull-out tray; the receptacle retracted automatically. They shared the sink, washing stained red from their flesh.
Talun opened conversation, “So, why did you follow her?”
“I didn’t trust her if that’s what you are getting at.”
The sloshing orange dump of scrub-water quickly transformed to a translucent stream for rinsing.
Marcus continued, “I just knew we could handle whatever she planned to use on us. We brought a lot of firepower to bear, and everything indicated they couldn’t stand against our level of technology. So we followed her, one direction seemed as good as any other.”
The material treatment tray slid back out, both sets of gloves looked fresh and clean of dry red. Marcus pulled out his pair, remembering the day his father left them behind, the day he died. The gloves served as a passageway to loving memories and a testament to the perilous possibility of service under the United Military banner.
#
Marcus, Ben and Dew followed Nexa’s truck down rough trails to a building on the outskirts of town. The stark white walls cut out irregular shapes with smoothly rounded corners. The road continued deeper into civilized constructions, but they turned on a small drive leading to a business garage. A knee-high dirt-colored box near the intersection overflowed with a variety of plants collected from the entire region--a plot of manicured plants marked every driveway. Nexa pulled up and hopped out beside one of three vehicle-scale doors. Her coordinated green outfit rippled under kicking winds.
The ape-android, shining with full-body metal, stepped over and slid open the closest door; Nexa walked in, enveloped by the cavernous space. Marcus, Ben and Dew shared crossing glances of concern, but saw little to deter their intentions. Marcus pulled into the garage as the lights began to flicker. The smell of fresh welding and sloppy grease sent spindling inebriations to his heart. He squinted through the interspersed darkness, teary eyed under the capsulated fumes. The light fixtures hung down from the ceiling, about head high, and sent spiraling sparkles of light down to partner plates mounted in the floor. Nexa stood across the room, waiting beside a half-assembled tank.
The three humans stepped off their bikes in unison. The android slid the garage door closed from the inside; the rolling thunder of chains spinning from a spindle walloped over the echoes of a closing lock. Marcus slid a hand back and made a firm leather-on-rubber grip with the handle. Focusing on Nexa’s, the silence of impervious concentration wrapped his psyche. He watched her every muscle, the serenity of her stature, and the delicate impulses of her hands.
She spoke in Neo-English, “Please, no fear. The door to stay others out, not to keep you in.”
Marcus rested his hand and stepped forward through one of the columns of spiral-light. He asked, “What is this place?”
Her words struggled to find volume and lacked cultivated intonation. “My fathers shop. They took… him a while ago. Making him slave-- no, me slave as a mechanic now.”
Marcus twitched with confusion, not completely catching the meaning behind her verbalizations.
“Sorry, I’ve not used these words much.”
“Where did you learn Neo-English?”
Nexa pointed past Marcus at her android friend. “I found him a few years ago, a crashed boat. Manx, my father, ummm… made him work again, before…”
Ben looked into the robotic, simian-shaped eyes and asked, “Do you have a name? Where do you come from?”
The android’s synthetic voice carried no passion, only audio information. “I’m Deta, and I don’t know. Much of my memory core is damaged, I have… sports routines?”
Dew looked him over with angled eyes and tilted head. “Guys, he’s a roball athlete. They phased out da-model years ago, but I’ve seen them before, even owned a few.”
Marcus asked, “Nexa, you’re a mechanic?”
“No, I’m a nurse. My father built this, I have to keep the lights on… for the battery.”
Rhetorically, Ben said, “A nurse running a garage?”
“We don’t get much business now--”
A small circular screen hanging from the back wall turned on with a breaking news broadcast. The native man wore neatly primped clothes and spoke in a language foreign to Marcus. A superimposed live video showed the transport ship. Dozens of men in black full-body armor and face-obscuring helmets stood by in formation; every obsidian soldier carried a standard assault rifle combat trinkets. The camera angled upward and watched a group of five men walking the garage ramp and disappearing inside.
Deta interpreted the news anchor’s words, “Just to recap, this spacecraft landed a few hours ago. An emergency warning immediately went out for all civilians to stay away. Soldiers from The Order are on scene now and have the situation under control. We have word indicating this ship is related to their military activities, there is no reason for alarm.”
Ben questioned, “The Order is your military?”
Nexa said, “No. They are aliens, slavers. My people are the Nes-naa, we are…”
She turned to Deta and he continued, “The Nes-naa is an entire species oppressed. The Order collects all the older men for some function. They take them off-planet, and nobody ever returns.”
Nexa asked, “Ummm… your ship came from?”
Dew replied, “We’re not real sure. A wormhole knocked us unconscious and shorted out da-recent memories. We don’t even know what sector this is, da-you?”
Deta said, “My working memory cells tell me this is on the edge of Alpha-Orion.”
Ben said, “Alpha-Orion is way out there, essentially part of the disc. Even humans don’t have much of a presence. If you’re right then the wormhole took us halfway across the galaxy; we may not even be on the grid anymore. We may never get back. Do your people travel to other planets?”
Nexa responded, “We did, for temporary. The Order restricts us, so we can’t now.”
Marcus sighed with a pained face, “Aww no. You said taken, about your father. They took him as they do with all your men.”
She nodded her head in agreement. Suddenly, a knock on the outer door drew everyone’s attention. Nexa slipped a half-spin on top balance and looked to the door. Two shadow lines broke the white glow sneaking under. Marcus, Ben and Dew gripped their weapons, ready to settle the problem with force. Marcus bit his passion the way most people bit their tongues--he didn’t like the idea of slaughtering these people, but he stood ready to do so if the need arose. Nexa turned her back on the door and started to panic-stutter a complicated phrase.
She settled on a single word, “Hide!”
Deta ushered the others away as Nexa broke for the door. In seconds, the four found security inside an access cubby leading to the mechanical pieces of a vehicular lift.
Dew questioned Deta, “Wait, why da-you need to hide?”
“They don’t know I’m here. Manx chose not to reveal my presence, feeling The Order would confiscate me and use my circuits for parts.”
“They have androids like you?”
“We think so, but don’t really know. All the soldiers we see wear masks, so we’re not even sure what the aliens look like. They all wear the same damned black armor. On the subject of Nexa’s father, Manx, I am not sure they took him. I think he died and she wants to believe otherwise.”
“Understandable. If he’s dead, then he’s gone forever. If they took him, she may be able to get him back some day.”
#
Talun led Marcus into a small round room with eight chairs circled in the center. The four soldiers serving in Talun’s Special Assault squad sat and clapped with fervor; they still wore body armor, their equipment rested in form-fitting trays lining one wall. One man jumped to his feet and delivered a single sentence with strength and virility.
“Sympathetic tonics give me imprints of synthetic sonnets!”
Talun and the other three released another volley of applause as he punctuated the end. The man took a slight bow and lowered back to his seat with a single motion.
With a low tone, Marcus asked, “What’s going on here?”
Talun said, “This is our jov room, and this is what we do to keep the mind sharp. Coming down from the amp of a mission, we make a few turns at spoken-prose one-liners. You’re free to step in and give a hit if you want.”
When the applause faltered, the next man lifted from his seat and said, “The plasticized static of my screams, obscene.”
Applause again encircled the room. Talun stepped into the circle, next in line. Silence began to creep in, and then he blurted out, “Festering and blessing the mortal man’s dead-setting!”
Thundering claps rattled the deck-plates; removed from participation, the number of contributors felt two-fold thick from the previous round--the intensity served as content appreciation and as a measure for the wealth of allegiance to authority. Talun dropped to a seat. Joining in the audio-producing festivity, Marcus barely noticed he remained next in line, already standing for presentation. Every scrap of sound soon faded and all eyes turned to him.
Marcus kept a low tone and allowed deliberate intention to guide his clip, “You saved me, to keep me bleeding.”
Different from the normal ruminations, his words carried current context, and the group erupted with foot-stomping praise. Marcus found a seat among the circle and after a few more lines from everyone, continued recounting his story to Talun.
“Nexa offered to hide our group at her house, built onto the back of the garage. We tried to work up a way to get off the planet. She said The Order operated a small landing platform nearby and suggested we try to steal a ship. She agreed to help us, but only after we returned to the transport and helped her salvage a power generator. She wouldn’t really give details about her need, but we agreed anyhow and prepped for a nighttime assault. I even found time to shave.”
#
A grey overcast covered the night sky and blotted down between the nearby ridges of a tree line. Yellow thumbnail flowers covered the grassy hillside. Nexa carried a stubby machinegun, leading the three humans on foot along a rough trail up to the landed transport ship. Deta drove her truck and followed a few hundred meters behind. Marcus pulled up his plasma rifle with white knuckles. The anticipation of a looming gun-battle focused his attention. His skin drained pale, bleach with tension.
A single black-clad soldier stood guard under the opened hatch Novak used to escape. Marcus tipped to the front and slowed the others; he knelt beside a large rock, found a comfortable brace position, slipped the laser pistol from his pocket, and took careful aim. A single beam of intensity popped on for a full second, streaking forward with such speed as to appear all at once. The shot torched a hole through the guard’s neck--a lethal wound for any humanoid species.
Moving up to the open artifice, Marcus delegated objectives, “Ok, the secondary generator is mounted right over there. I will get Deta to move the truck in position while you three go inside and trigger the manual jettison sequence. The generator will drop about a meter, but not enough to cause serious damage. Don’t over think things, just go now and let’s get out of here before anyone comes to check on this dead guy.”
Deta drove the truck up, lights off, and slowed directly under the generator. Marcus sent out a simple hand gesture indicating proper position; Deta stopped and turned off the vehicle’s engine. They waited patiently, the sounds of a living night crept in as noise attenuation adjusted. Marcus stroked the cold steel of his plasma rifle, feeling content behind a tensed trigger. Thoughts of the Nes-Naa and the tortures they live with spun through his mind. He wanted to help but his human idealism resisted the concept of race-bridge charity.
A glassy sheen over the dead soldiers mask flicked in tune with distant lights. The twinkling spot-points dangled a few feet away like a forbidden fruit. Marcus knelt down, taking the opportunity to unmask an armored persecutor. Knowing the features of the race responsible for enslaving the Nes-Naa would let him expose everything after he rejoined his squad. Little happened in the galaxy without sanction by the United Military and this activity could never stand under public eye.
Horror ran through his blood as the mask pulled free and exposed a lifeless human face. Marcus started to scream for help out of shocked reaction, but the name Nes-Naa still rang in his ears. He knew now, humans stood to blame for all the hardships of Nexa’s people--not the first devastated race under humanities rule of the galaxy. Unlike the others, he felt compassion in his heart for these people oppressed by the uncaring of his own kind.
For a fleeting moment, the tumblers of his mind aligned and he saw a clear path to a solution for all sides. Marcus placed the helmet back over the dead man’s face and returned to his feet--if he didn’t know about humanities participation, then he wouldn’t be in a conflict of interest while helping the Nes-Naa win the struggle. Keeping thoughts and feelings internalized seemed simple compared to the idea of not informing and thereby deceiving Ben and Dew. Telling them the truth would only bring out open discussion, and they would never agree, as a group, to stand against other humans. He saw compartmentalization as the only way to keep their allegiance--destiny carried them to the truth they needed.
A metal-on-metal smash interrupted introspection as the generator fell into the back of the truck. Deta instantly started driving off, heading back to the garage before the obsidian soldiers mounted a pursuit. Marcus knelt down under the open hatch, pulled up his plasma rifle and peered into the darkness. He looked up with a whistle from above. An intense pain shot through his stomach as Nexa’s face came into focus; she looked down with welling tears in her eyes.
Time seemed to slow and Marcus froze in the blackness, a slight orange glow highlighted the raised features of his person. His eyes angled down to see a steady laser beam streaking from a distant muzzle and piercing his mid-section. Haze and graft shrouded everything as the world blurred, out of focus. Nexa’s face dropped down full-frame, she sobbed and screamed over him, but Marcus’s senses transmitted no sound. Blackness covered details and soon nothing but formless blobs of light remained.
Hours passed as minutes of intense, conscious pain for Marcus. His body struggled for a complete shut down while his mind wanted a maintained awareness, the cruel middle ground of reality stretched to the very limit of his endurance threshold. Reacting to some unknown external stimuli, the pain began to recede and he retained consciousness. As the surroundings came back into focus, a single face overshadowed all the mundane household features.
Nexa spoke in a soft, sweet voice, “Marcus, can you hear me?”
“What happened?”
“Your friends fought The Order, I drug you from fire. They put some kind uhhh… stuff, on your wound. They said you would be fine, but I wanted stay for good news. You helped me, even though you didn’t need me.”
“I wanted to help you; do I need a deeper reason?”
“No.”
“I want to stop what’s happening to your people, this is wrong and I can do something… so I should do something.”
Nexa snuggled down beside Marcus in the bed. One of her hands gently touched his chest while her fingertips stroked his smooth face with a delightful caress. The tenderness of her lips covered his body like sweet honey, succulent. He felt content under blissful, deliberate ignorance--willing to sacrifice moral longevity for temporary pleasure.
#
Talun watched from the next room as Marcus stretched flat on a medical table. Three short-stemmed mechanical arms covered with loose grunge moved over the table. The thick stench of growth gel drenched the room and cast a green haze over every surface--a substance used to regenerate serious wounds, and in plentiful supply aboard any Special Assault vessel.
A synthetic voice enunciated a clear diagnosis, “Radiant heat wound, full penetration, healing proceeding normally. Scar removal scheduled for next week, return at your convenience.”
Marcus walked out of the room and Talun jumped forward with a question, “Why did you agree to this raid on the transport?”
Mulling his response for a moment, Marcus slipped out two solid words, “Superiority veil.”
Talun’s face scrunched with confusion.
“I mean, we felt secure in our technology. Whatever the aliens used for weapons, Ben, Dew and I felt we existed on a whole other plane of advancement. We figured taking something from The Order would be easy; we didn’t know what waited around the corner.”
“But, one you found out the truth, you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I probably made a mistake there too. At the time, I wanted to make sure we stuck together. I didn’t know the others well enough to predict their… instinctive reactions, and I didn’t want to chance them breaking and going different directions. I knew the truth, and I felt a shared security--just having one of us know the truth, seemed like enough.”
#
Nexa sat stark naked on the bedside. The thick balm of flesh-oil and sugar bloated the air. A syringe needle pierced the skin of her arm. Marcus watched as she injected a tiny volume of cloudy black poison. Her breathing stopped and her neck tightened. She trembled with a meager shake, sending a visible ripple traveling outward to the tips of her limbs. Marcus raised his head, shifting enough to draw attention.
Nexa said, “You’re awake…”
“For a while.”
Her hand slid out of sight, hiding the syringe. The breaking morning sunlight showered half her body in twilight, blue-streaked heaven. Marcus almost allowed himself to get lost, stargazing over her gorgeous female form. Ultimately, he asked the pressing question.
“What’s the needle for?”
She turned her head away did not reply.
“I’ve known thousands of people in my long lifetime. I don’t know your people, but you don’t seem like the type of person to go searching for thrills at the prick of a chemical.”
His mind raced for conclusions, wanting to carry the conversation in a new direction.
He said, “I’ve tried to figure this out ever since we met you. Why don’t your people openly rebel and fight back against The Order? You have weapons, many from what I have seen. My only conclusion is, they must have some kind of leverage to keep things so civil. Is this how they control you?”
“Yes. They first arrived a long time ago, before my birth. Stories tell about a peaceful union, friends. All the time, The Order poisoned our atmosphere with a drug. After everyone’s exposure, they took the poison out. The entire planet fell down, dying. The Order offered a taste if we willingly helped them. They started collecting people in trade for distributing the poison. We can’t do anything to stop. Those who skip for too long eventually die. They have a stranglehold on all the Nes-Naa people.”
A single curse dripped inside Marcus’s mind like a leaky faucet--despicable. Skewed and distorted, the facts of his involvement, direct or indirect, churned up turmoil. Introspective compulsion pulled a discarded idea to the surface--he knew the truth behind those obsidian masks, but he could choose to forget, claim ignorance, and never tell a sole. Looking into the eyes of his lover, he felt true compassion for the first time in a century. His will disregarded human morality, Nexa needed a savior, and in this situation, he could do something.
#
Marcus rode shotgun in Nexa’s truck; the generator covertly rested in the back, bound in place and covered with a dusty brown tarp. Ben, Dew and Deta followed close in an open-faced buggy. She followed muddy-road streets into the heart of the civilized settlement. Angular white walls formed together and gave concentric support, a honeycomb of dirty-slop-roadways wound through the clumps of construction. Green vines and indigenous plant life drenched every inch of unmarked path.
Nexa stopped at an open intersection, green blouse rippled by the wind. Native people walked along side paths on daily chores, a prodigious barter from a nearby stall sent out shouts of spit and bicker. The three humans shunned attention by wearing hooded coats left behind by Nexa’s father. Marcus’s eyes scanned across open activity: the quaint shops, the living thrusts of a waking civilization, the chatter of the alien language. His focus eventually drifted to a towering black citadel taking up an entire construction-cell.
He watched as a line of Nes-Naa entered one side and exited the other. So peaceful, serene--they filed through and picked up doses of the drug without incident. With a slight shake of denouncement, Marcus pointed his hand down a side street. Nexa let off the brake and headed deeper into the settlement. She drove into the empty garage of an abandoned building. Marcus looked around with a raised eyebrow; he started to speak and then noticed Nexa reaching down. Her entire arm disappeared, stretching under, behind, and up into the dash.
A loud thump from under the truck sent panic signals through Marcus. He looked back to see Ben and Dew sitting in the buggy, stopped just outside. An automatic door slowly rolled down, giving privacy. On full enclosure, the floor began to recess and lower into the ground. After a few seconds, a white-lit-apex appeared and formed into an underground tunnel. Nexa drove in as the floor-plates met.
The thick perfume of heavy-duty machines and grease attacked Marcus; the ambient air seemed to carry stain-dealing density. The tunnel angled down and quickly opened to an echo-whipping garage filled with six other vehicles. A dozen men stood silent on a balcony around the room’s ceiling, each carried a machine gun identical to the one Nexa used the night before. Every sentry wore red and grey full-body armor, ribbed and exuding over-ripped muscles.
Marcus and Nexa stepped out of the truck as a man approached, wading between two cars. He carried a long face full of stubble. Two blue triangular patches of skin around his eyes stretched and streaked down the sides of his face--a more pronounced version of Nexa’s features. Nexa and the man embraced with chest smothering grips; Marcus made a conclusion from interacting mannerisms, he connected the two as father and daughter.
Marcus spoke, “Manx?”
“Yes, you know me?”
Marcus looked down and away, wishing he could slip through the floor plates, he felt small--guilt over nighttime liaisons. Seeing no easy solution, he pulled back the trench hood and fully revealed his human heritage. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face, knowing his death loomed if these people realized his racial connection to The Order.
Manx said, “I’ve never seen someone like you before, you’re not Nes-Naa.”
“No, my race is called… human. Nexa said they took you.”
Nexa said, “He’s just in hiding.”
Manx turned to Nexa and said, “Well, my daughter’s ability to snare new friends never ceases to amaze.”
His eyes passed over the covered cargo, “I see you managed to accommodate my request for a generator. Well done.”
Ben, Dew and Deta drove in, parked beside Nexa’s truck, and hopped out. Manx turned his back and started walking away.
Oblivious to the knife-twisting tension, he said, “Let’s go in here and talk things over.”
The pseudo-meeting-room workshop substituted for a formal collaboration device. A dozen chairs spread around the room turned inward and allowed everyone unimpeded expression. The conversations started in with dry greetings and isometric verbal handshakes. Deta interpreted the human’s speech for Nexa, Manx and the handful of other Nes-Naa present. The ideological ramblings soon turned to hypothesized actions and then to tactical machinations. Countless live engagements and simulated missions gave Marcus the mind of a fast thinking strategist.
He spouted a plan, “I can handle this. We setup a frontal assault on the citadel. Nexa told me about a local landing pad, when the shells start flying, they will mobilize troop support from there. After the bulk troops move out, we head in, steal a shuttle, go up to their mother ship and put to a stop to what they are doing to your people. Dew, Ben, Nexa, Deta, and I will run the mission, easy.”
Manx said something in his native language, Deta translated with a dead, information-only voice, “I’m going with you. But what exactly are we supposed to accomplish once we get to The Order’s mother ship?”
Marcus pulled a finger-sized data crystal from his pocket and explained, “These are protected pattern chips… schematics if you will. All we need is a copy of the one they use to create the poison your people need. Once we have the pattern chip, we can make the drug and the Nes’Naa will no longer be under the finger of The Order.”
“Sounds great, but how are you planning to create this massive frontal assault?”
Marcus stood and walked over to a small circle monitor on the back wall showing continuous news footage of the landed alien transport ship. He motioned to Deta and the frame froze. Marcus pointed at weaponry mounted on the ship.
“We can lift these weapon clusters and mount them on vehicles like Nexa’s truck. Should be more than enough bang, we just want a distraction after all.”
Manx clapped and said, “I like this guy. You have an idea, and you want to run forward. You have a great internal motivation, but no need. We have things covered.”
He reached over and pressed a button concealed under the rim of an innocuous workbench. A door across the room popped and started to slide open--remotely unlocked. The group filed down a thin, curving walkway. Footstep echoes transitioned from the dull thud of a studio-room to the self-sustaining vibes of a domed performance hall. The left wall remained hardened while the right side opened to a large pitch-black canopy. Manx stopped the line and flipped an antique power lever.
Lights powered up in sets starting at the floor. A collage of metal plates, wires and mechanics slowly focused into the refined image of a horrendous war machine. A massive two-legged tank stooped down low enough for the front beak to touch the ground--two open hatches waited for the crew. A monstrous rack atop the vehicle spewed with heavy weapons, each loaded and ready to unleash devastation.
Marcus said, “Damn, this is why you needed the generator?”
“Yep. We’ll have everything hooked up tonight. We go forward with your assault plan, tomorrow.”
#
Talun and Marcus stepped into a chamber filled with human-formed standing slots along the walls. The four members from Talun’s Special Assault squad stood patiently, half-submerged in their wall spots. The pilot’s voice buzzed, ringing throughout the ship.
“The Lane Engine is ready to engage, waiting on protected signals from everyone.”
Talun and Marcus stepped into the nearest slots and pressed ready buttons. Green lights flashed around every man.
“Engaging now.”
Marcus felt a tug at the pit of his stomach--the stabilization slots on this ship needed some adjustment. With the ship rocketing along in the guided lane, everyone stepped out and cut up, heading to fill different chores.
Marcus questioned, “Talun, how did you guys find me?”
“After your transport went missing, they tapped us for recovery. We followed your ship’s beacon history, found the uncharted wormhole, and went through just as you did. The only difference, we knew and got into the stabilizers in time.”
Talun stepped to a terminal and pulled up a communications feed from the beacon lane they just jumped into. Marcus patiently waited to see where they actually ended up after going through the wormhole. With a few groans, he scanned the timetable and said.
“Well… looks like this lane is a dead tip. A gap in the beacons near the next system left this arm isolated. Once we hit the end, we have a week of dead travel on the near-speed drive. I hate slow trips.”
“That’s how they kept this hidden. Someone built this lane section independently of the grid and didn’t setup any signal beacons. Without coordinates, this doesn’t even exist.”
“Yeah, merc’s have worked this idea to death. Still, a couple weeks per visit is a small price to pay for your own planet. You, officially, have plenty of time to finish telling me what happened back there.”
“Well, we waited around all night as Manx’s guys installed the generator and got everything online. The next morning, the plan worked beautifully. We watched a remote feed of the action and waited; I pegged their response time to the minute. We snuck onto the nearly deserted landing platform and stole a shuttle without firing a single shot.”
#
Marcus tapped a button sequence as docking clamps engaged and the shuttle attached to an external hatch. He turned the seat and stood; Nexa waited, holding out his plasma rifle. The two shared a consensual grin, anticipating the resolution of a generation-long oppression. Marcus looked over the faces of his drafted assault squad: enthralled, enthusiastic, and showered in presentiment dread. Docking complete, only the resonations of intensifying breaths and exponentially pounding blood-pulses filled ear-space. He wanted to deter anyone from killing, but he knew such a statement would only raise questions.
He settled for a reinforcement of objectives, “Remember the mission; the more time we spend fighting, the less likely this will end in success.”
The hatch lock popped off and the two semicircle doors swung away, into the mother ship’s hallway. The rim-swipe revealed a dozen armed men standing twenty meters away, at an intersection down the raw-metal hallway. Most wore colored clothing, but a few donned black armor suits. Projectiles launched from both sides. Marcus slid down to the left and pushed Nexa to a covered corner inside the shuttle; Ben matched his move on the opposite side, pushing Manx out of fire-lanes. Reciprocal plasma bolts and rocket rounds annihilated the opposite wall, dousing their enemy in chips of metal flotsam.
Deta stepped into the hall, his metal feet stomping on the metal floor. He fired Marcus’s laser pistol with computer-controlled accuracy, each targeted shot burning through flesh. A few shreds of hostility projectiles skimmed across his shining skin, but nothing landed close to digital lethality. His apathetic prehensile tail slugged-around with the weight of a short-barreled shotgun-type weapon strapped on the end. Opposition down and bleeding, the group joined Deta in the hallway and slowly stepped to the spread of corpses--questions swelling.
Recognizing the human race and making the connecting to Marcus and his two companions, Nexa spun around, pointed her gun at his gut, and stepped backward. Two groups formed from the arrangement: the three humans, and the three Nes-Naa. Marcus released his weapon and raised hands, palm forward; the rifle’s strap snapped tight over his shoulder.
She demanded answers with stomped pride, “What are you?”
“I am human. They are human, but I am nothing like them.”
Her mouth opened with a fiercely snarled personalization; teeth sparkling, she bit the tip of her tongue and tried to pull the trigger.
Manx destroyed her composure with a fatherly mandate, “Put down your weapon Nexa. I already knew this about Marcus. I ignored his heritage because you are my daughter and you trusted him. Remember how you thought before learning this, go back to those feelings, we need him.”
Her weapon slowly lowered, drooping to the floor, battered down by every syllable of the linguistic barrage.
Marcus said, “We need to keep moving.”
Manx said, “We’re not here to find some chemical composition data-chip.”
“What are you talking about?”
Manx looked down at the twelve dead humans and said, “This is a good start.”
“No father! Marcus’s plan is good, the chip, all we need.” She turned to Marcus, “Please, help finish what is started.”
Ben backed away from Marcus and Nexa, forming a triangle of tension. His rocket pistol’s raised level, one pointing at each group. The weapons actuated; slides of hinged metal on each, shifted up, bent over, and dropped new mini-warhead clusters into launch chambers.
He said, “I’m not here to kill humans and I’m damn sure not going to help some aliens kill my people.”
Deta stepped in front of Nexa and said, “You’ve already killed some humans, you’re in this to the end.”
“They’ll be fine. Someone will put them through revitalization within the hour and they can just bill me. The only way to shut down a restoration centre is to destroy the ship, and even Marcus won’t help you slaughter everybody.”
Marcus turned to Nexa’s group and said, “We are not here to destroy the ship! But I will help you finish what I started.”
Deta suddenly leapt onto Ben, the two crashed hard against the metal wall. Weapons on both sides rose in hostility.
Marcus screamed, “Wait!”
He glanced over as Deta climbed back to his feet. Ben remained motionless on the floor--unconscious. Marcus slowly raised his hands, abandoning his rifle. He cautiously sidestepped and knelt down to check on Ben. A red mark and welt on his forehead tagged the solid impact point.
“He’s out, but should be ok in a bit.”
Dew said, “We’ll just have to leave da-man here. He wasn’t onboard with the plan anyhow.”
Marcus looked up and asked, “You’re ok with everything?”
“Yeah man, I’m good.”
Marcus stood up and slid both hands back behind the grips of his plasma rifle. “Ok, we split up, find the pattern chip, meet back here, and we all leave together. Everybody good?”
A circle slue of affirmatives reinforced his position as makeshift leader. He looked over everyone, considering optimal weapon companionships.
“Nexa and Dew, you head down the left hall. The rest of us will go the other direction.”
Dew pulled a set of hand-radios from the corpses, punched in two, correlated scramble codes, and handed one each to Manx and Nexa--a way for independent groups to maintain good speech.
As they split away, Marcus said, “Remember, we’re not here to fight, we need information. Don’t create any more casualties than are necessary to get the chip.”
#
Marcus, Manx and Deta jogged down a blank hallway, passing an intersection and leaving the storage modules behind, when dry radio static erupted.
“Help! Need you… chasing us!”
Nexa’s plea fell on at least one set of dead ears. Marcus stayed true to course; enwrapped by the moment and the mission, he ignored his feelings and emotions--he ignored his heart.
He said, “Let’s keep moving. Going back forfeits the mission; we don’t head back until we get the chip.”
Manx said, “I don’t care. I’m going back, you two keep looking for the lab.”
He turned his back and ran back down the hall, retracing steps with fleet abandon. Marcus thought to stop him, seeing the wily grin and remembering the words of a destroyed ship, but did not intercede--he left judgment in the hands of destiny. As Manx reached the intersection, a volley of unleashed ammunition tore dozens of holes in his body; a red wash covered the floor, companion splatters on the wall. Marcus and Deta dropped down and set arms. Four black-clad soldiers chipped into frame, focused on Manx’s writhing body. Plasma bolts and streaks of laser light shredded their armor, and flesh.
Deta scrambled to his feet and ran to Manx’s side. The shriek of grinding metal filled the hall as he slid a full meter across the floor. Manx spat blood on the floor while turning to his back. His throat cleared, his lips moved, he mumbled into an ending throe. Standoffish, Marcus observed the final moments between machine and maker. For the first time, he heard passion driving Deta’s synthetic voice.
“No… You’re my creator, you brought me back. I want you to stay-- This is not so bad, you’ll be fine. What…” His mechanical ear bent closer, searching for nuance and message behind inane babble. “I will. Nexa will be fine. Please--“
Manx lost the will to breathe; eyes bulged, back arched, fingers contorted, he died in pain. Marcus watched the fein moves of a machine pouting. His thoughts turned to Nexa and Dew, likely killed. With Manx freshly dead, the only remaining link to his planet-side tribulations knelt at his feet--back turned. Marcus put a finger behind the trigger, turned the muzzle of his plasma rifle down, and fired a single bolt into Deta’s simian-shaped metal-head. He felt no remorse, no guilt behind the termination of an unstable, unpredictable, robot.
He shoved the tip of his foot between the two and flipped over the collapsed hunk. The business end of his plasma rifle pointed right at Deta’s chest, he fired five more times--ripping irreparable damage through the machine’s primary systems. Marcus started to walk away, but a meek voice called him back. He looked closer and noticed some slight twitching on one of the armored slavers. He stepped over. The man’s face incited a mental flash, remembrance of a shadowed face.
Marcus knelt down and said, “I remember you. Nick Novak, we chased you off the ship… You brought us here intentionally didn’t you, but why? You stand to loose as much as anyone else if what’s going on out here gets to the public.”
“I have a conscience. I don’t care about the price, these aliens are people, and they deserve better.”
“Why, what happens to the ones you take away?”
“We put them through the stripper, their body parts are reworked to pass as human, and we sell in bulk to mainstream rejuvenation centres across the galaxy. We package everything as cloned body parts, nobody asks questions anymore…”
Marcus churned with disgust over the insensitivity found among some members of his own race. He growled a single question with solute intent.
“Who pulls the strings?”
“I have no idea.”
A finger-scraping siren sent shrills through Marcus; he looks down at Novak and saw sharp eyes glazed over in fear.
“What’s happening?”
“The main reactor is going to explode. The ship…”
“The ship’s gonna blow up-- yeah, I get it.”
Marcus sprung to his feet and glanced down his time-crunched options. A few men ran past a paired intersection. He watched them rush by, not looking, obviously racing to escape pods. He considered joining them, slipping into ranks, but normal escape pods did not have enough armor to survive the coming explosion. His memory drove in reverse, recounting every sight aboard the mother ship, and froze on the visage of an open storage module--the armored capsule bristled with enough chest to handle any kind of blast-wave.
Marcus turned to retrace his steps and took off down the hallway. The muscles of his legs corded, burning, never slowing--increased speed his only production. He turned a corner and Nexa’s panicked face greeted his. She stood aimlessly out in the main walk. Marcus rushed to her side and interlocked their hands. His face asked a thousand questions, but his voice only managed to spit and accelerated stutter.
“I thought you-- Where did you-- No, nevermind-- We have to go. Come on!”
Marcus pulled her along, fishtailing like a cord whipping in the wind. Behind planted power-steps, his upbeat stride took them back to the storage modules and right into the closest open container. He slapped the control switch and the powered door shut, flowing air squeaked through as the seal built pressure. Within seconds, an unimaginable thick thunderclap threatened to vibrate apart every welded seam of the armored capsule.
Every shockwave transmitted through the unforgiving metal and directly into bones. The aftermath manifest as the tremors and the screams of shredded metal--few people ever survived internally experienced explosions. Marcus gently helped Nexa to her feet. She hugged him tight, her face rested on his chest.
She said, “I can’t believe… things worked out.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and unhurriedly pushed back, creating a gap. Their eyes locked.
He asked, “What do you mean?”
“The surface attack worked as a Diversion for us. We worked as a diversion for the second shuttle. They assaulted and destroyed the ship while we… took the brunt of attention.”
Marcus’s flesh ran flush with burning blood.
“Wait, your father arranged this to what? Deceive me? He used us. He did know the truth behind the order, about humans. And he manipulated us into helping kill my people!”
“No, my idea.”
Marcus balled up his fist; his knuckles flushed white.
“Your idea? You’re responsible for killing all those humans. For what? You don’t even have a cure. The pattern chip could help you, but now what? You destroyed your only chance to live along with a bunch of my people!”
“Their just… The Order.”
“My People!”
Marcus lost control and punched Nexa in the side of the face. Her head crooked right into the metal wall of the container, bones cracked. Muscle response left her limbs and she started to slump to the floor. The first swing put her unconscious and the head-on-metal collision killed her, but Marcus could not stop himself after a single blow.
#
“I don’t know what else to say, you know what things looked like when you found me.”
“Don’t sound so grim. You will be back on duty in a few weeks.”
“You don’t think there will be some kind of discipline action against me?”
“Well… with the ship gone, there’s no proof you did anything. As for Nexa, she wasn’t human, so what you did to her wasn’t illegal. I probably would have done the same thing based on what you told me.”
“Yeah… As much as I want to think Nexa’s life and the lives of the Nes-Naa people carried the same value as ours, I just don’t. The way our society sets up ideals leaves no room for other species to thrive, is this really the formula we need for the next thousand years.”
“I’m not in this to have a philosophical debate with you. Just tell me, would you do the same thing again?”
“Yeah, I probably would. Do you suppose that constitutes a tragedy? What do you think is going too happed to the Nes-Naa since the slaver ship the poison supply is gone?”
“You know the policy, we take care of our own, no handouts. They will either find a substitute for the drug, or they won’t.”
< END >
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