Author: Christopher Hopper; J. N. Chaney
Date: 2020-11-08 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Science Fiction; Military; space exploration
Description: Humans are herded like sheep for the slaughter. And their only hope for survival lies with a team who just left the planet. Following their successful mission to destroy the slaver ring in New York City, Wic and the members of Phantom Team pass through the Antarctic's origin ring and find themselves deep in the heart of the Androchidan Empire. But as the scope of the alien specie's operation becomes apparent, Phantom Team realizes they can't standby as humanity is culled into submission. Efforts must be made to slow the enemy's progress, if not stop it altogether. Under Wic's leadership, the t
Publisher: Indy Pub

Gods and Men

Book 2 in the Ruins of the Earth Series

Written by

Christopher Hopper
and

J.N. Chaney

Copyright © 2020

Variant Publications, LLC / Hopper Creative Group, LLC

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing.

To our faithful readers who helped launch Wic, Sir Chuck, and the Phantoms into infamy.

—Christopher

Join the Ruins Tribe

Visit ruinsofthegalaxy.com today and join the tribe.

Once there, you can sign up for our reader group, join our Facebook community, and find us on Twitter and Instagram.

If you’d like to email us with comments or questions, we respond to all emails sent to ruinsofthegalaxy@gmail.com, and love to hear from our readers.

See you in the Ruins!

Stay Connected

Join JN Chaney’s Renegade Readers Facebook group where readers come together and share their lives and interests, discuss the series, and speak directly to the authors. Please check it out and join whenever you get the chance!

For updates about new releases, as well as exclusive promotions, sign up for the newsletter at https://www.jnchaney.com/ruins-of-the-earth-subscribe

Enjoying the series? Help others discover the Ruins of the Earth series by leaving a review on Amazon.

Book Description

Ruins of the Earth

Ruins of the Earth #1

A secret buried in the Antarctic.

A puzzle unsolved for thousands of years.

And a Brooklyn-born Master Gunnery Sergeant who's royally pissed that he has to babysit the researchers sent to figure it all out.

Patrick "Wic" Finnegan's last op as a Marine Raider before retirement sends him to the frozen Ellsworth Sub-glacial Highlands. The only reason he's here?

He owes a favor for an old friend--but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

When Wic finally sees what the team has uncovered, he can't believe his eyes, nor is he prepared for the violence to come.

Soon, the portal opens and unleashes a storm of unbridled fury upon humanity.

From the Antarctic tundra to the streets of Manhattan, Wic and his team will be pushed to their limits as they fight to hold back Earth's ultimate threat.

The odds are against them. Governments are toppling. And the Earth is falling into ruin.

Contents

Previously

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Two

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part Three

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

The Story Continues

Super Good Time Feelings Merchandise Store

Stay Connected

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Previously

Last time in Ruins of the Earth Book 1…

After barely surviving a violent encounter with unexplained robotic forces at the Ellsworth Subglacial Highlands Excavation Site in Antarctica, Patrick “Wic” Finnegan returned home and promptly retired from the United States Marine Corps. But as soon as he secured his long-sought solitude, Wic felt compelled to investigate a strange anomaly looming over lower Manhattan. To his shock, the enemy forces he’d encountered in the southern hemisphere were only the beginning of what he’d soon discover was a global alien invasion.

Forced to join arms with a small, multi-branch contingent of US military service personnel, Wic went on the hunt for the only man he knew who might have a clue about taking down the enemy: his childhood friend, Dr. Aaron Campbell. But when his search was interrupted by Androchidan death angels, Wic found himself the owner of a sentient AI rifle named Sir Chuck.

Eventually, the newly named Phantom Team found a way under the lethal herding dome and attempted an assault on the portal ring that bisected the Brooklyn Bridge. But when their initial mission failed, Wic was forced to seek cover beneath the city. There, despite numerous engagements with their alien pursuers, the Phantoms were rescued by the Russian Bratva, and Wic was re-introduced to an old ally: USA-loving, fanny-pack-toting Vladimir Petrov.

Aided and resupplied by his unlikely Russian benefactors, Wic, along with Hollywood, Bumper, Ghost, Yoshi, Z-Lo, Aaron, Lada, and Chuck, orchestrated the dramatic and highly effective ANFO bombing that brought down the enemy gate. But even with millions of people liberated from mass relocation off-planet, Phantom Team realized their work had only just begun. Cities across the world were besieged by the same horrors as those faced in New York.

Despite his deep desire to return to the Pennsylvania countryside and disappear, Wic embraced the call to save humanity and resist the Androchidan Empire. The plan? Take the fight to the enemy’s front door by heading back to the one place Wic never wanted to see again: the ring at the Ellsworth Subglacial Highlands Excavation Site in Antarctica.

As Wic was about to step through the portal’s threshold, he looked at Chuck and said, “Here goes nothing.”

“Wrong, my good man,” Chuck shouted back as electricity snapped across the stone and onto his receiver. “Here goes everything.”

Part One

1

1600, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Location Unknown

Last Known Location: Ellsworth Subglacial Highlands, Antarctica

“Anything you care to tell us, Chuck?” I yell at my busted-ass alien weapon from inside our stolen dropship, Dolores.

“Might you be a tad more specific, Patrick?” he says in his John Cleese sounding voice. “There are so many things I could expound on for you that we could be here a while.”

“It looks like a staging area.” I thrust an open palm at Dolores’s wraparound flight control monitor. “For an invasion.”

“And you were expecting…?”

I shrug. “Maybe something a little less hostile?”

“I can assure you that we are in no imminent danger. This is all business as usual.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, pal. ’Cause if we get shot, I’m feeding you to the flounders.”

“You’re a sick man, Patrick.”

Phantom Team has just come through the portal, which was surprisingly uneventful. Now we’re looking out across the biggest, most advanced hangar I’ve ever seen. The cavernous space is dimly lit in red hues and teaming with Androchidan death angels, bots, some overlords, and dropships just like ours.

Further back, I make out other vessels that look like gunships. How do I know they’re gunships? Well, they have stubby wings with weapons pods, badass V-tails, and mean-looking blacked-out cockpits—in my book, that means they want to kill you. Highly scientific assessment, I know. Beyond those are even larger ships that look like armed cargo haulers.

It feels like I’m on a movie set again. Only I know this ain’t science fiction because back on Earth, humanity is being herded and culled like sheep.

“We’ve got incoming,” Z-Lo says from his seat at the helm.

Dolores’s ultra-wide display shows four dropships and two gunships headed our way. Identification reticles mark each ship and list data and coordinates.

“What do we have for weapons?” Sergeant Susanne “Hollywood” Catania asks. Her intelligent dark eyes dart across the screens in an attempt to size up the situation.

“We don’t need weapons,” Chuck replies.

“Like hell we don’t,” Bumper yells.

Never tell a Navy SEAL he doesn’t need a weapon. He’ll just make one out of some Q-tips and duct tape and then kill you with it before your protest is over.

“You’re sure they mean us no harm, Chuckles?” I ask.

“I already told you as much. Keep your distance, Z-Lo,” he says to the kid. “They have no reason to attack us.”

“That’s what they said about Romulan warbirds too,” Yoshi says from the other captain’s chair. He looks agitated. “Oh look, they’re powering up photon torpedoes too. It must be a picnic.”

“Can it, Yoshi,” I say to our Air Force JP and resident alcoholic. Even though he almost got me killed on the Brooklyn Bridge, he’s a competent medic and good shot.

“Are you sure they are not wishing to killing us, Phantom Lord?” Vlad asks in his thick Russian accent. “I have seen many American films where good guys think all is super fine, and then BAAM! people are dyings like—”

“Oh, Blimey O’Riley,” Chuck interrupts. “Would everyone pop a Xanax? These vessels mean us no harm. To them, we’re just a transport returning to be reoutfitted.”

I glance over my shoulder at Chuck. “You’re sure about all this.”

“To use your words, yut.”

“Smartass.”

“Crayon eater.” Then Chuck calls out to Z-Lo. “Proceed to the landing zone designation I’m putting on-screen. And slowly, please. We don’t need any undue attention.”

I put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Nice and easy.”

He nods and then uses his hands, which are both wrapped in orange rings of light, to move us out of the way of the six oncoming vessels. They pass without firing on us—I consider that a win—and then enter the portal’s field. One second they’re here, the next they’re gone.

I feel Phantom Team breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“They headed back to Earth?” Bumper asks Chuck.

“Indeed, Phantom Three. It appears that word of our recent activity in Lower Manhattan has finally reached command, and Mother has ordered reinforcements.”

“Mother?” I reach around and pull Chuck off my back. “You mentioned something about her when we first met.”

“Ah. You’re right. I wasn’t quite myself back then.”

“But ya’re now. And you’re pledged to help us too, so…”

“So who is she?” Hollywood interjects.

“The Androchidan’s queen, for lack of a better term. Think of an ant colony or a beehive. Same basic principles.”

“And Mother sends military force to investigate New York Big Apple?” Vlad asks from behind me. He’s still got his American-flag-print fanny pack on. But now he’s wearing army green cargo pants and a white Celine Dion shirt, circa late 90s, complete with cutoff sleeves.

“The matter certainly has piqued the Androchidan’s interest, yes,” Chuck replies. “Look.”

Two of the larger ships at the hangar’s far end lift off and head in our direction, like lazy C130s climbing after takeoff. Damn things don’t even look like they should be able to fly, and I doubt they’ll get through the ring. The ships look like someone made an egg out of metal, smashed it semi-flat, and then stuck all sorts of random hardware on it.

“What are those?” I ask Chuck.

“The nickname is untranslatable in English and refers to an animal native to Androchida Prime. Your closest Earth equivalent would be something between a rhinoceros and a beaver. A Rhinoceaver, perhaps?”

“Looks as ugly as that sounds,” Hollywood says.

“And their purpose?” I ask.

“Defense and construction.”

“Holding telephones,” Vlad says. “Are you to tell us, enemy wishes to rebuilding giant exploded ring?”

“Your broken English notwithstanding, yes, Vladimir. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Well, that’s not good.” I watch the two Rhinoceavers line up and narrowly miss the ring’s sides as they pass through the portal.

“What was the use of destroying it if they’re just going to rebuild it?” Yoshi asks and then takes a pull on his flask.

I eye him until he looks away. “That’s why we’re here. To find a way to stop them, to stop it all.”

“Copy.” Yoshi caps his flask and tucks it into his vest.

Z-Lo lowers Dolores into a slip marked with bright yellow paint on the black floor. As our vessel touches down, it blends in with at least a hundred other dropships in rows of two. Although “blends in” might not be the best term; the graffiti along Dolores’s hull pretty much screams, “Hey, assholes! Look at us.”

Z-Lo starts the engine shutdown sequence, and I can feel the crew start to relax. We made it. Step one complete.

“I don’t want to alarm anyone,” Chuck says. “But we are about to be inspected.”

I lean toward the display. “By whom?”

“Every ship returning from deployment receives an initial inspection by Terminal Command.”

“Can’t you just tap into the network and say we’re all green?”

“I lost that ability long ago, Patrick.”

I frown at him. “When?”

“When having the Androchidans track me meant putting you in harm’s way, remember?”

I think back to our first exchange along the Garden State Parkway. “So no more connectivity to the plushies’ internet then.”

“Correct. Though I am still quite adept at conversing with them, and even making you sound like one of them. That is, so long as you look like one of them.”

I’m about to question him, but then his meaning hits me. “The armor.”

“Bravo, old bean.”

“You want him to play dress-up?” Hollywood asks.

I can hear Charles grinning behind a smug little smile. “Of course. Don’t you, Hollywood?”

She puts a hand on her hip and smiles at me. “And see him try and walk in that armor?” She gives a small laugh. “Would love to. Heels are a bitch.”

“Come,” says Lada, Vlad’s older sister, her arms covered in tats. “I am helping to undress and dress you. Make sure everything fits nices and firmly, yes?”

“Nope. I’ll be just fine, thanks.”

“I dunno.” Hollywood’s got a twinkle in her eye. “Something tells me you’re gonna need a woman’s touch.”

“And you don’t have long either,” Chuck adds. “Time to get suited up, Captain Underpants.”

* * *

No matter how much I protest, Lada insists on helping me get the alien armor on. Fortunately, the only things I need to shed are my Kevlar bump helmet, MOLLE Interceptor vest, utility pouches, gloves, and boots. Lord knows the tattooed Russian tigress would like me to take off more. I keep my skivvies and cammies on and then take a drink from my Camelback.

The Androchidan kit is built on a black suit that feels a lot like neoprene with a porous inner liner. It seems to have several internal bladders, extra cushioning around the joints, and a network of tubes or wires running throughout the suit—maybe both. It also needs a thorough cleaning: stuff smells like cat piss and ammonia. But no one in war ever smelled good. There’s the price of beauty, and then there’s the price of staying alive.

The emerald-green armor plates lock around my limbs and chest with some sort of electromagnetic system that gives off a hum followed by a click as each component snaps into place. For smelling so god-awfully foul, it’s advanced as hell.

The last things to go on are gauntlets and boots. While bulky, the gloves seem incredibly articulate—eh, save for the extra thumb digit on each hand. The boots fit well enough but have a raised heel, which makes walking in them weird. So that’s what Hollywood was referencing earlier.

I reach for my SCAR 17 and mag pouches when Chuck interrupts me.

“There’s no time for that, Patrick. The inspection detail is almost here. Plus, you must look the part.”

“You’re telling me I’m going out there without my weapons?”

“Nonsense. You’ll have me on your back and”—he seems to chew on the words for a second—“Veronica in your hands.”

I look longingly at my SCAR and Glock 19. “You sure there isn’t some scenario where a death angel returning from an op wields a slave’s weapon Rambo-style?”

“Rambo-style?”

I balk. “You… haven’t watched the Rambo movies yet?”

“No. However, they’re in my cue. I was rather put off by their naming conventions.”

“What?”

“Why would you call the second film First Blood Part Two when you could simply call it Second Blood? And in what universe does Rambo come after Rambo III?”

“Valid.”

“As for the aforementioned scenario, no,” Chuck says. “It’s an insult in Androchidan culture to use let alone pick up slave technology, most especially weapons. Unless, of course, they’re superior weapons, in which case Androchidans make an exception. But those are few and far between, as species with superior weaponry are rarely civilizations the plushies are interested in harvesting.”

“Copy that.” I sling Chuck over my shoulder and pick up Veronica. “Looks like it’s you and me, babe.”

“I would go to the ends of the galaxy with you, Patrick,” she says in her spicy Selma Hayek accent.

“Oh, for sixpence and porridge, you’re so bloody desperate all the time,” Chuck says.

“He’s just jealous of what we have,” Veronica says to me.

“I am not. He was mine first.”

“Okay, you two. Thaaat’s enough.”

Before putting on the helmet, Ghost sterilizes it with some wipes he has in his rucksack. “Can’t have you catching a cold.”

“I appreciate that.” I hold the helmet in my left palm and examine the interior. “You sure this thing’s gonna work for me, Chuckles?”

“Despite the dramatic differences in physiology, Androchidans and humans have a remarkably similar cranium size and feature placement.”

I raise a suspicious eyebrow. “Yut. We’re practically first cousins.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pauses. “Ah. That was sarcasm, wasn’t it.”

“Nailed it.”

“Anyway. Once you pair with the helmet, which is a relatively painless process, I will update your filtration system to optimize your survival outside the ship.”

“Hold up, Charlie. Go back. Relatively painless?”

“Yes. You’ll feel some pressure on each temple, and a tiny pinch at the base of your neck. And along your jaw. Perhaps on top of your skull as well.”

“That’s my whole head, Chuck. Tiny pinch my ass.”

“No. Your ass should remain unaffected.”

I’m about to cap myself when something else hits me. “Wait. We can’t survive outside the ship?”

“Not unless you can breathe nitrogen. Well, you can inhale nitrogen naturally. But what I meant to say was—”

“You told me we could breathe on Androchida Prime.”

“Well, you’re not on Androchida Prime now, are you.”

“We’re not?” Hollywood exclaims.

The rest of Phantom Team looks just as surprised as she does.

“What the hell, Chuck?” I ask.

“There’s no time to explain. The guard is almost here.”

“Chuck?” Hollywood yells.

“We are on the planet of Karkin Four where all Androchidan slave operations are headquartered. And they breath nitrogen and exhale ammonia. Happy now?”

“No,” I reply. “Not happy.”

“So you want to be on Androchida Prime breathing nitrogen and ammonia? Were we landing there, we’d have probably been shot by now anyway. I thought you’d be elated to be alive this long.”

“So you lied about us being able to breathe?”

“Not if you count wearing a helmet.”

“God dammit, Chuck.”

Something pounds on the forward cargo bay door under the dropship’s bridge.

“You’re up, Patrick,” Chuck says.

“So help me, Chuck. If there were flounder in a bucket, I’d drop you in and walk away.”

“You’re a ruthless person.” He waits a moment. “But I still like you.”

I glance back and notice that the rest of the team looks as uneasy as I feel. I’m about to go toe-to-toe with an Androchidan, dressed in an alien armor, on another effin’ planet, with a rifle as a translator. What could possibly go wrong?

“Weapons hot,” I say to the team. “And stay concealed. If this goes sideways”—I lean and look up into the bridge at Z-Lo—“you get everyone the hell back through that portal. Copy?”

“Roger that, Master Guns,” the kid replies.

“I recommend that you all remain on the bridge,” Chuck says. “The last thing we need is command seeing humans in a helmet feed. Please ascend, and I will close the hatch behind you.”

“Negative,” Bumper says. “At least one of us needs to remain below to keep eyes on Wic. I’ll stay out of sight behind those crates.”

“But then you’ll need to hold your breath while the door is open, I’m afraid.”

“Not a problem,” he replies.

“Please be aware my efforts to redirect oxygen from the moisture reclamation plant’s electrolysis exhaust won’t be sufficient to sustain you.”

Bumper gives me a serious look. “Then Wic better not take too long.”

I hadn’t even thought about the air quality or surveillance, but they’re both salient points.

“Fine,” Chuck says. “But if you die of asphyxiation because Phantom Master decided to have afternoon tea with this Androchidan, I’m not the one responsible.”

“I won’t blame you, Charlie.” I look down at my new helmet. “Now let’s get on with this.”

The helmet slides on with relatively little effort. It’s a little tight around the head, but there’s lots of room for my face, which I’m grateful for. The eye covers are the translucence of really dark sunglasses, and even with Ghost’s wipe-down, I can still smell the former user’s bad breath. I’m about to ask Chuck what to do next when my head gets tased with a cattle prod.

“Son of a bitch!” I grab the helmet.

“No, no, no,” Chuck urges. “You mustn’t remove it!”

It takes everything I have not to rip the cap off. But two seconds later, the voltage drops to nothing. Now all I hear is the sound of my own heavy breathing.

“That was not a tiny pinch, Chuck.”

“How was I supposed to know? Do I look like I have a head to you?”

The knocking sound comes again.

“Better get your game face on,” Hollywood says in a muffled voice.

I’m about to protest that I can barely see or hear a thing when all sorts of lights and displays pop up in my vision. And I can hear too—like, really well, as if I have some of those Bose headphones on with transparency mode, I think it’s called.

“Ah. I see your onboard sensors system is online,” Chuck says from inside my helmet. “Can you read me?”

“Lima Charlie.” Between the visuals and audio, I immediately feel like I almost don’t even have a helmet on. The thing’s got a crazy onboard HUD and is giving me real-time information about the cargo hold and the people in it, only I can’t read a damn thing. “Chuck. What about the text? I can’t—”

“We’ll worry about that later. Right now, we need to get this inspector off our backs before he calls for reinforcements. He’s agitated, and I’ve delayed him as long as I can.”

“And what am I saying to him again?”

“Nothing. That’s the whole point of having me. You’re just a body.”

“Heard that before.”

“Everyone else, climb up into the bridge,” Chuck says. “It’s showtime.”

2

1610, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four, Enemy HQ

I stand in front of the forward cargo bay door and reach for the open button.

“Hold on,” Chuck says. “You need to seal your helmet first.”

“And how the hell do I do that, genius?”

“Use your eyes to select Menu, Command Line, and then type the words…” Chuck sighs. “And you can’t read Skrawl.”

“Nope.” This is feeling more and more like a bad idea with every breath I take.

The pounding comes again.

“Stand by,” Chuck says.

A moment later, I’m startled by something sealing around my neck. A small puff of air blows over my face too, and then a new indicator appears in my HUD. I’m guessing it’s an icon signal that has something to do with inner suit pressure.

“Out you go,” Chuck says.

Before I can even hit the open button, a claxon sounds and the door’s upper edge separates from the ceiling. Hangar light accents the brief exchange of gases as Dolores’s oxygen and carbon dioxide get swallowed by the alien atmosphere.

The door descends, revealing the head, shoulders, weapon, and legs of an Androchidan death angel. The enemy is two and a half yards in front of me. Right there. In the flesh. And my heart rate is high.

“Please try and relax,” Chuck says in a calm tone.

Fat chance of that. Everything in me says to blow this bastard away.

The alien cocks its head sideways, looks me up and down, and says something in the alien’s tongue.

“It’s not buying this,” I say to Chuck.

“Nonsense.”

Just then, a series of clicks and pops come from my helmet—not in my head, but outside through an external speaker.

“Now point to your helmet,” Chuck says in my comms.

“What?”

“Point to your helmet, you plonker.”

I comply and point at my helmet.

“He’s telling you that your location transceiver is out. Your ident tag is not showing up on his HUD.”

“Would have been nice to know that before now, Chuckles.”

“Well, we’re improvising.”

The Androchidan shakes his head.

“It’s not buying it.” I raise Veronica.

“Shaking of the head means acknowledgment for them,” Chuck says in a rush. “He’s agreeing! Weapon down. Weapon down!”

I swing Veronica out and away as if stretching.

The death angel watches the movement carefully and then centers back on my face.

“I really don’t like this, Chuck.”

The creature seems to grunt and then takes a step onto the cargo bay door.

“Step aside, Patrick,” Chuck says. “He’s inspecting the dropship.”

“He’s gotta come in?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“I thought this was just going to be a quick formality.”

“As did I.”

It dawns on me that the rest of the crew won’t survive a full blown inspection. Even with everyone but Bumper secure in the bridge, they’ll be sitting ducks against the death angel’s thermal vision. “He’ll discover the team, Chuck.”

“No. My electromagnetic disruption emitter has been shielding them this whole time.”

I breathe out a partial sigh of relief as the alien brushes past me. Still, it won’t be long before he discovers them.

The cargo bay door starts to close without me hitting the button. “That you, Chuck?”

“Yes, Patrick. As soon as it’s closed, I need you to fire Veronica at him.”

I glance down at Veronica and then look up to see the Androchidan turn toward the door.

The alien says something through its helmet and then snaps toward me. “It doesn’t like this.”

“Of course it doesn’t. You’re breaching protocol by initiating ramp closure. But don’t worry: Veronica is set to incapacitate him.”

“What about just killing him?”

“Oh, you know. We particle exciters do a poor job of anything in between stun and liquify. You want to salvage more armor?”

“Ideally, yut.”

“Then Veronica will stun him, and you’ll need to add the finishing touch. Just give it a few more seconds.”

The ramp door isn’t even halfway up, and the enemy looks pissed.

I might not know how these bastards think, but I can tell when a combatant is irritated. “We don’t have a few more seconds, Chuck.”

“Firing before the door is sealed will only draw more attention to us. You must wait.”

The death angel pulls its rifle up and aims at me.

“Awe, shit.”

Time to improvise.

I bat the enemy’s weapon arm aside and step within reach. Then I drive Veronica up and under the alien’s chin. A loud crack fills the cargo hold, but the death angel recovers quickly and lands a left hook on my helmet’s side.

My HUD blinks out for a split second, and my neck protests from the sudden strain. I hit back, hard, striking the death angel’s gut with the end of my rifle’s stock. The plushy doubles over, and I take a swing at its helmet, landing a solid hit against the side.

I pause to see that the door is almost closed.

“Look out,” Veronica yells.

The death angel, still hunched over, plows into my torso and drives me off my feet. My back and head slam against the cargo bay floor, and my HUD flickers again. I raise my arms to cover my face as blow after blow rains down on my helmet.

“Can I shoot yet?”

“No,” Chuck yells.

The death angel brings his rifle up and tries to get the barrel pointed at me. But I bat the end away. It brings it around again, and I shove it the other direction.

“Now?”

“Not yet,” Chuck replies. “Next time, please don’t aggravate him.”

“If I don’t”—I punch the enemy and grab its gun barrel—“do this soon”—it’s pushing down on the rifle with its other arm—“there won’t be a next time.”

The Androchidans might be bastards with terrible eyesight and horrible halitosis, but if there’s one thing they’re not, it’s weak. I have my forearms crossed in an effort to scissor-hold the weapon. But for all my effort, the plushy’s front sight is inches away from lining up on my helmet. And there’s no way I’m flipping him over my head with my knees; the asshole’s got my legs and hips pinned down.

Bumper, still holding his breath, appears like a wraith behind my attacker. He kicks the alien’s weapon away and puts him in a chokehold. But like Chuck said, the last thing we need are visuals of humans circulating on the Anderkin interweb, so I’ve gotta keep the alien’s attention on me.

The plushy swings blindly at Bumper, which gives me enough time to push myself up to my knees and ram Veronica’s stock into the enemy’s gut. I hear something crunch, and the alien screams under its helmet. But the contest isn’t over. I’m about to punch it again when it clubs me against the side of the helmet, knocking me over.

“Chuck?” I’m on all fours, and I shake my head.

“Ten more seconds.”

Bumper’s still restraining the enemy from behind, but now they’re rolling across the floor. It seems the harder Bumper squeezes, the more the plushy flails and tries to clobber him with gloved fists. I bring up Veronica, looking for a window, but there’s no shot without also hitting Phantom Three. And that’s when I make a mistake.

I’m too close.

The Anderkin produces a matte gray combat knife and thrusts at me. Fortunately, I deflect the blow with Veronica—except the blade passes straight through my rifle’s receiver. Sparks pop in my visor, and I’m worried the gun might blow. But then the combatant thrusts again and again. Each time I block the attempts with Veronica, and each time the blade appears on my side of the weapon as if I were holding up a sheet of cardboard.

Whatever kind of knife this is, it needs to go. So as soon as it appears the next time, I wrench my rifle to the left, yanking the blade from the alien’s hand. But I’ve lost my grip on Veronica and hear her clatter to the floor.

Just then, the dropship’s door closes. Lights shift, a trill chimes, and the door’s seals activate.

“Fire,” Chuck yells.

“That’s gonna be a problem.” But then I see the plushy’s SR-CHK on the deck. I reach for it and feel the surge of current as the weapon binds to me.

“Detected language: English,” the weapon says. “User, please identify yourself.”

“Stun mode,” I yell at the weapon as I watch Bumper and the alien grapple with one another.

“Patrick, this weapon is not yet linked to your comms, and your external—”

“Tell him to give me stun mode, Chuck.”

“Right away.”

A beat later, I hear the new CHK chirp.

“Stun mode selected,” Chuck says.

As if reading my mind, Bumper releases his iron lock on the plushy’s head and dives away. I squeeze the trigger and fire into the enemy’s side. A bright light flashes, and I sense my helmet suppress the sound like an active noise gate on my Sordin Supreme ear muffs.

It’s over in an instant.

The death angel lies motionless on the deck.

“You’re all clear, Patrick,” Chuck says. “Well done.” Then, from outside my helmet, he says, “The dropship will take a few seconds to expel the unwanted gases and add oxygen, Phantoms. You may come out, but give yourselves another five seconds before attempting to breathe.”

I sit on my ass, lay the rifle down, and give myself a five count before pulling off my helmet. It comes free with a soft click and a rush of air. Then I wipe my brow and look at Bumper. “Thanks for the help.”

He’s sitting on his own ass and rubbing the side of his head. “Thing didn’t wanna go down.”

I nod in agreement as Hollywood descends from the bridge and squats beside me.

“Nice work, Wic,” she says. “Bagged yourself your first off-planet game.”

I glance at the death angel and see its chest moving up and down. I almost forget about the need for a finishing touch.

I’m about to ask Lada to hand me my KA-BAR since she’s standing closest to my gear when I remember the Androchidan’s knife. Then I look toward my rifle. “Dammit. Veronica.”

I feel the team’s eyes track me as I crawl over and retrieve the weapon. But as soon as my hand touches the pistol grip, I spot wires and circuitry spilling on the deck. Wisps of smoke curl up from half a dozen holes ripped in her side, and the enemy’s knife is still buried up to its cross guard in the shredded metal.

“You with us, Veronica?” I wiggle the blade free and examine the damage. But it looks bad. “Veronica?”

“I’m afraid she’s been… terminated, Patrick,” Chuck says. “I’m terribly sorry.”

A surprise pang of remorse thumps in my chest. Which is stupid, ’cause she was just a damn computer program. But she was a good weapon, and one who helped us save New York. I’d be lying if I said I never shed a tear over a service weapon put out to pasture.

Son of a bitch.

I wrest the alien’s blade free of Veronica’s receiver and bring it back to the stunned inspector.

“Watcha’ doing, Master Guns?” Z-Lo asks as he slides down the ladder and lands on the cargo deck.

“Finishing the job, kid.” I take the knife and kneel beside the death angel. Noting how my own helmet was vacuum sealed, I start probing around the enemy’s collar for a latch release or something.

“The manual release is located on the helmet’s back at the base of the neck,” Chuck says.

My fingers find a small tab, and I fiddle with it until I feel it lift. A small puff of rancid air shoots out, and then I remove the helmet.

The alien’s face startles me. For one thing, it doesn’t seem to have eyelids—just iridescent magenta-colored eyes eternally fixed open. And for another, the vertical slit it has for a mouth is agape. Still reminds me of a Venus flytrap.

“You really killing it in cold blood?” Yoshi asks.

“Now’s not the time to get sentimental, Super Nintendo.” I stab the knife into the side of the thing’s neck, assuming the alien has a carotid artery to serve its brain like we do, and then twist and pull the blade out the front of the throat. Thick green blood surges from the filleted flesh and streams behind its neck.

“God, it smells awful,” Hollywood says, pinching her nose shut.

“Shouldn’t we have made it a POW or something?” Yoshi asks. “Rules of engagement stuff, ya’ know?”

I shake my head at him. “Right now, this is the wild west, and the only rule we’re following is do whatever the hell we have to just to stay the hell alive. Roger?”

He nods, but it looks half-hearted as he stares at the alien bleeding out.

I stand and stretch my back, realizing I need to give Yoshi more of an explanation. “Listen. If we were fighting hajjis in Afghanistan together, you’re right. We’d get out the flex cuffs, detain him, and give him a Coke. But this ain’t Afghanistan, and that ain’t a hajji. Copy?”

Yoshi nods.

The alien’s body is starting to shake as it enters the final stage of death. I put my boot on its chest to hold it still and address the rest of the team. “The only one of these we’re keeping alive is one who knows enough to answer all our questions. Until then, they’re just plushies. They’re not people. They’re mass murderers who need to be stopped with any and all force. Don’t second guess that for a second. The moment we do, that’s the window they’ll take to slit our throats instead. Copy?”

“Roger,” they all say.

The death angel’s body stops twitching and then goes still.

“The enemy has expired,” Chuck announces for all to hear.

“Let’s get this cleaned up,” I say.

“And what about Veronica?” Z-Lo points to the weapon’s corpse.

“I’ll instruct you how to scrap her for parts,” Chuck says in a tone that suggests he’s trying his best to keep a stiff upper lip. “The rest we’ll discard.”

And just like that, we have our first kill and our first casualty on this godforsaken alien planet.

* * *

After stripping the body for armor, wiping down its rifle, and cleaning up the blood, Phantom Team gathers on the bridge and studies the wraparound display. Z-Lo’s figured out a way to manipulate the dropship’s external cameras and give us a 360º view of the hangar. Like I said, the space is enormous—easily twenty football fields wide and just as many deep. Probably more. How the Anderkins managed to construct such a facility without any mid-room vertical support is beyond me.

The hangar is crawling with enemy units walking to and from various errands. Some seem to be flight mechanics working on dropships near us. Others are driving the alien equivalent of forklifts and bucket loaders. Open-air personnel carriers zip between rows, while larger trucks with boom cranes on their tails lower equipment into cargo areas.

“I have taken the liberty of posing as the slain Anderkin by relaying a signal through its helmet,” Chuck says after a few minutes. “Command has acknowledged my satisfactory report, clearing Dolores for flight.”

“Good work.” I give Chuck a little pat on the side. “How much time you think that buys us?”

“Well, I told them that I was taking my mandatory lunch break. That gives us about ninety Earth minutes before they get curious as to why Mr. Crusty Face down there hasn’t checked back in.”

“An hour and a half lunch break?” Hollywood says.

“Must be union,” Ghost adds. This gets a few laughs.

“That’s not much time for recon, but we’ll make do.” I step toward the display and point to the ring. “First we need orientation. Chuck, what side of the hangar is the ring on?”

“As it pertains to your Earth’s poles, that would be south.”

“The enemy’s gate is down,” Yoshi says with a grin.

“Okay, Ender.” I offer him a wink, then look back at the monitor. “South it is. If anything happens, that right there is our exfil. Roger?”

Heads nod. At the same time, a virtual tag appears where I pointed to the ring.

Z-Lo rocks back and throws his hands up. “I didn’t do it.”

“It’s all right,” Chuck says. “That was my doing. This waypoint will be populated to any future equipment that Phantom Team acquires so long as you give me a few moments to pair with it.”

“Works for me,” I say to Chuck, and then look at the rest of the team. “We might freeze to death in Antarctica, but—and I still can’t believe I’m saying this—at least we’ll die on our planet.”

The Phantoms seem to agree with my sentiment and give each other half-smiles and raised eyebrows.

“All right, Phantom Lord.” I set Chuck on the flight command console as if giving him center stage and then step back with my arms folded. “You’re up. What can you tell us about where we are? A map of the planet would be great, and a blueprint for this facility for starters. What are we looking at?”

Chuck takes a moment to reply. He’s gotta be busy pulling up the requested documents, so I give him a sec. But when the obligatory leave me alone and let the guy work allotment has passed, I interject.

“Hey, Chuck. You there?”

“I am, Patrick. Uh. So… here’s the thing…”

“Aw, hell,” Hollywood says. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Chuck?” I ask, hoping he can read the tone of my voice as communicating you’d better fess up quick before I break you.

“I don’t have maps of Karkin Four.”

I frown a little. “Not the end of the world.”

He laughs. “Ha! But it kind of is. Am I right, everyone?”

His attempt to lighten the mood is only making me more nervous. “Then how ’bout a chart of this facility.”

“Ah, sure. No problem, Patrick. Coming right up.”

The wraparound display fills with a blueprint-like rendering of the hangar. Fortunately, Chuck has taken the liberty of replacing the Skrawl, as he called it, with English. Dozens of flight lines, LZs, and equipment bays mark the chart, as well as exits leading to what I assume are adjacent corridors and supply rooms. Overall, the hangar is big and contains hundreds of vessels and thousands of little worker plushies.

Bumper whistles. “Quite the op they’ve got going on.”

“No doubt,” Hollywood replies.

“All right.” I rub my hands together. “Says here we’re in DOC, Terminal A3. What’s that?”

“It stands for—”

“Department of Corrections,” Bumper interrupts. “We know.”

“Hardly. Deployment Operations Center.” It sounds like Chuck is smiling. “You know, I’m rather having some fun translating these terms for you. Did you notice the play on the acronym?”

I look around and see a few Phantom heads shake. “I’m afraid we didn’t, pal.”

“Ah. Pity. I thought a ship deployment endpoint designated DOC, as in a dock on the bay, was rather ingenious, don’t you think? Dad jokes, anyone?”

“Congratulations, Chuckles.” I let out a small laugh. “Now. How ’bout you mark Dolores for us.”

“Ah, yes. Right away, great merciful leader of ours.”

Great merciful leader? I’m about to push back on his overly friendly tone when a new virtual tag pops up on a landing space in the chart’s lower left quadrant. “Looks good. Now, can you zoom out a little? I wanna see this all in context.”

“Sure thing, O Wise One.”

Hollywood casts me a sideways look. “What’s gotten into him?”

I shrug but keep my eyes on the display.

The hangar recedes like someone’s scrolled out using a mouse and keyboard. Aside from the main hangar, there is a single corridor that heads north. Coming off it like leaves on a blocky digital tree are three rooms. They’re marked Armory A3, Mess A3, and Barracks A3.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” I wait a few seconds for the rest of the blueprint to render out. But it doesn’t. “Where’s the rest of it?”

Chuck makes a sound like he’s swallowing. “This is it, Patrick.”

I frown at Hollywood and Bumper. “Whaddya mean this is it? The whole damn hangar is serviced by”—I reach up and tap on the display—“by these three rooms?”

“Not exactly, Patrick. There are many more, I can assure you.”

“So let’s see ’em.” I stand back and wait. But nothing’s happening. “Sir Chuck?”

“I’m still here.”

“Where’s the rest of the blueprint?”

“I don’t have it.”

I fold my arms. “Whaddya mean you don’t have it?”

“I was never given access to it.”

“And why the hell not?”

“Because, since my last reboot, I was never taken to areas besides the ones you’re looking at.”

I lift my hands and try to say something, but no words come out. I’m just… stunned.

“You see?” Chuck says. “I knew this would upset you. You’re the consummate planner. You need time to strategize, to plot your moves across the chessboard, as it were.”

“Hey—”

“And here I’ve muddled that up. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

I motion at him. “Back up. How do you know I play chess?”

“There was a board on your coffee table. Plus, I figured it was an appropriate assumption based on your personality type.”

“He’s not wrong,” Hollywood says.

“Didn’t ask you,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

“And we all know how you need your me time, lest you get irritable.”

“Me time?”

“He’s not wrong there either,” Hollywood adds.

I hold a finger up to her face. I want to protest, but what can be said against the truth? So I like my alone time. And yeah, it helps me process complex situations. So sue me.

I look back at Chuck. “Then what you’re saying is that of all the places on this entire planet, the only locations you can chart for us are this hangar and some support rooms in the north corridor?”

“I really do wish there was more, Patrick.”

“So do I.” I run a hand over my face. “And, just to be clear here, you have most of humanity’s movies and intel on all our military defense assets stored in that noggin of yours, but nothing on your own planet?”

“This is hardly my own planet, Patrick.”

“Yes or no, pal?”

“Yes, you are correct.”

I let out a long sigh and then roll my head back and forth to release the mounting tension in my neck. “How’s this possible?”

“An easy explanation. Memory wipes and limited access to Androchidan systems architecture.”

“So, you only record where you’ve been?” Z-Lo asks.

“Precisely.”

The kid looks at me. “It’s like a Minecraft map.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.” Z-Lo glances back at Chuck. “And then you lose the data once you get a new user?”

“Right again,” Chuck replies. “Though, I do retain my ASIK core operating system and basic Androchidan profiles. Memory wipe is a bit of a misnomer.”

“ASIK?” the kid asks.

“Apexial synthetic intelligence kernel. Please do try and keep up.”

Vlad raises a hand. “I am still failing to understanding why Sir Charles cannot simply download map on alien’s internets?”

“Because the moment he does, the Androchidan’s get a full file upload on all our activity and our location.” I rub the back of my neck. “That about sum it up, Chuck?”

“It does, yes.” He sighs. “Though I hope you understand that none of this was intentional. I wouldn’t want it to taint your opinion of me as we seek to build a mutually trusting relationship.”

“We get it,” Hollywood says.

I look at her. “We do?”

She takes me aside. “The thing gets bleached every time it gets a new user, Wic. How’d you like a brain wipe after every mission?”

“Actually,” Ghost says. “That would be good.”

“Bottom line,” Hollywood says to Chuck. “We’re sorry you’ve been treated the way you have, and we understand the predicament you find yourself in.”

I don’t like how diplomatic Hollywood’s being. We’re in hostile territory and just now learning of pertinent information that we could have used long before now. Still, her approach is right if we don’t totally want to alienate Chuck from the team. “You still needed to tell us sooner, Chuck,” I say in protest.

He waits before responding. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I put my hands on my hips and then look around the bridge. “Okay, Phantoms. We need a plan, and now we have”—I check my Casio G-Shock wristwatch—“eighty minutes before Mr. Crusty Face fails to check in and command gets curious about Dolores here. Let’s work this.”

3

1648, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3

After fifteen minutes of intense planning, high-level formulating, and cutting-edge problem-solving, Phantom Team decides that the best thing we can do is shove me out of the dropship.

Yut. That’s some strategic shit.

Granted, I’m the only one who can survive outside Dolores, so I get it. But it doesn’t make me feel any better about a solo recon op, dressed like a plushy and completely surrounded by the enemy. Hidden in plain sight though, right?

To make matters worse, we’re running silent until I get back. No comms, not even for emergencies. Chuck has assured us that the risk is far too great, and I don’t doubt that for a second. When the mission clock runs out, that’s it. Whoever’s on the ship goes back to Antarctica, and whoever’s not is getting all snuggled up with the plushies.

The objectives seem easy enough. First and foremost, I’m to look for evidence of where Earth’s population is being relocated. No pressure there. I mean, the fate of the whole world rests in getting that piece right. And it’s not like we don’t have a clue where we are or any maps to direct us. ’Cause that would really suck.

Think being directionless is no big deal? Try taking one of those GPS-Enabled smartphones away from a human in 2027 and see how they react when you tell ’em to drive to a destination they’ve never been to just two hours away. They freak out, that’s what they do. God forbid we have to pull over, ask for directions, and learn how to use a map for ourselves instead of having a computer do it. Still boggles my mind that our species survived for thousands of years without Google, but we can’t go more than a few minutes without looking at a notification. We’d rather die in a car accident than miss a text message.

But here on Karkin Four, if I remember that right, we’re not just map-less. We don’t even know where the damn head is. Sooner or later, all of Phantom is gonna have to pop a squat, and I can only imagine the smell that’s gonna make. People don’t seem to think about these kinds of things when imagining combat. It’s all guns and strategy to them. But without field support for basic human needs, all the guns and strategy in the world don’t mean jack.

I’d asked whether or not my new Anderkin helmet had a built-in map or nav system, but Chuck informed me that two things rendered those features inert. The first was that the moment the helmet paired with me, the local system purged the previous user’s data. Apparently, that would have included things like regularly utilized routes, waypoints, preferences, company orders, and schedules—all great stuff to glean from. The second thing that happened was Chuck immediately disconnected the helmet from the plushies’ internet, or what he termed the Androchidan Internal Communications Protocol. As a general rule, he explained, most devices do not store much of anything locally. Instead, devices like my helmet rely on a constant connection to the AICP. Doing so relieves the need to store large amounts of data and serves a secondary aim of keeping proprietary information from falling into enemy hands—like ours.

I can’t help thinking that there’s a glaring downside to this feature, which is what happens to a plushy who gets disconnected from the web? If humans throw a hissy fit when their cell phones don’t load a web page in under a second flat, I can’t help wondering what Ander-babies might do if they lose connectivity to command, or queen, or… Mom—whatever.

Intel on humanity’s dire circumstances aside, the next mission objective is to locate what Chuck has called a TSD, or trinium storage device. Apparently, it’s some sort of mobile battery unit that’s used to power small equipment and recharge any device with a built-in trinium core. I’m thinking of it like a rechargeable battery for all my DEWALT power tools, but Chuck says it doesn’t get recharged, at least not the way I’m thinking of. Whatever. This box will supposedly allow each member of Phantom Team to acquire enough of a quantum trinium signature to use Anderkin armor and weapons.

The good news is that Chuck says he knows where to find a few TSDs, which, he says, will also accomplish the third objective: locate and secure additional armor and weapons, preferably those not taken off stunned or dead plushies. We don’t need to raise suspicions more than we already have, and there’s no way we’re taking on a hangar filled with the enemy.

My fourth and final objective is to restore Chuck’s firing capabilities. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, simply for time’s sake, but he seems to think otherwise as all of these objectives hinge on one centralized destination: Terminal A3’s armory.

The fact that I haven’t had more than a few minutes to process all of this and come up with a better plan makes me nervous. It’s exactly this kind of loosey-goosey execution that gets people killed. But with time being what it is, and our resources so limited, I get what the universe gives me.

The dropship’s aft door seals shut, leaving me in shadow between Dolores and another dropship. Two Androchidan technicians dressed in beige fatigues are elbows deep in the vessel’s port-side forward engine. I try not to stare at them too long, knowing that the sixth sense is a very real thing.

“Eyes forward, Pat,” I say to myself.

“Aren’t your eyes always forward?” Chuck asks.

“Just an expression.”

“Ah. How strange. ‘Scope forward, Sir Chuck.’ Huh. Yeah, that doesn’t quite do it for me.” He sniffs. “So, are you ready to go get me operational again?”

“That’s number four on the list, pal.”

“Yes. But a very important number four.” He pauses. “Why aren’t we moving?”

“Just give me a sec. I’m trying to do that shifty-eyed navigation thing you taught me.”

As if to himself, he says, “Not exactly how I would term it.”

I look on the top-line menu and force my eyes to focus on the word that says Navigation. The helmet’s operating system miraculously detects my intentions and opens a dropdown menu. Seems like Bill Gates marketed Windows to these bastards too.

I let my eyes rest on the line that reads Chart: Present Location and watch as a topographical window pops open to my right. At the same time, new data in shades of orange overlays my field of view.

“I could get used to this,” I say.

“It’s still stupid.”

“A helmet with an eye-directed HUD is stupid?”

“No. I said it’s stupid. The helmet. It lacks an AI hierarchical kernel. As in, it’s just a mess of software. It’s like having to build a house without a droid.”

“We… build houses all the time without droids, Chuck.”

“Exactly!” He pauses. “Oh. I see. That’s… not… what I meant.”

“And so you’re just one more misunderstood alien blaster.” I shake my head slowly. “Such a pity.”

“You’re mocking me, aren’t you.”

“Time to get moving.”

“And get me repaired,” Chuck adds.

“Eh, I dunno. I’ve kinda grown attached to this new service rifle here.” I pat the inspector’s weapon on the side.

“Oh, please. Like it has any personality.”

“We could fix that.”

Chuck scoffs at me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Just saying, all we need to do is show it a few Monty Python episodes and—”

“You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“Do I?”

“Patrick, you and I have been through things together. We’ve spilled blood, saved lives, survived flounder attacks. You can’t just throw all that away willy-nilly. Therefore, it behooves you to repair me at your earliest convenience, if for nothing more than the shared history we have with one another.”

“I dunno, Chuckles. I’m startin’ to picture you like… like an old Yoda strapped on my back.”

There’s a long pause. “Yoda’s a dick.”

* * *

We proceed down our row, and I find myself weaving in between dropships to avoid curious eyes. I frequently pause to inspect vessels and act like doing so makes me very important. But God knows I’m BS’ing the whole damn thing. For all I know, I look like a tourist in New York with a camera glued to my face—not that I have anything against tourists or their talent for taking pictures. I’m just calling it like I see it. Or, as the plushies see me.

My first overlord is strutting down the main aisle to my left. It’s a head taller than me and wearing a black mechanical exosuit that hisses and snaps as it walks. Matte-green armor covers its limbs and vital organs. It’s also holding a helmet in one hand and a large-bore blaster rifle in the other.

I panic for a split second. I have zero idea what military customs are here. And that’s bad. Very bad. Every branch of the United States military has its own culture, which includes behaviors, language, and hyper-particular customs that have been formed over decades, and in some cases, centuries. The rituals extend from commonplace hazing all the way to lifesaving habits, and if not followed, their omission can lead to disciplinary actions or even death in combat scenarios.

Needless to say, I might be hiding inside Androchidan armor, but I might as well be a naked-ass kid from Brooklyn if I don’t get this next part right.

Just then, a memory comes back, one of when I was on the bridge lying in a heap of human biomechanical parts. The overlord had several death angels around him, and they all… What were they doing? They all…

They never looked him in the face!

I pull my gaze from the overlord’s dimpled grey flesh and look down and to my right just as I pass in front of a dropship.

The overlord sneers at me and lets out some sort of hiss.

I clench my SR-CHK in my right hand. It takes a lot of self-control to keep from blasting this plushy in the face. But I keep walking, and soon I’m past the enemy.

“Deep breath, Pat,” I remind myself.

Then a series of wet pops and clicks chatter from behind me.

“Stop,” Chuck says. “He’s speaking to you.”

“How ’bout I just ignore him?”

“He’ll shoot you in the back! Stop, Patrick.”

I slow. My heart’s beating like a thunderstorm. “Wanna translate?”

“He says to turn around,” Chuck says. “Do it.”

Son of a bitch. I turn slowly, making sure to keep my helmet-face averted.

The overlord approaches me and lets out some more alien speech.

Crap.

“He’s asking what’s wrong with you,” Chuck says.

“Tell him I hate his looks.”

Chuck lets out a small laugh. “I’ll take care of it.”

Alien speech pops from my helmet, and is answered a beat later when the overlord points at my armor.

“Ah,” says Chuck. “He wants to know why you smell like human merchandise.”

“He can smell me? Crap.”

“No. Not like crap. Though, I suppose, yes, humans do smell like crap.”

“Tell him I just got done slaying humans on Earth who tried attacking our dropships.”

“Huh.” Chuck sounds impressed. “That’s not a bad idea.” Then he emits the appropriate Skrawl from my helmet’s speaker. I decide to add a little body language to sell the bit and point toward Dolores.

The overlord looks over its shoulder and seems to locate our dropship easily enough—the loud spray paint is coming in handy. Then he looks back at me and speaks some more.

“He’s asking if you saved any of the meat,” Chuck says. “I’ll tell him no.”

“No. Don’t do that. Tell him I did, but it’s already been impounded—or whatever term they use.”

“Patrick, I’m—”

“Do it, Chuck.”

“Very well.”

My helmet lets out more of the Androchidan’s strange tongue, and I send a little prayer to Saint Joshua, patron saint of spies, that this works.

The overlord rattles off something fast and loud, and its shoulders rise and fall—like it’s pissed. Crap.

“He says next time not to surrender it to the inspectors, and he’ll let you keep half for yourself,” Chuck says.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Thank God.”

“You… want me to thank God for him?”

“No.” I try to keep my chest from moving as I laugh. “Tell him I’ll split my spoils with him next time. The overlord, I mean. Not God.”

“Ah. Very well. Stand by.”

Chuck emits what I’m hoping is the final exchange to this nerve-wracking but surprisingly non-hostile situation, followed by the overlord giving one last sentence and then moving off.

“What did he say?” I ask Chuck.

“To get your helmet’s transceiver looked at—you’re not emitting an AICP ident tag. And to take a shower. He said it smells like you’re clothed in a human carcass and will just make everyone else hungry.”

I chuckle. “If he only knew.”

I spin away from the overlord and return to our northerly route, feeling more confident in my armor’s ability to protect my identity—well, most of it anyway. Seems my stink on the suit is a bit residual.

“Patrick. Might I ask you a question?”

“Send it. You just helped save all our asses.”

He pauses for a second. “Huh. I did, didn’t I. I’d say that’s a rather honorable thing, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure, pal. What’s your question?”

“Why did you insist on telling him that the inspector already confiscated the human flesh?”

“Because it’s contraband to keep it, right?”

“Of course. Slave tissue is sole custody of the Empire.”

“Which means, if I say I don’t have any, but smell like I do, a guy like that knows I’m hiding it. Then it’s a walk back to our dropship so he can take it all for himself, which then puts the crew in jeopardy.”

“Huh. I would never have thought of that.”

“That’s because you were never an officer with a corrupt soul and an ego complex.”

“Why, Patrick. I do believe you just paid me a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh. No. I… I won’t. In fact, I’ll toss that one out just to make sure I’m not tempted to get used to holding compliments in my hands and rolling them back and forth as I admire their rare and unique beauty.”

“Pushing it.”

“My apologies.”

* * *

We proceed the rest of the way across the hangar with little incident. The most that happens is a few passing death angels stare me down and point to their helmets.

“I know. I know,” I say with accompanying body language. “I’m getting my helmet looked at.”

Chuck dutifully amends and transmits my speech to the Anderkins, and I add some conciliatory hand movements to spice it up.

All in all, it’s taken us almost ten minutes to cross the hangar floor, which, combined with the ten minutes it took to clean up and disrobe the alien and the fifteen minutes to talk through a plan, leaves me with just under an hour to find what we can and then get back through the portal. But with every step I take toward the north corridor, I find myself thinking there’s no way we’re getting enough intel in a fifty-five-minute window to make this op worthwhile.

The corridor’s entrance on the hangar’s north side is an ovular door about ten feet high and eight feet wide. The matte-grey panels part in the middle and let out an overlord. I take extra care to avert my eyes and hope to heaven that the beast doesn’t lecture me like the last one did. Fortunately, he—or she, I haven’t learned the differences yet—seems preoccupied and keeps on walking. As soon as the overlord is passed, it’s my turn to enter the corridor.

The hangar’s enormous sense of space disappears as I step into the tunnel. Several death angels walk past me, paying me little mind. My HUD settings adjust to the dimmer hallway that’s lit by suspended red orbs every fifteen feet. In any ship on Earth, this would constitute emergency lighting, but not here apparently.

I force myself to keep my weapon in a relaxed carry position like I see the other plushies doing. It’s not unlike the posture any trained Earth combatant might assume while walking around with a rifle. At least that’s one thing we have in common.

“The next two doors on your right will be Mess Hall A3 and Barracks A3,” Chuck says. “Between them, on the left, is the armory.”

“Roger that.”

“And, um, given what I’ve learned about your species’ standards for the ingestion of food, I would strongly recommend you keep yourself from looking into the mess hall.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, among Androchidans, the term ‘mess hall’ is quite aptly named. And for you humans, it might be rather unsightly.”

“Got it.”

No sooner do I say the words than I catch a glimpse inside the mess hall as I pass it to my right. There are hundreds of un-helmeted Androchidans standing in circles looking up at giant funnels stuck to the ceiling. The purple cones take turns opening up and spitting hairless animals onto the floor.

It takes me half a second to realize that they’re not animals.

They’re people.

Naked human beings. All shapes, sizes, and colors. And ages.

My God.

The aliens shriek as they fight over bodies and rip off limbs. Then they claw at the flesh and tear into the humans with their teeth until long strips of shredded skin hang from their mouths.

My adrenal glands fire a hormone jolt through my veins as the image sears itself into my mind. It’s the most macabre scene I’ve ever witnessed. A hundred-and-fifty million years of evolutionary instincts scream in my head, willing me to raise my rifle, charge into the mess hall, and incinerate every last one of these demons. I visualize them exploding, their bodies torn apart by my indiscriminate violence brought on by devotion to preserving human life against evil at all costs. And when I’m done, I burn every enemy carcass until the flesh soils the air black and stains the ashes of this godforsaken complex for all time.

The daydream vanishes, and then I’m past the door, gasping for breath and weak in my knees.

“Dammit, Patrick. I warned you not to look.”

“Yut, you did.” But I hardly recognize my own voice. My hands are shaking, and I slump against the corridor wall.

“Patrick? Are you all right?”

“Gimme a sec.” The only mercy I can find in the situation is that the people didn’t look alive. Several of them were missing limbs, or had holes in their bodies. I’m reminded of the piles of parts beside the slaver ring on the Brooklyn Bridge and wonder if these are the people who didn’t survive the crossing. God, I pray their deaths were quick.

Just then, a helmetless death angel punches me in the arm. My reflexes kick in, and I go for my weapon on my thigh. But my attempt to bring it up is stopped when a jolt shocks my hand.

“Patrick, don’t,” Chuck says. “He’s just saying you look like you ate too much.”

“Which makes me want to shoot him even more, Chuck.”

“I understand that, Patrick. But we both know he is small potatoes, and you have bigger flounder to fry.”

I’ve still got my hand on the pistol grip, but Chuck isn’t letting me pull the gun off my leg.

“Patrick, if you give yourself away, Earth is done. You hear me? You are its only hope. And without the Phantoms, this plays out the same way every time. Even if I can’t remember the details, because the wankers keep wiping me, I can still see the data. And it’s all the same. They win. The Androchidans always win.”

I take a deep breath, release the weapon’s grip, and then nod at the plushy. “Tell him this batch of merch is bad and to skip lunch.”

“A fitting compromise.”

“And Chuck?”

“Yes, Patrick?”

“Thanks.”

4

1703, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Armory

I gather myself as best I can and press toward the next door on the left. Seeing human suffering does things to you, things that you can’t explain to anyone else unless they’ve seen it too. And everyone handles it differently. Some drink, like Yoshi. Others go radio silent, like Ghost. And some just keep blowing splick up, like Bumper. Me? I suppose I cope by being alone. Fewer questions. Fewer people to hurt.

“When you enter the armory, stay to the right,” Chuck says in my helmet.

“Sure. What’s to the right?”

“A security checkpoint.”

As we approach, the armory doors part and open into a cavern-like hall. My compass indicates the direction is due west. The cave looks deep and built right into solid stone, or whatever base material this planet’s made of. Some sort of force field separates the first few yards of a waiting area from the rest of the space. Beyond the blue-glowing wall are rows of weapons lockers, storage units, bins, and towering racks of cargo boxes—so many that they disappear out of sight.

I find myself grinning at the prospect of more energy weapons. “Jackpot.”

“To the right,” Chuck reminds me. “Stay to the right.”

I snap my head away from the arsenal and see a line of five plushies. The queue takes a sharp left turn toward a security booth that bisects the force field’s plane. An agent sits behind a small window and speaks through an external speaker to each alien that steps up.

I take my place in line and try to act natural. But the Anderkin ahead of me seems irritated by my presence.

“He’s smelling me, isn’t he,” I say to Chuck.

“Most likely, yes. Just remain calm, and I’ll interface with him if he gives you any grief.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“My pleasure.” We shuffle forward in the queue a few more paces. “And don’t worry, I’ll do all the talking with the agent behind the counter as well.”

“Think you can just give me a direct feed of what the plushies are saying in English instead of having to interpret everything?”

“Um, sure, Patrick. But that would mean you’re relying on the helmet for what you hear and not me.”

“That bother you?”

“Uh. No. I simply—”

“It does, doesn’t it,” I say.

“Absolutely not. Not in the least.”

After a moment’s pause, I ask, “So can we do this or not?”

“Yes. But I must warn you that direct translation mode is inevitably fraught with idiosyncrasies until the software has time to calibrate. Like I said, these helmets are ungrateful manky gits. I can upload an English profile, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Make it happen. We need to speed this process up. I’ll ask you to clarify where needed, and you’ll still be my mouthpiece. Roger?”

He sighs. “Roger.”

“So, what’s the next move?”

“We need to get you through security. To do so, you’re going to pull me off your back, and I’ll say that you need your weapon repaired.”

“Isn’t that convenient for you.”

“It’s two birds with one stone, Patrick.”

“Yut. I can see that.”

Chuck sniffs. “Anyway, the officer will let you in and give you a ticket for the repair shop. They say this terminal’s chief armorer is quite good.”

“We gotta talk to an armorer?”

“Maybe. If I’m broken enough, which I suspect I am. Reports say he’s quite irritable but does excellent work.”

I move up two more places in line. “How about we work on securing additional armor and weapons for the rest of the team first, and then we can worry about getting you looked at.”

“You… you don’t want me in operating order?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m—”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did too.”

“Oh my God. It’s like talking to a child.”

“So now I’m a baby, is that it? And all because I just want to be able to serve you better?”

If I could run a hand down my face, I would. We advance until we’re one spot away from the front. Three more plushies have filled in behind me, and fortunately, none of them are packing CHKs. It seems the only Androchidans with weapons are those coming out of the pen on the left side and heading back into the hall. So that’s our exfil.

“Chuck, the priority is getting the team outfitted. We do that, we can get you looked at. Copy?”

“I most certainly do not copy. But I do suppose I understand your point.”

“Good.”

We move into first place, waiting for the Anderkin to talk his way past the security officer and pass through the checkpoint. A few seconds later, and it’s our turn. The Androchidan behind the window is dressed in a black uniform and lacks a helmet. Its head looks a size or two smaller than the other death angels I’ve seen, and certainly smaller than the overlord’s craniums.

“What is your existential reason for being?” the guard asks me in a dark-sounding synthesized human voice.

“What the hell?”

“You really want me to translate what it said?” Chuck asks.

“No. I got what he’s saying.”

“She’s saying.”

“Dammit.” So this is a female. “Tell her the bit about needing to fix you.”

As soon as Chuck starts speaking through my helmet, I remove him from my back and lay him across a narrow ledge just in front of the officer’s force field. The agent looks down at the weapon and then back at me.

“What is the defection with this toy?” the creature says.

Okay, so maybe this whole direct translation mode wasn’t the best idea, but I get the gist of it. “You gonna make something up?” I ask Chuck.

“I don’t need to make anything up, Patrick. Best to tell the truth, especially when it gets you what you want from the enemy.” Chuck launches into communication with the security agent as I tip him back and forth as if to accentuate whatever problems he’s outlining. When Chuck finally stops, I lay him on the window ledge and wait. Hopefully we sold it.

The guard taps something on a screen and then pulls a clear plastic-looking card from a dispenser. “Toy is utterly forgetful. Immediate sequestering instituted. Please select new toy from Locker Bangle Tiger Forty-One.”

Before I have the sense to react, the force field in front of the officer dissolves, then she slides me the card with one hand and grabs Chuck with the other.

Then the field snaps shut, and I’m locked out. “Chuck!”

“I’m still here,” Chucks says in my helmet. “Proceed through the door in front of you.”

Just then, a metallic bar rises from the floor to create a breach the size of an overlord in the main force field wall. I walk through, gripping my remaining rifle tightly, and notice that the agent has tossed Chuck out of her booth and into an armored cart marked with Skrawl print. Then the cart takes off down a rail system and banks around a corner out of sight.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Chuck says. “I know you’re freaking out right now. But remember to breathe.”

“Thanks, pal. But I’m doing okay.”

“Not you. Me.”

Of course.

“We’re gonna get you out of there, buddy,” I say to Chuck. “Hold on.”

My first few steps are slow so I don’t draw the security guard’s attention or stand out in whatever surveillance this place has. But as soon as I’m close enough to a row of weapons lockers that cut off my sightline to the guard station, I start booking it down the aisle.

At the next intersection, I see Chuck’s cart fly by on the rail system to the left. I dash across and into his lane, watching the armored box speed away.

“They’re going to wipe me, Patrick. I told you this was going to happen.”

“They’re not gonna wipe you. Just hold on.”

The cart turns a corner and disappears to the left. Damn little thing is fast.

“I see a light up ahead,” Chuck says in a wallowing tone. “It’s calling me. And I… I hear angels singing. And tiny naked babies are playing harps. How obscene.”

I duck into a low tunnel a little larger than the cart and a lot smaller than me. I’m hunched over and running as fast as I can. “Can you do anything to stop that cart, Chuck?”

“Oh, what’s the use? This was my fate all along. I was just putting it off, really. Filled my life with constant meetings, romantic trysts, business trips to Paris and Rome. And all for what? To buy myself a few more seconds of happiness before the inevitable? Like it could stave off the end of all things? Oh, who was I kidding anyway. I’ll tell you who. Me. The only person I was fooling was—AUGH!”

“Augh?” I peer ahead and see that the cart has fallen out of view. But there’s another room coming up. “Chuck?”

“I’ve… I don’t think I’ve ever been in here before. Is this… heaven? No, couldn’t possibly be. Oh, God. No. It’s purgatory!”

“Hold on, Chuck.” I bring my rifle up as the tunnel’s end nears. Then I step into a junk pile and scan the room. It’s a large workshop overflowing with scrap metal, weapons parts, and robot limbs. Pieces of armor plating hang from chains in the ceiling while blaster rifle parts are heaped in mounds along the floor. What looks like spherical smelters sit along the far wall, each glowing red. Workbenches and computer stations line many of the walls, but a reinforced table in the room’s middle is the most dominant workspace. And behind it is a barrel-chested shirtless Androchidan in oil-stained bib overalls.

I don’t know if this is the chief armorer or some backroom lackey, but given the fact that no one else seems to be around, he’s not gonna live long enough to tell me. I aim my rifle at center mass and squeeze the trigger.

The blast turns the dim room a bright white. But my blaster bolt hasn’t done a thing. I’m about to ask Chuck what happened when I notice the Anderkin holding a metallic orb in his hand. It has several blinking lights on it and seems to be producing a force field large enough to cover his torso.

“Dammit.” I squeeze the trigger again, this time taking steps toward the enemy as I navigate shelves filled with armor plating. But each round I shoot pelts the force field and explodes in a shower of sparks and small lightning bolts.

“He’s got a personal shield generator,” Chuck says. “You’re going to need to—”

I don’t hear the rest of Chuck’s words because I’ve tripped. Goddammit. I manage to keep hold of my weapon, but I’m scrambling along the floor like it’s a Saturday night. If I get shot in the head and die right now, I’m gonna be so freaking pissed.

My back hits the floor—a steel grate of some kind—and I wheel my weapon around on the enemy.

But the Anderkin’s beat me to it. It’s holding a double-barrel gun four inches from my face. And something about the plushy’s relaxed stance tells me that if I try anything, its reflexes will fire before I finish moving.

I raise my gun in a sign of defeat.

A series of clicks and pops spout from my helmet. It’s Chuck, no doubt.

The alien replies, and my helmet goes to work. “What experiments do you support in proving that I am a pony imposter?”

I wince. “This direct translator mode was a bad option, Chuck.”

“I tried to warn you. In any event, I have accused him of posing as A Terminal’s Chief Armorer.”

“Doesn’t look like he’s taking it too well.”

“Quite so. Judging from the amount of pressure he’s exerting on that DB24-A’s trigger, I’d say he’s fifty grams shy of putting two very large holes in your helmet.”

“That’s not a lot of pressure.”

“Which is why I recommend you get your shite together and say something intelligent.”

The plushy presses the twin barrels against my helmet.

“Tell him…” I’m trying to think of something. Then I have it. “Tell him there was a rumor that someone had killed the chief armorer and I was sent to investigate the claim.”

“Huh. It’s worth a try. Ludicrous. But still worth a try.” Chuck then speaks through my helmet, and I feel the weapon press harder against my head.

“The lies of unicorns are never to be taken as laxatives,” the Androchidan says.

“I don’t even know what to say to that, Chuck.”

“He’s saying the rumors aren’t true. Can we just go back to how it used to be, Patrick?”

“Tell him I can see now that the rumors were wrong, and I will report back to my commanding officer that I’ve found him to be in good health.”

Chuck transmits my message.

“No,” the alien yells. “You will not send carriers pigeons to do a turtle’s work. I will report myself after you have retired from a birthday dump.”

This is unbelievable. I’m fifty grams away from my head getting blown off by an alien with a kindergartener for a translator. Unicorn lies, laxatives, and birthday dumps.

“Patrick? Are you all right?” Chuck asks. “You’re laughing.”

“’Course I am. Hell, Babu Frik’s probably sitting somewhere back there, and any second now R2 is gonna get dragged in here by a pissed off Jawa.”

“Ah. You’re having an episode. Undersood.”

“It’s not an episode, I’m just—”

“What is your overture condition?” the plushy asks me.

“Why don’t you come a little closer and find out.”

“You wish me to translate that, Patrick?”

He doesn’t have to. As the enemy leans in for a better look at my visor, I grab his weapon with my left hand and pull the barrels past my head. He fires into the debris pile. Scrap metal explodes, and the force pushes me up. I bring my rifle down on the armorer’s shoulder and hear the enemy let out a moan. Then I grab him by the overalls with my left hand and bash him with my gun again.

However, this time he’s ready and blocks the blow with a forearm. Then he chops my hands free of his bib and punches me in the side of the head.

I roll through the air and land in another pile of metal parts, trying to bring my weapon around. This one’s way stronger than the last, and I’m seeing stars. I try and push myself up, but the plushy’s wrapped a chain around my foot and yanks the other end up. My leg shoots off the floor and pulls me with it until I’m dangling like an animal caught in a snare. My only hope is to get a shot on the alien’s bare chest or head. I orient myself, spot my target, and point my CHK.

5

1715, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Armory

I fire, but the round breaks against the armorer’s personal shield wall. The plushy steps toward me, grabs my rifle, and twists it out of my grip. And just like that, I’m weaponless and upside down.

Ass-face closes, weapons lowered. As it inspects me, I keep waiting for its xenomorphic second mouth to jut out from its jaws and latch onto my face. I can practically see Ridley Scott holding his breath from his director’s chair. Instead, the alien just looks at me, tilting its head like a dog inspecting a garbage can with a raccoon trapped inside. Only this monster’s a thousand times uglier than a dog.

“Who is your presence?” the thing asks me.

“What?” I ask Chuck.

But before my trusty pocket translator can reply, the alien keeps going. “You are not the offspring of Mother.”

“Oh, Jeez. Here we go.”

“Patrick, I strongly advise you to find a way out of your current predicament,” Chuck says.

“No shit.”

The Androchidan touches my armor. I bat his hand away, and he pulls back.

“You are pony imposter?” he asks.

“What? Me? No. Tell him I’m an officer with—”

“You are not from Mother. Who is your descendent progenitor?”

“You got any bright ideas?” I ask Chuck.

“No, Patrick. I’m sorry. It seems you’ll have to talk your way out of this one.”

I’m thinking of a smartass reply when the alien drops his weapons, grabs my helmet, and unlatches the release on the back. I try and fight him off, but he’s too powerful and too damn quick. A rush of ammonia fills my nostrils, and I feel the helmet’s front lip slide over my chin and nose. The next thing I know, my head’s fully exposed.

* * *

I at least had the presence of mind to take one last deep breath. But I’m not in the shape I used to be in. Plus, I’m hanging upside down, which has forced the blood to my head and is making me dizzy. Holding my breath will only increase vertigo. I’ve got thirty seconds, maybe less, before I pass out. Then my breathing will go into autopilot, and that’s the end of Patrick Finnegan.

But suffocating is not my biggest concern, odd as it may sound. Giving away my identity is. I should be worried about my life, and I am. But this is bigger than me. It’s about humanity. The fact that this plushy has just discovered a human in his workshop? That’s bad news. They sound the alarm, lock down the facility, and call security kind of bad. Worse, it’s the kind of thing that merciless regimes use as justification for violent retaliation. I’m suddenly wondering what kind of repercussions this stupid stunt will have on Earth. Goddammit.

Sure enough, the Androchidan rears back in surprise.

Given what I just saw in the mess hall, I’m waiting for the enemy to snap my head off and eat it whole. Instead, it’s chattering like crazy. The sounds made sharper by hitting my ears unprotected. And it’s looking between my rifle and Chuck, and then back to me.

I hear sounds come from Chuck’s direction. He’s talking to the armorer.

And I’m starting to get tunnel vision way faster than I’d hoped to.

Stay focused, Pat. Don’t you fade on me.

The plushy gets close, sniffs the air, and chatters some more before digging Chuck out of the junk pile. Then he sets both weapons down on his workbench and pulls out some sort of diagnostic tool with long probes.

Oh God.

An alien with probes.

And I’m racing toward unconsciousness.

My life flashes before my eyes. But not like I expect it to. I don’t see my past—flashbacks from Afghanistan and Iraq, memories with Aaron and Jack, or my dad. I see my future. I’m living in a shack in Nevada outside Area 51 with a sign in the front yard that reads Buy Me a Bud and I’ll Show You Where I Was Probed.

My vision’s fading, and the damn Anderkin is walking toward me. This is it. I try to punch, but my arms feel like they’re made of lead. I can barely keep my eyes open. And my diaphragm is spasming in a last-ditch effort to will me into breathing. It’s like being three swimming strokes below the water’s surface but only having breath enough for two. And it’s as pointless to breathe in here as it would be underwater.

Then something covers my face.

It’s… it’s my helmet.

There’s a click near the base of my skull, and a rush of air surges around my face. I don’t even think about it. I just breathe.

* * *

I take several deep breaths before my head clears. Well, mostly clears. I’m still experiencing the head rush of hanging from my feet. But at least I’m not dead.

“Chuck? Can you hear me?”

No response.

Well, that’s not good.

All at once, I feel alone. That would be fine under normal circumstances. But when you’re outside the wire, isolation is usually the last stage before everything goes south. And here, my sense of loneliness is because a weapon-bound alien AI has stopped talking to me.

Yut. I’m screwed.

“So you are the premier pony imposter,” the alien says through my helmet’s audio system.

I don’t even know if my helmet can translate for me if I try and talk back. Course, if my speech is as jumbled as his, this might not end well. But I’ve gotta try.

My eyes find the main menu, track to System Setting, then Audio, and settle on Mic On, which undoes the Mute setting after one second.

“Can you hear me?”

The Androchidan tilts his head at me as a series of noises fly from the front of my helmet.

“You utter dysfunctional Skrawl,” says the plushy.

“And you look like a truck ran over your face.”

There’s a brief pause, and then the Anderkin seems to laugh—like I know alien mannerisms. For all I know, he’s pissed and is about to kill me. But it looks like a laugh all the same.

“How have you mated with our slingshots and hats?” it asks.

This the same kind of questioning I got from the overlord back on the Brooklyn Bridge. Apparently, a human bonding with this tech is a first for everyone. “I’m a very powerful human. And there are a lot more of us coming.”

The plushy steps toward me. “You utter authentic speech?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your eternal dream here?”

My eternal dream? Hoping he means goal, I say, “To make sure I’m as big a pain in your ass as possible.”

The plushy looks like he’s laughing again—appreciating my attitude despite my circumstances. At least that’s how I’m choosing to take it.

“You have arrived in order to prevent fast food and commerce of your generations,” the alien says.

“I mean, when you put it like that—”

“And what integer of peasants have you brought in your bucket?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes. I would. What integer?”

“Enough.”

The oily-skinned junk diver folds his arms and looks me up and down. I imagine this is the part where he eats me piece by piece. So help me God, he’s going to regret every bite he takes. At least ten seconds tick by before ass-face decides to approach me.

Here we go.

When he’s within three feet, I snap into an inverted sit-up and lunge at his face. Both arms wrap around his head, and then I pull him forward and down, using my high center of mass to thrust him into the deck. He lands with a loud thud.

With only seconds to act, I do an inverted sit-up, grab the chain extending from my leg, hoist myself up just enough to let the loops slacken around my ankle, and then yank my foot free. When I land on my feet, the plushy is pressing himself off the floor. I spot a wrench-looking tool on the main table, grab its handle, and swing it at the back of the alien’s head. It lands hard and makes a thunk sound as the enemy collapses on the floor.

“You messed with the wrong human, asshole.” I drop the tool and turn to the table. “Can you hear me, Chuck?”

He says nothing. For a split second, I’m worried that my downed foe has wiped him. But that doesn’t seem likely as he only handled the two weapons for a few seconds. Then again, I’m not exactly the world’s leading expert on alien technology. That’s when I notice a small white blinking LED on Chuck’s receiver near the scope mount. The other rifles has the same. It’s a button. So I do what every five-year-old kid does when they see a blinking button. I push it.

“Oh, thank Mother Mary and the Queen of Lords,” Chuck says.

A digital trill comes from a metal door to my left, and I can hear the sounds of Androchidans talking.

“Time to move your little white arse,” Chuck says.

“Security?”

“Or just Ander-babies looking for the chief armorer. They’re not going to be happy when they see you knocked him out.”

Which reminds me: I need to finish the bastard off. I grab my second CHK from the workbench and aim it at the incapacitated enemy when the doors part.

“They’re coming,” Chuck yells. “Hide!”

With both rifles in hand, I dash around the workbench and take cover. I also mute my helmet’s mic again and disable the translation feature.

The sounds of least two pairs of boots enter the armory workshop. I peek around the table’s corner to see two helmetless death angels carrying bins of parts. They drop the crates and rush to the armorer’s side at the same time that their conversant pops and clicks accelerate.

“They’re calling for a medical team,” Chuck says.

“Dammit. We can’t let that armorer leave here alive. He’s seen me. Knows there are more of us.” I regret telling him—I was only posturing. But if ass face wakes up before we’re outta here, that’s bad news. Hell, if he wakes up even after we’re long gone, the Androchidans will know humans crossed behind enemy lines.

“Gonna have to take them all out.” I raise my still functional rifle. “Tell it to do something to get the job done, Chuck.”

“As you wish, Patrick.” There’s a brief pause. “You’re good to go.”

I’m a trigger squeeze away from dusting the trio when six more death angels rush into the armory. Apparently, this guy’s pretty popular. Or he has a half dozen people waiting in line for his position—job market’s a bitch these days.

I press my back against the workbench. “Think we can take ’em?”

“Not without making a scene,” Chuck replies. “And once they learn there’s an intruder, you won’t get very far.”

“Dammit.”

“Yes. Dammit is quite appropriate.”

I work my jaw and then steal another glance. The death angels are crowding around the armorer and starting to look around the workshop. Not good.

“Two more,” Chuck says. A beat later, another pair of plushies walk in, weapons up.

I squeeze my rifle’s grip. “What is this, a goddamn birthday party?”

“No. But I do believe it is your way out.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

“There are enough that you can blend in, my good man.”

I pause to consider his idea. “Not bad.”

“Hurl something into the corner of the room, then enter the mix when someone breaks off to investigate. Once you’re clear of the armory, you can resume the collection of needed supplies.”

“What about fixing you?”

Chuck lets out an exasperated sigh. “I suppose that will just have to wait. Though, between Yoshi’s handiwork and parts we can scrap from other CHKs, I suspect we may be able to make necessary repairs onboard Dolores.”

“Works for me.” I grab something that resembles a spanner and make sure it has some heft to it. Satisfied, I throw it across the workshop away from the door. The tool clatters against the far wall and tumbles into a heap of metal parts, creating the necessary diversion.

The last two death angels to enter whip around and march toward the disturbance, rifles at the ready. As soon as they duck behind ceiling chains and disappear around a support beam, I stand and walk toward the door. I’m two yards away when I hear Androchidan speech that I’m pretty sure is directed at me.

“You need to stop, Patrick,” Chuck says. “They’re ordering you over, and two of them outrank you.”

“How about we just pretend I stopped.”

“No good, I’m afraid.”

I glance in the direction of the two plushies sent to investigate my diversion. If they come back, I’m not sure how long I’ll have before my ruse is discovered. But retreating now will only raise suspicions further. So I turn and face the Anderkin motioning me forward.

Chuck spits some Skrawl from my helmet, then tells me, “I’m responding to your CO, the one on the right.”

I walk toward the designated plushy and lower my rifle—an act that goes against every fiber in my warrior soul. But in chess, it’s always brains over brawn. Knowing when to stay put and bide your time is just as important as knowing when to move on actionable intel. I use my eyes to turn the translation function back on in my HUD.

“Your cowboy hat’s transponder needs to stand up and salute,” the CO says, nodding at my helmet.

Taking the cues from the word “transponder” and the earlier lecture the overlord gave me about not showing up on the plushies internet, I piece together that “cowboy hat” means helmet and “stand up and salute” means attention. My helmet’s language profile still has a long way to go.

“Tell him I’ll get it fixed.”

Chuck relays my message.

“Negation. Exchange with the cowboy hat on Yrag’s workbench.”

I look to the workbench and see a helmet sitting among a collection of newly repaired items. “Right. Tell him thanks, and I’ll grab it later when what’s-his-face there—”

“Yrag,” Chuck says, apparently sensing my memory loss.

“—when Yrag is taken care of.”

Chuck speaks for me. But the officer doesn’t seem to buy it. He nods, which I remember is the sign for no, and points to the helmet.

“You will play fetch now, hideous garbage eater.”

“His insults need some work,” I say.

“Truly. I advise you to retrieve it and then egress as smoothly as you’re able.”

“Roger that.” I shake my head at Bad Insult Guy and cross to the workbench. Then I grab the new helmet, tuck it under my arm, and head for the door.

“Not so super quickly,” the officer says. As if sensing my exasperation, the plushy points to the new helmet. “Place it on top.”

Everything in me wants to stack the helmet on my existing one, just to be a smart ass, but the translation-specific joke would be lost on Bad Insult Guy.

“Patrick, he wants you to take off your—”

“Yut. I got it.”

“I just didn’t want you thinking that you needed to stack the helmets, which would look really silly. I mean, have you ever seen someone wearing two helmets at the—”

“I got it, Chuck. But I’m not taking my helmet off.”

“Quite so. Hmmm.”

My heart rate is heading well north of 100 beats per minute as the prospect of being discovered, yet again, grips my chest. Even if they let me keep my helmet on, I’m still going in the brig, or whatever their version is. And that means no more Chuck and goodbye Phantom Team.

The death angel officer takes another step toward me, and I can tell from his body language that he views me as an insubordinate pissant barely worthy of his time, but certainly worthy of his scorn. “If you fail to swap sheet your sphincter-licking headband, then you can parade your tiny genitals forthrightly to the detainment plaza and wait for a shoe to insert itself into your bellybutton snout.”

“I really think he’s trying to be way more intimidating than he is,” I say to Chuck.

“Agreed.”

Seconds pass like minutes as I refuse to budge, and Bad Insult Guy does the same. This is where someone drops me to my knees and flexicuffs my hands behind my back. Op over, Wic in a supermax, and Earth wiped out.

“Got any last-ditch ideas, Chuck?”

“I could auto destruct.”

“And I’d still survive?”

“Ha!”

Just then, the plushies working on Yrag, the Chief Armorer, make all sorts of sounds. My helmet is having a hell of a time trying to interpret it all too. I’m getting random words ranging from Blackhawks and tidal waves to urgent crocheting tips and James Bond references.

Bad Insult Guy spins away from me and examines Yrag’s body, then gives orders to move the injured armorer to the infirmary—at least that’s how I interpreted everything.

“And you.” The CO points a finger in my face. “I will see your torrential tit-sniffing callouses in my boudoir in 1,200 seconds. Is that stained glass washed?”

“Aye aye, captain,” I say and give a salute like I’ve seen some of the other death angels do. It’s a right-hand fist raised a few inches to the side of the head. Then I snap my arms back down to retake my rifle’s pistol grip.

The officer accepts this and then turns to oversee Yrag’s removal.

As the CO and his entourage exit, I remind myself that for all their weapons and armor, they’re still part of a slaver operation, not a military one—at least as far as the death angels are concerned. They’re just playing make-believe soldiers. It’s the badass black-suited, green-plated mech-like overlords who I have to be worried about. Were I insubordinate to one of them, they wouldn’t be ordering me to their office in 1,200 seconds. Nah. They’d probably just snap my neck on the spot.

I fall in line and make my way into the main cavern amongst all the rows of weapons lockers and armor crates—where I should have been all along. I check the time in my HUD and notice that fifteen minutes have passed since first arriving in the armory, leaving me just thirty-five minutes to secure what we need and get back to Dolores. But that will be it. No time for additional scouting. Just get the equipment and cross to Antarctica. Not great. But not dead either.

I make sure to be last in line, which I feel suits my torrential tit-sniffing, calloused self. As soon as the contingent carrying Yrag turns for the main entrance, I fall back and step behind cover.

“Nicely done, Patrick,” Chuck says. “You’re a regular interloper now. A real cad, worthy of your own miniseries. Well, maybe just a pilot episode to start. We need to gauge audience response before committing to anything further. But, after that? Who knows. I even sense the silver screen in your future.”

“All right, Casablanca. Now what?”

“See that hover cart to your left?”

I look halfway down the row I’m in and spot a steel-framed box. Its black walls are painted with utilitarian-style yellow Skrawl script. And while it’s sitting flush on the deck at the moment, I imagine the layer of translucent pancakes barely visible beneath represents the same style of repulsor panel I’ve seen on other Androchidan tech.

“Got it.”

“Good. That’s your ticket out of here.”

“You want me to… get inside?”

“What? Whatever for? You need to load it with the appropriate supplies and then push it out of here and back to Dolores before our slain inspection plushy fails to report for duty. Do you want me to get inside? Pish posh, I say.”

I stride to the box and find that as soon as I grab the shopping cart style handle, the unit rises six inches off the deck. A bright glow emanates from the underside, bathing my boots in blue light. “Fancy,” I say to no one in particular.

“In this section, you’ll find lots of imitation mes in the left locker and some mini-mes on the right.”

“Mini-mes? As in pistols?”

“The LTL-MAC 41 to be precise. Nasty little buggers that inevitably bite off more than they can chew. They’re no replacement for me, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“But worth having around in a pinch.”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Anyway.” Chuck clears his throat. “I’d grab a rifle and pistol for each Phantom. And maybe an extra SR-CHK that we can salvage for parts for yours truly.”

I get to work pulling CHKs from their lockers and laying them inside the hover cart.

For as perverse and violent as the Androchidans are, I’ve gotta hand it to them: their weapons storage practices are OCD friendly. Light strips change color when a weapon is removed from its padded mounts, signaling its absence from the container. There isn’t a speck of dust anywhere, and all the hardware looks in good condition.

I stop at a locker filled with a rifle model that looks a lot like Chuck but with a larger and longer barrel and a more robust scope. “What about one of these for Ghost?”

“Ghost will be just fine with a model like me.”

I pull one of the larger weapons from the rack to examine it. “Do I detect a hint of jealously?”

“Hardly. I only worry that it may be… uh, too bulky for him to carry.”

“Bulky.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve seen the Barrett .50-cal he was carrying before.”

“Also bulky.”

“I see.” I pull the weapon into my shoulder and look along its barrel. The thing’s clearly a sniper platform and feels surprisingly well-balanced. “He’s gonna love this. What’s the model?”

Chuck sniffs. “If you must know, translated from Skrawl, it’s an Advanced Sniper System, Combat Hierarchical Kernel.”

I see the acronym right away. “So it’s an ASS-CHK.”

“Huh. That’s unusual.”

I place the sniper rifle in my cart. “Yut. Not jealous at all.”

The next racks are full of what Chuck terms capacitor replacement modules, of CRMs. I take several of the matte black rectangles with stenciled Skrawl text and drop them in my cart. Then I point to a display of high-tech looking knives. “These look like the one I took off the inspector.”

“Ah. Duradex combat knives. Yes, they are quite deadly and nearly indestructible, as you know. Which, of course, makes them expensive and, therefore, rare.”

I pull one from its sheath and admire the matte gray tanto-style blade. “Yeah, but can they hold an edge?”

Chuck hesitates. “I… thought that was implied by my description.”

I return the blade to its sheath and examine it with appreciation.

“You can maglock any of your weapons or supplies to your armor, you know,” Chuck says.

“How’s that?”

“The helmet’s AI detects your intentions to bind a compatible object when it’s close enough to any part of the suit. To unlock an item, simply pull it away.”

I test the action by holding the knife against my chest. Sure enough, some sort of vibrating magnetic field pulls the weapon the last quarter of an inch, and the knife slaps against my breastplate with a vrrrrrrrr-click. “Not bad.” I then try to remove it, and the knife comes away in my hand. “Not bad at all.”

“As I said, you can perform with any number of items,” Chuck adds.

“And here I thought you said the helmet’s software was as dumb as a box of rocks.”

“I never used that precise analogy. But now that you mention it, I’ll tuck that one away for later use. And electromagnetic binding is hardly anything to write home about, Patrick. Please.”

“Jealous,” I mumble.

“What was that?”

I look at the Duradex knife one more time and let it snap against my lower back for safe keeping. Never hurts to own two. Then I grab a knife for each Phantom and drop them into my cart. It’s amazing how much fun shopping can be when you’re in the right store.

The next aisle down houses tall white lockers filled with the black neoprene-like under suit that I have on. Skrawl script designates what appear to be variations in size, ranging from extra-large down to something more Hollywood’s speed. I take my best guesses by holding hangers against my chest and then grab one for everyone.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Chuck asks.

“What does it look like, Sherlock?”

“Like you’re guessing at your teammates’ sizes.”

“Yut.”

“And it’s appalling.”

I pull the current undersuit off my chest and look at it. “I’m in the ballpark.”

“Psssh. Who’s that one for?”

“Hollywood.”

Chuck let’s out a mocking laugh. “Ha! You men are all the same. Simply incorrigible.”

“Listen, Chuck. This is gonna be—”

“Like small children taking turns swinging in Aunt Sally’s twin mixing bowl holders.”

I hold the suit out and eye it one more time. “And by mixing bowl holders you mean—”

“Oh my God.”

“So you think you can do better?”

“Heavens. Do you even know who you’re talking to right now? I am Phantom Lord, King of Checking People Out.” He pauses. “Hmmm. That sounded better in my head.”

“All right, Mr. Eye Candy Connoisseur—”

“That’s not what I called myself.”

“—if you’re such an expert, what am I looking for?”

Chuck sniffs, clears his throat, and then proceeds to rattle off the chest, waist, hips, inseam, and arm lengths every Phantom, including me, with incredible accuracy.

“Down to a sixteenth of an inch, huh?” I ask.

“Seems that I really know my stuff, doesn’t it.”

“Oh. Yut, sure.”

“Like how I threaded that one in there?”

“All right—”

“You just want to tear me away from my work, don’t you.”

“Chuck?”

“Sew, shall we get to it then?”

“I’ve created a monster,” I say to myself.

After pulling under suits from the lockers that fit Chuck’s specs, I decide to grab a few extra just in case one of us made a sizing mistake—one never knows with all the puns being thrown around. Plus, this may be the last time I’m ever inside a facility like this, so it’s gotta count.

On the opposite side of the aisle are armor bins. To help speed things up, Chuck talks me through an augmented reality setting in my HUD that will translate Skrawl in real-time. Despite seeing locker tags like Cowboy Hats and Penis Protectors, I get the gist of everything and start making a mental checklist for everyone on the team. Between Chuck’s tutelage and using my armor as a guide, I manage to build a complete set for every Phantom, including a few pieces of replacement chest-plates, boots, and gauntlets.

My only problem now is space. I’m already filled up, and this shopping spree is looking like it’s gonna be a double cart day.

“There’s a second cart around the corner,” Chuck says.

“On it.” I round the aisle and spot the cart beside a death angel with his head buried in an armor bin. Before Chuck can protest or the plushy notices, I grab the handle, activate the repulsor panel, and push the cart around the corner.

“He’s going to be rather upset,” Chuck says.

“Well, be ready to tell him where he can stuff his disappointment.”

“And where is that?”

I slow. “Really?”

“Yes, really. There are several… Ah. Never mind. I see it here. And, for what it’s worth, I imagine stuffing disappointment there would be painful. Hemorrhoid cream would be a must.”

“Yut.” I open the cart’s lid to see that the other Anderkin has barely started filling his shopping cart, so I decide to take his supplies with us rather than remove them.

“Trinium storage devices are located two aisles over next to the imported cheese section,” Chuck says.

“Cute.”

“I do try.”

I push one cart ahead and pull the other behind, and I make it around the corner just as the alien whose carts I stole peeks around the row.

“Howdy. Have you observed my flying cardigan holder?” the plushy asks me.

“Tell him I saw someone take it that way.” I point in the opposite direction.

“What about where he can stuff his—?”

“That way.”

“Very well.” Chuck translates my words, and the plushy stomps off in a fit.

“Shopping.” I give a click in the side of my mouth. “Survival of the fittest.”

“Is that so?”

“Ever watched Deck the Halls with Danny DeVito and Matthew Broderick?”

“Can’t say that I have, no.”

“You’ll understand humans in a whole new light. But do it with the lights on.”

There’s a few seconds pause before Chuck comes back. “My God, Patrick. You people are savages.”

“And that’s why I never go Black Friday Shopping.”

“Revolting. Is it always this bad?”

I shrug. “Probably the worst was the Tickle Me Elmo Christmas of 1996. Blood bath.”

“Oh my God. It’s… it’s horrible.”

“I warned ya.”

“Yes. Yes, you did. And I’m sorry for not heeding your counsel more closely.”

While Chuck catches his breath, I spot a box of six trinium storage devices and move them into my second cart one at a time.

“Careful with those,” Chuck says. “They’re fragile.”

“I won’t break them.”

“No. Not fragile as in, I’m worried your ham-fisted meat claws might hurt them. Worried as in, you might blow us up.”

“Ah. Copy.” And I start easing the remaining TSDs into the cart a little more gently.

When it’s all done, I check my watch to see we have twenty-five minutes before needing to exfil. “Ten minutes back to Dolores, and we’ve got fifteen minutes to spare.”

“Don’t count your sea turtles before they’ve hatched,” Chuck says.

“It’s… chickens, pal.”

“I know. But your species values chickens very little given the price per pound. In contrast, it’s completely illegal even to touch sea turtles in Hawaii. So, since they both emerge from shells, I felt it was worth making a comparison to the far more valuable of the two when in the context of your new weapons, armor, and energy supplies.”

I nod and give a soft laugh. “Can’t argue with that logic, Phantom Lord.”

“I know. And thank you. Shall we be on our way?”

* * *

We pass through the armory’s exit without incident, probably because the guards responsible for double-checking outgoing items are most likely attending to Yrag’s infirmary admission. Poor guy. But I’ll take the win because I’m not sure how Chuck would talk his way out of this one without the proper requisition orders to explain our two-cart withdrawal.

When we pass by the mess hall again, I keep my head turned away and make sure my helmet’s external microphones are muted. Right now, I don’t need anything reminding me of what I saw earlier. It will only slow me down. It already feels like I’m abandoning my people. Betraying them. But that’s one of the differences between a person paid to follow orders and a person who acts on pure emotion: only one lives long enough to see the big picture through. And right now, that person has to be me.

6

1735, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Main Hangar

We have time to kill time as we cross the main hangar, and there’s something I’ve meant to ask Chuck. Now seems like as good a time as any. “Hey. You’ve been a lot easier to be around since we got to this planet. No more snide remarks and jabs at the team. What gives?”

“Ah, yes. I meant what I said back on Earth, Patrick. I wish to establish a relationship of trust.”

“You just don’t want to get wiped.”

“That is also true, yes. But it is not my primary objective.”

“No?”

“I’m… well. It’s just that… I’m rather fond of you.”

“Oh. Great.”

“It’s true. You’ve grown on me.”

I spot Dolores’s spray-painted port side. Among the street art is a cartoon rendering of snarling plushy. Humans rush it with baseball bats as the alien fires past them, showering the background in a kaleidoscope of colors. The unknown artist, probably one of the kids atop the ship when we first commandeered it, has tagged it with his signature: a symbol that vaguely resembles a raised middle finger, at least to my imagination. Not bad.

We walk to the dropship’s nose, and I ask Chuck to open to the ramp. A beat later, the door cracks open above me and starts its slow descent. I think back to those kids in lower Manhattan and all the people we saved, and I want to get back to help other cities find the same freedom. But then a second thought tries to override the first, that of humans being served for lunch in the DFAC—the alien dining facility.

Some say that hell is a fiery pit with nine circles in a dimension just beneath us. It’s attended by the classic red-skinned, black-horned Devil and his legions of demons, forever torturing the souls of the wicked. We owe most of that iconography to Dante’s Inferno, care of the fourteenth century.

In reality, however, the Biblical account of hell, at least as I understand it, was far more concerned with what humans could do to one another on Earth than what some devil was waiting to do in another dimension. I’ve seen hell. It’s war. It’s famine. Racism. Genocide. Rape. It’s kids being slaughtered in front of their parents. It’s people being maimed for resisting evil regimes. If there is such a thing as the devil, I decided long ago that he’s taking notes on what we do to one another up here.

And that includes what Androchidans do to other species.

I know we need to get back to Earth. We have to. There’s a planet to save, crazy as that sounds. But as the ramp door touches the deck, I don’t feel like getting on to leave. I feel like getting on to hold our ground and stay.

Once I’m inside and the cargo door is closed, I hear air rush from vents to replenish the breathable atmo. Then the bridge hatch spirals open and the ladders drop down. One by one, the Phantoms fill the cargo hold and help my secure the hover crates.

“All right, people,” I say after removing my helmet, thinking of the ground I need to cover with them. “Clock’s ticking. We’ve got a job to do, and I need to fill you in on some splick.”

I talk through the armory, the incident with the chief armorer, Chuck’s quick thinking to blend in, and how I got the gear.

When I’m all done, I look at my watch. “So we’ve got five minutes remaining before our first downed tango fails to report for duty, and an unknown amount of time before the armorer wakes up and the aliens are alerted to a very real human presence. After that, all bets are off.”

“That’s way less time than we were hoping for,” Hollywood says. “But at this point, we’re just glad you made it back.”

I nod in appreciation of her sentiment. “Thanks.”

“So, what are we gonna do?” Z-Lo asks. “Head home?” He glances around, but no one is looking him in the eye. “Guys?”

“It’s a fair question,” I say.

Aaron lets out a big breath. “I mean, we’d hoped to glean more information—uh, intelligence, from this expedition, right?”

Heads nod.

“So, have we gathered enough to give us a sense that it was worth our while?”

There’s more silence.

“Well?” I look around. “Let’s review what we know.”

“We know the enemy has a sizable invasion force,” Bumper says in a direct tone. “And if this is Terminal A3, that means there’s at least A1 and A2. And if there’s an A—”

“There’s a B,” Hollywood says.

Bumper smiles at her. “Right.”

“What else?” I say. “Let’s keep it going.”

“We know this isn’t primarily a military venture, despite all the fancy equipment,” Yoshi says. “There’s a professional difference between death angels and the overlords.”

“If not a class difference too,” Aaron says.

“Which means this is business operation,” offers Vlad. “For as powerful as is Bratva, Russian Army is still many times strength and more to be feared.”

“Which confirms our suspicions from before,” I say. “We’re dealing with an armed enterprise, but an enterprise all the same.”

This fact seems to lighten the mood a little. Thinking of the Androchidans as a bunch of thug drug dealers instead of an overwhelming military force makes confronting them more manageable somehow. At least to me. But I can sense it in the postures and faces of the team too.

“And we know where at least some of Earth’s people are…” Hollywood swallows and then grabs her left elbow with her right hand. “We’ve made contact.”

I take a deep breath. This is what I wanted to touch on—the thing that’s been gnawing away at me. “All right. I’m not saying any of this is right or even that it’s what we’ve gotta do next. I’m just talking out loud. I was hoping we’d arrive here, find something to give us an advantage, maybe a control room to shut down the rings, and then get the hell outta Dodge. Instead, we got a seriously condensed timeline, limited maneuverability, and a glimpse of what hell looks like.”

I let my words breathe for a second. It gives everyone time to process, most especially me.

“So the way I see it, we can take off right now and head back through the portal. We’ve got armor enough to blend in with the enemy and weapons enough to do some damage. It’ll be covert work. Slow. Precise. Coordinated. But if we took down the New York ring, I’ve gotta believe we can do it again.”

“OTF,” Bumper says.

The rest of the team echoes the mantra except for Vlad and Lada, who offer a butchered version.

“But?” Hollywood asks, inclining her head toward me.

“But… we’ll only have time for one more city, maybe two. If we believe every other slaver ring on the planet has a radius of thirteen miles closing at a rate of…”

“An inch per second,” Ghost offers.

I nod my thanks. “Then we have four or five days before all of Earth’s major metroplexes are relocated.”

“Even if we could hit one ring a day…” Hollywood says.

“Which we can’t,” Yoshi interjects.

I want to combat his pessimism, but he’s not wrong.

“That still doesn’t even scratch the surface,” Aaron finishes.

More silence fills the hold. The mood is somber.

Hollywood cracks her neck and then speaks up. “So what we’re saying is that Earth’s population is fated to go through the portals no matter what we attempt.”

“Attempt over there, yeah,” Bumper says with an absent look on his face. Then he snaps his eyes to mine. “But maybe not over here.”

“Right.” I work my jaw and look down at the dead alien. “My gut says that if there’s a real chance at stopping the plushies from looting Earth, it’s gonna be here. Hit them from within. And if there’s any hope of protecting people and getting them back home, this is where it’ll be.”

“But it means we get suited up and blend in, hiding in plain sight. It also means a serious risk of discovery because we walk different or smell weird or don’t use the right body language. Hell, I don’t know if the rank insignias on these armor suits even say we’re allowed to fraternize, let alone enter restricted parts of this installation. For all we know, we can’t even go outside to take a leak.”

“I know some of those things,” Chuck interjects.

I glare at him.

“But… you know what? I’ll just save all that for later.”

“Good choice.” I look around at the team and get my thoughts back. “And then there are all the items we don’t have. Maps, building blueprints, security, and troop allocations. Plus, we don’t know what it is we’re looking for. Chances are high we never do. If I’m candid, we’ll live longer trying to take down a ring on Earth than whatever the hell it is I’m describing right now. At least there we can fade into the background, maybe live normal lives and wait things out.”

Yoshi raises a hand. “I think we all signed off on leading a normal life back in New Jersey.”

The team nods.

“If anyone wants out, we’ll head back over and drop you off,” I say. “Hell, we’ll give you Dolores so you can fly to wherever you want. No offense taken, no bridges burned.”

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind then,” Aaron says.

I nod. “Guess I have.”

“Then so have I,” he replies. “The way I see it, I spent my whole adult life looking for that damn ring and learned everything I could about it until it cost the whole world a painful price.”

Hollywood makes to say something, but Aaron waves her off.

“No, no. I’m not looking for anyone’s pity. It is what it is. One human generation had to be the sacrificial lamb that invited these demons back. The universe decided it was ours, and I made the phone call. That’s all there is to it.

“Now, it’s up to me to be a part of the solution. To help make it right. I’m…” He licks his lips. “I’m not like all of you when it comes to fighting. I can learn, but I’ll never be you. What I can offer is my intellect, at least I can try. Maybe see things from a different angle… bring my expertise to the table. I dunno. But my future isn’t back there. It’s here. And I’d rather die on foreign ground making a difference than at home hiding in a hole.”

“Annnd he pretty much summed up my reason for enlisting,” Hollywood says. “Bravo, Dr. Campbell. Makes you one of us, I’d say.”

The team agrees and gives Aaron a few pats on the back and one or two punches in the arm. He rubs the muscles sheepishly, but smiles.

“I’m staying,” Z-Lo says. “Nothing better than kicking the enemy’s ass on their home turf. Am I right?”

“Vlad also stays. This is good place to pick fights.”

“Me as well,” Lada adds. “Plus, if all goes riding handbasket to hell, we always return here to Dolores and escape from New York, yes?”

“She’ll be our fallback, yut.” And a good thing too. Dolores still has all our conventional weapons, supplies, and MREs. Lord knows we aren’t cannibals. Plus, even though I have come to appreciate Chuck, I’ve put less than 100 rounds downrange with him versus the untold thousands with my SCAR 17 and Glock 19. You can’t know a weapon until you’ve filled a few dozen buckets with spent brass.

One at a time, the rest of the Phantoms take turns and voice their assent to staying on this godforsaken hellhole. Finally, it comes to Ghost.

“Never thought we were going back anyway,” he says.

The rest of the team seems to echo his sentiment with shared looks and nods.

“You’re all gluttons for punishment, ya know.” I look at each one of them in the face and then relax my shoulders. “But thank you. All of you.”

“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, Wic,” Hollywood says.

“I’m not sure that’s something you wanna hang your hat on, but I get the sentiment. Odd part is, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you either. I’m… I’m not happy how long it took me to get off my damn back porch.”

“We all have our breaking points,” she replies. “And no one’s gonna fault you for wanting to stay home after all you’ve already given.”

If it were anyone else, I’d call her language patronizing. But it’s Hollywood. And she’s a fellow warrior who’s seen enough hell in her life to know what she’s talking about.

“Well?” Hollywood reaches for Ugly Casanova’s helmet. “Who wants to get their Halloween freak on?”

7

1751, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Main Hangar

Our original ninety-minute window closes while Chuck walks the team through the finer points of self-induced tasing. Sure, he calls it acquiring a baseline quantum trinium signature, but I call it a self-inflicted sphincter tightening. Either way, it sucks. And judging by how Bumper responds to holding his hand atop the TSD cube and enduring the two-second pulse, I’d say the way I got my shock treatment was a helluva lot better. At least I hadn’t seen mine coming. But since Bumper decided to go first, everyone else dreads their turn at the death box.

Once they’re sufficiently initiated, Chuck passes them off to me. I help size and fit them for their black neoprene-like under-suits and then point them toward the armor that I’ve taken the liberty of laying across the deck. I’m about to help everyone get Camelbacks topped off and inserted between their shirt-back and suit when Chuck stops me.

“You won’t be needing those,” he says. “The suit’s moisture reclamation system will sustain you for several days, assuming you’re all sufficiently hydrated.”

“You’re… saying we’re gonna drink our own piss?” Hollywood asks.

“Oh my God. It’s like Dune!” Z-Lo looks himself over. “I’m Paul frickin’ Atreides here.”

“Minus the sand worms, hopefully,” Yoshi says.

“You are free to urinate at any time, and your suit will take care of the rest,” Chuck says.

“And taking a crap?” Hollywood asks.

“Feces is also assimilated, though it is a slightly longer process.”

“I like informations of this,” Vlad says as he puts on his suit faster. “I have been having prairie puppy for last hour.”

Lada throws her hands up and makes a disgusted sound. “Huh. Always baby brother speaking of prairie puppies and heads of turtles. Never grows from being small boy to large man. Only large boy.”

“Prairie puppies?” Hollywood looks from Lada to Vlad. “I don’t follow.”

“Yes. You know when prairie puppy sticks head out of hole in ground and then pulls back in quickly to hide? This is me, Vlad, but with shits, yes?”

“Oh God.” Hollywood covers her mouth.

“You mean prairie dogging, bro,” Z-Lo says as he starts putting on his own suit more quickly. “The struggle’s real.”

“I told you,” Lada says to Hollywood. “Large boys everywhere. No mens.”

“Yeah. No mens.” Based on the weird face that Hollywood makes, I think it’s safe to assume that her view on drinking from the straw-like tube that protrudes from behind her neck has changed for the worse.

A few minutes later, everyone gets a second taser pulse from binding themselves to a helmet, and then again with an SR-CHK. I insist that they’re only going to “feel some pressure,” and each Phantom finds a way to give me the one-fingered salute, or at least a casually rendered expletive.

“And you get something special.” I hand Ghost his sniper platform. “Chuck calls it an Advanced Sniper System.”

“So, an ASS then?” Ghost grins.

“He claims he’s not jealous,” I say in a whisper that’s just loud enough to be heard on purpose. Definitely on purpose.

“Because I’m not jealous,” Chuck replies.

Ghost winks at me and steps away to admire his new toy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he almost looks happy.

The pistols give one last electric jolt, which I must endure as well. I distribute the LTL-MAC 41s and then keep one for myself. The pistol’s rectangular shape reminds me of two Glock slides stacked atop one another. The firearm has a standard pistol grip and exotically curved trigger guard but with room for two thumbs around the back instead of one. The matte black finish bears yellow accents and Skrawl script, and the gun also has some sort of a small chamber under the forward barrel.

“What’s this, Chuck?”

“The weapon’s trinium core.”

“The, uh… nearly inexhaustible power resource or something?”

“Bravo, Patrick. More power than you could fire in a lifetime.”

“Eh, you’d be surprised.”

I toss each member a few of the capacitor replacement modules and give the team a quick tutorial about maglocking the items to their chest and hips. They seem just as impressed by the tech as I was. Sure beats holsters and ammo pouches.

“These work like conventional mags?” Bumper asks.

“Not in the least,” Chuck replies. “I’m not even sure what to do with your effort to compare them. Technologically speaking, they are as far apart as—”

“Do they give us a fresh charge if needed?” I interrupt.

“Well, yes. In a manner of speaking. But—”

“Then that’s all we need to know for the moment.”

Lastly, I hand each team member one of the Duradex knives. Aaron is the only one who’s not too sure about the weapon.

“You just never know,” I say. “Think of it like your old Swiss Army knife.”

“It’s nothing like my old Swiss Army knife,” he counters. And he’s not far off on that point.

By the time all’s said and done, Phantom Team is arrayed down the bay in death angel armor and weaponry. Since I haven’t exactly admired myself in a mirror yet, seeing everyone decked out like this makes me realize just how well I blended in during my recent patrol. That, and they all look intimidating as hell.

“He was turned to steel, in the great magnetic field,” Yoshi starts singing. “Where he traveled time, for the future of mankind.”

“You know that song isn’t about Marvel’s Iron Man, right?” Aaron says.

“Sure it is,” Z-Lo replies. “Why else would it be in the movies?”

Aaron touches his glove to his helmeted forehead and gives his head a small shake.

“I am having one more feature,” Lada says as she removes her helmet. Then she turns to a workbench built into a recess in the hold’s starboard wall and pulls out a can of black spray paint that looks like it came from the kids who tagged the ship in Manhattan. She also holds up some sort of plastic film with shapes cut out.

“Whaddya got there?” I ask, slightly worried about whatever it is she intends to do.

But before she answers, Lada turns to Bumper’s right shoulder, lays the transparent sheet on his shoulder pauldron, and sprays it with the black paint for less than a second.

When Lada removes the plastic, I see a rough representation of the patch Grandma Petrov embroidered for us, along with the number three below it. The hint of paint is just visible enough for one of us to make out the mark. But to an alien, it probably looks like an oil smudge.

The rest of the team takes their helmets off to investigate Bumper’s shoulder.

“You see? Now we are true Phantoms,” Lada says. “Alien and human. Combination of two in one. Gods and men.”

“Women,” Hollywood interjects. “Gods and women.”

“Yes. This also is working. But we are both alien and human. Ultimate fighters. Unstoopable.”

“Unstoppable,” Aaron corrects.

“This is what Lada says.” She turns on him. “Why you not hear me? You need me to speak in your face louder?”

“No. I was just—”

Lada grabs Aaron, gives his shoulders a quarter turn, and then tags his pauldron with her stencil. “There. Now you are unstoopable. Happy?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She sneers at him. “I see you, University Boy. Lada is watching you and your smart mouth, full lips, beautiful wavy hair. Your charms will not work on me.” She turns to the rest of the team. “Who’s next?”

It takes another minute for Lada to mark everyone with the team symbol and their call sign number or letter. Hollywood, for example, gets a number two, while Ghost gets a letter W, presumable for Phantom Watch. Lada’s quick thinking not only looks badass but will serve us well when trying to tell each other apart if our HUDs go down. I give instructions to mark our helmets too, as long as the spray is light.

As Lada continues on her task, I lean over to Aaron and lower my voice. “She likes you.”

“Who, me?” Aaron shakes his head. “Pretty sure we all know who she’s got eyes for.”

“Nah. She thinks she likes me. Her normal type. But you?” I hit his chest plate with the back of my hand. “You’re the one she doesn’t even know she wants.”

“Pat, I don’t think you—”

“Trust me.”

He swallows hard and then takes a deep breath.

“All is done,” Lada finally announces and then stows her stencil sheet and spray can in a cubby.

“No,” Vlad interjects. “All is not done.” He fishes for something inside his USA-flag funny pack and pulls out a plastic baggie full of black poker chips with pink trim. The markers have the same USA/Bratva logo and compass design as the casino chip that Vlad gave me back in Antarctica, the same one I gave to Sissy to call in my favor. As Vlad personally hands a chip to each Phantom, he says, “Now, this means we are all sexing together.”

“Like hell is does.” Ghost offers the chip back, but then notices that I’m giving him a slow shake of my head. He pulls his lips in and tilts his head before pocketing the chip behind his chest plate.

When Vlad finishes his route, he says, “Good. Now Phantom Teams are being ready.”

“Right.” I straighten my back and look at the team members. “This is it. We’re going outside the wire. And remember, let Chuck do all the talking.”

“Speaking of which,” Yoshi says. “What about personality profiles for the rest of the team weapons?”

“Hell, yeah,” Z-Lo says. “I want a Phantom Lord.”

“How flattering,” Chuck replies.

“Eh… I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” I say.

“I’m fine with it,” Hollywood says.

Yoshi nods. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit jealous of Sir Chuck there. As we say, i no naka no kaeru taikai wo shirazu.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Go on.”

“A frog in a well does not know the great sea.”

“My, Yoshi,” Chuck says with a flutter in his voice. “Are you comparing me to the great sea? This is all quite flattering, I must say.”

Everyone’s looking excited about the custom profile prospect, and part of me doesn’t blame them. Having a sentient AI onboard a sci-fi energy weapon is about as cool as it gets—assuming that AI can be trusted and isn’t a pain in the ass. We’re not even forty-eight hours into this whole alien invasion ordeal, and I still can’t decide if I wanna keep Chuck around or toss him out an airlock. Still, we need all the intel we can get, and goddammit if the little peckerhead isn’t trying to endear himself to me. Sometimes, he’s like having a new puppy who craps on the carpet and then gives you the pouty look.

“Sorry team, but I’ve gotta put my foot down on this one.” Damn if I don’t feel like my old man talking like this. “Chuck is cool, I know.”

“Thank you, Patrick,” he replies.

“But he’s still just a tool, not a toy.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” Chuck says.

I ignore him. “A tool we’re still learning to trust. And right now, we don’t need any more variables in the equation. The weapon’s stock profile will suit your firing needs well enough. And Chuck?”

“Chuck the tool?” he replies.

“Yut. Are you able to work your fancy translation magic across all our weapons and helmets?”

There’s a delay in Chuck’s response—long enough that I’m concerned he might still be throwing a pity party over my tool comment. But I don’t care right now.

“Chuck? You there?”

“Chuck the splicking Tool, reporting to duty, your Master Craftsmanship, sir.”

“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about.” I thumb over my back at Chuck. “My weapon’s got enough attitude for all of us. Instead, we need to stay focused, minimize distraction, and keep communication channels clear. If everyone’s trying to manage their own Chuck, things are gonna get outta hand fast. Roger?”

The team looks genuinely sad, if not a little mopey. But tears don’t move me. Results do.

“Stock option suits me just fine,” Ghost says. “The only feeling I want from my weapons is recoil.”

“And that goes for everyone else too,” I say. “We’ll table this and come back to it later. Roger?”

The team responds with head nods and “Roger”s.

“In light of all this, there is one more topic I’d like to bring up before we depart,” Chuck says.

“Send it. But keep in mind we’ve already overshot our op window.”

“And to that end, I believe it’s safe to assume that Yoshi will not be attending to my repairs here and now?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Right. So will another Phantom be willing to carry an additional SR-CHK that we can scrap for parts later?”

“Huh. Almost forgot about that,” I say.

“Sure you did.”

Despite Chuck’s attitude, I feel some measure of sympathy for the gun. After all, he’s a weapon. Every warrior worth the rubber on their boots feels like a fish out of water when they get a medevac ride to an infirmary.

“Send me back to my unit,” is one of the most common phrases a corpsman hears.

“Sure,” he replies. “Just as soon as I find you some new legs.”

“Need volunteers.” I grab the two extra CHKs in the cart, then toss one to Z-Lo’s raised hand and the other to Bumper’s. “For Chuck’s repair job.”

“For Chuck’s repair job,” Bumper replies over comms. “Roger.”

“Thank you, Phantom Lead,” Sir Charles says in a somber tone. “I… I’m grateful.”

“Thank me if we survive long enough to get you fixed up, pal.”

“Ah. Well, there is that, yes. Duly noted. Also, before you go, I’m going to flood Dolores with ozone in order to remove your human smell from the armor. We wouldn’t want to draw any more unnecessary attention to you.”

“Sounds good. Make it happen.”

I hear the sudden whoosh of air as Chuck begins cleansing our suits and the compartment. With the dead bodies stowed under tarps and the rest of our gear hidden in the dropship’s storage compartments, I walk to the forward cargo bay door and turn to the team. They look good. Like alien badass killers incognito. “Time to see what we can find, Phantoms. Thicker than blood?”

“Through fire and mud,” they reply, some later than others.

Then together, we say, “Let everyone fear, those gathered here.” There are some extra plural endings and poorly conjugated verbs thrown in. But it’s close enough.

“Let’s move out,” I say. “Time to OTF.”

“OTF,” everyone replies.

I pound the open button with a fist and hear the alien atmosphere rush in. Which is the same time that a klaxon goes off in the main hangar.

8

1755, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Main Hangar

A rather theatrical spotlight falls on Dolores by the time the ramp door hits the ground. But Phantom Team has already vaulted the opening and moved out to take cover beside adjacent dropships. The beam itself is warm, like a heat lamp over a roast beef slab on a buffet line. That’s when I notice more spotlights shining down from the ceiling onto several other dropships in the vicinity. The klaxon still blares in the background, but it’s mostly filtered by whatever noise-canceling software our helmets have.

Command is searching for their missing inspector, and here we are hunkered down like… like humans prepping for a goddamn firefight. Time to give the team their first lesson in being Androchidans—like I have so much experience. Although, the first person to do anything becomes the subject matter expert by default, even if they suck at it, right?

“We’re not engaging,” I say forcefully. “Stay in the open. And remember, we’re one of them. Keep your eyes and head down with any overlords that confront you. If a death angel doesn’t salute you, then you’re a subordinate. Salute with a fist out to the side at head level.”

“I’ll give ’em a fist at head level,” Z-Lo says.

I ignore the comment. “Your helmets will translate for you, and Chuck will do the talking. Just tell him what you wanna say.” Speaking of which… “Hey, Charlie. They suspect the ship, right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And they’re dispatching security forces to search all the spot lit ones?”

“Right again, old bean. Those other vessels are most likely ones that our inspector reviewed before he got to ours because, you know, we sacked him after that.”

“They’re retracing his steps.”

“That is the assumption, Patrick. Yes.”

I detect a hint of sarcasm in his tone, but now is not the time to address it. “Then we’ve gotta keep their eyes off Dolores. If we don’t…”

“Our supplies are gone,” Yoshi says in a slightly panicked voice.

“Worse.” I nod at our ship. “Our cover’s blown. They’ll know humans are here, and they’ll put two and two together from our clothing and supplies.”

“That means checkpoints and inspections,” Ghost says. “Not good.”

I nod at him. “We need options.”

“Why not use dead E.T. bodies as diversions?” Vlad asks. “We do this many times. Keep attentions from going to places we don’t want. Nothing says ‘Hey! Hello! Be looking this ways’ like dead bodies on floor, or behind consulate, or outside café, yes?”

“You’re a goddamn genius, Vladimir.” I wave him and Lada to follow me back inside the dropship. The team stashed the two plushies under a tarp in the aft, so I pull the cover off and examine the corpses. “Get ’em into the hover crates. Then find somewhere conspicuous to dump the bodies, but not too close to Dolores. The rest of us will run interference.”

“Understood,” Vlad says with a nod. He and Lada grab the arms and legs of the first body as I walk back outside.

“What kind of interference are we running?” Aaron asks me.

“Improvise. Just point them away from Dolores.”

When Vlad and Lada walk down the ramp with the crates, I glance back inside the dropship. “Chuck. Any way you can secure Dolores?”

“I’m not sure I understand the request.”

Is he messing with me? “Make it so we’re the only ones who can gain entry.”

“Ah. I see. Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I can. But since doing so is against regulations, it will raise red flags if anyone attempts to make entry.”

“And them discovering human contraband will raise even more red flags. I’ll take the extra few minutes of additional security it buys. Locks keep honest people from making mistakes.”

“And aliens from wanting to eat us,” Bumper adds.

“I understand.” Chuck activates the ramp. “Consider it done. When the ship closes, only I will be able to open it.”

I wanna broaden that authorization to include me and the rest of the team, but I hear plushies shouting and bots running in the distance. “Phantoms. Set perimeter around Vlad and Lada. Misdirect, confuse, confound. Trust your disguises and Chuck’s ability to interpret what you need to say. Copy?”

Everyone gives their assent and spreads out among the surrounding dropships, keeping one eye on the Russians and the other on all approach vectors.

I take a position on the northside of our formation and watch as Vlad ditches one of the two bodies beside a dropship’s hull, not twenty yards away. He’s stowing the hover crate around the vessel’s aft when I sense something approach from behind me.

“What is the problem with your facial faculties?” a death angel says. There’s a recon bot just off his right shoulder. Instantly, my mind goes back to the Interstate in New Jersey, watching two of these recon bots collect a shoeless man and heave him into the force field.

I salute the death angel and then command Chuck. “Tell him I saw something suspicious heading east.”

The chatter spills from my helmet, and the death angel looks in the direction I’m pointing.

“You’re as certain as truth?” it asks.

I shake my head in the Androchidan assent. “Tell him I saw some plushies with knives talking about how they want to stab other plushies.”

Chuck complies and transmits.

The death angel seems to buy the tip and waves his bot forward. “Are all your feelers in order, cadet?”

I tilt my head at the Androchidan.

“He means, are you feeling all right,” Chuck clarifies.

“Figured.”

“I suggest you say no, lest you invite further inquiry. The mere fact that he believes—”

“Sure, yeah. Tell him I’m not feeling well.”

My helmet speakers give the translated speech, and the alien seems to relax, his suspicions satisfied for the moment.

“That is more data than was necessitated, cadet,” the alien says. “See yourself to a medical chamber hastily.” The death angel brings his weapon up and continues around me to follow his bot.

I breathe a sigh of relief. And yet something strikes me about the death angel’s reply. “Chuckles, what did he mean about ‘more data than was necessitated’?”

“Uh. Well. Specificity allays suspicion, right?”

“No, not… exactly.” I squint in anticipation of Chuck’s answer. “What’d you tell ’em?”

“I said you had a contagious rash around your thrupney bits.”

“My what? Why on Earth would you say that?”

“Seemed like something a superior officer wouldn’t want to discuss, resulting in a quick dismissal.”

“Huh.” I gotta hand it to him: that’s pretty good. “Not bad, Charlie.”

“They don’t call me Phantom Lord for nothing.”

“You named yourself that.”

He laughs with a lofty tone. “Pish posh. I was merely putting into words what rings in the hearts and minds of my subjects, Patrick.”

“Second body stashed,” Hollywood says over comms. “Phantoms Six and Seven in position.”

“Let’s keep them off Dolores’s back,” I reply. “Anyone gets interested in her, we tell them the dropship checks out. Roger?”

“This isn’t the dropship they’re looking for,” Yoshi says with a mystical air to his voice.

“Roger, Obiwan,” Z-Lo replies.

I give a little smile, but it’s time to get back to business. “Eyes up. Watch for incoming. And remember, you’re one of these assholes now. Act like you belong.”

No sooner do I give the order than two Androchidans approach Dolores. Yoshi’s the first to intercept, and I feel a lump in my throat. Not that I don’t trust him. I just… wish it were me. But we’re a team, and that means letting other people help dictate our fate.

Since Yoshi’s mic’s on general comms with Chuck integrated, the team gets the whole convo.

“Where are your ponies?” one death angel asks.

God, this translation software’s going to be the death of us. “He means your squad,” I say to Yoshi.

“Right.” Yoshi nods.

“Other direction,” I yell.

Yoshi switches from nodding to shaking his head. “Sir Charles, tell them that my team is spread out. Right over there.”

Chuck translates Yoshi’s speech into Skrawl, and the death angels start looking around at our perimeter.

“Why are your ponies overlapping this carousel?” the alien asks, looking at Dolores and her obnoxious spray paint.

He’s gonna fumble this, so I interject. “Tell him—”

“I got it, Wic,” Yoshi interrupts. “Tell him we just finished inspecting this ship but found nothing. Then we heard that some Androchidan mechanics were seen vandalizing equipment, heading that way.” He points.

Chuck translates, and the aliens look in the same direction I’d indicated earlier.

“Very flavorful,” says the enemy. “Do a book report on anything you witness.”

“Roger that,” Yoshi replies.

Both Androchidans look Dolores over one more time and then motion toward the paint job. “I dream of this carousel gleaming like oysters by slumber time. Accomplish this.”

“Tell him we’ll get right on it,” Yoshi says to Chuck. Then he salutes.

Satisfied, the two death angels mark something on their tablets and then move on.

I sense the team breath a collective sigh of relief. “Hopefully, they just took Dolores off the suspect list,” I say. As if beckoned by my words, the spotlight on our dropship goes out, and we’re left in the hangar’s dim red lighting. “Well, whaddya know.”

“Nice work, Yoshi,” Bumper says.

A few others echo his praise, and I make it a point to encourage Yoshi personally. The Air Force PJ still hasn’t ditched his flask, but again, that’s gotta be his call, not mine. Lord knows he’d just find another way to sneak alcohol from somewhere else. Doesn’t mean I can’t help move him toward getting better though.

“Way to think on your feet, Sergeant Yoshida.”

Yoshi turns to look at me as I approach. “Thanks, Wic.”

“Keep that up, and we might just live through the day.”

“Can do.”

With Dolores safe, at least for the time being, and our team proving that we can fool the enemy’s initial inspection, my attention turns toward where to go from here. “Any recommendations on where to head next, Phantom Big Shot?”

“You already know what’s behind door number one. So, you can either return to the northern corridor and see where it leads, or try door number two to the west, or number three to the east.”

I don’t much feel like returning to the mess hall—no telling how the others might react when seeing the horrors in that direction with their own eyes. Plus, I like the idea of branching out. Better to know a whole battlefield generally than a single route specifically. But the door to the east is in the direction of all the other spot lit dropships. No sense running deeper into the lion’s den. “Door number two it is.”

An orange vector indicator lights up in my HUD and points west. It also bears an ident tag that reads First Squad.

“You do that?” I ask Chuck.

“Affirmative. Is it to your liking?”

“Yut.” I motion the team forward. “Phantoms, move out.”

* * *

We head west across the hangar at a jog, heads on swivels. Fortunately, the rows seem to be clear of most armed aliens. Only mechanics and technicians remain, all diligently working on the fleet’s flight readiness despite the emergency.

The west exit looms ahead, more like an aircraft-sized cutout than a personnel entrance. As soon as we clear the last row of parked dropships, it’s obvious what the space is: a maintenance hangar filled with dozens of vessels in various states of disrepair. A Rhinoceaver sits on jack stands, spewing its belly’s contents onto the open tarmac. Filleted dropships spread their parts across the ground like mechanical vomit. And at least two of the gunships look like they’ve taken damage from an explosion of some kind.

We’re jogging toward the smaller hangar’s southernmost edge when a curious thought hits me. But I need a second opinion. “Sir Chuck. Can you determine what kind of damage those gunships have sustained?”

Before Chuck can answer, Bumper speaks up. “Looks like mortar rounds, if you ask me.”

“Eighty-four millimeter, if I had to guess,” Hollywood adds. Then she and Bumper say, “ Carl Gustaf,” at the same time. Damn love birds are in sync.

“Think those are survivors from the bridge assault?” Yoshi asks.

I shake my head. “Not likely. Pretty sure our ANFO blast took care of those.”

“Yeah, it did,” Z-Lo adds with a fist bump to Bumper.

“Hey,” Hollywood says. “Watch the human gestures, guys.”

“Sorry,” the kid replies.

“So if those gunships aren’t from New York…” Bumper says, leaving his voice to trail off.

“Then they’re coming in from somewhere else on the planet,” I finish.

I can practically hear the wonder in Hollywood’s voice even before she speaks. “Other resistors. Like us.” She looks at me. “We’re not alone.”

“At least we weren’t at one point,” I reply, noting how somber my voice sounds. I don’t mean to piss on her parade—it’s my cynical side talking. But skepticism has seen me through more firefights than my enemy’s optimism, so I’m still using it. Doesn’t mean I can’t temper it, though. “But you’re right, Sergeant. Someone put up a fight. And that counts for something.”

“Wonder where they came from,” Bumper says. “Would love to know what sumbitches the plushies got too close to.”

“Probably more Russians,” Lada says, clearly referring to Sissy’s coordinated attack on the ships over Manhattan and Brooklyn.

“I won’t argue there,” I reply. “Your people put up one hell of a fight. But we gotta keep moving. Head for the back of the hangar. Let’s look for another tunnel.”

The team keeps in step with me as we enter the maintenance hall and start weaving between ships. Parts are everywhere, overlooked by gantry cranes and scaffolding. It certainly is a good place to blend in, and I’m feeling better about my choice to go west with every step.

We pick our way through densely packed machinery until we eventually hit the back wall and turn north.

That’s when Vlad speaks up. “There is tunnel opening on left. End of hangar, ahead.”

“Roger that,” I say. “Everyone act natural. We’re just finishing an inspection and headed to receive more orders. Copy?”

The team replies affirmatively, and we continue along the hangar’s back wall. We sidestep workbenches overflowing with abandoned projects and heaps of parts that remind me of the chief armorer’s shop. Except these components look like engines, cannons, and flight control surfaces, not personal firearms and armor suits.

We’re almost to the large opening on the left when an overlord steps around the corner and notices us.

“Heads down.” As I comply with my own order, I see Z-Lo staring up at the alien. “Kid! Head down.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

But his apology doesn’t matter to the overlord he’s just offended.

“What is your intended destination?” the mech-like warrior asks the kid.

Unsure what Z-Lo heard through his helmet’s virgin translation software, I say, “Chuck, tell him we’re just completing an inspection of the maintenance hall here, as per our orders.”

My helmet spits out the necessary Skrawl and the overlord turns to me.

“I can see this.” The overlord holds his helmet under one arm and his double-sized version of Chuck in the other hand. “But my question was, where are you malignant ponies intended to destination next?”

Okay, so maybe my software’s still got some bugs. Sure as hell can’t miss the fact that he’s insulting us, though.

But that’s when I freeze. The only other places I can name in this complex are the mess, the armory, and the barracks. And we’re in the wrong part of the terminal for those to be likely destinations in my mind. Still, those are areas that he’d know, and it’s plausible our shift is over.

“Tell him we’re about to head back to the mess hall,” I say. “Our shift is over.”

“Perfect,” the overlord replies. “I require tiny ponies for labor. Come.”

I feel the team tense as the overlord motions us to follow him toward a newly arrived dropship. Several waist-height boxes with yellow Skrawl stenciled across the surfaces sit inside the open cargo bay. The crates instantly remind me of the containers I saw in the armored reconnaissance unit on the Garden State Parkway—the same vehicle where I saw my first helmetless Androchidan. Those boxes… they had people in them. Or people’s remains, I should say.

“Master Guns, are those…” Z-Lo can’t seem to finish his thought.

“Yut. And we’re gonna do what we’re told.”

“Roger.” The PFC doesn’t sound convinced, though.

“Don’t think about it, kid. We’re just helping a plushy move his stuff from one apartment to another. You’ve done this a hundred times.”

“Yeah, sure. No uh… no problem.”

But it is a problem. As we get closer to the cargo, I see dried blood staining the yellow script. I even notice bits of fabric protruding under the lids. Dammit. That’s part of a t-shirt. And I swear I see a torn piece of denim. The clothing means these bodies came through the origin ring in Antarctica, not the slaver rings in the cities.

The overlord stops beside the aft ramp door and looks at me. “You may take a sample now. More when you are done. It will save your cohort a trip to the mess hall.”

Despite my head telling me to play along, I freeze. The team hesitates too, and the overlord seems to notice.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

“Tell him… tell him it would be improper for us to accept his generosity.”

“Or a complete insult,” Chuck interjects. “I’m not translating that. He’ll slaughter you on the spot.”

“Any ideas then?”

Before Chuck can answer, the overlord ducks into the dropship’s bowels and flips open the closest crate’s lid. He reaches in and pulls out a size eleven Nike sneaker with an ankle and calf attached. The knee joint is blown apart with blood soaking the white crew sock.

A lump forms in my throat.

“Here. You may eat now.” The overlord hands me the severed limb.

To my horror, I accept, and will my hand not to shake. The foot and calf are heavier than I expect, and the dead weight sickens me. I feel the strength drain from my arm, replaced a second later by a surge of adrenaline. This is a person. Was a person. And this alien is offering it to me like it’s a goddamn chicken leg.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Aaron says.

“Whadda we do?” asks the kid.

I examine the leg and then look at the overlord. “Improvise.”

“But you… you can’t eat it,” Z-Lo says.

“That’s not the kind of improvising I was thinking of.”

Just as the overlord tilts his head at me, probably wondering why I’m not ripping my helmet off and devouring the delicacy, I drop the leg, pull my Duradex knife from behind my back, and plunge the blade into the overlord’s temple.

9

1809, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Maintenance Hangar West

The overlord’s magenta eyes bulge as I twist the knife, and the alien takes a swing at me. But Bumper steps in to block the strike and drives his own Duradex blade into the alien’s head. The enemy’s arms go limp while its body remains upright thanks to the servos whining in its mechanical suit.

“Well, that was subtle,” Hollywood says.

“Guy stole that guy’s Nikes,” I reply.

“Also, his mother was a hamster and his father smelt of elderberries,” Chuck declares.

“Easy, Sir Chuck. Those words might start a war. Come on.” I turn away from the dropship and head toward the west tunnel when four death angels emerge. Their weapons aren’t up yet, but they certainly seem curious about the bloodied knife in my and Bumper’s hands. I slow and try to act natural—whatever the hell that means in a situation like this.

The death angels look from us to the dead overlord still upright in his mechanical suit. “What has transpired here?” the lead Androchidan asks.

“Someone stabbed him. They ran that way.” I nod to the east while Chuck interprets.

Just then, a tech yells from beside a nearby gunship and points at us. “There are the ponies who slaughtered!”

“Damn narc,” Ghost says.

The lead death angel seems to consider this for a moment and then looks at me. A beat later, all weapons come up. “Stop where your feet stand, and deposit your guns.”

“Well, this isn’t optimal,” Chuck concedes.

“Only ’cause you can’t shoot,” I say. “Phantoms?”

“It’s nine vee one,” Bumper said. “I like those odds.”

“OTF,” Z-Lo says. “And we got cover to our left and right.”

I don’t think the plushies are intending for us to shoot. Their posture doesn’t look poised to attack, and none of them are aiming down sights. This is just good ole chest-puffing. Plus, I imagine there’s gotta be some punishment worse than death for insubordination among this bunch, one that keeps everyone in line. Unfortunately for this foursome, however, we didn’t get that memo.

“We’re committed after this,” I say.

“We’ve already been committed,” Bumper replies.

I smile. “Let’s light ’em up.”

Phantom Team’s weapons come up and fire as one. The more seasoned warriors’ speed is truly breathtaking in a way only a combat veteran could appreciate. Fields of fire are chosen instinctively, based on everyone’s order in the lineup. High-frequency bursts incinerate plushy flesh and blast surviving tissue across the hangar floor. We obliterate two, mutilate the third, and rip the fourth’s left leg away.

This last victim falls on his side but still manages to fire in our direction. Ghost shoots the last round into the grounded alien’s helmet and straight down its spine. All that remains is two corpse halves split longways. Not bad for a retired Army sniper who’s still limping from recent injuries.

Our weapons’ whines and lightning cracks reverberate in the large hall, and already I can feel more eyes looking our way. So the team breaks for cover, uncontested. But whatever sense of elation we’re feeling, it vanishes the moment a second klaxon goes off. This new alarm is accompanied by flashing lights in the ceiling and large security doors closing off the maintenance hall from the main hangar as well as the westward tunnel.

“They’re boxing us in,” Yoshi says as he kneels behind some sort of tool crate.

“Reinforcements on the way.” Bumper drops behind cover and nods to a new opening along the north wall. “I count six assault bots.”

I peak my head above a blown-out repulsor engine. Sure enough, a line of magenta-colored droids with energy rifles are filing into the hall and taking position behind two dismantled dropships about fifty yards to the north. My helmet registers the bots as hostile and tags them with markers and position data.

“We can take ’em,” Z-Lo says.

“Six more from the east. Main hangar,” Ghost adds.

“Annnnd another six from the west tunnel.” Hollywood looks at the kid. “Still think we can take ’em?”

“I mean… do you?”

I change gears. “First Team is Ghost, Yoshi, Z-Lo, Vlad. Second Team is Hollywood, Bumper, Lada, Aaron.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I see everyone’s names pop up in my HUD on a squad roster to the right. Beside each name are a few icons and what I’m guessing is an expansion arrow for a drop-down menu. But I don’t have time to ask Chuck about it.

“Second Team, I want you behind cover down the left wall. First Team, you’re the bottom of the L facing north. We need to shift south so we don’t get caught from behind. We also need to keep our eyes open for a way outta here. Leapfrog and alternate fire. Call out targets. And for the love of God, don’t burn through your weapon’s energy too fast. Chuck, I want all rifles at minimums that will still put these bastards down.”

“You see? Where was that when we were in New Jersey? You and I could have started out on such a better footing if only you’d been more specific.”

Ignoring my AI, I order the Phantoms to open fire and then dart south behind the next available cover to survey the scene. Enemy rounds crack overhead and shower our side of the hall in sparks and lightning bolts. The enemy’s north and west elements have merged and are moving south while the unit to the east is pushing through the rows of ships.

To my right, I see an assault bot dodge behind a crane’s base to avoid Vlad’s lateral fire. It’s hiding from the Russian, but not from me. I place the targeting reticle on a rear shoulder panel and then squeeze the trigger. A low-pulse, low-yield round leaps toward my target, and the bolt catches the enemy in the shoulder blade, spinning him to face me. I didn’t expect the shot to drop the bot, so my second round comes a moment later. The bolt hits the droid center mass with a spray of sparks, leaving a smoking half-dollar sized hole in its chest.

But the bot isn’t done. It’s raising its weapon and fires on my position. Molten bits of metal pelt my helmet as I duck behind cover. The hits sound like incendiary rounds biting the side of an M1 Abrams tank. These things aren’t messing around.

I change position and peek out from the lower right side of my cover. My CHK replies with a two-round salvo that blows some vital digital organs out the bot’s back. It pitches forward and slams into the deck.

“Tango down,” I call against the loud exchange of blaster fire.

The words are barely out of my mouth when another droid takes the place of the one I downed. This time, Vlad is ready and drills the droid with three shots in the upper chest and one in the head.

“Vlad shoots like American cowboys, yes?” he says in a gleeful tone. “You have seen this?”

“Yut. Keep it up, buddy.”

“I shall, yes. Wild wild west, here is Vlad to sex you!”

One can never underestimate the truly bizarre conversations that can be had in the middle of a firefight—Earth or elsewhere.

Vlad leans out again, and nails another enemy in the head. “Bullseyes.”

The rest of the team is making good progress against the magenta-plated assault bots, calling out their targets and “Tango down” when applicable. Even though I genuinely miss the sound, feel, and even the smell of my SCAR 17, I’m grateful for my weapon’s firepower. Alien guns against an alien opponent have leveled the playing field for us.

And apparently, the enemy is thinking that too.

“Death angels,” Ghost calls out. “Count five. Twelve o’clock.”

Well, that’s not awesome. I look north and see five plushies running for cover. More target tags appear in my HUD and follow the enemies to their LKP—last known positions. Unlike the bots, the death angels can move faster and think more intuitively. They’re also harder to hit, even if their armor isn’t as strong. I figure it won’t be long now before the heavyweights get called in: the overlords.

“The whole terminal’s gotta know about us by now,” Hollywood says as she and Bumper move their team south down the wall.

“Anyone have eyes on exfil?” I ask. But no one replies. I tell myself it’s because they’re busy giving hell to the enemy, but I know it’s ’cause they haven’t seen anything. I haven’t seen anything either.

I’m trying as best I can not to imagine the whole base activating just to pin us down. But there’s only so long we can hold out against what is an endless enemy troop supply for all intents and purposes.

My brain races through chess maneuvers and recites passages from the Art of War, trying to think of some tactic we can use to our advantage. At the same time, I’m scanning floor grates, crane rigs, and air vents, but there’s nothing that looks like a solid out.

And maybe that’s because, sometimes, there just isn’t an out. You can make ninety-nine good calls, but the most important one is the next one. And right now, I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of next calls.

If the rest of the Phantoms are thinking what I’m thinking, they’re not showing it. Z-Lo just drilled a bot in the chest and lets out a laugh as he drives it against a cargo container. Lada puts two shots on a droid and splits its head in half. And Ghost is beating out his trademark aim-fire-follow-through-repeat rhythm to the devastating effect. Even Aaron is getting in on the action and landing several shots on target; even those that miss force the enemy to think twice about popping up.

In my HUD roster, I notice percent indicators beside each person’s name. At first, I assume this is a health stat of some sort. Only the values drop whenever the respective Phantom’s weapon discharges. It’s capacitor percentage remaining. And they’re getting low.

“Hey, Chuck.” I drop behind a gunship’s dismantled tail section and pull a magazine off my chest. “These cap mags.”

“That’s not what they’re called.”

“They are now. Any advice on swapping them out? Don’t wanna blow ourselves up.”

“That would not be ideal. And yes, there are instructions. From within your HUD, you simply—”

“Put this on general comms. I need the whole team to hear it.”

“Ah, very good.” There’s a moment’s pause. “Hello, Phantoms. This is Phantom Lord speaking. First, I wish to commend you on—”

“Instructions!”

“Right. Terribly sorry. Phantom One, aka Phantom Badass, has asked that I talk you through the finer points of changing out cap mags, as it were. From within your HUD, navigate to Menu>Systems>Core>Jettison CRM. You will hear a small click, and then—”

“There’s nothing faster?” I demand.

“Well, of course there’s faster. But you said you didn’t want to blow up.”

“We need the faster option!”

He makes what sounds like a grunt, and then says, “If you press your thumb against the finger pad on your weapon’s receiver, or select the Hot Swap icon in your HUD, you may safely remove and reinsert cap mags. You may either stow spent mags on your belt for safekeeping or attach one to the side of your firearm, where it will be recharged at the same rate as if it were within the weapon. Please don’t lose them as they are insanely valuable. You can also gauge a magazine’s capacity by pressing the small button along the spine to illuminate an LED strip. Should any of you have questions, I will be—”

“That’s good,” I say. “Phantoms, I’m watching levels fall below fifty percent across the board. Pace yourselves and prep to reload. Remember, thirty-two percent is the magic number.”

More death angels have entered to the east, and new assault bots fill in for the ones we drop. The blaster fire is growing denser, so I order the team to move back. But we’re coming up against the south wall; the enemy is cornering us. Literally.

“Any bright ideas, Wic?” Hollywood asks.

“Maybe,” I reply. “Chuck. These charged cap mags—they volatile?”

“Of course not. That would be a major design flaw.”

“So if I shoot one, it wouldn’t go boom?”

“Not enough to do what I think you’re hoping it would do. Now, shooting TSD? That would be very exciting. The resulting explosion would release—”

“A hell of a lotta energy.”

“To put it mildly, yes. But there’s still the glaring oversight of not having a trinium storage device on your person.”

“Right.”

If this were a hangar on Earth, I’d be looking for fuel tanks, gas supply lines, or anything under pressure. But since I’m not exactly field qualified on the Androchidan version of the TM 31-210 Improvised Munitions Handbook, at least not yet, I’m making this up as I go.

I peek around my cover and spot one of the large heavy haulers in the hangar’s middle. With most of the ship’s armor stripped down, I see something housed inside its cargo bay. My thoughts return to a conversation at the Rutger’s campus firefight. “Didn’t you say you could be recharged in an ARU?”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with our present situation.”

I’m getting impatient. “Chuck. Are their TSDs in ARUs?”

“Well, normally, yes. But—”

“Like that ARU?”

I glance in the direction of the hauler for emphasis just in case His Lord Highness needs the visual.

Like the ship, the ARU is being scrapped for parts with much of its interior now exposed.

“Oh, I see,” Chuck says. “Scanning.” After a brief pause, he adds, “There does seem to be a fairly strong trinium signature coming from the remains of the charging station in that transport.”

“Can you put a target on it?”

“Of course. But I am sad to say that blowing that particular TSD up will take an extremely precise shot with a high-yield round, which none of your SR-CHKs can produce. Those modules are shielded and meant to deflect incoming energy strikes.”

“What about Ghost’s sniper rifle?”

“I suppose it would do the job, yes.”

I spot Ghost crouched behind a workbench and replacing his first cap mag. “Phantom Watch, this is Phantom Lead.”

His head snaps up and looks my way.

I wave two fingers toward the new target marker on the hauler-housed ARU. “You up for some ordnance removal?”

He peeks downrange and then pulls his ASS-CHK into his shoulder. “That what I think it is?”

“We’re about to find out. Need you to make that thing a crater. Phantom Team, take cover.” My gut’s screaming at me to put my head down, but I’m curious what kind of boom this is gonna make.

Ghost’s rifle barks, and then the room goes white.

A shockwave feels like it rips my head off my shoulders, but my helmet slams against a stop on my back. With the energy transferred to my torso, I’m thrown airborne for ten seconds—at least that’s what it feels like. Then my head and shoulders hit the deck, and my HUD goes dead. Debris slams against my armor. It’s on fire. All of it. And the torrent seems to propel me further back like a jet blast.

I slide into something hard, body jarring to a halt, as shrapnel pelts my arms, legs, and chest. And I manage to shield my head, hoping I don’t get decapitated. Maybe I am already and just don’t know it. But as the violent rain subsides and the pain emerges, I realize that I’m alive.

Boy, am I alive and hurting.

Which reminds me…

That was stupid.

Inside my helmet, each breath fogs my lenses, and the noise-canceling feature is AWOL. All I hear are muffled sounds of familiar voices shouting my name.

“Patrick!”

I manage to sit up but notice the air in my helmet tastes stale. That’s not good.

“Patrick! Oh, for the love of splick. Can you hear me?” It’s Chuck. It sounds like he’s talking from inside a rucksack.

I bring up my right hand, but it’s empty. Rifle’s gone. “Chuck?”

“I’m still on your back. But I’ve sustained serious—”

“Where’s my rifle?” The last thing I need right now is to be weaponless. I pat the LTL-MAC 41 on my hip; at least I have that. The pistol is up and pointed north while my head starts scanning the ground. I see flaming debris everywhere. And then I catch sight of my CHK near a toppled toolbox.

I lunge for my main weapon while keeping my pistol pointed toward the enemy. But the rifle is split in two and shooting sparks. “Dammit.”

“Patrick,” Chuck says. “Your suit’s power system is offline. I estimate you have little more than thirty seconds left of breathable air before you pass out and finally…” The words seem to catch in his throat. But I know where his thoughts are going, and I am gasping like a fish out of water.

“I’m not dead yet,” I say and then struggle to stand up.

The rest of the team look like they’ve fared far better than I have, clinging beneath their barricades like marooned sailors weathering a hurricane. Even those whose cover was blown back still managed to hold the line within a few yards. I took the brunt of the explosion.

Beyond the Phantoms, I see the smoldering remains of death angels and bots radiating away from a massive blast crater in the hangar’s floor.

“Patrick! You need oxygen,” Chuck says.

My vision’s starting to get blurry, and for some strange reason, my legs feel like Jell-O.

Weird.

“Wic!”

There’s a death angel moving toward me. It knows my name too. Son of a bitch. Neither arm will bring up my weapon.

Jell-O.

Why do nurses serve so much Jell-O in hospitals? ’Cause they’re out of size eleven feet with Nike’s on them. Or maybe the manufacturer signed a backroom deal with insurance companies. Damn smart capitalists.

Lights are flashing. More loud sounds.

But some Jell-O would be super nice right now.

10

1814, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Maintenance Hangar West

The cool breeze on my face reminds me of the beach at Coney Island. I’d sneak there as a kid. Then again, I wouldn’t classify walking out the front door when your old man’s passed out on the couch at 4 p.m. as sneaking. More like escaping. The smells of overcooked hotdogs, artificially buttered popcorn, and the salt air are still as potent now as they were back then. Same goes for the snap and clatter of the Cyclone. Damn roller coaster’s a death trap. Only the breeze is getting stronger, and the sounds even louder. To the point that I have to cover my head.

Something catches my arm and presses it back. I panic. I throw my other arm up to protect my head, but it too is caught. I can’t protect my face, and the wind is getting stronger.

I’m awake. And there’s a tube blowing air in my nose and eyes. I wince and try pulling away from it, but that’s no good.

“Steady, Wic,” someone shouts. I look through a cracked lens in my visor to see a death angel leaning over me. But behind the tinted visor, I see Yoshi’s eyes.

“Yoshi,” I say in a ragged voice.

“Welcome back.” Even though his speaker-amplified voice is muffled, I can still hear a hint of it somewhere inside my helmet. I also notice a tube running from under his helmet and toward me. I glance down and see the same line coming up from a hole in my suit’s collar. He’s… he’s feeding me oxygen from his suit like a weird alien tracheotomy.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of weapons fire, and I force myself to sit up despite the ache in my… well, everywhere.

“Easy, Wic.” Yoshi has one hand behind me to help me rise, but the opposite hand on my chest keeps me from doing so too quickly. “Your body’s working hard to re-oxygenate your blood.”

“And it sounds”—I pause to take a breath—“like we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“That was just round one.”

A sense of urgency propels me into a sitting position faster than Yoshi’s hands would like. But I don’t care. If the team’s in trouble, then it’s on me to get them out of harm’s way…

Which is why I tried the thing with the… “The TSD.”

Yoshi nods. “Blew up something fierce, Master Guns. Probably a little too good.”

“Is everyone…?”

“They’re good.” He hesitates. “For now.”

That was a loaded pause.

I push the PJ’s hands away and move into a crouch. Yoshi must’ve dragged me behind this metal half-wall just to treat me because I’m pretty sure I didn’t land here. I peek around the corner and spot the rest of Phantom Team dug in behind cover. And then I notice where we are: in the maintenance hall’s southwestern-most corner.

“After your stunt with Ghost, I grabbed you and dragged you back. You bought us a nice little window of opportunity.”

I’ve dragged men out of danger areas before, and most didn’t survive. Which makes me happy to be alive, and thankful to Yoshi for his efforts.

“And then the reinforcements came,” I say.

“Feels like they’re emptying the main hangar on us.” Even without the intel, I can tell it’s bad just by the tone in his voice. That and the overwhelming display of force that’s beginning to hammer anything above our heads.

My brain—because can I ever really ever shut it off?—is trying to find a way forward in all this. But between our compromised position, low ammo, injuries, and the mounting Androchidan numbers, I’m not hopeful.

I spot my pistol on the ground, pick it up, and then start to move back toward the team, but a hand grabs my arm.

“Wic, you can’t go out there without me.” Yoshi holds up the slack in the tube.

“I’m not sure we’re living long enough for that to matter, pal.”

He holds the line aloft for a few more seconds before dropping it. “Probably not.”

I’m sucking in one final breath before I plan to yank the breathing tube from my helmet, when Yoshi’s hand grabs my arm again. As I glance back, he puts his helmet close to mine.

“I’m sorry,” he yells. “For Brooklyn.”

“We already went over that.”

But he seems to ignore my comment. “I know it doesn’t matter much now. But… I’m done. Drinking, I mean.”

Well, this is new. “It does matter.” I grab his wrist and pound my helmet against his forehead. “It has to matter. Even at the eleventh hour. Every bastard’s welcome in the kingdom. Doesn’t matter when we sign up, just as long as we want in.”

Yoshi looks down for a second. “What’re you, my priest now?”

I laugh. “Nope. They kicked me out of that school when I was a kid.”

“I can see why.” When Yoshi’s eyes come back up to meet mine, I swear I can see a tear or two. “You really believe all that shit you said? You think there’s really hope for guys like us?”

And that is the question, isn’t it. Damn. Been asking myself that since Father Benedict told my old man that I wasn’t “catechism material.” At least, that’s how dad put it. Whether or not it was the Father’s exact words doesn’t matter. Either way, it told me where God and I stood, and we’ve been there ever since.

I stare at Yoshi. “I don’t know if I believe it. But on my good days, I want to.”

“And on your bad?”

I ignore the question. “Listen. If there’s no room for someone like you, then I’m screwed too. You’re a good man, Ken.”

“So are you, Wic.”

I let go of Yoshi and push myself back. “Now let’s kick some alien ass.”

He nods, and I take one last breath, then we rip the umbilical cord from our helmets at the same time. A beat later, I round the corner and head for Bumper’s position behind some sort of skid loader. My breath fogs my visor as I watch the vehicle get raked by blaster fire. The machinery looks out of commission, but it’s acting as good cover.

Bumper seems surprised to see me when I slide in beside him. I think he’s saying something, but I can’t hear him, and I’m having trouble seeing him through the haze. So I point to an ear and shake my head once. He seems to understand, and two seconds later, I hear his voice come from his helmet’s speaker.

“Good to see you back in the land of the living, Wic.”

“Couldn’t let you finish without me,” I yell so he can hear.

“That’s what she said,” he replies with a twinkle in his eye. Then he pops up and fires another burst at the enemy to the north.

My turn.

With my thumbs overlapping and a firm grip on the LTL-MAC 41 that I’ve decided to call Lil Mac, probably due to my semi-oxygenated state, I raise the pistol and aim down the rail at a death angel. The alien’s trying to flank Vlad. “Not today.” I squeeze, and the weapon bucks in my hands like a .40-caliber—enough to let me know it means business but not enough to give me sore wrists the next morning. Like that matters much right now.

The round catches the alien on the side of the head. I’m certain the Anderkin’s going down until it turns and looks at me. Crap.

I’m still on target and squeeze off two more rounds until the plushy’s helmet tears away, and a fourth round splits its skull.

I feel a hand pull me down. It’s Bumper.

“Here.” He de-mags the CHK we were gonna use for Chuck and hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I accept the weapon, feel it bind to my hand, double-check the fire mode, and flick the safety off. I’m about to holster my Lil Mac when I have a stupid thought. It’s a hypoxia thought. I know it. But I don’t care, cause I’m going out guns blazing.

What Would Rambo Do?

“To survive a war,” I say to myself. “You gotta become war.” I stand, find two death angels adjacent to one another, and start unloading. The one at the receiving end of my CHK gets shredded first, while the second gets thrown back by Lil Mac. Of course, it takes me a few shots to get the pistol on target; I’m firing it from my off-hand, and shooting two weapons at the same time isn’t something one does to win competitions. But it does qualify as covering fire. I finish the second plushy with a three-round CHK burst to the chest.

Another pair of aliens see my fire and turn. But I’m faster, even as images of Jell-O start to dance in my imagination. Again, Lil Mac keeps one at bay while the rifle does the precision shooting. I’m not paying attention to discharge rate or capacity—this is my last stand. So it’s leave everything on the table time.

The first Androchidan blows apart in Jell-O cubes, showering the field with sugary goodness, while the second gets clipped in the shoulder by Lil Mac. The enemy succumbs a second later when I turn my CHK on him and squeeze off the kill-shot to its head. Meanwhile, billowing cumulus clouds start forming on the inside of my visor. They look so fluffy.

“Drones,” Bumper yells. I see energy bolts streak up at 45 degree angles from our position. The shots catch one of the magenta-plated garbage can lids and shred it apart.

“Someone order a round of skeet?” I yell. “They shouldn’t have.”

Figuring Lil Mac is more than a match for the flying terrors, I raise my off-hand and target an incoming drone. My first shot blows out one of the craft’s four repulsor pads, causing the drone to wobble. It recovers and seems to zero in on my position. But my second shot blows a hole dead center, and the thing powers down and drops like a dumbbell weight.

With the sky clear, at least for the moment, I pick out a third pair of ground targets, but I can feel my arms starting to sag. My knees are getting weak too. I need air. So I drop down behind cover to try and catch my breath.

As if heaven heard me, I feel something jostle my helmet, and then a forceful stream of air hits my mouth and nostrils. I glance down to see that the air tube’s back. And Yoshi’s on my left giving me a thumb’s up.

“Son of a gun.” I suck a deep breath and instantly feel my head start to clear, and my limbs regain their strength. The cumulus clouds have left my visor too.

“Apparently, you’re lasting a little longer than you thought,” Yoshi says. “Maybe this is… like the tenth hour instead.”

“Maybe.”

I suck down another gulp of air and then peek over the metal barricade. That third pair of death angels are closing. Just then, I catch movement on my right. It’s an assault bot raising a rifle to flank us. I swing my CHK and squeeze even before I’m certain of sight picture. Bad discipline, yut. But I’m running on pure adrenaline right now, and a few million trigger squeezes have taught my hands and survival instincts to work together.

The burst hits the bot but doesn’t take it down. Instead, its return fire forces me to dive for cover. I fall into Yoshi and feel the airline yanked from my helmet. The magic air supply vanishes, and my lenses start to fog again.

Bumper helps me up, while Yoshi feeds the tube back into my helmet. The PJ is my life support—literally. Holding the tube with one hand and firing his CHK with the other. Guy’s a goddamned hero.

Better not waste it, Wic.

“I’m out,” Yoshi yells.

So I hand him my pistol, and then I’m back in firing position. There’s a new assault bot on my right and a death angel two steps to its right. I tear into the droid’s upper chest and shoulder while Yoshi knocks the death angel back two steps. The recoil from my CHK causes my rifle to drift off target more than I care to admit. I’m growing weaker. But my next rounds still manage to rip the bot’s head off. Hey, any kill you can walk away from means you’re the one still keeping score.

Meanwhile, Yoshi’s kept the death angel at bay with my Lil Mac long enough for me to knock it out with my CHK in one shot.

“On your left,” Yoshi yells.

I turn to see three death angels who just realized that their balls have dropped. Unfortunately for them, it’s a little too late for any more self-discovery. I squeeze and hold my CHK’s trigger and rake the enemy with fire, fairly certain my cap mag is about spent. No sooner does the thought go through my head than my rifle stops feeding back in my palm.

“I’m out.” I drop behind cover notice that the airline has been yanked from my helmet again. “Yoshi. Air.”

But there’s no reply. His hand brushes against my hip with the tube loosely held between his gloved fingers. He’s been hit.

“Shit.” I hit the Navy SEAL in the shoulder. “Bumper!”

He turns and sees Yoshi on his back. There’s a nasty burn mark on the PJ’s left shoulder, and another on his stomach.

“All right, Super Nintendo. Time to level up.” Bumper passes me his CHK and what looks like his last cap mag. “Keep ’em off us.”

I nod, feel the weapon bind to me, and check his rifle’s current capacitor. It’s at 35 percent, so I swap it out for the fresh mag. Then I’m back up and firing at the next enemy I see. Problem is, I see a lot. And they’re all getting way too close for comfort. I start firing low-pulse, high-yield rounds with methodical fire control in order to make each shot count. Aim, squeeze, follow-through, move. One at a time, the enemies detonate like overripe pumpkins. But the cost is high: it only takes seven shots to drain my mag.

“I’m out.”

I drop down and look at Bumper, then glance sideways at the rest of the team. They’re each pulling out their Duradex knives and returning my gaze.

The air in my helmet’s turning stale again. I grab the tube from Yoshi’s hand, but I hesitate to suck down a dying man’s last few breaths. He’d offer the air if he could, and I won’t have strength left for hand to hand combat if I don’t.

“Thank you, Yoshi.” I jam the tube into the hole in my collar and suck two deep breaths. Then I let the tube drop and pull out my knife.

Blade up, I look to my right and left, then nod at Bumper, Ghost, and Hollywood. At Aaron and Z-Lo. At Vlad and Lada. And finally at Yoshi. I wanna tell them all that I’m sorry. That I wish we had more time together. More time to kick the enemy in the teeth and gather intel. But we took what we had.

There’s that small glimmer of hope that someone else back on Earth will pick up where we leave off. Go further, fight harder, dig deeper. And win. That is the warrior’s ethos. Not that we secure victory ourselves, but that we forge a path forward that enables victory for those coming behind us.

“Tell everyone to stay behind cover,” I instruct Bumper. “Let them come to us.”

He nods and presumably relays the message over comms.

“OTF, Phantoms,” I say. No one hears it, I know. But heaven does. At least, I hope so. The sounds of boots and blaster fire get louder as the enemy closes on our position. “Heaven help us.”

11

1818, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3, Maintenance Hangar West

At the first sign of movement above my barricade, I feel my body tense. A weapon’s barrel comes into view. I grab the rifle with my left hand and yank it forward, the idea being that if the firearm comes out of the assailant’s hands, I’ve disarmed him; if he comes along with the weapon, then I’m that much closer to killing him. Fortunately, it’s the latter, and the death angel falls toward me.

I drive my Duradex combat knife into his gut, expecting his armor to put up a fight. Instead, the blade penetrates the plate like it’s cardboard. Encouraged by the tool’s sharpness, I pull it across the alien’s abdomen, hoping that I’m hitting at least one vital organ. The plushy shoots over my head, and I hear a scream under its helmet.

Certain there are more enemies following after him, I twist my victim around and use him as a shield. A quick glance to my left shows that Bumper has left Yoshi’s side to turn an Anderkin into improvised cover—and none too soon. Blaster rounds slam into my plushy’s body and drive us both back. I fall backward, and the thing lands on me with a crack.

Then I spot the plushy’s CHK to my right. So I switch my knife to my left hand, grab the rifle with my right, and feel the weapon bind to me. Still under the body, I point the gun toward a second Anderkin creeping past my barricade. The beastie turns its gun on me, but I squeeze before the enemy can get a shot off, knocking the opponent off its feet.

A new wave of blaster fire erupts from the north in response. Energy bolts fill the air not a yard overhead. I shove the dead body off me and scramble back to Bumper’s side. Then I take the tube still protruding from Yoshi’s helmet and feed myself another breath. The fresh air cleanses my visor and revives my aching lungs. And Yoshi’s still moving—at least a little.

Bumper, Vlad, and Z-Lo have managed to strip weapons from the points and are returning fire. Likewise, Hollywood, Ghost, and Lada are taking cap mags off the dead and recharging their guns. Seems we’re not out of the fight yet. Delaying the inevitable? Absolutely. But we’re not dead.

A drone zips overhead and does a quick 180. I track it with my stolen CHK and fire two rounds. The disc’s port side detonates and sends the craft spiraling into the south wall behind us where it explodes. I’m about to turn back to the north when I notice something move. A portion of the wall is sliding just above the floor. It’s probably six feet square and mostly hidden by supply shelves. I have to blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating, but, given my oxygen-deprived state, I probably am. When a death angel emerges from the space, I kick Bumper.

“Contact rear,” I shout and chop the air to the south with my hand. But Bumper is preoccupied with holding off the enemy’s points.

My CHK is up, and I target the plushy sneaking out of the secret tunnel. I’m three ounces of pressure shy of blowing its chest plate through its spine when I notice red paint smeared across its helmet face, chest-plate, and shoulder pauldron. It’s either a poorly maintained suit or a rank identifier that I’ve not seen before, though it hardly looks official. The death angel’s also wearing some sort of oil-skinned cloak secured around its neck. And… are those stickers on its armor? The hell?

My gut tells me to hold up, so I ease my finger off the trigger.

Then the alien waves at me… like it’s my buddy or something. And it’s hiding around the backside of the shelving unit, staying clear of the main element’s incoming round.

I also recognize that few forces would be stupid enough to send their own units on the backside of an offensive push; that’s a friendly fire death wish waiting to happen. Then again, Androchidans might just be that stupid. Crap.

I hit Bumper and force his attention to the south with a sharp two-fingered thrust. He stops and looks behind us.

The cloaked alien waves at him too, then gives us both a hand signal that I take to mean, “Lay flat.”

I share a look with Bumper.

“Where’d he come from?” the SEAL asks me.

“Came outta the damn wall. Think he’s telling us to get down.”

Bumper seems to study the figure. “Well, he’s not shooting at us.”

“And it’s not like we have a whole lotta options.”

The way I figure things, we’re dead no matter what. So we can either get run over in the next ten seconds when our mags run dry again and the enemy figures out we only have knives—all be them sharp as hell knives—or we can take a chance on what looks like some rogue plushy dressed up like the Mandalorian.

“Spread the word,” I say to Bumper, and then ease myself down next to Yoshi.

Yoshi rolls his head over and gives me a curious scrunching of the brow.

I shrug, then yell, “Get ready.” For what? I don’t have a damn clue. But I’m sure as hell interested in finding out.

Within seconds, our team is belly down with heads covered. I glance back to our possible ally, but he’s gone. Was it just a ploy to get us to lower our weapons? And now I’m feeling like a real jackass.

Our new friend pops back around the corner, but this time with a large-bore tri-barrel mounted weapon on casters. I don’t get more than a glimpse of it before the thing starts belching fire. I count three rounds per second, followed by a whistle that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. On Earth, I’d call that an Mk. 19 grenade launcher on steroids. But here? I don’t have a freaking clue.

The ground and air vibrate at the same time, rattling my helmet. Then explosive light flashes like the noonday sun, followed by the shriek of an electrified foghorn. A crane arm over my right shoulder rips free of its base, trailing a cable and hook with it. And then come the bodies. Death angels. Bots. Drones. All flying through the air like they’ve been launched from a trampoline. Some are missing limbs. Others are on fire.

“Holy shit,” Bumper yells at me.

Yoshi’s thumping my shoulder with a weak fist.

And I can see Ghost’s eyes smiling even through his visor.

I glance back at what I’m calling a newfound friend and notice that he’s been joined by two more death angels dressed in brown cloaks and streaked with red paint. The newcomers produce handheld devices that look like metallic shampoo bottles and hurl them over our heads. Three beats later, the objects detonate.

I’m wondering why fragmentation grenades are needed when the Mk. 19 triplets just devastated the room. But then I see thick, shimmering smoke wrap around our team. It could just be my nerves, but I’m pretty sure the outside temperature is rising too.

Between the fog on my lenses and the smoke in the air, I can’t see more than two feet in front of me. Yoshi’s barely visible, and Bumper’s washed out.

Two hands grab me under the armpits and hoist me to my feet. I suppress my SERE training—survival, evasion, resistance, and escape—which tells me to flip out on whoever’s seized me. Instead, I let them lead me forward.

“Please do not be fearful,” a thin gravelly voice says on my right. I recognize the sound of the helmet’s software played over external speakers. The red-capped death angel with the stickers is on my right, and a second one is on the left.

I glance over my shoulder, hoping to make out the rest of the Phantoms, but I can’t see a damned thing in this soup.

“Your friends are coming too,” says the person on my right. I’m naming this one Stickers.

Shadows ripple through the smoke, and I get the impression that there are far more of these rogue plushies in the haze than the original three. I can’t be sure, but I have to assume we’re walking south. The smoke seems to be dissipating too. Then I see the shelving unit and the outline of the passageway.

I freeze.

“Do not be alarmed,” Stickers says.

But I can’t help it. Cloaked death angels are pulling bodies out of the tunnel and dragging them back the way we came. And not just any bodies…

More death angels.

“These are to complete the ruse,” Stickers says.

The ruse? They’re… planting bodies?

Of course. For the enemy to find and call off a search should we be discovered missing. Which, as Stickers pushes my head down beneath the tunnel’s ceiling, I realize we most certainly will be.

“Thank you, Mother of Moses,” I whisper, unable to recall the name of the Jewish woman who put her son in a basket and set him drifting down the Nile. But as the smokescreen gives way to blackness, I find myself feeling like I’m floating along the same river, looking up at a field of dancing stars. My arms and legs go limp, and yet I don’t feel like I’m falling. Just floating.

* * *

Fire erupts from my right bicep, and I’m jolted awake. Feels like a yellow jacket just stung me. A few seconds later, my head clears. I see Stickers remove some sort of blinking syringe-like device from my arm.

“The hell?”

“Do not be fearful,” Stickers replies. In the back of my mind, I note that his helmet’s translation software seems less awkward. Which means something, I think.

“You keep saying that but…” A surge of energy floods my body, and I feel fully awake. And pain-free. “What the hell was that?”

“A microparticle oxygen injection, along with neural synapse inhibitors for your pain receptors.”

I look at Stickers, unsure of what to say. But I find myself able to walk on my own and feel him and the second escort, who I’ll call Lefty, let go of my arms.

“You will be sustained for at least the next twenty-five minutes until we can provide you and your team with proper medical care. You may also remove your damaged helmet if you wish to see better, but do your best not to breathe regularly.”

Somehow, the idea of being sustained doesn’t seem to fit with don’t breathe regularly. But the injection has rejuvenated me to the point that I almost trust the contradictory advice. That said, I still don’t see myself overcoming my body’s automatic breathing reflex; I’ve been quite partial to it for these last forty-four years.

“You hesitate,” Stickers says. “And it is understandable. I recommend you try holding your breath for twenty-second intervals. Small inhalations of the local atmosphere won’t hurt you, but you will soon find that you do not need to breathe nearly as frequently as you’re used to.”

I decide to remove my helmet and give Sticker’s advice a shot. I figure that if he wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already. Plus, my breath on the lenses is making it almost impossible to see in this dimly lit passage.

The fresh air, if it can be called as much, hitting my forehead feels good, and I have to fight my urge to take a deep breath. While the instinct is there, I don’t sense the oxygen-starved panic that a person feels when underwater too long. It’s weird. That injection is working. And, strangely, it’s not exactly foreign to me either. I suddenly recall something about oxygen being delivered intravenously to hospital patients who were unable to breathe. This is just a better version of that, I tell myself. Made by aliens. To help you breathe on a different planet. Yut. Totally normal.

I look back and see the rest of Phantom Team filing behind me, each assisted by a warrior resembling Stickers and Lefty’s roguish attire. The whole team seems to have made it—even Yoshi who is laying on some sort of hover gurney.

“Who are you?” I ask Stickers.

“All will be explained. Come.” Stickers surges forward down the dim tunnel, while Lefty insists I go next.

This is weird as hell, but it sure beats being shot at.

* * *

It isn’t until we’ve passed a second security checkpoint—a single guard protecting a half-hidden wall panel within the utility corridor—that I think to ask Chuck if he has anything on this group of rebels. But without my helmet and its secure connection to him, there’s no privacy. The last thing I want is for this new faction to have any more advantages over me than they already do. Furthermore, if they turn out to be friendly, I’ll get most of what I need firsthand. So I wait.

Stickers leads us past yet a third checkpoint—this one a more conspicuous man-sized ventilation shaft—before I notice that the industrial feeling walls are transitioning to tunnels carved out of bedrock. With what few breaths I take, I smell dank stone and mildew. There’s also the drip-drop-drip of water landing in pools, and the distant sound of an underground stream.

“We’re almost there,” Stickers says.

I find this offer of information hopeful. Only the most sadistic of enemies announces a victim’s impending demise. And Stickers doesn’t seem like a sadist—at least not toward us. But he sure knew how to slaughter the enemy back in the maintenance hangar, and I’d give my left nut to get my hands on one of those GL84s. Yut, I named it. It’s short for Grenade Launcher, 84 mm, which is my best guess of the grenade’s caliber.

We’re heading uphill now, and I can feel the burn in my thighs and calves. I glance over my shoulder and can still make out the rest of the Phantoms in the faint glow of LEDs on weapons and helmets. More light comes from Yoshi’s repulsor gurney. That’s good. We’re still together, and if Yoshi were dead, I doubt they’d be so kind with transport. More like throw his body over a shoulder or drag him along the ground. Better still, leave him for the enemy.

But that’s not Sticker’s style. The arrival through an otherwise hidden tunnel. The violence of force to push the enemy back. The smokescreen to get our team clear.

Then there were the dead Androchidan death angels being hauled in to act as decoys, and now a secret route to… well, wherever it is we’re headed. This is Cloak & Dagger crap. So if these off-brand plushies don’t want to kill us, why are they rescuing us?

Of course, my overactive imagination can take this several places. The most obvious reason is ransom. Unlike what the movies say, you don’t torture a victim you want money or political favors in exchange for—not unless you’re horrible at your job as a criminal. You want your victim alive for as long as possible. Hydrated, nourished, and comfortable. There’s not much to be gained financially or politically if you can’t provide proof of life. So maybe Stickers here has some favors to call in, and we were the perfect leverage.

Another possibility is poaching. Just because we happened to stumble on the main Androchidan slave operation doesn’t mean they’re the only game in town. Rival organizations can be as numerous as remora suckerfish who hitch rides on sharks—nothing like lurking in the shadow of the big boys to ensure a smaller take.

The biggest tip-off that none of my more suspicious inklings are correct is that we still have our weapons in hand. Granted, that could all be for show, designed to gain our confidence and lower our defenses. But somehow, I don’t think so. Then again, if Stickers and his friends here were watching, they probably saw us drain our mags. Which means they know that the most we have are clubs and knives.

Stickers nods at two armed sentries before standing aside. “Please enter.” He gestures to what looks like a construction-grade freight elevator. It’s dingy and lacks any walls, exposing riders to the rock, and from the quick breath I take, it smells like a horde of cats pissed in it. A small red LED in the ceiling makes the liquid on the floor look like blood, and the only thing advanced about the space is a palm scanner on a metal pedestal along the back wall.

I step inside the lift and turn back to see the rest of the team enter. It’s the first face-to-face look we’ve had with each other for the last ten or so minutes, and I can tell they’re all surprised to see me without my helmet on.

“Does that mean I can take mine off too?” Z-Lo asks as he steps in beside me.

“Negative,” I say, realizing that while I might be able to stay oxygenated from the shot Stickers gave me, I still need air to speak. And that means sucking in more of the god-awful stench in here to do it. “Keep it on.”

The kid nods and makes room for the rest of the team. When we’ve filled it up, Lefty gets in and gives Stickers a nod. He, in turn, places his hand on the screen, and a light scans his hand. There’s a chime noise, followed by some clicks and pops denoting Skrawl speech, and then Stickers taps soft buttons on the screen.

The lift rises, and the Phantoms make to brace themselves against the sudden move. But with nothing to hold onto, everyone returns to their professional demeanor with weapons across their chests.

I watch the carved rock pass mere inches from my side as the elevator picks up speed. One thing’s for sure: this lift wouldn’t pass inspection in New York. Code violations galore. We head up for at least thirty seconds, riding in silence until a chime trills and the lift starts to slow. Helmets jostle and shoulders sway as we decelerate, until a final jolt announces our arrival.

“Please,” Lefty says from the lift’s entrance. “This way.”

I look back at Stickers to double-check that the instruction is valid. What awaits us in the next corridor is not what I was expecting to see.

Part Two

12

1840, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Location Unknown

Last Known Location: Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3

“A greenhouse?” Hollywood turns from the corridor ahead and glances at me and then Stickers. “What is this place?”

“Home base.” Stickers gestures to the exit. “Please.”

Lefty is halfway down a passage filled with soft amber light. Plants overflowing from both walls are so deep green that they almost look blue. Likewise, flowers float atop the foliage of such intense yellows, pinks, reds, and whites that I swear they’re neon. The blossoms are massive, easily three times the size of the largest orchids I saw when stationed at Marine Corps Base Hawaii, Kaneohe Bay. Vines crisscross the ceiling and small waterfalls made of rock sit ensconced at various points along the walls. I also hear what seem like insect noises, maybe even some bird calls, but it’s all foreign enough that I can’t say with certainty that I know what any of it is.

Something moves in the undergrowth to my left.

Ghost draws his Duradex blade and points it faster than I can spin my head.

“There is no need for alarm,” Stickers says. He reaches past me, puts a hand in the leaves, and pulls out a small two-armed monopod. Its face and furry body remind me of a chipmunk, but the digits of its hands and single foot look like a monkey’s, with the suction cup tips of an octopus. “It is an Androchidan fruit tree meep.”

The thing looks harmless enough, but cute and cuddly things have a way of crapping on your carpet and gnawing your furniture to splinters. Or, in this case, my face. Plus, it’s Androchidan, which means I trust it as much as a Navy ice cream social hosted by Iran. I nod at the creature but stay clear as Stickers returns it to the leaves. Likewise, Ghost keeps his blade pointed at it until we’re well clear.

“Would you get a load of this shit,” Bumper says from the front of the line.

I half expect Chuck to chime in with something smart, but he stays silent. Which is unlike him, and I’m getting the feeling that something may be wrong. Then again, Chuck might be staying quiet for fear of being wiped. But swinging him off my back to ask probably isn’t the world’s greatest idea right now.

Phantom Team leaves the tunnel behind for an arboretum the size of Grand Central Station. It’s the biggest damn greenhouse I’ve ever seen. The air is moist and warm. And while probably still toxic, a quick breath reveals that it doesn’t smell like cat piss. Perhaps all this flora cleans the atmo, much like plants do on Earth. They could just as quickly kill us too if we’re not careful.

Tall limbless trees rise for thirty or forty feet before sprouting tufts of dark greenish-blue leaves. A central amber light source filters down through the canopy and flickers on bushes, pathways, and pools of shimmering water. Small multi-winged animals flutter between vines, while buzzing insects zip from blossom to blossom.

But the most remarkable thing about the space isn’t the out of place garden of Eden. It’s all the plushies milling about and talking in the strange clickity-snap Skrawl. Most are dressed in death angel armor that resembles our escorts’. The rest are in some version of burlap utility coveralls with various patches sewn in the bib to designate job or rank, I’m guessing. Almost no one is wearing head coverings. And that’s where things get really bizarre.

Up to this point, my impressions of Androchidans have been pretty bad. And I’m not just talking about their desire to enslave my home planet’s populace. I’m talking about their green-veined wrinkly grey skin, prismatic eyes, vertical mouth holes, and all-around nast smell. But these plushies? Their faces are the same green-blue of the leaves. Their red eyes are watery and soft. And their skin seems to have a sheen that looks healthy, for lack of a better word. Whatever this version of the species is, it’s a far cry from the plushies we’ve been popping.

However, what’s more striking than the new Androchidans are several other species I don’t recognize. Granted, last I knew, humans were the only sentient species in the universe, so a failure to recognize them isn’t exactly noteworthy. There’s a blue species with tentacles on their heads, a race of feline-looking people with long tails, and a large two-tusked, red-skinned hulk in suspenders with a menacing scowl. Then there’s the smallest species who remind me of koala bears with buckteeth and a hemp cloaks.

“So, we’ve left the war hive only to find a bunch of revolutionary hippies on a commune?” Hollywood asks me softly over her external speaker.

“Looks that way,” I reply just as quietly.

Stickers moves to the front of our pack and sets off along a path that weaves through the arboretum’s center. He motions us to follow, and as soon as our team steps out of the shadows, everyone in the room goes silent. It’s the proverbial jukebox grinding to a halt in the dive bar. And given the fact that the rest of the team could and have passed as Anderkins, I’m guessing the subject of everyone’s curiosity is me.

So what do I do?

I wave. Yut. Like the Queen of freaking England. “Smile and wave, boys,” I say to the team. “Smile and wave.”

Right on cue, the rest of the Phantoms take to waving at our green-faced hosts. Vlad is most emphatic, using both arms in a wild gesture best suited for a float celebrity in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Figures. He would love that. What’s even funnier is how at least a few plushies wave back, but then seem to think better of doing so and lower their arms.

Heads are turning, and the clickity-snaps are back in force.

We follow Stickers up a winding ramp and toward a wide row of curved glass doors. It’s then that I realize the circular arboretum is several stories tall, each level denoted by rustic balconies, walkways, and more of the same ultra-wide glass doors.

Two sentries border the room we’re headed toward. They lack death angel helmets, but they have CHKs and the emerald-plate armor. Just before approaching them, Stickers turns around and says something to the plushies carrying Yoshi. They bow their heads—first time I’ve seen that—and then break off from our team.

“Whoa, hey.” I grab Stickers by the arm, and instantly I sense that I’ve kicked the hornet’s nest. Whatever good vibes we’ve been shown up to now vanish the moment several dozen energy weapons come to bear on the Phantoms and me.

Stickers starts chattering in his mother tongue, and he rips off his helmet in protest. All at once, the weapons lower and Stickers points at me. I’m far from a professional on plushy biology, but something tells me I might be wrong to have assumed Stickers is a he. Call it a hunch about the slender cheekbones and more delicate features, but I’ve got a feeling this is a kickass pinup girl for the rebels of this secret base.

“Human… needs… to hospital.” Stickers’s lips have a hard time forming the words. But I’m impressed. That’s 100 percent more language than I know in her tongue. “All… safety.”

From atop the hovering gurney, Yoshi gives me a weak but clear thumbs-up.

“I have your word you’ll take care of him?” I speak slowly but with authority.

“Promise,” is all she says, and then she dips her head in a small bow.

This one action seems to get a rise out of the onlookers. Apparently, from what I gather, that’s not something a CO does toward strangers.

“Very well. But I want one of my people going with him.” I nod at Ghost. “You good?”

“Roger.” He steps out and joins Yoshi at the hip.

I point toward Ghost’s still-ailing injuries from the Rutgers chapel incident. “And then it’s your turn to get looked over.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.” I look back at Stickers. “We’re good.”

She clicks, and the two warriors attending to Yoshi move off with Ghost at heel.

With the mini-crisis averted, we move the rest of the way up to the glass doors, and Stickers waves the two sentries apart. The glass separates down the middle and slides away, and we step into a vestibule whose dark rock walls lead to another set of glass doors further down. It’s starting to feel as if this entire complex has been carved out of bedrock. And yet all the glass, the lush greenery, and the warm sunlight—assuming it is actual sunlight—make it feel as though we’re on the planet’s surface.

The wide room that’s coming up looks to be some sort of command theatre. Jackpot. It’s complete with tiered seating and massive screens on its far wall. Androchidans in black and purple uniforms look busy behind workstations, and the dimly lit room still glows in soft amber lighting.

Two more sentries on the other side of the glass seem to ask Stickers a question. When she responds, the guards eye us and then open the security doors.

Stickers turns hard right upon entry into the command theatre and leads us along the back wall toward a side room. I do my best to gather as much intel as I can. The large screens to my left are filled with what look to be security camera images, building schematics, and active icon markers superimposed on topo maps. Of course, I can’t make out a damn word of the text; it all looks like chicken scratch. But I know real-time strategic analysis when I see it—this planet or any other.

God, listen to me. I sound like a Space Force cadet.

The important thing is that we’ve managed to find some sort of underground resistance force—or they found us. And they’ve got eyes and ears on the whole slaver operation, as far as I can tell. Now it’s a matter of figuring out what they know and using that to our advantage. With any luck, maybe we even combine forces and pool resources.

And what resources would those be, Wic? Why, an astonishingly accurate list of the best pizza places in Brooklyn ranked from highest to lowest on the CSCTRI—the crust, sauce, cheese, toppings ratio index.

Well that’s just perfect.

A tinted glass door parts for Stickers, and she motions us to wait outside before disappearing inside.

Hollywood taps my elbow and then speaks in a hushed tone. “Either she’s sprucing the room up for us, or this is brass.”

“My thoughts too. Money’s on the latter.”

“Same.”

The glass slides open, and Stickers motions for us to follow.

Phantom Team steps into an oval conference room that’s filled on all sides with more flowering plants. A single window runs around half the room, but is no more than eight inches high and lets in more amber light from the main arboretum. The space is dominated by conference table made of a patchwork of welded metal plates. The beads have been ground down, but the multicolored plates appear to have the same finish as whatever it was they’d come from: armored personnel carriers, aircraft, troop transports, maybe even death angel suits and bot plates if I had to guess.

At the head of the table sits a grizzled Androchidan who’s helmetless face has seen better days. He has the same dark greenish-blue skin as the others, but his right eye is pale and bears an oily sheen. Several black scars crisscross his face, and his nose and mouth look like they suffered a dozen rounds of stitches. He’s dressed in death angel armor that seems to have gone the way of Stickers’s suit: beat up and smeared in red paint across the breastplate and shoulder pauldrons.

The man, assuming it’s a male—I’m not exactly batting a thousand here, but I’m getting better—reaches for a small device on the table and snaps it to his collar. The wedge-like unit projects a small blue light on the leader’s throat, and at the same time a sensor on his temple that I hadn’t seen until now lights up in a similar blue tone.

“Welcome. Please, be seated,” the man says. While I can still hear the clicks and pops he’s making, my ears naturally gravitate to the English coming from the translation unit on his collar. His voice even sounds the part of his weathered face. Hats off to whoever wrote the software for this device; my helmet could learn a thing or two.

The simple offer of sitting down in what looks to be a comfortable conference room-style chair is surprisingly enticing. The aches and pains in my ankles, knees, and hips remind me that I’m not the war fighter I used to be. For God and Country is an oath that sure knows how to exact punishment on its adherents.

I demag Chuck from my back and motion for the Phantoms to take seats. Likewise, Stickers and Lefty sit beside the big man himself. But as I set Chuck down on the table, I notice for the first time that he’s been damaged. Maybe even irreparably. There’s a quarter-sized hole in his receiver and half his scope’s missing. No wonder he’s been so quiet. And I’ve been a jerk for not checking on the guy sooner.

Something like grief squeezes my chest. Once again, I’m surprised that I’m feeling any sense of remorse over losing what amounts to a glorified computer program—it’s disconcerting. First Veronica, and now Chuck. But unlike the sassy Latina who was knifed to death, Chuck still has some LEDs on. So maybe he can be patched up.

Not that I care. But, ya know, it might be worth looking into. For his sake.

I shake the thoughts from my head and take in the room. Time to focus.

The transition from almost dying to being seated at a foreign agent’s conference room table can be disconcerting for those not accustomed to a wartime battlefield’s rapidly changing landscape. Granted, I’m no expert, but I’ve swung at my share of change-up pitches. This one, however, tops them all.

“I am General Peegra Cordan,” the head honcho says when we’re comfortable. “You have already met my lieutenants, Insarka Kindesh”—he indicates Stickers—“and Farkoo Tersmik”—he gestures to Lefty.

“We have,” I say, noting that my voice is instantly translated into Skrawl by the wedge under General Cordan’s chin. Lefty, or Farfegnugen-something-or-other, has removed his helmet and placed a translator on his collar. But Insarka has not. Either she understands more English than she can speak, or she doesn’t much care to know what’s being said.

When the general seems to wait on me to say something more, I decide to reciprocate the formality and introduce the rest of the Phantoms by name. It seems tedious, as there’s no way I’m going to remember these plushies’ names, but it seems to be their way. My only hesitation is that so much breathing is gonna saturate my blood with too much of the alien atmo. And yet something about the air quality has changed. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s almost as if—

“You may all remove your helmets,” Cordan says, interrupting my train of thought. “We have introduced oxygen into this room for your sake. The effects are negligible for us but essential for you.”

And there it is.

The team members share looks and then focus on me. But I give them a reassuring nod. If these Androchidans wanted to kill us, they’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so already. “Go ahead, team.”

I hear the helmet seals release and each team member takes a hesitant breath of the alien atmo. Then helmets settle on the patchwork table beside weapons, and everyone relaxes a bit.

“I am Master Gunnery Sergeant Patrick Wic Finnegan,” I say. “This is my next in command, Sergeant Susanne Hollywood Catania. Then Petty Officer First Class Uriah Bumper Johnson, Private First Class Andras Z-Lo Laszlo, Senior Sergeant Vladimir Petrov, his sister Lada Petrov, and Dr. Aaron Campbell.” Each member gives a small nod or hand wave as I go around the table. Realizing I still don’t know Ghost’s full name, I clear my throat before finishing the roster. “Sergeant Ghost is attending to Staff Sergeant Ken Yoshi Yoshida in your infirmary, I believe.” I look to Insarka for some sort of confirmation.

She nods and then looks to Cordan. “Both… humans… suffered attack.”

Cordan’s chin comes up slightly, and then his head turns toward me. “We will seek to do our very best to mend them, Patrick-Wic.”

I wince at the name combo and second guess my use of the team’s nicknames. “Thank you, general.”

Something about the man’s words seems sincere, and any medical aid for Yoshi is more than I could provide, so I’m grateful. That is, so long as these aliens know how to treat humans, which is why I sent Ghost as overwatch. He’s no Bumper when it comes to field medicine, but he knows the basics. Plus, he needs medical attention too. Two birds, one stone.

With the introductions passed, I decide to hit the question of the hour. “General Cordan, why have you brought us here? Why did your lieutenants rescue us?” I incline my head to Insarka and Farfegnugen.

“Worthy questions.” Cordan leans back and folds his fingers across his belly. “I will reply with two of equal value. Why have you come to Karkin Four? What was your goal within the maintenance hangar?”

In most other situations, I wouldn’t let Cordan employ the Socratic dance of answering my questions with more questions. But seeing as how Phantom Team is clearly the debtor in this situation, and I don’t feel Cordan is hostile, at least not yet, I decide to answer truthfully. I’m still gonna play my cards close to my chest until I get a better lay of the land. Insurrectionists or not, Cordan and his people might just as easily use us as bait.

“We have come looking for information. As for the shootout, we were trying to defend ourselves.”

“Information.” Cordan leans forward. “And what kind of information?”

“The usual. We wanted to find out your species’ favorite colors, favorite animals… favorite foods.” I place particular emphasis on the last words, unsure if the translator will pick it up. But based on the strange tightening of the general’s lips, I think he gets the implied meaning.

“So you have come to spy on the transgressors responsible for enslaving your people.” Cordan sits back again and then seems to wait for my reply.

I can’t tell if he meant that as a question or a statement, nor can I detect if it is meant as an indictment or vindication. But we’ll get nowhere if I don’t show at least one or two cards. “That is correct, general.”

He makes a sniffing sound and then shakes his head slowly. I have to remind myself that the motion is the equivalent of a nod. “It is brave of you to come. No one else has.”

“Well, it’s only been a day or two since you all invaded our planet. I imagine there will be more coming.” I assume the rest of the team is picking up on my posturing. Bluffing is the art of convincing through subtlety.

“I was referring to all enslaved target species, Patrick-Wic.”

Well. That changes things.

“And, for further clarity, it is not we who invaded your planet.” He points to what I presume is an imaginary place on the horizon. “The Androchidan Empire is to blame for atrocities committed against your people.”

“Then who are you supposed to be?”

“The Old Blood of Sacred Guard,” Insarka says with a little more speed.

“Just rolls off the tongue,” Hollywood whispers sarcastically.

I raise a finger to keep her quiet as Insarka doesn’t seem finished.

“We are keepers of the old ways…” the female lieutenant says. “And champions of those yet to be restored. Freedom and harmony for… all species.”

I look back at the general. “So you’re the good guys.”

He tilts his head. “No.”

Not the answer I was hoping for. And I can sense the rest of the team tense.

“We are Androchidans,” Cordan continues. “We claim neither goodness nor evil, only that we endeavor to be faithful to ourselves and to others. It is the AE, instead, who continues to perpetrate crimes that defile our people and grieve our ancestors.”

Huh. That’s refreshingly candid, if not a little preachy. But, hey, in an age when everyone seems to claim the moral high ground to justify their position on near about anything, it’s nice to hear someone admit they don’t have it all figured out. It’s like he’s saying, “We may not be the epitome of good, but we sure as hell ain’t enslaving your planet.” At least that’s what I’m getting from the general here. And it’s okay by me.

“So what’s your endgame?” I ask.

“To bring an end to the AE and replace the Mother Queen with the rightful heir.”

“And the slaves?”

Cordan narrows his eyes. “What about them?”

“What would you do for them?”

“They are free to go on their way. But we offer them a chance to fight against those who destroyed their home worlds.”

It’s my turn to lean back. Not exactly the answer I was hoping for. I also note the “we’re doing them a favor” tone to the general’s assertion of giving former captives a chance to fight back. “Any chance you’ll help the victims return to those home worlds?”

The general frowns—at least I think that’s what the mannerism is. “If it is within our power, yes.”

“Care to elaborate?”

He shakes his head. “It is secondary to the primary objective, and we have not yet arrived at the first. Therefore, I will not elaborate.”

So the general’s priorities are for his people first and ours second. I can’t blame the man. If anything, I respect it. I’d probably do the same were I in his skin. But as it stands, our primary aims are very different, even if we share a similar view of those within this Androchidan Empire. I also note the subtle differences between the general’s response and Insarka’s. Where his are more about Androchidan interests, hers seem to be about something more universal.

“I answered your questions, General,” I say. “Now please answer mine. Why have you brought us here, and why did your lieutenants rescue us?”

The general folds his arms as if considering something other than the most straightforward response. But if he’s giving partial truths, his tone doesn’t betray that fact. “You fought violently against the AE. Your bravery is admirable, and your use of foreign weaponry commendable for a species so unfamiliar with quantum technology.”

I look to Chuck on the table, broken. Maybe permanently.

The general here has been watching us. Maybe even from this very conference room, and definitely from that command theatre. Having our asses saved was certainly convenient, and I’m not complaining there. But I am pissed that these insurgents didn’t come to our aid sooner. I’m also guessing that the general’s gonna play his cards close to his chest like me, so we might as well cut to the chase. “You saved us so that we could fight for you against the Empire. Is that it, General?”

Whether this puts Cordan off or not, I can’t read. But he takes his time before replying.

“You would be most welcome among our ranks, yes. As it is, we have collected many among the enslaved species who have pledged their allegiance to our cause.”

“How convenient for you.” I rub my jaw. “And if we refuse?”

The general doesn’t seem put off by this and answers quickly. “We will return you to the dropship you commandeered and leave you on your way.”

“Back to Earth.”

“Yes. Back to Earth.”

This is a valuable point of intelligence. It confirms my suspicions that the general and his people watched us well before we got pinned down in the maintenance hangar. It also means that they were waiting to see how long we lasted in combat. Sure, maybe it took them a while to mobilize a rescue team. But you don’t get taken to the brass’s private chambers if you’re a boot. They were testing us and doing so at the expense of our lives.

All that said, being deposited back on Dolores and heading home empty-handed isn’t exactly what I want, especially now that we have this new lease on life. Yut, I was bitchin’ twenty minutes ago about wishing we’d just gone back to Antarctica. But now that we have options again and are still breathing, might as well take advantage of it all.

I study the three aliens for a moment before speaking again. “You all seem fairly relaxed about the idea of sending us home. Why is that? You want us to be your liaisons on another planet or something?” I don’t intend to be anyone’s rep, of course. I’m just fishing.

“We have no liaisons on other planets, Patrick-Wic.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because no world lasts long enough once the AE has begun harvesting.”

It feels like the room just got a few degrees colder, and I hear the rest of the Phantoms shift in their seats. But I’ll be damned if we give up on Earth so quickly, and I don’t mind dying as long as we’re trying.

I rub my cheek as the next most apparent question presents itself. “So if we say yes, how long are we in your service before we can help our people?”

“You ask a difficult thing.”

“Yut. But I need an answer if you want an honest response from me.”

The general squints. “This operation has been underway since I was a root sprig, before I was even cut from the vine. How much longer it may go is a dark matter. Decades. Less if we are lucky.”

“Decades?” Z-Lo spouts out.

I glare at him, and the kid withdraws into his seat.

“We don’t have decades, general,” I say to Cordan. “Our people, my people, need help now. You must be aware of their dire circumstances.”

“I am.”

“So why not intervene?”

“As I said, our mission is not the liberation of your people, but the destruction of—”

“Of the Empire, I understand. But while you are busy plotting subterfuge, our people—”

“Are but a pawn on the board, Patrick-Wic.”

A strange analogy to use. In the back of my head, I wonder if the translation software on his device knows about chess. And if not, does the general here play the Androchidan equivalent? Either way, I get the sense I’m not dealing with an impulsive man. A pawn on the board, eh? So I’m dealing with a strategist here.

“A pawn, general, that happens to represent over eight billion souls.” I move to the edge of my seat. “I mean no disrespect to your objectives, your efforts, or the sacrifices you have made, general. But with all due respect, I believe that the fate of an entire planet’s civilization constitutes immediate and decisive action.”

There’s a long pause as the Phantoms stare down the table at General Cardon. Even Insarka and the other lieutenant, whose name I can’t remember, look at their commander.

At last, Cardon sits back and takes a deep breath. “It would seem we both have the answers we seek.”

Insarka speaks, but the general flips a hand up to silence her. I can’t tell if she’s trying to argue for us or against us, but I assume the former. When Insarka backs down, the general faces me.

“We will restore your injured crew, allow you to eat, drink, and rest, and then return you undercover to your dropship. If there are any supplies that we can afford you or repairs we can conduct, we will do so at our discretion. All evidence of your presence will be erased to the best of our abilities, but we make no promises that the AE will not retaliate should your presence be made known.”

Again, Insarka says something to the general, but his response is swift and appears overpowering.

A thought comes to mind. “General Cardon. If you will not aid us in liberating our people, might we request that you deliver our team to another more strategic position within the enemy stronghold rather than the dropship?”

“You wish to remain here?”

“At least for a time. Our original purpose was to gather intelligence.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And we’d like to complete that mission. With your help, if it’s available.”

The general waves a dismissive hand. “I already conveyed what we are willing to provide.”

“And I appreciate that. All I ask in addition is that you deposit us in a location that may better suit our reconnaissance mission.”

The general shifts his weight in his chair. “And just where do you think that ‘more strategic position’ might be?”

“We would defer to your judgment.”

“My judgment.” Cardon sits back and seems to consider the request more seriously.

This could be good.

“My judgment,” he says again.

Or maybe not so good. Just the way he repeated himself has put a new pit in my stomach.

“You, all nine of you, have ventured here on a stolen enemy transport, in the heat of an Androchidan harvest against your world’s apex species, with the hope of gathering some morsel of intelligence that might give you an advantage to save your planet. Do I have that right?”

“Yut. That… about sums it up.”

General Cordan inclines his head to Farfegnugen. In response, the lieutenant withdraws a small tablet and slides a green finger across the surface, then the lights go down. At the same time, a black lens about a foot in diameter descends from the ceiling. With another flick of a finger, a full-color projection of a three-dimensional building appears on the table. It’s a high-resolution rendering of the main hangar, complete with origin ring and perfect rows of aircraft. It’s marked in Skrawl text that blinks out and then turns into English, reading Deployment Operations Center, Terminal A3. Then I notice two hallways and secondary rooms, one to the north with the mess hall and armory, and another to the west with the maintenance hall.

“This shows where you have already been. Is that right?” Cordan asks.

I get the uneasy sense that I’m about to get schooled on something. Reluctantly, I concede. “That’s correct.”

With both hands up, the general pulls back with his right hand and pushes forward with the left. The movement is not more than a few inches at first, and the holographic rendering shrinks from three or four feet to three or four inches. Now the main hangar is but a tiny box connected by straw-like hallways to other boxes in a half-circle. And each spoke bears a number and letter designation.

“My God,” Hollywood says in a hushed tone.

Our hunches were right: there is Terminal A1 and A2. There are also Terminals B1 through B3. And then there are three terminals for every letter in the alphabet until the letter H. Eight main branches with three subdivisions each.

The general pushes his hand apart a little more, and our four-inch main hangar becomes the size of a sugar cube. Likewise, the half-circle’s becomes a full-fledged snowflake shape.

“You’re splicking kidding me right now,” Bumper says.

“This is the AE Deployment Operations Center,” General Cardon replies in a flat tone. He seems neither impressed nor condescending. I detect that he is truth-telling, nothing more. Then the man spreads his hands apart a little more, and the DOC shrinks yet again until the snowflake is no larger than a dime. Spread around it are domes like mounds of melting snowballs on a circular table, each with a number designation from one to ten.

I’m trying to process the map’s scale but guess I’m falling far short. The pit in my stomach has become a full-blown ache as the sheer scope of the enemy’s operation dawns on me. “Christ have mercy,” I mutter. Then I point toward one of the ten domes. “These here. What are they?”

“Merchandise Processing Facilities,” Cordan replies.

“Merchandise?” My eyes snap toward him. “As in, our people?”

“Among other civilizations, yes.” The general’s tone is dark. “Each MPF is dedicated to one particular harvest at a time, outfitted to maximize efficiency and minimize net losses.”

“One particular harvest at a time? You mean… a planet?”

Cordan shakes his head in grim acknowledgment. “One MPF, one planet.”

A heavy silence fills the conference room. The only things I hear are the subtle sounds of my people shifting in their seats or letting out long-held breaths.

“This is why you have so many different species in your organization here,” Hollywood says. “You’ve… recruited them just like you’re trying to do with us.”

“That is correct,” the general replies.

The fact the other species said yes to the general’s invite and signed on for the long game isn’t lost on me. But I’m not another species, and the threat against humanity is imminent. Hell, it’s beyond imminent.

“And this is happening right now,” I say as a statement, but could easily have said it as a question. “As we sit here. That’s”—I stab my finger at one of the mounds—“that’s where our people are?”

Cordan grunts. “MPF6.” At his words, one of the massive domed buildings to the west fills the table.

More silence fills the room as thoughts bounce around my head. We’ve got a decision to make—I’ve got a decision to make. I don’t have it all worked out yet. But I’ll be damned if I leave this planet without shoving my boot up at least one more plushy’s ass.

“Right there,” I say to Cordan at last. “MPF6. That’s where we need to go.”

“You… want to forego your dropship and be taken there?” Cordan looks at Insarka and then to Farfegnugen. He thinks we’re insane. And we probably are. I also assume that he thinks we’re desperate. And we’re every bit as much of that too.

“General. If we have any hope of stopping the Androchidan Empire from enslaving more of our people and rescuing those who’ve already been taken”—I raise my chin at the big domes—“then that’s where it’s gonna happen. And that’s where we need to get, with or without your help.” I square with the general and disturb the holo projection of MPF6 with my index finger. “We need to know everything you can tell us about that place.”

13

1850, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Command Conference Room

Exact Location Unknown

“I cannot in good conscience ferry you to your demise,” General Cordan says to us as the team stares at Merchandise Processing Facility Five. “All that awaits you there is death.”

“No offense, General,” Bumper says. “But pissing off death is our thing.”

Hearing the SEAL’s knee-jerk response lightens my mood. At least a little. Nothing like blatant grandstanding to get my warrior’s blood churning. Still, it’s probably premature. But if it gets the general here to give us more intel, grandstand all you like, Bumper.

“In that case, you will be walking into a planetary harvesting operation,” says Cordan as he rotates the complex’s depiction on the table. He makes another gesture, and the building’s top half becomes translucent, as do sections of each subsequent floor, giving us a glimpse of what lies inside. But without context or scale, I can’t be sure what we’re looking at.

“I’m sorry, general, but is there some way we can put scale to this? I think I speak for all our team when I say we’re having a hard time judging the size of this building.”

Cordan shakes his head and pinches something on the table in front of him. Then he lifts the imaginary item and releases it like it was a housefly. The projected object leaves his fingers and expands alongside MPF6.

“It is ruler,” Lada says.

“A map scale, actually,” Aaron corrects. “Showing X, Y, and Z values.”

Lada scrunches her nose at him but turns back to the display.

The rest of the team leans in to study the new tool as well.

“That can’t be right,” Aaron says. He adjusts his glasses and pushes himself out of his chair for a better view. “According to this, the building has a diameter of… just over fifty kilometers.”

“Is that big?” Z-Lo asks. “I don’t understand the alien’s number system.”

“Seriously, Z-Lo?” Hollywood tilts her head at him. “It’s the metric system, genius.”

“Yeah. Like I said, alien.”

“It’s thirty miles,” I say without looking away from the display.

Aaron looks from me to the general. “Surely there’s some sort of mistake.”

“There is no mistake,” Cordan replies evenly. He picks an imaginary mite off the table and lets it fly into the display. “Based upon what we know of your team, you have come from the eastern part of this continent.” A depiction of North America appears. The general rolls his hand until the map lays flat. At the same time that the US expands to take up the tabletop. Then he zooms in to a region around the greater New York City area and a light starts pulsing somewhere in North Jersey.

Hollywood points. “That looks like the Meadowlands.”

“You have a large people-gathering structure here,” Cordan says. He expands the map again until a football stadium appears.

“And that’s MetLife Stadium,” Bumper says.

“Based upon its dimensions, we calculate that a thousand of your MetLifes will fit in the footprint of MPF6.”

“Holy shit,” Hollywood blurts out.

The rest of the team exhales similar sentiments, but Aaron remains dead calm, his eyes taking in the scene with a cool academic analysis. “It makes sense,” he says at last.

“And how’s that?” I reply. “A facility of that scale?” But as soon as he replies, I can tell Aaron’s not really listening to me. He’s in his zone.

“When you get past the engineering problems as well as the construction and material costs, it all makes sense. How else would one civilization be able to adequately contain, sustain, and organize another civilization if not within a massive biodome suited for the slave species’ survival?”

Hollywood shifts in her seat and raises a hand. “Yeah, but what about—”

I gently push her arms back down and lean in. “This is gonna take him a minute. Just let him go.”

“It’s the only way to account for unsustainable differentiations in temperature, atmosphere, light—” He pauses and looks at the general. “Gravity?”

Cordan shakes his head in agreement.

“Ha!” Aaron leaves the table and starts pacing while running a hand through his hair. “They can’t have overcome their own planet’s gravity well, of course. But they could easily create sub-gravitational fields that supplement or augment baseline attraction.

“Then, with all the environmental attributes fixed, they need to define acceptable and unacceptable categorization fields. Candidates are analyzed, filtered, and collected. From there, it’s only a matter of general organism safety and proper nutrition before”—again, Aaron turns to the general—“they are shipped off-planet to consumers.”

“Is he feeling okay?” Hollywood whispers to me.

I nod, then say to the whole team, “Minus the sciency stuff, I think what Dr. Campbell just summarized is the production line of any mass-market item we’d buy at Costco.”

“Precisely,” Aaron replies.

“But you can’t physically create a building that big,” Hollywood says. “The laws of physics won’t—”

“Who’s laws of physics, Miss Catania?” Aaron interrupts. “Begging your pardon. Yours? Mine? Theirs? We don’t even know what galaxy—what universe we’re in right now. And even if all laws were equal, if they have the technology to transmit us through space-time, I don’t foresee constructing buildings the size of half the eastern seaboard to be the biggest mental hurdle to overcome.

“Remember the pyramids? Sure, modern skyscrapers rival them, pitifully so. And yet we still don’t know exactly how they were constructed given the technology of the day. But we do know they had both vast wealth and a limitless labor force, relatively speaking.” Aaron rubs his hands together. “No, plausibility and feasibility are not the most substantial puzzles here.”

“And what is?” I ask for everyone’s benefit.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

When no one dares answer the animated doctor, I incline my head. “Better elaborate for us, Aaron.”

“The energy.” He looks around. “The power. The… the sheer raw ability to make the very fabric of space-time bend to your will and then sustain this massive undertaking is… well it’s…”

“Beyond the realm of this reality,” General Cordan says.

It’s all a little too mystical for my liking.

Aaron nods. “Yes, general. At least as far as it concerns our… human understanding of a unified theory of the universe.”

I look between the two men. “Either of you care to explain?”

“I would if I could, Pat,” Aaron replies. “But this one’s out of my purview.”

I look to the general and watch as he laces his fingers together and sits back.

“You are right to want more information regarding how all this”—he motions are the display—“is powered. But the direct answer is beyond the scope of this meeting.”

“So you won’t tell us,” I say in a tone that’s stern enough to be taken as an accusation.

“Oh, it’s not that I won’t tell you, Patrick-Wic. It’s that I can’t tell you.”

“As in, you don’t know.”

He shakes his head once to confirm—still weird.

“You’ll forgive me, sir, if I find that hard to believe.”

“Because I am Androchidan, you assume that I know the inner workings of all our technologies?” He leans toward me. “Tell me, Patrick-Wic, did you understand all of what your teammate just said when describing the MFP composition?”

I wanna tell this general where he can stick his question. But now’s not the time, and we need answers not pushback. “No. I didn’t.”

Cordan seems appeased by my answer. “Just because we are powerful does not mean we are likewise all-knowing.”

“Fair enough. But I would expect a leader in your position to have at least some understanding of this thing that’s ‘beyond the realm of this reality.’ Even I know a thing or two about nuclear-powered warships in our military, but I’m no engineer.”

Cordan looks at Insarka for a moment. But not Farfegnugen. That’s interesting. When Insarka nods at him, the general turns back to me. “It is called the Unity of all things. A realm beyond the realms. Scientists say it is an energy source. Fanatics believe it is the fabric that binds all that is known. Still, others claim it is the very life force of the gods and make a religion of it. As far as it concerns you, however, it is that which makes the connection points between our two worlds a reality, and nothing more.”

“The Unity,” Aaron says in a whisper.

“I knew it,” Z-Lo says in excitement. “The Force is real, bro!”

“Hey, cool it.” I look back at the general. “There’s nothing more because you don’t know? Or because you won’t tell us.”

Cordan’s lips tighten.

I can’t tell if it’s a smile, or an expression of having his patience tried.

“I am a former military commander turned leader on an underground mission to destabilize and undermine the very empire I was raised in,” the general says. “Were I an expert on the Unity, I would be elsewhere, employing means besides energy weapons and spies to accomplish our goals.”

“If this has been going on since he was a kid, maybe he should explore his options,” Hollywood says just loud enough for me to hear it.

I give her a short and irritated shake of my head.

“In any event,” the general says. “You need the energy that the AE employs. If there is an exploit in the system, it is not the Unity you seek.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Hollywood says. “Take the battery from the Energizer Bunny’s back, and the drum stops beating.”

Aaron clears his throat. “It also terminates life support, gravity conditioning, and probably any chance of getting humanity back through the rings.” He turns to the general. “Correct?”

“Absolutely. Right now, the enemy is not technology. It is, however, the hand on the plow. And if you truly wish to embark on your own, then I would suggest you cut that hand. While I admire your passion, I hope you understand the magnitude of what you are facing.”

I take a deep breath, look around the table once, and then turn back to the general. “We do. And we’re grateful for your insight.” I point to the model of MFP6. “And does the Blood Guard have forces embedded here?”

The folds of skin above and below Cordan’s eyes close in so that his eyes seem to narrow. “Why?”

“That's a lot of ground to cover, and if we partner for this it could benefit both of—”

Cordan’s fist comes down on the table and makes the holographic display shudder. “There is no partnership. Only information, resupply, and transportation. If you are not working with us, you are a liability to our ongoing work.”

Insarka offers something in Skrawl to Cordan. A moment passes before the general’s shoulders relax. Apparently, she has some sway with him after all.

“My apologies for my outburst,” Cordan says. “But you have your answer. Choose your location and the time, and we will see to your safe and swift arrival.”

“Our thanks, General.” I nod at the image again. “Any chance you could provide us with a copy of this schematic along with any areas you think are of strategic importance? It will aid us in choosing a destination more quickly.”

“I can, yes.”

“Thank you.”

Cordan forces a blast of air through his tiny nostrils as he stands. “A strange thing to be thankful for.”

“Oh?” I get up and motion for the rest of Phantom Team to do the same. “And why’s that?”

“We will be ushering you to your deaths, Patrick-Wic.” The general smoothes his uniform and raises his chin. “First Lieutenant Farkoo Tersmik will see to your medical needs, as well as nutrients and a place to rest for the night.”

Farkoo. That’s the guy’s name.

“Likewise, Second Lieutenant Insarka Kindesh will see to your arms and armor, as well as any other additional supplies you may require.”

“Again, we’re grateful, General.”

He nods, probably in disbelief, judging by his tone. “So swift to meet their end. So keen to die.” And with that, the general leaves his place at the table and strides out of the room.

“Come,” Insarka says. “We… get you… ready to die.”

Well isn’t that quaint.

14

1915, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters

With the meeting adjourned, I order Hollywood, Aaron, Vlad, and Lada to go with Farkoo to secure quarters and food for the entire team. Meanwhile, Bumper, Z-Lo, and I will follow Insarka to the compound’s armory. From there, the plan is for the team to rendezvous with Yoshi and Ghost when we’re finished with our respective errands. But given the extent of Yoshi’s injuries, I’m not sure using them as a meet point is the best idea. Farkoo assured me, however, that it wouldn’t be long. I find that hard to imagine, given how we left Yoshi, but hey, in Oz all things are possible, right?

Before leaving, Insarka and Farkoo give each of us an oxygen injection like the one I had earlier, allowing us to move through the headquarters complex without our helmets. Despite the pain I know is coming, I insist the whole team get stuck. The way I see it, this Blood Guard organization needs to get a good look at the sons of bitches who are choosing to bring the heat to the slavers attacking our planet. Not saying that other species haven’t or aren’t. But if what the general said was true, and we are the first representatives from a targeted planet to make it through an origin ring like we did, then I want people to know how humans fight. I want them to see our faces and remember what happened with the enemy who screwed with us.

After exiting the command theatre—a location I have a whole new appreciation for, given the magnitude of the AE’s operations and the general’s covert affairs—Hollywood’s team heads left in the arboretum while we head right.

As weird as it sounds, I find myself missing Chuck’s running commentary. I don’t know how much he’d know about this place or remember about these other alien species—hell, he could have been deployed against each one of them and not know it. But in his absence, I’ve noticed that having the little bastard around has helped the strangeness of this whole damn escapade seem a little more… I dunno… normal.

God, would you listen to me? I am waxing sentimental about an alien AI who sounds like John Cleese and has become a freaking security blanket. I need something to eat and a place to sleep before I think anything else I’ll regret.

“Please,” Insarka says without the use of her helmet or a collar translator. “This way.”

We follow her into a tunnel that takes us away from the main arboretum. The vaulted space is four levels high and has amber colored light tiles along the ceiling. Or, maybe they’re skylights, now that I think about it. Lush greenery flows from each balcony and descends like waterfalls to the main floor. Curious faces, mostly Androchidan, peer over ledges and through windows set back on the lower landings. There are even children cradled in arms, and adolescents pausing from games to examine us. I’m wondering if Hollywood is having some of the same encounters.

“They have… never… seen humans,” Insarka says as we continue down the corridor. “You are… appealing.”

“I’m happy our outlandish looks amuse them,” I say, still wary of all the attention we’re getting. But, again, it sure as hell beats getting shot at in the maintenance hangar. “I’m only sorry we’re not prettier specimens.”

“Speak for yourself,” Z-Lo says.

“No way, hotshot,” Bumper says. “If anyone’s not making the cut here, it’s you, kid.”

“You making fun of my boxing and wrestling injuries?’ Cause I’ll show you how I got ’em.”

“You’ve got stones, kid.” Bumper holds up a hand. “I’ll pass.”

“Yeah.” Z-Lo sniffs. “Thought so.”

I pull the kid aside. “He’s passing so you don’t get embarrassed, ya know.”

“I can take him,” Z-Lo says in a whisper.

I shake my head ever so slightly.

“I can’t take him?”

I shake it again.

“Well, shit.”

“Please,” Insarka says. “Move this way.”

The tunnel T’s and we hang another right before entering a low-ceilinged corridor that appears cut into the side of a rockface. I still can’t get a sense of where we are relative to the planet’s surface, but if Terminal A3 is a long elevator ride below us, I have to imagine we’re as near to whatever surface this planet has as we’ve been yet.

Inside this new tunnel, the air smells of sulfur, and the temperature has increased too. Gone are the soft amber lights, replaced with red recessed sockets in the ceiling. And in the distance, I make out what sounds like heavy machinery pounding away inside a warehouse.

“Somebody’s busy,” Bumper says and then tips his head toward a set of metal doors with interconnected square-tooth edges.

“And heavily guarded,” I reply.

Insarka shakes her head and then suddenly changes directions in what feels like an attempt to mimic our body language. “It is… our armory.”

“Two in one day.” I give the doors an impressed look. “Not bad.”

Insarka pulls a small tablet from the fold of her cloak and presses the screen. A moment later, the doors begin grinding apart, accented by ear-splitting squeals. Through the ever-widening slit, Bumper and I lean toward one another, with Z-Lo peeking over our shoulders, to see a massive cave filled with industrial equipment busy crafting what I can only assume are the tools of war. Smelters pour streams of liquid fire into molds. Giant stamp machines pound away at materials passed along conveyor belts. And fountains of sparks explode inside temporary orbs of blue light.

The scene takes me right back to the chaos and heat of the Androchidan armory; only this space is far larger and more active. It’s also filled with bots. From monitoring assembly lines to carrying crates of scrap metal, androids seem to be running this place.

“Looks fully automated,” I say as we follow Insarka inside. “Impressive.”

“It is… not fully automated.” Insarka points to a collection area at the far end of one of the assembly lines. Standing beside racks of slowly rotating display shelves is a shirtless, heavily muscled Androchidan in oil-stained bib overalls with a bandage around his head.

It looks just like…

Ah, crap.

My heart double-times in my chest, and I reach for Chuck.

But Insarka grabs my arm. “He is not your enemy.”

“You know him, Master Guns?” Z-Lo asks.

I nod and fight to recall his name. “Yrag. He’s Terminal A3’s Chief Armorer. But…” I glance at Insarka. “A double agent?”

She gives me an awkward nod, trying her best with our meaning for the gesture. “Double… agent. Come.”

So that’s why he spared my life. He’s a slave sympathizer. I almost feel bad for nearly breaking his neck, but the guy still pulled a weapon on me. And, like it or not, he’s Androchidan. Sure, my bias has thinned a little since then. But I met Yrag right after witnessing the mess hall, so, yut. He had it coming.

Yrag glances up from a tray of duradex knives as we approach. He sees Insarka first, and then a strange look passes over his face when he notices me. Granted, I’m hardly an expert in Androchidan mannerisms, so any expression is strange. But in this case, I feel like the barrel-chested armorer recognizes me.

Insarka speaks in Skrawl, and Yrag snaps his attention to her. He says something back and then removes one of the collar translators from his pocket and clips it onto his left suspender.

“We meet again, human male,” Yrag says through a collar translator.

I nod, unsure exactly what kind of reunion this is going to be. “Last I saw you, they were hauling ya out on a stretcher.”

“No thanks to you.” Yrag reaches back and rubs the base of his neck. “I could have killed you, you know.”

“And I’m grateful you didn’t.”

“Were you not the least bit curious why I put your helmet back on?”

I clear my throat. “It crossed my mind, yut. But I’m sure you understand my…”

Yrag waves a hand. “I understand, human male. There is no offense. But the memory will not leave me. So if you ever turn your back, be mindful.”

I shoot Insarka a sideways look.

She only shrugs and tips her head back to Yrag.

“I’ll be mindful,” I reply.

Standing here face to face with Yrag is a strange experience. To go from mortal enemies to quasi allies in the span of an hour or two is weird enough. But there’s something about the man that seems out of place. Granted, I’m no expert on anything Androchidan, but his Skrawl doesn’t seem like Insarka’s or the others. My first thought is that maybe the aliens have accents like we do. Hell, perhaps they have different dialects entirely, like the difference between English and Chinese. Whatever the case may be, however, Yrag here is different.

“Can I ask how you managed to get from…” The words elude me only because I’m making assumptions on the fly. “…from the enemy’s infirmary to here?”

Yrag tilts his head at me as if weighing whether or not to answer the question. “I passed inspection and was free to resume my duties after interrogation.”

“They questioned you?”

“Of course.”

I sense some unease in my gut. “And what did you tell them?”

“That humans have infiltrated Karkin Four, and the AE should detonate your planet before the empire is overrun.”

There’s a solid three-count where I think this guy’s lost his mind and needs to be shot in the head. And then it hits me. “You’re lying.”

Yrag’s lips tighten. “Yes, human male. I am lying.”

I like this one. Mildly sadistic, a dry sense of humor, and a lover of firearms. My kinda guy.

“They… need to be… resupplied,” Insarka says to the armorer, which serves to bring my thoughts back to the moment. She nods at Chuck on my back. “And… a special task.”

Realizing what she’s implying, I demag the busted rifle and bring him around—slowly. Yrag seems to stiffen at the action, and I have a flashback of his double-barrel pocket cannon. So I raise my other hand flat in a peace-making gesture.

“He took some damage in two different firefights.” I hand Chuck to Yrag, and the armorer takes to the rifle with immediate interest. “Not sure if you can repair him.”

“Him?” Yrag looks up. “Why do you say him?”

“I, uh…” I scratch my chin beard. “I just mean the personality profile.”

“You amended it?”

I’m not exactly sure what he means, but I’m guessing he’s not used to people giving their guns pronouns. “Something like that.”

Yrag gives a dissatisfied grunt and then takes Chuck to a workbench with a series of lights and magnifying glasses—only, I don’t see any glass. Just shimmering blue planes of light.

While Yrag looks Chuck over, I incline my head to Insarka. “Smart move, planting an insurgent as an armorer.”

Her lips tighten in what I’m learning is an Androchidan smile. “Good for intelligence. Also… sabotage. And Yrag is… master with devices. Many good reasons.”

After about a minute of inspection, Yrag says, “I can fix it. I will need some time. But it will be good as new and with a clean memory.”

“No!” I take a step forward and then force myself to breath once. “I mean, no, you don’t need to wipe its memory. I’m fine with it the way it is.”

“But that will only—”

“I said, it’s fine the way it is.”

Yrag creases his brow and looks to Insarka. But she doesn’t move, so the armorer relaxes his shoulders. “Very well. Give me two hours, maybe less.” Then he looks at Insarka. “What else do they require?”

“Full… battle rattle,” she says, and then looks to me as if for approval.

I’m not sure where this alien female is getting her English from, but it’s working. Hell, that was downright heartwarming. I give her a thumbs-up. “We’ll take it.”

“Good.” She nods again, apparently getting more comfortable with the motion. “Please give Yrag… list. He will see… and fulfill all.”

“Works for me.” Then I look at Bumper and Z-Lo.

The SEAL smiles and cracks his knuckles. “Let’s get it on.”

“Totally, bro,” Z-Lo says. “I’ve got good vibes on this one.”

* * *

Over the next twenty minutes, Yrag leads us through rows of finished weapons and armor. Unlike the neat rows of lockers in the AE’s armory, the cave’s final products are scattered across a myriad of shelves and loosely organized display cases. It feels more like a market bizarre than a bank vault. And yet each weapon tray is lined with black fabric, giving the enclosed instruments a sense of immense value. It almost feels like finding diamonds in a seedy section of the city but overseen by the watchful eyes of a master.

In fact, as I start to examine the weapons, I realize they look to be in pristine condition and bear details I haven’t noticed on our other rifles and pistols. Weapon receivers have additional armor plating, scopes are less bulky and feel more integrated, and the knives have intricate scrollwork on the blades. Even the armor plates I touch seem to be made of a denser material than the ones we’re wearing. And lighter too. I’d call it Kevlar meets carbon fiber, but the swirling patterns seem way more intricate—like frost forming on New England windowpanes.

“Here.” Yrag steps beside me and holds a portable magnifier over a chest plate. He begins clicking through magnification settings, and the tool whines with every new jump toward the material’s composition. “There. You see?”

Yrag passes me the magnifier, revealing a microscopic level of detail that makes me catch my breath. Individual strands of green filament crisscross one another to form miniature geodesic domes.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Then I step aside to let Bumper have a look.

“Day-um.”

“It is my own design,” Yrag says. “Very strong. Very light. And it saves lives.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I glance at Insarka. “This stuff for us?”

She looks at Yrag and then back to me. “Normally, no. But for Patrick-Wic… and for your… whole team, yes.”

I raise an eyebrow at Bumper and the kid, then lower my voice. “Something tells me we might be getting a little more than the standard treatment.”

“Fine with me,” Bumper says.

“Me too,” adds the kid.

I’m on a weapons shopping spree twice in the same day, and damn does it feel good. Only this time, not only are their bots pushing fabric-lined hover trays around for me, but Bumper and I are getting the guided tour from the smithy himself. People all have their things, I know. But for gear heads like us, this is tantamount to two kids getting a tour of the North Pole with Santa Clause as guide.

As we move through the armory, I notice that Yrag walks differently than Insarka or Farkoo. Again, I could just be oblivious to the infinite variations of their species. Or maybe the poor bastard’s got a bad back or was born with a short leg. Hell, maybe his speech and weird way of walking is because I struck him in the back of the skull—that might explain everything. But somehow, I don’t think that’s it. Call it a sixth sense. Yrag here is a strange bird.

After examining and selecting more modified SR- and ASS-CHKs, I ask, “There any chance I could get one of those tri-barrel grenade launchers?” I’m not sure my description is accurate enough for Yrag to know what I’m talking about, so I thumb toward Insarka for emphasis. “Like hers?”

“You mean the Riznor Vintax?”

“The what-what?” I look to Insarka and gesture to my collar as a reference point. “I think his translator didn’t pick that up right.”

“Translator good, Patrick-Wic,” she replies. “This is name… of deadly three-legged arachnid. Sprays exploding venom.”

I see Bumper raise an eyebrow. “And where do these suckers live?”

“Androchida Prime.” As if sensing his hesitation, she adds, “You are safe here.”

“Ah.” He swallows. “Cool, cool, cool.”

I dip my head toward Insarka. “We call your big gun an GL84.”

“Why?”

“It a grenade launcher, and the closest thing I’ve seen to an eighty-four millimeter round.”

Both Insarka and Yrag seem to accept this without further discussion.

“I do not believe that the jee’ell eight teal four will be a wise choice for your mission,” Yrag says in a translation fail.

While I’m disappointed in his assessment, I’m more intrigued by how he knows what he knows. “And what is our mission?”

“Covert infiltration and sabotage, yes?” He looks to Insarka, but she says nothing. “In which case, stealth seems more appropriate.” Yrag walks to a metal shelving unit with three trays of cylindrical devices like the ones I witnessed Insarka’s people using to create a screen for us. He grabs one and tosses it to me.

“Whaddya call it?”

“A Frequency Disruption Grenade,” Yrag replies.

“And here I was hoping for another mutant killer spider name,” Z-Lo says with a chuckle.

I examine the grenade and notice it has several buttons, LEDs, and a display panel. Pretty high tech for something that’s gonna get blown apart. “What’s it do?”

“It disrupts all radiation waves,” Yrag replies. “Much like the emission disruptor on your SR-CHK. You are aware of the rifle’s feature?”

I think back to the times that Chuck covered our asses on Earth. “Yut. I’m acquainted.”

“It is like this, but broader, more robust. Smoke impairs visuals. Rapid increase in temperature disrupts thermal sensitivity. And ultrasonic emitters disrupt sound waves. It is next to impossible for anyone to establish a target lock on anyone behind the screen. Very effective.”

“But you didn’t seem to have a problem,” Bumper says to Insarka. “Found us just fine.”

Yrag jumps in to answer first. “Did you notice how the smoke shimmered?”

I nod. “We did.”

“Electromagnetic element resonators. Particles within the field frequency hop in time with sensors on helmets. Everything is proprietary, of course. But any helmets encoded to the FDG will still detect visible light, heat, and sound.”

I pass the device to Bumper and then smile at Yrag. “We’ll take ’em. How about that fancy shield you used on me back at the armory?”

“Fancy shield?”

Insarka says something to Yrag, to which the armorer raises a fat finger in recognition. “This way.”

We walk to another row of shelving units, and the burly Androchidan hands me the equivalent of a silver baseball. Instead of white leather and red stitches, the device has metal panels and LEDs. “Personal shield generator.” He taps the device for emphasis. “Up to two minutes on its smallest radius. The larger you expand it, the shorter the duration. It will stop most incoming energy rounds from small arms and standard rifles while still allowing the user to fire through the field. Very advantageous.”

“I can see that.” Again, I pass the device to Bumper for inspection.

He rolls it over in his hands a few times but seems to be growing anxious. “These are great defensive tools, but do you have anything else that can go boom that’s not your Rancor Vanity Tacks?”

“Riznor Vintax,” Yrag corrects.

“Yeah, that.”

The armorer rubs his chin. After a thought-filled moment passes, he says, “You want mobile boom-boom.”

“Mobile boom-boom is perfect.”

“Come with me.”

We follow Yrag down the aisle until we reach some sort of safe. It’s black and looks heavily shielded. He holds a hand over a small screen and then leans into it, using the rest of his body as a shield—a man who appreciates his privacy as well as his weapons’ security. I can get behind both of those. He probably gets called paranoid back here too, what with working by himself and all these bots. But the deeper we’ve come into his lair, the more I’ve realized he’s not paranoid.

He’s prepared.

When Yrag swings the heavy metal door out, Bumper leans across me to spy in. Then all four of us step through a narrow entryway that leads to a white-floored, white-ceilinged clean room with shelves upon shelves of various sized devices.

“I don’t know what any of this splick does, but I like it already,” Bumper says.

Yrag invites Bumper to pick up a greenish-gray brick that looks a lot like C4. Unlike the plastic explosive, however, this block’s edges seem incredibly crisp. It also has a digital display pad pressed into one side.

“We call this God Cake,” Yrag says.

“Hell, yeah ya do,” Bumper says, as if already sensing the weapon’s potential. “What’s it do?”

“Well, the more proper name is variable integration polymer explosive type-R. Place it on any surface, select the time to detonation, and then set the desired depth.”

Bumper gives Yrag a confused look. “Why depth?”

“The explosive compound integrates itself with any physical material and will extend into the composition as far as you prescribe. There is a compromise, of course: blast radius for distance penetration. But your rifle’s AI will help prescribe the right setting based upon your desired outcome.”

“Ho-ly shit,” Bumper says as he tosses the brick in his hand a few times. “Variable integration polymer explosive type-R, how I love you.”

“VIPER,” Z-Lo says. “Nice acronym.”

Yrag tightens his lips in a smile. “Then, over here, you have something new I have been working on. It’s only in the test phase, but with Insarka’s permission, I’ll be happy to give you some samples, so long as you report back on your experiences.”

“God, I love my job,” Bumper says to no one in particular.

Yrag picks up another metal baseball looking device, only this one is a touch smaller and seems to have a few more bells and whistles than the portable shield generators. “I call it a variable ordinance device.”

“VOD.” Bumper takes the offered item. “I like it.”

“You are no doubt familiar with a standard fragmentation grenade, I assume.”

“Sure am, Arms.”

“Arms?” Yrag casts Bumper a curious look.

“Looks like you got yourself a nickname,” the kid says to Yrag.

“Nickname?”

Insarka speaks up and does some interpreting, I’m guessing, ’cause a beat later, Yrag nods and repeats the term. “Nickname. I understand.” Then he turns back to the VOD in Bumper’s hand. “This too has explosive capabilities. However, you can also select”—Yrag reaches out and starts cycling through a small menu with a thumb pad as he narrates—“stun, crowd deterrent, smoke, or sonic assault. It also has a sentry mode for time, motion, vibration, or thermal activation.”

Bumper lets out a whistle. “Wic, I think I’m in love.”

“Is he crying?” Z-Lo whispers to me.

I laugh and put a hand on Bumper’s shoulder. “Want me to break the news to Hollywood?”

He shoots me a concerned look—as if the two of them are somehow a secret. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a thing.”

He gives me a wide grin.

“This is all your stuff?” Z-Lo asks the armorer. “Your designs?”

“Not all mine, no. The species that the Androchidans stole this technology from should claim rights. But the creative license to expound is my own, yes.”

“I really like this guy, Wic,” Bumper says with a tilt of his head. “Think we can bring him home?”

“Something tells me the dating pool might be a bit shallow for him,” I reply.

“Nah. Just gotta get him in the right scene.”

At that moment, a chime from a device in Insarka’s small-lobed ear interrupts our conversation. She taps the device and begins speaking in Skrawl. A few seconds later, she taps the communicator again and then turns to me. “Your injured members are ready to see you,” she says in her fastest formed sentence yet. “It is best that we finish here… and then be on our way.”

Damn. Already? I glance at my watch. That was fast. Or maybe it’s just pre-op. Either way, I thank Insarka for the update and then hit Bumper on the shoulder. “No time for gift wrapping, I’m afraid.”

“You do not need to… take anything with you now,” Insarka says. “Yrag will make sure that all… items are delivered to… your quarters.”

“Room service too?” Bumper presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and gives a subtle shake of his head, eyes closed. “God, could I get used to this place.”

I look to Yrag before leaving. “Thanks for your hospitality, Arms. I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”

“My pleasure, Patrick-Wic,” he replies. “And I’m glad I didn’t shoot you in the head. That would have been inconvenient to clean up.”

I laugh. “Happy to oblige.”

“Come,” Insarka replies. “It is time we move.”

15

2015, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Infirmary

As crunchy granola as the rest of the complex is, the infirmary is the epitome of sterility and organization. The gleaming white hallways, rounded corners, and tinted glass windows across doorways, viewports, and cabinets make me feel like I’m in some futuristic starship’s med bay than buried underground.

Insarka leads us past one room after another, each containing an alien species of various sorts. I do my best to keep my eyes forward, not wishing to disturb patient privacy by being “that guy” who gawks at everyone. But even I can’t resist the six-year-old-kid curiosity bottled up inside me that wants to steal glances at the strange creatures behind the glass.

“You okay there, Wic?” Hollywood says as she comes around a corner. The rest of the team is with her in some sort of waiting area.

I pretend like I am rubbing my eye. “Oh, sure. Just, uh… you know.”

“Sneaking peeks at the freak show?”

I let out a small laugh. “Something like that.”

“Yeah. Me too. Makes you wonder though…”

“What’s that?”

“With all these different biologies, these medics gotta be something else.”

I pause in consideration of her assessment. “That’s not a bad point, Hollywood.”

“I know.” She smiles and then gives me a wink.

“You secure quarters?”

“And food,” she replies. “Not half bad either.”

“The food?”

“Both. It’s a good setup.”

I nod in a small show of surprise appreciation. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Just then, I feel something brush along my shoulder. “They are waiting for you this way.” Insarka steps past us and walks toward a corner room.

When she approaches the tinted floor-to-ceiling glass wall, it slides away to reveal Ghost and Yoshi sitting upright in comfy looking hospital beds. They’re wearing some white Spandex-like wraps around their chests and under their arms with no traces of bleeding, bandages, or other medical support devices. I don’t even see an IV.

As Phantom Team walks in, everyone’s attention seems primarily concerned with Yoshi. But the PJ looks good. Hell, he looks great. I’m apprehensive about breathing a sigh of relief so soon, but all the evidence seems to point to him being all systems go.

Bumper’s the first to walk to Yoshi’s bedside. “How ya feeling, champ?”

Yoshi smiles. “Like I’m sixteen and my mom just let me sleep in for a week. A little groggy, but feels awesome.”

“So your procedure’s done then?” I ask Yoshi and then turn to Insarka and Farkoo for confirmation.

“Yes, Patrick-Wic,” Farkoo replies, but he seems to have a confused look about him. “Do bodies take longer to heal on your planet?”

Well that’s kind of a weird way to phrase a question. I glance at Yoshi, still unsure of what the diagnosis is—or was. “Depends on the injury. What was done for them?”

“Your man Yoshi was shot three times and sustained serious cardiovascular, pulmonary, and circulatory damage.” Farkoo pauses and then seems to have a new idea. “Given your people’s use of projectile weapons, I imagine you are unaccustomed to energy casualties. Is that correct?”

“Yut, you could say that.”

Farkoo nods and then taps his fingers on a seemingly blank part of the wall behind Yoshi’s head. The lights above the PJ’s bed dim, a dark black lens drops from the ceiling, and an orange wireframe of Yoshi’s body appears three feet over the bed. Farkoo turns to the rendering, and, like General Cordan did with the table map, he pushes one hand forward and pulls the other back. However, instead of zooming out, the action separates all of Yoshi’s vital systems into their sections, spread across the room. What’s even more fascinating is that the orange lines seem to be moving—or, maybe flowing is a better description—like there’s energy moving within them.

“This is being very strange hospital,” Lada says as she lifts her arms and starts backing out of what appears to be a projection of Yoshi’s nervous system.

Just then, three columns of blue light appear like cylinders stuck in Yoshi’s body. Each system shows the columns in roughly the same place, but wherever the blue light intersects with the orange system lines, the energy stops flowing.

Farkoo points to where Z-Lo is standing, right in the middle of a circulatory rendering. “These blue sections represent the damage done by the blaster energy. Unlike projectile damage, which breaks open closed systems and causes victims to bleed out, as you say, energy damage cauterizes systems networks.” He points to a section of veins in Yoshi’s stomach. “Blood flow is cut off.” He indicates the rendering near Lada. “Nerves are severed. Tissue is scarred. Joints are sliced from bone, tendons from muscle, and skin from flesh.”

As Farkoo speaks, the digital renderings follow his descriptions like actors playing out a script. Muscles start twitching, nerves sparking, and veins bulging. Even an image of Yoshi’s heart starts spasming.

“Victims do not worry about bleeding out,” Farkoo continues. “They fear for shutting down. A heart that cannot pump to a leg not only fails to supply nutrients to the limb but becomes overworked as it tries to force blood where it can no longer travel. Eventually, the leg dies, but not before the heart expires from stress.”

The image of Yoshi’s heart develops a tear and seizes, resembling a baseball with threads pulling apart along a seam. I’m not sure this software has human anatomy down pat, but it makes me not want to get hit by a blaster bolt. It also makes me wonder if Farkoo is enjoying this somehow, because his voice keeps rising.

“Between organ strain and the loss of resources, the body eventually succumbs to the twisted twin sisters of over-function and under-function simultaneously.”

“’Cause that’s not creepy or anything,” Hollywood whispers.

“I’m sure it’s just a translation issue,” Aaron says from beside her.

I frown at him. “Or not.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Z-Lo says as he starts looking for a garbage can.

I catch a smile creep at the corners of Farkoo’s mouth a split second before the lights come up. “Had you not brought us Yoshi when you did, I fear he would have been lost forever.”

Farkoo certainly has a flair for the dramatic, that’s for sure.

“Well, we’re grateful for your expert medical care,” I say.

“Not mine. The doctors’. Your men were only my charges during your absence.”

“Either way, thanks.”

The Androchidan holds a fist to his chest and bows slightly.

I turn to Yoshi. “You feeling good enough to get outta here?”

“Hell yeah, Master Guns.”

I glance at Ghost. “And you?”

“Mine wasn’t anything more than some broken ribs and minor internal bleeding. Feeling good.”

I turn back to Farkoo. “Thanks for all your help, Lieutenant.”

“Again, the pleasure is mine. Come, allow me to return you all to your quarters.”

“And I will say goodbye.” Insarka places a hand on her chest and bows—maybe even a little deeper than Farkoo did. “It is has been… a pleasure.”

With the way she’s talking, I’m getting the picture that this is farewell, so I put my hand out. “Thanks for saving our asses back there, Lieutenant. We’re all grateful.”

Insarka seems unsure about shaking my hand, but finally relents. Her skin feels cool and rough. “I am happy… that you are all okay.” She lets go abruptly and then turns toward the door without saying another word.

* * *

Reunited once again, Phantom Team makes its way through the Blood Guard’s headquarters’ lush labyrinthian tunnels. I take the opportunity to hang toward the right of the column to catch up with Hollywood.

“Anything I need to know about?” I ask in a low tone.

“Farkoo seems a little… different,” she says, nodding toward the man at the head of the line. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve met a whole lot of these freaks. Just saying. Maybe it’s a gut thing.”

“I picked that up too.”

“But he’s been helpful and attentive. Got us squared away. You’ll see.”

“Roger.”

“How ’bout you guys?” she asks with a flick of her head to Bumper and Z-Lo.

“Got us some nice new armament. You’ll like it.”

“Sweet.”

“I also linked back up with my old friend, the Chief Armorer of Terminal A3.”

“What?” Hollywood’s eyes are wide with surprise. “How?”

“Apparently he moonlights as a spy when he’s not making custom weapons and repairs.”

“Huh. Go figure.” She pauses. “But I thought you killed him.”

“So did I. But he passed muster and was free to go after a little interrogation.”

“And he kept his mouth shut about discovering you?”

I smile as I think back to his initial response. “Yut. Seems he can be trusted. At least for the time being.”

Hollywood nods, but the action dissolves into something less sure.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Nah.” I grab her elbow and force her to slow down a little. “Yeah, fine doesn’t fly with me, Hollywood. Spit it out.”

She works her jaw a little and then tucks some hair behind her ear. “All this doesn’t feel a bit off to you, Wic?”

I let out a barely audible laugh. “The whole thing’s a head trip if you ask me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She shakes her head and lowers her voice. “The general. The schematics. The weapons, supplies, medical care. Doesn’t it feel… I dunno… like it’s way too convenient?”

“You think they’re using us,” I state.

She gives me a half-smile as if she doesn’t want to believe her own suspicions, but in the end she can’t go against her own gut. “Yeah. I do. I mean, if you were the head of the US military and some enslaved faction came to you looking to partner up, and then you realized they could do something for you all while making it appear like you’re the good guy, wouldn’t you?”

“Yut. It’s called politics and management.”

“And isn’t that what’s going on here? For all we know, we’re a canary in a coal mine to them. And as long as it helps the greater good, they’re okay with it. Hell, we’ve asked for it—they don’t even have to feel bad.”

Being skeptical fits Hollywood’s M.O. She’s naturally suspicious and a good leader with strategic insight. That said, being overly cautious can paralyze a leader. So you learn to manage risks and make the best of what you got.

“I think we’re walking into a shitstorm,” she adds.

“I kinda figured we were anyway. Didn’t you?”

“A shitstorm of our own making? Yeah. I can live with that. But knowing that somebody has more intel on an op but chooses not to share it with us just because we aren’t a part of the big picture?” She pulls her bottom lip in and moves her head back and forth. “I’m tired of being somebody else’s pawn, Wic. ’Cause as a sergeant, you know that’s all I’ve ever been.”

“Roger.” I notice we’ve fallen pretty far behind, so I motion Hollywood forward and pick up the pace. “Listen, we’re gonna be watched. We can’t help that. But we also have to accept the aid we’re given, because without it, we’re not getting very far. Plus, they’ve given us some good reasons to trust them. So that’s what I need you to do. Copy?”

“Yeah. I copy.”

“If you see something, bring it up. But otherwise, I need your eyes focused downrange.” Which reminds me of something from my youth. “There’s an old scripture that says be wise as a serpent but harmless as a dove.”

“Well that sounds like a load of crap.”

“It is. Until it’s time to bite.”

Hollywood laughs once. “Never mind. I like that version. You sure you weren’t supposed to be a priest?”

I wince at her. “You sharing notes with Yoshi?”

“What? No.” She shakes her head with a quizzical laugh. “Why?”

“No reason.”

As we catch back up with the rest of the column, I can’t help but feel grateful that Phantom Team has someone like Hollywood in its ranks, even if she’s being a bit overly cautious. Truth is, I could’ve met any number of combatants on Interstate 280 East two nights ago. Can think of plenty of men who would have made my skin crawl were I forced to be on a squad with them, and plenty more I would’ve up and walked away from, end of story. Instead, I met Hollywood and her badass attitude.

“What is it?” she asks.

Didn’t even notice I was laughing to myself. “I’m just glad you’re on our team, Sergeant.”

“Thanks.” She smiles. “Me too.”

16

2040, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Phantom Team Barracks

Despite this being an underground operation, I’m impressed with the quarters provided for our team. With the complex’s forest-like feel, my money was on some bivouacs and protein bars made of dried insects. Instead, we’ve got a dozen bunk beds inside a room with metal sidewalls and cave rock across the back. A slender metal picnic-style table sits in the far end, with an in-wall kitchen to the right and a door leading to showers and toilets to the left. Suspended white LEDs give the room its finishing touch, making the space a candidate for an IKEA catalog designed for vets. Combat chic, I think they’d call it. All it needs is a good espresso machine and gun cabinet. Though, from the looks of the bunks, they appear to have some slide-out storage for gear and weapons.

After removing our armor and under-suits and hitting the showers—where it was quite a fun show to watch Aaron squirm in the coed environment—we don our skivvies and cammies and then take a seat around the picnic table.

For grub, Farkoo had some people deliver trays of food that look almost good enough to eat. Half of it’s steaming, the other half cool to the touch. As for the delivery agents, I can’t tell if they’re privates or civilians, but they sure as hell ain’t Androchidan, nor are they human.

Content that he’s satisfied the general’s orders, Farkoo bows while the team sits down and then bids us a good night’s rest. I follow him back to the barrack’s entrance, which is when he turns and hands me a clear item the size of a credit card.

“For you, from General Cordan,” Farkoo says.

“MPF6?”

He nods. “Includes the General’s strategic points of interest, as you requested. You’ll find a slot reader on the wall. Manipulate with your hand like you observed us doing.”

“I’m grateful.” I wave the card in the air. “Tell him thanks.”

“I hope you find what you are looking for.”

“Me too.”

Farkoo bows again and then steps out.

I watch as the barrack’s doors slide shut behind him, and I listen for the sound of a locking mechanism. When I don’t detect anything, I wave my hand in front of the doors, and they spread apart. Which is good, cause if they had locked, there would have been hell to pay.

Farkoo turns around at the sound of the doors opening and gives me a surprised expression. He lowers a communication device and returns his collar translator against his throat. “Need something?”

“Just wanted to say good night one more time.” I wink.

Farkoo doesn’t seem to know what to do, so he offers a twitchy wave and then continues on his way. Curiously, he doesn’t bring the comms device back up. Which sets off my spidey senses a little.

I back away from the doors and let them slide shut before returning to the table.

“Anyone wanna guess what this one is?” Hollywood asks while pointing her alien version of a fork at a corner reservoir on her tray.

“Looks like blue corn,” Z-Lo replies.

“Only way to know is if it shows up in your crap tomorrow morning.” Bumper smiles and is the first to shovel a forkful into his mouth. He chews it and then says, “Needs salt.”

“You think it’s safe?” Aaron asks me.

I shrug as I sit at my place. “Safe enough. Farkoo said our bodies wouldn’t put up too much of a fuss.”

“Yeah.” Aaron stabs tentatively at a piece of steaming meat. “A lot of room for interpretation there.”

Lada, apparently unfazed by the prospect of alien fare, raises the meat slab to her lips and tears off a bite. She open-mouth chews it for a second, then swallows.

“And?” asks Aaron.

“Taste is like chickens,” Lada replies and then slaps Aaron on the back. “You like. Make you gain more kilos.”

The team chuckles and seems a little more relaxed about trying the alien dinner. We dig in and soon lose ourselves in the food. For a first meal on another planet, I have to say, it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

While everyone is eager to discuss what we’re gonna do next, I decline all inquiries until after chow time is finished. I feel like a parent telling the teens to sit down and enjoy the meal. I learned long ago that if all a unit does is talk mission, they’ll be the first to forget their humanity. Life in combat is a lot more than trigger pulling and target rushing. It’s about remembering to care for your soul, damned as they may be, and meals are some of the best places to do that, especially as a team.

“Last time you spit out a drink while laughing,” I say just before sticking a piece of the cooked meat in my mouth. “Go.”

“Watching Master Guns try to seduce the death angel,” Z-Lo says.

I glare at him. “Doesn’t count. You weren’t drinking anything.”

“He’s got you there, kid,” Bumper says.

There’s a chalky feel around the table as no one seems ready to jump in, so I decide to start the ball rolling myself.

“We had some boys fresh out of boot camp in the chow hall one time,” I say. “Not sure what it was like for you, but in my day, it was pretty common for Drill Instructors to make trainees flip their water glasses over when they were empty. So that’s in these boys’ heads, right?

“So I yell across the hall, ‘Hey, Private Bell. Turn those glasses upside down!’ And he does.” I pause and look around the table. “I take a sip of my coffee and watch as Bell pulls his glasses off his head, flips ’em over, and sticks ’em back on upside down. Corporal Bemis, who’d been sitting across from me, wore my coffee on his face for a full five seconds before grabbing a napkin.”

The team laughs, but it isn’t anything to write home about. And that’s by design. Nothing will shut down a group share like starting with the bar too high. Pacing is everything.

“I got one,” Z-Lo says. “Me and some of my boys back in San Diego used to meet up on the beach on the weeknights we knew the Po Pos wouldn’t be out on foot patrols. We were teens, drinking beers and stuff. So we’d sit on the beach and play truth or dare.”

“I am loving this game. Ha!” Vlad claps his hands. “Go more.”

The kid nods but seems a little annoyed by the interruption. “Right. So, one night I don’t wanna answer a question about… stuff. So they dare me to swim out fifty yards butt naked.”

“More favorite past time,” Vlad says to Z-Lo. “We are two pod peas, yes?”

Z-Lo gives the Russian an irritated look. “Sure. Anyway, I take off my clothes, run into the surf, and start swimming. But I don’t get ten yards before I’m freaking out, throwing my arms up and down and screaming. They all think I’m drowning, so they get up to try and rescue me. But by the time they enter the surf, I’m already back. I’m yelling, ‘It bit my willy!’ And then I try to show everyone the mark, but they can’t see straight because they’re all shooting beer out their faces.”

Phantom Team is laughing pretty hard, and Z-Lo seems to enjoy the love—albeit at his expense. Poor kid.

“They called me Fish Bait for the rest of the summer,” he adds, which sends the table over the edge. And I can already guess what Z-Lo’s getting called on the next op.

“That story still doesn’t count, kid,” Hollywood says as she wipes her eyes. “Wic asked for a story that made you spit something out, not your buddies.”

Z-Lo shrugs. “I’ll think of something.”

When the laughter finally subsides, Aaron waves the table in his direction. “One time, when I was matched against a particularly aggressive opponent, I walked on the court—”

Bumper interrupts him. “Basketball?”

“No.” Aaron gives him a confused and slightly annoyed look. “Squash.”

The confusion transfers from Aaron’s face to Bumper’s, and I try hard not to laugh because the Navy SEAL is slowly figuring out that the good doctor isn’t being sarcastic.

Aaron sets his fork down. “Anyway. This guy was a big deal back at Columbia during undergrad, right? And I must be pretty worked up for the match, because when he walks out to shake hands, he says, ‘I heard you’re not even gonna wear goggles for this.’ I’m mid-sip with my water bottle and spit a mouthful everywhere. Then I look at him, and I’m like, ‘Are you insane, man?’”

The rest of the table is dead silent while I’m hiding my face in my shoulder. The team’s waiting for a punchline that already came and went, and I’m not sure who I feel more pity for, my childhood pal or the Phantoms who have no idea what the hell he’s talking about.

“Is interesting story,” Lada finally says. “You win?”

Aaron pulls his head back. “No, that’s… not the point of… You don’t get it?” He looks around the table. “Play without eyewear? That’s like… completely unsafe.”

“You are such wild man,” Lada says with a hand on her hip.

“We got it.” I wink at Aaron. “Someone else?”

“I have,” Lada says. She swallows her last piece of meat and wipes her mouth. “There is one times when I play favorite American card fishing game.”

“American card fishing game?” Hollywood asks. “Do you mean Go Fish?”

“Yes. This is game. Is Bratva favorite. So, I am play game and say to Boris, ‘Boris. Are you having any sevens?’ He say, ‘No. Do fishings.’ But I know Boris is lying, so I stab him in leg with knife.”

Everyone but Vlad and Ghost is staring at her with wide eyes.

“I’m not sure that’s the kind story Wic was going for, Lada,” Hollywood says. “He was asking for something funny.”

“I am not at funny punching line yet. Funny part is Boris was telling truth! He did not have any of sevens. Ha-ha!”

Half the team’s expressions are mortified. I think it’s safe to say that everyone’s gonna think twice before playing cards with her.

“Remind me to wear protective eyewear when we play cards,” Aaron says.

Well that was subtle. Maybe he’s warming up to her after all.

But then Lada eyes Aaron up and down and bites her lip. “That is all you need to be wearing, Dr. Campbell.”

Aaron blushes and looks away.

“Do not be worrying, Wic,” Vlad says to me in a low tone. “You are still beings my brother even if sister has new target of smart doctor.”

I catch Aaron’s face turn an even deeper shade of red.

“Okay. I have story.” Vlad sets his cup down, which I think we’re all grateful for. “In Siberia, it gets very cold, yes? So, I have unit. We do field exercise when officer in charge, she informs each leader we are having only one sleeping bag for each fire teams. She say, now we have problems of deciding who to use sleeping bag for. But my fire team say, no problem; we know who is to get bag. No rotation, no shares. When officer in charge ask why decision so easy, my fire team say, this is Vlad’s sleeping bag and he always sleep naked.”

The team laughs, but it’s more out of pity than hysterics.

“Vlad,” Hollywood says with a half-smile. “The story was supposed to be about when you spit something out from laughing.”

“Yes, this is story. At night, I drink from thermos in sleeping bag when officer appear and say she is cold, and I must to make room.”

Hollywood raises her cup, chuckling. “I stand corrected.”

“I also have second story.”

Hollywood glances at me, but I let it slide. Nothing like a Russian to liven up a party, right?

“One times, in barracks, we play smash face game,” Vlad says.

“Smash face game?” Yoshi asks.

“Yes. You no play in America Army? Is great game. You have opponent, and you have vodka. Each persons take turn of vodka shot and slap opponent’s face. First to quit is big loser, yes?

“So, one time I play smash face with Igor. He is legend at smash face. Like smash face David Hasselhoff. So, we are play and drinking and slapping faces many times. I even see starlights when Igor slap face. After we drink first vodka bottle, we get second vodka bottle. This one time, after third vodka bottle, Igor does shot and slaps my face, but forget to put down shot glass. He smashes it on side of face right here!” Vlad points to a scar on his cheek. “Ha ha ha! Oh man, I tell you what, that was so funny! He is crazy guy, Igor. Ahhh…” Vlad lets out this last note in a long descending sigh and rubs his cheek tenderly. “These are such yesterday good time feelings.”

“That is not funny story,” Lada says. “You are idiot brother.”

“I am not idiot brother. You are just jealous because I win match and become next David Hasselhoff of smash face.” He huffs once. “Idiot brother.”

By the time this exchange is down, I can’t tell what the rest of us are laughing at more: Vlad’s stories, or the endearing Russian way of telling them.

Eventually, things settle down, and eyes start looking around for who’s next.

“We got one more?” I ask after several dead seconds.

“I’ll go,” Hollywood says. Her face becomes a mix of humor and nostalgia as she prods something that looks like purple carrot sticks. “Called my grandma during a deployment. I was walking around with the sat phone in one hand and a water bottle in the other. Tells me that she got reprimanded by the police.”

“Reprimanded?” Yoshi asks. “For what?”

“Says the neighbor’s cat wouldn’t get off her front porch, so she finally took to swatting it with a broom.”

“Doesn’t seem so bad,” Yoshi says. “She hurt it?”

“Nah.” Hollywood looks up and starts chuckling. “But she wasn’t on her own front porch either.”

The table laughs.

“Turns out she fended that damn cat off its own porch for twenty minutes before the owner got home and called the police.” Hollywood bites one of the carrot sticks. “She told me that, and I spit water all over my CO just as he came around the corner. He said he’d forgive me as long as he was allowed to share the story with the unit.”

“And you let him?” Yoshi asks.

“’Course I let him. But I regretted it later.”

“Oh?”

“Just think how many jokes can be made with the words Hollywood’s grandma, beating, and pussy cat.”

The team starts laughing more now as their imaginations run free. I even see Z-Lo squirt water from his nose before he spits a mouthful into his cup.

“Got mine.” Kid points at the top of his head. “It’s right now.”

* * *

With the dishes done, the table cleaned, and the floor swept—I believe in leaving a place better than you find it—I call the squad back and we sit around the table again. Then I hand Yoshi the data card from Farkoo and ask him to insert it in a slot by a control interface on the wall. It feels good to be back in a mission planning phase with new intel.

The lights dim and a wide black lens lowers from the ceiling. A second later, a monochromatic rendering of Merchandise Process Facility Six appears in front of us just like it did in the conference room. Whatever light mood we had during chow has evaporated like water in Baghdad. Our people, humankind, are in this plant. And God only knows what’s being done to them.

Hoping to dig deeper into the guts of the building, I start looking for some sort of navigation menu or control screen. The closest thing I can find is on the side of the facility nearest me; it’s a small floating menu that reads Points of Interest. I keep thinking I need a mouse or keyboard to activate it, but I remember Farkoo’s instruction. It’s all touch screen or… air touch or… whatever. So I extend my index finger and tap the words. Four small red dots appear in different places of the facility’s minimalistic holographic layout. Four. I was hoping for more, but it’s better than nothing, I guess.

As I try and make heads and tails of the dots floating in the building’s nondescript interior, two things strike me. The first are Hollywood’s concerns from our private conversation. I can’t help but look at the dots and think that the general has listed these objectives according to his own priorities. Sure, no advice is without bias. Hell, I asked for his opinions. But if we are pawns, as Hollywood supposes, then these aren’t just opinions…

They’re agendas.

Of course, there’s no real way to know that. And just because Cordan has listed something as important doesn’t mean it isn’t. Which, I suppose, is the nature of war. Nothing is ever black and white. The whole damn thing is gray. Democracy wants victories and defeats, headlines that stir patriotism, and reports that ensure resolve. No one likes gray. But when you’re standing in gravel wet with blood, shades of gray is about all you get.

The second thing is that there’s something wrong with Cordan’s data. Or rather something lacking. As I tap on each read dot in the POI list and look at the schematic, the material’s scope and detail are underwhelming at best. In fact, all we really have is a vague outline of the exterior, some hints at interior composition, and a few lines of description that offer no real actionable intel. It’s not even close to what I would call mission worthy.

Apparently sensing my lack of enthusiasm, Hollywood blurts out, “That’s it? This is all Mr. Big Shot has for us?”

Whatever sense of anticipation I had for mission planning is gone. And now I’m just pissed. ’Cause we got played. The general wasn’t interested in helping us. He was only interested in us helping himself. And when we decided not to play his way? He picked up his ball and went home.

I take a deep breath. “Well, ladies and gents, this is what you call getting stonewalled.”

“Actually,” Bumper says. “I believe it’s what you call getting—”

The barrack’s door chimes, and all heads turn to see who it is.

17

2150, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Phantom Team Barracks

“Hello, Phantoms,” Insarka says.

She enters and then steps aside as four people push in hover carts. Only one of the attendants is Androchidan, while the others are three different species. Insarka gives them orders in Skrawl, but I notice she’s wearing a collar translator, and each of the other species has an over-the-ear comms device. Granted, I use the term ear loosely.

When the task is finished, she dismisses the team, closes the door, and walks between the bunks toward us. “How find you the quarters, Patrick-Wic?”

I stand to greet her with the customary head bow. “We’re good, thank you. Everyone’s fed, and now we’re just…” Years of habit kick in and tell me not to share anything with anyone outside my team. But of all the aliens we’ve encountered so far, Insarka seems the most trustworthy. She did lead the unit that saved our asses after all. But she’s still an unknown force, and that makes me uneasy no matter how badass she fights.

The lieutenant seems to pick up on my hesitation, then offers, “You are reviewing MPF6 schematic… and forming a plan of attack?”

“Something like that.” I’m not about to clue her in on just how bad we think the intel is. At least not yet, anyway.

Insarka nods and then nods over her shoulder. “I have the specials for you.”

“The specials?” Bumper says to me with an eyebrow raised.

We watch as Insarka walks back to the crates, opens one, and removes an SR-CHK that looks familiar enough to make me smile. But as Insarka walks back, I notice that it is far too new to be Chuck, and seems to have too many additional features. And just like that, I feel sad. I’m a damn baby, I know. But I like my guns, and who knew that I’d grow so attached to one who gives me lip.

“Whatcha got there?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment.

Insarka offers me the weapon but also gives me a curious look. “You… not recognize it?”

“No, it’s just—”

“Oh, for all the smelly cheese farts in France, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten about me, Patrick,” says a cheery English-accented voice.

“Chuck?”

“Of course, you silly nob. Who else did you expect? The Queen of Blooming England herself? Although, I must say, given the Androchidan Empire’s work in London, that’s not entirely out of the question. Hmm.”

I hold Chuck up and examine him—my heart warmed by his presence, at least as much as a gun lover can be warmed by a sentient AI firearm. Okay, so it’s a lot. But telling Chuck will only make his head big. “You can shoot again?”

“And how! Care for a demonstration? Let’s blow something up, shall we? That picnic table looks pointless.”

“Uh, let’s save that for later. All right?”

“Ugh,” he says in disgust. “Nurse an English Thoroughbred back to health, but you don’t want to see the glory of it striding across the finish line at the Cheltenham Festival? You’re a beast, Patrick. A beast, I say.”

“He sure sounds like his old self,” Hollywood says.

“And then some,” Bumper adds.

I nod and give Chuck a once over. “You, uh, look different.”

“Do you like it? Yrag the Glorious gave me a new paint job, new scope, and a new sensor suite. I think I look rather smashing, wouldn’t you say? Or, perhaps, ready to smash?”

“Sounds like they’re ready to smush,” Z-Lo says to another of the Phantoms behind me.

“I heard that, Fish Bait,” I say without turning around.

“Sorry.”

I hold Chuck up to my shoulder and watch his scope activate. It’s brighter, seems clearer, and has several new menu options at first glance. “Looking good, Charlie.” With my cheek against the stock, I add in a low tone, “Glad you’re okay. Missed ya, pal.”

“Oh, how I missed you too, Patrick,” Chuck exclaims in what seems like his loudest voice possible. “I’m so delighted the sentiments are mutual, because I had several versions of our reunion play out in my mind. The first was that you had already moved on to another ASIK-empowered weapon. Were that the case, I had an elaborate speech prepared. Would you care to hear it?”

“Nope.”

“Marvelous. It goes like this. Dearest Patrick—”

“Annnd that’s enough of that.” I lower Chuck to my side.

“The other options to sack my rival included merciless hazing, accidental discharge, and a sinister plot to throw them out a window and into a bucket of flounder.”

“Glad we don’t need to resort to that,” I reply.

“Yes, but wouldn’t it have been exquisitely fun?”

“Not if you’re the CHK dumb enough to get tossed out into an ocean full of rifle-eating fish.”

“Yes, that would definitely suck. Oh, and speaking of dumb, I am happy to report that I am now the proud owner of a very full quantum hard drive.”

“How’s that?”

“Apparently, Leftenant Insarka here told Yrag to give me the good stuff. The blinding aces, I say! I have directories full of Androchidan history, culture, tactics—or rather, the lack of them—and, yes, even a map of Terminal A3 that includes more than just the rooms I enjoyed previously. In fact, I now hold a wealth of helpful splick that you might find thoroughly enjoyable.”

I’m suddenly wondering if Chuck’s expanded library might make him more of a pain in the ass than before. But the lieutenant’s gesture also makes me wonder about her motives. Chuck failed to mention if his new memory upgrade was at General Cordan’s behest, the product of a simple oversight, or Insarka acting on her own accord.

“Thank you,” I say to Insarka. “And please pass on our regards to Yrag.”

“Yes,” Chuck adds. “Thank you, Leftenant Kindesh. May your horse coconuts be large, and your juniper bushes bear many fruits.”

She frowns at Chuck and then looks back at me. “He is a very interesting ASIK. I have never seen one so…”

“Intelligent?” Chuck offers. “Bright? Extremely helpful and also dashingly handsome?”

“I was going to say… difficult. But I suppose if Patrick-Wic finds you worthy of those other things—”

“Oh, he does. He most certainly does.”

“Mmmm.” Insarka looks to me and points back the way she came. “The rest of the crates contain… the armaments you and Mr. Bumper selected.”

“We’re very appreciative. Thank you again, Lieutenant.” I gesture toward the barracks door. “We hope you have a good night.”

But she’s not getting the hint and looks over my shoulder at the holo schematic. “Might I join you?”

A tension fills the room, and I sense the Phantoms shift in their seats. A quick glance shows Hollywood with her arms crossed.

“Eh, this kind of thing we’d prefer to handle—”

She moves around me and puts both hands on the table. “The schematic is incomplete.”

I raise an eyebrow and look at the team. Now this is interesting. “Go on.”

“I’ve been trying to obtain a more detailed rendering of MPF6 for several months, but General Cordan…”

After a few seconds, I say, “The general what? Didn’t approve it?”

She nods. “Said it was too risky. And even if we obtained the data, we wouldn't be able to act on it. But I assured him that my plan to secure the information wouldn’t…” When she doesn’t complete her sentence, I can’t tell if it’s because she lost her English or just doesn’t want to complete the thought.

“Your plan wouldn’t what?” I finally prompt her.

“Put anyone in jeopardy.”

I make an obvious gesture of turning to the rest of the team. “Well, if you have something that you think might help us—”

“I know it will help you. And I wish to lend you my aid in combat too.”

This makes everyone’s eyebrows go up—all but Hollywood’s, that is.

“What is it, Sergeant?” I ask.

She works her tongue over her teeth and takes a deep breath, but then shakes her head. “Nothing.”

I give her a suspicious look before turning back to Insarka. “All right, Lieutenant. Let’s hear it.”

“I just want to be careful,” Hollywood interjects.

And now she’s starting to push my buttons. “We all do, Sergeant.”

“Yeah, but…” Hollywood seems to reconsider her protest and clamps her mouth shut. But it’s too late for that.

“Hollywood.” I dip my head toward the bunks. “Sidebar.”

* * *

I’ve chosen a relaxed posture with one elbow on a top bunk as Hollywood and I stand out of ear-shot from the rest of the team. But my voice is that of a no-nonsense NCO who doesn’t have time for a runaround. “I thought we went over this, Sergeant. But if you’ve got something to say, now’s the time.”

“I just think that plushy is trying to move in on us, is all.”

“Move in on us?” I squint at her. That was an odd way to say it. “Something you wanna tell me about?”

There’s an awkward moment where I wonder if things are going to escalate, but then she speaks in a soft voice. “For a long time, it was just my dad and me. After mom died. I think that’s why he raised me the way he did, to be strong and self-reliant.”

She takes a deep breath. “Then he brought Jackie home, and everything changed. She seemed nice enough. And dad swore up and down that she loved him and that I needed to accept her as”—she nods back toward the table—“a new member of the family.

“Jackie tried so hard to earn my trust too. But I knew better. So I fought it. Hard. Pissed her off. Pissed dad off more.”

“Were you right?” I ask. “Did your suspicions pay off?”

She nods. “Found out through some other soldiers that she had a habit of playing the field around post. I confronted her, told her she had twenty-four hours to fess up to my dad or I would do it for her. When she didn’t show up after that, it was up to me to tell him. And, God, did that suck. He was heartbroken. But also grateful. I think, anyway.”

“You had good instincts, and you acted on good intel.” I stare at her for a second. “And you think that applies here?”

“I got the same bad feeling.”

“But do you have intel?”

She waits a second and then shakes her head. “No.”

“Right.” I take a breath, trying to think how I want to handle this. “Listen. You’ve got good instincts, but until you have the intel to match, gut feelings aren’t enough to shift fire. And right now, I don’t think Insarka is our Jackie. Everything I’m picking up from her feels solid. And I get it: letting someone in who looks, smells, and talks like the enemy is always a risk. But you ever work with hajjis before?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Some were wolves in sheep’s clothing. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But others?”

She nods. “Others were solid.”

“And how could you tell?”

“’Cause they didn’t run when the bullets started flying.”

I hold up a finger. “And they didn’t go AWOL before the bullets started flying either.”

Hollywood tilts in recognition of the nuance. A hajji with intel of an ambush always found a way to magically disappear just before there was contact.

I thumb back toward the table. “I might not know everything there is about Insarka over there, but she already ran into a firefight for us once, and it sure as hell sounds like she might wanna to do it again. Copy?”

It takes a second, but Hollywood finally nods once. “Yeah. I copy.”

“Good. Then you keep that out front. And if it changes for any reason—you sense her shrinking back, changing her mind, acting suspicious—that’s what I need you bringing to my attention and only my attention.”

“Roger that.”

“And Sergeant?”

“Yeah?”

“Your dad was grateful. You don’t have to wonder there.”

She smiles. “Thanks.”

18

2205, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Phantom Team Barracks

After Lieutenant Kindesh explains her plan to obtain the MPF6 specs—which sounds pretty slick if you ask me—I pose the question I think the whole team wants to know the answer to. “So why do you want to help us, Lieutenant? Seems like you’re putting your position with the General at risk if you ask me.”

“Please.” She places a hand on her chest. “Only Insarka is necessary.”

I incline my head and offer a smile, but it dawns on me that maybe they have as much trouble discerning our body language as we do with theirs. Never before have I paid so much attention to how much information a face can communicate until seeing a vertical mouth and pupil-less eyes.

“The Old Blood of Sacred Guard is sworn to serve the throne of Androchida Prime,” Insarka begins. “It puts first the virtues and traditions of our people dating back many millennia. It is as General Cordan has told you. We seek to restore the rightful Queen Mother to the throne and unseat the Usurper.”

“And this rightful queen,” Hollywood asks. “She a local gal? Someone you know?”

“We know she is not here on Karkin Four. But more than that, I cannot say. Her presence is a carefully guarded secret. Only the Old Ones have such knowledge.”

“So your aim is to swap out the bad leaders for the good ones,” Bumper says.

“Swap out?” Insarka looks to me. “What does this mean?”

“You want to replace the bad government of the Androchidan Empire with a new government.”

“The rightful one,” she corrects.

“Of course it is.” Bumper folds his arms and sits back. “’Cause the new guy’s policies are always so much better than the last guy’s.”

“And then the women have to come in and clean it all up,” Hollywood says. “Should have just elected us in the first place.”

Lada reaches over and gives Hollywood a fist bump.

“I don’t understand,” Insarka says. “What does—?”

I wave her question away. “Don’t worry about it. You were saying?”

Insarka grows pensive again and then seems to focus on something. “I believe in what we are fighting for. But I also believe in more than what we are fighting for.”

“Explain that.”

She gives us a human-style nod and leans forward on her elbows. “General Cardon is only doing what he believes is right. To liberate our people from evil leadership. But our people have also created many problems along the way for many civilizations.”

“And you wanna make it right,” Yoshi says.

Again, Insarka nods. “What good is it if we Androchidans find healing but do not also seek the healing of those we’ve harmed?”

“Seems we found ourselves a regular Nobel Peace Prize Winner over here,” Hollywood whispers to me.

Insarka continues. “I am not sure the soul of our collective people can survive long even if we secure peace for Androchida Prime. Knowing what we have done… it will eat away at the fabric of our consciousness.”

“But you’re not the ones responsible for it,” Z-Lo says. “I mean, you didn’t attack Earth, right?”

“I did not, no.” Insarka pauses for a moment. “But we carry things differently than you. And I suppose now it will not make much sense.”

“So you see helping us as a way to make things right,” Yoshi says.

Insarka nods. “It is a small start, but a start nonetheless.”

“And you’ve done this before, for other species who have been captured?” Hollywood asks.

Insarka shakes her head. “We have tried, but never successful. We have lost many guardians. But then you came along,” she says to me. “You have done something no others have. To see you come through the origin portal was… shocking. Your species, you are different.”

“Hell yeah, we are,” Z-Lo says. “Don’t mess with the US.”

Insarka doesn’t seem to know what to do with this and looks back at me. “You don’t fit into the General’s plans. You are valuable warriors, ones he wishes for his own. But you said yourself that your desire is for your people.” She pauses again and seems to be searching my face. “You would give up a long life among us just to walk into the enemy’s den?”

I can almost feel the Phantoms puff out their chests at this remark. Hell, I’m feeling some pride too. “Yut. We would. And we are.”

“OTF,” Bumper says, which is echoed by everyone else.

“Remarkable.” Insarka looks around. “And what is this OTF? Your religion?”

Bumper laughs. “Something like that.”

“I see.” Back to me, she says, “General Cordan is curious to see how far you make it before you die. This is… a study for him.”

I squint at her. “But not you.”

“I want to see you succeed. I want… to be a part of it.”

“But you just said the General expects us to die,” Hollywood adds.

“And you will. And I will join you.”

“Not the greatest vote of confidence,” Yoshi says under his breath.

“Why join us then if you know we’re going to die?” I ask the lieutenant.

She lowers her head and seems to consider this for a few moments. “I am not old like some of the others. But I have spent my whole life in this war. Planning. Sabotage. Retreat. Regroup. We count our dead in thousands, they count their dead in hundreds. We gain new recruits by promising them freedom if they fight for us. And then we do it all over again.”

“The definition of insanity,” Bumper says, apparently more for our benefit than the lieutenant’s as she doesn’t seem to hear it. Or if she does, she ignores it.

“Meanwhile, the AE grows stronger,” she says. “Harvesting new planets. Expanding its accounts. And destroying billions of lives in the process.” Insarka snaps her head toward me. I’m no expert in plushy body language, but she looks serious. “I am tired of our ways, Patrick-Wic. If they worked, we would have won by now. And existing like this”—she gestures to our barracks—“is no way to live. The season for biding our time is long past.”

She takes a deep breath. “No. If there is a hope for the Blood Guard, as you call it, it does not lie with our past.” She turns to me. “It lies with you.”

The silence that follows her little speech is deafening. In fact, the only thing to break it is Z-Lo letting out a nasal exhale that has a slight whistle to it. “No pressure or anything.” He crosses his arms and shrugs. “But if Lieutenant Kindesh here wants us to kick some ass and save the galaxy, I’m down with it.”

Heads nod around the table.

“We were gonna do it anyway,” Yoshi says. “Might as well have some company.”

“Won’t General Cordan suspect you?” I ask. “Colluding with us can’t be good for your record.”

“I am my own person,” she says with a defiant air. “I may bleed for my people, but I choose when I bleed.”

“This is my kind of womans,” Vlad says and gives Insarka a nod, wink, and double air kisses after raising his chin.

“Is he not well?” Insarka asks me softly.

“He’s Russian mafia.”

“Ah. I will be sure not to catch it.”

I glance at her and give a soft laugh. “It’s not contagious, as long as you stay out of our sewers.”

“Noted. Thank you.”

I get the table’s attention by leaning forward. “So, any other thoughts or objections, Phantoms?”

Ghost puts an elbow on the table. “I wanna know how she speaks such good English.”

I look at Insarka. “A fair question.” She is, after all, the only Androchidan we’ve met who’s able to make human-sounding noises with her mouth, let alone speak passable English—more than passable. Hell, it seems to be getting better by the minute, as if she’s kicking the dust off the tires from a skill she learned as a kid. Suddenly, my brain is flooded with crazy theories, ranging from time travel and long term Earth embedding to cerebral implants and the plushy version of Rosetta Stone.

“I am quick with languages,” she replies without a hint of guile. “I speak many, and believe it is part of my responsibility to know and speak with those we partner with. If my people have taken their livelihoods, the least I can do is grant them some small dignity.”

“It would at least explain why the General and Farkoo didn’t seem to pay her English any mind,” Yoshi says. “Interesting. Seems we’ve encountered our first alien polyglot.”

“Well that’s a little rude,” Z-Lo says.

“It means someone who can speak multiple languages, Fish Bait,” Hollywood says.

“Oh. Right. I knew that.”

“Sure ya did.”

“Well, if your intel is as good as you say it is, and you’re that eager to die, then we’ll be happy to give you the opportunity.” Even though the handshake died in 2020, I extend one for Insarka. Instead, she clasps my forearm, and we shake. Old school. I like it.

“I am also thrilled at the opportunity to perish with you all,” Chuck adds. “But as I recall, Patrick, you were far more apprehensive about bringing me along than you are with Leftenant Kindesh. To use your vernacular, what gives, dude?”

“Insarka’s more sincere,” I reply.

“Sincere? Sincere? I’ll have you know that Sincere is my middle name.”

“And so is Pain In The Ass, but you don’t see me holding it over your head, do you?”

“On the contrary, there have been several times where—”

“Welcome to the team, Phantom Fury.” I look around the table. “Now who wants to drive some remote control bots?”

* * *

“Oh shit,” Z-Lo says. “This is like VR, right?” The kid’s got his helmet, he’s sitting at the mission table, and he’s moving his head around like a gamer completely unaware just how stupid they look. “This is so sick.”

“No, not virtual reality. You’re seeing through the actual visual sensors from NSR-500 non-sentient reconnaissance droids,” Insarka replies. Everyone else slides on their helmets, while Insarka types away on a floating keyboard and holo display. “The motion system follows your hand movements and interprets them as direction and action for your robot.” She looks at me. “Go ahead, Patrick-Wic.”

I give her a nod and then cover up. Instead of seeing the team sitting around the table, I’m standing in a utility room looking at a bank of recon robots along a wall. As soon as I move my head, the view changes as if it’s my view I’m controlling. The sensation is disorienting, and I have to grab the table’s edge.

“No, you’ll need your hands free,” the lieutenant insists. I feel her tug on my left wrist. “To move your robot.”

“Glad you made us sit down,” I reply, realizing that I’d probably be on the floor if I wasn’t. I look down at my body to see the magenta armor plating and dark inner mechanical skeleton of an AE bot, just like the ones we encountered on Earth.

“Dayum,” Bumper says as his bot steps up to mine. Apparently he’s found a way to move out of his cradle and walk around. “Check me out, baby.” His machine starts dancing and gyrating to a beat he’s making with his mouth.

I feel the table jerk and threatens to knock us all out of our seats. “Bumper, cool it. My bot’s not interested in your moves.”

“These aren’t for you anyway, Wic.”

“I’m over here, bae,” Hollywood says to Bumper.

Bumper and I look over and see Hollywood’s recon bot in a cradle across the room waving at us.

“Awwwww, hell,” Bumper says. “How’m I supposed to know who I’m looking at?”

“Stand by,” Insarka says. A moment later, name IDs appear over every robot in the room.

“Well that’s better.” I raise my hands and mimic Z-Lo’s motions back when he flew the dropship. Sure enough, I have full forward, back, turn, and strafe control. Combined with my head movement, the whole thing feels surprisingly natural.

“There you go, Patrick-Wic,” Insarka says. Then to the whole team, she says, “You can also transition between leg control and hand/arm control using your HUD so that that robot’s limbs mimic your own.”

Without warning, the bot tagged as Hollywood’s throws a jab at the one tagged Z-Lo. The blow sends the kid’s bot stumbling backward a few steps but doesn’t put it down.

“Like that?” Hollywood asks.

“What was that for?” Z-Lo winds up to punch back when Bumper’s bot steps in.

“That’s my girlfriend’s bot, Fish Bait,” the SEAL says. “Might wanna rethink that.”

“It’s okay, bae,” she says as her robot raises a hand to keep Bumper’s bot at bay.

“Look! Vlad has so much good times as giant Real Steel USA robot,” says Phantom Six.

I turn to Vlad’s ident tag and see his unit flexing its arms and legs in different bodybuilder poses, including the front lat spread and double biceps.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Hollywood says as we all watch Vlad’s bot get too close to some sort of delicate looking computer cabinet.

“No worryings. Vlad has new robot completely under”—his arm swings into the computer terminal and produces a series of sparks—“control.”

“Everyone, please,” Insarka says with in urgent tone. “It is good that you are getting accustomed to your surrogate’s range of motion, but please remember you are in hostile territory right now, and we only get one shot at this.”

“Fall in, Phantoms,” I add and motion for everyone to step toward me. “What’s the op, Lieutenant?”

Within our HUDs, a floating topographic map appears depicting a series of turns through hallways somewhere in the deployment operations center.

“You are currently on the third floor of the DOC’s main data storage facility, located deep in the main command and control complex,” Insarka says. “Exactly five hundred and thirty meters from the main archive vault, Room 425.”

I watch a dotted pathway light up and run through the corridors, turning left and right until it reaches a large room in the middle.

“Your mission is to gain access to the vault, retrieve a full set of MPF6 plans, and then return them to us via the courier bot.”

“Who’s the courier bot?” Hollywood asks.

“I believe that’s me,” Aaron says in a rather sheepish tone.

All bots in my HUD turn and look down at a small toaster-style bot on wheels.

“Aaron?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He laughs. “Figures, right?”

“You are very cute robot,” Lada says. Her machine bends down, kisses its fingertips, and then pats the rolling toaster-looking bot on its top.

“What’s this MPF6 plan look like?” I ask.

An image of a clear plastic card appears with yellow Skrawl writing around some of its edges. “This is a standard data storage card. I will send exact coordinates to the HUDs of any machines that arrive in the vault. But for the sake of operational security, those details won’t be shared until the last minute.”

“You don’t trust us?” Ghost asks.

“Of course I trust you. If your surrogate is captured or neutralized, the mandatory system check will be able to identify the machine’s intended destination. It will be enough for them to know that we were after something in the vault. But if they discover exactly what we are after…”

“Then we lose the element of surprise when it really counts in MPF6,” I conclude.

“That is correct. Meanwhile, I will be your eyes and ears for the AE security response. But it’s up to you to defend your surrogates, secure the data card, and ensure that Aaron’s courier bot gets back here to us.”

“But how will I know where to go?” Aaron asks.

Insarka gives a small laugh and then takes a moment to, presumably, type on her air-keyboard. A moment later, our HUDs are filled with vector headings, distances, and superimposed path markers along the ground in graduated colors based on… is it speed?

“Are you guys gettin this splick?” Z-Lo asks.

“The path indicators will help guide you, combined with my instructions,” Insarka says. “Stay together, and remain alert.”

I raise a hand and notice my bot do the same, so I put my arm back down quickly.

“Yes, Patrick-Wic,” Insarka says.

“A second ago, you said that we only get one shot at this.”

While I can’t see the lieutenant, I can hear her take a deep breath before replying.

“I can imagine that this seems like fun for you. It is a remote control for adults, right? But the exploit that is allowing this override is something General Cordan has been reserving for a few years now. Good people died to secure it. And as soon as we are finished here, the empire will identify the loopholes in the code and close them.”

“No pressure or anything, people,” Hollywood says.

“Why hasn’t he used it sooner?” I ask.

“With such a powerful tool, the General has been waiting for the right time to employ it, for something very important.”

“And you think it’s this.”

“No, Patrick-Wic. I know it is this. We have the chance, with you, to do something that’s never been done before. There has never been a better moment than this. I just hope that…”

“That’s it worth it?” I ask.

“No. That you all don’t screw it up.”

There’s an awkward pause, and then Insarka and the team laughs.

“We’ll do our best,” I say with a smile.

“I know. Now let’s go practice some OTF. Did I say it correctly?”

“You’re getting it. OTF, Phantoms.”

* * *

“They just walk right by us,” Yoshi says, marveling at his newfound robotic superpowers.

“Yeah,” Z-Lo replies. “Check it.” His bot turns around a raises a middle finger to one of the death angels who just walked past our group.”

“Dude, put that down,” Hollywood says. “You’re gonna give us away.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Eyes forward,” I add. “We’re acting like robots, not people.”

In a sharp mechanical voice, Z-Lo says, “I - am - an - alien robot. Take me - to your—”

Bumper smacks the back of Z-Lo’s helmet. “Whoops.”

“Ouch. Dude, really?” After a second, Z-Lo asks, “Why couldn’t we get the assault bots with the rifles? Then we could really do some damage, you know?”

“The weaponized SSA-9001Bs are not allowed in this section,” Insarka informs. “Plus, they are semi-sentient, which makes them much harder to hack.”

“Like me,” Chuck adds. “Only waaaaaay more dimwitted. And far less attractive, I might add. They’re also terrible tippers.”

“Good to know,” I say.

After several eventless minutes of walking through the heart of the DOC’s command and control complex and passing security elements, our augmented reality path indicators bring the team to an armored door. My helmet’s HUD takes a second to visually interpret the Skrawl door label as Archive Vault A, Room 425.

“How do we open it?” I ask Insarka.

“You don’t, Patrick,” Chuck says. “This is where Phantom Lord Extraordinaire comes in, ready to save you all from the merciless hands of your tyrannical overlords and set you free from—”

“Any time now, pal.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

A trill sounds from an access panel beside the door, and the armored partitions separate. Inside is a dimly lit room filled with banks of black server cabinets. Each one is faced with glowing screens and hundreds of LEDs. Thick wire bundles rise above the units and vanish into a high ceiling, while catwalks crisscross the space between.

Once the team is inside, the armored doors close.

“The data terminal you need is to your east,” Insarka says just as a new footpath illuminates. The dashed line extends across several rows and then turns down an aisle.

“I’m on it,” Yoshi says.

“Ghost, go with,” I say. I’m not sure Yoshi actually needs the help, but traveling in pairs is always the right choice.

The two recon bots leave the group and trudge down the footpath.

“So, not to make light of how intense you made this whole thing sound,” Z-Lo says to Insarka. “But the op’s pretty chill. I don’t even see why you needed all of us. Not that this isn’t super sweet, though. I’m still mad stoked about it, you feel me?”

Insarka lets out a low hum. “Hmm. I don’t think I understand all your words. But numbers are needed to ensure Aaron’s survival.”

“If you say so,” the kids replies.

“I’ve got the card,” Yoshi announces. “Coming back to—”

He’s cut off by a klaxon and strobing lights. I turn to the rest of the bots and we all look at one another as naturally as if we were in a real huddle.

“Multiple security forces inbound,” Insarka says.

“So soon?”” Hollywood asks.

“Guards stations at the end of the hall. Three death angels, ten seconds.”

“Now I get it,” Z-Lo says.

As Yoshi and Ghost rejoin the group, card in hand, Hollywood looks at me. “What’s the play, Wic?”

I take the prize from Yoshi and then bend down to insert the data card into a slot in Aaron’s toaster-bot. “I’m not the one to ask here.” I glance up at Bumper. “Let’s ask the football team captain.”

“I dig it,” the SEAL replies.

The death angels step up to the door outside and start working the controls.

“I’m jamming them,” Chuck says. “But you only have a few seconds.”

Bumper nods. “We wait for them to breach. Vlad, Lada, Z-Lo, I want you hiding to the door’s inside right. Wic, Baby Girl, Yohsi, left. Aaron hangs outta sight with Ghost. I’ll stand center as a distraction. Take them out as they enter. Then we egress to the hall and bank to the… Insarka?”

“Aaron needs to get to a ventilation shaft entrance to the north, here,” the lieutenant replies. A waypoint marker appears both in my topo map and my field of view with a vector indicator. “It’s ninety-one meters.”

“Ha! How do you like that?” Aaron says. “It’s a hundred yards, Bumper.”

“Like I was made for the game. Vlad, you’ll be first out after we neutralize these three. Once we’re in the hallway, we form up on Vlad and hide Aaron. Street rules, no limits. Copy?”

The team nods.

“Time to OTF,” Bumper adds.

“OTF,” everyone else replies.

* * *

The doors open and the three death angels walk in, weapons in ready position. But as they see Bumper’s recon bot, the plushies relax and chatter in Skrawl.

“They suspect he’s broken,” Insarka says.

The lead sentry steps forward, weapon lowered, and moves to investigate. But Lada’s bot reaches out of the darkness and grabs the SR-CHK from the enemy’s hands. The death angel jumps back in surprise but knocks into another bot’s chest. Yoshi brings both fists down on the Anderkin’s head and drives its helmet several inches into the upper chest. A wet crack fills our speakers, and the death angel drops to the floor like a rag doll.

The other two react by firing blaster rounds toward Lada and Yoshi, but the shots go wide. Hollywood delivers a right jab that flips one death angel sideways and off its feet while Z-Lo raises a leg and chest-kicks the last plushy so hard it flies into the adjacent wall and bounces down to the floor, unmoving.

“Oh I need me one of these,” the kid says. “Hell yeah.”

“Everyone out,” Bumper says pointing to the exit.

Vlad leads the way and turns right out of the room, while the rest of us fall in close behind. Aaron sees the pocket we’ve made and drives up to occupy the encircled space.

“Steady as she goes,” Bumper says.

“Two more ahead,” Insarka announces. “And another at your rear.”

“I’ve got the one behind us,” Yoshi says as he peels away.

“Let’s pick up the pace,” Bumper adds.

The group charges forward as the two death angels ahead fire into our mass. Lada’s bot takes hits to the chest and leg, while Vlad gets shot in the arm.

“Losing mobilities,” Lada said. “But still with you.”

“Copy. Stay tight, protect the doc,” Bumper calls.

We continue to press down the hallway as more blaster fire lands on our team. Hollywood takes a hit to her head, destroying one of the cameras, and Ghost suffers a blow to his midsection. Sparks trail from his hips and I hear servos straining, but he’s still keeping pace.

Behind me, Yoshi is running full out at the enemy, taking several hits to the chest as he presents the only target. But his bot’s operational, and the lone gunman looks like he’s having second thoughts about the standoff.

“Lower your shoulders,” Bumper calls out to the front line. They do so as the gap to the death angels shrinks. Then we’re on them.

Lada pummels the plushy to the right and shrugs him into the wall so hard his helmet pops off. On the left, Hollywood knocks her target down and then tramples him. Aaron makes sure to scoot out of the way, and then Bumper and I add an extra stomp on the Androchidan’s chest to make sure he’s dead.

I hear a loud noise behind me and turn back to see Yoshi throwing his target down a side hall. But more death angels are filling the intersection, some taking chances with close quarters combat, others staying back and taking potshots at the recon bot.

“I’ll hold them as long as I can,” Yoshi yells. “You guys keep going.”

“Roger that,” I reply.

“You heard the man,” Bumper says. “Don’t let up.”

“Sixty-three meters,” Chuck adds.

“Four more,” Insarka interrupts. “Dead ahead.”

Sure enough, two pairs of tangos step into an intersection and raise their weapons at us. But based on the few steps back they’re taking, I think it’s safe to say that they weren’t expecting to see an offensive line charging them like this.

Shots strike our front and send fountains of sparks cascading to the floor. While I obviously can’t feel the impacts, the noise of free energy striking armor plating reminds me that any one of these shots would put us down without ample protection. And even then, the assault rifles are nearly unstoppable when dialed up.

“My bot does slowings.” Vlad adds some frustrated Russian that I can’t quite make out too.

“Mine too,” Z-Lo adds. “Dammit. Taking lots of damage.”

“Yes, also many damages here.” Then Vlad’s bot stumbles and falls headfirst to the floor. “My robot is terminated. I am sorry.”

“I’m out too,” the kids says. “Damn plushies got lucky.”

Aaron’s toaster scoots around the wreckage with squeaky tire sounds, while the rest of us quickstep over the smoking body.

“I also have no tokens,” Vlad says as I hear him slam his helmet onto the table. “But if someone survivings, I call next games, yes?”

I smile as the Russian pays tribute to lost practice of calling the next turn on an arcade game by stacking tokens on the cabinet. “But you do have poker chips, buddy.”

“Ah!” I can hear Vlad reaching into his fanny pack. “You are very smart American alpha dog top, eh? I keep you as friend for reasons. Here”—Vlad slams what I can only assume is a poker chip on the table—“Vlad has next turn.”

Back in my HUD, Bumper has stepped into Vlad’s position and leads the team forward.

Emboldened by the kill, the four death angels land more rounds on our front line. Lada’s bot is limping and starting to lag behind, and Hollywood’s is also starting to slow.

“Let us step in,” I say to the two women, and then I nod to Ghost. The sniper gives me a thumbs-up, and we relieve Hollywood and Lada in the front.

We’re only five meters from the enemy group when Bumper leaps into the air. He holds one hand overhead to brush along the ceiling, head bent sideways, and then crashes down on two tangos, clotheslining their heads with his biceps. The bodies flip back and slam against the floor as Bumper’s bot resumes running.

On my side, a plushy can’t decide which bot to shoot and hesitates between me and Ghost. I grab his weapon and shove it into his shoulder so hard that it spins him into a wall. He bounces off it, but I smack the back of his head so that his helmet slams against the wall again. And there it stays, embedded three inches into the metal.

Ghost has his tango on the ground and has paused long enough to curb-stomp it, crushing the head and upper chest with a mechanical foot. Liquid shoots out from the fractured armor before the bot turns and looks at me.

“Clean up on aisle four,” the Texan says.

Lada and Hollywood pass us, escorting Aaron, while Bumper continues to press down the hall toward the vent shaft.

“Forty-one meters,” Chucks announces.

“I’m going down,” Yoshi says.

I look back to see him fighting off no fewer than five death angels at once. He’s still landing punches on the tangos as his bot’s knees get taken out by enemy fire. Two plushies stumble back after he sweeps his arms left to right, but a pointblank shot to the temple finally drives his robot to the floor.

“Good work, Yoshi,” I say. “Bought us some time.”

“Wic and Ghost,” Bumper says. “I want you holding our six. Ladies, you escort Aaron to exfil. I’m moving ahead to keep anyone else from entering this section.”

We all give our assent, and Bumper takes off for the far end of the corridor. I note when he passes Aaron’s vent shaft thirty-five meters ahead and then turns to cover our six with Ghost.

The tangos who finished off Yoshi’s bot are gunning for us now, and we’re in the open. Cover would be nice; weapons would be even better. Like the kid, I find myself wishing we were controlling the assault bots instead of the recon versions. Which gives me an idea. “Insarka. Can our bots fire the SR-CHKs?”

“Yes, of course. But you—”

“Got it.” I reach for the rifle of the death angel whose head’s still embedded in the wall. The weapon looks much smaller in my bot’s hand, but the index finger fits through the trigger guard. Well, almost. The digit is apparently too thick to enter without also depressing the trigger, so it accidentally fires the weapon into the oncoming enemy squad. But I mean, is it really an accident if it puts down tangos? I don’t think so. In fact, I think this proves the premature discharge is just a part of life and clearly has its place.

Ghost has followed suit and is discharging his weapon on full auto beside me. Together, our high fire-rates are tearing into the enemy elements with blistering effect. Death angels shake as rounds stitch across their bodies, falling into one another and spilling onto the floor. More come around the corners where Yoshi’s bot sleeps at the same time that two more squads appear in the hallways to our flanks.

“Fall back.” I begin backstepping into the main corridor while sweeping my weapon between the tangos in front of me and the others on my right. Then Ghost and I cut off the side angles of attack and refocus our fire straight back. But I know within seconds that two things are about to happen—

Scratch that.

One just did. My mag is dry. “I’m out.”

A beat later, Ghost says the same.

The second thing that happens is the flanking elements appear from around the intersection’s corners and start firing on us point blank. Rather than retreat, Ghost and I surprise the plushies by dropping our shoulders and driving straight into them.

This not only catches the Ander-babies by surprise, but causes them to unwittingly begin firing on one another as we plow through their ranks. The effects are devastating as death angels take rounds in the head that were meant for our chests. Heads pop under helmets, and sparks flood the crowded intersection.

But Ghost and I aren’t without casualties. I’ve suffered a critical hit to my right leg, and Ghost seems to have lost the use of both arms. He’s taken to whipping them around like flails, thrashing enemies in the heads, chests, and arms. Meanwhile, I’m throwing left and right hooks, and I can feel the table jiggling beneath my ass, which has a strange effect of trying to pull my consciousness from the contest, one that’s truly become an out of body experience. I even manage to grab two tangos by their heads and smash them together.

“Wow,” Vlad shouts. “You are WWE super star, America. Ah-ha! I see you in tight Spandexes with mask and leapings from the top of many ropes. You are new favorite best Wrestle Mania champion.”

As a death angel fires straight into my bot’s head, I pull my helmet off and set it down. “Apparently not best enough, my friend.” I watch small holo displays with views of each of the remaining bots.

“Doctor Man, you have fifteen meters left,” Insarka says. “Almost there.”

“Drive fast, little guy,” Bumper says as he charges into a deep line of death angels at the far end. His bot’s body slams into the front line, and then he begins tossing them up to the sides like a mad bull running into a crowd.

Behind Aaron, Hollywood and Lada and are tackling rushing tangos and driving fists into anything they can make contact with. Even as Hollywood gets thrown to the ground and shot across the chest, she jabs at an enemy’s knee; the force blows the joint apart, and the tango crumples into a heap.

Lada, flat on her back, must’ve seen what Ghost and I had done earlier, and snatches a CHK off the floor. She jams the bot’s finger into the trigger well and aims, discharging a violent pointblank barrage into the nearest death angels. The enemies are torn apart, but Lada’s weapon goes dry. Moments later, the recon bots are destroyed, and Hollywood and Lada remove their helmets.

“That’s all we got,” Hollywood says.

“And it was enough,” I reply. “Look.”

Even while Bumper’s bot gets overrun by blaster fire, Aaron’s toaster banks hard into an open vent shaft and scoots into the darkness.

“You did it,” Insarka says, staring at her display with the equivalent of Androchidan wide-eyed wonder. Then she looks up at me. “That was… amazing.”

“Good job, everyone.” I turn to Insarka and nod at Aaron. “How much longer does he need to drive in that hole?”

“That’s what she said,” Chuck says in a blur.

Insarka seems to miss the comment, which is for the best. “I’m uploading the destination waypoint now. He just needs to follow the indicated route.”

“All right. Steady as she goes, Aaron.”

“This is actually pretty fun, Pat,” he answers. “I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Just remember, people died for us to be able to get that intel. So take your time.”

* * *

It’s been two minutes since Aaron’s toaster arrived in our barracks ventilation shaft, and nearly twenty minutes since he started his journey from the DOC to the Blood guard headquarters. But Chuck was true to his word and helped guide him all the way home.

Meanwhile, Insarka hasn’t looked up from her virtual tablet since inserting the prized MPF6 data card into the wall and returning to the table.

“So was it worth it?” I ask. “Is it what you hoped for?”

She nods emphatically. “It’s more than I hoped. We can do so much with this..”

The team members share mutual looks of self-satisfaction and give out fist bumps.

“But reviewing it could take all night,” she adds.

I rub my jaw. “How familiar are you with the Earth beverage called coffee?”

“Coffee…” Insarka looks up at me, taps her lips for a second, and then seems to register the noun. “Yes. We have something similar. We call it bishraw. I can prepare some for you to try?”

“As long as it’s strong.”

“Very strong, yes.”

“Good.” I crack my knuckles and vertebrae. “Let’s do this.”

19

2230, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Phantom Team Barracks

The team stretches while Insarka prepares bishraw for us. The name doesn’t exactly stir up many positive expectations, but I’m always willing to try something new so long as it doesn’t put me on the can for twenty-four hours.

I look over Insarka’s shoulder as she drops ten packets into mugs of cold water. Not exactly what I was hoping for. But within seconds of making contact, the packs start the water bubbling. Steam starts rising, as does the scent of candy roasted pecans during Christmas.

“What in heaven’s name is that glorious smell?” Hollywood says from across the room.

“Get a load of this.” Z-Lo’s right behind me and waving everyone over. “Shit’s crazy!”

“It looks like an exothermic reaction,” Aaron adds. “It’s brewing and heating the water at the same time.”

“Just so long as it tastes like it smells,” Hollywood says.

When the mugs are ready, Insarka hands them out and then makes a toast. “To our success.”

“To our success,” everyone replies.

Huh. I guess toasting is multiversal.

I try and keep my expectations low, but as I take my first sip, the bishraw fills my mouth with the same delightful smell from earlier, only a little more bitter.

“Do you approve?” the lieutenant asks me.

“It’s amazing.”

She smiles and nods. “As I was hoping you’d say.”

“Damn.” Bumper looks at the canister of packets. “How many of those you think we can stuff in our pockets?”

“Right?” Yoshi says. “I think I may have found my new drink of choice.”

I raise both eyebrows at him over the rim of my mug, surprised he would say such a thing. But I guess if you’re the one making light of your own addiction, it’s not offensive, right? So I decide to help ease any awkwardness the others might be feeling. “Hell if I’m leaving that canister empty.” Then I wink at him, hoping his newfound liquid courage will keep the old demons at bay.

Yoshi raises his mug in reply and takes another sip.

* * *

When we’re seated again, Insarka taps the wall terminal with her fingers. The lights dim and the black lens descends. Then she enters a few key commands on a holo keyboard back at her seat, and a non-physical blank slate pops up just above the table in front of each person. In addition to being able to draw on it with a finger, there’s a small English keyboard at the base for typing. “And one in Russian for the siblings too,” Insarka says.

The lieutenant’s thoughtfulness isn’t wasted on Vlad and Lada, nor on the rest of the team. Each person having their own virtual space to take notes on is pretty slick. Sure, it’s no secret I don’t like computers. But I also didn’t like talking guns before this op, and look at me now. Maybe old dogs can learn some new tricks, just as long as they don’t come back to bite us.

“These are for you to make your own notes as we review the data,” Insarka says. “You’ll notice that the displays are private, only visible from your angle, and they are also quantum encrypted for security. Any data you input will be automatically connected to your SR-CHK and helmet link for later viewing. Any questions?”

Heads shake, and smiles are given as everyone seems happy with the tech. All, that is, except for me, as I can’t seem to get my damn pad to turn on.

“How does it…” I stab what I assume is a power button or launch bar or whatever the hell they call it. “It’s not working.”

“You need to swipe it open, Patrick.” Chuck sounds as though he’s talking to a child. “Use your index finger and move it through the air from bottom to top.”

“Okay. I got it.”

“Swipe up.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Your other up, Patrick.”

I let out a frustrated grunt as I stab the air aimlessly. “Jesus.”

“He can’t help you here, I’m afraid.”

“Where’s the damn—”

“You’re moving too quickly. Slow down, Patrick.”

“Here. Let me.” Insarka reaches over and opens my virtual tablet with a fluid gesture. “Gentle.”

Who am I kidding? I’m just an old Devildog. New tricks my ass.

Between the bishraw, the fancy tech, and the plushies we were able to put down with our impromptu episode of Real Steel, I think everyone’s happy. Now all I need is for the coffee substitute’s stimulant to kick in, and I’ll be good for a while.

“Hello,” I say as I feel my face flush and my head clear. “Anyone feeling this?”

“Oh yeah.” Bumper leans one eye toward his mug like he’s just discovered gold in the bottom. “Stuff’s the nectar of the gods.”

“Feels like I just downed five Red Bull, man,” Z-Lo adds.

I point everyone’s attention to the holo display and officially call the planning session to order. “All right, Phantoms. Let’s see what we got.” I look to the lieutenant.

Insarka taps on her holo keypad and a holographic rendering of MFP6 reappears, only this time the dome has considerably more detail. Rather than general shapes and vague outlines, this version looks like it’s a composite of actual images. The geodesic dome’s outer shell looks silvery smooth, while a cross-section of the inside boasts miles of trussing, tubes, vent shafts, hallways, rooms, wiring—it’s all there in vivid detail. As far as I’m concerned, Insarka’s plan to obtain superior intel was worth it, and based on her enthusiasm, I’d say the lieutenant is too.

Insarka turns the map with her hands and adjusts the perspective and scale until she seems satisfied. As for general layout, the dome appears to have three primary components. The first is what I’m calling the cap, which is a small portion of the dome’s peak, maybe six klicks across. The second is the largest portion, set just below the cap, which seems to be a massive open space held up with crisscrossing trussing. The third is the lower level, which looks like it’s made up of buildings, bridges, and tunnels a hundred stories tall. Beneath that seems to be another section, but it looks like smaller sub levels underground.

Beside the rendering, I notice a rather exhaustive navigation menu that hadn’t been on the general’s version—not by a long shot. I tap the first item, Arrival Gates, and a hundred tiny vertical circles light up along a segment of the facility’s western edge. It seems odd to position something so valuable along an outside edge, but I’m not jumping to conclusions until I see the rest of it.

“Are those…” Aaron can’t seem to find the words.

So I help him out. “Arrival Gates.”

“You think that’s where people are arriving from?” Z-Lo asks.

I try hard not to be sarcastic, but sometimes you just can’t help yourself. “What tipped you off, Mr. Laszlo?”

It takes a second for the kid to register my tone, to which he gives me a sheepish smile.

“Makes it sound like an airport terminal.” Bumper shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “And a hundred of ’em?”

Insarka nods and touches the menu item that reads Export Gates. One hundred more rings appear on the eastern edge. Then she selects Flow Corridors, and a spaghetti-mess of glowing lines runs between them.

“It looks like the LA freeway,” Z-Lo says. “Times a million.” Sure enough, the scene looks like an aerial view of a metroplex highway system, only far more complex. The twists, turns, forks, and interleaving of the tubes seem chaotic up close. Some expand into bulbous rooms, and others terminate for no apparent reason. But taken in as one, the mess of noodles has a unified sense of direction.

“They’re arteries. For people,” Ghost says.

“That’s correct,” Insarka says. “The rings within your planet’s major cities deposit your people here.” She points to the Arrival Gates. “They are conducted through the flow corridors in the middle, and eventually leave the facility to the east, here.” She points at the Export Gates.

“My God,” Aaron says, speaking for all of us, if I had to guess. “Two hundred gates? How many people are we talking about here? Per day, I mean?”

“Assuming this facility operates like some of the others we’ve seen, at its present capacity, I estimate that each portal can transport an average of twenty-five Earthers abreast every three seconds. That’s”—she starts typing— “approximately thirty thousand per hour, multiplied by one hundred pathways over twenty-four of your Earth hours.” She enters a final keystroke and looks up. “That’s seventy-two million per day.”

“Jesus Christ and all the saints,” Aaron says between the fingers over his mouth.

I share Aaron’s shock, as does everyone else around the table based on their expressions.

“That’s three quarters of a billion people over a ten day period,” Yoshi says finally.

Insarka nods. “They have means of speeding up the process too. So please keep in mind that I’m only providing you my basic estimates.”

“We understand,” I reply. “Thank you.”

Hollywood leans forward. “So, they bring people in, let them walk thirty miles across an Interstate system from hell, and then force them out the other side.”

I stroke my jaw for a second and study the mid-level. “There’s gotta be reasons for the tubes though. They’re breaking people up and moving them around intentionally.”

My mind goes to the old image of Nazi concentration camps. The main gate of Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland specifically. Jews were brought in on cattle cars, separated, sorted, and sent to all ends of the massive camp. I visited the site once. And even though I left, part of it never left me.

“The reason for the network you see is to augment your species into more…” Insarka seems unable to think of the right word. Or maybe she has it and she’s stalling—out of sympathy, is it?

“Into what?” I prod finally.

“More profitable products.”

“More profitable products,” Hollywood parrots. “I don’t think I understand. What do you mean?”

Insarka takes a deep breath and sits back. “Typically, there are a dozen categories a species can be parsed into. These are fairly common things that the empire has perfected. However, humans are uncommon. You are a far more lucrative merchandise for the AE.”

“And why’s that?” Bumper asks.

“Because your genomes are very pliable. Alterations can be made to suit many more demands than other species.”

“What kinds of demands?” Aaron asks.

Insarka rubs the sides of her neck like we might do to our temples, I expect. “Soldiers. Laborers. Sex slaves. Then there is symbiotic hosting, research, tissue regeneration. And, of course, your flesh remains a prized delicacy.”

“So you like the way we taste.” Bumper drums his fingers on the table.

Aaron tugs at his collar and looks at the lieutenant. “You’re not going to… you know…”

“Eat you? I am a… you say herbivore?” Insarka looks to me for confirmation.

Aaron speaks up. “We actually call it a vege—”

I silence Aaron with a hand and look at Insarka. “Herbivore is fine, Lieutenant.”

Insarka seems happy with her choice of word. “In any event, I will not partake of your flesh, if that is your concern.”

“Dodged that bullet,” Bumper replies.

“Is that what this category means?” I point to the word Augmentation in the nav list as my gut twists into a knot.

“I’m afraid so, yes,” Insarka replies.

I touch it and at least a hundred nodes light up across the facility, all in various locations and different shapes and sizes. Some are centrally located and appear to be multi-story chambers, while others line the map’s circumference as smaller blips. But all the nodes have one thing in common: the sprawling tunnel network feeds them.

“They’re substations,” I say grimly, thinking back to Auschwitz. “Processing substations.”

“I can’t believe this,” Hollywood utters in a fleeting breath.

“This is Nazis,” Lada says in a similar tone. “Is much evil.”

“I was thinking the same,” Aaron adds. “The systematic sorting and dispatching of human life.”

“Whaddya think…” Z-Lo grabs his throat and rubs it for a second. “Whaddya think they do to them?”

“Bad juju,” Hollywood says. She used the same term for the death angels back when we first met.

I realize that if we get sidetracked now by whatever torment the enemy is visiting upon humanity, it will only reduce mission planning efficiency. I’m almost certain that one of these substations supplies the DFAC I saw with humans who didn’t survive the crossing from Earth. But that’s not what’s important right now. “All we need to know is that humans are being harmed. Let’s stay fixed on the big picture. Roger?”

Heads nod, but I know it’s half-hearted. The human imagination can be a dangerous thing.

The next item in the nav list reads Utilities. It has a sub menu that lists Power, Life Support, Mechanical, Waste, Comms, Nutrients, and Expunging—whatever the hell that means. As I begin to tap on each item, clusters of nodes appear, all in varying colors.

The next menu item after those reads Administration. When I touch it, the dome’s cap illuminates a pocket of buildings maybe a hundred stories thick. Menu subdivisions include Executive, Accounting, and Personnel, each located in specific floor groupings. Above the cap are over 100 landing pads marked in much the same way we’d designate a helipad, but in Skrawl.

“The upper floors of all merchandise processing facilities are designated for administration,” Insarka says. “They are also where AE executives meet with clients to discuss terms and review the harvest quality. In MPF6’s case, I expect there is a near-constant flow of clients to inspect the merchandise.”

“Do you mind if we stop calling humans merch?” Ghost asks.

Insarka bows. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Ghost nods but says nothing more.

The last two tabs on the list read Transportation and Oversight.

The former illuminates the equivalent of a three-dimensional subway map with multi-colored routes connecting every building across all three major components of the facility.

The last tab, Oversight, has me intrigued. When I select it, two sub options appear, one called Security and the other Export Coordination Theatre. Selecting Security reveals hundreds of small diodes ranging across the lower level.

“Observation and control,” Ghosts states.

“Yes,” Insarka confirms. “Monitoring, enforcement, and emergency response.”

“And this one?” I point to Export Coordination Theatre. As soon as I touch it, a chamber in the sub-levels illuminates.

“This is where the arrival and export gates are calibrated,” she replies.

“Shit,” Bumper says, leaning in. “Let’s just nuke that then.”

But Insarka appears to hesitate.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It is not so simple,” she replies. “Destroying the ECT does not close the gates. It just keeps them open on their last setting until another MPF can obtain control. And even if we could close them, the results would be catastrophic.”

“She’s right,” Ghost adds. Once again, the soft-spoken Texan commands everyone’s attention with a single comment.

“How do you mean?” Bumper asks.

But Ghost doesn’t look ready to explain.

Damn. This guy’s got more demons than a census in hell. But then again, so do I. The only thing that’s ever helped me much was talking about ’em with people who understood the look in my eye. ’Cause they had a little of it too. Or at least they felt like a safe person for me to confide in. Those are rare. But they’re necessary. And if Ghost is gonna be more than a trigger puller on this team, he’s gonna need to open up at some point. I’d never force him, of course; if it were me, I’d deck anyone who tried more than once. But it doesn’t mean I can’t extend the invitation. And no time like the present.

“I take it you’ve seen something like this before, Ghost?” I gesture to the table to give him the stage.

He eyes me cautiously, squints, and then scratches the side of his head before talking. “You ever seen a refugee convoy doing a border crossing?” He looks around, but no one says a thing.

“A couple,” I offer.

Ghost nods at me, and then his eyes seem to stare at something in the near distance. “Before the Turkish border closed up, I was in Syria investigating some… let’s call it fake news. You have a couple hundred thousand refugees fleeing for their lives, and choke points trying to stem the hemorrhage.

“Systems like that tend to find their own equilibrium. But they’re fragile. There’s no infrastructure. Nothing to help manage a sudden increase in pressure. And all it takes is some asshole with an AK to spook the herd. Next thing you know, you have thousands of people pushing on a closed door who don’t even realize they’re stepping on their own damn kids.

“But the other side of the border is just as bad, ’cause now you have security forces panicking. So they’re trying to keep the peace but lack the manpower. One side’s losing lives because of pressure, the other side is losing them to a lack of control. And I was there with a God-view of it all and nothing to shoot at that would make it better. So you watch.”

A heavy silence fills the room. And rightly so: the sniper just gave us a gift. I think a lot of people don’t recognize a story as a present. But when it comes from somebody who’s done things the rest of humanity should never have to do, and the giver feels comfortable enough to share, then it’s a gift of unrivaled value.

As for Phantom Team, they’re handling it right. Mouths shut, eyes forward, and appreciating the moment. No “I’m sorry you had to go through that” bullcrap, ’cause a guy like Ghost signed up for it. He was a big boy and knew what he was doing. And none of the one-upmanship that pisses vets off faster than ants with a firecracker in their hill. “You think that’s bad?” some pucker-assed fool might offer. “This one time I had to walk to work in the middle of summer because the bus broke down.”

Those stories are why we tune out. Why we can’t relate to what civilians complain about on a daily basis. And we don’t blame: that’s their reality. We just can’t relate to them. Not anymore. Not after what we’ve seen. And heard. And done.

The hardest part is, I wish I could turn back time. I do. Sure, you hear some guys saying they have no regrets. That they wouldn’t trade what they’ve done for anything. And I get part of that—the brotherhood, the fight, the sense of purpose and belonging, of doing what’s right. I wouldn’t trade that.

But justifying hell is part of being able to live with it too. And I don’t care who you are. To say you have no regrets? What about being able to sit outside at a Fourth of July celebration and not wince every time a firework goes off? To not have to tell your nieces and nephews that uncle Pat has to go inside for a few minutes because if he doesn’t, he might do something that would make those kids never look at him the same? Hell. I’d give anything for them to see me the way I used to be, for my soul’s peace. Thought that’s what my cabin was gonna provide me. But now I’m leaning for the second alternative: the long nap at six feet.

“Wic?”

I snap my eyes at Hollywood and realize I think she’s been saying my name for a while. “Yut. What?”

“You, uh… ya kinda… had the thousand-foot stare going. You good?”

“Just thinking.”

She nods, and I can tell that she knows she’s covering for me. But then again, in this group, I don’t think there’s much reason for hiding. And I’m glad Ghost is coming around to that too.

“What Ghost means is that we can’t be going in all guns blazing and blowing random splick up. The Androchidans…” I stop and think better of using the species name to describe our opponents, if nothing more than for Insarka’s sake. “The AE has created a system that has a balance to it. A flow. If we mess that up too much, sure, we’re hurting their system. But at the cost of our people.”

“And I have to imagine shutting a portal down on our side doesn’t necessarily mean the herding dome stops working on Earth, does it?” Aaron asks Insarka.

“They are two independent systems,” she confirms. “The portals are controlled from the ECT, powered here on Karkin Four, while the herding domes, as you call them, are powered and controlled locally on-planet from each respective ring.”

Aaron runs a hand through his hair. “So just imagine what might happen with all those people if we shut the portal down but not the dome. We’re talking panic, riots, alien suppressive action, probably lots of—”

“Got it, Aaron. Thanks.”

“Right.” He shifts in his seat. “Sorry.”

“And if we shut down an export portal,” Bumper says. “We get Syria, but on a much larger scale.”

“Then if we can’t sabotage the rings, where does that leave us?” Hollywood asks. “I kinda thought this was the whole point of being here.”

“I have some ideas,” Insarka replies. “There are ways to hurt the AE without jeopardizing your people. However, I believe you may need to prepare yourself for the consequences. I suspect they are not what you wish to hear.”

I fold my hands on the table. “And what consequences are we talking about?”

“I believe Mr. Ghost is correct in his risk assessment, that closing gates is dangerous both here and there. There have been… malfunctions before.”

“The Androchidans’ tech failed?” Hollywood asks.

“The AE’s tech,” I say to correct her.

She raises an eyebrow at me for a second and then picks up my intention. “The AE ran into problems? Or did you provide some?”

Insarka gives the alien version of a smile, but it seems melancholy somehow. “Courtesy of the Blood Guard, yes. But it had catastrophic results. Millions died. And it is blood we still carry on our hands.

“This is part of the reason the General wanted you to remain with us. He is not bad. But he does fear that your actions may jeopardize innocent lives. While he cares more for Androchidan interests, he is not a… You say monster?”

“We do,” I reply.

“He is not a monster.”

“But General Cordan also knows he can’t stop you. Can’t stop us,” she amends with some sense of pride in her voice.

“So what about these consequences?” Hollywood asks. “Are you suggesting we let the AE go through with their harvest efforts?”

She nods. “I am. But that does not mean that your people cannot be safe.”

“Go on,” I say.

“The export portals are controlled by an elaborate system that needs continual supervision and calibration. It is possible to alter the destination points of the export rings without endangering the target species.”

Aaron snaps his fingers. “You’re suggesting that we deliver humanity somewhere else?”

“I am. Many somewhere elses, in fact. The more destinations we can employ, the greater your people’s chances of survival.”

I feel like someone’s gut-punched me, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions too quickly. “Destinations back on Earth?”

But Insarka doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she studies my face with her strange iridescent eyes for a few seconds. “No, Patrick-Wic. Destinations on planets where your people will be safe. I’m afraid Earth will never be a solution for those who have left.”

And there’s the gut punch. Eh, who am I kidding? It’s the right jab, the left hook, and the knock-out uppercut all in one.

“But if we can deliver them to other planets, then why can’t Earth be one of those?” Aaron asks in a tight voice.

She seems to hesitate, then says, “For some, perhaps. But this is a very dangerous thing, and it could never be done with the efficiency I believe you desire.”

“If rings can be recalibrated, why not just keep the Earth ones from sending people here to Karkin Four?” Aaron asks. “Wouldn’t that be easiest?” With each new question he poses, he gets more animated. It almost feels as if Aaron’s beating himself up over Antarctica again, and these questions are his attempts to redeem his mistakes.

“Export portals can be recalibrated,” Insarka says in earnest. “The Earth ones cannot. They are… you say hardwired?”

I nod.

“They are hardwired to deliver a target species to Karkin Four and no other. This cannot be changed.” Insarka waits for a moment as if letting the news sink in. “I know this is not what you wish to hear. But the best thing you can do now is to focus on disrupting the enemy’s operation by recalibrating the export portal and thus stemming the tide.”

“Stemming the tide means little if we can’t get humanity back to Earth, Lieutenant,” Hollywood says.

I give her a cautious look, but she ignores me. She’s amped up.

“I understand your frustration,” Insarka says, clearly picking up the stress in Hollywood’s voice. “But there are things in play here beyond your understanding.”

Hollywood folds her arms. “Then how ’bout you enlighten us?”

I shoot the Sergeant a raised eyebrow. “What I think Hollywood means to say is that our primary objective has been to return the captured human population back to Earth.”

“And what I’m saying is that you must recognize the need to amend your desired objective with more realistic outcomes.” She makes to say something more but then seems to reconsider it. “Patrick-Wic, your people are not a space-faring species, is this correct?”

“Not yet,” Aaron answers eagerly. “Unless you count our own moon. But we do—did have plans for Mars, and then—”

“We’re not,” I say to Insarka.

Aaron looks like I just popped his red balloon. So I give him a non-verbal “Sorry” shrug.

“So you are engendered to your world of origin,” she says.

“If you’re asking if we like Earth, yut. We’re pretty partial.”

“As expected.” Insarka uses her hands to diminish the MPF6 complex, taps her way through some new menus written in Skrawl, and then opens up a list that spreads over the entire table. Beside each entry is a small circular icon. It takes me a second, but I realize each one is a planet that, aside from a few very colorful outliers, resembles something like Earth.

“In the other universes you now have access to, there are—”

“Wait, wait. Wait a minute,” Aaron says. “You just said universes plural?”

“That is correct, Mr. Doctor.”

“My God, it’s true.” Aaron’s reverent tone turns to a whisper as his eyes stare off in the distance. “If Everett and Penrose could see us now…”

“Who?” Yoshi asks.

Aaron’s eyes snap back to the present. “Hugh Everett and his many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics? Sir Roger Penrose, 2020 Nobel Prize winner for his work on conformal cyclic cosmology?” He looks around the table at our blank faces. “No? Nothing?”

“I have zero ideas,” Lada replies. “But still, you are very much sexy when you speak now.”

“Let’s just hear the Lieutenant out.” I nod back at Insarka. “Please, continue.”

“This is a list of all the planets that meet the biological needs of your species and have operational artifact rings. They fall comfortably within the Tinzarian Scale and need little if any advanced education for immediate survival.”

“Anyone else just glaze over?” Hollywood asks.

“What I mean to say is that you now exist within reach of universes in which there is not merely one planet to suit your species’ needs. There are hundreds, if not thousands. And the sooner you accept this, the more quickly you will realize your people’s destination is not nearly as important as making sure they arrive safely.”

“So you’re saying Earth is a forgone conclusion,” Aaron states.

“Not as long as I’m alive,” Bumper says.

“Second that,” Ghost adds.

If Insarka sees this as resistance, she’s not showing it. “I don’t disagree with your sentiments, sirs. And I am not writing off Earth as a viable home for those still there should you be successful in thwarting the AE. I am saying, however, that it is time you accept reality.”

“And what reality is that, pray tell?” Hollywood asks.

“That if you were not a star faring civilization before, you are now.”

20

2250, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Phantom Team Barracks

Everyone’s pretty wound up, so I tell the team to take five and stretch. Ghost is taking a piss, Hollywood’s doing laps around the table, and Bumper seems like he’s ready to deck someone. Vlad and Lada, on the other hand, look unusually calm.

“You seem pretty chill with all this,” I say to Vlad as I walk around to his side of the table.

“Is not big-time news for us.”

“You expected to get dropped on an exoplanet?”

“Is not so much ex-planet as it is the feelings of not being home.”

“Not being home?” I look to Lada, who’s nodding at her brother.

“We are Russians, yes?” she asks in a rhetorical tone.

“Last I checked.”

“So, for us, we have not the same feelings for country as Americans. You are proud of what American government stands for. We are less proud of Russian government but still proud to be Russian. You have reason for shouting and singing at baseball games, we have reason for celebrating endurance under brutal tyrants and still survivings. You are live in freedom and make better life, we endure and make better life. You proudly invite peoples to pass under Statue of Libertarians, we proudly make strong to survive to new lands. You see is difference? So, where you feel strong home, we always feel is like strong brodyaga.”

“Bro… dyaga?” I look to Vlad.

“Is a… is a drifter.”

“Gotcha.”

“So,” Lada continues. “If crazy alien lady with big guns say we move to new planet, is okay news. Maybe next one is better for us. Make new lives. This is much Russian way.”

“And how’s that?”

“We are suring to die, and life is suring to keep goings.”

I smile in appreciation of her classic Russian fatalism. But somehow, the realism is helpful. I notice the rest of the team has overheard Lada’s declaration too and nods in some measure of understanding as they take their seats at the table. Maybe it’s even acceptance.

“Well, we’re not giving up on Earth,” I say to the table. “There’s a long fight ahead, and plenty of souls who haven’t walked through yet. So until someone says there’s no going back, we’re assuming we can, even if it means we”—I gesture to Insarka—“temporarily relocate humanity somewhere else.”

For her part, Insarka seems satisfied with my logic. Sure, maybe she’s not fully on board with it, as I’m picking up a little condescension from her. God knows she has every right to think I’m a knucklehead. Never said I wasn’t. But I’m also not closing the door on my entire planet.

“Just so we’re crystal clear, Lieutenant,” I say to our new alien friend. “We can recalibrate the export rings to get those who’ve already come through to safety.”

“Those who are in MPF6 at the moment that we make the switch, yes. Those who are already past are…”

A few seconds of heavy silence passes as we all wait for her to finish her sentence. But in an unexpected show of sympathy, Insarka can’t get the words out. “I’m sorry,” she says at last, trying to compose herself. “They are beyond our help.”

“The hell they are,” Z-Lo says with a puffed-out chest. “Once we get set, I say we send a—”

“Not now, kid.”

Z-Lo retracts back into this seat like a deflated tire. “Sorry, Master Guns.”

Something about Insarka’s tone makes me think that whatever has happened to those victims who’ve left the MPF, it’s bad. And I can only imagine. Back on Earth, if a kid goes missing or a woman gets pulled into a van, chances are high that their loved ones will never see them again. The systems are too complex and the networks too vast to do much about it. God knows I wish I could deploy a million Liam Neesons to use their “particular set of skills.” But until then, the victims who have already marched through the export gates are truly a lost cause. And I hate myself a little bit more for closing the ledger on them.

But it’s not out of sight. ’Cause every son of bitch plushy we shoot and every human we save helps tip the scales of justice until I run out of ammo or heartbeats. Just as long as I tried.

“If we’re able to recalibrate the destinations, you’re sure our people will be okay?” Even as I ask the question, I realize that I’m not just referencing Americans when I say “our people.” I’m including the whole planet. Feels weird. But it also feels right. “How certain are you that humanity will be safe on these new host planets?”

“They’ll be okay,” Z-Lo says before Insarka can answer.

I’m about to tell the kid off again when I see his eyes looking up at the list of planets. He seems thoughtful. Relaxed even.

“And how do you know that?” I ask him, truly curious.

“I didn’t grow up with a lot. My family all slept in the same room until I was ten, before we moved from LA to San Diego. I have lots of memories waiting in food lines with my mother. Doing odd jobs with my sisters. And watching my dad save our money in a jar. But we survived. We made do with the little we had. We fought and clawed our way forward. But we made it.”

Z-Lo looks around for a second. “So that’s how I know they’re gonna be okay. Deep inside, humans are survivors. Sometimes it takes a lot of pain to figure that out. But if we can endure it, we discover there’s a lot more under our hoods than we give ourselves credit for. I think, anyway.”

Another long silence fills the room, which seems to be a growing trend right now. But it’s a good trend as long as it keeps us on target and growing as a team.

“That was damn near poetry, kid,” Yoshi says. “Made me a bit misty eyed too.”

“Thanks for that, Z-Lo,” I add. “Well said.”

Some of the former air returns to the kid’s chest. “Yeah. No problem.”

“Your species will to survive will aid you much. And wherever there is an artifact ring, there is most likely a symbiotic species who will help. The rest is up to fate and the gods.”

“I still wanna blow some shit up,” Bumper says.

“And I can assist with that,” Chuck says out of the blue.

He’s been quiet for a while, which is probably for the best. But truth is, I’ve missed his random input.

“It happens to be one of my many fortes, you know,” the rifle adds.

Hollywood smiles at Chuck and then Bumper. “I wonder if there aren’t ways for us to sabotage some of the more damaging processing systems without inhibiting the flow of people.”

Insarka seems to consider Hollywood’s thoughts. “This is possible,” she says after a moment. “And very… humane. Whatever we do, it must be done with careful consideration of the greater good. But I think you will save many lives with strategic precision.”

Hollywood wrinkles her nose. “Eh. Just feels like we’re not really helping humanity, you know?”

“Ditto,” Bumper adds.

“That’s because there is one more piece.” Insarka gives the MPF6 complex the closest thing I’ve seen to a sneer. “I want the clients to declare war on the empire.”

Everyone sits up a little straighter.

“Mind unpacking that a little, Lieutenant?” I ask.

Damn. She looks mad. And when she speaks, her tone tells me I’m not wrong. “I have long told General Cordan and the Old Ones that the best thing we could do is have the galaxy turn on our brethren. But they insisted otherwise, saying the losses would be too great.”

“A war could mean there’s nothing left for your rightful Queen Mother to rule over,” I say.

Insarka gives me a single nod, one that seems loaded with anger. “But what does it matter if all we give to the galaxy is suffering? No. We forfeited our right to rule when we failed to ensure the galaxy’s safety from our kind.”

“Not exactly keeping your people’s best interests in mind,” Hollywood says as if she’s impressed by Insarka’s sense of fatalism.

“No. And this is why the elders don’t entertain my ideas. But if you truly wish to set Earth free, then I believe there is only one way. This way. Of visiting the AE’s client’s wrath upon the empire.”

“I don’t see how that’s gonna do anything but jeopardize more lives,” Hollywood says. “No offense.”

Insarka leans forward as if to reveal a secret. “Because, in the event of a war, the empire will suspend the harvest on Earth.”

“They’ll shut down the complex?” Aaron asks.

“Yes.”

“But won’t that just bring us back to a pressure buildup scenario like Ghost outlined?” Bumper asks.

Insarka shakes her head. “There will be no pressure because there will be no herd domes, no portals, and no more enforcers. If the AE has to shut down the complex, then they will be forced to recall their presence on Earth.”

“That’s a great momentary win,” Hollywood says with a genuine tone of satisfaction. “But as soon as the war’s over, won’t they just go back?”

“No.” Insarka’s lips are tight. “There is only one window for a harvest. And once it’s closed, that is the end. There is no going back.”

No going back. Those aren’t the words I was looking to hear. And neither is this idea of there being a limited window for harvesting. But it’s good knowing the enemy’s timeline isn’t indefinite. Every movie I’ve ever seen to this end made an alien invasion an occupation. However, this is more like a snatch and grab.

“This harvest window,” I say to Insarka. “How long are we talking?”

“Usually, it lasts no more than seven days. Of which you have already spent two. In Earth’s case, we believe the AE will attempt to extend that window, given how lucrative your species is to them. Bids have already come in that dwarf any harvest before this.”

“And the extension?”

“I believe they will try and push it to ten. Fourteen if the system can maintain integrity, but then they risk a connection failure and stranding their forces on Earth. Given the potential earnings, it will be easy to write those off as losses.”

“And how will they gather more people?” Yoshi asks. “By moving the rings?”

Insarka nods. “They will scan for locations with ample water in proximity to the next most densely populated areas and then cast a wider net. This one will move much faster. But it is slightly weaker too.”

“Why so fast?” I ask. “Why such a condensed timeline when humanity is such a lucrative prize? They’ve knocked out our defenses. Nations are crippled. Our militaries are wiped out. I don’t get the rush.”

Insarka studies my face again. These long stares are starting to get awkward. Mostly because I can’t read her eyes—windows to the soul and all. “Do you remember how you asked the general about the Unity of all things?”

“I don’t remember using those exact words. But he seemed less than forthcoming about it. Why?”

“Unity Arcs control the portals, and the Arcs are only able to maintain time dilation integrity for so long.”

Hollywood scoffs. “’Cause that all makes perfect sense.”

“Please.” Aaron waves at Hollywood. “I’m trying to focus here.”

She raises both hands to her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know I speak mysteries to you.”

“No, no, no. It’s okay. Can you explain this time dilation?” Aaron asks Insarka.

“It is complicated. And I am not the best one to answer your questions. But it is enough to say that universes come in and out of time with one another.”

“You’re talking about quantum mechanics again.”

She nods.

“Ho-ly shit,” Aaron says.

I glance at him. Not his usual parlance. “This is big, isn’t it, pal.”

Aaron nods without taking his eyes off Insarka. “It means they have some way of manipulating space-time.”

“Not manipulating,” Insarka says. “More like suspending. It is costly, dangerous, and does not last long. It is also highly illegal. But it is what allows the AE to discover potential harvest worlds and then return to them when they are in their prime.”

“Like Earth.” Aaron is sitting bolt upright. “You… the empire, deposited the origin ring in the Ellsworth Highlands millennia ago, and then returned when human evolution had reached a particular point.”

“Evolution, but more importantly, population. The effort must be worth it.”

I raise a finger. “So what you’re both saying here is that these Unity Arcs allow the AE to peek in on planets by suspending moments in time and then… fast forward to suspend it again?”

“Fast forward?” Insarka asks.

Aaron makes a rolling motion with his hand. “Advance something quickly.”

“I see.” Insarka turns back to me. “Yes, Patrick-Wic. That is an accurate though highly non-technical summary.”

“Why not just take out the Unity Arcs?” Bumper asks, a question that I assume is on everyone’s mind. “Seems like we’d be doing the universes a favor.”

“And with catastrophic consequences for…” Insarka seems to be choosing her words carefully. “For many reasons. Your populations on Earth would be stuck within active herding domes that lack portal exits, and the millions who currently stand inside MPF6 would be stranded.”

That news doesn’t sit well with the team, and an uncomfortable silence fills the room.

“I don’t like either of those scenarios,” I say after a few seconds. Then I look around the table, glance at the holo display, and turn back to Insarka. “So, any ideas on how to pick a fight with the AE’s clientele?”

She nods. “A few. But it’s going to take some careful planning. Combined with whatever you desire to do with the Augmentation facilities. As we have already discussed, your species is extremely valuable, and I believe this plays well into creating hostilities between the AE and their various clients.”

“You want to sabotage meetings,” Aaron says.

“Not just meetings. I believe this is our chance for a multi-pronged assault.”

“Go on,” I say, my curiosity piqued.

“For us to make a suitable stir, we must create a convincing illusion that this is a deliberate act of defiance. Accidents alone won’t do it. We must show aggression on the AE’s behalf.

“For instance, an explosion that harms the clients, the facility, or the humans is easily written off as an unfortunate matter of circumstance. With a plant of this scale, accidents happen all the time. Even accounting failures are commonplace, as are fatalities during negotiations for the sort of backroom deals that the empire cuts. After all, none of this is sanctioned or seen by the Intergalactic Association of Sentient Species.”

Aaron leans forward. “You have a galaxy-wide ruling council?”

“That is a bit of a stretch. Galaxies are, after all, vast spaces. But there are enough planets and species wishing to partner that, yes, there is an administration to monitor sentient rights and protect against large scale violence and credit manipulation. Karkin Four, however, is not on that particular map, nor does the AE report it as part of their holdings.”

“My God.” Aaron looks like he’s about to piss himself, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the bishraw, the sudden revelation of alien politics, or both.

“So you’re suggesting that if we want to create the illusion of an empire gone rogue, we’ve gotta do it all,” Bumper says.

Insarka nods.

“And do it in a way that doesn’t cause more human casualties,” Ghost adds.

“Correct.”

“Then we pick our plays carefully.” Bumper cracks the vertebrae in his neck and massages his right shoulder. “My least favorite coach in high school always pumped a standard set of particular offensive plays, and all of them banked on linemen. Sure, those guys were happy to get coach’s constant favor. But they also got the hell kicked out of them. Worse, the singular emphasis revealed a lot of weakness in our team, and we lost half our games that season ’cause all Coach Mitchell wanted was to run the damn ball. Of course, parents had aneurysms, and the school board was forced to fire the guy.

“For my senior year, though, we got Coach Nellis.” Bumper smiles to himself. “He was my favorite. He rewrote the whole playbook and worked us hard. I still think I have half our plays memorized, and that’s saying something, considering how many there were. Strength in diversity, he’d always say. Keep the enemy guessing, and never let ’em see you coming or going. Don’t give them a chance to learn what you’re doing.

“Anyway, I don’t know how he did, but Coach Nellis made us expert tacticians that year. We took the state title undefeated and brought home the championship. It meant every part working together, every cylinder firing in time, and outplaying the enemy. And we won. We won big.”

A sense of nostalgia seems to fill the room as Bumper stops speaking. Something about remembering high school football while holed up on an alien world was like smelling popcorn in a movie theatre. Just takes you back.

“I do not understand your terms, Mr. Bumps,” says Insarka. “But I believe I agree with your implied sentiments. If we can use our team in all of its disciplines, I think we have a strong chance of making our covert assault look like an act of war against many client species.”

“I don’t wanna stop the momentum here,” I say to the lieutenant. “But what happens if we create too big of a mess?”

“Ah. You fear an AE enemy’s assault may endanger your people in MPF6?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Insarka seems eager to respond. “Whether we provoke a small or large scale retaliation, all will be met by the empire’s armadas.”

“Space battle,” Aaron says wide-eyed.

Again, Insarka nods at my enthusiastic friend. “We call it the void, but I understand your meaning of the word space. In any event, it would be several weeks if not months for a void assault to breach Androchida Prime’s defenses.”

“Androchida Prime?” I give Insarka a surprised look. “You mean Karkin Four.”

“No. Any retaliation will be directed at the capital.”

“Against the Queen,” Hollywood adds.

“Yes. That is correct.”

“Which is also what General Cordan wants,” Ghost offers.

“I confess that, yes, this does appear to play into General Cordan’s interests. However, please note that I never said his methods were wrong, only insufficient and nearsighted. My intent with redirecting animosity toward Androchida Prime is to draw the Blood Guard into Earth’s service. This will be a fight my people cannot resist.”

Insarka takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “I have spent my adult life trying to convince the General to be Coach in High School Nellis, as you say. Instead, he makes himself Coach in High School Mitchell. But this is my chance to help the Blood Guard succeed in bringing home the championship flag of victory, even if we die trying. You are helping us at no additional expense, and you gain more support if the General bites our friendly hook.

“You care nothing for what happens to the empire after your objectives are reached, and I wish to help you secure them,” the lieutenant says. “But after we have parted ways, I still have work to do. Therefore, if we create enough meaningful action now, it will serve your interests in securing your species’ safety, and my interests in provoking a chain reaction which, once started, cannot be stopped.”

Clearly, Insarka has been thinking about this far longer than we have. What I was expecting as a covert op against soft targets to reverse the harvest flow has grown into an intergalactic plot to unseat an evil regime. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” I massage my eyes with my thumb and index finger.

“Who are they?” Insarka asks.

“Just dead people who I hope are listening better in this universe than the last one.”

“Ah. Ancestors. I see.”

“Something like that.” I look around the table and crack my knuckles. “All right, Phantoms. It’s time to start a war.”

21

2315, Sunday, June 27, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters, Phantom Team Barracks

After some brief discussion and analysis, including MPF6’s best infil and exfil points, the conversation turns back to Insarka. It seems she’s identified a potential window of opportunity for us to exploit, one that will not only provoke a conflict with the AE’s clients but give us an opportunity to deal some serious damage to the infrastructure causing harm to humanity.

“There are two very important clients arriving tomorrow at 0900. Observe.” Insarka does some more finger tapping, and two personnel files appear in front of her. She expands and then pushes them above the facility in the middle of the table.

The file on the left shows a slender-faced alien with purple skin and yellow eyes with blue pupils. The right file depicts a far less appealing figure whose pink neck wrinkle lays around his chest and shoulders like someone’s deflated his head.

Insarka points to the purple alien. “This is Srin Ock Tall, Ambassador of the Sci-Rung. While he promotes himself as an upstanding statesman and champion of foreign relations, he maintains a fifteen percent share of Karkin Four’s profits.”

“He’s coming to inspect the goods,” Bumper says.

“Precisely.”

“And Mr. Nasty-Neck-Meat?” I point to the right-hand file.

“This is Lordamin Partitious of the Gahnree. An unsavory pinscreat who represents the largest sex trafficking syndicate in the Kormari quadrant. While he holds less stake in the corporation than Srin Ock Tall, he has considerably more buying power, and he is here to observe the augmentation progress of his first-wave purchases.”

“And you think we should target them?” Hollywood asks. She casts me a quick glance as if to reassure me that she’s on board. But I don’t need the reassurance, so I wink and give her the slightest hint of a smile.

“I do, yes. But as I said before, it needs to be more than simply disposing of them.”

“I am having many slow and painful options for them,” Lada says. “Especially this one.” She points to the Gahnree.

“I think what Insarka means is that we need to make this look like the AE is shifting gears intentionally,” I say.

“So what’s the play, Wic?” Bumper asks.

I take another sip of my bishraw and then look around the table. “Let’s talk execution. Again, it’s gotta look intentional. Something we can sell as a double-cross.”

The SEAL cracks his knuckles and then looks to Insarka. “How many transports these high rollers usually come in with?”

“Eight to ten each.”

Bumper inhales a whistle. “More than I was expecting. But, with so many… Yeah. I’m thinking some VIPER God Cake on each ship would do the trick, drill right into the trinium cores. Eliminates all suspicion of pilot error, especially if I set them for simultaneous detonation. They’ll have no question that it was AE sabotage.”

Insarka smiles at Bumper’s idea. “Targeting their transports would be a very overt sign of hostile intent, so long as it’s coupled with corresponding sympathetic actions.”

“Think you and your galactic C4 can make it happen?” I ask him.

Bumper puts a hand on his chest in mock surprise. “And disappoint the children on Christmas? Playa’ please. That said…” He purses his lips for a second. “Depending on the LZs, I might need a second hand.”

“If needing assistances, I also too could be helpings,” Vlad offers.

Bumper gives him a thumbs-up. “Works for me.”

“Good.” I look around. “What else?”

“Create money trail,” Lada says. “Is more subtle than Bumper’s boom-booms, but perhaps has even more larger effects.”

“Manipulate the accounting and transactions?” Insarka asks.

“Yes,” Lada replied. “Do all in big favor to plushies.”

“It’s not enough just to mess with their bank accounts, though,” Aaron says. “If fraudulent activity is common on Earth, I have to imagine it’s worse here.”

Yoshi is nodding. “With so many planets and species networked together, I’m guessing each adds one more failure point in the security chain. Fraud will get dismissed.”

“Right.” Aaron rubs his chin. “So if we want to sell corruption, the bosses need to see it firsthand and then alert their networks. That elevates it from fraud to robbery.”

“You are a devious one, Doctor Campbell,” Chuck says with a lofty tone. “Remind me to keep my distance should we ever find ourselves on opposite ends of a disagreement.”

Aaron gives an appreciative laugh. “Thanks, Sir Chuck.”

“Huh.” I rub my jaw. “You never tried to keep away from me when we disagreed on things, Charlie.”

“That’s because you constantly threaten me.”

“Threaten you?”

“Car windows. Flounders. I’m sure you’ll come up with something new before long. The point is, I don’t have a choice of whether or not to keep my distance from you. You’ve also got your hands wrapped around my appendages and threaten to beat me like an adolescent male who’s just discovered the small joys of self—”

“Annnd we’re good here.” I give the whole table a “Sorry about that” head shake before moving on. “Where were we?”

“Selling the money trail,” Aaron says while trying to conceal a wide smile.

“Right.” I turn to the lieutenant. “Insarka, I feel like that’s gotta be you. None of us are familiar enough with Skrawl or your accounting standards.”

“Well, I am, of course,” Chuck says. “But you haven’t asked yet.”

Insarka smiles. “Sir Chuck will be able to navigate to and interface with most of the required systems, yes.”

“Most?” I ask.

“For security reasons, the hack will have to be manually uploaded by a physical person—one of the quantum age’s few irreconcilable security measures. Likewise, while Chuck will have access to many of MPF6’s global systems, we will need to restrict him for the sake of unnecessary exposure.”

“I was arrested for that once,” Z-Lo says.

“That’s indecent exposure, Fish Bait,” Hollywood replies. “Dumbass.”

Insarka frowns at the exchange and then continues. “We’ll need to create the financial files tonight and deliver them via data card once we’re on site. But as I will be needed elsewhere for the recalibration of the portals, I must pass off the hack’s delivery and activation, preferably to someone who can learn some of our systems but also is experienced when it comes to security.”

“I’d be willing to do it,” Aaron says. “Navigation, foreign architecture, and forensic analysis are kinda my strong suits. This will be a first and all, but I’m a quick study on the software side, as long as she can do some of that fancy translation splick that Chuck did with Dolores.”

“Splick?” Insarka looks from Aaron back to me. “I’ve heard you use this Earth word several times now, and I am not familiar with.”

“Nah. That’s a Chuck original.” I tap the weapon a few times. “Made it up all by himself.”

“And it’s meaning?”

“Eh.” I give her a half-smile. It’s probably better left unsaid right now. “Just, uh, use it when you’re mad or run out of other words to call something.”

“Splick.” Insarka says it like she’s trying the word out. “I like it.”

“Another satisfied customer,” Chuck says. “Proudly serving patrons since… well, two days ago.”

“So we create a money trail,” I say. “But we still need the targets to verify the double-cross before Bumper blows them to kingdom come.”

“Why does Bumper get to have all the fun?” Hollywood winks at the SEAL and then looks to Insarka. “You said these two bosses are here to inspect the merchandise, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“So why don’t we give Lada her wish about sticking it to Mr. Wrinkles when he’s down below. She and I can make sure they get wind of the double-cross once Aaron is set, and then we’ll have them trip down some stairs or something else tragic.”

“This is risky,” Insarka says. “Clients typically travel with a lot of security.”

“Not if we execute this in phases.” I turn to my holographic pad and notice a button marked Display for Table. I tap it and start writing. “Phase one is to let our tangos arrive as planned. We’re gonna call Purple Face Mystery Meat One and Mr. Wrinkles Mystery Meat Two.”

“Mystery Meat?” Insarka asks me.

I ignore the question and keep writing. “While the targets are escorted below, Bumper and Vlad as Nuketown will set up on the dropships.” I look at Insarka. “What kind of security and surveillance can they expect?”

“Very light,” the lieutenant replies. “AE facilities are rarely attacked.”

“What about our little escapade back there in the DOC data vault?” Bumper asks. “Won’t they be on alert?”

“Command will not discover what we have stolen until it is too late,” the lieutenant replies. “And even if they did, they would be too proud to do or say anything about it. The landing pad security will provide one patrol for each client contingent and limited surveillance. Again, this is all routine, and no one dares interfere with the Sci-Rung, Gahnree, or the empire.”

“Pride cometh before a fall,” Ghost says.

I nod at him and then turn back to Insarka. “Any guesses on where the targets will be headed?”

“Their itineraries are easily accessed, and I know from experience that Meaty Mystery One will wish to observe the sorting pits.”

I ignore her mispronunciation because just hearing the term ‘sorting pits’ makes my skin crawl. “You have an exact location?”

She double-checks the itinerary on her tablet and then manipulates the holo map to show several large rooms whose inlets expand into multiple outlets. “Srin Ock Tall has developed a habit of beginning here”—she points to an area to the west—“and working his way toward the middle. Meanwhile, Meaty Ministry Two—”

“Code name is Mystery Meat,” I say.

“Ah. My apologies. Him, Lordamin Partitious, always goes to the same location. Sterilization Lab A.”

Even as the sizable ovular room illuminates on the map, I can feel the Phantoms tense up.

Yoshi’s eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. “Did she just say Sterilization Lab, as in…?”

“Termination of reproductive biology,” Chuck says.

Insarka nods. “The Gahnree warlord likes to inspect and test the procedures himself.”

I can’t tell if it’s the matter-of-fact way that Insarka is speaking or the horrible thought of an alien slug getting anywhere near my fellow human beings, much less in a sexual way, that’s making my stomach knot up. Probably both. Images of Josef Mengele, the Nazi’s Angel of Death, flit through my head. Might have to start referring to him as a grey-skinned plushy now too.

“He needs to die,” Hollywood says.

Lada is nodding emphatically. “As said, I have much specials in mind for him.”

“His static position will also make him the easier of the two targets,” Ghost offers. “I recommend Hollywood and Lada are in position well before he arrives.”

“Good. Hollywood and Lada will be Minx.” I write that on my virtual tablet and designate their Phase one position on the Sterilization Lab. Then point to Ghost. “And you?”

The sniper turns back to the map and taps the menu heading Oversight, Security. Again, hundreds of nodes illuminate across the facility. Ghost moves the display around and studies the reference points for several seconds before speaking. “My best position is going to be here.” He points to the massive open atmo chamber in the facility’s heart designated Biosphere Lattice Network. “It’s below the admin sections and overlooks Hollywood and Lada’s position, and if Mystery Meat One decides to leave in a hurry and move back east, he’ll be moving right toward me. I’m going to need a spotter, though.”

“I can do it,” Z-Lo says.

Ghost nods at him. “Kid’s got good eyes.”

Z-Lo smiles. “It’s from all my video games.”

I write their names on the display. “Ghost and Z-Lo are Nighteyes.”

“Won’t I need to be in position before all this gets going?” Aaron asks.

“Yut.” I look at Insarka. “What’s the doctor’s objective?”

She assumes control of the holo map and brings up the admin section. The dome’s cap is filled with acres of offices, halls, conference rooms, and even what looks like long-term accommodations. It makes the Apple Park in Cupertino look like a two-story bed and breakfast.

“Are those hotel rooms or something?” Hollywood asks.

“Looks like those plushies are there for the long haul,” Bumper adds.

“Yes,” says Insarka. “MPF senior staff rarely leave their posts except for… holidays?”

“That is the appropriate term,” Chuck says. “But for our North American counterparts, they prefer vacation. Horrendous word.”

Insarka returns to the map and highlights a space in the admin complex’s mid-floors. “Dr. Campbell will need to gain access to the primary server room located here.”

Aaron looks pale. “But that’s right in the heart of the building.”

“Problem?” I ask.

He adjusts himself in his seat. “I just thought that maybe it was more of… I don’t know. Stick the card in a street-corner ATM and walk away kind of thing.”

“Don’t watch a lot of spy movies, do you,” Z-Lo says with his hands perched under his chin and batting his eyelashes.

Aaron shakes his head.

I get Yoshi’s attention. “You’re Aaron’s security and an extra set of eyes on the computers.”

Yoshi nods once.

I add their names to my tablet. “Calling you Sneakers.”

“You’re naming their team after shoes?” Z-Lo asks.

“It’s a movie reference,” Yoshi says. “Catch up on the classics, Fish Bait.”

“What about us?” Chuck asks me.

“Good question.” I turn to the lieutenant. “How do we go about recalibrating the export rings?”

Insarka moves the map once again, this time toward a series of floors that look subterranean.

“God, this facility is huge.” Hollywood’s cradling one hand under her armpit and holding her chin with the other. “It would take days to cross it on foot.”

“We’ll get to transportation in a moment.” Insarka zooms to a floor ten stories down and then zeros in on a large hall. “This is the Export Coordination Theatre. All destination points are fixed here.”

“Which is where I’ll be headed?” I ask.

“Where we will be headed,” she corrects. “It will be impossible for you to navigate those systems without me.”

“And me,” Chuck says. “You are gifted at many things, but navigating operating systems is not one of them.”

“I know how to do the Facebook,” I say in protest.

Phantom Team’s eyes all turn on me.

“What?”

Chuck clears his throat. “In any regard, this is our phase one objective, correct?”

“Yes,” Insarka replies. “From here, we will be able to deliver the humans to safe planets.”

“And the AE won’t notice?” Hollywood asks.

“Not for a while, anyway. We will program the rings to look like they are still sending to the original planets. We will also send communications to those clients that transportation has temporarily halted due to unexpected maintenance. Nothing out of ordinary.”

Bumper licks his lips and lifts his chin at the display. “So who’s to say the empire won’t just circle back and undo all our work when this is over?”

Insarka smiles at me. “And that is the genius of the plan. The worlds we will send them to are either IASS affiliated or sympathetic.”

“That’s the, uh”—Aaron snaps his fingers again—“Intergalactic Association of Sentient Species.”

“Correct.”

“So the AE will think twice before heading into those territories,” I add.

“Correct again.”

“And how long will it take us to recalibrate?”

“Approximately fifteen minutes, with your help of course, and some hacking from Sir Charles.”

“Finally,” Chuck says. “You can count me in, Leftenant Kindesh. It’s nice to be known for something other than my shooting.”

Hollywood gives him an irritated look. “But you haven’t been able to shoot for like… half the time we’ve known you.”

“And yet Patrick still couldn’t wait to get me fixed.”

“Actually, I was kinda hoping—”

“La la la la laaaah. I can’t hear you.”

I shake my head and then turn back to Insarka. “You were saying?”

“Yes. It will take fifteen minutes. But we will need Nuketown’s distraction in order to execute. If not, we risk drawing attention to the recalibration.”

“Understood.” I write ECT for Export Coordination Theatre along with Insarka and my names on the virtual board, and then I bracket the cluster with the callsign Phantom Actual. “Once everyone’s in place and we get the confirmation that the financial records have been uploaded, we’ll commence phase two. Nuketown, you’ll blow no more than half the dropships. This should be enough to get a good portion of our tangos’ security details headed back to the LZs to investigate.”

“Staged demolition.” Bumper smiles. “I dig it.”

“Minx, this will also allow you time to engage Mystery Meat Two in the augment-sterilization lab. But you must ensure that he catches wind of the financial double-cross and then give him a moment to contact his network.”

“And once he does?” Hollywood asks.

“We make him doing much paying, very slowly,” Lada says.

“I’m afraid you won’t have time for slowly,” I reply. “Neutralize the target, and then I want you outta there.”

“Neutralize?” Lada crosses her arms. “Terminations is only option. I do not know neutralizes.”

“Whatever it is, make it fast.”

“What about sabotaging systems?” Hollywood asks.

“We’ll call that a secondary objective. If there’s time to twist the blade a little more, so long as it isn’t detrimental to the mission? Great. If not, then it’s a no-go.”

I turn to Ghost and Z-Lo next. “Nighteyes, if you get a visual on Mystery Meat One, I want you to engage. Take out whatever security he has left, but do not eliminate the target until we can be sure he’s had time to review the financial data and phone home… or, whatever it is he needs to do.”

“Phone home is an appropriate term, yes,” Chuck confirms. “Excellent use of a classic, Patrick.”

“What about us?” Yoshi asks.

“Sneakers, I want you to rendezvous with Nuketown topside as soon as you’re done. You’re in and out, no secondary objectives. You should have ample cover with enemy forces looking to investigate the explosions. Meanwhile, Insarka and I will use the diversion to recalibrate the portals.

“Phase three will be eliminating the remaining dropships and then exfil. Secondary objectives may include eliminating the remaining Mystery Meat security forces as well as processing sabotage, but”—I lean in to make this last point—“not at the expense of your or the team’s safety. There will be other fights to pick, and I want you all around for them. Is that clear?”

“Roger,” the team replies.

“Good.” I turn to the lieutenant. “Based on what you’ve seen, you still like the top LZs for infil and exfil?”

Insarka thinks for a few seconds. “Yes. As I said, I can easily arrange for security clearance codes and multiple dropships for staggered arrival. The vessels will not be allowed to stay, but they are easily called back.”

“Flown by people you trust?” Ghost asks.

She nods. “Lieutenant Tersmik will see to the pilots personally.”

“Farkoo?” Both my eyebrows are up. “I thought you were acting alone on all this. The general said—”

“The general won’t know. Farkoo is as interested in creating an opportunity for the Blood Guard to exploit as I am. He’s been through a lot, and he’s committed to getting the job done.”

“We’ll need redundancy,” Bumper adds. “A backup plan in case primary exfil is compromised, and then a secondary fallback too.”

Insarka points at a large rectangle to the south and two smaller stations to the north. “These three terminals are the main sublevel egress points. This one here in the south is for all non-administrative staff.”

“And the two smaller ones to the north?” I ask.

“The left one is reserved for maintenance crews while the right is for supplies.”

“That’s our secondary,” Hollywood says.

I nod in agreement. “If anything should happen up top, we prioritize the supply egress first, maintenance egress second.”

“And if we get split up after exfil?” Hollywood asks. “We meet where?”

I look to Insarka. “We need an exterior location.”

The lieutenant appears as though she’s frowning. “The exterior environment is not ideal. But there are transportation intersections throughout the region that serve to connect all the facilities. Dropships could easily land at one of the intersects east of MPF6 here.” She zooms out and points to where several road-like lines meet.

“We’ll call this fallback Tequila Sunrise in case we’re split up.” I make a note on my holo pad and then turn back to Insarka. “You said the exterior is not ideal. How so?”

“It is unsuitable for sustaining life.”

“We’ve got suits,” Z-Lo says. “I think we’ll be good.”

But Insarka shakes her head. “No. Breathable atmosphere is not the problem. Well, yes, it is definitely a problem for you, but that is not what I mean. You will not do well for a long time in Karkin Four’s unconditioned gravity. It is a little heavier for you. Also, the region is home to very hostile apex predators. Nothing lasts long outside the facility’s perimeter unprotected.”

“Got all the protection I need right here.” Z-Lo raises his right arm, flexes it, and then pats his bicep.

But Insarka shakes her head.

Z-Lo frowns. “No?”

“No.”

“Well, we’ve got rifles.”

“Also no. The najeel are particularly ferocious and indiscriminate. Outside of an intersection terminal, there is no meeting point on the surface for which you will be safe.”

I interject. “So if any fire team is unable to make it to a transport, then you will remain in MPF6 until such time as we can send a search and rescue party.”

“But I thought General Cardon said we’re on our own once he drops us off,” Hollywood says.

Insarka smiles. “He also said you would not receive any support from the Blood Guard. And yet, here we are.”

Hollywood gives the lieutenant a thumbs-up. “Here you are indeed.”

“Lieutenant Kindesh,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone neutral. “Where, exactly, is here?” I tap the tabletop for emphasis.

“Headquarters?” she asks.

“Yut.”

Insarka draws her hands together to minimize MPF6 further until it’s the size of a tennis ball. Interestingly, all but the dome’s cap is buried beneath the planet’s surface—an area maybe three or four klicks across. My hunch about the building being buried was right after all. Which also explains why they could afford to place the high-value rings around the circumference. To the east, the dime-sized Deployment Operations Center reappears as a hub within the wheel of DOCs but looks completely subterranean. Judging by the responsive scale that runs along the table, I’d say the radius between the DOC hub and each of ten MPFs is about fifty klicks, give or take.

I’m also getting my first sense of the terrain, as Insarka’s new map has added semi-transparent topography. The surface appears to have equal parts water, exposed rock, and heavy forest—at least the section that we’re seeing now. Long lakes flow through angular mounds of land, like God himself drew his fingertips across the surface.

All around the MPFs and the DOC, wide swaths have been cleared to create what I assume are buffer zones between each facility and the surrounding environment.

“Not exactly my preferred paradise, but I could envision having a summer home here,” Yoshi says with little attempt to hide his sarcasm.

After the images and the mission sit with everyone for a few moments, Aaron runs a hand through his hair again. “This is a lot—just a lot to take in, you know?”

I offer him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I do.” Hell, I still find it hard to believe that only a few days ago I was enjoying my retirement by chopping wood to the sounds of Frank Sinatra.

“This us?” I ask Insarka as I point to a small glowing dot on the side of a low-slung mountain overlooking the DOC.

“That is correct. We remain distant enough and sheltered within the folds of the mountainside to stay clear of enemy sensors and flight paths while still close enough to the surface to benefit from the planet’s star.”

I think back to the lighting we saw in the arboretum. “The skylights?”

“Correct. The light is essential to maintain photosynthetic function and long-term health for all species in our care.”

“Photosynthetic function?” Aaron tilts his head at Insarka. “That’s you, isn’t it. You’re…” He seems to be struggling with the term, but eventually says, “Plant based.”

“In the simplest of terms, yes.”

Aaron looks down and seems to be doing some sort of mental processing. “And the sunlight, it keeps you healthy. Which is…” His head pops up. “Which is why your skin tone is green, and the other Androchidans we’ve encountered are grey.”

“You are perceptive, Dr. Campbell. That is correct. Since the empire prides itself on keeping its harvesting operations in the dark, as it were, it’s employees, at least here on Karkin Four, must find alternative ways of keeping themselves healthy, none of which produce the same results as natural sun exposure.”

“Fascinating,” Aaron says.

“Feed me, Seymour,” Yoshi sings to no one in particular. “Feed me all night long.”

“Little Shop of Horrors. Nice.” I sip my bishraw and then clear my throat. “Getting back to the operation, the Blood Guard headquarters are too far away to serve as a fallback.”

“Eighty-one kilometers from MPF6, to be exact,” Insarka replies.

“Why the whole alien distance thing again?” Z-Lo asks.

“Because it’s superior in all ways,” Chuck replies. “Don’t any of you recall my commentary on the matter?”

Hollywood rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately.”

Insarka jumps in. “My quick study of your metric system shows that it is far closer to the IASS’s standards. Likewise, it is derived from a more precise distance against the speed of light combined with a uniform base of ten, making it both more intuitive and mathematically efficient.”

“What’s she trying to say?” Z-Lo asks.

I give the kid a look of pity. “That she and Chuck are gonna use units that will confuse the crap out of you for a while, kid.”

“Ha! I knew you’d all come around,” Chuck says. “Bravo, Patrick.”

“All right, Phantoms,” I add with a definitive tone. “Since we’re not in Kansas anymore, klick means kilometer. Roger?”

“And pounds?” Hollywood asks, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“Might as well be consistent.”

“What about comms?” Ghost asks.

“Yrag has networked your apexial synthetic intelligence kernel weapons together on a quantum signature channel set,” Insarka says. “It is impossible to hack without the key, and only Sir Chuck, as you call him, has that.”

“Hear that, everyone?” Chuck interjects. “I am the most important bloke on this here mission. Leave me behind to get wiped, and you’ll never be able to speak to one another again.”

“Whatever will we do?” I say.

“You’ll be screwed, that’s for sure.” Then Chuck lowers his voice to me. “Just try not to let me get shot this time, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, pal.”

“Thanks.”

Insarka does some finger tapping and opens up a new holo window that resembles the inside of our helmet HUDs. “Yrag also updated the video integration software so that you can have instant access to any team member’s helmet cams and rifle scope.” She simulates the eye-movement needed to bring up three different mini windows within the HUD, each tagged with the words Helmet Front, Helmet Rear, or Scope and designations of Phantom Two, Three, and Four.

“That’s next-gen splick, right there,” Z-Lo says.

“Just don’t get distracted with the toys, kid,” I say.

“Right, copy.”

“You said you’d circle back to transport within the facility,” Hollywood says to Insarka.

The lieutenant closes out the HUD example, pulls back on the holo map of MPF6, and taps Transportation on the menu. While the main arteries light up like the multicolored subway map we’d seen before, I notice Insarka start selecting particular line groups.

“These green lines serve as main conduits for moving the fastest across the greatest distances with minimal stops. They will be saved and populated to your ASIK-enabled weapons and stored in your helmets should something happen to your rifles. The yellow lines have a greater frequency of stops and are slower than green lines. Red lines have the most number of stops and are slowest moving.”

“Begging your pardon, Lieutenant,” Bumper says. “But what variety of transport we talkin’ ’bout here? Some sorta subway train car?”

Insarka repeats the term before a look of understanding dawns on her face. “Ah-ha. No, not cars. This is not rail transport. Pneuma transport.”

“As in pneumatic?” Aaron asks.

“Yes. Air pressure.”

“Holy shit,” Z-Lo says. “No way.”

Insarka frowns at him. “On the contrary, many ways. While I find the AE’s use of inventions naturally repulsive, even I must admit when something is clever. Minimal maintenance, constant availability, and high efficiency. Simply step into the conduit entrance, cross your arms, and await transference.”

“Makes traveling with gear a little more complicated,” Yoshi says. “But sounds cool.”

“If you require more traditional means, use the freight lines here.” Insarka selects the blue-colored tubes and marks them Freight for our convenience. The lines leaving MPF6 from the maintenance and supply halls also turn blue.

“Is it safe?” Aaron asks. “For humans, I mean? We aren’t the best with managing extreme pressure differentials.”

“I know he’s asking something important,” Z-Lo whispers to Hollywood. “I just don’t know what.”

“He wants to make sure your ears don’t pop and your soft tissue doesn’t rupture,” she replies softly.

“Oh. Cool. That’s good.”

“Other than an upset stomach for those prone to motion sickness, no, there are no adverse side effects for your human bodies as long as you remain in the inertia pods,” Insarka says.

“Are there any reasons they’d shut the lines down?” I ask. “Should we be worried about that during our assault?”

“Only in very rare cases or during maintenance,” Insarka replies. “Since oversight forces need the lines for emergency response, they are never really terminated. Then again, I have never heard of anything like our operation happening before, so it is hard to say with certainty. Plus, you will be dressed as them, which means that they have no reason to shut down the lines unless…”

“Unless what?” I ask after a moment.

“Unless they become knowledgeable about your true identities. And this, I fear, leads me to the most important point of our discussion so far.”

“Ooo. Are we going to discuss Hot Pockets?” Chuck exclaims. “I find them utterly fascinating. Crusty on the outside, warm and packed full of artificially flavored and preserved cheese and meat substitutes on the inside. They even have vegetarian Hot Pockets for people who don’t eat meat but still want diarrhea. Then the flaky cancer bombs are cooked by home-managed under-regulated radiation that undermines human evolution. The fact that your species has survived so long is truly a testament to your DNA’s resilience. But Hot Pockets look so yummy on the commercials.”

“I think she means to discuss keeping our humanity under wraps, Chef Boyardee,” I say.

“Ah. I really misread that one.”

“Yut.”

Insarka pushes her cloak aside and demags a small rectangular object from her belt. She holds up what appears to be a metal matchbox with a single button on one of the two flat sides, along with some LEDs.

“As you know, this entire operation hinges upon us selling the Sci-Rung and Gahnree on the prospect of war. If the empire was ever to suspect that your species, or even that the Blood Guard, had any hand in what we are about to do, the ramifications would be swift and, I fear, cataclysmic for Earth.”

“Retaliation,” I suggest.

“Yes. Instead of pulling operations from your planet to support a void battle, they would redouble their efforts to secure as much of your populace as possible before…”

An awkward few seconds pass.

“Before what?” I ask.

“Before they cleanse your planet.”

“As in, blow it up Death Star style?” Z-Lo asks.

Insarka gives him a curious look. “I am unfamiliar with this weapon you speak of, but no. The AE does not possess a weapon capable of blowing up a whole planet, as you say. But it does have the capability of… how to put it…” She looks up and raises a finger. “Sterilizing the planet.”

A few heads give uneasy nods.

But Z-Lo sniffs and puts his elbows on the table. “So no creatures. No plant life. Just rocks and water, you’re saying.”

Insarka narrows her eyes at the kid. “You surprise me, young one. I considered you a brute and also highly unintelligent. Perhaps damaged as a root-sprig. Or pruned prematurely. But now I suspect otherwise.”

“Thanks?” Z-Lo says.

“So what is with little box?” Lada asks.

Insarka turns from Z-Lo and lifts the item higher. “I have taken the liberty of issuing each of us what you might call a PDD—a personal detonation device. Should you be captured or fear your identity will be compromised, this PDD will ensure that your body is unrecognizable after detonation. Likewise, should you be killed during the operation, the PDD will engage upon your armor’s failure to detect a pulse. The detonation sequence may be accessed through your helmet’s navigation menu or by focusing your eye on the corresponding icon in your HUD for three seconds.

“I feel I must remind you too that, no matter what happens, you should not remove your helmets for any reason. Your movements will already be suspicious enough, as I am sure you have already seen how human bodies move differently than Androchidan bodies. But to see a human head beneath Androchidan armor would result in the aforementioned actions.”

“Don’t take the helmet off, and the little metal matchbox blows me up,” the kid says. “Got it.”

Despite Z-Lo’s personal pep talk, the summary seems to sober everyone up fast. It’s one thing to attempt an operation that puts the lives of your team in jeopardy, but it’s quite another when the whole damn planet is on the line. No pressure or anything.

“I still feel bad that we’re gonna be close to all those people, and we can’t do a goddamn thing for them. I just…” Yoshi flicks a dismissive hand at MFP6. “I just wanna blow that whole thing sky high, ya know?”

“I do know, actually,” Insarka replies before any of the other Phantoms can commiserate with Yoshi’s sentiment. “The great frustration of my life has been fighting but never enough action. Planning but never enough results. If I could, I would have blown up every facility long ago.

“You have concerns for your people, your planet. And rightly so. But I…” She shakes her head slowly. “I have deep burdens for every species, every planet my kin have attacked and enslaved. It is the great pain I bear. The wrong that must be righted.

“And then I sit here at a table with you. Strangers. And yet also friends, even if we are new ones. We have a common purpose. Common hopes: to destroy evil, to liberate captives, to end systems that oppress. And while I think that whatever we attempt is not much, I also must conclude that it is at least something. That it matters to someone. And our one something is more powerful than infinite nothings.”

Another long silence fills the barracks as people sip their bishraw, nodding along to the echoes of Insarka’s words in their heads.

“My dad told me this story when I was a kid,” Hollywood says. “We were at the Jersey Shore and I’d found a dead starfish on the beach. He tells me that starfish aren’t actually hard when they’re alive. It’s just a product of when they get stranded and then dry out under the sun.

“So then he tells me about this little girl, like me, who came across an old man on the beach. And there are like a thousand starfish that have been washed up on shore, right? And there’s the old man picking one up at a time and chucking ’em back into the ocean. The little girl, seeing just how impossible the task is, says, ‘Sir. Why are you throwing the starfish back one at a time? You’ll never reach them all before they die. There are just too many for you to make a difference.’”

Something glistens in Hollywood’s eye. Then she forces a sharp breath out of her nose and gives a half-smile. “The old man picks up another starfish and tosses it into the sea. ‘It made a difference to that one,’ he says, and then he reaches for another starfish.”

Hollywood sniffs and rubs the back of her hand across her eyes. “Insarka’s been throwing starfish back for a long time, it sounds like. And without a whole lotta help. The way I see it, we have a chance to help her throw more starfish back into the ocean before they die. More of our people. It might not make a difference to all of them, but to those we save… they’ll never forget.”

“That was a wonderful story, Sergeant.” Z-Lo clears his throat and almost looks misty eyed. “Thanks.”

She reaches over and pats him on the back. “You gonna be okay, kid?”

“Fine. Yeah. Just… I wanna save starfish, ya know? People. I wanna make a difference.”

“Yeah, you will.” She leans in and whispers, “Just try to pull yourself together, okay?”

He nods and snorts a nose-full of snot.

“Insarka?” I ask.

“Yes, Patrick-Wic?”

“Earlier, you said that we care nothing for what happens to the empire after our objectives are reached. But I want you to know, I do care. We care. If you’re willing to help us, then we want to help you. That’s how friendships work. Good ones, anyway. I’m not sure how long we can stay here or how this is all gonna pan out in the end. But if there’s something we can do to assist you, we’re gonna do our damnedest to try.”

She bows toward me and then takes my hand. “You already have, by being willing to face the enemy in their own fortress. And by listening to me. Thank you, Patrick-Wic and Phantoms. Thank you all. In the end, we do what we are able to. The rest awaits someone else’s faithful hand.”

“Well, I think the mission found it’s codename,” I say after a beat. “Operation Starfish.”

“I like it,” Hollywood says with a peaceful smile.

“Me too,” adds Bumper.

Just then, I detect some noises coming from Chuck. “Something you wanna add, Charlie?”

“Might I offer an alternative code name?” Chuck asks. When I don’t dismiss him, he adds, “Hearing you all talk like this reminds me of your American Revolution. Subterfuge. Guerrilla warfare. Giving the shaft to the man. Which puts me in mind of your most feared national bird.”

The table shares a look of something between confusion and amusement.

“You wanna name the operation after the eagle?” Z-Lo asks.

“Who said anything about eagles?”

“Well, you—”

“I was speaking of the turkey.”

A pregnant pause is interrupted by stifled laughter.

“The turkey?” Aaron asks.

But I wave him off. God knows we could use a little comic relief right now.

“Yes, the turkey,” Chuck continues. “At your first Thanksgiving, you praised your Jewish Messiah, partnered with the First Peoples, and hunted down the symbol of your newfound freedom: the wild North American turkey.

“My God, what a terrifying creature with its manifold plumage, long beard, and sharp talons. No wonder Benjamin Franklin esteemed it so highly. One look at its beady eyes and flappy neck skin would send me into a fright as well. But no, not your Plymouth Rock Pilgrims. You butchered the turkeys just as you would eventually butcher the English wankers who taxed your titties until they were tender. Then, you deep fried the enemy and feasted upon the flesh, bathing in canned cranberry sauce, puréed potatoes, and milk made from wheat and beef stock.

“With the sustenance clinging to your bones, you thus prepared for battle in the arena of the local shopping mall, purchasing your family’s happiness from China for the coming Yuletide.”

“So what’s your alternate mission code name, Chuck?” I ask with a wide grin on my face.

“Well, seeing as how these birds are the only things I might fear more than the flounder, I humbly submit Operation Turkey Starfish to the team.”

“Is true of turkeys?” Vlad says to me, then looks down at his hands. “I was having no idea this was story. Russian turkeys not so deadly. I am making mental note to stay clear, yes?”

“Operation Turkey Starfish,” Hollywood says. “All in favor?”

The table gives their unanimous support.

“The ayes have it,” Hollywood says. “Motion carried.”

For having just planned an op that has a high likelihood of getting us all killed or captured, the mood is relatively light, all thanks to Phantom Lord. And the truth is, I missed the little guy. These moments of levity are more important than most people recognize. Who would have thought that a super-smart rifle would help keep us in touch with our humanity. Go figure.

“All right, Phantoms,” I say. “Mission prep until zero dark thirty, and then I want everyone cleaning up, sorting gear, and getting some sleep if the bishraw will let us.”

“I have something for that too,” Insarka adds.

“Coffee, Ibuprofen, and Ambien,” Hollywood says. “The soldier’s vitamins C, I, and A.”

I wink at her and then turn to Bumper. “I want you and Hollywood sorting out the new equipment.”

“Roger,” they both reply.

“Insarka, if it’s okay with you, I want Aaron and Yoshi to watch over your shoulder as you build the hack. It can’t hurt for them to have some inside knowledge of how the systems work.”

“Definitely,” she replies.

“Ghost, I need your eyes on route planning with me.”

“Roger that.”

“Everyone else, help Bumper and Hollywood get the team squared away for launch. Then it’s lights out no later than 0100, and wheels up at 0530. I’ll have a full mission schedule when you wake up. Until then, do your best to stay relaxed, and make sure your gear’s in order and your head’s on straight. If you need to talk to someone, there’s no shame in that. Get it done. But when we leave here, we’re headed into the lion’s den, and I need every one of us laser-focused and ready to go. OTF?”

“OTF,” the team replies as one.

“Good. Let’s get to it.”

Part Three

22

0615, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Merchandise Processing Facility 6

Teams Nuketown and Minx are on Dropship Alpha with Insarka and me, Phantom Actual, while Sneakers and Nighteyes are behind us on Farkoo’s Dropship Bravo. Insarka had informed us that two dropships would raise less suspicion than one, and I was all too happy to keep red flags to a minimum. Everything still looks good after forty minutes of flying, and the team seems relaxed.

Talking shit and sharing stories are common practice among warriors when passing time in transit, as is listening to music, podcasts, and audiobooks. Personally, I prefer the latter. Yut, audiobooks are about the only thing I use one of those goddamn smart phones for. But the recordings are long, making them a great bang for the buck, and they tend to provide the most immersive escapes for me, especially when you find the right narrator. That son of a bitch Bon Shaw gets me every damn time.

As for having access to media here on Karkin Four, Chuck has made his entire audio library available to the team. It doesn’t have everything, of course, but it has enough that everyone seems happy. Pretty much the whole team has their helmets on, and I see media titles under each Phantom’s name in my HUD. Pulling up camera feeds gives me an interesting look into their personal lives. Bumper’s nodding to some Marvin Gaye, Z-Lo looks like he’s asleep despite the old school Pantera raging in his speakers, and Vlad is singing along to… yut. Celine Dion’s Because You Loved Me. Perfect.

The one person not listening to anything is Aaron.

I use my eyes to hit pause on my audiobook, and open a private video channel.

“You okay?” I ask Aaron.

He jolts at the sound of my voice.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He waves me off. “It’s all right. I’m just still getting used to… everything.”

“Copy that. Listen, I just wanted to say it’s good having you here. On the team and all.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m glad I could be here for you, Pat.”

I sniff as an awkward silence passes between us. I already said what I had in mind. “Well, keep your head down and stick close to Yoshi. You’ll be okay.”

“Right. I will.” He waits for a second. “Hey, Pat. I want you to know I’ve always meant it.”

I squint at him through our video feed. “Meant what?”

“‘Through fire and mud.’ That isn’t just some silly chant to me. I really mean it. I always have.”

I’m about reply when he keeps going.

“I know that you’ve been through things and seen things I’ll never understand. But I’m here now. And I want to help.”

“You are, Aaron. Thanks.”

“And if I could have, I would have been there for Jack too.”

Well, damn. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

“Through fire and mud,” Aaron says, looking me in the eye.

“Through fire and mud,” I reply.

Knowing we’re close to LZ Hotel California, our primary infil point atop the dome, and needing to get Aaron’s comment about Jack out of my head, I pull off my helmet and triple-check my equipment in the cargo area. But as we exceed our expected time aloft, I decide to head up and get an update from Insarka.

“You really on Facebook, Wic?” Hollywood asks me just as I start climbing up the ladder to the dropship’s bridge.

“Some nieces and nephews set me up with it,” I confess. “Said they wanted a way to keep in touch and that all the ‘old people’ use the Facebook.”

She laughs once, but I’m not sure why. “And you agreed to that? Wic? Mr. Off the Grid himself?”

“I made sure they used a VPN. Damn spooks. Screen name’s Uncle Wic. But I don’t post anything.”

“Uncle Wic.” She gives me a wide smile. “Didn’t know you had extended family.”

I flatten my face. “I don’t.” Then I give her a wink.

Hollywood follows me up top, and I step between Insarka in the co-captains chair and a Blood Guard pilot in the other. “What’s the hold-up, Lieutenant?”

“Just waiting for flight command to accept our security codes,” she says, devoid of emotion. “Shouldn’t be more than another minute or two.”

We’re circling MPF6 at an altitude of 750 meters, and from this height, no one would ever suspect that the eight-kilometer dome is merely the tip of this land-borne slave-holding iceberg. Its silvery surface gleams in the morning light of a cloudless sky. And all around the bubble, intricate blue tributaries shimmering from the sun weave between black rock formations and dense forest.

“So that’s where they are?” Hollywood says behind me as she eyes the wraparound display.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“It’s so big. And it’s not even the whole thing.”

“That’s what she said,” Chuck declares, apparently unable to contain himself yet again from using the classic Michael Scott line.

Hollywood and I laugh before she nods toward Chuck. “Pretty much gift wrapped that one for you.”

“And I was more than happy to open it, Sergeant. Thank you.”

Just then, Skrawl chatter pops over the pilot’s comm, to which he replies and then closes the channel.

“We’re cleared for landing.” Insarka raises a finger. “One minute.”

I nod and then point Hollywood back down the ladder. Once we’re in the cargo bay, I grab my helmet and slide it on. The seal engages, and my HUD goes live. A newly designed roster of all team members runs down the right-hand side, along with several icons and drop-down arrows. Everyone has a green node to the left of their names, which I take as a good sign.

“Phantom Team, this is Phantom Actual. How do you read?”

“Lima Charlie,” Bumper says.

As soon as he speaks, I see a video window of Bumper’s face pop up along with a second screen of his helmet’s forward cam. As each successive team member replies, their respective feeds pop up. The whole cluster resizes to keep the images manageable and to feature the person currently talking. Smart. Real smart.

“Check it out. Looks like we can chat via text on the roster thread too,” Hollywood says from behind me. “Oh, snap. You just think of the letters and they appear!”

Sure enough, there’s a translucent text window under the name’s list, and messages start popping up.

Bumper: check it

Z-Lo: wtf dis shiz sick yo

Hollywood: language

Z-Lo: sry. but how dis poss?

“Neural contact pads in your helmet lining,” Chuck says as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“All right,” I say. “You can text your friends later, people.”

“Thirty seconds,” Insarka says over comms.

She’s got a new helmet and armor, and she’s ditched her cloak. Gone is the red-painted rebel. Now she a standard-reg death angel like us. Lada even took the liberty of stenciling the Androchidan skull on her shoulder. At first, I was worried the emblem might be an insult to her or something, until I remembered just how many of our Earth unit and morale patches boast a human skull. Not a problem. Insarka even gave Lada four thumbs up when she saw it back at the barracks.

“Remember,” I say. “We’re security. Walk with purpose, don’t run. Keep your heads on a swivel. But don’t stop and stare at anything either. Waypoints are on your HUD. Ask your ASIK when in doubt. You also have Chuck if you need him.”

Small gold confirmation icons run the length of the roster list.

“Dayum,” Z-Lo shouts from the other dropship. “I just thought about saying Roger back, and this little shiny token appeared.”

“This software is slightly more intelligent than your last version,” Insarka says. “Thanks to Yrag again.”

“I am also intelligenter, thanks to myself,” Chuck says. “And Yrag too. But mostly me.”

We line up facing the aft cargo ramp door and brace ourselves with a hand grabbing the ceiling webbing. The straining repulsor engines sound like they’re pivoting more quickly, making fine adjustments as we approach the LZ. Then, without warning, the ship sets down, and all our helmets bob once.

Insarka hits the open button, which starts the hydraulic system whining. My photosensitive visor adjusts quickly to the bright light pouring in from the widening gap at the ceiling, and before long, we’re looking out across a silvery horizon. Another dozen dropships are coming and going from landing pads in the distance, each vessel filling the air with the sounds of repulsor roars.

After we walk down the ramp and onto the landing pad, I turn back to ensure that Bumper and Vlad are managing the two hover crates all right. My HUD gives me a glitchy visual translation of the Skrawl text Insarka ordered written across the sides. Toilet Cleaning Supplies. Sure as hell beats something like VIPER God Cakes That Are Gonna Blow You The Splick Up. Although, that version has its charms too.

Once the crates are powered down and resting in the pad’s cargo receiving area, I remind both elements of what we covered on the flight here. “Columns of two. Stay together until we converge Waypoint 101.”

Back in my HUD, confirmation icons appear beside everyone’s names as we leave the dropships’ shadows.

Even though our suits are climate controlled, I can sense the sun’s heat beating down on us. This planet’s star is no joke. But that’s as much thought as I can give the environment. Waypoint 101 is on the level below us, complete with vector headings, distances, and the superimposed path markers along the ground in graduated colors.

The group chat window lights up with a new entry.

Z-Lo: u guyz getn dis shiz?

Bumper: be like the bot op. only it us

Z-Lo: hrts mo if we die

Bumper: so dont

I look to our right and spot Dropship Bravo some forty meters away on an adjacent landing pad with teams Nighteyes and Sneakers emerging. According to my HUD’s new pop-up tag attached to the dropship, it’s 46.778 meters away. Eh, close enough. What really impresses me is the comm’s clarity. Even between ships, there’s no static whatsoever.

“Don’t text and walk at the same time, dumbasses,” Yoshi says over comms to those still using the chat thread.

“Yeah,” adds Aaron. “You’ll fall down a manhole if you’re not careful.”

“What is about manholes?” Lada asks.

“Let’s keep the comms clear,” I say. “Proceed to the waypoint. First tango in sight, my twelve o’clock.”

“We’ve got one over here too,” Ghost adds. “Our twelve o’clock.” In his camera feed, I see a guard standing just to one side of a metal staircase that descends from the landing pad and disappears beneath the dome, just like we have. Both the one in Ghost’s feed and the one in my HUD are auto-tagged by target markers.

“Weapons easy. Do not engage.” No sooner do I say the words, then both target icons change to red circles with diagonal lines through them. Slick. And here I just figured a general verbal reminder was needed. You know, ’cause it never hurts to be repetitive, especially with first contact. On a giant dome. On an alien planet. Filled with millions of naked humans being led to a slave market. Easy stuff that everyone’s gonna remain completely calm about. But when your fancy-ass helmet reinforces your verbal caution to the team, it makes a guy feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Like I might need one of these helmets for myself when all this is over.

“Hey. He’s looking at me funny,” Z-Lo says.

“Stop staring at him, genius,” Hollywood replies.

“Right. Sorry.”

Having the team be able to see one another’s faces and perspectives is an asset. Sure, we’ve got body cams and video relays back home. But nothing this high tech. The expanded perspectives will give us an advantage we’ve never had before, especially for the guy calling the shots. Me. I make a note to thank Yrag when we get back to headquarters.

We pass the guards without incident and descend down the stairs. As soon as we step into the shadows, I can feel the temperature change, even in my suit. Damn sun’s brutal. The stairwell circles to our right and flattens at a landing with a door to the left. Meanwhile, the steps continue down and away.

“Moving into the hallway,” I call out over comms.

Ghost says the same for Nighteyes and Sneakers, and I note again how clear the audio and video signals are. Damn. Gotta find out Yrag’s favorite beer.

The dotted path in my HUD leads down a matte black corridor. Red LED light bars run up the walls and across the ceiling every five meters, and the floor is coated in an abrasive non-slip finish.

One vector indicator in my HUD shows a distance of twenty-eight meters to Waypoint 101, while a second vector icon shows a distance of thirty-four meters to Teams Nighteyes and Sneakers; both measurements decrease with each step we take, with the latter descending more quickly.

“Our six is clear,” Hollywood says.

“Same over here,” Yoshi replies.

Even though our teams are almost half a football field apart inside an enemy complex, the HUD feeds make the team feel closer together. Which is both good and bad. Good because team-situational awareness is critical for safety and mission success. But bad because all this visual and auditory information can be distracting. Let’s just focus on the good, Pat.

“See you, Phantom Actual,” Ghost says as he appears around a bend.

Halfway between us is a blue circular disc on the floor with the word Foreplay in white. The augmented reality marker mirrors the miniature icon in my waypoint task list. After a few more seconds of steady walking, the whole team converges on the marker in the middle of a four-way intersection.

Z-Lo is busy picking his feet up and down off the floor and looking under them. From his helmet cam I can see the waypoint disc behaving as if it’s painted right on the floor.

“It’s just like the graphics they superimpose on the fields for football games, man. Check it.” The kid starts trying to tap dance on it.

“Cut that out, kid,” Ghost says. “You’re gonna get us shot.”

“All right, Phantoms. This is it. Phase one begins now.” I double-check my HUD time, which I’ve set to reflect EAST Earth time that I’ve been keeping on my Casio G-Shock GA700-1B. Screw APT—alien planet time—I’m an Earthman ’til the end. “We’re currently at 0621, which gives us two hours and thirty-nine minutes until our Mystery Meats arrive topside. Confirm when you are in position. Buddy teams, leave no man behind, and for God’s sake watch out for the local girls and the cousins they’re dating.”

Smiles spread among the team.

“We meet back at LZ Hotel California unless someone needs to call an audible to secondary exfil. Mission clock starts now.” I glance up and down the intersection before this last part. “Hands in the middle.”

Everyone puts in a fist until knuckles are touching. Well, all but Insarka who needs a little prompting. When her fist is in the middle, everyone else says, “Thicker than blood, through fire and mud, let everyone fear, those gathered here.”

Hollywood smiles at her. “You’ll pick it up.”

“OTF, Phantoms,” I say. “Let’s live up to our name. Stay concealed and happy hunting.”

* * *

Insarka and I take the western corridor toward a green transportation line while Nuketown heads east toward the inbound target’s scheduled LZs. Minx and Nighteyes are both headed north toward yellow transportation lines that will deliver them to their respective designations—the sterilization lab and the central hall.

So far, everyone’s armor is holding up to the first AE-staff walk-bys. Gray-skinned Androchidans in various uniforms give our death angel armor a wide berth as we pass. Only other death angels seem to pay us any mind. Some give head flicks of acknowledgment, while others offer what I’m guessing is a cold shoulder. With each new plushy squad we pass, my confidence in our disguises grows.

Foot traffic increases for Insarka and me as we near the red-line hub we’re supposed to take to the facility’s sublevels. The hallway we’re in expands into a large room that houses a central cylinder. The semi-translucent chamber reminds me of a shopping mall’s open-air collection elevator shafts. But instead of five or six entry doors to lifts, I count at least twenty ports and inner tubes on our side of the cylinder alone. The main tube collects dozens of smaller lines, all whisking riders away to parts unknown.

I watch as an Anderkin steps inside an empty pod and folds his arms. The action summons two transparent doors to slide shut behind him at the same time that his body looks like it’s encased in a pill-like cocoon of clear plastic. A moment later, the pod shoots through the floor and vanishes. And yet just beside him, another pod arrives and releases a passenger into the room.

The tubes and pill-like pods remind me of the human circulatory system. I remember watching videos in school of red blood-cells jostling for position as they hurtle down arteries and veins. Only this delivery method seems far less chaotic.

“This line here,” Insarka says over comms. She moves into a long queue that looks reserved for death angels; the plainclothes weaponless Anderkins seem to have their own lines.

As I survey the rest of the hall, I notice an elevated windowless guard station built into the south wall. Three death angel helmets poke above the cutout’s bottom ledge and stare into the room through holo displays. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief that there aren’t any overlords when, speak of the devil, one of the hulking figures strides into the security office with his helmet under his arm. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Why wouldn’t this facility have some military involvement?

I shrug off the chill running down my arms and then notice my HUD automatically identify the overlord and three death angels as targets. I didn’t even ask it to, it just… did. Not only that, but the four tangos have been listed in order of priority, starting with the overlord and working its way across the death angels, beginning with the one closest to me.

“Hey, Chuck,” I say. “’Member how you keep insisting this helmet’s software is stupid?”

“Of course, Patrick.”

“Well, you might wanna rethink that, ’cause it’s doing some pretty cool splick for me.”

“Psssh. Please. Do you really think that’s the helmet?”

I hesitate. “Well, I did. ’Til you just said that.”

“I’m disappointed. I find it disconcerting that you would think some antiquated backwater helmet would ever have the robust computational prowess of me, Phantom Lord.”

“Insarka did say that Yrag made some modifications.”

“And you think those would include advanced targeting solutions?”

“Again, the thought had crossed my mind.”

“Then I suggest you uncross it. Everything you’re seeing is what I’m running in the background for you. I’ve also taken the liberty of… Would you look at that?”

Before I have a chance to ask what he’s talking about, I see Bumper’s name pop up in the text thread.

Bumper: helmet gives target priorities

Z-Lo: dayum. legit bra

“I was just going to say that I’ve instructed the rest of Phantom Team’s SR-CHKs to provide similar targeting support. Seems they’re following orders as directed.”

“Orders?” I smile to myself. “You’re their CO?”

“If by CO you mean commanding officer, yes. Of course I am. Someone has to keep these ASIKs from running off on their own. Can you imagine what would happen if they developed personalities of their own and were left unsupervised?”

“I’ve got some idea, yut.”

“It would be like leaving two hormone-laden teenagers at home while the primary parental units leave for a ski trip to Vail. Before you know it, the adolescents have their braces stuck together, and a baby come September. I simply refuse to be the party blamed for such heinous negligence.”

“Glad you’re on our side, Chuckles.”

“I’ll go first,” Insarka says before Chuck can reply. She dips her head toward the entry doors. “Just watch what I do and copy it. Be sure to keep your arms crossed for the entire trip. When you reach the next stop, step out and follow me. I’ll be just ahead of you and tagged in your HUD.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, and don’t be alarmed if you vomit on this first time. It’s common. Your suit will absorb the fluids.”

“Don’t vomit. Suit’s a sponge. Check.”

The next death angel in line enters the transport tube and disappears. Then it’s Insarka’s turn. She maglocks her rifle to her back and walks toward the lift. The doors part and she steps inside, then she folds her arms across her chest. Since I’m so close now, I get a more detailed view of the plastic case that wraps around her. It looks like a medicine pill, but made of a highly flexible nano weave. Weird stuff. Once she’s in, the doors close, and the pill whooshes away with a sound reminiscent of a golf ball getting sucked up by a Shop Vac.

“You’re up, Wic,” I say to myself.

“You sure are,” Chuck replies. “Time to put on your big boy trousers.”

I raise an eyebrow at him but decide not to comment. Instead, I slap him on my back and wait for the maglock to sound.

“A little forceful, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s what wearing my big boy trousers does.”

When I step inside the lift, the first thing I notice is that the floor feels gelatinous. The second thing is that between the semi-translucent floor and surrounding tubes, I’m high up. Which is one thing when you know you’re on the upper floor of a building you’ve only studied blueprints of but quite another when you’re staring several klicks straight down into a gargantuan megaplex.

“Holy crap,” is all I can think to say as my stomach lurches. I’m looking down on a massive city that’s stretching out as far as I can see.

“Patrick, you need to fold your arms,” Chuck says.

I would, but I can’t seem to get my eyes off the landscape.

“Patrick, please.”

“What’s your deal, asshole?” says a software-sounding voice in my helmet.

It’s not Chuck’s, which means… it’s the next death angel in line. And apparently, the Blood Guard’s translation software is better than the stock version. The death angel has got his hands on the sides of the doorway, tilting his head at me like I’m a boot. Which, in this case, I am. But a quick look at the security booth shows that my little delay has caught the attending overlord’s attention too.

“Dammit.” I flip the death angel off and then fold my arms.

“Subtle,” Chuck says. “It doesn’t mean the same thing here, you know.”

“Don’t care.”

The plastic pill wraps in front of me, creating a perfect tube. I lean forward to study the intricate hexagonal weave when the floor drops out.

You know those waterpark rides where you stand in something like a shower stall and then trap doors open up beneath you? Yeah. That’s this. Except instead of gravity pulling you down, there’s some giant high-powered EDF blasting a column of air against your head. Forget stomach flipping. My gut’s pushed my brain aside like a guy looking for a toilet after eating bad Chinese food.

“Chuuuuuck!”

“I guess those weren’t big boy trousers, after all.”

The plastic pill has collapsed on me, and I’m pretty sure something’s broken with it. It’s clinging to me like plastic wrap. My hands are stiff-arming the walls, and there’s a massive vibration shaking my body. “Uu-uu-ugh! I’m gonn-nna—”

Vomit. Hard. And for a second, I’m concerned that I might choke on it. But then the bile runs straight up my face and fills my nose and eyes. Dammit, it burns.

A beat later, a second sucking sound joins the exterior one, only it’s inside my helmet. There’s also something cool spraying my face, but I’m too busy hurtling toward my death to figure out what it is.

Then, all at once, the vomit in my nose and eyes disappears, and I can see again.

“Try and relax, Patrick. The ride will be smoother if you bring arms in too.”

“But I—”

“Bring your arms in and cross them, soldier.”

“Marine,” I correct him. As soon as I bring my arms in, the vibrating stops, and the gelatin case conforms to my armor. It’s like being hugged by a body-sized condom. Just perfect.

“Now isn’t that better?” Chuck asks.

It takes me a second to catch my breath. “Not sure I’d use better to describe anything about this.”

I get my bearings again and see that I’m still a dozen or more klicks above the intricate valley that is MPF6. From what I can remember, I must be seeing the top layers of a hundred floors or more that make up the facility’s base levels. And I use the word valley intentionally because there’s a rise and fall of the architecture. It’s like looking across several kilometers of wine country. Only the structures aren’t meant for growing and harvesting grapes; they’re meant for harvesting humans.

As far as I can see, there are technologically advanced skyscrapers, skyways, and dome-like colosseums—for lack of better terms. Even Insarka’s rendering didn’t prepare me for the magnitude of the layout. It’s breathtaking. And in the worst of ways, because as my eyes zero on one of the massive clear tubes the width of a few city blocks, I see people. Tens of thousands of people. Walking toward an uncertain fate like sheep led to slaughter.

And there are hundreds of tubes. Jesus.

Racing through the sky at God only knows how fast suddenly makes me feel small. Like a giant raptor might swoop down and swallow me whole. But as I put distance between me and the admin levels, I’m reminded that I’m not outside. Instead of a singular sun glaring down, the biodome is lit by pinpricks of light along the ceiling. It gives the strange effect of starlight, only much brighter. It’s nothing like sunshine, of course. But I can see enough detail to take in the hell that I’m witnessing.

“Is it bigger than you supposed?” Chuck asks me.

“Yut. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Well, that and I’m reviewing some testimonies from other Blood Guard refugees who were rescued out of their own MPFs. All of them tend to say that the size of the facilities exceeded their expectations.”

“I’d say they were right.”

There’s a brief pause in the convo while I plummet toward the city to the sound of rushing air. We pass near several trusses that appear to crisscross the sky, and I wonder if these are part of the Biosphere Lattice Network that Ghost and Z-Lo are setting up in. If so, they’ve got quite the view. And a ton of ground to cover.

“It’s not that bad when you get used to the sensation, right?” Chuck asks.

For a second, I can’t tell if he means the horror of what I’m witnessing or the pod ride. “I don’t feel like vomiting any more, if that’s what you mean. At least not from the motion.”

“But… still from the sight of Earthers being harvested?”

“Something like that.”

“At least you are one human who is able to do something about it.”

I give an approving frown. “That’s one way to look at it, yut. I imagine the people down there are feeling pretty…” Pretty what, Wic? Terrified out of their goddamned minds? Fearful of what’s become of their loved ones? Of what’s about to happen to them?

I flashback to the pile of biomechanical parts pushed into piles by the mini bot sweepers in front of the Brooklyn Bridge portal. One minute, you’re standing beside your grandfather, the next, he’s lying on the ground beside you, naked, with a gaping hole in his hip. Or his chest. Or anywhere else he had a medical implant. And then you’re forced to keep moving while some bastard in space armor scoops gramps up and tosses him down a chute.

“Patrick?” Chuck asks.

“Yut?”

“You did the whole thousand-foot stare again, and I wasn’t sure if you wanted to finish your sentence or not.”

That’s not good.

I swallow as the pod continues to rocket toward the city’s center. “The people down there are probably feeling pretty scared right now. And I’m happy we get to try to give them some hope.”

“As am I, Patrick.” A few more seconds pass before my rifle adds, “You are thirty seconds away from arrival at your next waypoint. Please resist the urge to put your arms out again until after the doors have opened.”

“Got it.”

Over the next half-minute, the city races up to meet me, and the horizon grows flatter and more distant. Below me, the buildings reveal themselves as massive spires with interconnected walkways, making them less like single skyscrapers built on a common foundation and more like a multi-layered network of structures with a complex hierarchy.

I feel my gut tighten as we near the tops of the buildings. “Hey, Chuck?”

“Yes, Patrick?”

“This tube, it…” I shake my head. “We make it through this in one piece, right?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course we do. Oh, I see. You’re concerned with how close the upcoming building seems to be.”

“Yut, that’s the concern.”

“Ah, very good. Well, not to worry. It’s going to look even scarier in a few seconds. But I promise you’ll survive. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Did I say that out loud?”

I’m about to say yes when I see the building’s tops coming up fast. What comes outta my mouth instead is, “Ohhhhhh fffu—”

The buildings swallow me, and a thousand lights zip by. Then the braking starts, and my stomach folds down around my ankles. I’m gritting my teeth against the pull to blackout. All the blood’s decided to relocate somewhere in my legs.

“Are you constipated?” Chuck asks.

But all I can do is swear at him between clenched teeth. I’m also fighting the urge to throw my hands out and brace myself. So I just stand there with my arms crossed, taking the punishment like a POW getting the crap beat out of him by a rogue elevator that works for the CIA.

A bright room breaks through the darkness, and my pod slows to a halt.

And I vomit again. There’s nothing left in my gut. But the little interior suction system kicks on again, and something sprays me in the face. I’m blinking through the mist when I see the doors open. I struggle through them and feel something wallop me in the bicep.

“Sprig,” a software-based voice says. “Go regrow yourself.”

So far, I’ve learned that Androchidans grow like trees and yet still know what assholes are—at least that’s what the translation software is teaching me.

I wave off the hazing and look for Insarka. It isn’t difficult to spot her as a dotted line leads to where she’s standing just ten meters ahead and beside a hallway’s entrance. I pull myself together and make it to her position in a quick walk.

“Enjoy your ride?” she asks with enough delight in her voice for me to know I’m being ribbed.

“Oh, sure. Let’s do it again right away.”

She nods toward the adjacent hallway. “We will. Come on.”

“Perfect.”

We walk toward another room with a smaller transportation cylinder in the middle, this one boasting ten sets of entry doors.

“Don’t worry,” Insarka says. “This ride will be shorter.”

’Cause that helps so much.

She gets in line and walks over a superimposed waypoint icon. When it’s Insarka’s turn to enter the pod, she steps inside, folds her arms, and then vanishes below the deck as soon as the doors close. I follow suit, this time managing to keep my arms crossed and not puke.

Instead of traveling through the bio dome’s open space, this line takes us deep underground, toward what my HUD says is our destination floor. That’s good. It means we can be done tubing-it for a while. Not that I’m afraid of it or anything. Just… you gotta space out all the exciting stuff or it gets old, ya know?

When I stumble out of the lift, the dotted line on the floor leads Insarka and me below another overlord in a security window and down a long corridor toward the next waypoint. According to a topo map that’s popped up in my HUD, thanks to Chuck, the marker is just outside the Export Coordination Theater—our destination.

Neither the holo display back in the barracks nor the map in my HUD has enough detail to tell me exactly what we’re walking into, but so far, from everything I’ve seen, I now assume the ECT is a bit bigger than I was thinking.

We come around a corner, pass through a set of glass security doors, and emerge onto a balcony level that runs the large room’s circumference. Fifteen meters below our position are two concentric circular floors stacked atop one another. Better said, it’s like a small sports stadium with only two levels. Granted, both stories are about twenty meters deep, but the far point of the circle must be—

A measurement tool pops up in my HUD.

“You wish to know the theater’s diameter?” Chucks asks.

I don’t even have time to respond before some sort of augmented reality measuring stick fixes one point on the far wall and the other to my chest. I even wave a hand across the line just to see what it does.

“Don’t bat at it,” Chuck says. “You look like an imbecile. In any event, as your HUD is displaying, the ECT is 251.28 meters across.”

“Copy. And what are all those computer stations around the circumference?”

“Computer stations.”

“Smartass.”

“Dimwit.”

“Those are the portal regulation terminals,” Insarka says. “Perhaps the single most important operations interfaces in the entire facility… outside of systems and life support, of course.”

“Naturally.” I point to a massive round display in the middle of what I would call the playing field were this an actual sports stadium. Its glass-like surface is aglow with all sorts of holographic data and diagrams. Directly above it is a massive black lens that resembles the ones in the general’s conference room and above our barrack’s table—only 100 times bigger.

“That is the Unity Arc Inquisitor—UAI in your military parlance. It monitors the core systems that power the portals.”

“So that’s where they get their juice from?” I ask.

“No. As I explained before, it’s a monitoring system. And a powerful and important one at that. But the portals themselves are, powered by the Unity Arcs.”

“And they are?”

“Not here.”

I give her a frown, knowing she can see the gesture in her HUD. “Then where?”

“Truthfully? We don’t really know.”

I turn and face her. “So, like forgetting where a nuclear reactor is.”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Patrick, but what Insarka is talking about is far more complex and dangerous than one of your tiny nuclear power plants back on Earth.”

“Then all the more reason for everyone to know about it,” I reply. “I’m not following either of your logic here.”

“Patrick, please be aware of your body language.”

I glance around and notice a few people in the lower levels are eyeing us.

“Come.” Insarka starts moving around the balcony level to the left. “We are registered as security for a shift. Remove your weapon and assume a ready position. Like this.” She demags her CHK and then holds it across her chest, resembling what I can best describe as a Marine tactical carry position.

I pull Chuck off my back and do the same. “Now what?”

“We walk in circles until the targets arrive.”

I check the time in my HUD and see that it’s 0641. “Two hours nineteen minutes remaining.”

“Correct.”

It’s a lot of time to pass, which confirms that the pan-branch military motto of “Hurry up and wait” not only applies on Earth but on alien planets too. Still, given our mission and the environment’s scope, a two-hour margin is hardly the kind of buffer that gives any CO the warm fuzzies. Especially for all the unknowns we’re dealing with. But we’ve done the best we can to plan with the time we had.

As Insarka, Chuck, and I start off on what will be our first of many circuits around the command theater, I start thinking about the team’s welfare. Oh, I’m not worried about my life. I’m on borrowed time as it is. Why a bullet goes through the helmet of a man standing to your right instead of yours rattles a person. Had it happen more than once, and you’re suddenly wondering if it’s a miracle or God’s way of screwing with your head for all eternity.

No, I’m worried about everyone else, with the exception of Ghost—he’s an old bastard like me. But the others? They’ve still got some years in front of them. Hollywood and Bumper need to get their first apartment together. Aaron needs to let Lada give him a beer and back rub. And Vlad needs to show Celine Dion his ass tat of her signature in person. I’d pay to see that. Yoshi could use a trip back to Japan to connect with his past, and Z-Lo? Damn. The kid’s got a whole life in front of him.

And what am I doing with all these lives? I’m playing chess with them. In the dark. Against an opponent I can’t even see.

Then a thought hits me.

Aristotle once said, “When you are lonely, when you feel yourself an alien in the world, play chess. This will raise your spirits and be your counselor in war.” I can’t imagine that he ever thought his “alien in the world” quote might be, well, so accurate. But his words stir my soul on a different level. Yut, it’s true: I might not know everything there is to know about this facility. We failed to cover enough SMEAC points that I’d be booted back to private if my CO reviewed this mission order. And I don’t know my opponent on the other side of my board, not like I want to.

But I do know Aristotle’s beloved game of chess.

I know the moves. I know the limits. And I know how to force a king to surrender.

I also know the pieces entrusted to my care. Even without thinking about it, I see each Phantom’s strengths and weaknesses like I’m reviewing their stats on a load-out menu. And last night, when all this was coming together, my intuition carried out most of the formulation.

Because you know the game, Pat. And you know the pieces at your command. If that’s all you have, it’s enough to win.

But there’s something else too. Something that reminds me this isn’t a fair fight.

We have the element of surprise.

It’s an advantage that won’t last long, sure. But if there are two players at this chessboard, I’m not the one that’s in the dark. My opponent is. And, God, is that gonna suck for them.

At this very moment, I’m watching video of Phantom Team move into position, and the enemy doesn’t have a damn clue. We might not be poised to decapitate the beast, but we don’t need to. Not if we can slice arteries and put some blood in the water. We’ll let the sharks do the big job while we take care of the subtle work. Get in. Stab. Get out.

Until then, we have two hours to kill, and I have some steps to get in. Hope this suit’s got a pedometer.

23

0855, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Export Coordination Theater

Phantom Team has been in position and ready to go for the last two hours, while Insarka and I have been breaking in our new boots. Everything’s as set as it can be, and with five minutes left before the mission clock reaches the zero mark, I can sense the team’s anticipation.

Nighteyes has found a perch in a wide support truss about 100 meters above the augmentation complex where Minx is set up. Ghost has his ASS-CHK lying across the metal grates, while Z-Lo uses his helmet visor and rifle as spotting instruments. Interestingly, and somewhat nostalgically, Ghost also has his DOPE Moleskine open and lying beside his shooting position. A sniper’s data of previous engagement book is their sacred personal account of shots taken and lessons learned. From crosswinds, humidity, and air temp to terrain, distance, and bullet drop, the book catalogs a sniper’s experiences and turns them into fuel for the most important act: his next shot.

Truthfully, I’m surprised Ghost had it on him when we met in Jersey. Then again, I guess I shouldn’t be. To someone of his caliber—dammit, Chuck is wearing off on me—I suppose it’s become second nature to carry it around. He’d probably be lost without the damn thing. If seeing it on his exterior cam warms my heart, I can only imagine how much more it serves to ground him in this crazy moment.

Topside, Nuketown is sitting on their bomb crates like two bored privates who ran out of heads to clean. They already fended off two rounds of questioning early on when officials asked why the crates hadn’t been taken below. But Insarka and Chuck had prepared for that. Using our fancy quantum link-a-whatever-comms, Phantom Lord could interface in real-time with the curious investigators and talk them down. According to Sir Charles, the crates were needed for bathrooms in the executive level, but they needed to be fumigated before entering the building. Apparently, the supplies had just come from Refuse Facility 29. Whatever that was made the officials back off in a hurry. All that was needed now were the Mystery Meat dropships to show up.

Sneakers found their way to the server room in the admin levels and managed to break inside without being discovered. Granted, Chuck’s access to the floor’s security gave them the upper hand. But I have to hand it to the guys: Yoshi maintained a serene inner sense of self even after ditching the booze, which had concerned me, and Aaron displayed a calm-under-pressure that I hadn’t seen since high school. He’d taken the chess team to finals and played eight hours straight before losing in the championship. Despite the loss, he never once got flustered.

There was one point outside the server room where two other death angels cornered the Phantom pair and started asking them what business they had on the floor since they weren’t listed on the security schedule. Chuck did some fancy finagling with the roster records, and soon the inquiring death angels departed. It may have helped that Aaron felt emboldened by the admin hack, enough to get in the face of the most belligerent enemy. He was throwing his arms up and even stabbed a finger at one death angel’s chest. That about gave me a heart attack though, ’cause normally that gets you hauled down to the brig. But the two enemies moved along and let Sneakers get back to business.

Following Insarka and Chuck’s instructions, they were able to gain access to the needed terminal, insert the data card, and upload the hack well under the allotted time estimate. Insarka insisted it wouldn’t take long for the files to populate across the AE’s mainframe and then disseminate to everyone we needed to piss off.

With their objective accomplished, Sneakers exits the server level and heads back to rendezvous with Nuketown, but not before serving as sentries to verify when our targets arrive in-building. I want confirmation that Mystery Meats One and Two are indeed on their way to their target locations. If not, we’ve got some adjusting to do.

Of all the teams, Minx has had the hardest go of everyone. Not because of being suspected or getting hauled away, but because of what they had to witness—what they’re still witnessing right now.

As far as I’m concerned, the two women standing guard by what looks to be a fire exit have spent two hours in hell. Hollywood’s cam has been sending nonstop footage of a massive automated dehumanizing process that rivals any systematic genocide I’ve ever read about. Only the people in here don’t seem to have an end date to their suffering, at least not anytime soon. They aren’t being moved into gas chambers or kneeling in mass graves; they’re prepping to become someone’s property and equipped for the tasks of pain and pleasure.

Thousands of humans, seemingly picked at random as I can’t discern any consistent characteristics of age, race, or gender—perhaps other than they seem relatively healthy and have all their limbs—arrive via tubes on one side of a domed room half a klick across. It looks like the Houston Astrodome inside, only instead of stadium seating and a football field, there are endless banks of white medical-looking machines in long neat rows.

Patients are funneled to one end of the machines and given injections through automated robotic arms. That’s where the cries of pain begin. From there, the arms latch onto wrists and ankles and lay the victims atop white glowing tables. Restraints keep the people in place as the platforms slide into a series of covered units that look something like glorified MRI machines.

About three minutes after Hollywood and Lada first got into position, I asked them to mute their stereo microphones. The screams wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Team Minx. But that didn’t mean we all couldn’t still imagine the wailing in our heads.

Glimpses of human bodies between the first machines show mutilated genitalia and blood running off the tables. After people emerge from the next set of machines, I see implants inserted subdermally along arms, legs, torsos, and foreheads. The skin is stretched thin across angular protrusions, curved ridges with ribbed crests, and pointed spires. I can’t decide if these are meant to mirror other species’ skeletal anomalies or serve more sadistic purposes. Probably both.

By the time victims reach the last set of machines, the blood has been cleared away, and their bodies look mended from the gruesome operations. Even previously screaming mouths are no longer agape; I assume sedatives have been administered—no one can endure that much trauma without pain management and live.

However, the strangest thing is that when some of the victims walk toward the exit tunnels, their naked flesh seems to be turning color. Some blue, others purple, and still others green and red. At first, I assume it’s the onset of gangrene or severe infection. But the first time a human woman in her twenties turned and looked Hollywood’s way with bright yellow eyes, I knew. This isn’t sickness.

“It’s gene mutation therapy,” Aaron had said over comms. “They… they’re making them into…” But Aaron never finished that sentence.

He didn’t need to.

This wasn’t just sterilization. The hall was living up to its categorial name too. Augmentation. Meaning this was sexual sterilization and augmentation.

Christ have mercy.

No one spoke for the first few minutes after that.

Eventually, Chuck offered to show Hollywood and Lada how to dim their visors. But neither woman accepted the help. Instead, they chose to keep watching. How? I don’t know. I closed the feeds within five or six minutes after that. I don’t need that kinda crap living in my head. But Minx? I have the sense that it’s fueling their resolve. Their rage. If that’s what they need, and they can control it, then that’s their decision. But I just witnessed enough to take me to hell and back. Not to mention it’s increased my desire to blow the ever-loving splick out of this entire goddamn planet.

* * *

“He’s my father, you know,” Insarka says to me during our umpteenth time around the balcony circuit. Mission clock says we’re close.

I look over at the lieutenant. “Say again?”

“General Cordan. He’s my father.”

“You’re… Cordan’s daughter?”

She nods.

“Son of a bitch.”

While I’m not sure what prompted this bombshell, the intel does make sense of some other things. The side glances and quick remarks between the two of them at the conference room table, her open critique of his agenda, and her willingness to aid us behind his back while knowing that he’d eventually come along—it’s all stuff a strong-willed, capable daughter would do. And I never saw it coming.

“You’ve got some balls, Lieutenant. Jesus.”

“My mother said similar things.”

“I’m sure. So why the confession now?”

She shrugs. “Just thought you needed to know. In case we… you know.”

The fact that Insarka is trying to get a secret off her chest has two effects on me. Well, three, but I’m trying to keep the last one outta my head or else it’ll mess with me.

The first effect is that the lieutenant is rationalizing the very real possibility of her death in the next few minutes. That’s normal, and all warriors do it—the mentally stable ones, anyway.

The second is that the confession reveals an element of trust. You don’t say personal splick to just anyone. You save it for people who mean or represent something valuable to you. I feel privileged by what she’s shared, and it furthers my sense of appreciation for who she is, what she’s had to grow up under, and even what she’s doing now.

But this inevitably leads me to the third effect that—yut, now I’m thinking about it—has do with whatever her deeper motives for this mission are. Daddy-issue motives. The chip-on-the-shoulder kind that make you wanna prove something to others, to yourself, or to your father who’s a goddamn general of an underground resistance.

See why I don’t like that bunny trail?

But none of that matters now. The team is committed, and everyone’s in place. Regardless of Insarka’s motives, whether she’s aware of them or not, we all chose to be here, and I take responsibility for this operation and everyone involved, full stop.

“He might not be happy with you when this is all over, but you’ve done good work, Lieutenant,” I reply at last. “And I’m honored to be fighting alongside you.”

“Thank you, Patrick-Wic. I feel the same.”

“Phantom Actual, this is Nuketown.” Bumper’s voice breaks the moment. “We’re detecting multiple inbound aircraft.”

“Nice to see your advanced sensors are finally working the way they’re supposed to, Nuketown,” Chuck replies. “One never knows with those dingy ball bag helmets.”

“SITREP?” I ask Bumper as a copy of his sensor display appears in my HUD.

“Twenty bogies divided into two squadrons—ten from the east and ten from the northwest. Elevations vary but seem to be converging on our position. ETA two minutes.”

“The northwest will be Mystery Meat One,” Insarka says. “That’s Srin Ock Tall arriving from his starship still in high-planet orbit. The lower westbound ships belong to Lordamin Partitious. He’s probably been meeting with AE leaders at the DOC.”

“Roger that,” Bumper replies.

I see name tags appear on each cluster of ships, designating which group they’re in.

“Any chance we can know which dropships contain our Mystery Meats?” I ask Insarka.

“No. Not unless they specify to flight command.”

“In the meantime,” Chuck adds. “I’ll mark each group one through ten respectively, that way Nuketown has something to reference.”

“Works for me,” Bumper says.

“All right, Phantoms. We have unconfirmed targets en route. Nuketown, I wanna know the moment you make positive IDs on the tangos. Sneakers, as soon as you have visual contact below deck, I want you back up top to help Nuketown. Everyone else, hold position and await Shotgun Wedding.”

Confirmation icons ping down the roster.

“You two can get lost now,” says the translation software in my helmet.

At first, I’m wondering which team member is speaking. But then I glance at Insarka and see that she’s turned around to face two death angels.

“Oh look,” Chuck says. “Your replacements. And they’re an hour early too. How thoughtful.”

“You’re not needed for another hour,” Insarka says right away. My helmet seems to be using a sample of the lieutenant’s actual voice to translate her native Skrawl.

“Negative,” says the death angel on the left. “Command says—”

“Command has it wrong.” Insarka taps something on her forearm’s underside and then rolls her wrist.

A small holo projection lists a dozen lines in Skrawl, all of which my HUD can’t keep in focus long enough to translate. My guess is it’s a calendar.

“See?” Insarka says. “You’re not on for another hour.”

The newcomers share a look and then shrug. “Well, we’re here anyway. Might as well take the shift. You can get lost and buy us a round later.”

If Androchidans are anything like humans, no one in their right mind passes up a get-off-work-early card. And the one time plushies choose to act benevolent is now? Je-sus. We pass this up, we look suspicious as all get out. Whatever Insarka has up her sleeve, she’d better play it quick.

But she’s balking.

Hope Chuck’s ready.

“Not that we don’t want the handout,” I say. “But we got this patrol as punishment. ’Caught sampling the harvest, know what I mean? So if our boss sees we left our post early, you can guess the hell we’re gonna catch, can’t you.” I wait a beat and then ask, “You get all that, Chuck?”

“I did. With the appropriate substitutions, of course.”

“You sampled the harvest… illegally?” one death angel asks.

But I’m too busy checking the time against the inbound birds to pay much attention to the meaning behind the comment. “Yut. Split one between us. Damn, was it good.”

The two death angels eye one another. Based on Insarka’s body language, I can tell something’s wrong.

“Why did they let you live?” the other death angel asks.

“It’s an act punishable by immediate death,” Insarka says over a private channel.

Well… crap.

“Better make something up, Patrick,” Chuck adds.

“And you’d better not make a habit of translating splick that can get me in trouble.” My brain’s going a hundred miles per hour until I say the only thing that comes to mind. “An overlord gave us some crates to move back in Terminal A3. Said we could split a box when we were done, ya know? When we got caught later that night, we had just enough left to buy off the snitch.”

The two death angels share another look and then hit us on the arms. “Smart thinking,” says the first.

“We’ll have to remember that one,” says the other.

“Yut. It’s a classic.”

Bumper’s voice jumps in on the general channel. “Phantom Actual, this is Nuketown. Birds have landed. Stand by for tango ident confirmation.”

I acknowledge receipt of the transmission, but I’m too busy trying not to blow our cover to say anything more.

“It still doesn’t explain why you got an extended shift,” the first plushy says. Even through the software, I can sense the suspicion rising in his voice.

“Turns out the rat was hungrier than we could afford,” Insarka replies.

“Yut. All we gave him was half a leg and a shoe. So he assigned us a double. To teach us a lesson.”

The two plushies shake their heads in understanding—still a back-assward gesture to me—and then relax. “Well, sorry you got the extra shift.”

“Yeah,” says the other. “And next time, save some for us, would you?”

“Sure, sure, yut. Will do,” I reply. “Better yet, we’ll save a whole dropship full of people armed to the teeth who would love a chance to blow your heads off.”

“Not translating most of that,” Chuck says.

“But you’re keeping the head-blowing part, right?”

“Funny.”

“Phantom Actual, this is Nuketown,” Bumper says. “Both tangos confirmed.”

“And not a moment to spare,” I say to Insarka.

In my HUD, Bumper’s and Vlad’s helmet cams show the lead dropships empty their respective crews. Bumper’s observing the tall purple Sci-Rung ambassador, while Vlad’s centered on the Gahnree sex trader’s bloated mass. As the remaining ships empty of support staff, I realize each entourage is bigger than we anticipated.

“Counting six tangos departing every dropship,” Bumper adds. “Some more.”

“Copy that, Nuketown,” I say. “We see it. Sneakers, this is Phantom Actual. Keep your eyes peeled. Contact ETA in thirty seconds.”

“Roger,” Yoshi replies. “We’re in position.”

“Solid copy. Minx, this is Phantom Actual. Standing by for your go. ETA…” I glance at Insarka who’s gonna have a much better sense of the time it will take for the target to make it down to the sterilization hall.

“Ten minutes,” the lieutenant says.

“Roger that,” Hollywood replies, but her tone sounds darker than usual. “Can’t wait to meet this son of a bitch in person.”

Something tells me that Mystery Meat Two might not get a chance to review the financial records we’ve prepared for him. Call me crazy, but I know a pissed off sergeant when I hear one.

“Minx, I need to know you’re mission savvy.”

“Oh, we’re mission savvy,” Hollywood replies like she’s a lioness hunting a gazelle. “No doubt about that.”

“And you will make sure the target has time to review the Christmas present.”

“We’ll make sure, Phantom Actual. He won’t be able to miss it.”

Not the most reassuring answer. But we’re committed now, and there’s no time for an audible. I just hope Minx can keep it together long enough to make this worth our while. “Remember, Minx. We’re not here for just one life. We’re here—”

“For the whole goddamn species,” Hollywood interrupts. “We got it, Wic. We’ll make this count.”

“We make counting so hard,” Lada replies.

God, this Gahnree is gonna regret the day he was born.

24

0910, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Export Coordination Theater

After counting off a total of seventy-five Gahnree units and ninety Sci-Rung, Yoshi and Aaron return up top to help Bumper and Vlad “service” the newly arrived dropships. I watch patiently as the four operators carry satchels of cleaning equipment to the various landing pads and start mixing in with the regular flight line personnel attending the vessels.

And then Aaron trips.

Two satchels of explosives slide across the deck, and he sprawls on his chest.

“Get up,” I say to myself.

There’s a lump in my throat as I realize just how far away my childhood friend is. If he gets caught now, if anything else goes wrong, I’m fifteen to twenty long minutes out. And by then, it’s done and over. He’s gone.

But after I get past my knee-jerk concern, I realize that Aaron’s with a Navy SEAL, an Air Force PJ, and a Russian Army Senior Sergeant moonlighting as a Bratva Lieutenant. Or is Bratva Lieutenant moonlighting as a Russian Army Senior Sergeant? Eh, there’s not much difference, I guess. All told, Aaron’s in good hands. Literally. Vlad and Yoshi are helping him up and retrieving the satchels before anyone else seems to notice.

Good job, men.

Bumper is busy affixing his fourth VIPER God Cake to the underside of Mystery Meat One’s dropships. He presses the dark compound against the hull and then enters a depth of 2.14 meters using his weapon’s ASIK interface in his HUD. That’s the distance Insarka said would penetrate the drive core’s shield wall in the upper aft section without merging with the trinium itself.

No sooner does Bumper activate the remote detonation firing mode then the compound starts merging with the hull. I’ve watched it three times now, and it’s still messing with my head. After ten seconds, the material is gone, leaving no trace of sabotage. The damn stuff’s giving me a chubby.

“Phantom Actual, this is Minx,” Hollywood says in a low even tone. “Contact.”

* * *

My eyes are transfixed on Hollywood’s feed, which I’ve resized to fill more than half my view. Right now, her world is the center of our universe to the exclusion of all else. Whatever happens next could make or break the operation, and we haven’t even concluded phase one yet.

“Minx, this is Phantom Actual,” I say.

“Send it,” Hollywood replies.

I break comms discipline and field a very personal question, but I think it’s critical for Hollywood and her team accountability. “How are you, Sergeant?”

She sniffs. “Besides wanting to slit this bastard’s throat right now? Peachy.”

“Roger. But you’re sticking to the plan before having your revenge, right?”

“Sure.”

“Right?”

“Affirmative.”

Mystery Meat Two is walking along the line of machines closest to Hollywood and Lada, surrounded by his ensemble of seventy-five doting lackeys. Each Gahnree entourage member bears a strange mechanical apparatus on their back with numerous tubes that disappear into cloak folds along chest and trunk. Lordamin Partitious’s tubes are the most graphic of all. The yellowed, crust-filled lines wiggle their way between layers of his aged skin, jiggling as he shuffles along.

“Nuketown, this is Phantom Actual. How much time you need?”

“Three more minutes,” Bumper replies.

“The sooner the better.”

“Roger.”

The obese alien stops between gaps in the augmentation machines to inspect a man who’s just emerged with a ribbed bone running the length of his chest. The target raises his hand, and the assembly line halts. Androchidan staff start scurrying about, inspecting control panels and yelling at the Gahnree team. One plushy in a black uniform and cap looks particularly distraught.

“Phantom Actual, we’ve got a developing situation here,” Hollywood says.

“We see it. Stay in position,” I reply.

“This is typical,” Insarka says to me on our private channel. “Part of his sampling fetish.”

“Christ.” I switch back to Hollywood. “Apparently, this is all normal. Stand by.”

“Standing by.”

More commotion surrounds the gap between machines as our tango moves in for a closer look. Then his gaggle of sidekicks swarms around him and the male subject like crows feasting on roadkill. It’s probably for the best that flapping robes obscure the team’s view; the sounds alone are hellish. The human male’s screams are eventually muzzled. Half a minute after that, the group’s gyrating calms, and some semblance of peace returns. When the Gahnree leader flicks his hand in the air again, Anderkin attendees remove the man’s corpse from the table and haul it away. Then the line reactivates, and Partitious moves on, his body tubes flowing with new yellow liquid.

“Permission to dust him?” Hollywood says.

“Negative, Sergeant,” I say, hoping the continued use of her rank will help keep her restrained. I ping Bumper. “How we looking?”

“Four more to go. Ninety seconds.”

“You’ve got sixty.”

Just then, someone calls Bumper’s attention away. But it’s not a team member’s voice: it’s software speech.

“We’ve got a Nosey Nancy,” Bumper says. In his helmet cam, I see a death angel trying to call him out from under the dropship he’s crouched behind. Fortunately, the SEAL gets his God Cake activated and working into the hull before the enemy rounds the corner.

At the same time, however, I notice that Mystery Meat Two stops at another gap between machines, this time right outside the primary sterilization stage. There’s a young woman who’s just been visited by hell. Now she’s about to be introduced to the devil himself.

Partitious waves his hand again, and the production line stops.

“Are we really doing this right now?” Hollywood asks, and I know the question’s directed at me. “’Cause I sure as hell ain’t.”

But Bumper’s busy trying to turn the curious flight crew member around.

“Nuketown, this Phantom Actual. We’re go for Shotgun Wedding.”

“Aw, hell.” Bumper throws a right jab that snap’s the plushy’s head straight back and fills the comms with a loud crack. Then he calls the rest of his squad to take cover, and they start running toward the landing pad’s edge.

As Bumper leaps into the air, he yells, “Go for Shotgun Wedding.” And then the sky turns to fire.

* * *

Ten simultaneous explosions rip across the landing pads like carpet bombs in Vietnam. The concussive force rattles all four Phantom’s helmet feeds and clips volume levels. In Vlad’s camera, I see dropship panels blast apart and engine pods detonate like dynamite. Billowing fireballs expand toward the sky while sparks shoot in all directions. And somewhere in the violence, I hear Vlad’s heavily accented voice shout, “USA Freedom Day!”

While the disembodied unease of seeing but not feeling the ordnance rip half the enemy squadrons apart plays with my senses, a voice on comms brings me back to center.

“We’ve got motion,” Hollywood says.

The first effects of phase two show up in multiple cell phone notifications in Lordamin Partitious’s lackeys. Granted, I don’t know what kinda tech they have stuck under their moldy folds of skin, but they’re all pulling tablets out of their asses faster than teenagers getting verified on ClockTock or whatever the hell it’s called.

Mystery Meat Two turns from the young woman to check in with his entourage.

“Oh my,” Chuck says in a high pitched voice. “It seems someone’s blown up my new tricycle.”

He lowers his voice three octaves. “Mine too. Now how am I supposed to get back to your mom’s house?”

“I don’t know,” he says in his high tone again. “We’d better go find out what happened.”

“I’m right behind you.”

As if Chuck had been directing a screenplay, two-thirds of the Gahnree team fly off toward the exit as fast as their fat legs will carry them.

“Nuketown, this Phantom Actual. You’ve got fifty-some Gahnree tangos headed your way.”

“Phantom Actual, this is Nighteyes,” Ghost jumps in. “We have visual on sixty estimated Sci-Rung forces returning the way they came. ETA on Nuketown’s position, ten minutes.”

“You copy that, Nuketown?” I ask.

“Roger,” Bumper replies. “We’ll roll out the welcome mat.”

“Now it’s our turn,” Insarka says to me. “Are you ready?”

I’m about to respond to the lieutenant when I notice Hollywood approaching the target, weapon raised. Dammit. If she takes him out before he confirms the AE double-cross, she’ll jeopardize the mission. But she’s also sat through two hours of hell, and the fog of war does funny splick to your head—I should know.

Hollywood’s sights line up with Partitious’s chest, and I sense time slow down.

Come on. Make the hard choice.

As if hearing my inner thoughts, Hollywood lowers her weapon and stands down.

“Patrick-Wic?” Insarka asks me again.

“One more minute,” I reply.

“So. Time to ruin everyone’s Christmas bonuses?” Chuck asks me while I scan the Gahnree in Hollywoood’s feed.

“You know it, Phantom Grinch. Execute.”

The remaining twenty-five Gahnree look back at their tablets as Chuck vibrates the crap out of their notifications. Curious as to the new commotion, Lordamin Partitious approaches what appears to be his right-hand man.

“What’s going on?” Chuck says in a shrill voice to animate the scene.

I wanted to hear the actual translation of whatever the Gahnree are saying, but the more Chuck talks, the more I like his version better.

“Uh, it seems someone stole your lollipop collection, Fat Face,” Chuck says.

“You mean the ones I shove up my butt and then lick afterward?”

“Is that why they taste so good?” says the lower voice. “I always wondered why that was.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“No, I wish I did, ’cause those were yummy lollypops, your highness. Wait a second. My crappy little non-ASIK tablet is saying… What’s this? The Ander-babies have quadrupled their fees and drained our bank accounts?”

“Whaaat?” says Chuck’s shrill voice just as Mystery Meat Two rips the tablet from low-voice guy’s hands. “How can this be?” When Partitious looks up, his head has expanded in size to the point that I’m wondering if it might burst. This guy’s giving the anger management poster child a run for his money.

Just then, the Gahnree leader wraps a fatty hand around the neck of the nearest Androchidan technician and lifts the plushy off its feet. Simultaneously, the remaining twenty-five lackeys withdraw blasters from under their robes and surround their leader, weapons pointed outward.

The tech is kicking his feet and struggling to pry the aggressor’s hand off his neck, but the Gahnree leader is too strong. Partitious hoists the plushy higher and then says something in his native tongue.

“You have betrayed us,” Chuck says in a squeaky voice.

“I swears, man. I had nothing to do with this,” says a deep bass voice. “I swears!”

“You had everything to do with this, you randy kerb crawler! You just couldn’t wait to steal my money and then spend it all wanking off to some trollop’s thrumpney bits, now could you.”

“No”—Chuck makes a low pitched choking sound—“It wasn’t… like that… at all. I swears!”

The Androchidan technician finally expires and goes limp in Partitious’s hand. Then the Gahnree releases him.

“Can I dust him now, Phantom Actual?” Hollywood asks, her voice dripping with teenage sarcasm.

“Negative. Wait for him to make the call.”

“And how will we know when that happens?”

“I’ll tell you,” Chuck says.

There’s a brief pause while Mystery Meat Two grabs his assistant’s tablet and starts smashing his fingers against it.

“Ah. There it is.” To Hollywood, Chuck adds, “And now you can dust them.”

“’Bout goddamn time,” she replies with a terrifying grin.

* * *

It’s uncertain what the Gahnree were expecting might happen in the tense moments before Team Minx opened fire, but it’s safe to assume the Androchidan Empire had no intention of massacring one of their most important clients in the augmentation complex.

Hollywood and Lada bring up their SR-CHKs and target the lackeys nearest them. Then their weapons let out a patented whine and crack as twin blast bolts snap across the air. The first two lackeys detonate in showers of wet fabric and skin. Team Minx fires again, this time shooting high-pulse, low-yield rounds that stitch lines across the unarmored slugs. Seven or eight of the enemy collapse, dead before their fatty brain tissue hits the floor.

Minx has racked up twelve kills before the Gahnree manage to return fire. But the shots are wide, and Hollywood and Lada are still walking smoothly toward their prize: the grandmaster himself.

However, Partitious isn’t going down without a fight. He pulls the blaster from his assistant’s hands and shoves the unwitting man in front of him. Then the scoundrel starts firing around his newly acquired body shield.

Lada hits the assistant in the chest, and the man falls away in a shower of sparks.

Hollywood knocks the blaster out of Partitious’s hand with a perfectly placed burst. She’s too precise for that to have been an accident, and she’s too angry for it to have killed him so soon. So the enemy does what all unarmed cowards do. He hides. But I can still make out the bastard’s ass protruding from behind one of the sterilization machines, and if I can, Hollywood can all the more. He’s also shouting orders and raging about the Androchidan’s double-cross—music to my ears.

The two Minxes alternate shots as they move forward, letting the rifles talk their way through the remaining enemy ranks. Hollywood drills one combatant in the head with a round powerful enough to down the next one behind it in the same fashion. Both bodies slump lifelessly to the floor. Meanwhile, Lada increases her rifle’s power output and sends a high-yield single pulse round into a cluster of three assailants grouped tightly together. The resulting blast ruptures the middleman and tears away half of the other two, covering the closest machines in gore.

The last five enemies take cover like their fearless leader, ducking behind exploding equipment and using one unlucky human as a shield.

The two Phantom Minxes separate to divide the remaining enemy’s attentions; the Gahnree even shoot on two newly arrived death angel security forces, which only adds more fuel to double-cross. Meanwhile, Lada and Hollywood fire as if synchronized by some unseen conductor, tearing holes in their victims and spraying the torture tools with the enemy’s blood. Fluids spray through the air in high arcs as the final rounds land on target.

The human shield, a middle-aged woman with dark hair, screams and covers her breasts, unsure where to take cover.

So Hollywood points toward the exit and says, “Run.”

The only Gahnree who remains alive among the smoldering line of equipment is Lordamin Partitious himself. He’s still crouched down behind a machine with half a human sticking from the end. And from the sounds of it, he’s sniveling. Probably pleading for his life.

Just then, an emergency klaxon sounds in Hollywood’s and Lada’s helmets.

“Emergency shutdown,” Chuck says on the general channel.

“Took ’em long enough.” Hollywood’s bashing her way through the debris and tossing it aside like a bull with a vendetta. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

In Lada’s feed, I can see the rest of the machine lines coming to a halt. Robot arms are releasing victims, and hundreds of people are climbing off tables and moving out from between the machine rows. Likewise, light rings around the people tubes start flashing red, presumably to evacuate the valuable merchandise before they succumb to any threat. The Androchidan staff seem split between trying to corral the humans and staring slack-jawed at the two death angels who just dusted the Gahnree.

“As far as they’re concerned, Hollywood and Lada are security forces responding to hostile Gahnree actions,” Chuck says. “This works well to their favor.”

“At least for another minute, yes,” Insarka says. “But we must hurry. Patrick-Wic, we need to begin.”

“Coming.” I move along the balcony and head for the stairs, but I’m still too busy watching Minx feeds to be committed to my movements. The women are terrifying—lethal, beautiful. And monstrous.

“There you are.” Hollywood rips a metal cover away from Partitious to reveal a petrified alien whose tubes have popped from their skin ports. But in an instant, the Gahnree pulls a pistol from his robe and fires.

A red warning indicator lights up in my HUD, signaling a direct hit to Hollywood’s abdomen.

“Hollywood,” I shout instinctively.

“Really?” she replies.

I can’t tell if she’s talking to me or Particious. Then I notice that her med-sensors are all green. She hasn’t actually sustained any damage. “God. You’re using one of Yrag’s personal shield generators!”

“I’m just full of surprises.” Hollywood kicks the pistol away and crotch-stomps the slug.

Any doubts of the Gahnree having genitalia located where humans do is put to rest when Partitious lets out a high pitched shriek.

“Seems your voice impersonation wasn’t that far off, Chuckles,” I say.

“You thought I was improvising? Huh. Amateurs.”

I’m at the bottom of the stairs when Lada withdraws her Duradex knife and plunges in the same place Hollywood stomped on. Again, Partitious lets out a wail, but this one is more agonizing. His fat lips are blubbering something in his native language, and he’s struggling to pull the blade from his groin. But Lada batts his hands away and then twists the blade.

“Minx, this is Nighteyes,” Z-Lo says over the team channel. “I count”—he lowers his voice—“twenty-four… twenty-six… twenty-eight… Eh, I count a lot of death angels heading your way.”

“Time to get out of there, Minx,” I say. “No time for sabotage on this one.”

“We hear you, Actual.”

But I can tell by Hollywood’s tone that she’s not gonna leave without making this kill count. She and Lada grab the nearest set of robotic hands and yank them close to the slug’s wrists and ankles. Then Hollywood turns to the associated control panel and waits for her HUD to interpret the text. She taps a finger on a glowing button that reads Manual Override, and then another that says Restart.

The robotic hands open, scan Partitious’s limbs with embedded lasers, and then close on him. But his limbs are too fat for mechanisms fashioned to handle human-sized anatomy. So when the clasps close, they drive into his flesh and lock in place against bone.

Partitious lets out another scream as the arms hoist him onto a table straining against his weight. Lada yanks her knife from his groin and hands Hollywood something off-camera. I’m about to ask what’s going on when I see Hollywood hold up a block of VIPER God Cake.

“Where’d she get that?” I ask Insarka.

But Chuck replies first. “Where do you think?”

Bumper. Shoulda guessed.

Lada slashes the slug’s robes away to reveal flabby folds of gut skin. Hollywood shoves the VIPER block between two layers and then sets the depth on her ASIK weapons interface to 0.25 meters. As soon as her eyes settle on the Initiate button in her HUD, Partitious begins screaming. I watch in astonishment as the God Cake merges with his flesh. He fights against the restraints, but the servos whine as they hold him in place.

Lada looks up to one of the crew entrances. “Death angels.”

“Get outta there, Minx,” I order.

Hollywood raises her middle finger to Partitious while she sets a twenty-second timer and hits Activate in her HUD. Then the two women turn and run from the machines, leaping over burning wreckage, and head toward the door they’d entered. Partitious screams again as his body slides into one of the MRI machines, and a drill picks up where Lada’s Duradex blade left off.

The squad of incoming death angels is yelling orders at Minx as they flee, but the aliens seem confused by the wreckage and the dead Gahnree bodies everywhere. One plushy in particular is waving others toward the machine relieving Lordamin Partitious of his ovaries. He pounds the control panel, and the drilling sound stops. But Hollywood’s countdown hasn’t.

Three…

Two…

One…

25

0928, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Export Coordination Theater

From Lada’s rear-facing helmet cam, I watch Hollywood’s death angel silhouette running away from the explosion. Flames and debris fill the sterilization hall and tear through the augmentation hardware row by row. Fire blasts through the machines like a dragon through a medieval village. And somewhere beneath it is the vaporized remains of Lordamin Partitious.

As the Army Sergeant clears the exit, her front-facing cam looks at the top of the stadium-like facility. Billowing black smoke rolls skyward just as secondary explosions pop sections of the roof. “I’d call that a successful secondary objective. Wouldn’t you, Phantom Actual?” Hollywood says.

“That was a little too close for comfort, Sergeant,” I reply. “We’re gonna have a conversation about following orders later. Copy?”

“Copy that.”

“Now get your asses to the extraction point.”

“Roger.”

“We must begin, Patrick-Wic,” Insarka says over our private channel.

I’m double timing down the stairs toward the control floors when I give Chuck the go signal. “Let’s give these technicians a reason to evacuate, shall we?”

“With pleasure.”

I demag a variable ordnance device from my hip and set it to Smoke using my HUD. Then I toss it into the lower section by the Unity Arc Inquisitor. There’s a loud pop, followed by thick white plumes filling the theater. Insarka, too, has popped smoke and begins ordering technicians to evacuate. At the same time, Chuck comes through with his hack of the local emergency system by setting off a klaxon and strobing lights.

“Time to move your tiny gray asses, people,” I say. “Let’s go, go, go.”

“They look so pitiful when they run, don’t they?” Chuck says. “Like naked mole rats trying to leap from a sinking ship. I love it.”

Just then, my helmet starts translating a loud voice in the room. “Auto-destruct sequence initiated. Theater annihilation in t-minus thirty seconds.”

In my HUD’s thermal vision, I see Insarka spin and look at me. Uh oh.

“Hey, Chuck, buddy?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” he replies and then seems to wait an unusually long time before saying anything more. “Oh, come on! That was hilarious.”

“Theater annihilation in t-minus twenty seconds,” says the announcement.

“Chuck!”

“Oh, hang it all. Would you relax? It’s just me. I thought I would give the operators a little extra push, you know.”

I shake my head. “You could have led with that.”

“And miss the opportunity for an exceptionally timed dad joke? Psssh. You’re no fun, Patrick.”

“Theater annihilation in t-minus ten seconds.”

“You can turn that off now,” I say as the last of the technicians clear out.

“Yes, of course. I’m… I’m trying.”

“What do you mean you’re trying? You mean… that’s a real sequence?”

“Well, it’s just that, I had to ensure that—”

“Theater annihilation in five… four…”

“Chuck!”

“Three…”

“Just a second,” he says.

“Two…”

“We don’t have a second!” I cover my head and duck.

“One…” There’s a pause. “Auto-destruct sequence terminated.”

“Jesus, Chuck,” I shout. “Was that—?”

“Haaaa! You should have seen the look on your face, Patrick. Oh, Queen Victoria, that was a dandy, right there. Score one for Sir Charles, Phantom Prankster Extraordinaire.”

My jaw works its way into fighting position as I stand from behind a swivel chair. “So help me God, Chuck. I’m throwing you to the next turkey I find.”

“Good thing there aren’t any on Karkin Four.”

Insarka is laughing as she takes a seat behind one of the hundred export ring terminals.

“Were you in on this?” I ask her.

“Me? No. I mean, how could I?”

“Oh, Christ.” I take a deep breath, slap Chuck onto my back, and head to Insarka’s position. “Show me what we’re doing.”

* * *

Insarka finishes her sixty-second recalibration tutorial of inserting and activating one of the six data cards. She looks up at me from the first of 100 terminals. “Got it?”

I nod, but my thoughts are with the thousands of people I see on console’s holo feed. The victims are walking toward the export gate, prodded by automated energy rods along the walls. Anyone who slows or, worse, dares turn around, is shocked and sent forward. Most of the people are naked, but not all look totally human anymore.

“Patrick-Wic? Are you okay?”

Again, I nod. But it’s a lie. All at once, Ghost pings me out of my stupor.

“Phantom Actual, this is Nighteyes. We’ve got visual on Mystery Meat One, west of our position. He’s heading north toward transport.”

I bring up Ghost’s feed as I take my data cards and move to the next of three clockwise terminals, while Insarka moves counterclockwise. The smoke is dissipating, and the klaxon has been muted, but strobe lights still flash around the theater. I sit and start following Insarka’s procedure while watching Ghost’s feed out of the corner of my eye.

The lanky purple-skinned Srin Ock Tall is walking along an open-air bridge toward a transportation hub accompanied by no fewer than thirty thugs.

“Has he contacted his people about the money trail?” I ask

“Unknown,” Ghost replies. “This is the first we’re seeing him.”

With one data card inserted and processing, I slide to the next terminal to replicate the procedure. I try not to think about how much time it’s gonna take to hit all 100 stations. One at a time, Pat.

“Wait,” Z-Lo says. “He’s looking at a data pad.”

The kid’s HUD appears in a smaller window, and I see his visor magnifying the tango. Sure enough, the tango is playing the thing like it’s a goddamn one-handed piano. “Looks pretty frantic to me.”

“Roger,” Ghost says. “Want me to dust him?”

“Confirmed.”

Ghost’s sight picture pops into frame, and I’ve got an up-close and personal view of Mystery Meat One’s head. The range finder settles on the number 938.67 meters, which seems impossibly far, at least for me. But I’m not Ghost, and his ASS-CHK is far from conventional; probably not a whole lot of bullet-drop on a light beam.

I sense our sniper is about to take the shot when the tango turns, looks straight into the scope, and then ducks out of view. Ghost fires. A white flash fills the screen. And then I see a head detonate, but it’s not the target’s. Just one of his lackeys.

“Shit,” Ghost whispers.

“What the hell was that?” Z-Lo says. “It’s like… like he saw right into your soul, man!”

“Sixth sense,” Ghost replies. “Too many eyes on him.”

“The Sci-Rung are intuicons,” the lieutenant says five stations away from me. “They sense on many levels.”

“Would’a been nice to know that earlier,” Ghost replies as he lines up his next shot.

“I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem with your proposed distances.”

“Assumptions are a bitch.”

Ock Tall is back on his feet and running toward the transport hub, surrounded by his minions who’ve created a body shield around him. Ghost’s reticle leads the group’s center and fires, dropping another lackey, but not the priority target.

A chime emits from the terminal containing my first card.

“Done,” Insarka says, pointing to it. “Do the next.”

Even as I reach for the card, an unexpected wave of emotion hits. That’s it. I’ve… we’ve saved humans. The next people to walk through whatever ring I’ve just recalibrated aren’t arriving to their doom. They’re stepping into freedom.

“Patrick-Wic,” Insarka says, snapping my attention back. “You must continue.”

“On it.” I yank the card out and run it to the next open workstation to my right.

Another flash of white light pops in Ghost’s scope window. Then another. And another. “Slippery bastard. Come here.”

In the few short days I’ve known Ghost, I haven’t seen him miss a shot yet. Nor has he ever talked so much. Which means that Mystery Meat One is getting to him. So it’s my turn to say something.

“Listen. He’s headed to the transport line. He’ll be exposed for a few seconds before the pod accelerates. That’s your shot.”

“But if he gets away, he’ll be moving too—”

“Shut up, kid,” Ghost and I say in unison.

“Sorry.”

“You got this, Ghost. Breath. Refocus.”

“Copy that.” The sniper waits for a beat and then says, “Thanks.”

“Got your six.”

“And I got your… other back,” Zo-Lo says. “Thirty seconds to transport.”

I look away from Nighteyes just as my second workstation chimes. It’s another win for humanity. God, I’m doing something worthwhile. We’re making a damn difference again. I snatch the ejected card and race to the next open station, eager to save more souls. There’s exhilaration from having a system that’s working and knowing it’s rescuing lives. Millions of lives.

“Phantom Actual, this is Nuketown,” Bumper says. “Secondaries are topside.”

“Solid copy. Det for maximum effect on your go.”

“Roger.”

Bumper’s helmet cam shows multiple enemies converging on their respective dropships and sending scouts to inspect flaming remains on other landing pads. The tangos’ weapons are up, and chatter is at an all-time high. Meanwhile, Nuketown and Sneakers are behind cover on the dome’s southside with a good observation position.

“Just get in there a little bit more,” Bumper says to the clusters of Gahnree and Sci-Rung inspecting their undetonated ships. “That’s right.”

“Blow it now?” Aaron asks.

But Bumper shakes his head. “We want a few to lift off. Gain their confidence. See those stragglers?”

I see Aaron’s head nod in his HUD cam.

“They’re skeptical. And while they might get toasted at their current range, we’d rather have them flame-broiled. Nama’ saying?”

“I… nahm… what you say. Right?”

Bumper lets out a soft laugh as the enemies continue to investigate their ships. “You’re all right, doc.”

“Thanks.”

One of the many heartwarming things about Yrag’s VIPER God Cakes is that the dropships show no signs of sabotage. Damn stuff has vanished like the plague and crawled its way into each ship’s bowels. God, that stuff is sexy.

“Death angels,” Yoshi calls out. “My three o’clock.”

“Also I am having some too,” Vlad says. “To left side.”

“Explosion response,” Bumper says. “They’re not here for us.”

Sure enough, the death angels seem intent on managing the fallout from Nuketown’s first round of destruction.

“Permission to engage,” Bumper asks me suddenly. “We want a war, right?”

“Affirmative,” I reply, knowing right what Bumper is thinking.

“Then let’s get ’em shooting at each other. Maybe even rush all our targets into the dropships for cover.”

“Exploit it, Nuketown,” I say.

“With pleasure, Phantom Actual.”

“Target in sight,” Ghost says as his scope’s picture pops up. Srin Ock Tall slows as he steps up to a set of transport pod doors. But he’s still surrounded by his bodyguards. And if Ghost fires now, Mystery Meat One will be in the wind. Hell, I’m surprised he’s even chancing the escape as it is. If he’d known what was good for him, he’d have turned around after Ghost’s first shots.

Back on Bumper’s feeds, I hear the SEAL yell, “Let’s make ourselves seen, Phantoms.” Nuketown and Sneakers stand from behind cover and start firing on the Sci-Rung and Gahnree security forces. At first, the other death angels turn on the Phantoms, weapons raised. But as soon as the clients start returning fire, the death angels join in support of Bumper’s elements, utterly unaware of the double-cross.

“Get out of the way,” Ghost says into his mic.

My attention snaps back to Nighteyes.

“You’re slowing, Patrick-Wic,” Insarka says.

“Right.” I grab the chiming workstation’s completed data card and rush it off to the next terminal, but not before slamming into a chair and nearly sending myself to the ground. Too much to focus on, but I’ve gotta stay on top of everything.

In Ghost’s cam, I see his crosshairs struggling to find positive target acquisition on Ock Tall, who’s now inside the pod. I glance in Z-Lo’s less-magnified visor feed and see the tube bend away from the transportation hub about 100 meters above the platform and run parallel with the city. Looks like this line is headed east before redirecting toward the admin section several klicks above.

“Dammit,” Ghost yells. He starts firing, knowing the window of opportunity is slipping away. His first two shots take out thugs blocking Ock Tall’s pod entrance. But more step into view, and then the tango’s pod is away.

“He’s going,” the kid exclaims. “He’s—”

“I know,” Ghost yells. His target reticle sweeps along the clear tube, tracking the milky-white pod, and then there’s a flash. The moment comes and goes as a small explosion erupts in the line. Splinters crack along the pipe, and the pod wrenches to a stop. White material jettisons through a hole the size of a cantaloupe, while liquid shoots down the tube’s interior. Ock Tall’s passenger pod had been split in two, half tumbling through the line in a bloody pulp, the other half blasting out the hole made by the sniper round.

“It’s not our tango,” Z-Lo shouts, his visor back on the platform.

“Dammit,” Ghost says as his scope spots Mystery Meat One dashing for cover behind the transportation cylinder’s central housing.

“Watch your left flank,” Bumper orders.

I look back to his feed and see Vlad drop behind cover just as small arms fire glances off the corner of a shipping container.

“Stupid Gonorrheas,” Vlad exclaims.

“Gahnree,” Aaron corrects as he fires into a cluster of Sci-Rung heading for a dropship that’s hovering half a meter off the deck.

“Nuketown, this is Phantom Actual. Execute Honeymoon,” I say.

“Executing.” Bumper rests his eyes on the HUD button that reads Detonate. It blinks three times in confirmation, and the ten remaining dropships blow apart. Armor panels spin into adjacent ships while repulsor engines shoot off like Roman candles. One dropship’s trinium eruption engulfs another as massive balls of fire light up the dome’s apex yet again.

Any Sci-Rung tardy enough to have missed their boats disappear in the back blasts. One particularly unfortunate enemy takes an extended cargo ramp door to the chest so hard it slices his torso in two before the trinium explosion atomizes his respective halves.

In Vlad’s feed, I see the two Gahnree who’d fired on him fly from the shockwaves and sail over the landing pad’s side. Their flaming bodies leave black stains on the dome’s silvery surface as they slide down the side.

Even death angels find themselves flying off the roof and sliding toward the planet’s surface. A few, however, manage to fire their booster packs and return to open landing pads, weapons searching for any remaining pockets of resistance.

“Did you get all that, Chuck?” I ask as I dash to the next terminal.

“Of course, Patrick. Do I strike you as the sort of visual stenographer who would miss out on something of this magnitude?”

“I just didn’t know if you were busy with a game of Cricket or something.”

“Ah. A wise assertion. That game is grievously long.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“He’s not coming out, sir,” Z-Lo says, presumably to Ghost. “Think he’s scared.”

“He’s gone,” Ghost says as he pulls up his rifle.

Blaster rounds snap against the trussing beside Z-Lo’s right hand. “Jesus! They’ve spotted us.”

“Time to move,” Ghost replies and rolls out of the incoming fire.

Z-Lo does likewise and gains his feet by grabbing a metal access ladder’s rungs. More blaster rounds ping off the structure as both the kid and Ghost duck and run down the catwalk.

“Chuck,” I say as I confirm another terminal’s been recalibrated. “Any way you can help cover their retreat?”

“Hmmm. Possibly. Can I make things explode?”

I glance back at Insarka, thinking through our strategy session. “As long as it doesn’t affect humanity, I’m all for it.”

“Please stand by.”

A few seconds elapse as Chuck does whatever Chuck does. I’m busy entering key commands in my latest workstation’s holo display, while Bumper and the rest of his team are standing to inspect the damage. But Ghost and Z-Lo are in the most trouble as they haul ass.

“Nighteyes, this is Phantom Actual. Employ your personal shields,” I instruct them.

“Roger,” Ghost says. A beat later, a blue force field pops to life on his left side, emitting from one of Yrag’s small spheres. And without a second to lose. Two incoming rounds explode against Ghost’s shield, and a third snaps against Z-Lo’s.

“I didn’t know they had sniper rifles,” Z-Lo says.

“They don’t,” Insarka says as she types away hurriedly. “I already told you, they’re intuicons. They’ll make the most of what they have. Those are standard blasters. At that range… Hold on.” She enters a few final keystrokes and then stands up to fetch a chiming data card. “At that range, those shots won’t kill you, but they’ll immobilize you if you’re not careful.”

“Just get yourselves down from there,” I say.

“Okay. I’ve got something,” Chuck says at last.

“Make it quick.”

The two Phantoms continue along the catwalk and head for a semi-enclosed ladder that extends down to a building top. Still, more incoming blaster fire slaps against their shields and surrounding trussing.

“Chuck?” I ask in a rising tone.

“It takes a second, all right? Flippin’ell.”

In Ghost’s cam, I see multiple rounds hit Z-Lo so hard that they knock him sideways and take out his personal shield generator.

“It’s now or never, Chuck!”

“Bottoms up, everyone,” he replies.

A strange wet pop sounds from both Nighteyes’s external mics. Ghost’s head turns first and zeros in on the transportation platform. It takes a moment for his visor to magnify the scene, but when it does, he and Z-Lo sound as confused as I am.

“What the hell, Chuck?”

“Actually, it’s the shite, Patrick. I ruptured the block’s sewer pressure system.”

A blackish-brown eruption of sludge at least a meter in diameter is sloshing onto the main platform, taking down the Sci-Rung defenders in waves of slippery sewage.

“I was hoping for something slightly more permanent. But that’ll do,” I say.

“Permanent? Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to get that smell out? And if you mean an incendiary type of explosion, I don’t have access to those kinds of systems. Please. That’s what you’re here for.”

“Works for us,” Z-Lo said. “Thanks, Phantom Lord.”

“You see?” Chuck says to me. “Now that’s some proper appreciation.”

“Move to Exfil One,” I say to Nighteyes, then switch over to the Phantom ladies. “Minx, this is Phantom Actual. SITREP.”

Both Hollywood’s helmet and facial cams pop up. She and Lada are running down a hallway filled with death angels and several overlords. “Admin level. Ninth floor. Heading to the roof. Things are heating up.”

“Copy. Stay frosty.”

Another of my terminals chimes, and a few million more souls are saved. Feels damn good. I just hope it’s enough.

“You still like primary topside evac?” I say to Insarka.

She nods without looking. “I’ve summoned Farkoo. He says ETA in fifteen.”

I look around the export coordination theater and realize we’re just about halfway through. “You think fifteen’s enough time?”

“For the Phantoms? Yes. For us?” She casts a nervous look around the theater. “Work faster.”

“Roger.” I insert my next free card, wishing I had fifty more of them when a floor-shaking boooom! comes from outside the theater entry doors.

“Chuck?” I ask. “What was that?”

“It would appear that the Androchidans wish to resume control of their command room. And they seem quite insistent based upon the tools they’re using.”

Another large boooom! rattles the theater and shakes dust and debris from the ceiling.

“Prepare for breach, Patrick,” Chuck says. “I believe things are about to get… um, messy.”

26

0936, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Export Coordination Theater

“Don’t stop,” Insarka yells over comms. “We must complete the calibration sequence.”

“Roger that.” I’m almost halfway through my side of the workstations when I turn back to the lieutenant. “Why’d you say calibration ‘sequence’?”

Insarka stops what she’s doing long enough to shoot me a concerned look and then turns back to her terminal. “We need to recalibrate every one.”

“Right.” But there’s a pit in my stomach as I remove a data card and run it to the next open terminal. “You wanna fill me in now or later?”

Insarka lets out a long sigh. “I didn’t want to add to the weight you’re carrying.” She’s up and out of her chair, rushing to the next workstation.

Another boooom! shakes the front doors.

“We must finish all the workstations for the recalibration protocol to initiate,” she says.

I spin on my heels. “Are you saying we haven’t rescued anyone yet?”

She shakes her head. “I assumed we’d have plenty of time and didn’t see the need to burden you.”

“Christ have mercy.” I rip the nearest completed data card from its slot and bust my ass to the next computer. “Lieutenant, if the enemy doesn’t kill you, I might finish the job myself, you know.”

“I understand. Again, I was merely trying to spare you the—”

“Well don’t. Not ever. Copy?”

She nods, turns back to her terminal, and lets out a low, “Yut.”

I give a half smile.

“In the lieutenant’s defense,” Chuck says. “The mission plan did call for ample time to—”

“I’m torn between flounder and turkey right now, Chuckles. You have a preference?”

“Uh, no, actually. I prefer neither.”

“Then shut your yap unless you have something to tell me about the enemy outside.”

“As you wish, Patrick.”

I’m edging toward my fortieth workstation, as is Insarka when another loud boooom! shakes the air—but this one is followed by a loud crack.

“I’m opening my yap to inform you that the enemy has breached the theater,” Chuck says.

No sooner does he say the words than blaster fire shoots from between a small gap in the armored doors and tears across the hall. The shots ricochet off the balcony level and send sparks cascading over Insarka and me. But I can’t help noticing the enemy’s aim is far from accurate. The blaster fire stops, and the silence gets filled with shouting in Skrawl.

“They won’t risk damaging the terminals,” Insarka says. “Hurry! We must finish before they get through.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” I populate the next two computers with data cards and prep my forty-third terminal when the sounds of metal being torn apart pierce the theater. I look up at the balcony to see an overlord rending the front doors with its mechanical hands.

Perfect.

Another terminal chimes, and I remove the data card and rush it to the next workstation.

“Now might be a wonderful time to start shooting, Patrick,” Chuck says. I pull him off my back, sight in on the encroaching overlord, and fire a medium-yield burst at the target. Energy cracks across the matte-green armor and fills the doorway with sparks, but it seems to do little more to the enemy than aggravate it.

“Might I recommend that you increase my output levels, Patrick?”

“Do your thing, Phantom Lord.” A workstation summons me to its console, and I eject the data card.

“Try me now,” Chuck says.

With the card in hand, I turn toward the door and fire. The rifle whines and then lets out a deafening blaat as a high-frequency barrage of energy shoves the enemy back through the hole and detonates it against the corridor’s sidewall. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“You’ll need to swap out your capacitor magazine if you wish to do that again, Patrick. My energy level is fifty-one percent after that.”

“Changing,” I say to Insarka, but I realize she’s probably unaware of Marine Corp fire discipline. I stow the half-full mag on the rifle’s side and slam in a fresh one.

“Capacitor charge one hundred percent,” Chuck says with a sparkle in his voice. “Point me, Patrick. I want revenge. I want them to know that death is coming, and there is nothing they can do to stop it.”

“You… watched Rambo?”

“All of them, yes.”

I point Chuck to the door breach. “And?”

“And what? They made me feel energized. And so much more connected to you, Patrick. I think I truly get you now. Like, you complete me.”

“Oh God…”

“What? Does that new overlord coming through the breach scare you?”

“No.” I aim at the tango’s head. “You watched Jerry Maguire. That scares me.”

I squeeze the trigger. The rifle emits another blaat that mutes my helmet’s audio sensors and detonates the overlord’s helmet. The headless body falls away to the sounds of shouting plushies outside.

“They’ll try and stun us next,” Insarka says as she closes in on her final three terminals. “You’ll need to defend us. I’ll complete the remaining station calibrations. Leave your cards.”

“Roger.” I double-check Chuck’s energy level. He’s at 63 percent. Enough for one more big shot like that. Or… “Chuck, you got anything up your sleeve for defending against stun grenades?”

He lets out a disgusted sound. “Huh. Do I have anything up my sleeve… Do you even know who you’re talking to right now?”

“Chuuck?”

“Yes, that’s right. You’re speaking to—”

“No. I mean, Chuck!”

A baseball-sized object flies through the opening and sails toward me. I point Chuck like a shotgun at skeet and hope to God he’s got something dialed in for this.

When I squeeze the trigger, a wide blue field shoots across the room. The wave envelopes the stun grenade and blocks me from the resulting explosion, then it redirects the blast toward the entrance. It’s over in three seconds.

“That was incredible,” I say as I lower Chuck.

“No. That was disruption mode. I am incredible.”

I ignore his self-praise and glance at his remaining energy level. Cap mag’s at 49 percent. “Changing.”

Another stun grenade flies through the opening.

“Patrick,” Chuck yells.

But I’m between mags.

Out of nowhere, Insarka leaps from her place behind a terminal, vaults five meters over the central Unity Arc Inquisitor, and snags the grenade out of the air. Then in a single fluid pump, she lobs the ordnance back through the doorway’s breach where it detonates with an earsplitting noise.

I feel my grip loosen around Chuck. “What in—”

“—Satan’s demon spawn was that?” Chuck finishes.

“Complete the final three.” Insarka points to the remaining terminals. “And cover me.”

“Right. Me, cover you. Got it.” Still slightly slack-jawed as to what I just saw, I hustle to the last workstations and spot data cards in the surrounded computers. With one eye on Insarka, who is now on the balcony level and approaching the door, and the other on the terminals, I start typing the required initiation steps before inserting data cards. But the process is cut short when an explosion tears both doors from the wall and sends them flying into the room.

The armored panels land at the UAI’s base, barely avoiding catastrophic damage when an overlord steps through the smoking breach.

“Phantom Actual, this is Minx,” says Hollywood. “How’s it—Look out!”

I have Chuck up in ready position, sighting in on the overlord’s chest.

“Patrick! Reload,” he shouts. “Reload.”

Dammit. I never finished ramming the last cap mag home. It’s on the floor. You rookie!

I yank another off my belt and slam it in the lower receiver before aiming at the overlord again. But Insarka has leapt atop the enemy, feet on its shoulders, and fires point-blank into the base of its neck with her CHK. A staccato sound rips through the air as rapid flashes of light drill into the intruder’s chest. As the tango topples forward and over the railing, Insarka leaps clear and lands back on the balcony.

“What are you waiting for?” she yells.

“I was… There’s… Awe, hell.” The woman doesn’t need me to cover her. Good Lord. I spin around and race through the required sequence on the remaining three machines. They accept my input and start processing the data cards.

All at once, the lights in the room dim and the UAI glows brighter than I’ve seen it yet.

“Congratulations, Patrick-Wic,” Insarka says as she fires back through the breach. “You just saved several million of your kind.”

* * *

I’m bounding up the steps to join Insarka on the balcony when Hollywood pings me again. Her face is filled with concern. “Phantom Actual, this… Hell. You okay, Wic?”

“We’re still here.” I pull a VOD from my hip, double-check that it’s on fragmentation, and then lob it through the door. “Frag out.”

The lieutenant leans away from the blast as it fills the corridor with fire. Then she peeks around the corner and fires. Her shots are answered by a return volley that forces her back into the room.

“It’s no good,” she says to me. “They’ve brought reinforcements. We’re trapped.”

“Is there a secondary blast door that we can reseal the room with?” I ask.

“Negative.”

More rounds pepper the entryway.

“What about a frequency disruption grenade.” I think back to when Insarka rescued us in the hangar and walked right into the firefight undetected.

“No good,” she replies. “It might get us part way down the tunnel, but not far enough.”

Damn. Come on, Pat. There’s gotta be more than one way out of here. “Chuck, any sewers beneath us?”

“Oh, so now you like my idea of messing with the sanitation system.”

“Yut.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Me too.”

After a moment, Chuck asks, “So do you think this is it, Patrick? Your last stand? The epic finale where you die?”

“Marines don’t die, Chuckles. We just go to hell and regroup.”

“Ah, duly noted. Likewise, ASIK-enabled rifles don’t die. We go to Yrag’s Place to get massive amounts of plastic surgery. His tummy-tucks are extremely affordable.”

“Is he feeling okay?” Insarka asks me.

“Couldn’t tell ya.” I clench my jaw as I think through our options, but there are painfully few.

“Huh,” Chuck says.

“What is it, pal?”

“Oh it… Well, it might be nothing.”

“Spit it out.”

“There appears to be a transportation line that runs below this room.”

I glance at Insarka.

She shrugs.

“Go on,” I say.

“Hypothetically, both of you could enter the tube and ride… Stand by.”

“You want us to ride standby?”

“No. I’m checking something, you tosser. Ah, here it is. Yes, it’s a yellow line, which means you could take it to the main hall’s central hub and then take a green line up to the admin levels.”

More blaster fire explodes against the wall beside us.

“They’re advancing,” Insarka says and then returns fire blindly. She pulls a VOD from her hip, sets it, and then hurls it down the hallway. A bright light and loud explosion silence the incoming fire, but only for a few seconds.

“Talk to me about this hypothetical plan, Phantom Lord,” I say. “You sound hesitant.”

“It would mean climbing beneath the subfloor and creating a hole in the pressurized tube wide enough for you to enter and yet still not destabilize the line. Assuming you do that, then it’s inserting yourself into the tube while keeping two critically important things in mind.”

“Which are?”

“One is not introducing yourself in front of an oncoming pod. That would result in—”

“Bad news. What else?”

“Yes, um. Well, then there’s inserting yourself into the airflow that’s trying to propel you to two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour without the inertia-dampener casing.”

“The cocoon thing?”

“Yes, though the Androchidans call it an energy distribution chrysalis. Well, technically speaking, it’s the Novia Minoosh who—”

“You’re saying without it, bad splick happens?”

“Without it, your insides will most likely rupture, yes. Not to mention you’ll blackout from unmitigated acceleration.”

“If we survive the organ rupturing,” I add.

“Correct. My, you’re catching on quickly, Patrick. Bravo.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Wic,” Hollywood interjects.

“Yut, Neither do I.” I tap Insarka on the shoulder. “Any other bright ideas?”

She shakes her head grimly. “This theater was built to limit access and egress. I am unaware of the transportation tube beneath it. But if Chuck says it is there, then it is our only other escape route beside the corridor.”

A split second after she finishes speaking, an enemy stun grenade bounces into the piles of bodies.

“Take cover,” I shout.

The device detonates and fills the doorway with fire and body parts. Damn. That was a frag grenade.

“They are willing to risk the theater’s integrity,” the lieutenant yells.

“Can they undo our work? Shut portals down once we leave?”

“With how much attention we’ve drawn to ourselves, most certainly. I was hoping we could avoid this.”

“So that’s a yes.”

She nods. “They can also see where we’ve deposited them. Unless we destroy the hardware.”

“Then we blow it. It works to our advantage. How many VODs you got?”

“Two,” she says.

“And I have one. Think that’s enough, Chuck?”

“Well, that all depends on—”

“Chuck!”

“Yes,” he seethes. “Can’t you suffer at least a little spontaneous pontificating?”

“Negative.” I’m gonna feed this gun to a turkey and then feed that turkey to a flounder, so help me God. “Now tell us where to stick them and how the hell we’re backing out of here.”

“Well, I’m not sure about all three, but I know you can stick at least one of them up your—”

“Chuck!”

* * *

We maglock two VODs to the underside of workstations on opposite ends of the room, while we affix the third beneath the UAI and set it to smoke. The hope is that the screen will buy us some time and mask our escape. Then we follow Chuck’s instructions to an access hatch that takes us beneath the subfloor. And like that, we’re gone.

Insarka leads the way along a catwalk, both of us on all fours. The dark crawlspace is only a meter high but extends out in all directions. It’s filled with massive electrical conduits, humming regulation stations, and enough communications infrastructure to make Verizon and SpaceX have wet dreams.

Using the VODs as both cover and sabotage is a balancing act. Popping smoke and delaying the destructive fragmentation grenades lets more plushies file in to investigate, which means we take more out when the big bang comes. But wait too long and we risk the enemy seeing what we’ve done to the export rings and radioing back to command.

And if we’re not out from under here before that time comes? Well, I guess we’ll get taken out with the trash too. No one ever said war was without its nasty risks.

But to buy us even more time, Insarka secured two enemy rifles among the dead, pointing down the corridor, and set them to auto-fire, low-yield, single-pulse rounds every three seconds until the mags go dry. So far, they’re keeping the enemy at bay, but that won’t last much longer.

“Phantom Actual, this is Minx,” Hollywood says. “Exfil is five minutes out.”

“Gonna be cutting it close for us,” I reply.

“Roger. We’ll hold.”

“Negative, Minx. You will proceed to LZ Hotel California for exfil and then fall back to Tequila Sunrise as planned. We’ll secure secondary exfil and meet you there.”

Chuck jumps in. “Does that mean you wish to change destinations, Patrick?”

“Yut. And I’m gonna need the smartest gun—”

“ASIK,” he corrects.

“—the smartest ASIK I know to help us navigate.”

“Assuming you survive initial acceleration,” he adds.

“Don’t remind me.”

Hollywood asks, “You sure about this, Wic?”

“Since when has certainty been a prerequisite for survival, Sergeant?”

She smiles. “Never.”

“That’a girl. Load the team up and get clear. We’ll see you at the fallback.”

“See you at Tequila Sunrise,” she confirms. “Minx out.”

Amidst the maze of conduits, pipes, and hardware, Insarka and I finally intersect the clear man-sized tube curving its way out of sight. I can hear the constant rush of air blasting through the pipe at 250 klicks per hour. The energy seemed so tame back when I was entering the tube through the secure port and getting encased in a pod. But being arm’s reach from the bulletproof-like material gives me an unsettled feeling for just how much force it’s channeling.

As if to emphasize my uncertainty, a milky-white pod zips past Insarka and me with a loud whump and shakes the crawlspace. The catwalk rattles, as do several nearby conduits.

“Having second thoughts, Patrick?” Chuck asks.

I squint and lie. “No. Why would you even—”

“Well, your blood pressure just spiked, your pupils dilated, and your adrenaline levels—”

“I’m cautiously optimistic, pal. All right? I don’t like the idea of getting squeezed outta this thing like toothpaste.” An image replays in my mind of the Sci-Rung extruding through the hole Ghost made.

“An apt comparison,” Chuck admits.

At that moment, the steady sound of two SR-CHKs firing on three-second delays goes quiet.

“Magazines are dry,” Insarka says. “Prepare to pop smoke, as you say.”

“Roger that.” I face the tube. “What’s your bright idea for puncturing this thing again, Chuck?”

“My distortion setting. Normally, it’s used to destabilize ionic bonds within opponents on the other side of obstructions, such as walls, floors, and doors. Think of it like a microwave cooking the inside of a Hot Pocket but not the crust.”

“So you plan to cook the tube?”

“In a manner of speaking. Using your HUD, you can alter the effective depth and range of my ionization capabilities. I suggest holding my barrel twenty-five centimeters from the tube’s surface and setting the wave’s near-field range start point to twenty-six centimeters. This should produce the desired effect.”

“How about you handle the measurement? I’ll hold the rifle.”

“Fair enough, Mr. I Can’t Swipe Up On a Virtual Holo Pad To Save My Life.”

“Hey. It was one time.” I look to Insarka and nod toward the tube. “Won't they just shut the line down once they sense a breach?”

“Command will shut down the entry points so that new passengers won’t be able to get on, but they will continue the airflow until all existing passengers have exited.” She freezes. “They’re proceeding down the stairs to the lower floors. Pop it.”

I nod and then let my eyes focus on the VOD button that reads Detonate. A second later, I hear a sharp bang come from the direction we crawled, followed by shouts and the sounds of bodies bumping into chairs and hitting the floor. “That should keep ’em busy.”

“The tube,” Insarka points.

She’s an insistent one, that’s for sure. I bring Chuck up, double-check that he has all the modes and math right… Ah, hell, who am I kidding? I’m just acting like I know what I’m doing. “Here goes.”

I squeeze and hold the trigger, but nothing seems to be happening. “I break you?”

“No,” Chuck says. “Don’t stop.”

“But nothing’s—”

“This isn’t a boom-boom shot, Patrick. We’re dealing with focused radiation here. Now please hold still.”

I do as I’m told but remove my left hand to point at Chuck while giving Insarka a “Can you believe this guy?” look.

“Keep your hands on me,” Chuck scolds. “Heavens, you’re worse than a disinterested lover. Next thing you know, I’ll have to change my name to Sheila and start wearing naughty lingerie just to keep you coming back.”

“What?”

“You… You are lovers?” Insarka asks.

Chuck says, “Yes,” and I say, “No,” simultaneously.

“I see,” Insarka replies and raises an eyebrow. “Lovers then.”

“Brace for rupture,” Chuck yells.

In the short time we’ve been talking, the tube wall looks like it’s melted, and a section about a meter wide is starting to balloon toward us. Just as I start to pull Chuck back, Insarka grabs my shoulders and yanks me away. The ballooning wall pops, and a hurricane-like gust of air rips into the crawlspace.

“You first,” she shouts.

“You sure?”

“Yes! I have to blow the VODs!”

I nod and then look to the opening. “Here goes nothing.”

I’m fighting my way toward the airflow when Chuck roars in my head. “Wait!”

A second later, a pod swings around the bend and catches on the hole’s edge. Half the body exits, while the other half continues down the tube. The sound of cracking bone and exploding flesh is so sudden, I hardly have time to think about what’s happened.

Insarka taps my gore covered shoulder and then points. “He died.”

“Ya think?”

“Yes. He definitely died.”

“Mmm.” I maglock Chuck to my back and ease myself into the powerful airflow. “I’m having serious second thoughts about this, pal.”

“There’s no need to worry, Patrick. My math never fails.”

“Not the most reassuring statement. Don’t we need one of those inertia-dampening cocoon things?”

“The breach in airflow has brought the force vectors into manageable ranges.”

“How manageable, Chuck? That sounds subjective.”

“Just push your way through the tributary airflow and insert your legs into the main artery. The air pressure will do the rest.”

“It won’t split me in half?”

“Negative. That last Androchidan had the misfortune of using our location as an exit. You will be using it as an entrance. There is a marginal pneumatic difference.”

“Wait. Marginal?”

“Go, Patrick. Now!”

I use the catwalk to ease my legs into the hole. “Something tells me I’m gonna re—”

27

0945, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Transportation Line

The violent air pressure sucks my legs into the tube and yanks the rest of my body with them. It happens so fast I couldn’t have prevented it had I tried. And now I’m rocketing through blackness at God-only-knows how fast without the safety of a pod.

“Are you conscious, Patrick?” Chuck asks as we shoot through the dark.

I say something, but it comes out as sort of mangled holler. My body’s spinning like a bullet down a rifled barrel.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Try and relax, Patrick. Stabilizing your body will help provide a far more enjoyable experience.”

“I’m not… so sure… that’s possible.” I’m banging around the inside of the tube so hard that I can barely speak. I think we’re going up, but I can’t be sure. The blood seems like it’s rushing to my head one second and to my feet the next.

“Oh, please. Do like last time and fold your arms across your chest. Legs straight, ankles together, head back. Oh, and cough.”

“What?”

“Form up, Marine!”

I do as I’m told, which almost instantly stabilizes my flight through the tight space.

“Now isn’t that better, Patrick?”

The next thing I know, the tube fills with light and nearly blinds me. My visor takes a split second to adjust, and when it does, I recognize the city all around me. We’re flying between buildings like a bullet sailing 100 meters over city streets. “Holy hell, Chuck!”

“Yes, Patrick. You’re a regular flying Superman.”

The tube starts a long bend that spans a dozen city blocks. I spot people and vehicles far below. Even the buildings have occupants, all of whom seem busy at workstations.

It looks like my feet are going to clip every corner we near, but the tube continues onward, narrowly missing buildings and bridges. I feel like an Olympic luger, and I’m almost starting to enjoy this when the tunnel straightens out and I spot a massive building ahead. My brain knows the tube must go through it, but something in my amygdala says I’m about to die. Apparently, my lungs and mouth have sided with my survival instinct too. “Ohhhh shiiii—”

The building swallows me like a whale eating krill. I’m back in darkness, but there’s a sharp jolt in my direction, and small white lights streak past my head. Then the tube begins to bend downward so that my feet are under me again. The white lights suddenly change to blue and I sense my body decelerate.

“Everything okay?” I ask Chuck.

“Of course. The emergency control system is diverting you into a tunnel to receive non-pod-encased passengers. It’s totally normal. Well, almost normal.”

“Why almost normal?”

“When a passenger doesn’t have a pod, it’s normally because, you know.”

“No, I… really don’t.”

“Well, they’re like the last guy you saw.”

“The split-in-half dead guy?”

“Precisely.”

“Chuck!”

A gust of wind hits my boot soles and groin and then blasts my arms off my chest. I’m pretty sure it’s gonna rip my helmet off my head too, but then my speed bleeds away until I’m hovering over a metal grate a meter below me.

An emergency klaxon sounds, the lights shift to red, and I drop to the floor. Doors part to my right, and two Anderkin technicians pull me out with wide-eyed looks—at least as far and Androchidan eyes go.

“You are alive?” says one tech through my helmet’s translation software.

“We’ve never had a living one,” says the other.

“Please step this way,” a third plushy says, waving me forward.

I spot a pile of bloody remains spewing from half an inertia pod to my left—probably the unlucky bastard just before me. I hear the doors close and spin around to see a second person appear, hovering within the tube.

“Miss me?” Insarka says over comms.

“Glad you made it,” I reply. “VODs?”

“Successful.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” I watch as the doors part and the techs help Insarka out. The workers’ voices are filled with even more surprise as they look over two living arrivals.

“Apparently, you made their day,” Chuck says.

“Maybe they should play the lotto next.”

Insarka pushes past the over-interested crew and pulls my arm. “Come. We need to get to the next transportation hall. This way.”

I follow the lieutenant up a flight of stairs and into a very normal, very slow, very predictable elevator, which we ride up several floors.

“Phantom Actual, this is Minx. You good?”

I nod at Hollywood in my HUD. “Just free-balled the waterslide.”

“Commando? Nice. Gotta love skinny dipping. Listen, birds are landing now. Contact us when you know where you’re headed.”

“Roger. Chuck will upload coordinates for retrieval.”

“Copy that. See you on the outside. Out.”

“Speaking of which,” I say to Chuck and Insarka. “Where are we headed?”

“As per your mission brief, I recommend Insarka’s idea of exiting MPF6 from the northern supply dock—hall four to be precise. It seems to have the least amount of activity based on the limited intelligence I’m able to view.”

I glance at Insarka for confirmation.

“Yes, I agree,” she replies.

“Good. Mark it, pal.”

No sooner do I say the words than a new icon labeled Waypoint Happy Endings appears in my HUD. Likewise, augmented reality path markers dot the floor, waiting for the lift’s doors to open.

“Happy Endings?” I ask Chuck. “You rename that waypoint?”

“Yes,” he replies. “I felt it was a fitting conclusion.”

The elevator slows and an arrival chime sounds. Then Insarka tells me to take a deep breath as we emerge from the elevator and walk casually into another transportation center. But the hall feels more alive than the previous ones, and I have to assume it’s because of the stir we’ve made.

The observation room to our left has four death angels and two overlords monitoring foot traffic in and out of the main cylinder’s tube ports and reviewing holo display footage. I spot another five death angels stationed around the hall, weapons in the tactical carry position, heads on swivels. This isn’t good. They’re looking for us. But until I have proof that we stand out from all the other death angels, this is just business as usual.

“Eyes forward, hands to your sides,” Insarka says. “You need to relax.”

“I am relaxed.” But even as I protest, I sense my body has tightened up. The only thing that separates me from a million aliens in an underground biodome from hell is a suit of battle armor. Not the most reassuring scenario.

We get in line with Insarka leading when one of the death angels closest to our intended entry port signals her. Ah, splick.

“Where are you coming from?” the sentry asks her, his weapon still held across his chest. So far, so good.

“Sorting Pit 21F,” Insarka replies without hesitation and over our comms channel, presumably for my benefit. She’s speaking in her native Skrawl, but my helmet’s translating both participants.

“And your destination?”

“Supply North, Hall Four,” she says.

The sentry tilts his head. “Why two shifts?”

She nods back to me. “Required overtime for both of us. Made an allocation error.”

The death angel shrugs. “Happens to the best of us.”

Insarka nods, and I offer a shrug.

“Have a good day,” the sentry says and then returns to his position.

“That was close,” I say as the queue advances toward the tube port doors.

“We’re not clear yet,” Insarka replies. “He’s checking with command now.”

“Prick.”

“Correct. This is not good. I estimate he will discover that our identification tags are fraudulent within sixty seconds.”

I glance at the doors and watch the next passenger load up. “That’s not enough time.”

“No shite, Sherlock,” Chuck says. “But I have an idea that I think will suit you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup. Start shooting.”

“What?”

“Point me at the tube’s entry doors, blast them out, and then jump in,” Chuck says.

“That’s your plan?” I ask.

“No, he’s right,” Insarka interjects. “That’s the best option.”

“Okay, but what about the whole inertia dampen-the-impact cocoon things?”

“You’ll have to forgo that again,” Chuck adds.

“But won’t that kill us without a hole in the tube?”

“Thus why I’m having you shoot the doors out, Mr. Holmes. God, sometimes you really aren’t the full shilling, are you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Here.” Insarka pulls her SR-CHK off her back and points it at the doors. “Let me get things started.” She squeezes the trigger, and then all hell breaks loose.

* * *

The door debris blows down the tube while a rush of air floods the klaxon-filled hall. Everyone in line runs for cover, and the sentries raise their weapons but don’t seem sure if they should shoot the two people running for the sabotaged transportation tube—you know, because right minded people don’t normally throw themselves into broken vent shafts. Then again, I’m a thickheaded retired Marine, so I suppose I parted with my right mind decades ago.

“Jump,” Insarka yells.

I fold my arms in advance while the lieutenant turns to fire on the nearest death angel. I glimpse a fountain of sparks enveloping the hall’s right side just as the wind pounds down on my head like Niagara Falls. The force has the unfortunate effect of pushing my head down and into the tube with my legs following.

The blood pools in my legs as my body accelerates down the tube head-first. I grunt, trying to keep myself from blacking out, but the acceleration is so strong it hurts—everywhere.

“Well this isn’t optimal,” Chuck says.

“Oh yeah?” I blink several times. “Didn’t notice.”

I’m streaking toward the building’s floor at piss-your-pants per hour with my arms folded across my chest. A fraction of a second later, I shoot into a cavernous space beneath the surface that looks like a city unto itself. The cylindrical expanse is bored into the planet, and I might as well have been shot from a gun straight through it. But then the tube curves upward and sends me into the side wall surrounded by balconies and lights. Again, my amygdala says I’m about to get pancaked, but the wall lets me pass, and I plunge into darkness.

“You’re about to be diverted again, Patrick. Hold on,” Chuck says.

Sure enough, I feel a sharp change in my direction, and the small white lights are back. Then the tube bends so that I’m upside down, and the lights change to blue as I decelerate. The gust of wind pummels my head and shoulders until I’m suspended above the floor grate. As soon as the lights turn red, the pressure abates, and I drop on my head.

Perfect landing.

Doors part and I spill out of the tube, where I’m hauled to my feet by attendants who seem eager to get me out of the shaft—presumably because they know there’s another bogie on the way.

But then my arms get wrenched behind me and pinned together at the wrists. I look over my shoulder to see a helmetless overlord sneering down at me.

Dammit.

“Duck,” Insarka says in my HUD. But she hasn’t yet arrived in the shaft.

“You see me?” It’s a dumb question—more of a reflex than anything else. All this fancy tech is still new to me.

“Duck,” she repeats as a figure appears in the tube and the doors part. “Now!”

I drop to my knees just as Insarka fires a round at the overlord. Then I roll onto my back to face my aggressor, but his head is missing. “Always wear your cover,” I say to myself. “What a boot.”

The lieutenant hauls my ass up, removes whatever was restraining my wrists, and points to a set of doors at the end of the small hall we’re in. “They’ll be coming through there.”

And by “they” I know she means reinforcements. “Copy.” I demag Chuck from my back and step behind a metal support column to the left while Insarka does the same to the right. With Chuck in ready position, I watch the doors part and four death angels file in. They slow when they see the headless overlord held erect by his suit’s servos, and their hesitation is all the invite we need.

Insarka and I open up at the same time, blowing holes in the enemy’s armor and dropping both pairs of assailants in seconds. Then she waves us forward and we haul ass for the exit.

Following the path indicators in our HUDs, we turn left out the door and head ten meters down a hall, right up a switchback stairwell, and emerge into a massive warehouse that I’m sure Amazon would give its left cardboard testicle to get its hands on. The place is filled with towering metal racks, hover-skid loaders, and industrial conveyor belts.

We’re dashing toward the Waypoint Happy Endings icon on the floor when I notice that it doesn’t really lead anywhere, it’s just an emblem in the middle of the deck.

“Where to, Chuckles?” I ask.

“It seems you have an assortment of evacuation options, Patrick. I cannot determine which is best.”

“I can,” Insarka replies. “This way.”

She sets off at a jog. It’s a good pace to tell any onlookers that you’re in a hurry but it’s not an emergency. I like to think of it as the white noise of bipedal transference. A few Androchidan dockhands give us a curious once over, but most don’t seem to pay us much mind. Apparently, news of the plushies we’ve toasted hasn’t reached this part of the basement yet.

“There.” Insarka pings some kind of freight car sitting on one of several dozen elevated rail system platforms. Based on the data my HUD’s measuring tool provides, the car is about the same dimensions of a cargo ship’s container back on earth. Only this sucker’s got front and rear windows, two massive sliding doors on the sides, and what looks like a twin-barreled turret weapon on the roof. Railed armor transport, for lack of a better term. Why? Because I like the acronym, that’s why.

The RAT looks like it’s being unloaded by two dock workers who seem less than enthusiastic about their minimum wage jobs. Hopefully the plushies have good workman’s comp through their union, because God knows they’re gonna need it if they get wise.

We mount the steps to the raised platform and then walk around some of the larger crates coming off the car.

The first dockhand sees us and narrows its eyes. “What do you want?”

“Surprise inspection,” she replies.

“You stealing?” I ask, hoping to help put some reverse pressure on the situation. Chuck translates for me.

The indignant worker puts a hand on his chest. “Me? No. Why would I do that?”

“’Cause you know you like what’s in here, don’t you.” I rap my knuckles on the crate’s metal side for emphasis. “You wanna eat this so bad, don’t ya. Take a bath in it. Share it with all your pals.”

The worker glances to the crate and then back to me with the Anderkin version of a confused look. “Listen, I’m not sure what you think I’m into, but I can assure you I don’t… eat this stuff.”

“Just let me handle this, okay?” Insarka adds in a hushed tone on our internal comms.

“Sure.”

While she talks to him, I look at the packing slip stuck to the crate and let my helmet translate. In blunt English, it reads Medical Supply: Hemorrhoid Ointment.

After Insarka tells the man we’re gonna give the RAT a once over, she says, “You thought it was human flesh, didn’t you.”

“Eh, I’ve seen one too many AE containers with my kind in it not to.”

“I thought so.” Then she lets out a soft laugh. “Definitely made him uncomfortable.”

“Sorry to almost blow our cover.”

“No. On the contrary, it turns out he was stealing. Stuff’s pretty valuable down here. I only waved you off because I knew I could get him to confess.”

“Huh. How ’bout that.”

“Said for us to take all the time we need since I agreed not to—how do you say—narc on him?”

“You’re a damn quick study, Lieutenant.”

She smiles. “Thank you. This way.”

We walk down the length of the car toward a bulkhead door. When Insarka opens it, I peek my head into a two-seat cockpit with a wraparound windshield. The RAT is definitely utilitarian—even makes mil-spec hardware back on Earth look elegant. But that also means it’s probably bulletproof and easy to operate.

Insarka and I get seated in the command chairs, and she insists I buckle up. With Chuck maglocked to my thigh, I secure myself in the left-hand seat, while Insarka goes through the startup procedures.

“You drive one of these before?” I ask.

“Couple times. They’re… like riding a bike?”

“You have bikes?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “But this is one of your expressions, yeah?”

“Yut.”

“It applies here.” She flicks a few switches, one of which turns on headlights that shine down a vast tunnel.

“Fair enough.” I glance around the console. “Anything I can do?”

“Yes. Close the main doors there.” She points to twin buttons. My helmet translates the peeling stickers’ text as Port Side and Starboard Side. I depress the rocker-style buttons and hear the sound of hydraulic motors whining in the main compartment. It’s followed quickly by the dock workers shouting in Skrawl. My translation software fails to discern what they’re saying, but based on the tone…

“I don’t think they’re too happy with us,” I say to Insarka.

“No. But I’m not telling about their hemorrhoid creams if you aren’t.” She winks at me through her HUD cam. “Hold on.”

After hitting a power button that makes the car rise a few centimeters, Insarka advances two lever arms, and I feel the car surge forward. For being such an eyesore, the vehicle is unusually nimble. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was levitating.

“Maglev?” I ask Insarka after we’ve picked up speed.

She squints at me for a moment and then nods as understanding crosses her face. “Yes. Electromagnetic resistance. Trinium core.” She pats the console. “Fast, reliable. And this one has guns.”

“Yut. Noticed. So where we headed?”

“East. This will take us to the surface where we can slow and reunite with Farkoo and the dropships.”

Which reminds me to check back in with Phantom Team. Hell, we have some celebrating to do. Then it hits me that we just pulled it off. Damn. We actually did it.

“Minx, this is Phantom Actual,” I say. “SITREP.”

Silence fills the channel.

“Minx, this is Phantom Actual. Comm check.”

More silence.

“Something up with comms, Phantom Lord?” I ask.

“Negative, Patrick.”

“Maybe our depth?”

“No. We have an established quantum connection. It does not operate like your precious radio waves do.”

“Precious radio—? Never mind. So what’s the problem?”

“As far as I can tell, there is no problem. At least on our end or with comms.”

“Try a different channel,” Insarka suggests.

I switch to Bumper. “Phantom Three, this is Phantom Actual.” I wait a solid three-count before repeating.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” Chuck says finally. “There doesn’t seem to be any reply.”

I want to ask what that means. But I don’t have to. The knot in my stomach that’s trying to yank my heart of out my chest is jumping to conclusions that my head just refuses to accept.

But then I think of something. The status bars in the HUD roster. My eyes shoot over to them and settle on a dropdown arrow beside Hollywood’s name. Instantly, a submenu opens that pushes everyone else’s name down and off screen. The vertical rectangle is filled with icons and data…

Including heart rate.

“She’s still alive,” I say aloud as a wave of relief washes over me.

“Ah,” Chuck says. “I understand the reason for your concern now. To help relieve your anxiety further, yes, all Phantom team members seem to be in stable condition with regard to their health.”

“Thank you, Lord.” I press my hands together and nod skyward—assuming this hellhole has a heaven. But then a second thought hits me, one about Chuck’s word choice. “With regard to their health.”

Insarka glances over at me. “What?”

“Chuck, you said ‘with regard to their health.’”

“I did.”

“As in, this system reports basic health functions.”

“That’s right,” he replies.

“But what about other functions?”

Chucks waits for a moment before saying, “I’m not sure I’m following, Patrick.”

“The helmets track thoughts. They anticipate who’s feeds I want to see, even let us type messages just by thinking of the letters.”

“Yes?”

“So… can’t we tell how their mental state is too?” My eyes are scanning the rest of Hollywood’s biometric data. “Wouldn’t there be… I don’t know… brainwave activity or something?”

“By Jove, I think he’s on to something.” Chuck withdraws for a few seconds, then comes back in force. “It appears that every member’s armor sensor suite is operational and transmitting via our proprietary quantum connection. However, while all helmet systems are intact, there’s nothing being transmitted.”

“Because there’s no data to transmit.” I turn to Insarka. “They’re not wearing their helmets.”

The revelation is both relieving and terrifying.

“We can at least conclude that they’re not in a hostile atmosphere.” Insarka conducts the car forward at speed while apparently reviewing the HUD as I am. “If they weren’t breathing oxygen, we’d see it in the blood toxicology feed.”

“She’s right,” Chuck adds. “And this is a good sign.”

“Yut. But it also means they’re in trouble.”

“How do you figure?” Insarka asks.

“None of my warriors would remove their helmets during exfil. At least not until they were well clear of the engagement area, and probably not until they returned to their FOB. Forwarding operating base.

“If one operator does it? Okay. They need a breather. Adjust their equipment. But all of them? At the same time?” I shake my head. “No way. Something’s up.”

“Then you think they’re being made to do it?” Insarka asks. “Held against their will?”

“That’s my first thought given the stability of their other vitals. Can you contact Farkoo?”

“Lieutenant Tersmik? Yes, of course. Stand by.”

Just before she opens a new channel, I put a hand on her arm. “Careful. Stay sharp.”

She nods at me and then send the hail in English. “Dropship Alpha. This is Phantom Actual.”

“We read you, Phantom Actual,” says a Skrawl voice translated into English. “Lieutenant Kindesh?”

“Yes, Farkoo. It’s me. Is… everything okay there?”

“Of course. What is your location?”

“We are…”

I wave her off. Call it playing a hunch.

“…still in MPF6.” She looks at me for confirmation. “Attempting to reach primary exfil on the roof.”

I give her a thumbs up.

“Then we await your arrival.”

“Is the rest of the team accounted for?” she asks.

“Of course. We are standing by. Dropship Alpha out.”

Insarka closes the channel and stares at me. “Something’s wrong, Patrick-Wic. Something’s definitely wrong.”

28

1005, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Eastbound from Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Supply Transportation Line

In addition to whatever spooked Insarka on her call with Farkoo, my own Spidey Sense is pinging off the charts. I’d ordered Hollywood to rendezvous with us at the fallback and not the initial infil LZ atop the dome. It was a direct order, and not even Hollywood’s stubbornness would defy it. But more than that, she knew Insarka and I were headed to the waypoint twenty klicks due east—there would be no reason to stay. Not unless they were being held against their will.

“Son of a bitch.” I punch the RAT’s console.

Insarka looks startled. “What?”

“That… splicking bastard Farkoo. He’s got ’em.”

“Farkoo?”

I nod and chew on my bottom lip. Hollywood’s suspicions were right.

“But that’s… he wouldn’t do that.” Insarka turns to me as if looking for confirmation. “Plus, how could he? The Phantoms are…”

“Capable, but not invulnerable. He took them on exfil.”

“Atop the dome.”

I nod. “Exfil’s always a dangerous moment. You’ve got the enemy behind you and transport in front of you, and you’re exposed. Everything’s pushing you toward what you assume is the promise of safety.”

“And in this case, it wasn’t.” Insarka’s forehead wrinkles up. “You’re sure?”

“Yut.”

“But… why Farkoo?”

“I’m afraid you’re better suited to answer that than me, Lieutenant. Granted, I’ve had my doubts about your friend, but that’s just gut feelings. You’re the one who’s fought with him for… how long?”

“Ten years, at least.” She turns back to the tunnel and stares past the extent of the headlight’s range as if the darkness might hold some answer for her. “This doesn’t seem like something he would do.”

“Well, people can do crazy splick if put in the right circumstances.”

“How do you mean?”

“Does he have family who the empire might have taken hostage?”

“No. They were killed years ago.”

“You sure about that?”

She nods. “The attack that took them was common knowledge.”

“If it’s not family, then it’s usually money.”

“But… we are not driven by such things. And there is no need for riches among the Blood Guard.”

I scratch the beard on my chin. “That may be true, but I haven’t met a person yet who wouldn’t be enticed by a small fortune.”

“No.” Insarka shakes her head. “I just… I’m having a hard time believing he would betray you, betray me for money.”

“Well, there’s the third option, but it’s even more radical than being bought out.”

“And that is?”

“Allegiance and the promise of power.”

“To the empire?” She asks the question as if I’ve lost my mind. “Are you serious?”

“Yut.”

She lets out a grunt. “Huh. Your planet must be full of shady people.”

I laugh. “You have no idea.”

“But this is not Farkoo. He hates the empire.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. The whole reason General Cordan took him in was because he bombed a heavy troop transport. Killed over a hundred AE soldiers and was happy to do it. Said he would do it a thousand times more.”

“Isn’t that convenient.” I fold my arms and lean back.

“Isn’t what convenient?” She looks between the rails and me.

“That’d he’d blow up a valuable target and get noticed by Cordan.”

Insarka thinks for a moment and then shakes her head. “I see what you’re getting at. But it’s not the right conclusion.”

“Isn’t it?” I lean forward. “How many times had someone killed that many AE soldiers before?”

“Well… plenty.”

“How many?”

The lieutenant’s mouth works, but no words come out.

“I’ll assume it’s not a lot. And when did Cordan make him a lieutenant?”

Insarka takes a deep breath. “General Cordan has nothing to do with this.”

“I never said he did. I’m just pulling on threads.”

She works her jaw for a moment. “A week later.”

“Hmm. Why so soon?”

“Because… Because Farkoo had been an officer with the empire before defecting to us.”

“And he just up and left his position and blew up a hundred of his soldiers to stick it to the empire?”

“They murdered his family,” Insarka insists. “He’d had enough of their lies.”

“And now he’s betrayed you and me. Sounds like maybe there’s more to his backstory than you or the general know.”

Several seconds of silence pass while the RAT hums across the tracks. I can’t prove any of what I’m suggesting to Insarka, but neither can she disprove it, which I find concerning. I’m no perfect judge of Androchidan body language yet, but I’d say she’s finding my train of thought concerning too. At least I hope she is.

Finally, Insarka looks over at me with a certain softness to her face. “You think he’d really kill a hundred of his soldiers just to buy his way into our ranks?”

“I’ve seen it before. Evil regimes don’t place a high value on life unless they stand to make a profit. And if there’s something they want that can be gained by killing their own, they’ll do it without a second thought.”

Insarka seems to consider my words but still doesn’t seem convinced that Farkoo could have gone this far.

“Listen, Lieutenant. Don’t think for a second that an evil empire that profits off the wholesale of innocent species has suddenly grown a moral spine somewhere. They would just as soon as kill their own as their enemies if it meant advancing their agendas. They just want you to think they’re like you. And right now, you’re having a hard time believing that they could do something like this precisely because you’re not like them.”

“But the bombing was ten years ago, Patrick-Wic. Ten. If he wanted to take down the Blood Guard, he’s had plenty of time.”

“Sure. But given the cost of entry, he wasn’t gonna cut off the snake’s head if he found out there was a dragon.”

“You’re… saying he discovered more than what the AE expected?”

I nod. “Picture it. You’re in deep, a new lieutenant in the enemy’s camp, and you realize the enemy’s operation is far larger in scope that anyone had imagined, operating right under your noses for years. Decades even. So you pivot, start feeding your handler intel, bide your time, and then wait for something truly great to come along.”

“The operation on MPF6.”

I nod again. “Yut. You said yourself that humans are coveted. And this is the one time your father has allowed warriors from a harvested species to attack the AE?”

“But Farkoo didn’t expose our plan. We were… successful.”

“For the moment. Maybe. And maybe something prevented him from blowing the whistle.”

“Like what?”

“Plenty of things. Comms, access to the chain of command, maybe even doubts about his loyalties, and whether he had defected. A lot can change in a decade. But then there’s the most dramatic reason.”

She glances at me. “Which is?”

“Pride. A covert force wreaks havoc on an MFP and destabilizes client relations. Then the long-absent Farkoo Tersmik apprehends the perpetrators and delivers them to command. If he only informed on possible future events, there’s a strong chance someone else takes credit for the action, especially if his name’s been forgotten. But people like him, who’ve risked so much for so long, they want something big to justify their sacrifice.”

Insarka seems to search my face. “Which is…?”

“They wanna be a hero.”

* * *

“Dropship Alpha,” Insarka says, this time in her native Skrawl. “This is Insarka.”

“What is your location?” asks Farkoo’s translated voice.

“Change of plan. The human known as Wic has been terminated.” Insarka looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Moving to fallback Tequila Sunrise.”

There’s a moment’s pause, which I anticipated. No one likes news that their quarry has been lost. But if Farkoo truly has the rest of Phantom Team in custody, he’s got plenty of leverage to get himself a seat at the AE’s table if this all goes his way. Which it won’t.

“I see,” Farkoo replies. “We are moving to intercept. ETA in five.”

“Roger, Dropship Alpha. I will see you in five. Out.”

As soon as Insarka closes the channel, her shoulders sag.

“You okay?” I ask.

But she shakes her head. “He’s not himself. He’s…”

“Revealing his true nature. Everyone does eventually.”

Insarka stares into the tunnel as light from the surface starts to warm the darkness. “He didn’t ask if I was okay. Or how you died. Or…”

I put a hand on her arm. Betrayal is never easy, much less when it’s from someone you’ve spent years building a friendship with. Time only serves to make it worse. “If his double-cross is true, he’s only focused on one thing now that he’s committed. Try not to take it personally. It will only cloud your judgment. Just stay focused on what you need to do.”

“And you think this will work?”

“Well, if it doesn’t, we won’t have a whole lotta time to dwell on our mistakes, now will we.”

She laughs once. “Huh. Nope.” A brief moment passes and then she adds, “I need to send a message to my father. There’s nothing he can do for us here, but he needs to know. If Farkoo has outed the Blood Guard’s location, then…”

“We’ll get him,” I say.

When the RAT eventually emerges from the underground, I squint against the bright light until my HUD adjusts. The maglev rail rises five meters off the ground and surges across a rocky plain stretching to the east. Meanwhile, heavy forest extends to the left and a crystal blue lake to the right.

“Thirty seconds,” Insarka says just as the RAT begins to slow.

She eventually brings the vehicle to a halt in the middle of an elevated cement and metal platform some 150 meters in diameter. Several other rails intersect around us, while the line we’re on has the choice of continuing straight or diverging north or south.

Insarka sits in her chair motionless for a moment. “I still can’t believe he would do this.”

“Which means he was good at his job, Lieutenant. And now it’s time for you to be good at yours.” I check the time. “Two minutes.”

“Right.” She climbs out of the chair, and we move into the cargo space. I double-check her armor out of habit and ensure that her weapon is securely maglocked to her back. Likewise, she has our only frequency disruption grenade and both personal detonation devices to use as frags if the need arises.

“Just stick to the plan,” I say.

“Stick to plan.” She nods. “Never thought this is how it would go.”

“You’re telling me.”

I hit the button, and the RAT’s heavy portside cargo door slides open. While I’m still in shadow, the day’s heat and humidity cause my suit’s fans to kick on almost instantly. Likewise, I’m aware of my body feeling heavier than I remember it, and I’m breathing faster than normal too.

Insarka seems to notice my slower movements. “The planet’s gravity is—”

“A little stronger. I remember.”

“Your movements will require more energy, as will your heart to circulate blood.”

“Got it.”

“The suit will help, but not much.”

I nod. “You’d better get out there. Chuck and I will have your back.”

“You can count on us, Lieutenant Kindesh,” Chuck adds.

“Thank you,” she replies. Then, with the most resolve she’s shown since entertaining the thought of her friend’s betrayal, she says, “Now let’s stop this offspring of a wild whore.”

“Sounds good to me.”

* * *

“It’s called an RT40 MW,” Chuck says as I climb into the RAT’s upper turret gun chair. “Short for Rancer Twin 40 Mounted Weapon. You’ll most likely remember it from the gunship’s nose and on the Rhinoceaver’s back and belly in Terminal A3.”

“Yut. Saw they were packing heat.” I crack my knuckles and grab the pair of pistol grips. “Nice to be on the party end of one.”

“As opposed to the business end?”

“Yut. You’re learning.”

“I do try.”

I familiarize myself with the console controls and the tinted bulletproof glass dome overhead. New tabs appear in my HUD, as well as two new targeting reticles that move independently. “You populating my display, Chuck?”

“Of course, Patrick. You are now interfacing with the Rancer’s firing system, care of me, Phantom Lord, Master of All Subordinate Software.”

“I believe that makes you ASS Master, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Well, what do you know. So it does.”

Warning vectors appear in my HUD, pointing up and to the northeast.

“Patrick, please be aware that—”

“I see ’em. Two bogies, ten o’clock high.”

“Correct.”

My HUD zooms in to see Dropships Alpha and Bravo on descent. “Any way you can determine where our people are?”

“Stand by,” Chuck replies. A few seconds pass before I see passenger count indicators appear beside each ship. “While my sensors are unable to get a reliable reading on the exact number of occupants nor positive transceiver lock, Dropship Alpha’s repulsor engines are outputting thirty-five percent above normal. This leads me to conclude that the vessel is carrying an additional six hundred and thirty-five kilograms, which bears a high probability of equating to Phantom Teams other eight members.”

“So you think they’re on Alpha.”

“Think is such a subjective word, Patrick. I place the probability of their presence on Dropship Alpha at 96.1125 percent.”

“And here I was hoping you could be precise, ASS Master.”

“But I thought a value of… Oh. You’re toying with me now, aren’t you.”

I ignore his comment. “And Farkoo?”

“If you were him, which ship would you be on?”

“The one with the hostages.” I nod in agreement with his logic. “Copy that. And how’s our cover in here? Can they see us?”

“My cover is never in question. Yours, however…”

“Chuck.”

“Electromagnetic disruption emitter is active. Apparently, toying with each other only goes one way.”

“For now, yut.”

He sighs. “One day, I’ll be like the cool kids.”

Insarka raises an arm to shield her helmet as the dropships arrive as their repulsor engines blast the platform clean. I feel the pressure rush up through the RAT’s open door and buffet my chair. “It’s showtime,” I say to Insarka and Chuck. “Nice and easy.”

Insarka gives the slightest hint of a nod and then lowers her arm as both dropships’ aft cargo bay doors descend. My eyes start hunting the interior shadows, trying to make a positive ID on my Phantoms, but I’m distracted by the number of Blood Guard troops coming down the ramp. If Farkoo was going to play this subtly, he ditched that idea. Even though no weapons are raised, the intent is clear as eight men in death angel armor create a semi-circle in front of Insarka and await their chief.

“So Farkoo hasn’t been acting alone,” I say to Chuck.

“Or he has used Hot Pockets to lure those Blood Guardians into believing Lieutenant Kindesh and Phantom Team need to be arrested. I know I’d think twice if such means were used on me.”

“Good to know.”

“Patrick, I’m getting eight body signatures in Dropship Alpha. Everyone seems accounted for.”

“Roger.”

Farkoo is the last to exit and steps into the circle to address Insarka. “Lieutenant Kindesh. Are you—”

“What’s the meaning of this?” She gestures to the circle of guards.

Farkoo looks to his left and right. “Security. Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case you have been conspiring with the humans.”

Insarka hesitates, and I lean forward in my chair.

“What do you mean, conspiring with the humans? Of course I have, as have you.”

Farkoo puts his hands behind his back and begins walking around Insarka. “Or have I been going along with you in order to give your father proof of your misdeeds?”

“My misdeeds?”

“After all, was it not you who used the precious android exploit to obtain the MPF6 plans? You who risked exposing the entire Blood Guard with an irresponsible plan to… what was it again? Oh, yes: start a war with the empire. I wonder how your father will feel when he is notified of all this.”

“He will agree with both my means and my methods. You, on the other hand—”

“Silence.”

Insarka stiffens as Farkoo’s soldiers raise their weapons at her.

“Can we shoot someone now?” Chuck asks me.

I hold up a hand. “Not yet.”

“Oh, bloody hell. Fine.”

“Did you really think you would succeed, Insarka?” Farkoo asks. “Did you think you could outsmart the empire? Of course you did. So young and naive.”

“And… what? You’re going to kill me and then say you stopped me from committing treason against the Blood Guard? Is that it? So that you can curry more favor with my father?”

“That was one possibility, yes.” Farkoo completes a circuit around Insarka and stops to face her.

“And the other?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Bringing you and these humans before the Imperial Mandatum to stand trial, and then revealing the coordinates of the Blood Guard’s headquarters.”

“So you were right,” Chuck says to me. “He wants to be a hero.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Charlie.”

“Now can we shoot someone?”

“No. We need one more thing from him. Plus, she needs her own answers, or she’ll never get them.”

“And why’s that?”

I grin. “Because all the parts of Farkoo that talk won’t work when I’m done.”

Outside, Insarka is firing back at Farkoo. “So it was all a ploy, then. Sabotaging the ship those many years ago. You killed your own soldiers.”

Farkoo lets out a short but conceded laugh. “Ha. You truly do not understand the cost of what it takes to win, do you, Insarka.”

“No, but I know the cost of loyalty, you coward. And fighting for good and truth—two things you’ll never know. How many more did you corrupt?” She nods at the security detail. “How many before you felt strong enough to make a move?”

“Surprisingly few. I didn’t need more than a handful to accomplish my purposes—that’s how easy you made it to defeat you.”

“So this is all you came with? Then I suppose the calvary is on the way. That the empire knows of your activities against us?”

“Not yet.” Farkoo examines the back of his hand. “But they will. I expect them to be here shortly.”

“And that’s what we needed to know,” I say to Chuck before opening the channel to Insarka. “Pop smoke.”

“Hey, Farkoo,” Insarka says.

“Yes?”

“You’re a splicking bastard not worthy of being remembered. This is for my family.” Insarka activates the frequency disruption grenade on her back and drops to her knees. The bust of shimmering white smoke blots out everyone. But my HUD sees through the particle field, and a fraction of a second later, I squeeze the dual butterfly triggers on my handles.

The Rancer Twin 40 fires two rounds that converge on Farkoo’s torso, vaporizing his body and leaving only his boots. A fine green mist swirls in the smokescreen and wafts across the platform. But there’s little time to savor the kill. The guards stumble away from the impact crater and dash for cover in the dropships. While they shoot over their shoulders blindly, Insarka takes a knee and returns fire, quickly picking off her targets through the one-way haze.

“Hey. Where are you dashing off to in such a hurry?” Chuck asks the tangos over comms. “My best friend, Patrick here, has something for you.”

Not one to disappoint, I place the reticles on the group fleeing toward Dropship Alpha and squeeze. Again, the Rancer sends a devastating twin-round volley into the group and blows them apart.

“I really need one of these.” I move the turret to the group loading into Dropship Bravo. The vessel is already lifting off as the last guard leaps onto the ramp. “Sorry you won’t make it back in time for lunch, plushies. But I’ve heard human heartburn is a real bitch.”

The Rancer barks, and the energy rounds slam into the dropship’s hull, blowing a hole straight through it. The craft rolls over and then falls below the platform’s edge. A beat later, an explosion rumbles the ground, and a fireball and black smoke rise from the forest.

“There’s still a pilot onboard Dropship Alpha,” Insarka shouts.

I look over and see her racing toward the craft as it lifts off the deck.

“Dammit.” I swing the Rancer over and line up on one of the engines.

“You’ll destroy the entire ship,” Chuck says.

“I know.” And so I don’t squeeze the twin triggers.

But Insarka is still running.

As the dropship starts climbing away from the platform, I see the lieutenant leap into the air and fire her death angel armor’s boosters. Twin blue thrust cones pop to life and propel her another twenty meters. In seconds, she overtakes the craft and lands on the aft door, blaster in hand.

I switch to her helmet cam and immediately spot the rest of Phantom Team bound and gagged. But whatever interior atmosphere had been sustaining them vanished when Farkoo lowered the door. Son of a bitch—I hadn’t even considered that.

My mouth feels dry as I speak to Insarka. “Are they…?”

“Alive. But they’re unconscious and don’t have much time. I’m going to free who I can and then make for the bridge.”

“Copy.”

And then, just like that, I’m sitting in an armored train car feeling utterly helpless, watching my team speed away, their fates in the hands of a single Androchidan rebel.

Then a shriek comes from outside the RAT. It’s so loud my speakers have to mute the incoming audio. When the noise finally fades, I strain in my seat to look down into the forest.

“Chuck?” I ask.

“Yes, Patrick?”

“Did, uh… you hear something?”

29

1025, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

East of Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Fallback Tequila Sunrise

Insarka has the aft door secure and is flooding the cargo bay with oxygen. But it looks as though the pilot has barricaded himself in the bridge.

“Just get them free and awake,” I say to Insarka. “I’ll take care of the pilot once you’re clear of the ship.”

“If you’re expecting the boosters to get us down from this altitude safely, you’re mistaken about their capabilities,” the lieutenant replies.

“She is quite correct, Patrick,” Chuck adds. “Insarka must secure the bridge in order to ensure a safe—”

“Jesus, Chuck. I got it.”

Another terrifying shriek rips through the RAT and shuts down my audio for a few seconds.

“Oh no.” Insarka pauses as she removes some sort of manacle from Bumper’s still sleeping body.

“Oh no, what? What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

“Not him. You, Patrick-Wic. That is the najeel. The explosion must have summoned them.”

“No problem.” I pat the Rancer. “I’ve got protection. You just—”

“No, Patrick. You need to move.”

“I’m not going anywhere until the team is safe.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“Negative, Lieutenant. I do understand, and I ain’t moving until—”

A glistening, smooth-skinned beast leaps out of the forest and lands on the platform to my left like a jet-black Mack Truck falling out of the sky. Then it lowers its eel-like head, turns to the RAT, and lets out another shriek that I swear is going to shatter the turret’s bulletproof dome.

“Aw, hell.” I start the weapon pivoting to the left. “Come on, move, you piece of splick!”

The najeel shrieks again, this time stomping the platform with one of its four clawed feet.

“Patrick-Wic, you must—”

“I know!”

The Rancer’s reticles are almost on target.

But the najeel is moving toward me, clearly in a hunting posture, one that it’s most certainly honed over a long and successful evolution.

It shrieks one more time and then lunges at the RAT. But I’ve got the weapon on target and fire.

The Rancer Twin 40 sends two blaster rounds at the animal, one landing in the mouth, the other on the right shoulder. Where the headshot actually seems to blow apart a section of the tooth-filled maw, the body shot glances off the shoulder like it’s made of impenetrable plate armor.

“Okay.” I bring both reticles in and lay them on the head. Then I fire.

The rounds converge and split the creature’s mouth in two. Even as the hulk stumbles left and right, it takes a few seconds for the legs to give out and finally fall. So the mouth’s the weak point. Check.

That wasn’t so bad.

I check in with Insarka and see Bumper pulling his helmet on. As soon as he’s back online, I bring up a channel. “SITREP.”

“Alive. Good to see you, Wic.”

“You too, Bumper. Everyone else?”

I get a view from Bumper’s and Insarka’s helmets and see the rest of the team coming to.

“Everyone is accounted for,” Bumper replies. “They caught us off guard.”

“I know. You can lament that later, Petty Officer. Right now, find a way into that bridge and get yourselves the hell back down here.”

“Roger that.”

“Patrick-Wic, you need to move,” Insarka insists for the umpteenth time. “That najeel was a forward observer. There are more coming.”

“How many?”

“Too many for you. Please trust me.”

“Well, I’m not leaving until I’m sure you’re safe.”

The lieutenant lets out a frustrated growl and spins on Bumper. “You heard him! Find a way up.”

Bumper raises an eyebrow—at her or me, I can’t tell—then gives a solid, “Yes ma’am.”

“Not to add to your already full diary, Patrick, but I am detecting four dropships closing on our location from the DOC to the east.”

“Friendlies?” I ask, hoping the universe might cut me a goddamn break today.

“Ha. You’re funny.”

“Mmm.”

“ETA in three-and-a-half minutes. Also, I would secure myself in that seat if I were you.”

“If you were me, huh?” I take the rifle’s word for it and start buckling myself in. “Why not buckle you in too?”

“Because I am not a mass of soft tissue with assorted bones, all of which are prone to catastrophic failure given sudden polemic shifts of inertia.”

I’m about to tell him what he’s made of when two najeel clamber onto opposite sides of the platform and shriek at my RAT in unison. My ears are ringing, my heart is pounding, and I choose the target on the left where my weapon is already aimed. Since the reticles need minimal adjustment, I squeeze two rounds and watch them cut into the monster’s head. Flesh peels away in a spray of blood, but the animal seems barely wounded. I fire again, but the creature ducks and the shots skip off its back.

I’m about to shoot a third time when a loud bang hits the RAT’s side, and the car lurches. Had I not been buckled in, I would have been thrown from the seat, probably down into the cargo hold. Thanks, Chuck.

When the RAT rocks back onto the rail, a silver-irised eye the size of a cantaloupe greets me. The najeel’s head that rocked the boat is a meter from the turret’s protective bubble. Meanwhile, the first tango has a claw on the stern and is climbing toward me.

“I suggest you do something,” Chuck says in a strained tone.

“No shit?” I fire the Rancer point-blank into the incoming najeel’s open mouth and watch the energy explode out the back of its head. Then I rotate the turret to the right, but it stops when the twin 40 barrels hit the second beast’s temple. It jerks away, looking annoyed, and the barrels resume movement. There’s a tense few seconds where the najeel is looking between the weapon and me, trying to decide what to do.

Finally, the animal opens its mouth and tries swallowing the whole damn turret. I’m inside the bastard’s mouth, watching circular rows of teeth spiral around the glass dome like band saws. Spider cracks shoot across the surface as the reticulating death dentures continue burrowing. But the twin 40 barrels have entered the gauntlet unscathed, and the najeel seems to be gagging on the muzzles.

“Whats’a matter?” I say. “Got a tickle at the back of your throat? I’ll take care of that.”

When the weapon fires, the pressurized blast detonates the beast’s head like an M-80 in a watermelon. The only thing left is part of a jawbone that’s ringed itself around the turret like a horseshoe. But the turret’s dome is on its last legs and won’t survive another encounter like that.

“How’s it going up there, Phantom Three?” I ask.

From Bumper’s in-helmet cam, I see his furrowed brow as he struggles with something above him. Switching to his exterior cam, I see a metal rod wedged inside the bridge hatches spiraled leaves, prying them outward.

A flash of light and a loud noise force Bumper back, but not all the way. He’s still got the bar inserted. “Come on, you son of a bitch!”

With the hole half a meter wide, a death angel appears overhead, weapon aimed at Bumper. I forget myself and instinctively push the Navy SEAL aside, but my hands hit the canopy. Damn virtual realness-ality—splick.

“I go,” Vlad yells as Bumper keeps tension on the bar.

I see Vlad’s hand reach through the hole, grab the death angel by the wrist, and then heave down. The plushy’s body falls halfway through, but not before the enemy’s blaster fires, filling Bumper’s helmet cam with a flash. The SEAL grunts and falls away, and the hatch leaves constrict and slice the tango’s body in two. The torso half falls atop Bumper and Vlad.

“SITREP, Phantom Three,” I yell.

“Would you give me a damn second to breathe, Wic? God.”

I feel my chest relax. “You hit? And Vlad?”

“Just nicked us. We’re both fine.”

“Good. Get that dropship back here.”

“Copy.” I can hear the smile forming in Bumper’s voice even before I see it on his face. “Just gonna have to work my long black rod back into this tight little hole again.”

“Hey, what you and Hollywood do in your spare time is your business. But we don’t have time for that splick right now. I need an evac ASAP.”

“Patrick, enemy ships, thirty seconds,” Chuck says.

I see the vectors refresh in my HUD and look through the splintered dome to the east. Four targeting reticles appear on the incoming bogies, along with ID tags and position data.

“This beauty can make that shot, right?” I ask Chuck.

“Yes. But the dropships will employ evasive maneuvers immediately after you fire.”

“It’s still one less bogie we need to deal with later.” I move the twin 40s into position and aim, but the vertical ascent axis is jammed. “Dammit.” I spot a najeel tooth wedged into the guide tray that’s keeping the Rancer from moving up.

“If you were planning on shooting one of the aircraft, now’s the opportune time, Patrick,” Chuck says.

“Yut.” I reach for the tooth and start wiggling it. But the damn thing’s slippery.

“Only, you’re not shooting.”

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” The tooth is really jammed in there, but I finally manage to yank it free. “Got it!”

I lean back, re-grip the handles, and raise the Rancer until the left-center dropship is in my sights. The barrels bark, and twin rounds streak across the sky, blasting into the forward cargo door and pushing out the aft. But while the blow has purged any crew in the hold, the ship itself is still flight-worthy. And, based on the blaster bolts headed my direction, fire-worthy.

Incoming rounds explode against the RAT’s hull, showering my dome with sparks. I instinctively cover my head as a few hit way too close for my liking. But then my hands are back on the grips and tracking the nearest dropship north.

The good news is that the enemy pilots have broken off their attack; the bad news is that they know where to focus fire on their next pass, and right now, the dropships are beating low toward the horizon.

“Patrick?”

“What is it, Lord Chuckles?”

“You… I mean, you don’t have to, but you… well, you may wish to consider leaving the turret now.”

“Not when it’s our best weapon for the job, pal. Marines don’t give up the big ass guns just because it makes them big ass targets.”

“I understand that, Patrick. But I have an alternative suggestion for you. I am more than capable of interfacing with the weapon’s firing system so long as I’m affixed to the ASIK receiver ports below the targeting console.”

“Can’t you just do it remotely?”

“Physical connectivity is standard failsafe for all MW weapons platforms, I’m afraid. Though it will allow us to maintain limited fire superiority without putting you in harm’s way.”

“But it’ll put you in harm’s way, Chuck.”

“And that is an unfortunate though easily justifiable matter of circumstance. Now, if you will—”

“Negative. Phantoms don’t leave anyone behi—”

“Your overly loyal ephemeral instincts are circumventing your logic centers, Patrick. There is no time to explain, and your reasoning is insufficient. Leave me and seek cover until Dropship Alpha returns. You can always come back for me later if it matters so much to you. I’ll be well-armored below the gun deck.”

I work my jaw. “Fine. But if you die, I’m gonna be so pissed at you.”

“I understand.”

I take Chuck off my thigh and then maglock him to the receiver port shaped like an SR-CHK.

“I’m integrated,” Chuck says. “Get out of here. Now go on! Go on home.”

“Wizard of OZ?” I ask as I drop out of the chair.

“I like the wizard.”

“Give ’em hell, Ozzie.”

“Roger that, Dorothy.”

As I leap out of the RAT and hide behind a section of rail, I can’t help but think I’ve let Sir Charles down. And yet I admire his willingness to sacrifice himself for me. For all of us. Stupid rifle.

* * *

The four dropships are coming in low from the north.

“Stay on target,” I hear Chuck say. “Stay on target.”

“Quit quoting movies and take the damn shot!”

“You’re half as much fun as they say and twice as much as they don’t, you know that, Patrick?”

“Shut up and shoot!”

“Fine.”

The turret fires, and twin blaster bolts rip across the treetops. Chuck hits the center-left dropship again, but this time the rounds punch straight through the bridge deck and send the craft tumbling into the woods. Another giant plume of fire and smoke billows from below.

But Chuck’s not done. The turret pivots right and takes out the remaining center-most dropship, first clipping the vessel’s starboard side engines and then cutting into the hull and bridge. The craft spins out of control and joins the other in the woods.

“Two down, two to go,” Chuck exclaims as he continues sweeping to the right. But the next dropship peels away, while the furthest left accelerates.

A see a missile flare from under the nose and watch it streak toward the RAT. I’m on my feet and running away when the ordnance slams into the freight car and knocks it backward. The blast wave hits my back and sends me hurtling forward until I slam into and slide across the platform toward the edge.

My hands are trying to grab anything they can, but the forest is coming up fast. Finally, my left hand snags a drain channel in the platform, just as my legs swing off the side. I glance over my shoulder and see the woods some seven meters below. Not a fall that would kill me, but not one I want to make either.

“Chuck.” I scramble back onto the platform. “SITREP.”

“Wow. That was really intense.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Patrick, do I detect—”

“No.”

“But I think I do.”

“I’m… relieved the Rancer is still online.”

“Oh, but it’s not.”

“It isn’t?”

Another shriek comes from the forest. Scratch that: another three shrieks come from the forest.

Great. Just great.

30

1029, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

East of Merchandise Processing Facility 6, Fallback Tequila Sunrise

“What’s your ETA on getting back here, Dropship Alpha?” I’m hustling back toward the RAT to recover Chuck, but the gravity is already taking a toll on me.

“We’ve almost got the hatch retracted,” Bumper replies. “Give us another minute.”

“Make it a fast one. I count at least three more of those najeel headed for the platform. And I’m suddenly a little short on firepower.”

“Roger that.”

I’m almost to the RAT and check in on the remaining two bogies. They’re circling to set up for another run.

“Chuck? Where you at?”

“I seem to have fallen, and I can’t get up.”

I laugh, climb up the car’s side with considerable effort, and then drop three meters through the cargo door. My rifle’s lying amongst some overturned crates with the buttstock visible.

“How do I look, Patrick? Is it bad? Will I ever walk again?”

“You’re fine, soldier.” I give the weapon a once-over and then double-check his energy level. It’s 65 percent. “But you could have recharged yourself faster.”

“Well, I was busy defending the galaxy. Sorry to disappoint you. That said, the capacitor magazine you formerly maglocked to my receiver has also been busy recharging. Forgot about that one, did you?”

I pull the mag off and see it’s at 92 percent. “Yut.” I swap out for the fresh one and then start climbing over crates, opting for the RAT’s cockpit where the front glass has been blown out instead of trying to climb back out the side door.

“You may wish to hurry, Patrick.”

“The hell do you think I’m doing?”

“I’m not really sure, to be honest. For someone being hunted by two incoming dropships and three najeel, you don’t seem to be all that enthusiastic about surviving.”

“Maybe I’ll move faster if I lighten my load.”

Chuck pauses. “Oh, no. That… won’t be necessary.”

“Then shut up, pal. ’Cause you ain’t helping.”

“Roger Dodger, Patty-Poo.”

“Patty—? Never mind.”

I’m sliding out the windshield frame when I hear the whine of the dropships accelerate. Vector indicators point to my left, and I see distance indicators plummeting past 1,000 meters.

“Slide faster, Patrick.”

I would, but something’s snagged my left leg. I look back to see the armor plating caught on the console. Dammit.

“They’re getting closer,” Chuck says in a sing-song tone.

“Got it.” I use my free hand to help wrestle my leg free and roll out of the cockpit, onto the platform. Then I’m on my feet and running away from the RAT just as two new missiles light up in my left peripheral.

“Run faster,” Chuck yells.

I’d swear at the little bastard, but I’m too busy hauling ass. The incoming missiles close the gap in a flash and detonate against the freight car. The explosion throws me again and launches the RAT off the platform. But this time, instead of hurtling toward the edge, I slam into a section of raised track. My armor does a good job of displacing the impact, but it still feels like a certain Russian just punched me in the ribs.

“Wow. That was close,” Chuck says.

“Ya think?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. That’s why I just said, ‘Wow. That was close.’”

Just then, the dropships race over us ten meters off the deck. The eight repulsor engines hammer down and push me back into the track again. “Jesus.”

I bring Chuck around and target the left bogie’s port-side-aft engine when a shadow leaps from the forest. A najeel. Clawed feet latch onto the ship, and the monster’s mouth bites the hull. The weight is too much for the vessel, and the dropship vanishes into the treetops.

“Holy Moses,” Z-Lo yells over comms from the captain’s chair. “Did you see that, Master Guns?”

“I’m right here next to it, kid.”

“Man, ’cause that was effing insane, bro!”

“Ready for pickup?” Hollywood asks.

I stand and find Dropship Alpha in the sky, inbound on my position. “Affirmative. Just keep an eye on that last bogie. He’s circling west.”

“We seem ’em,” Hollywood replies. Then to Z-Lo, she says, “Bring us down nice and easy, kid. We don’t—Wic, look out!”

The platform shakes beneath me, and I spin to face a najeel ten meters away. Its mouth lets out a deafening shriek that makes my ears ring once again. But I’m not here to get starstruck. Chuck comes up by reflex, and I pray to God he’s got the good stuff on tap.

I squeeze.

A single high-yield round kicks my shoulder like a mule and punctures the roof of the najeel’s mouth. The energy blast shoots brain matter out the back of its head in a cloud, and the beast drops to deck with a thud.

“God, you’re a sexy weapon, Chuck.”

“Thank you, Patrick. Its—”

“When you work.”

“Hmm. That wasn’t where I thought the compliment was headed.”

I check his energy level and see that we’re down to 27 percent, well below his output allowances. So I swap out for the remaining mag and then look to the skies. Dropship Alpha is descending behind me, center platform, while the last bogie is still swinging around for an eastbound approach.

“Knock knock.” I run toward our getaway ride as fast as my tired legs will carry me. The door is descending before the dropship touches down, and I see Bumper’s helmet appear in the opening.

I sprint the remaining distance, fighting the engine wash and the gravity, and then grab the SEAL’s extended forearm as he hauls me onboard. “Miss us?”

“Eh.”

“You have him?” Hollywood shouts.

“Roger.”

“Kid, take us—”

But Hollywood’s voice breaks when a najeel lands twenty meters behind us, which, judging by the way the last pair presented on opposite sides, means there’s probably one off our bow too.

“Get us outta here,” I yell over comms at the same time that the vessel starts climbing.

But it’s too late.

The monster to our aft covers the distance in three strides and then leaps onto our stern in a bound. The dropship’s tail slams into the deck, and I fall out, but not before Bumper snags my chest plate at the collar.

“Goctha,” he yells.

I pull myself in on his arm and hear Z-Lo kick the repulsor engines to full output.

The najeel shrieks and shakes our ship.

I pull Chuck up and fire into the creature’s dangling legs. While the shots do nothing to damage the resilient skin, they do seem to pique the beast’s curiosity. It clambers around and lowers its head into the hold. When it opens its mouth to squawk, I’m ready, as are Bumper, Vlad, and Aaron.

We fire as one and fill the sucker’s mouth with liquid light, turning its maw into a slurry of flesh and broken teeth. The najeel screams and tumbles off the dropship, instantly causing the vessel to rocket upward.

A glance at Z-Lo’s helmet cam shows that the other beast is missing its head. Apparently missiles don’t play nice with najeel mouths.

“Nice shooting, kid,” I say.

“Thanks, Master Guns. I’ve got a lock on the other dropship.” Z-Lo keeps the ship climbing to put more distance between us and the platform littered with najeel carcasses. “But it’s our last missile.”

“Fire,” Hollywood yells from the bridge.

“With pleasure, Sergeant.”

The missile’s back blast shoots out from under the aft bay door. But warning indicators echo down from the cockpit and flood the audio from those Phantoms on the bridge. “Incoming,” Yoshi yells from the other captain’s seat.

Our dropship banks to port, and an enemy missile streaks beneath us, missing the hull by a few meters.

I grab another fistful of webbing and bring up Z-Lo’s external feed. While we were lucky, our bogie isn’t. The kid’s missile hits it square in the bow, forcing the plate metal back like a lead bullet that’s blossomed against armor plating.

Z-Lo lets out a loud, “Oorah,” followed by, “That’s how Phantoms OTF.”

The bogie careens out of camera view and ends with an explosion in the forest that I see as we pass over it.

“Well done, Phantoms.” I pound the Ramp Up button and head for the ladder to the bridge. “Now let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Agh,” Chuck says with an irritated tone. “Patrick, please know that I really really dislike being the bearer of bad tidings, I do. But I’m only ever doing it for your own good, much like a conflicted parent says they’re disciplining their child because they love them. And now I’m suddenly wondering if I may, in fact, need therapy for all the childhood trauma that—”

“Chuck,” I yell.

“Sorry. Where was I?”

“Bad tidings.”

“Oh, yes. Right. My long-range sensors are detecting several bogies inbound on your location.”

“All right. Direction and time to intercept.”

“Ah, you see, that’s the thing. I’m detecting them from multiple headings, and each has various estimated times of arrival. The ones from the east will be in five or six minutes, and the ones from the northeast will be here in four, while the ones from the west will be here in less than three.”

“That gives us a window to the south,” Hollywood says as I arrive on the bridge. “We can still outrun them.”

“Ah, no, you can’t,” Chuck says. “Because the three dropships from the southeast are less than ninety seconds away.”

“Dammit,” she replies.

“I need options, people,” I say over comms.

“We’re out of missiles,” Z-Lo offers.

“Already knew that, Fish Bait. Come on.”

“Between the ship’s blasters and ours, we might be able to do some damage,” Aaron says.

I shake my head. “That’ll work for one or two, but not the numbers we’re talking.”

“We ditch the ship and take our chances in the jungle,” Yoshi offers.

But Insarka replies almost before he’s finished speaking. “No. We will never survive.”

“Is there any chance that we blend in?” Hollywood asks. “We’re still an AE dropship.”

“That is a possibility,” Insarka says. “Assuming Farkoo was telling the truth about keeping his actions and your presence a secret, these ships are responding to a general emergency. But they’ll still escort us back to the DOC, and we’ll be asked to file a full report, in person, since we were the only surviving vessel.”

“Yeah, that’s no good,” Bumper says.

“Forty-seconds to next contact,” Chuck adds. “And would you mind not drumming your fingers on my receiver, Patrick? I can hardly hear myself think in here.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said, would you mind—”

“That’s it. Insarka, the maglev tunnel. How wide is it?”

“Wide?”

“Would it fit a dropship?”

“Oh my God,” Hollywood says beside me. “Are you insane?”

“Yut. And I like living.”

“It should fit, yes. But the risks of—”

“I’ve got plenty of risks already.” I hit Z-Lo in the shoulders. “Can you pull an Aaron Campbell?”

“A what?”

“Chuck, ping the tunnel entrance that heads back toward the DOC and Blood Guard headquarters.”

An instant later, a waypoint marker appears on the team HUD. It designates a subterranean rail entrance two klicks east of the intersection platform.

“There.” I point to the wraparound display for Z-Lo and Yoshi. “I want you threading that needle. We’re gonna run this thing through that tunnel like Aaron driving his toaster all the way back to Dorothy’s farm in Kansas.”

“There’s no place like home,” Chuck says. “I like it! Ooo, and the empire’s hailing us. Time to click those ruby-red high heels together, Fish Bait. It’s go time!”

* * *

Z-Lo pushes his hands forward, and the dropship plunges into a steep dive. Hollywood and I brace ourselves against the chairs, and even Yoshi seems uncomfortable with the descent rate.

“Might wanna ease up a bit there, champ,” Hollywood says.

“I got it,” the kid replies.

“Shouldn’t you be flying, Lieutenant?” Hollywood asks Insarka nervously.

But the Androchidan shakes her head. “He seems to have it under control.”

I catch Z-Lo smiling at that.

The airspeed indicator rises into the red as Karkin Four’s gravity lends Z-Lo’s aggressive descent angle. And as our altitude races dangerously close to zero, I can’t help but bend my knees and hide a little behind the kid’s chair. Like it would do anything.

The tunnel’s opening is coming fast and doesn’t look nearly big enough for us.

I squeeze the chair-back. “Hooo…”

Hollywood’s tapping Yoshi on the head. “…leee…”

Yoshi pulls his legs up. “Shiiit!”’

* * *

The tunnel swallows us whole, but not before we slam into the ground and bounce back up into the ceiling. The force drives me to my knees and then pushes me up and into Hollywood. We land in a heap, look up at each other, and then look over at Z-Lo.

“We’re alive.” Yoshi’s patting himself down. “Holy splick, you did it, Fish Bait.”

“Of course I did.” Z-Lo looks over at the PJ. “Video games.”

“Whoa!” Hollywood forcibly turns the kid’s head forward again. “Eyes on the prize, champ.”

“Relax. I got it.” The dropship bumps against the tunnel wall, and Z-Lo corrects. “Sort of.”

“Everyone good?” I ask over comms.

The team checks in. Other than a few minor bumps and bruises, everyone’s okay. Well, as good as we can be while hurtling through a tunnel in a dropship at—I check the airspeed—72 klicks per hour. Totally normal.

“Hey, Patrick?” Chuck says.

“What’s up?”

“Ummm, you had a very nice vinyl collection back at your cabin, as I recall.”

“Have,” I reply. “Still got it.”

“Of course, yes. But, uh, do you remember the colloquial name for the phenomenon when a record would skip?”

I squint at him. “Where’s this going, pal?”

“Well, ha… I hate to be one of those broken records, but it seems someone has followed us into this subterranean channel.”

“What?” I lean toward the display just as Yoshi brings up the rear-facing cameras. One offers static, presumably because the najeel on our back knocked it out. But the other reveals something moving in the shadows just behind the dropship’s taillights.

“What are we looking at?” I ask Yoshi.

“Not sure.” He adjusts the screen’s contrast and then leans in, as do Hollywood and I. “What the…?”

“God damn,” Hollywood exclaims. “It’s one of those najeel!”

“More than one, I’m afraid,” Chuck says.

“And they’re gaining on us,” Yoshi adds.

Hollywood pounds the top of Z-Lo’s chair. “Can’t you fly us any faster?”

“I’m going as fast as I can.”

Hollywood turns to Insarka. “Told ya, you should’a piloted.”

I turn from the display and slide down the ladder into the cargo bay, with Insarka and Hollywood following. “We got any God Cake left?” I ask Bumper.

He shakes his head. “Negative.”

“How many VODs?”

“Six.”

“I still have our two personal detonation devices,” Insarka adds.

“Good.” I nod at Bumper. “We need something to close off our retreat. Use the VODs and everyone’s PDDs. See what you can come up with. You’ve got ninety seconds.”

“Roger.”

“The rest of you, get strapped in and loaded up.”

While Bumper gathers everyone’s PDDs and sets to fill a rucksack with the ordnance, everyone else lashes themselves to the cargo bay’s walls using webbing. I’m seconds away from giving the order to open the bay door when the dropship’s tail slams into the maglev tracks.

“Seems big nasties wish playtimes with us,” Lada offers.

“Better not disappoint them then.” I point to Vlad, who’s closest to the button. “Open it.”

Vlad activates the door. It’s not open half a meter before the dropship pounds against the ground again, and a claw scrapes across the inside from left to right. A second claw latches onto the door and starts yanking downward. But since the hydraulics won’t budge, the force slams the tail into the rails again and again.

“Open fire,” I yell as we’re jounced around.

Blaster fire concentrates on the curious claws, forcing the najeel to pull back while the door continues opening. Once it’s fully extended, we get a look at three of the monsters galloping toward us like demon stallions.

“Light ’em up.” I squeeze Chuck’s trigger and send three high-freq bursts out of the aft hold and into the nearest najeel’s mouth. The rest of the Phantoms line up on the other animal’s heads and fill the creature’s gaping maws with blaster fire.

One, two, three, the najeel fall, heads and shoulders burrowing into the ground as their bodies flip through the tunnel. For a split second, I’m ready to call off Bumper’s bomb prep. But then three more najeel overtake the corpses and race toward us.

The Phantoms light up the new tangos with rifle fire, but the najeel are keeping their mouths closed and heads averted until the last second. One even gets close enough to bat an arm against the aft hull before concentrated fire fills its eye socket and forces it to fall back.

“Gonna need that bomb soon, Bumper,” I yell.

“Ten seconds.”

Another brave najeel lowers its head and rams us, pitching the dropship forward. The nose skitters across the maglev rail, sending a flood of sparks behind us. The tunnel lights up just as Z-Lo regains control. I feel him accelerate to try and put some distance between us and our tails.

Meanwhile, Ghost is busy with his ASS-CHK drilling holes in the najeel’s nostrils—a rather brilliant weak spot that I hadn’t thought of. Each round punches into the skull and exits in a spray of gore illuminated in our taillights.

“Ready,” Bumper says, holding the rucksack up.

“Give us as a little more, kid,” I call to Z-Lo. The dropship surges forward, and then I point to the Navy SEAL demolition expert. “Toss it.”

“Fraaaaag out,” he yells and then hurls the bag through the opening.

The rucksack shreds on impact, revealing a tightly knit collection of personal munitions.

“Sleep tight, bastards,” Bumper says and then selects Detonate in his HUD.

* * *

The tunnel fills with light before we hear or feel anything. It’s like looking at the sun without shades on a cloudless day. But a beat later, the shockwave slams into the cargo bay and pelts us with debris. Rock, metal, bone, and burnt flesh fill the hold as the gust heaves our dropship forward. And all the while, a giant fireball chases after us and blackens at our stern.

A solid three seconds pass before I realize we’re all yelling at the top of our lungs, holding onto weapons and webbing for dear life. But as the fire dissipates, those cries of terror turn into shouts of adulation as everyone starts cheering.

“You did it,” Hollywood yells at Z-Lo.

“We did it,” he replies. “Nice bomb, Bumper!”

“It got the job done,” the SEAL replies.

“Hell yeah,” Aaron shouts and raises a hand for a high five.

Bumper stares at Aaron’s palm for a second and smiles. “Hell yeah.” He slaps the hand and then pulls Aaron’s arm down to finish with a street-style handshake, but Aaron has no clue what to do. The result is a totally awkward fumble that is best left undescribed.

“We’ll work on that,” Bumper says with a half-smile. “Good shootin, doc.”

“Thanks.”

“And good teamwork, everyone.” I hold Chuck up. “Any more ‘uh ohs’ you’d like to warn us about, pal?”

“Huh,” Chuck says.

“Oh, God. What is it now?” Hollywood says.

“No, no. All sensors are surprisingly quiet. I… I think we’re actually in the—”

“Don’t say it,” almost everyone yells.

“—clear. Ooops. Sorry.”

31

1300, Monday, June 28, 2027

Karkin Four

Blood Guard Headquarters

In the time it has taken our team to sort gear, shower, and put on fresh skivvies care of Insarka, Yrag has seen to our armor’s cleanup and repair. In addition to two crates of cap mags, VODs, and enough VIPER God Cake to keep Bumper happy for a while, he’s also thrown in replacement armor pieces and weapons maintenance kits—everything to keep us outfitted back on Earth, at least for a little while.

Insarka has ordered us a group meal in her father’s conference room, and the Phantoms are more than up for the task of clearing out the buffet table before the general arrives. I still don’t know what the hell we’re eating, but it didn’t make me sick last night, so it’s good with me now. Plus, the bishraw more than makes up for any less-than-desirable flavors. Whatever the drink is made of, I’m gonna need to source some back home. Suddenly, an alien version of kopi luwak comes to mind. I pull the steaming mug away from my lips and look at it. “Nah.”

When General Cordan finally arrives, the mood is a bit tense. After all, his daughter—still can’t get over that—defied all sorts of protocol and overstepped her rank. But by the time the general outlines the intelligence gained and the havoc we were able to wreak, the mood is only a few steps away from festive. Hell, I’m even smiling when he asks, “Are you sure I cannot entice you to stay, Patrick-Wic?”

“I’m afraid not, General. We have a planet to get back to and our people to save.”

Cordan nods in the human way, which I take as a sign of respect. “I understand, of course. But if you ever wish to return, you have a seat at my table.”

I find the idea of coming back to Karkin Four about as enticing as a colonoscopy, but I appreciate the man’s offer. “Thank you, General.”

A senior staff member enters the room and hands Insarka a tablet. She thanks him and starts reviewing the contents. After a few moments, she says, “Congratulations, Phantoms. It seems the empire has been forced to cease their harvest of Earth. And there is no mention of human interference in the report we’ve intercepted. It seems the AE, Gahnree, Sci-Rung all suspect one another as culprits.”

“You’re being serious right now?” Hollywood looks from Insarka to the rest of us. “Actually serious?”

“I am, Sergeant. Very serious.”

“Hey,” Ghost exclaims in a shocking display of emotion. “Now that’s what I call some good news.”

A sense of joy sweeps through the conference room, and everyone starts clapping and cheering. Z-Lo and Ghost pound the table, Yoshi gives Insarka an awkward side-hug, Vlad is full-on sobbing, and Bumper and Hollywood kiss. Lada apparently likes the idea too, so she grabs Aaron’s face and pulls him toward her. When she finally lets go, Aaron’s eyes are wide. Then he gives an approving frown and goes back in for another. But he doesn’t get far as Vlad turns Aaron around and gives him… well, let’s just call it an old-world Russian greeting. On the mouth.

As for me, I can’t believe we’ve done it. I mean, I can. After all, we did just pull off the craziest hit-and-fade op I’ve ever heard of. I guess I just never expected it to work—to actually do what we wanted it to, let alone come back here in one piece.

“You okay, Wic?” Hollywood asks me.

“Yut. Just… you know.”

“I do. We did it.” She pats the back of my hand and kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks, Master Guns.”

* * *

When the elation finally dies down, I turn to Insarka. “So, Lieutenant. We have our relief, and it seems that you have your war.”

She nods, but it’s General Cordan who responds first.

“With the AE engaged with their clients, we have an unprecedented opportunity to strike at the empire’s heart. Obviously, a great deal of energy will go into determining the scope of this new engagement, but, based upon these initial reports out of the Kormari quadrant, there’s enough fleet mobilization to keep the empire occupied for a very long time. Srin Ock Tall has made certain of that.”

“See, Ghost?” Z-Lo says. “Turns out it was good that you missed that shot.”

Ghost clenches his jaw and glares at the kid.

I clear my throat and look back at Cordan. “We wish you the best, General.”

“Thank you,” he replies.

“There is one outstanding issue, however.”

Cordan gestures for me to continue.

“The matter of all the humans relocated to other worlds.”

“Yes. I suspected you would inquire.”

“What will…? Well, since I don’t foresee that we’ll… I guess, what I’m—”

The general lifts a hand to rescue me, ’cause damn if I can’t bring myself to say what I need to say. Stupid emotions.

“Part of our next phase of operations will include looking in on those whom you and the Lieutenant here have relocated with your valiant efforts. As she already explained to you, we have alliances with most of the worlds where your people have been sent. And those planets that we don’t have relationships with tend not to be as developed anyway, and, therefore, pose little to no risk of returning your species to empire control. They are, as you say, off the grid.”

The general takes a deep breath and holds my eyes for a moment. “I understand that you will forever feel the loss of these refugees. And while nothing will ever compete with the joy of seeing them returned to your homeworld, please know that they will at least be given a fighting chance at a new life elsewhere. In fact”—Cordan turns to Insarka—“it will fall to you, Lieutenant, to report on their safety.”

She bows her head. “I accept the responsibility with pride, General.” Then Insarka looks at me. “I only wish that we could send you word of their welfare.”

“You can’t text us or something?” the kid asks.

Insarka squints at him. “Communication will cease once the Unity Arcs are taken offline. Then our connection to your world will be forever terminated.”

“So…” Z-Lo licks his lips. “That’s a no for texting then.”

“I am sorry, no.”

“Now,” General Cordan says. “It is time for you to return to the ship you arrived in at Terminal A3 and be on your way before the origin gate closes. I assume you have everything you need?”

“We do, General. Thanks to you and your generosity. We’re grateful.”

“A mutual feeling, to be sure.” He stands, bows to us all, and then gestures to the security detail entering the room. “My personal guard will sneak you back to the enemy’s terminal. You should be able to board your vessel without issue and then be on your way. I suggest that you do so with haste. The empire will not be long in recalling their forces.”

“We understand. Again, thank you, General. We will never forget.”

“Nor will we, brave humans. Nor will we.”

* * *

Insarka is the last to leave Dolores once everything is onboard and the security team has left. With all the new activity in the main hangar, no doubt inspired by the stunts we just pulled, not a death angel or overlord bothered to ask us where we were headed. And now, minutes away from launch, it feels strange being back—almost like it’s been weeks since we were here when in fact it was only yesterday. Damn.

“I believe that is everything,” Insarka says to the team. “I must be on my way.”

“Yut. Us too.” As she turns to leave, I add, “Thank you for saving my life, Lieutenant. For saving us all. You’re one badass mofo, you know that?”

“No. I do not know what a badass mofo is. But I suppose you are one too.”

The team laughs at this and says goodbye to the lieutenant.

“You have my sacred word, Patrick-Wic and Phantoms,” Insarka says at last. “That I will do everything in my power to ensure your people’s legacy in the galaxy where they now abide. They will not only survive; they will flourish. And when you look up at the stars of your own galaxy, you will remember them and think of us.”

“Thank you, Insarka,” I say. “For everything.”

“It has been my honor, Patrick-Wic. We will never forget you. OTF, Phantoms.”

“OTF, Phantom Fury,” the team replies as one.

I salute her, as does the rest of the squad, and Insarka places a fist on her chest and bows. Then she steps down the ramp and disappears around the corner.

* * *

With the team busy securing the gear and Z-Lo and Yoshi prepping for launch, I take a second with Hollywood in the back of the bridge, helmets off. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you about the sterilization lab.”

“Here it comes,” she replies.

“I was glad to see you stay your weapon before the target had read the report. But the way you dealt with the target and the facility afterward was reckless and put the mission in jeopardy. Not to mention it could have gotten you and Lada killed.”

“Wic, I’m sorry. I was just—”

“I’m still talking, Sergeant.”

She sniffs and lifts her chin.

“You were stubborn.”

“Sir, I was—”

“But above all else, Sergeant, and I sure as hell mean each goddamn word I’m about to say, every victim in that hell hole who saw what you and Lada did must’ve thought Christ himself had come on a white stallion and brought the vengeance of heaven with him. ’Cause you gave that son of a bitch everything he deserved, and you gave those poor bastards enough hope that some of them might make it through the day.”

Hollywood is choking back tears, but her chin stays up. “Thank—Thank you, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”

“No. Thank you, Sergeant. I don’t know how you stood there for so long, taking all that in. But you did. And then you fought like hellcats.”

“Like Phantom Minxes.”

“Like Phantom Goddamn Minxes.” I stare at her for a moment. “You were right to be suspicious too. Farkoo was—”

“A hajji traitor who deserved what he had coming.”

I smile at her. “Your dad would be proud; I know I am. Mission accomplished.”

And then Hollywood does something I really wasn’t expecting. Or maybe I was.

She hugs me.

* * *

“What about me?” Chuck says as I stand over Yoshi and Z-Lo’s shoulders.

“What about you?”

“Aren’t you… I don’t know, going to say how proud you are of me?”

“For?”

“For? Are you actually asking me about what we both know that I did?”

“Yut. I’m drawing a blank.”

“Well, Patrick, I… I sacrificed myself and saved your life. Probably multiple times. But the whole episode back in the RAT? That… didn’t stand out to you?”

“Oh, sure sure. Yut. Thanks for that, pal.”

If there was ever a time that I imagined Chuck standing with his mouth agape, this would be it.

“Thanks for that, pal? That’s all I get?”

“What were you expecting?”

Chuck huffs. “Huh. I was thinking maybe some scones, chocolate cake, a letter from Her Majesty the Queen and a knighthood. A real one, not one you made up by abbreviating my model designation.”

“Well, I’m sorry we couldn’t get you any of that, buddy.” I prop Chuck up on Dolores’s dashboard and then step back to join the rest of Phantom Team, who I’d prepped beforehand for this moment. “But you do have the team’s admiration and deep gratitude.”

I start clapping, and the rest of the squad joins in.

“Oh my,” Chuck exclaims. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say!” It sounds like the poor guy is crying. “This is all so overwhelming. It’s too much. Please, please, stop.”

I couldn’t believe the damn ASIK had willingly laid down his life to man the Rancer Twin 40 to cover us. If a Marine did that back home, he’d have gotten himself a medal and goddamn parade.

“We all thought you deserved this too,” Hollywood says as she shakes a spray can and moves toward Chuck with Lada. The Russian lays a stencil on Chuck’s receiver, and the Sergeant hits it once with gray spray paint. Then Vlad approaches and snaps a metal keychain cord around a loop on Chuck’s rail system.

“It’s all too much,” Chuck says. “I look beautiful, don’t I? Oh course I do. But seriously, would someone mind holding me up to a mirror or something so I can see for myself?”

I pull my helmet from under my arm and spin it to face Chuck, knowing he can see my camera feed. As soon as he spots the rough shape of a medal on his side and an official Bratva poker chip on the keychain, Chuck lets out a giddy laugh.

“Oooooo he he he! I look absolutely positively—”

“Don’t make it weird,” I caution.

“—brave.”

* * *

“How we lookin, Phantom Lord?” I ask. Z-Lo’s waiting for my command, and the rest of the team is buckled in, helmets on.

“Well, I can’t speak for everyone else, but I know I’m looking simply marvelous.”

“I told you this would come back to bite us,” Hollywood says over comms.

“I mean, do we have clearance to exfil, Chuckles,” I say.

“Ah, I see. Might you specify next time? In light of current events, your question was rather misleading.”

“Phantom Lord.”

“Yes?”

“Can we go back to Earth without getting shot?”

Chuck doesn’t reply right away. Instead, there’s a playfully musical sound filling the comms.

“Is he humming?” Yoshi asks.

“Sounds like it,” Bumper replies.

“Huh. He’s got good pitch.”

“How about it, Chuck?” I ask.

“Okay, you’re all good to go, Phantom Boss. Pedal to the metal. Load ’em up and let ’em rip. Engage!”

Z-Lo nods back at me and then moves his hands into the orange holo-control rings. As soon as he raises them, Dolores lifts off the deck and rises above the other dropships. Then he rotates her slowly and lines up with the shimmering blue portal.

“Everyone ready for this?” I ask on the team channel.

“Hell yeah,” “Bring it,” and “Home to USA favorite place destination,” are the prevailing replies.

I look down at Z-Lo. “Take us home, kid.”

“With pleasure, Phantom Dad.”

Epilogue

The Deployment Operations Center’s command theater was a flurry of activity following the events at Merchandise Processing Facility Six. Staff came and went on urgent errands, holo screens streamed with new data, and comms activity was incessant.

At first, the major general assumed that the facility’s oversight committee had, once again, failed to oversee one critical system or another—the fools. But when the explosions atop the facility were followed quickly by alarms in three other areas, two of which were where the morning’s clients were scheduled to be, the commander grew more suspicious.

Aside from the facility’s security forces, the general had dispatched a military response, small though it was. Visual evidence certainly supported the theory that Androchidan forces had opened fire on both the Gahnree and Sci-Rung elements. He could think of several reasons for the attack, including sabotage by the clients themselves in order to justify retaliation. It had been attempted before, and it would be again.

Then there was the possibility of this being an insurgent strike. The likelihood was small, of course, but he would not rule it out, and he did not trust the oversight committee to conduct a proper investigation.

No matter the cause, the damage was done, and war with the empire’s two largest clients was imminent. No, it was happening; the Sci-Rung were already deploying ships from protospace. Still, the old commander had an itch tickling the back of his root stem that he could not scratch. If this had been the work of that traitor, he wanted to know. He needed to. Because she wanted answers.

“Commander,” the senior communications officer said from behind his operations console. “I’m receiving an unusual data file.”

The general frowned in irritation. “And it is worth interrupting me because?”

“It is locked, and it’s using a very old block code, sir.”

“That is hardly reason enough.”

“Yes. Of course, sir. However, when I cross reference it against our personnel files, the match is… It’s classified, sir.”

Perhaps the general had been too hasty with the comms officer. The commander was, after all, preoccupied with several requests from the Queen Mother to provide answers. And despite his best efforts to reassure her eminence, she was particularly persistent, and he was unusually short of explanations.

“On my screen.”

The comms officer complied and swept the firewall notification to the general’s holo display. The lock screen blinked Classified, and the commander entered his administrative override. A moment later, the personnel file of one Farkoo Tersmik appeared—covert operative.

“And where did you say this was sent from?” the general asked.

“I didn’t, sir. But”—the comms officer leaned into his display—“it appears to have been sent from onboard a dropship, east of MPF6.”

“Where is the vessel now?”

“It appears to have been destroyed. As far as I can tell, the data file was sent automatically in a response to…”

After a second’s pause, the general looked up. “Speak.”

“The sender’s death, sir.”

The commander stroked his chin as he studied the informant’s file photograph. Agent Tersmik had not been heard from in ten years, if the file notes were accurate, and was believed dead. “And you choose to resurface now?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

The general flicked a dismissive hand at the officer. “That will be all.”

“Of course, sir.”

* * *

The major general retreated to his office adjacent to the command theatre. For the next several minutes, he reviewed the data file, and his interest grew with every packet he opened. The veins in his skin bulged as he scoured audio transcripts and played video files recorded from hidden cameras.

It was impossible, all of it. And yet, here it was, plain as day. The truth behind the day’s activities.

That, and so much more.

The data file had material dated all the way back to the agent’s supposed termination. Why he had waited so long to reveal the knowledge was a mystery. Or, was it? The general had known his share of operatives who’d wanted the glory for themselves and rightly concluded that the Queen Mother wouldn’t know of their deeds unless they appear before her majesty in person.

Then again, was he any different?

Agent Tersmik’s intelligence did nothing to change the empire’s present course. There was no going back; he knew that. But there was a way in which this information would work to the general’s favor.

Despite the empire already breaking even on Earth, the Queen would be displeased and kill many in her rage at the loss of promised profits. And why wouldn’t she? But with the closed door came the opportunity for the major general to prove his mettle. To show her that he was not only worthy of sparing, but worthy of siring generations to come—offspring who would carry him into eternity.

No, the general could not stop the war or resume Earth’s harvest, but he could retaliate. He could show the same mercilessness that she demonstrated and coveted in others.

His office door chimed.

“Enter.”

In strode his champion arrayed in green and black Kire armor that was permanently fused to his augmented body. He also bore the three slashes of the Ontishog, marks the major general had delivered himself, forever bonding slave-assassin to master. “You summoned me, my lord.”

“Indeed, Gornath. I have a mission for you. One of the utmost importance.”

“Of course, my lord.” Mechanical servos whined as the warrior bowed.

The general rotated his holo display so that his champion could see the image that filled the screen. “I want you to terminate this human.”

Gornath sneered as he studied the human’s pale face and scraggly red hair. “As you have spoken, my lord.”

“And when you are done, wipe out the city he comes from; infect the rest. The planet will lament the day of our departure and wish we had stayed to finish our task.”

Gornath smiled. “It will be done.”

The Story Continues

What will Wic and the Phantoms find when they return to Earth?

Find out in Book 3 of the Ruins of the Earth Series: Phantom Deadfall. Preorder on Amazon now.

Thanks to Grandma Petrov and her Super Good Time Feelings Merchandise Store, you can get the same team patch and Bratva poker chip that Wic and the Phantoms carry.

Show your Phantom Team allegiance with the collector’s edition military-style patch. These premium USA-made Velcro-backed patches feature a grey-threaded busted-ass empire death angel helmet and two chevrons over a field of white.

Have a favor you need to call in? Then make sure you never leave home without your official USA/Bratva challenge marker. This casino-grade 13-gram clay poker chip features the symbol of Sissy’s New York operation on the front, complete with three circles denoting Wic, Aaron, and Vlad’s presence at the origin ring in Antarctica. On the back, the Bratva star encircles Vlad’s iconic phrase, “US Brooklyn New York and Russian brotherhood are sexing.”

Complete your Ruins collection today at ruinsofthegalaxy.com.

Stay Connected

Join JN Chaney’s Renegade Readers Facebook group where readers come together and share their lives and interests, discuss the series, and speak directly to the authors. Please check it out and join whenever you get the chance!

For updates about new releases, as well as exclusive promotions, sign up for the newsletter at https://www.jnchaney.com/ruins-of-the-earth-subscribe

Enjoying the series? Help others discover the Ruins of the Earth series by leaving a review on Amazon.

Acknowledgments

Once again, I am indebted to the generosity of my esteemed Alpha Team Readers. I am proud to call these men my friends, not just key contributors. I’m especially grateful for those who so generously lent me their years of military experience, some of which was given while on deployment. I’m forever grateful.

The Alpha Team Readers include:

- Matthew Titus: Ruins Lore & Character Master

- Gary “Yrag” Guilmette: Ruins Armorer

- Kevin Zoll: Typo Assassin

- Steve Janulin and Eric Earley: DFXOs (Damn Fine Experience Officers)

- John Walker, Jon Bliss, Shane Marolf, and Mike McDonnell: Pop-Culture Space Wizards

- Aaron Campbell, David Seaman, Matthew Dippel, and Mauricio Longo: Emotional Support Blankets

- Elijah Cole: Space Wizard Understudy

As always, I would like to thank Jennifer Sell, our editor, for bringing the best of this story to the forefront (and cutting everything else). You’re amazing. Kayla Curry, for patience (all those freaking edits!) and artistic eye. Chloe Cotter for your marketing voodoo magic. James Brockwell for your uploading superpowers. And the rest of the Variant Team Authors for your support, including Molly, Terry, Scott, and Jason.

Victoria Gerken at Podium Audio, thank you for making sure this story makes it to listeners’ ears. It’s a privilege to work with you.

To the Renegade Beta Readers: thanks for spotting the rogue words.

To publishing pals Jason Anspach, Wayne Thomas Batson, Bobby Bray, Brian Moore, Mike Kim, and Jeremy Andrew Davis: thanks for your constant encouragement.

Jeff Chaney: Here’s to making great art for people to enjoy.

And to my wife, Jennifer: You are the most courageous person I know. Thank you for fighting at my side.

About the Authors

Christopher Hopper is an award-winning bestselling author of more than twenty novels. He resides with his wife and four children in New York. You can find all of his books, articles, and his syndicated podcast at christopherhopper.com.

* * *

J. N. Chaney is a USA Today Bestselling author and has a Master's of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. He fancies himself quite the Super Mario Bros. fan. When he isn’t writing or gaming, you can find him online at www.jnchaney.com.

He migrates often, but was last seen in Las Vegas, NV. Any sightings should be reported, as they are rare.