“Not acceptable,” Jim said.
“I thought you might say that. However, I will not clear you for duty with that thing in your chest. The scans indicate possible biological signatures. Besides the fact that it could be dislodged by any serious jar—which is common in your line of work—and your immune system isn’t responding to it, despite those biological indicators. It is, to say the least, puzzling. I think I’d like to do a micro-biopsy procedure to get some to analyze.”
“You want to examine the dart?” Ramirez nodded. “Here,” Jim said and reached into a pouch on his uniform belt. He removed the dart fragment he’d picked out of his Raknar and held it out for the doctor. “It was one of these; it’s part of a Canavar.”
Ramirez stared at the proffered fragment in complete shock for several seconds. It was dark brown with tiny barbs visible on one end, while the other looked jagged, as if it had broken off a larger piece. He nodded to an assistant who quickly produced a tiny metal tray which Jim dropped the fragment onto. It hit with a metallic tink. The assistant took it away.
“From a Canavar, you say?” Ramirez asked. Jim nodded. “And you’ve just been walking around with it in your pocket?” Another nod. “You merc types,” the doctor said with a shake of his head. “I’ll never understand you. The marines who work for the Hussars are, if anything, even more foolhardy.”
“It wasn’t dangerous,” Jim said defensively.
“You know that how?” Ramirez asked. “Is it your extensive knowledge of xenobiology?” Jim didn’t respond. “Right.”
“It’s biological,” an assistant said a minute later. “However, we can’t get a fix on any of the possible amino-factors or chemical bonds. Standard nano-therapy wouldn’t touch it.”
“Why not?” Jim asked.
“Nanites are programmed to only go after either recognized biological contaminants, such as some diseases or cancers, or foreign materials like bullets or shrapnel. That’s why all modern implants use metals or plastics tagged with a trace of niobium, so the nanites will recognize that they are supposed to be there and will leave them alone. Your little intruder has an unrecognized biological signature, so the nanites will leave it alone, just to avoid any unhappy side effects…like dissolving your liver.”
Jim swallowed; he rather liked his liver. “Can you program the nanites now that you have a sample?”
“Sure,” Ramirez said, “in a day or two. But we might have a simpler solution.”
A door opened in the back of the examination room and what Jim took for a strange robot rolled in on nearly silent treads. Then he noticed the robot was supporting a fish tank, and inside the tank was a huge octopus with two blue human-like eyes.
“Holy shit,” Jim exclaimed. “Is that a Wrogul?”
“You’ve met my people before?” the alien asked through a translator on the side of the tank.
“Yes,” Jim said. “Years ago, in Houston, though only for a few minutes. One installed my pinplants.”
“One of our most lucrative professions,” the alien replied. “Truth be told, I spend a lot of time doing that here as well. I’m known as Nemo.”
Jim laughed out loud and shook his head. Someone in the Winged Hussars had a spectacular sense of humor. He gestured at Dr. Ramirez. “I’m surprised you aren’t known as Dr. Aronnax.”
“You know,” Ramirez said, “you’re the first one to ever say that.”
“I love the classics,” Jim said. “Though late 20th century and early 21st are more to my liking, I’ve always enjoyed 1950’s movies as well.”
Not seeming to notice the interchange, Nemo’s support machine rolled him over to where the assistant had the dart fragment. One of the Wrogul’s tentacles slid out of the tank, its brownish length glistening with moisture, and reached toward the container. The assistant stood back to let Nemo work. The alien’s tentacle picked up the fragment and held it for almost an entire minute before holding it close to one of its big eyes, then replacing it in the metal container.
“Interesting,” he said. “It’s from a Canavar.”
“Yes,” Jim said. “How did you know?”
“Well, it tastes like Canavar.”
“You’ve tasted a Canavar?” Jim asked incredulously. “What does one taste like?”
“Why, like chicken, of course.”
Jim gawked for a moment, then began to laugh. Oh, I like this character, he thought, then considered. “Nemo, how old are you?”
“Well, as you see me here, about seventy of your subjective years. However, we reproduce via a form of mitosis. Our reproduction doesn’t impart complete memories, of course. However, it does share tastes and senses of nearly everything we sample. An ancestor of mine tasted Canavar on many occasions, so I recognize this.”
The examination room was silent, for a number of reasons. Ramirez was staring at the Wrogul which remained sitting in its tank near the specimen. Jim was struggling to understand how an intelligent being could pass down how something tasted for tens of thousands of years. He finally got past it and spoke. “Dr. Ramirez, you said there was an alternative to surgery?”
“Yes,” he said and gestured at the Wrogul, “Nemo could simply remove it and fix the damage to the artery.”
“How would he do that?” Jim asked.
Ramirez moved from looking at Nemo to fixing Jim with a perplexed stare. “I’m sorry, you said a Wrogul installed your pinplants?”
“Yes,” Jim agreed.
“You should know how, then.”
“He gave me a sedative,” Jim said. “So other than knowing a Wrogul was involved, I don’t know any more than that.” He looked between the Human doctor and the Wrogul. “What don’t I know?”
A few minutes later Jim was in the medical facility’s bathroom, puking up his lunch. It had taken everything he had to stay in the chair as the Wrogul’s special pair of tentacles slid into Jim’s chest, removed the splinter, and fixed the artery, all in a matter of minutes. When Nemo withdrew his tentacles, there’d been a moment of incredibly uncomfortable pressure—though just a moment—then the alien held up the somewhat bloody dart.
Psychic surgery. He’d found the reference in his pinplants. Quackery from 20th century Earth, usually accomplished with chicken guts and sleight of hand. This wasn’t quackery. It was all too real; the newly removed and cleaned dart was proof of that. His chest hurt a little, but only a little. It was clear from the lack of discomfort and the nearly perfect match for the one he’d found in Dash that Nemo’s disturbing talent was 100% real.
He opened his uniform top and examined the pale flesh underneath. He had a nearly centimeter-long scar from the initial wound just over two weeks ago. There was no blood on his skin after the procedure. In addition, there was not so much as a blemish where the tentacles had entered his chest and removed the splinter.
“Fuck me,” he hissed.
“Are you okay, Colonel Cartwright?” Ramirez asked from outside.
Jim wiped the bile from his lips and exited the bathroom. Both assistants were nearby and poised to grab him if he should sway. Jim was mostly recovered, though, and needed no assistance. “Yeah, I suppose,” he said.
“It’s kind of shocking the first time,” Ramirez said. “Nemo does all our pinplant work.”
Jim had never thought about his own pinplants. He knew a Wrogul was involved, but he had never thought about how the actual implants got into his head. He leaned over and puked some more. After he was done, he straightened up and got control of himself. “I’m okay now,” he said. “How about my…” he touched his chest.
Ramirez turned to the Wrogul who’d been examining the spine removed from Jim’s chest. “Prognosis?” he asked.
“The Human is fine,” Nemo said. “There is some scarring on the artery; however, that should only make the vessel stronger, though less flexible. I can rebuild it, if he wishes.”
“No thanks,” Jim said and began buttoning up his uniform shirt.
“As you wish,” Nemo said,
and his tank rolled out of the room.
“Not much for formality, are they?” Jim asked.
“Wrogul are exotics,” Ramirez said. “That category of intelligent life is pretty wide and includes biology which doesn’t match carbon-based life, species who exhibit abilities outside the established norms, and those with psychology unintelligible to others. Wroguls have both abilities outside the established norms and unintelligible psychology.”
“I get the abilities,” Jim said, swallowing against more rising bile, “but he seemed to communicate ideas and such well.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Ramirez said. “That’s just a façade. Their motivations are completely their own, and they are utterly amoral. Sato comes the closest to understanding how the Wrogul think and act, and in anticipating how they’ll react.”
“Are they dangerous?” Jim wondered.
“Oh, without a doubt. You don’t want to get on the bad side of an alien that can manipulate your flesh like it was putty.”
“Well, tell him thanks,” Jim said. “I feel fine now.”
“I will,” Ramirez said, then considered. “You know, he could bring you to a perfect weight in about an hour. He just sent me a message suggesting as much.”
“No,” Jim said, shaking his head. “I’ve had the offer using nanites several times. I’ve lost some weight on my own and will lose more. I don’t want a magic pill.”
“I can respect that,” Ramirez said, “but the sooner the better. That extra 60 kilos or so isn’t doing you any good. Take care, Colonel.”
* * *
Conference Room, Winged Hussars Prime Base, New Warsaw System
The conference room provided by Alexis was perfect. Jim adjusted the light in the room to roughly 40% of what would be ideal for Humans and took a seat in one of the chairs provided by his Hussars hosts. He looked around the room and took a deep breath. What was about to come would change the rest of his life. Maybe a lot of people’s lives.
The door opened, and his three fellow Horsemen came in together. Each nodded to him and he returned the pleasantry. They moved off to the side, not out of sight, yet out of the way. The next to arrive was the only member of the Cavaliers to be summoned, Corporal Seamus Curran, who’d served in Jim’s own personal squad.
“Colonel,” Seamus said and saluted. Jim returned the salute, and Seamus looked around at the nearly empty conference room. When he noticed Nigel, Sansar, and Alexis in the back, he did a double take. “Can I ask what’s going on, sir?”
“Soon enough, Seamus,” Jim said, and gestured to one of six chairs set in a line at the center of the conference room. “For now, take a seat, please.” Seamus nodded and did as requested, though the young CASPer driver looked as nervous as Jim had ever seen him.
Next was the pair of Hussars—Ensign Darrel Fenn and Sergeant Mia Kleve. They both immediately saluted Jim, then noticed all the other commanders and gave one to them as well.
“Please have a seat,” Jim said, preempting their questions, “we’ll begin in a minute.” The man and woman sat. The final three came in together; Sergeants Scott Mays and Shawn Thompson of the Golden Horde and Sergeant Cindy Epard from Asbaran Solutions. All came to attention and saluted Jim.
“At ease,” Jim said, returning their salutes. “Please, sit with the others.” All six seats were now filled. “None of you know why you are here,” Jim said, and they all nodded. A couple glanced back at their commanders. The three Horsemen watched silently. “The answer is pretty simple. We’re looking for volunteers for a special combat unit.”
“Colonel Cartwright?”
Jim looked at the speaker. Ensign Fenn was holding up his hand. “Ensign?”
“I’m a flight operations specialist,” he said. “I’ve only qualified with small arms. I don’t know what good I’ll be.”
Sergeant Epard spoke up. “Me, too. I’m qualified to operate the Mk 8 CASPer, but my primary warfare specialty is medic.”
Jim held up a hand to forestall any more questions and said, “I understand this might seem unusual. However, if you can just wait a few minutes, I believe a lot of your questions will be answered.”
Everyone waited patiently—the six volunteers taking their cues from Jim who sat and watched the door. He knew they were on the station because his shuttle pilot confirmed the transfer from Upsilon 4. He was just beginning to wonder when they’d make their appearance when Sergeant Epard gasped and pointed.
Jim turned his head and looked. Up in one corner of the conference room was a ventilation shaft. The cover was open, and a dozen Fae were either looking out of the shaft or hanging from the edge of the cover.
“The reason has arrived,” Jim said, and all eyes turned to follow his and Epard’s gaze.
“Wow,” said someone. The only one of the six not surprised to one degree or another was Corporal Curran. Being part of Jim’s personal squad, he’d seen Splunk many times. She was right in the middle of the group of Fae, with Dante to one side and Sly to the other. Jim smiled at Splunk who grinned back.
“For those of you who don’t know, these are Fae,” Jim said, gesturing to the little aliens. “It isn’t much of a secret that we’re going back to retake Earth in a short time.” All six Humans smiled and nodded; a couple laughed. “As you can imagine, that will take a lot of firepower. More than we have, to tell the truth.” Using his pinplants, he activated the room’s Tri-V. His Raknar, Dash appeared.
The mecha was displayed in a technical format with blowup text showing dimensions, equipment, and some vital statistics. “I first operated a Raknar in combat on the planet Chimsa, where I fought several Canavar.” Images of the titanic monsters and of Jim fighting them appeared. They were all less than perfect, clearly taken by various CASPers in his command during the fight. The six mercs watched with wide eyes—even Seamus, who’d seen it before.
“I only managed to control the Raknar through the cooperation of my partner, Splunk.” The Fae swung down from the roof and landed lightly on Jim’s shoulder. “Thanks to her, we were able to defeat the Canavar, using only a small percentage of the machine’s ability.
“Ever since we completed that contract, I’ve done everything I could to learn more about the Raknar. I’ve traveled extensively and researched every source of information I could find.” He looked up at Splunk who sat on his shoulder passively. “Eventually, that quest led to a planet with twenty nearly mint-condition Raknar.”
Someone whistled in appreciation, and Jim nodded. “They all needed power supplies, but thanks to a daring mission by Sinclair’s Scorpions, we got them.” The Fae had all come down to the floor and were walking around the Humans in their chairs. The people were split between watching the Fae and listening to Jim. “At first, I thought the Fae were just talented mechanics, and my finding them an incredible stroke of fate.” Jim hesitated, and he felt Splunk’s grip on his shoulder tense. “Eventually I found out they were once the assistants of the Dusman, the very race which created the Raknar to fight the Canavar.”
The words tasted like ash in his mouth, and he felt a little sick saying them. He was not only lying to these six men and women, he was lying to his fellow Horsemen who were watching from the wings. He resolved to tell them the truth at the absolute earliest opportunity.
“The Fae had been out in the galaxy, keeping out of view from fear of being found. They were afraid of retribution, even though the Great War was 20,000 years ago. When I stumbled across their settlement on that remote world, they decided it might be time to come out. Fighting the Canavar later proved that decision was a good one, and since then, many Fae have made their way here to help.
“So now we need more people to operate the Raknars,” Jim said and gestured to the six. To the last they all gasped.
It was Cindy Epard who spoke first. “Whoa,” she said and held up her hands. “Why me? I don’t know anything about giant robots or monsters.”
“Yeah,” Sergeant Mays agreed. “Why us?”
“Because you�
�ve been identified as candidates,” Jim said.
“Identified by who?” Ensign Fenn asked.
“By us,” Sly said, standing in front of Fenn. The man jumped slightly, surprised the Fae could speak English. “We’ve been scouting for Humans who possess the needed traits.” He pointed to Fenn’s pinplants. “The implants are necessary, as well as a certain kind of mind. You must be resourceful as well.” None of the Humans offered a complaint, they all clearly met those requirements. “Lastly, you needed to be receptive to Akee.”
“What’s that?” Fenn asked.
“You’ll find out,” Jim said. “Now, you’ve all been cleared by your commanders to participate in what I’m calling the Raknar Corps. You’ll be detached to my command until such time as the fighting is over, at which point you can then return to your unit if you wish. However, you are all volunteers.” He gestured to the Tri-V which showed a freeze frame of Dash locked in mortal combat with a Canavar on Talus. “As you can see, Canavar are very real threats once again, and we’ll be fighting on Earth; probably greatly outnumbered and in mortal peril. If any of you do not wish to proceed with this, you can back out now. Nobody will think any less of you.”
“Well, I’d think less of myself,” Sergeant Mia Kleve said, and the others laughed.
Jim looked at each of the six in turn. None of them moved. He nodded his head. “Okay,” he said, “now we see if you can be paired.”
“How does that work?” Corporal Curran asked, eyeing the group of Fae circling them.
“It’s up to them,” Jim explained, and gestured to the Fae. “It’s a little like how a jigsaw puzzle piece fits into the entire design. If you’re a match, it will become clear to the Fae.” Seamus nodded as the Fae continued to circle.
Jim watched the proceedings with curiosity. He’d never seen this himself, of course. When he’d woken up in the cave where he’d nearly drowned, Splunk was there—already bonded—watching him curiously. He’d always suspected several Fae rescued him from the water, and Splunk was the one who’d bonded with him. Now he got to see how it worked.
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