As one of the guards regained consciousness, he struggled to free a limb from beneath her; in response, Sonia balled up a meaty fist and knocked him on the side of the head with a heavy thud. The guard stilled instantly.
Djerke watched her, then craned his head up and took a dubious glance at the purple-skinned behemoth across the way. “Mm-hmm…?”
Sonia squinted down at him, then let out a mock sigh before unleashing a solid punch at the doctor’s bicep.
“Ow,” squeaked Bonecrusher, his show of indignance already betrayed by the loose grin playing across his lips.
“Save it fer tha other doctor,” Sonia reprimanded. “I seen how ye be lookin’ at her.”
Tone E suppressed the urge to laugh as he watched Bonecrusher close his mouth with an audible gulp. They were feeling loose, a good sign for the impending battle.
“All right, we ready?” he asked. His companions stilled, nodding. “We roll in on three, I’ll be high. Djerke, stay low. Sonia, make sure the guards are out of the fight, then you’re going to take the left, Bonecrusher the right.” Hopefully, Mr. Burton would stay put on his perch on the upper levels of the buildings surrounding the courtyard. There wouldn’t be much he could do for them in a firefight.
Tone E crept through the patio doorway and around the outer wall of the resort’s atrium to stay clear of a cluster of sailors near a coffee table in the center, the rest of his team following.
He paused suddenly, catching sight of Harry the ass standing there, all suited up in his ramshackle armor with the two big laser guns on his shoulders. Tone E frowned. What in the world was he doing? As Tone E watched, Harry did … absolutely nothing. He just stood there, completely still, as if frozen in place. Only his eyes moved, looking at Tone E for one, and who knew what else.
Well, Tone E had to hope the ass had a plan of his own. He couldn’t yell out, Harry, what in the heck are you doing!? across the atrium without the sailors hearing, and if the Grand COG was there in the lounge right now, so close, Tone E wasn’t going to delay his vengeance to figure it out in any less efficient way.
So he only shook his head and made some hand signals in Harry’s direction to indicate his team was going to launch their attack imminently. He didn’t know if Harry had studied pirate infiltration hand signals yet or not, but hopefully the ass could get at least the general idea.
A chorus of cheers erupted from inside the lounge and brought Tone E’s attention abruptly back to the task at hand. He edge up to its entrance and stilled his breath to take a listen. The Grand COG had started a speech. Perfect, everyone would be distracted.
He was about to hold a hand up to initiate the attack count-down when his chin came under assault from a wet tongue. He took an involuntary sniff, getting a good whiff of dog. The black puli, Zuckberg, had done a good job of blending into the shadows. But where in the hell was the rest of his team? Leave it to a dog to get distracted and be oblivious to orders…
“Not a good time,” Tone E muttered, trying to keep his voice low.
The dog’s tongue hung low from his open mouth, while his tail wagged in a dark blur. “Need a diversion?”
Not particularly, thought Tone E, but then again, it wouldn’t hurt to add another element of chaos to the assault. They were, after all, still heavily outnumbered. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well,” grinned Zuckberg, “I was thinking about getting a good whiff of some golden ass.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Exciting, isn’t it?” The tail wagged faster.
Tone E considered. “I won’t stop you, but if you get hurt, it’s not my fault…”
The dog stepped closer and licked his chin again. Gross. “Don’t worry about me, I got this. And you, dear sir, owe me big-time when this is all over.”
If we live that long. “Dare I ask?”
“You already know what I want.”
“A harem,” Tone E breathed, because he’d already heard the request about a zillion times in the brief time the dog had inhabited Haven. Perhaps somewhere on this shit-hole resort there was a dog park. If not, well, living long enough to figure it out would be a good problem to have.
“You know me so well,” said Zuckberg in his droll baritone. “It’s like you sniffed my ass or something.”
Tone E hefted a silent eyebrow.
“All right, all right. You ready?”
Time to crash the party. “On three.” He extended his hand and held up three fingers.
Two.
One.
#
Vice Admiral Doyle was a man of action. When his bladder said it was time to go, ‘Decisive’ was his middle name. That was a metaphor (and his real middle name was Sigmund), but after several requests by other sailors to explain himself after he’d said such a thing out loud, he’d abandoned the line.
But he still thought it to himself every time the urgent need arose. At the moment, the Beloved Leader was preparing to address the room. Perfect timing, really. No one would notice him slipping out.
“Where are you going, Vice Admiral?” boomed the ebullient galactic leader. “I was about to raise a toast to your leadership.”
Doyle paused mid-stride, silently cursing his luck. He plastered on a commanding smile and tilted his head in deference to the center of the lounge. “Beloved Leader, I am yours to command.”
The COG cackled and clapped his hands together. “Oh, good, because it’s not often we get to celebrate our Navy leadership—while they’re still alive.”
Doyle felt a quiver in his bowels. Was that fear or foreboding? He’d long ago forgotten how to tell the difference. But he was heavy with the knowledge that his two predecessors had each been spaced following lesser failures than the loss of a naval flagship. If that idiot Eilhard the Blowhard had been more competent, he surely would have been spaced as well, instead of merely stripped of his commission and left to fend for himself.
“Now, where were we?” the Grand COG asked the room, a benevolent smile creasing his lips. “Oh yes, to the Vice Admiral! We salute you for knowing when to yield authority to a higher power, eh?” He paused and pointed a thumb at his chest. “As a result, we were able to conclude our business with those pesky pirates once and for all … ending any possible threat to mankind’s fantastic way of life. Haven is destroyed, and it’s all because of me. Hah!”
Doyle glanced around the room for Acting Rear Admiral Corvus, fearing for a second she might lose her composure at such a statement. She did not seem yet to understand the importance of deference to one so prone to violent tantrums as the Grand COG. But she was nowhere to be found.
Well, lucky her. If only he could be the same. “Cheers,” Doyle said, lifting his glass, hoping to move the toast along. At this point, he didn’t much care if the COG was reading his eulogy. He just really needed to pee.
The Grand COG paused, regarding Doyle’s outstretched drink, his lips playing between a frown and a smile. Doyle held his breath, until the Beloved Leader shot him a solicitous wink and grabbed a beverage from the nearest servant.
“Cheers!” roared the Grand COG, and moments later the sailors and officers in the lounge joined in.
Doyle used the moment to bolt for the back hallway, bee-lining for the sanitary rooms. His luck held as he found an unoccupied pod. Humming happily to himself, he was mid-flow when his communicator buzzed in his ear.
“Damn it, what?” he muttered, accepting the incoming transmission.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” buzzed a hyper voice.
“Who the hell is this?”
The speaker paused. “Junior Comms Officer Fochs, sir. You said to notify you if there were any irregularities.”
“This entire day is an irregularity,” Doyle growled, gazing down mournfully. He’d never mastered the art of maintaining a steady flow and conversation at the same time. That’s why he preferred the use of private sanitary rooms.
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Get on with it, already!”
“Several of the patrols are acting … funny, sir.”
“Yes, yes, the Beloved Leader has insisted everyone enjoy the party,” Doyle replied, his irritation boiling into rage. “Is that all?”
“No, sir, uh … one of patrol squads has failed to report in, sir. They’re responsible for securing the docks.”
“Good work, Fochs.”
“Thank y—”
“Doyle out.” Vice Admiral Doyle was not a patient man. And the rest of this flow wasn’t going to wait. Meanwhile, he was relieved to have an excuse to duck out from the party. Rather than find another squad to check in on the derelict patrol, he’d be more than happy to look into the matter himself. Part of him was very much ready to unleash his growing irritation at someone.
All finished, he looked himself over in the mirror. Standing over his shoulder was a ghost of his former self. The man looked … happy. When was the last time he’d truly felt that way? Back when he could afford the luxury of friends, perhaps. Before he’d committed to going down the political track and climbing the ranks.
His imaginary friend didn’t bother wasting time with talking. It was enough to know he was there, still watching his back. That, too, was a metaphor, but his friend—the only friend he’d ever really needed—already knew that.
#
“Would you get your foot outta my face?!” McGee snapped, trying to shift away from where Hawke’s boot rested uncomfortably close to his nose. He was pretty sure the man had stepped in dog shit at some point … probably thanks to Zuckberg.
“I’d love to, former Corporal McGee,” Hawke hissed, “except I can’t move any more than you can in this blasted crate!”
Nevertheless, the former Rear Admiral did make an effort to shift, and did succeed in removing the foul-smelling footwear from its proximity to McGee’s nostrils. Except, he also succeeded in landing a sharp elbow in McGee’s side as he did so.
“Ouch!” McGee yelped. “Damnit, stop squirming around, would you?”
Hawke made an exasperated noise. “You just said—”
“Just … stop. Hold still.”
Thankfully, Hawke did so.
McGee took the opportunity to try and leverage himself up into a sitting position. But with his wrists and ankles tied, and in such a cramped space, it was exceedingly difficult. The crate was barely big enough for the both of them. Seriously. How in the stars has my life come to this?
Being tied and stuffed into a shipping crate with the most annoying officer in the Federation (who had dog shit on his shoe) was not how McGee had planned to spend his years post-fake-death.
From the muffled yells sounding outside their crate, at least he was pretty sure they weren’t the only ones the pirates had trapped inside shipping containers before running off to assault the resort. The cacophony of indignant yells—and also some incessant giggling from the still-very-much-drunk sailors—made it pretty clear the whole boarding party had been similarly packed up.
What a strange way to dispose of one’s enemies. Locking them in shipping containers? “Who does this to people, anyway?” he muttered, voicing the thought out loud.
Hawke released a long-suffering sigh. “Reminds me of when poor Commodore Corvus and her unit were put in shipping crates after their defeat by the pirates on Irrakeen.”
“What!?” McGee stared at the vague outline of Eilhard the Blowhard across the dim and stuffy confines of their tiny prison. “Are you serious?”
He was aware of the vague movement of Hawke shrugging. “Yes. But Bambi radioed in their positions so that a rescue crew could be sent to get them out before they suffocated. I’m sure she’ll have done the same for us this time.”
McGee could only stare at him, temporarily mute. “What!?” he blurted again.
“Bambi’s not a monster,” Hawke said. “She might be misguided, throwing in her lot with those mangy pirates … but I truly believe she is still a Federation officer at heart.”
McGee rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re insane.”
Some of the noises from outside changed to expressions of surprise and relief.
McGee tilted his head and strained to listen. “Hey. You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The others … they aren’t yelling about being let out anymore.”
Hawke shrugged again. “It’s probably the rescue party.”
“What rescue party!?” McGee was getting really tired of the Blowhard’s naivety. “Who would be around to rescue us, you dolt? Everyone is either drunk, hallucinating, or at the party—”
The latches of their crate clicked, cutting McGee off mid-sentence. His mouth was still hanging open when the lid of the container pulled off to reveal the rather stormy, perplexed visage of a man some years older than former Rear Admiral Hawke. He wore a Federation uniform, and the bars on his chest marked him a Vice Admiral. He took in McGee and Hawke, tied and folded into the crate, their clothes plastered to them with sweat, and his face reddened. “What in the blue blazes is going on here?” he roared.
McGee felt his face drain of color.
Hawke squinted up at the man and smiled. “Ah. There you are. Splendid timing, Vice Admiral Doyle, sir. I don’t suppose you would be so good as to untie us?”
#
Tone E sprang through the doorway of the bar called Imaginary Friends, immediately opening fire with the black-market gun from Dillbilly’s General Store. It made a satisfying whump, whump sound as it pumped its payload into the neon-lit air.
Simultaneously, the rest of his team flooded in, following their pre-planned routes, executing to perfection. Pride swelled in his breast. Pride in his people, pride in his—
Zuckberg barreled past Tone E’s legs and hurled himself into the quickly developing confusion, barking furiously and shoving his nose into as many asses as he could reach.
Tone E sighed. Oh well. They couldn’t all be perfect soldiers…
“Wow!” the dog yelled, “I did not know someone could like cheese that much … Holy moly, heads up, y’all, this guy’s favorite movie is The Little Mermaid—the real old, antique, Disney animated one! Who woulda thought such a big badass like him would be such a softie at heart?… What the what! This guy uses his work computer to look up some very naughty things! Hey man, I’m pretty sure that’s against Federation policy…”
It was a hell of a distraction, all right. The foes Zuckberg was calling out promptly blanched and scattered, some even dropping their weapons to flee in terror or shame.
Tone E decided he should amend that previous thought about perfect soldiers. Zuckberg was actually pretty efficient himself, in his own … odd … way.
“You!” boomed a familiar, annoyingly superior voice from the center of the lounge. The man’s paunch was clearly visible, accentuated by his thin golden robe with (hopefully) faux spotted-fur fringes. “I thought you were dead!”
“Think again,” Tone E rumbled out loud, knowing his gravely bass-baritone could have a sobering effect on the staunchest of foes. He gripped his gun and leveled it at the dictator’s midsection, ignoring the surrounding fracas of pirates and Feds. He’d been sure to splatter most of them with the weapon’s contents. “Don’t move.”
The order wouldn’t help with the others. They were too busy fighting … their own imaginary friends.
“What is going on?” the Grand COG shouted, glaring about the lounge, his eyes growing wider and wider as he took in the sailors and golden-armored guards, each of whom appeared to be engaged in a battle-to-the-death with … thin air.
“I’ll kill you!” shouted a uniformed lieutenant, as he collapsed forward and writhed around on the ground, his hands wrapped tight around an imaginary throat. Then his grip softened, his face paling noticeably as his friend-turned-foe appeared to turn the tables. A moment later, the sailor was on his back, trying to pry … something … off his neck. His lips were turning blue.
Wow, Tone E thought, dropping his gaze to the barrel of his weapon, this is
really something. Meanwhile, he had business to attend to. Focus, big guy. “Hands up where I can see them,” he snapped at the Grand COG.
The golden-blonde bozo snarled like a trapped animal, his eyes darting back and forth around the room. Finding no one of right mind to help him, his gaze finally resettled on Tone E with deadly malice.
The pirate leader waited patiently for the Grand COG’s next move, keeping his gun held steady. It would be interesting to see which side of the fight-or-flight spectrum the galactic leader landed on. Tone E hoped for the former … it would feel good to personally throttle this guy….
36
Harry (and Node)
Harry hadn’t really understood Tone E’s strange hand signals, but he’d guessed at what the pirate leader was trying to say. It was pretty obvious from the weapons his team carried and the way they were slinking about. But Harry still didn’t dare move.
Only seconds after Tone E’s group poured into the lounge, the myriad sounds of shouting and weapons-fire broke out from inside the space. It was all very distracting, but Harry was determined to keep his eyes on the mean-faced Federation lady.
So, when her head tipped in the direction of the erupting chaos, he reached a quick decision. Now was his chance.
Run for it!
He cut right so the large golden kiosk itself would block her view. It was also the fastest way back to the couch where the captain and the others were probably still hiding, waiting for him to report in on what he’d learned from the receptionist.
But the Feds who had been camped out in front of the couch, drinking and carrying on with their hallucinations, were no longer unfocused. They’d also heard the noises emerging from the lounge, and now they were all grabbing for their weapons.
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