by Jim C. Hines
“I was about to call. One of the parked shuttles just spat out what looks like an entire EMC infantry squad.”
The muscles in Mops’ neck and shoulders tightened like drying leather. “Wolf, take off now. Head back to the Pufferfish. Have Grom get the ship over here and prep for an A-ring jump. Tell Kumar and Azure we might need that project we talked about.”
“I don’t think these clowns know I’m here,” Wolf protested. “I can help. Let me grab weapons and follow them down, take them by surprise from behind.”
“You want to single-handedly ambush an entire infantry squad? I don’t think so. Get moving, Wolf. We’ll find another way off.” She cleared the connection. “Doc, give me the specs on this beast. Highlight the closest escape pods.”
“There’s a good chance the EMC will intercept any escape pods before we can reach the Pufferfish.”
“You have a better suggestion?” Mops snapped.
“Don’t get snippy with me. I’m not the one who marched into a trap, then panicked and set it off.”
“I miss the days when all I had to worry about was that strange citrus smell from deck B.” She studied the map on her monocle. It would take the EMC troops several minutes to get here from the blowhole. “This way.”
At first, trying to run only slowed them down. The reduced gravity led to three falls, two instances of bouncing off walls, one frantic bout of wing-flapping on the part of the Prodryan, and a collision with an unsuspecting Quetzalus coming off a lift that left Mops seeing stars.
“Low gravity doesn’t change your mass.”
“Shut up.” Mops grabbed her monocle from where it had fallen. The impact had split the skin of her eyebrow against one of the implanted magnets. When she replaced the monocle, everything seemed ever so slightly out of alignment.
The Quetzalus was uninjured, but her tongue blazed like a blue sun as she scrambled away from the humans.
Mops entered the lift, double-checked Doc’s map, and reached up to tap the oversized button for warehousing.
The forty-second lift journey took them beyond the lung into an abdominal cavity. They emerged in a large storage area, half full of stacked hexagonal barrels of different colors. Two Quetzalus used a drone to unload additional barrels from a mag-lift cart.
“You can’t be in here,” one shouted, his crest rising.
“It’s an emergency!” Mops paused to orient herself. The large exit to her right led deeper into the literal guts of the Comacean. Several smaller exits were scattered about the cavern, but they didn’t all show up on Doc’s map. “Which one of these leads to the escape pods?”
“Call security,” said the second Quetzalus.
Mops jabbed a finger at Monroe. “This human is showing signs of reversion. He’s going feral! I have to get him out of here before he starts eating everyone in sight!”
Monroe bared his teeth and drooled.
Both Quetzalus backed away, abandoning their work. The one with the raised crest was clamoring into his comm unit. “The human is leaking from his mouth orifice!”
“You’re doing wonders for the reputation of your species,” said Doc.
“The escape pods?” Mops seized Monroe’s arm and motioned for Rubin to grab the other. “I don’t know how long we can control him.”
A single thrust of a glowing tongue indicated the third passageway to the right.
“Run,” Mops shouted as she dragged Monroe toward the indicated doorway. “I’ll try to shoot this human into space, but if he gets away, you’ll want to seal every door between us and the rest of the refinery.”
They’d only gotten a few paces into the corridor when Mops realized Advocate of Violence wasn’t following. “What’s wrong?”
“The human . . .” Exposed blades added a silver stripe to the edges of his wings. “If he goes feral—”
“I promise I’ll eat you last,” snapped Monroe.
“He’s fine,” added Mops.
The Prodryan stared at her, then back at Monroe. “You lied about his condition?”
Monroe popped a cube of purple gum into his mouth and said, “I damn well hope so.”
Mops closed the door behind them and took a canister of sealant foam from her equipment harness. She squeezed a line over the door’s edges. The quick-hardening goo was designed to hold against hull punctures. It should be enough to slow any pursuers down.
She swapped the sealant for the floor polish used in Krakau quarters and sprayed the area directly in front of the door. Krakau limbs clung better to the waxy surface, but human feet tended to slip every which way. Combined with the reduced gravity, it should send the EMC troops down in a jumble.
They passed what appeared to be a small changing and cleansing room and took a left at the next juncture. Mops pointed. “Escape pods should be around that curve.”
Identical oval doors lined the hallway. Doc automatically translated the blue signs over the doors, which named them escape pods seventeen through thirty-five. He also tagged and highlighted the nine EMC soldiers waiting at the far end of the corridor.
Five knelt with rifles trained on Mops and her group. At this distance, with the active-targeting assistance provided by their monocles, it would be impossible for them to miss.
“Marion Adamopoulos,” shouted a woman in back. She wore red lieutenant stripes on her right shoulder, above the crossed rifles emblem of the EMC infantry. “You will remove all weapons and equipment and surrender. If you refuse, we’ve been authorized to use any necessary force to subdue you. Don’t make us shoot you, Mops.”
Rubin shifted her weight. Several guns twitched to follow her. The former security guard wouldn’t hesitate to charge the troops, sacrificing herself in the hope of getting Mops, Monroe, and their Prodryan contact into the escape pod.
“Orders, sir?” whispered Monroe.
There were too many guns, and unlike most of her crew, these people looked like they knew how to use them. Mops raised her hands. “Stand down.”
To Court! (Prodryan Battle Poem)
Author Unknown
To court! To court!
I am the blaster of justice, the armor of law!
With my opening statement, I stab my enemy.1
With my keen objections, I strike him down.
He bleeds before the magistrate as I claim the laurels of conquest.
To sentencing! To sentencing!
I am the executioner of the unworthy, the destroyer of failure!
With my precedents, I build my enemy’s pyre.
With the flamethrower of justice, I burn their appeals.2
Hail, hail the glorious magistrate!
To billing! To billing!
I am the collector of debt, the champion of incremental accounting!
With my triumphs, I fill the vault of victory.
With liens and debt collectors, I secure my future.
I wipe my blade and march onward to the next battle.
——
Some species don’t allow the literal stabbing of one’s opponent. Always review regional and jurisdictional laws regarding courtroom violence.
Always avoid igniting the judge and his staff.
* * *
MOPS RAN ESCAPE PLANS in her mind, searching for one that didn’t end with her and her team being shot and/or blown up. “How did you get here before us?”
“Fleet Admiral Sage has been studying you.” The lieutenant shook her head in disgust. “She guessed you’d realize we were here and try to sneak out, so we stationed teams to cover all the escape pods. Twelve damn hours we’ve been waiting here. I’m tired and pissed off, so stop stalling, and don’t test us.”
Before Mops could answer, Advocate of Violence stepped forward. “I trust you’ve brought proof of your orders?”
Every
weapon moved toward the Prodryan. The lieutenant’s thick brows and leathery skin contracted with disgust. “They told us you’d betrayed the Alliance, Mops. I didn’t want to believe it.”
Advocate of Violence drew himself up taller. “You’ve entered this Comacean brandishing projectile weapons, a clear violation of the Alliance Protected Species Act, and expect us to simply take your word that you’re acting on behalf of a high-ranking Alliance official? You haven’t even identified yourselves.”
The Prodryan’s entire demeanor had changed. His wings spread slightly, like a colorful cape. Confidence and disdain wafted from his body. Mops was reluctantly impressed.
“Lieutenant Michael Jackson of the EMCS Box Jellyfish,” the woman said. Like all EMC troops, she would have chosen a name from human history when she was cured and “reborn.” “I’m transmitting our warrant and proof of our orders now. Who the depths are you?”
“I’m the legal advocate for these three humans.” Advocate of Violence closed his right eye. “I’ve reviewed your paperwork, and it appears valid. Do you have proof of this human’s identity?”
Jackson frowned. “Do we have what?”
“Proof of this human’s identity.” The Prodryan spoke slowly, each word dripping disdain. “How do you know this is the ‘Marlon Adoplumless’ you’ve been sent to detain? If you assault the wrong human, you’d open yourselves and potentially the entire Earth Mercenary Corps to criminal liability. Particularly given your violation of APSA Title 93, Chapter 48, Code 12.”
“Reckless endangerment of a protected or endangered life-form, involving explosives or firearms of Class C and above,” whispered Doc.
“We identified the Pufferfish from its deceleration signature when it arrived in-system,” Jackson snapped. “The computer confirms a visual match on Marion Adamopoulos, Vera Rubin, and Marilyn Monroe.”
The Prodryan brought his hands together and scraped the two longest claws against each other in thought. “Allow me to consult with my clients.”
“No more games.” Jackson started forward.
“You would deny the accused their right to legal counsel? Lieutenant, I demand to speak with your commanding officer. I’ll also need your EMC serial number. Would you prefer I file charges in military court, where you’ll be busted in rank, or in civil court, where we’ll simply take a chunk of your paycheck for the rest of your natural life?”
Jackson responded through gritted teeth. “Five. Minutes.”
“Thank you.” Advocate of Violence turned to Mops. “Their warrants are in order. Now that they’ve identified themselves and verified their claim, you’re legally obligated to follow their orders. You’ll be given the opportunity to defend yourselves in front of an Alliance court or, more likely, a military tribunal.”
“Not with what we know,” said Mops. “They’ll shoot us into the nearest black hole to keep us quiet.”
“In which case you’d have excellent grounds for a countersuit.”
Mops took several slow breaths. “Doc, show me that map again.” She studied their location and surroundings. With one hand, she slid her combat baton from its holster, hiding the movement with her body. Monroe started to follow suit, but she shook her head.
“Stay behind me.” Mops stepped toward the EMC troops. Her thumb found the baton’s control toggle.
“Drop it,” warned Jackson. “Don’t be stupid, Mops.”
She pressed and slid the nub left. The baton hummed as its nanofilaments shifted into an alternate preprogrammed configuration. The weapon narrowed in her grip, lengthening to a javelin a meter-and-a-half in length. “Your violation of the firearms law started me thinking. Do you know why the Quetzalus forbid projectile weapons inside the Comaceans?”
“To protect them from harm,” said Rubin.
Jackson scowled. “A few tiny holes aren’t going to hurt a creature this size.”
“That’s not true.” Rubin stepped forward. “Comaceans have little sensation in their external skin, but their internal nervous system is—”
“Easy, Rubin,” said Mops. “Lieutenant Jackson, you don’t know where we are, do you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jackson gestured to three of her troops. “Simpson, Perón, Chekhov, put them in restraints. If they resist, shoot them.”
Mops focused on one of the troops. Doc magnified automatically. “Eva, is that you?”
Private Eva Perón glanced nervously at Lieutenant Jackson, then gave Mops a tight nod. “Hi, Mops. Long time no see.”
“How’s life on the Box Jellyfish?” Eva Perón had been part of the Pufferfish crew when the ship was attacked with a Prodryan bioweapon. Mops and her team had been suited up to handle a sewage rupture at the time, which was the only thing that had saved them from the effects. She was delighted to see one of her former crewmates recovered and looking healthy as ever.
“It’s . . . it’s fine,” stammered Perón. “I’d rather not shoot you, Lieutenant.”
“She’s a civilian now,” snapped Jackson.
“I’d rather you not shoot me either,” said Mops. “Especially since it would probably kill everyone here.”
“Shut up,” snapped Jackson. Mops could see her weighing her desire to end this against the chance Mops was telling the truth. “All right, fine. Why would shooting you kill everyone here?”
Mops tapped the tip of her javelin ever so gently against the floor. “The Quetzalus engineered this place to take advantage of the Comacean’s anatomy whenever possible. Instead of drilling tunnels, they use bronchial tubes. Larger rooms are built from the nodules in the lung. For escape pods, you want to launch the pods as fast as possible, right? So they built the pods into the part of the body designed for quick and powerful expulsion.”
“The intestine,” said Rubin. “Specifically, the tertiary sigmoid colon.”
Lieutenant Jackson stared, frustration turning her eyes to slits. “So what?”
“When launched, electrical charges stimulate the muscles to shoot the pod into space, along with any other intestinal matter.” Mops smiled. “If one of your shots ruptures the floor, given the intestinal pressure and the potential quantity of waste matter . . .”
Monroe whistled softly. “Not how I’d want to go.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Jackson.
“We’re standing on the biological equivalent of a giant high-pressure sewage pipe,” Mops explained. “Crack that pipe, and one of several things will happen. If the pipe’s empty, you’ll get a noxious gas leak. Unpleasant, but I’ve survived worse trapped on a shuttle with Wolf after she stuffed herself on Merraban burritos.”
“That was not a good day,” said Rubin.
“If the pipe’s full,” Mops continued, “a single hole or crack could trigger a full rupture. All it would take is one bad shot, one unexpected ricochet, and we all die a particularly nasty death. One bad shot, or me putting any weight on this weapon.”
Mops twisted her javelin, driving the monomolecular tip several millimeters into the floor. “If you want my advice, I’d let us get into that escape pod. You’ve got the Box Jellyfish closing in, which means you’ll still have a good shot at intercepting us. Or we can all take our chances with a perforated Comacean bowel.”
“Shit.” Jackson lowered her weapon.
Mops smiled. “Exactly.”
* * *
Mops floated in front of the escape pod’s display, watching her ship grow larger.
The Pufferfish had changed a great deal in the past four months. Roughly ninety percent of the ship was sealed off and powered down. Of the three original weapons pods, only one remained, like an outrigger running most of the length of the ship. The others had been damaged beyond repair and sold to cover the cost of repairing the third.
All around them were Comacean silhouettes, like long seed pods. Beyond the herd, ano
ther icon closed in: the EMCS Box Jellyfish.
Monroe leaned over her shoulder. “This is going to be close.”
“Nothing we can do about that.” Mops pushed off, launching herself toward one of the upper grab bars. The escape pod was designed for Quetzalus, meaning there were no human-sized rails or restraints. Controls were labeled in six Quetzalus languages. Doc had translated them enough for Mops to push the single thruster to maximum. Not that it would do much to help them outrace an EMC cruiser.
She looked across the pod at their guest. “Advocate of Violence is a mouthful. Any objection to ‘Cate’?”
“Your human syllables are all equally distasteful to me.”
Mops took that as a yes. Whatever name she used, his translator should provide the proper name in his preferred language anyway. She wondered briefly what names he called Mops and her crew. Was she the literal translation of “mops,” or something like “Kills with Cleaning Supplies,” which would be more Prodryan in nature?
“Cate, how did you and Admiral Pachelbel start working together?”
“The admiral attempted to tap into Fleet Admiral Sage’s private data feeds from Earth. When she succeeded—when one of her technical specialists succeeded, rather—they discovered we had already done so. Pachelbel’s people eventually traced the hijacked signal to me. The admiral offered me a choice: share everything I had gathered from Sage’s systems, or be charged for my crimes against the Alliance.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t threaten to expose Pachelbel’s snooping to Fleet Admiral Sage,” commented Monroe.
“Pachelbel is a competent warrior, for a non-Prodryan. Presumably she would have me terminated if I attempted such a thing. It’s what I would do.”
“So Pachelbel got her tentacles on your entire trove of Sage’s personal data,” said Mops. “Whatever she found spooked her into action. Why did she send us? She has plenty of more qualified troops at her disposal.”
“More qualified, certainly,” said Cate. “But those troops are ultimately under the command of Fleet Admiral Sage. If a single one betrays Pachelbel, she’ll be imprisoned for treason.”