by Jim C. Hines
“I EARNED A SUPERLATIVE rating in my certification exams,” Cate grumbled. “I’m one of only seventy-three advocates licensed to practice beyond Prodryan borders. My celebrated prosecution of the cannibal cultist Eats Necks First resulted in the first genetic expunging in a generation. Furthermore, I excelled in my mandatory combat training. A Prodryan of my vast accomplishments deserves better than to serve as your tripod.”
“Can you whine without wiggling so much?” Most of the accessories for Wolf’s rifle had blown up in the shuttle, forcing her to improvise. Fortunately, as long as Cate held still, Wolf’s rifle fit perfectly in the junction of the Prodryan’s head and torso. “And you’re not a tripod. You’re more of an irregular stabilizer.”
They both lay prone, their bodies forming an L shape. The crosshairs on Wolf’s visor were locked onto a single canister of emergency sealant suspended by a line of tape a hundred and fifty-eight meters away, directly in front of the stairwell door. Wolf had powered up the light panels around the door, giving her a clear view of her target.
“This plan is absurd,” said Cate, though he didn’t squirm as much this time. “Your repair supplies will not cause a single fatality.”
“The objective isn’t to kill. It’s to hold off the Krakau as long as we can.”
“Killing them would hold them off permanently.”
That was a fair point, dammit. “This is faster. I can distract and disable the entire group with one shot.”
“Your rifle has more than one slug. Ninety-nine, if my memory is correct.”
“All right,” Wolf decided. “First shot blows the canister. Then I start in on the kill shots.”
It wouldn’t be long now. The LockLand security doors were tough, but they were also more than a century and a half old. Over time, dust and moisture got into the locks. Shifts in the ground threw mechanisms out of alignment, opening tiny cracks for superheated drills and whatever other equipment the Krakau had brought along.
“You remember the path to our escape?” whispered Cate.
Wolf waved a hand in annoyance. “The directions are all programmed into my visor.”
“Programmed?” Cate scoffed. “Even if your human memory can’t retain such a basic plan, the stench should be enough to lead you—”
The clunk of metal slamming into metal boomed through level three, making both Wolf and Cate jump. Dust and dirt fell from the ceiling.
“Portable ram,” Wolf guessed, trying to calm her breathing. The sound repeated ten seconds later. With each subsequent impact, cracks spread through the concrete around the door, and the door itself crept inward. Bits of rubble fell to the ground.
“What the hell?” Wolf pushed her visor’s magnification as high as it would go.
She’d expected falling rubble. Rubble crawling back up the wall? That was weird. Her first thought was that the Krakau had disrupted a nest of insects or rodents. She focused on one of the charcoal-colored things clinging to the wall.
It was roughly the size of her little finger. Once it reached a point midway between floor and ceiling, it jumped and hovered in the air, turning in a quick circle. A second object, identical to the first, followed. More squeezed through the narrow gap between door and wall.
“What is it?” whispered Cate.
“Looks like minnows. MN-6 surveillance drones.”
The miniature drones were typically dispatched in swarms. Linked feeds allowed them to quickly search and map unknown environments. They could also be used offensively. A tiny charge launched a small slug from the end of the drone. It wasn’t as powerful as Wolf’s rifle, and it destroyed the minnow in the process, but it could take a chunk out of you. And if the Krakau had brought a full swarm . . .
“Dammit.” Wolf’s visor tracked more minnows emerging and orienting themselves.
“You expected the Krakau to simply charge through the door without reconnaissance?”
“Well, yeah.”
Cate’s right antenna twitched. “Do you know nothing about combat? Have you even read your own Rules of Engagement?”
“Wait, are you saying you knew they’d send drones through first? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew what you were doing.”
“Why the hell would you think that?” Her visor had tagged thirty-two individual minnows so far. For the moment, they were clustered together as they scanned the immediate area, but soon the little bastards would spread out to explore. Wolf took three long, slow breaths and squeezed the trigger.
The pressurized sealant canister exploded, spraying its contents in all directions. The nearest minnows were completely engulfed, transformed into expanding balls of orange foam that dropped harmlessly to the ground. Those farther out caught less of the spray, but even a single drop would cling and grow, disrupting the minnows’ function.
Several of the outermost minnows were untouched. Those were the ones that reoriented toward the source of the shot.
“Shit.” Wolf snatched up her rifle. Cate was already crawling away, ducking around the closest pillar.
Wolf risked a quick glance over her shoulder as she hurried after him. A minnow flashed, and Wolf’s head rocked back. Her visor’s display flickered. A long, centimeter-wide gash marred the side of the visor where the minnow had shot her.
Wolf moved faster.
A partial message popped up on her visor:—ght in six meters.
All right, maybe she should have memorized their escape route instead of relying on her visor.
Wolf ducked around another damn penguin statue, this one dressed in a baggy swimsuit, and cut to the right. Behind her, another minnow blew out the statue’s eye.
Turn—and your destin—teen meters.
Wolf flattened her body against the wall, flipped up the visor, grabbed her monocle, and jammed it over her eye. The directions reappeared on her monocle.
Turn left, and your destination is in fourteen meters.
Wolf passed Cate and sprinted up a wide blue-paved path. At the end of the path, an enormous open archway welcomed them to a cavernous indoor park. According to the librarians, this had been some sort of water recreation area. Corroded pipes dripped from the ceiling, high above. Old staircases and broken scaffolding stood as skeletal relics of old rides. What had once been pools were now open pits.
The stench of sewage grew stronger as Wolf crossed to the back of the park. The maintenance panel to waste line H1 had long since fallen away. Inside was a cramped square room, almost completely filled by an enormous vertical pipe. A penguin with a stern expression held a sign warning that this area was off limits.
“Compared to this,” gasped Cate, “your lingering smell of skunk is almost pleasant.”
Wolf squeezed around to the access hatch. They’d pried it open hours before, in preparation. The smell of decay made her eyes water. She shone her lamp inside, then wished she hadn’t.
This pipe should have had an internal diameter of one point six meters, but whoever had lived here in the final days of the plague hadn’t worried about things like sewage line cleaning and maintenance. Over the decades, an entire ecosystem of filth had colonized the pipe, resulting in the greasy black combination of decomposed waste, dirt, mold, and other growths and substances Wolf was trying really hard not to think about.
She turned her light upward. A red thermos was pressed into the mess half a meter overhead, with only the top few centimeters protruding. A long fuse snaked down from the lid.
Wolf closed every seam she could find on her uniform, then climbed feetfirst into the pipe. It was a tight fit, but the waxy black mess had a little give. She took out her plasma torch and switched it on. “Lighting the fuse now.”
The pipe muffled Nancy’s voice from below. “You’ll have two minutes. We’re ready down here.”
Wolf touched the flame to the end of the fuse. It
lit with a sputter of sparks, and an orange ember began creeping up toward the bomb.
She wiggled down as fast as she could. It was like crawling through someone’s digestive tract. Someone with serious medical problems.
Cate climbed in above her. “For the record, I hate you all.”
“Right now, I can’t even blame you.” Wolf’s boot reached the top of the open hatch to level four. She squirmed lower. Hands grasped her legs to help her out.
Her body slipped. She instinctively plunged her hands into the goop on either side.
“We’ve got you.” Nancy and another librarian, both wearing gloves, coveralls, and masks, reached in to slide Wolf free of the pipe. After depositing her on the floor, they did the same for Cate.
While Cate crawled away to vomit, Wolf helped two librarians close the access hatch. A series of metallic pings on the inside of the hatch announced the arrival of more minnows. They’d been closer than Wolf realized. A few seconds longer, and they would have caught up in time to kill Cate and Wolf both.
“What’s that sound?” asked Nancy. “What the hell happened up there?”
“Those are surveillance drones. We destroyed a bunch of them. The rest came after us. I just hope all the little bastards make it into the pipe before—”
The blast knocked the hatch from its mooring. A series of wet, thunderously loud plops followed. Black sludge began to ooze around the edges of the door.
“Minnows are designed to be able to swim through water,” said Wolf. “A ton of biological sludge is another matter. They’ll burn out their power reserves before they get free.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” said Nancy.
Cate rolled onto his back. “What if the Krakau follow us down the pipe? Digging through the waste could give them swifter access to the lower levels.”
“The Krakau sense of smell is stronger than ours. They’ll take the long way.” Wolf tugged the compressor from her harness. “We’ve bought a little time. I suggest we use it to hose off and prep for the next battle.”
* * *
Mops floated on her back in a half-full medical tank. The Krakau had taken her equipment, monocle, and uniform. The top of the tank was open, allowing a Krakau to apply surgical glue to various wounds Mops hadn’t noticed. If she was counting correctly, she’d been shot with four A-gun slugs in addition to the energy weapons.
She worked her jaw back and forth. “Rubin?”
“Alive, sir.” Rubin’s words were hoarse and slurred, the same as Mops’ own. It sounded like she was nearby—probably another medtank. “You?”
“The same. More or less.”
Mops’ very first memory was of waking up in a tank like this one, in the Antarctic Medical Facility. This time, she had the advantage of knowing who and where she was and what was happening. On the other hand, last time she hadn’t awakened with holes in her body and electrical burns.
The dim lighting had a blue-green tinge. Another Krakau peered at her over the opposite side of the tank, speaking with an accusatory combination of clicks and whistles. She punctuated her words with the flick of a tentacle tip.
Mops knew a few words of Liktok, the most commonly-used Krakau language, but either this wasn’t Liktok or else the speaker’s accent was too thick for Mops’ limited knowledge. “Try Human,” Mops croaked. “Or give me back my monocle to handle the translation.”
The Krakau repeated the same string of sounds and gestures, only louder.
The one tending to Mops’ wounds gave the speaker an annoyed look, then turned away and addressed someone else.
A new Krakau appeared, this one wearing a translating collar. “You are Marion S. Adamopoulos, formerly Lieutenant Adamopoulos, commander of the Shipboard Hygiene and Sanitation Team of the EMCS Pufferfish, currently wanted by both the EMC and the Krakau Alliance?”
“I am. And you are?”
The Krakau said something untranslatable. Like Greensleeves, she probably hadn’t chosen a Human name for herself. She clipped an unfamiliar device to the side of Mops’ medtank and switched it on.
A spray of mist arced over the top of the tank, like a miniature fountain display. Pin-sized lights switched on from the device, shining directly into the mist. Not a medical tool, but a portable projector. After a moment, the intersection of light and water droplets resolved into the familiar form of Fleet Admiral Belle-Bonne Sage.
“You’re looking worse for wear, Ms. Adamopoulos.”
Mops turned to the nameless Krakau who continued to fiddle with the projector. “I don’t suppose you could switch to one of the entertainment channels?”
Sage leaned closer, her face growing until Mops could see every flaking edge in the chitin of her beak. “Don’t waste my time. Who in the Alliance has been aiding you and your crew? I assume Admiral Pachelbel is involved, yes? She’s always had a softness for humans.”
“It’s true, we’ve been working for someone high up in the Alliance all along. The mastermind controlling our movements, the puppeteer pulling our strings, the evil genius using us to bring down the Alliance is . . .” Mops paused for effect. “Your mother.”
“My mothers are both retired, and neither has access to the intelligence reports or resources required to help your team.” Sage paused. “Or was that supposed to be a joke?”
“Supposed to be.” Mops shrugged, sending new ripples through the water. “Being shot messes with my sense of humor. Call back tomorrow, and I should be in better form.”
Sage lowered her voice. “I know enough about you to expect and even respect your stubbornness. I trust you’ve learned enough about me to recognize it’s only delaying the inevitable. You will give me the answers I need. The only question is how much you and your companion will suffer before it happens. Let’s try again. Tell me about Admiral Pachelbel and anyone else who has been helping you.”
Mops grimaced as the medic glued another of her wounds. “If you’re planning to torture us, I should warn you I’ve retained a lawyer who would be happy to prosecute you for violating Alliance law.”
“Perhaps a different question to start with. Where is the Pufferfish now?”
“In the shop for a new paint job. Grom thought it needed racing stripes.” Mops tried to sit up, failed, and fell back with a splash. “How about a trade? You answer my questions, and maybe I’ll answer yours. You can start by telling me about this place. What are your people really doing here at Armstrong?”
Sage swayed like seaweed in a current, her body language suggesting indecision. “I can’t give you the details on what we’re doing, but I can tell you why we’re doing it.”
Mops hadn’t expected that response. “I’m listening.”
“Our greatest advantage against the Prodryans—the reason we’ve held our own in the ongoing war—is their inability to work as a united species.”
“I’m aware,” said Mops. “It’s what undermined their attack on Dobranok.”
Sage let out a brief, weary whistle. “You humans have never cared about the complexities of this conflict. You fight and move on, oblivious to the larger picture.”
Anger helped Mops to sit up without falling this time. She leaned so close to the projection the mist tickled her face. “The Alliance doesn’t tell us the larger picture. You feed us oversimplifications and lies. You use us as guns against an enemy you don’t want to face personally. Fuck you and your condescension.”
There was a long pause, presumably while the translator figured out how to express copulation with an immaterial concept. “You raise a valid point. Consider the battle you mentioned, the Prodryan assault on my home planet four months ago.”
“The battle where my crew saved your world and prevented a genocide?” asked Mops.
“Yes.” Sage paused. “Have you paid any attention to the aftermath? The effect your victory has had on Prodryan politics?”
&
nbsp; Mops’ jaw tightened. She’d spent the past four months trying to keep herself and her crew safe, and searching for proof about the Rokkau and the origins of the Krakau plague.
“I thought as much.” The translator captured enough of Sage’s smugness to make Mops want to punch the display. “You remember Heart of Glass, the Prodryan behind that attack? He was a fugitive, sentenced to death for advocating even minimal cooperation with non-Prodryan races.”
“Cooperation against the Alliance,” said Mops.
“His failure at Dobranok was seen as proof that his philosophy of cooperation was one of weakness. His defeat was widely publicized. Particularly the magnitude of his defeat. You humiliated him. You, a mere human with a single ship. The reputation of his family and associates was tarnished beyond repair.”
“What are you saying?” asked Mops. “They’re out for revenge?”
Sage blinked, confusion leaving her momentarily speechless. “Nonsense. They’re Prodryans. They all changed their names and allegiances to distance themselves from the whole mess. To seek revenge would require acknowledging their connection to a traitor and a failure. No, what matters is the publicity of Heart of Glass’ defeat.”
Mops wasn’t following. “So, a lot of Prodryans know a traitor got his ass handed to him by humans. Isn’t that a good thing? Maybe they’ll think twice before launching their next attack.”
“They have thought more than two times,” Sage assured her. “Mops, according to the best estimates of Alliance Intelligence, there are more than twice as many Prodryans than there are all Alliance members combined. But the Prodryans are fragmented. Most have no direct involvement in the war.”
That much, Mops knew. Much of it had been explained in basic training, when the Krakau taught the newly reborn humans about the pendulous balance of power between Alliance and Prodryans. Any technological innovations one side developed were quickly stolen by the other. Prodryans had superior numbers, but the Alliance had better soldiers. It all led to a military stalemate a century and a half long.
“The Battle of Dobranok accomplished something no Prodryan has done in centuries,” said Sage. “It demonstrated the need for the Prodryans to come together. The warlords plan to gather on Yan to discuss the appointment of a supreme war leader. Within months, they could unite behind a leader strong enough to lead all Prodryan forces against the Alliance.”