by Orion, W. J.
“What motivation do they have beyond the thrill of competition?” Dwen’s friend asked as it spun in a slow circle, allowing each of its faces and facets to see in all directions.
“Exile,” Dwen answered. “The binding terms of this battle are ugly. If the Yenndowenn win this battle, they secure the unopposed occupation of the five Sarpalan home worlds. The Sarpalan will be allowed to leave their system in an orderly fashion but without any substantial amount of their system’s wealth and forced to find a new home for twenty billion souls.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“You want barbaric? What would’ve come to pass if the Empire and the Alliance were to have had open battle for their worlds? Atomic weapons? Viral warfare? Planet-killer beams? The list of potential horrors is endless. Instead of twenty billion refugees, we could have twenty billion corpses and five shattered worlds.”
“What happens if the Sarpalan Alliance wins? They’re a much smaller player in the galaxy. Are they trying for gain?”
“Of course they are,” Dwen said, watching as three Sarpalan hunter-killer mechs closed on a Yenndowenn Shark mecha that strode through the forest looking for the concealed, electronically cloaked prey, unaware that it would soon be surrounded. “If the Alliance wins this battle, they secure a five hundred thousand lunar cycle peace treaty with the Empire, as well as wagered spoils of war: fifty billion hub credits.” Hub credits were the universal currency issued by the Nexus to pay for all goods and services on the station, chief of which was the use of the wormhole portals.
“That’s enough currency to buy frigate or carrier transits for the indefinite future.”
“It is, and then some. Not only would they avoid exile or extinction, they would secure a higher place in the galactic power scheme with a win today,” Dwen said, spinning its body to allow each face to see the action. The heavy Yendowenn behemoth let loose another sky-tearing salvo of missiles into the forest near its first target site, obliterating trees, rocks, and foliage all planted earlier that week by Court landscapers. No Sarpalan mech was revealed in the aftermath. Its target had fled.
“Fascinating. Wheels within wheels, yes?” the other Galon observer commented as flying Sarpalan mech launched thirty yards into the air. The dragonfly-shaped vehicle sprayed a mist of fist-sized pellets into the air, filling the horizon several hundred yards wide. The cloud of projectiles peppered the artillery mech, sticking to its foots-thick armor and doing no damage. The flying mech dropped from the sky into the forest as the third Yenndowenn mecha let rip a cloud-tearing burst of plasma fire through the air it had just occupied. “What?”
“Watch,” Dwen said, and let slip smiles from all three of its mouths.
The ineffectual dots on the monster each exploded across its body in a wave, tripling in volume as a thick, viscous foam spread out. The large, angular, tank-ish mech walked forward, and tried to lift one of its twin cannon-mounted arms up to brush at the strange covering on its surface, but the moment the cannon barrels touched the upper surface they affixed there, glued in a diagonal line, aiming at nothing. The arms were worthless, and further, the hundreds of missile tubes were gunked up with the strange foam, rendering the largest weapon in the Yenndowenn force no more dangerous than a paperweight.
“The battle was a heavy mech with two medium mechs versus five light mechs. Now, there are two medium mechs. Watch more,” Dwen said, pointing at the Shark mech that now had been surrounded by the three Sarpalan light hunter-killers.
Two of the hunter-killers—scorpion-styled monster vehicles with powerful pincer front arms—jumped and fired thrusters, launching into the Shark mech, smashing into its shoulder where the rail guns and plasma cannons were mounted. The hydraulic power of the larger front arm cutters fired on, and each of the hunter killers severed a weapon system straight off the Shark mech. Only its breast-mounted turrets remained, and those were unable to pivot to target as the Shark pilot tried to shake off the Sarpalan assault.
The third hunter-killer erupted from the forest, slamming into the groin area of the bipedal medium mech, skewering through the thick armor with laser-tipped pincers, sawing into joints, hydraulic musculature, and all manner of crucial components. The Shark listed to the side and struggled to stay upright.
The crowd that was gathered went wild as the battle continued to build in intensity.
The third and final Yenndowenn mech fired its plasma weapons at its enemy-covered ally. The callous barrage of energy fire smashed into the three Sarpalan mechs, piercing their thin armor and exploding the smaller mechs like insects swatted off a beast in the jungle. Its lancing fire tore into its own ally, blasting it apart as the power source exploded, wiping out the three Sarpalan attackers as well as five hundred yards of forest in all directions. Flames grew from the ground as fuels and weaponry set the trees on fire.
“And in the fires we witness the birth of heroes,” Dwen remarked as the flying Sarpalan mech jumped up from a spot in the unlit forest a hundred yards away from where it had just surfaced. The light mech sprayed another salvo of its tiny pellets at the last target, coating it in a new shell of hardened, sticky armor. Its pilot struggled to bring weapon systems to bear to protect itself, but just as its final moment of desperation gave it the salvation of a firing solution, the fifth Sarpalan light mecha appeared from the woods near its feet.
The scorpion-pattern mech fired its belly thrusters, flew up into the Yenndowenn’s back, and pierced into the thinner aft armor with its massive tail spike. It held on with its other clawed limbs and set free a power guided pulse of alien energy into the interior of the mech it attacked.
The crowd erupted in applause as the Sarpalan forces—now just two meager light mechs—won the battle in the face of the arrogant, aggressive, conceivably stronger foe.
“Twenty billion lives traded for however many pilots just died on the field. Barbaric… I think not,” Dwen said.
“Fascinating.”
“Welcome to the Interstellar Court: where a bit of bravery can win you a solar system, a lifetime of wealth, or more importantly… your freedom.”
Chapter Fourteen
Yelling on the Bridge
If Trey could sweat, his colony would be covered in it. I should have been able to make contact with them by now. They had better be here, the alien thought.
The Baron sat behind the driver’s wheel of his big, red pickup truck. He leaned over the wheel and fixed his eyes back into the binoculars he held. The ex-firefighter stared at the distant settlement of Sturgeon Bay, searching for signs of crab activity—hell, human activity too. If he saw a deer that’d be fantastic as well.
“See anything?” Yasmine asked him.
“This place makes my skin crawl. This isn’t the biggest city by far, but by now we should’ve seen some kind of life. We’re less than a mile from the dry river, or bay, or whatever splits this place in two, and we haven’t seen a single sign of movement.”
“It’s midday,” Yaz countered him. “No one will be moving. It’s hot as get out right now.”
“Yeah, but still.”
“The rebellion cell,” Trey said from his concealment under a handful of dirty, salvaged blankets, “would keep things civil around their base here. Last I knew, they had a working relationship with the humans in the vicinity. It’s likely they would have a central area where the locals lived.”
“Fish in a barrel,” Caleb muttered.
“Easier to protect the villagers inside the castle walls,” Trey added. Stop being so damn negative. Give peace a chance.
“So where is the castle?” Yasmine asked.
“Well,” Trey said as he shifted his blanket-covered girth under the filthy coverings, “The iron bridge to the north was where they had security years ago. Beyond that in the city was a safe zone they had survivors living in. I would think we should head there to make contact.”
“Can you radio them?” Yaz asked. “With your chassis communication systems?”
“I’m try
ing, but I can’t connect with anything.”
“So, we just drive towards that giant iron suspension bridge, drive our exposed convoy across it, and pray we don’t get plasma-cannoned to death?” her uncle asked.
“Get us to the edge of the bridge and let me out,” Trey said. “I’ll walk in front of the convoy so they know we’re crab-friendly. Just keep a bit of distance in the event they decide they don’t want visitors.”
“I’ll stay here in case they don’t like humans,” Caleb said.
“They like humans, trust me. They set up a permanent shelter here to help as many as they could. Seeing us together as we cross the bridge will help prove our situation to them,” Trey countered.
“You’re putting your ass on the line,” Caleb said after dropping the binoculars from his eyes.
“As a wise human once said, ‘teamwork makes the dream work.’ Now, sally forth, friend.”
“You got it, Miss Daisy,” Caleb said. He grabbed the walkie and let the rest of the drivers know the plan, and then he guided his armored cherry-red vehicle further north on the abandoned roads of Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin.
I hope this works. And who is Miss Daisy?
In his white chassis–which was covered in a film of brown dust–Trey took his first step forward onto the metal bridge that crossed the dry space that used to be Sturgeon Bay.
Bridge is still is great shape. No notable surface damage from fighting. Regular wear leftover from before the invasion. It’s obviously been kept up by the cell, or the humans working with the cell here.
He plodded his heavy feet forward delicately, testing with the lead foot placement to ensure the road would hold before putting weight down. Thirty steps into his journey he lifted the small human walkie he held in his smaller manipulator tendrils. Using a delicate, biomechanical tentacle-tip, he activated the human device.
“Road seems perfectly safe to drive on. Let me double how far onto the bridge I am, then feel free to start following me.”
“I’m still thinking we’ll stay right here, thanks,” the Baron replied. “No way I want us caught out in the open if they decide to light us up.”
“Fair enough. I’ll radio if I hear from them. Can you ask Trader Joe to… reach out to me telepathically? It might be easier to do this if he and I are connected for the process.”
“Roger dodger,” the Baron replied.
Trey continued forward at a measured pace with a tickle of fear growing in the recesses of his mind. The idea of letting one of…. Them… into his head–and thoughts–felt like treason on a level Trey had never imagined; and Trey had already committed high treason against the government of his own people.
Do not worry, he heard Trader Joe say from a spot near those recesses. I am a gentle soul.
I trust that with you now, but the distrust must be built right into my cells. Try as I might… your kind as a whole terrify me, and you still scare me.
Trader Joe chuckled and the image of the alien sitting in the passenger seat next to Knox flashed into his mind as clear as if he was looking in the car window with his own eyes. Or suit sensors, as the case may be.
I understand entirely. It is normal for prey animals to fear their natural predators, harsh as that sounds between burgeoning friends. Now, how may I help you in this moment?
My chassis neural boosters aren’t making any connections with anyone in the crab cell. Is there any way you can lend some psychic power to boost my signal? See if I can link up to communicate?
You want me to help you shout. I can do that for you, Trey. It might feel… head-achy, but it can be done if you’re willing to suffer a bit for it.
That bad? Trey asked. Will I regret this?
I can’t speak for your regrets, but I can assure you the experience will be strange. Let me know when.
Let me try on my own one last time, Trey said as he continued walking forward. By now, he’d reached a quarter of the way to the other side of the arced iron bridge. He slowed his pace to a crawl. Hello? He tried. I call myself Trey now. Perhaps you recognize me? Voices and names were largely irrelevant amongst his society. Colonies identified one another by their neural fingerprint. Like a voice and scent and face all wrapped up into one impression that arrived inside the mind.
Nothing.
Joe, will you give me that boost, and hope that I don’t wish I hadn’t.
Many double-negatives there. Of course. Concentrate for a moment and silence all your incoming data. You’ll want as little distraction as possible at the moment I couple mental sequencing with you.
Inside the tank of water where all his colonial citizens resided, he took a deep breath and halted the forward progress of his suit. All went still, and he waited for a painful spike into his thoughts or a frigid psychic wind chilling his water.
Go ahead, he said to Trader Joe. Link us.
I joined with you already. Did it not hurt?
I felt nothing. I can’t tell anything’s different.
Well. That’s a great and unusual sign. Our minds must work in a copacetic way. Yasmine’s as well. We should explore this at a later date and see what we can do with the fortunate coincidence.
I’m gonna yell at them now, if you don’t mind.
By all means, Trey. Beware the volume.
Trey returned his attention to the real world and allowed his mind to open. Loudly.
This is Trey. Is the resistance support cell still here? A psychic shout normally had the comparable effect of giving Trey a mental sore throat, but this was something he’d never imagined. Rather than a mild, irritating vibration, his message shook the walls of Trey’s mental house and knocked free the detritus built up there. His entire being shook with the power of his message.
A trickle came back through space.
I recognize you, but not the name you gave. You’re a very loud voice in a very quiet space. I don’t remember you being the size you must be for the volume you have.
Indigo, Trey responded at slightly less power, using the name Trey knew the speaking crab had adopted years ago. I took a new human name when I made contact with new human friends.
I see. Why are you so loud?
Trey scrambled. His crab friends couldn’t find out he was boosting power off Trader Joe. Trey lied. I’m in a prototype expedition chassis with enhanced communications.
Do you have food? Weapons? Indigo asked.
That sounded desperate, he thought to himself.
It did, Trader Joe replied.
Trey ignored the alien sharing his headspace. Indigo, are you low on food? Are you under attack?
There are only a cluster of us left. We’ve been killed off by human scavengers and we haven’t been able to resupply food in a very long time. Our weapons are slowly degrading. Soon we won’t be able to defend ourselves or the people we’ve sworn to protect.
Can’t you just get into your ship and restock with the rebel fleet? I know it’s not much, but there has to be a ship in the system you can contact to get food and weapons. Unless… unless the resistance has given up on helping the humans?
It’s been an arduous year here for us, Trey, Indigo said. She said no more.
Do you… do you still have your ship?
It’s currently unavailable to us, and without better weaponry, we are unable to get it back, Indigo said with shame.
You had it stolen? You fucking had it stolen, didn’t you? Trey said, letting his collective anger flare up.
You use colorful language like the humans do. You must spend a lot of time with them, like us. We were shot down. Humans to the north hit us with a very lucky shot as we were on a landing approach a few of their months ago. We put down hard, clipped one of their wind turbine towers on the way, and parts of the tower fell on top of our ship, pinning it to the ground. We had to escape when they approached, and we’ve been unable to make an assault to get it back.
Will it fly if we get it back?
Several of the thrusters need repair, but that’s a feasible
task, Indigo said. The true issues are the humans guarding it and the enormous weight of the debris on top of it. Do you need to get off world? Is that why you’re asking about our ship?
Yes.
Why?
If we help you get that ship back, we need it. I can share my food supply with you until we restock in space, but we need that ship, no questions asked.
Hard to disagree with an offer like that, Indigo said. We’re going to starve soon.
Joe, if you’re listening to this, don’t tell the Baron anything yet. He won’t like this news. We need to find a way to get Yasmine to tell him. He’s less likely to kill her than us.
Hard to disagree with sense like that, Trader Joe said.
Chapter Fifteen
Trade You a Red Pickup Truck for Your Spaceship
Yasmine had a growing sense of dread as their group met the crab resistance cell Trey had led them to. The two groups met in the middle of the road on the far side of the corroded iron bridge Trey had walked over. Four vehicles, a handful of humans, and one white crab stood lined up against a row of six brown, organic-carapaced crabs of slightly larger size.
These were the kinds of crabs the humans had fought against for years, and that they stood—planted on their many legs, with their facial tentacles hanging ominously—completely without sound made Yasmine’s soul shiver.
“Why aren’t they talking?” her uncle asked her in a whisper.
“They’re talking,” Yaz said. “We just can’t hear it.”