Hull Damage

by Timothy J Meyer

  Despite this, blast points, blackened streaks and scars which Moira definitively denotes as the unpleasant handiwork of the SV7 classic, still manifest persistently throughout the village, tarnishing the seamless coral shells as unflagging reminders of the Imperium's impending presence. Without the enfolding canopy of the planet's anemic jungles to impair navigational equipment and offer camouflaged asylum from their enemies, vo Qwer's home village and its four thousand inhabitants were vastly more susceptible to Insurgent Company's raiding parties, surgical strikes and flyby sorties than their southern brethren and subsequently suffered the most under the Imperium's pitiless campaign of decimation.

  The seemingly blameless faces of the Baziron children, fleetingly visible between the thickets of their bow-legged parents, conspire to cloud Odisseus' judgment, to attribute storied stereotypes where they don't belong and to conflate these events with those of decades past.

  “Plus, in a crunch,” Two-Bit twirls the rifle about to catch the butt in an open palm and hastily mimes a brutal stock strike, “you can just biff 'em with the bloomhole.” Some hiccupping noise, whether signifying condemnation or approval Odisseus has no way of determining, reverberates from the throatsacs of the congregation as Two-Bit canters down a crate. “You've got two-hundred forty crackers here, with five nanners a piece. That's sixty carts a cracker, but you gotta buzz Ott back before you get zilched sos we can coop back out here, float you some more, yeah?” Alighting to the swampy ground with a moist squish and a muttered expletive, Two-Bit flings the DU5 into the waiting grip of the koj's nearest minder, flags Anchorage and Ebeneezer with a gloved hand and begins slogging his way through the slush to rejoin with the Captain and his expectant companions.

  “Well, that was relatively painless,” Nemo appraises briskly.

  Two-Bit Switch, marching nosily through the morass with a contracted thug at either flank, opens his mouth to voice a rebuttal, only to be interceded by the grating metallic interruption of vo Qwer's droidvox, calling haltingly after his departure. “THE GLUTTED ONE HHENEL,” the blinking droidvox-implant, barnacled to the side of vo Qwer's head, drones with poorly rendered timbre and nonexistent cadence, “DESIRES YOU TO TARRY A MOMENT.”

  “Sublime,” Two-Bit breathes.

  Odisseus snorts to banish a particular putrescence, likely the pervasive musk of slodzen droppings, and squints across the breadth, in an effort to bring the corpulent koj Hhenel, struggling ungainfully to his feet with the aide of four strapping attendants, into better focus.

  The koj, or the “Glutted One” as vo Qwer terms both him and Ott, much to the latter's continual distress, belongs in a weight category shared by prize-winning livestock and only via his stubby, bloated proboscis, more of a squat curiosity than the slender, trenchant barbs sported by most Baziron, can he even be identified as the same species as the beings encircling him. He, like his squad of retainers, is ritualistically attired in fancily impractical garb, composed principally of prodigious feathers, the plumage dyed a dizzying array of clashing colors. While this grants the movements of his ancillary warriors a perplexing mirage-like aspect, this effect is somewhat lost on the enormity of the koj, who resembles nothing so much as a monstrous half-plucked rainbow lonktonk.

  Verticality ultimately achieved, the koj Hhenel, undisputed ruler of the Dancing-Horizon kojaj, with half a dozen dauntless Baziron honor guard cincturing his position, waddles a step and a half forward and bombinates a splattering wet pronouncement from his spacious throatsac.

  “THE GLUTTED ONE HHENEL DESIRES,” vo Qwer hastily translates, his own throatsac rumbling quietly to activate the droidvox's metaphrase protocol, “TO CONVERSE OPENLY WITH HIS COUNTERPART AMONG THE OUTLANDERS, BE IT THIS PROFANE ONE OR ANOTHER AMONG THOSE WITHOUT.”

  “That's your cue, gov,” Two-Bit beams back to the Captain.

  “'Wait, I'm his counterpart? Do you see him?”

  “Nemo–,” Odisseus growls.

  “I mean, he's fatter than Abraham, for bloom's sake!”

  “Nemo!”

  “Right, right, interspecies diplomacy, I'm going, I'm going,” he complies repeatedly, swaggering three steps forward and launching a lax gesture and a laxer greeting to the koj. “Hey, I come in peace, what do you need?”

  “THE GLUTTED ONE HHENEL RECOGNIZES YOU, PEER, AND EXTENDS HUMBLEST GRATITUDE FOR THIS BOON OF WEAPONRY,” vo Qwer, reiterating split seconds behind the koj's muculent rumblings, sidles aside to allow an uninterrupted sightline between Nemo and his headman and adopts a more obsequious posture.

  “Yeah, you bet, anytime. Listen, I'm just the dumper here, you wanna send your thanks or whatever up north to–” Nemo blusters, wandering a step backward and absently thumbing over his shoulder, in fact, to the south, but the koj continues to blaze diatribe forward.

  “HOWEVER, THE GLUTTED ONE DISMAYS TO INFORM YOU THAT THE ENEMY HAS ALTERED THEIR OBJECTIVE AND NOW ENDEAVORS–”

  “See, you're gonna wanna get that information where it belongs, so I tell you what,” Nemo forestalls with an extended hand, snapping the copper comm unit off its pendant perch on his belt, “you tell vo Qwer here and I'll buzz Mutha or Kivad and they can–”

  “THE IMPERIUM HUNTS YOU.”

  This statement, deprived of any conceivable gravity or portent by the droidvox's monotonous discord, somehow manages to throttle the breezy nonchalance from Nemo at a stroke and instead inaugurate that dark diligence of his that had, thus far, claimed the lives of innumerable Imperium soldiers. “Me?”

  koj Hhenel clicks, evidently in clarification, and continues. “YOU AND THOSE OF YOUR CLOTH. THE GLUTTED ONE'S CITY OR PEOPLE CAN OFFER YOU LITTLE HARBORAGE NOW THAT THEY SEEK YOU.”

  “How do you know?” Moira declares suddenly from Odisseus' right. Made momentarily hesitant by the bluntness of the conversation's latest entrant, vo Qwer proceeds to translate Moira's inquiry only after a condoning wave from Nemo.

  “THE WILDS ARE SILENT,” koj Hhenel, via vo Qwer, stipulates. “THE GLUTTED ONE HHENEL HAS RECEIVED WORD FROM HIS SISTER-CITIES ALONG THE HORIZON. NOWHERE CAN AGENTS OF THE IMPERIUM BE FOUND.”

  “Ain't that a good thing?” Ebeneezer, apparently emboldened by Moira's contribution, mutters to no one in particular, only to be promptly shushed by Two-Bit.

  “THEY AWAIT SOMETHING, SOMETHING KILLING THE GLUTTED ONE'S PEOPLE MUST NOT PROVIDE THEM.”

  “Me,” Nemo intones bitterly. “Where are they?” he pursues, without missing a beat.

  “SOUTH,” the koj categorically replies. “WHITHER IS THE GLUTTED ONE'S PEER BOUND?”

  “South,” Nemo disconsolately echoes, the faintest glimmer of a sneer gradually materializing into view.

  “Nemo,” Odisseus interjects, advancing forward a step, “this needs to be reported. Ott should–”

  “I've forty more crates of munitions to deliver,” Nemo confesses, replete with mock responsibility, “to koj Pasqkla of the Scream-Weed kojaj, a thousand mottibles south of here–”

  koj Hhenel's veiny throatsac flares abruptly and, for a heartbeat Odisseus' wonders if it'll burst, but it rather deflates into clammy throbbing. “THE GLUTTED ONE HHENEL DENOUNCES THOSE OF THE SCREAM-WEED,” vo Qwer translates after a moment, “AS HONORLESS SCUM, AND GLUTTED ONE PASQKLA DEVOID OF DIGNITY.”

  “Sounds like my kinda guy. Don't translate that.”

  In accordance with Ott's wishes, one third of Nabdres' pilfered weaponry was to be delivered to the koj Hhenel and the remainder of the Dancing-Horizon, while the majority of the DU5s had been allocated to the largest Baziron tribe on the northern continent, the embattled Scream-Weed kojaj, evidently so named for a particularly vocal piece of native flora, located deep in the southern jungles.

  From what little Odisseus could glean from official briefings and small talk among Ott's other pillagers, the Scream-Weeds were both a militant and prolific kojaj, over twice the size of the Dancing-Horizon and covering nearly four times the territory. Unscrupulous, quarrelsome and displaying a peerless penchant for sla
ughtering Imperium soldiers, this kojaj and its leader, the reputedly unstable koj Pasqkla, sounded exactly like Nemo's kind of people.

  While skirmishes with several distinct infantry battalions abounded in these northern regions, regular reports of extremely heavy fighting, with a staggering daily body count, continued to flood Ott's polar command from the south and, with the Field Captain's confession indicating a new directive from this General Pluvosh, it'd become increasingly clear that Imperium Campaign Ground Control was doggedly attempting to provoke an exploitable response from the Galactic Menace by hammering the Baziron hard.

  However, the main problem with this objective, what the military brass hadn't foreseen, was that the vehemently individualistic Scream-Weed kojaj had, in fact, repeatedly rebuffed Ott's extension of alliance and really only entertained diplomacy on account of the exorbitant tribute Ott regularly paid them. Much to the Imperium's eventual chagrin, giving battle to the Baziron of the Scream-Weed kojaj would purchase precious few results, at the cost of egregious casualties, in their burgeoning hunt of the Galactic Menace.

  Thusly, it was Ott's apparent supposition that, even without the direct aid of his reavers, if the Scream-Weeds could be suitably armed to stand against their better equipped adversaries, their superior numbers would eventually bleed the ground campaign so severely, the Endless Imperium might be forced to re-evaluate the net profitability of their stake in Baz's doxychoraphum trade. Such was his supposition, at any rate.

  “Tell the koj,” Nemo summarizes to vo Qwer, “that although I appreciate his cautions, I've been tasked with this errand and duty compels me to complete it.” The Baziron ambassador, as if incredulous himself, wavers a moment before conveying the message.

  “Duty compels me...” Odisseus scoffs, glancing aside to commiserate with Moira who, steely as ever, spits.

  “THE GLUTTED ONE HHENEL LAMENTS THIS CHOICE, BUT DEFERS, IN THIS MATTER, TO HIS PEER'S WISDOM,” the Baziron chieftain wheezes within the confines of his throatsac, “BUT,” vo Qwer appends as koj Hhenel adjusts his dubious posture and continues, “HE WARNS YOU NOT TO UNDERTAKE SUCH AN ENDEAVOR HEEDLESSLY. BE FOREARMED AND EXPECTANT OF STRIFE.” the koj Hhenel bats some unrecognizable gesture with a blubbery hand, banded by rolls of excess fat. “ONLY RAMPANT DESTRUCTION, THE GLUTTED ONE OBSERVES, IS TO BE FOUND IN THE SOUTH.”

  “Well, that's the plan,” Nemo slaps this thighs. “Respect, koj,” he salutes with some sort of laudatory gesture Odisseus is pretty certain he just made up, before revolving stiffly on his heel and traipsing the short distance back to his confederates, with the sporty comportment of impending violence. “We ready to boost?”

  “You're serious.” Moira flatlines.

  “I am. Very much so, in fact. If there's–”

  An aberrant sound, somewhere between the extremes of an animal's agonized howl and the choppy reverberation of a jet turbine, resounds wanly in the distance. All the village's commotion drops harshly away as the unearthly cry, be it from beast, machine or man Odisseus can't conclusively say, winds up a second time.

  “Fuck me upside down, what is that?” Two-Bit wonders aloud.

  “From the southeast,” Moira indicates mutteringly.

  As if on cue, the Baziron explode into motion, dissipating rapidly in every direction, disassembling and stowing the crate mountain, scrambling for cover within buildings, beneath drooping overhangs of concealing coral, wherever shelter may be found. Within mere moments, the main thoroughfare of the Dancing-Horizon village is practically deserted. With surprising fluidity, the koj's suite of escorts hurriedly retires the immense being to the relative sanctuary offered by a dense bouquet of interlacing antler coral. One among them pauses long enough to inhale a titanic breath of air and, upraising the flanged barb of his proboscis, unleash a warbling vociferation of his own, the skin of his throatsac literally rippling from the exertion of streaming the outlandish noise through the perforations in its mouthparts.

  “Okay, what's happening?” Nemo bemusedly implores of vo Qwer as the Baziron lopes toward them.

  “AN AIRCRAFT APPROACHES. IMPERIUM. FROM THE SOUTHEAST.”

  Within fifteen seconds of this revelation, Odisseus has Nemo safely sequestered from view beneath the inflexible eaves of the nearby star coral, almost more to prevent his saltbrother from firing his pistol wildly in the general direction of the advancing enemy than anything else. Moira, Two-Bit, Anchorage, Ebeneezer and vo Qwer huddle nearby in the muck, all of them like eight bipedal roaches, having scampered under the chiller.

  “Nemo to Lover, do you copy? Abraham, do you copy? This is Nemo, Abraham, are you there?” the Captain croaks into his comm, “You gotta power down, you hear me? Shut down all systems, take her completely black. If they get a bead, they'll–”

  “Nemo!” Moira hisses, craning a covetous arm across both Two-Bit and vo Qwer to snatch the comm from his grip. “All the moons,” she marvels inwardly, snapping the device completely off.

  Before Nemo can offer protest, however, a glaring orb of brassy dawn, the strident shine of a floodlight, pierces the dusky twilight beyond and stalks a studious path between the mounds and growths of ostensibly barren coral, most acting sanctuaries for handfuls of hidden Baziron, lying in anxious wait. Indistinctly, as if from some prodigious range, Odisseus can hear the muffled churn of a vehicle-class driftmotor and indeed, after several strenuous seconds of searching from the lofty spotlight, a compact low-atmosphere craft, painted jungle olive and boasting both beacon-mounts and anti-infantry emplacements from the tips of its support ridges, meanders into view between studded coral boughs.

  While certainly manufactured by Terro Fleet Systems, as indicated by the unmelodious motif of its architecture and the apparent efficiency of its propulsion system, Odisseus can't quite determine, from his skewed vantage point, whether the aircraft lingering overhead was either an M2 Vagrant-Class Short-Range Scout or possibly an M9 Onslaught-Class Low-Atmo Gunboat. In either case, it was staunchly armored, packing enough firepower to effectively engage a small army and maneuverability-capable to navigate thorny jungle terrain at speeds approaching seventy mottibles an hour, over twice that through unobstructed airspace.

  The aircraft, whatever it was precisely, dawdles awkwardly two hundred feet above the disguised Baziron settlement, like a curious bloodhound probing its prey's burrow with a high-octane searchlight in place of an inquisitive nose. Odisseus hears, though partially smothered by the chopping throb of the driftmotor, at least three separate voices, conversing indistinguishably in Commercial, and imagines a trio of bored Endless Imperium occupation commandos, likely strangling jborra kittens or pissing on orphans or whatever it was that aiders and abettors of genocide do to pass time on patrol.

  Spare seconds after too long, spare seconds after Moira's noiselessly eased open the clips of her shoulder holsters, spare seconds after vo Qwer's gesticulated something unknowable across the deserted plaza to a cluster of the koj's huddled honor guard, the floodlight peels off, presumably in search of other quarry, taking the boxy vessel it's mounted onto along with it. With an asymmetrical carriage and a presently visible attitude thruster spewing a wake of heinous petro exhaust behind it, the M2 or M9 putters ponderously off eastward, thankfully away from the Lover's poorly-camouflaged landing site and deeper into the trackless frozen quagmire of Baz's northern tundra.

  “Bloom me out,” Two-Bit whistles, minutes after the vacating transport is barely a dot on the coruscating horizon.

  “That was fucking nuts, for a second there,” Nemo exhales, face somehow plastered with that ineludible grin. “I was about ready to just murder the fuckers and take my lumps.”

  Odisseus groans as he pulls himself to his haunches. “Of course you were.”

  “Think they zeroed the ship?” Anchorage proposes.

  “Woulda headed the other direction, were that the case,” Nemo attempts to clarify, but Two-Bit's rebuttal rings truer to Odisseus, whatever it actually means.

  “Unless they was wendin
g back to flag the real fuzz,” he manages to state with a certain degree of poignancy.

  “If they're sniffing out spacers among aboriginals,” Moira reasons as she struggles to right herself under the oppressively low coral shroud, “and have one functioning brain between the entire lot of them–”

  “Which I wouldn't count on,” Nemo quips briefly.

  “–they're gonna be tracking comm signals,” she finishes, clearly peeved at the relatively corny interruption.

  “Explains why they didn't jam communications,” Odisseus quietly deduces.

  “And since the Cap'n was buzzing somebody when the fuzz faced...” Two-Bit extrapolates, with a pair of progressive hand gestures as he arrives at the conclusion

  “Ten-to-one, they know we're here,” Moira deduces gravely, climbing fully out from beneath their impromptu hideaway with mammoth boots scrunching through the soil and her thoroughly exasperated disposition.

  “So, can I have my comm back, or...?”

  Chapter 15

  Two-Bit Switch positively hates planets. From lifelessly arid terrestrial rocks, like Saxon or Ostara, to the colossal and troublesome gas giants, like Lzura or Talos, from the poisonous methane fields of Ebroc or Omiph to the teeming, organism-infested jungles of Xwollow or, more immediately, Baz, Two-Bit Switch has exactly no patience for planetary bodies of any kind, shape or creed with one notable exception and perhaps a handful of inoffensive moons. For context, this was a man whose entire childhood was set against reliably stable corridors of solid teltriton, artificial gravity dialed to a manageable level, consistently re-purified oxygen and with a hot meal, a stiff drink or a holovision set never more than three storefronts away. Therefore, it was unsurprisingly difficult for the former station waif to imagine anywhere more perpendicular to his carefully cultivated tastes than the exploding albino blood-forests of defiantly uncivilized Baz.