It walked as she remembered the others walking, stiff yet strong: a tin soldier. She watched its eyes scan them all; they were being assessed. Gally walked toward it, head lowered, wanting to be more of a threat than she was in actuality. As tense as the situation was, the Eighth seemed tame enough. While it saw her approach, it opened a compartment in its chest, and a large red light emitted from it, projected onto the snow. The red light eventually took shape; it was another of the Eighth.
The Eighth in the projection stood straighter, carried itself differently than the others they’d encountered. It seemed more regal, more confident. Gally recognized the posture before noticing the scar on its face. Rage filled her as a familiar voice crackled from the hologram. “Hello, my name is eight point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero—” he would have gone on had Gally not interrupted.
“Rook,” she boiled.
The Eighth twitched as its attention snapped to the girl. “That name,” it began with disdain in its voice. Gally had always wondered if the Eighth were familiar with the rules of chess, and the whole journey was almost worth it just to hear Rook acknowledge that it knew the name was an insult. For a robot made by an alien culture, it reacted in quite Human ways. It composed itself before continuing. “Am I correct in assuming that you are the poachers we shot down earlier?” it said, unable to shake all the anger from its metallic voice.
“You tracked us from the beginning,” Gally replied, her eyes never leaving those of the beast that killed her father.
The red light flickered. “My apologies for the intrusion. I had to ensure that you were not further interfering with my work here.”
She spoke as if no one was near her, as if she had no responsibility for the people around her. “And what is that, exactly?” she snapped.
Rook looked to her, and its face softened with understanding. It even emoted more clearly than the other automatons. “Your current course suggests that our base of operations is your destination. Why is that?”
Gally could hear Doctor Howlette mutter under his breath, behind her. “Stockholm syndrome?” he said.
Gally realized the danger she was in. If she’d revealed her intent, they would have been killed. Only Harper was carrying a weapon, and she doubted the pistol would have been enough against the Eighth messenger. Her mind raced and her mouth opened slightly, a pathetic lie about to flounder upon her lips, when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Martin, to the surprise of everyone, stepped beside her. “I wanted to meet you.” He straightened his back and tried to look as if he’d been part of civilization his entire life, despite only recently rejoining it. “And from what I hear,” he stuck out his chin, “you’ve been looking for me.” His eyes darted to Gally’s for a moment, just enough to see her shock. In that brief moment, she saw his fear.
The red hologram ran its eyes up and down the doctor. “Scanning,” it said. After a pause, Rook continued. “Collier, Martin. PhDs in Biochemistry and Engineering. Born on Zeta-Six, divorced.”
Martin’s face soured. “Don’t see how that’s relevant, but yes,” he grumbled.
“It’s your work that interests me, doctor.” The projection seemed pleased and surprised. “Yes,” it mused. “I would very much like to speak with you.” There was a twitch. “Perhaps if there’s no more killing of my soldiers, we can be more hospitable to your approach.” Martin smirked. He’d seen what Purple Company had done to the prison guards on Heru, and he could only imagine what they’d done to the Eighth riders.
As if on cue, Nitro’s newly acquired snow-glider buzzed around the corner, hell-bent and furious. He was met by the scientists and the fear in their eyes, holding their hands out as if to stop him. Only seeing them when it was nearly too late, he swerved, barely missing the Eighth that was projecting the transmission.
Atop the glider, the captain was nearly growling, his rifle pointed at the Eighth. Once it was aware of the threat, it aimed back at him. The rest of the crew immediately attempted to calm the situation, and Nitro was the first to lower his weapon, albeit reluctantly.
Still, the projection and the captain exchanged looks before Rook spoke again. “I can begin assembling accommodations for you.” It looked to the others before giving one last glance at Nitro, who was still staring intently. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The red light projection evaporated, and Gally looked to Martin, her face pinker than usual. “You didn’t have to do that.” She looked to him as if he wasn’t the man she’d argued with at the research station. She was still terrified, still teeming with rage, but the sentiment in her words was gratitude.
He didn’t look at her; he just stared at the gray snow as it fell in front of him. “It is the endeavor of all scientists to better the worlds they live in.” His words were dry, as if they weren’t his own. “And this place,” he said, half-heartedly gesturing around him before his hands fell against his sides. The doctor finally looked up at her. “I don’t want it to be how I’m remembered.”
Gally’s words failed her as she looked up at the man. Having no real experience with feelings or comforting words, she couldn’t even muster a smile. She just patted him on the shoulder and walked away.
Harper watched as the rest of the crew began to walk, led by the Eighth escort and Martin. They all passed him, even Boomer and Josie after they’d caught up. And, finally, he saw her: as frail and as fragile as ever, walking a great distance parallel from the rest of them.
He looked to Ula. “You did good back there,” he assured her. She turned, the helmet still a bit too large for her head, and smiled at him. “You okay if I hand you over to Josie for a bit?” He was addressing Ula, but was really asking Josie, who had just dropped within earshot. Thankfully, the mercenary nodded and extended her arms. The hand-off went well, and Ula seemed quite comfortable within the group, as if she’d been there since the beginning.
Harper smiled at them before jogging through the snow, covering the distance Gally had put between herself and everyone else. When he finally caught up to her, he didn’t say anything. Not being able to see her eyes due to her visor being down, he was met with a silence that he couldn’t identify. After some time, she spoke. “Fucking coward, hiding behind a hologram.” Her voice came through her teeth, trembling with anger. Harper made a more obvious attempt to look at her, seeing her tightly clenched fist.
The pilot nodded, not practiced in these sorts of things. “You’ll get your shot at him,” he shrugged, and she finally looked at him. “You will. But what you gotta realize is, then what?” He didn’t look back at her. He could feel her stewing before she answered.
“Then he’s dead. Just like my–” she couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah,” Harper spared her. “But, Gally, then what?”
“Fuck off.”
“This whole crusade you’re taking us on? I’ve been on one of these before. I know how it ends.” He trailed off before looking at her and realizing his words weren’t having much of an impact. “Look, I’m gonna do my best to protect you in there.”
“Yeah?” Her demeanor seemed to calm slightly. The question wasn’t a confirmation of the words, but the sentiment. She knew what he was really saying, and she wanted him to reaffirm it.
“Yeah,” he nodded, looking straight ahead once more. “Try not to make it too tough for me, alright?”
He’d finally gotten her to smile. “Alright.” And they walked together the whole rest of the way.
They walked for hours, all through the night, and when the sun rose, a distant static came over the coms. Upon hearing it, Nitro perked up like a meerkat and looked around. The static continued for a bit before a deep, familiar voice came over the coms. “Purple Company, do you copy?”
Boomer shot the captain a confused and skeptical look, as if he were surprised anyone else heard the voice. “Couldn’t be,” he wondered. Josie, still carrying Ula, came running up to meet the other two, excitedly uncertain.
“Purple Company, come i
n?” the voice insisted, and three jaws dropped.
Nitro finally replied. “This is Purple Company; where have you been, private?” he asked with a grin.
Through the gray snow, the horrible storm, they could make out a large figure. It walked toward them with a limp, carrying a long bag with it. “I do not believe I could convince you of the events that transpired this evening, sir.”
Ox emerged from the snow. His environmental suit was torn and ragged, but his helmet was still intact, despite a few scratches of its own. He wore some blood stains; some his blood, some not. His staff was unharmed, however. The long bag he dragged next to him was thrown at Nitro’s feet.
The captain didn’t acknowledge the bag; he just ran up and hugged the huge Waykind. The hug was returned with one arm, and the others in the Company approached, greeting him in their own way. He reciprocated their happiness, though he held a great sadness in his eyes, and his hands clung to the staff more tightly than usual.
Finally, Josie inquired about the bag. He replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “I assumed, after the crash, you would have trouble getting the…” He knew what they called the monsters; he just didn’t want to say it aloud. The dead were sacred to his kind, and the origin of their name was an affront to all of it. “These things,” he finished, quietly.
“Look at you, going off and completing the whole mission on your own!” Boomer nudged his old friend, but it wasn’t met with the same camaraderie he’d been accustomed to. Ox seemed different, quieter. Every time he finished speaking, darkness came over him, as if he was preoccupied by some horrible thought.
Nitro noticed this as well, and his smile faded into concern. “Ah!” He slapped the giant’s furry arm. “Come on, we’ll get you some food,” he urged him. Ox nodded and followed, only to be stopped short by their escort.
The Eighth had dismounted and was assessing the new, large threat. Ox paused, though not out of fear. Even after his great and harrowing journey to arrive back with the team, he would not back down from a fight. He straightened his back, reminding everyone of his true mass, and he looked at the Eighth.
“A Waykind,” it said, coldly. “This is unexpected.”
Ox’s jaw swerved as he also assessed the Eighth. “I could say the same,” he murmured.
“It’s fine.” Nitro put himself between the two. “He’s with us,” he told the Eighth before spinning around and shoving an MRE into the Waykind’s chest. “Here, buddy. Eat.”
Ox’s wide yellow eyes turned from angry and ready for a fight to annoyed and inconvenienced. He saw the urgency in his captain’s eyes, the need to keep the peace; in all his years with the captain, he’d only seen these qualities in him once before. “This is for the girl, isn’t it?”
Nitro’s face became apologetic. “You got a lot to catch up on, pal.” He patted him and urged him away from the Eighth. They opened the MRE, laid the bag over the back of the snow-glider, and continued their hike to the base.
Upon seeing Ox finish the food, Josie approached the Waykind. “Thank god,” she muttered. “Here, my arms are killing me.” Josie excitedly handed Ula to Ox, and her arms dropped in exhaustion. “Man,” she groaned as Ox stared at the child with a raised eyebrow. Josie patted the Waykind on the back and walked away. “Good to have you back, big guy.”
Ula’s look to the large mercenary was not one of scrutiny but astonishment. She’d never seen anything like him, only read of his people in books. They stared at each other for some time before her astonishment turned to joy. “You are my new best friend.” Ox’s eyebrow dropped into an unappreciative understanding of the situation. He walked as he was bombarded by questions from the young Herulean.
Slowing her pace so they could pass her, Josie stretched. She was grateful to finally get feeling back in her arms and silence back in her life. She sighed deeply, and only listened to the crunch of her boots along the snow.
She’d lost track of time before Martin caught up with her. She greeted him with a glance and nothing more. Noticing his expression, she glanced at him again. He seemed confused or troubled, and she was surprised how much that bothered her. Finally coming to terms with that feeling, she spoke to him. “I didn’t know you were divorced.”
He chuckled. “I have been named ‘the greatest mind of our age’, by several publications. I created life, for fuck’s sake! But no.” His hands flashed out in the air, as if reading a marquee. “Martin Collier: divorcee.” They laughed, but he didn’t seem to find it as funny as she did.
“I guess it’s hard to keep important people around in your line of work,” Josie mused; her head leaned back to let the cold air hit her neck.
Martin nodded; it was a very small nod, with no words to follow it. His social abilities had nearly evaporated since his incarceration, but she made him want to do better. His lips pursed for a moment as he dwelled on what she said. Giving up on the thought, he grumbled and raised something he’d been carrying. “Here.” He handed her a tall, metal thermos. He didn’t stop to wait for her to open it, nor did he make any attempt to conclude the conversation: he simply walked faster.
Josie furrowed a brow, her eyes fixed on the thermos as he walked away. She frowned slightly before she spun the container open. Steam poured out, and a familiar scent enveloped her: tea. She looked up to see his back, the surprise still fresh on her face. As she watched him walk into the gray winds, she closed the container and popped open the small slit to drink from. She drank it with a smile in her eyes as she watched Ox carry Ula.
To Ox, Ula was a taxing, inquisitive, and unceasing reminder that he had survived recent events. And as strenuous as she’d proven to be, it was a welcome assault on his ears and patience. “So you can talk to dead people?”
“They speak to me; we do not converse.”
“Can all of you do it?”
He held her in one arm as his other hand used his staff for support. Despite the bumps, scrapes, and bruises he’d taken on his travels, being ejected from the transport seemed to have the most lasting physical effect on him. Only those who knew him—and the little one in his arm—noticed the psychological trauma from his journey. His answers were short and patient, though it was more than likely due to his weariness. “With proper training, yes.”
“And you’re not scared?!”
Ox smiled. “They cannot hurt me, nor I them.”
Ula paused as a thought occurred to her. Her hands clung tighter to his fur as hope sparked in her eyes. The next question came slowly and painfully. “Can you see my parents?”
Ox’s lips tightened and his eyelids drooped. He understood the weight of such a question. He’d heard many like it in his time, but hearing it from a child stung him worse than most. “I do not choose who I see.” His low voice was nearly a grumble, as he did not wish such grief upon someone so small. “But believe me, little one; I wish I could.”
Ula nodded as a pout emerged on her lips. Near tears, she leaned into the Waykind’s armored chest and clung to him as if he were the least comfortable teddy bear. He moved his arm further up her back, turning the carry into more of a hug. The girl was silent for a short while, which was so unusual that he glanced down at the top of her helmet, which was facing the doctors.
After some time, she spoke again. “My mom always told me they were gross. And awful. And mean.”
He glanced down again, knowing she was referring to Humans. He shrugged. “Some are.”
Her voice was quiet, almost timid. Ox wasn’t sure whether she was falling asleep or still upset. “But not these ones.”
Ox smirked as he patted her.
Sabile:
Base of Operations of the Eighth, Fort 0102: Central Zone
“Blisters,” Mitch groaned as the doors opened to their newly assembled quarters. “Blisters the size of lemons.” It was the least magnificent place imaginable; military barracks of the twentieth century provided better accommodations. “Good lemons, from Earth.” Wafer-thin mattresses lay on hard metal slabs, so cl
ose to the ones above them that when Mitch finally slid into one—because collapsing dramatically was impossible in these conditions—he had to slump his head back so his nose didn’t touch the bottom of the bunk above him. “Huge fucking lemons.” He tried to get used to feeling his breath bounce back on his face. He couldn’t even relax, but he was happy his feet were finally off the ground.
Doctor Lee fell into a slump in the corner, immediately taking off his boots before sighing and leaning back against the wall. “We just had to tag along,” he complained. “Had no idea how good we had it.”
Howlette laughed in agreement as he stumbled in as well, unsuccessfully trying to squeeze into the upper bunk. “This is inhumane. Just let me starve to death back in my cozy research station.”
The operations base on Sabile was devoid of central air; it was also designed by machines that had never played host to any biological life form. The doorways were too small, and the doors themselves were increasingly difficult to open. The walls were all made of metal, which sent sounds from hundreds of feet away careening into every room imaginable. There were no showers, no toilets, and no kitchens. When Ox discovered that he couldn’t wash the blood off his uniform or fur, he simply stripped down to his loincloth and threw his large, bloody rags into a heap in the corner. Josie tossed him a rag. The Waykind tried to clean himself off as best he could, while Ula happily slid herself into one of the bunks.
Gally, Harper, and Martin were all sharing the first guest room. Harper had just finished removing his boots. He walked over to the corner, just to feel the freedom of being in socks. Gally sprawled out on the floor after finding no furniture besides the awful bunks and stretched. Harper pretended not to notice how welcoming she looked.
Martin entered the room and looked down at the girl. He didn’t look at her the same way Harper did; this was more direct. “What should I tell them tomorrow?” he asked her; it was the first time he’d addressed her as the boss of the operation. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he felt unarmed against such an adversary or because he felt an opportunity to gather some info.
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