“Ngggggg,” he huffed as his fingers bent the stubborn material around his heart.
WREEEE — EEEENTCH.
“Ghhuuuu,” he sobbed through the self-afflicted invasion on his pain sensors.
He released the metal and tried to catch his breath. His lungs still needed to pump whatever fluid was needed to keep his battery/heart alive and operational.
As he took a moment of respite, he remembered Wool ar-Ban, his close friend, and what happened to her. An extroverted suicide, by all accounts, on behalf of Tripp Healy. Point blank in the back, aimed directly at her “heart”.
The very heart he was in the middle of attempting to shield by bending his shattered skeleton back into place.
Was it worth it, though?
The voice of one Baldron Landaker flew threw his cranium with pin-sharp clarity, “Surplus to requirement. We don’t need that damn cat, anymore.”
Tor Klyce’s evil laughter followed the statement and brought Jaycee back into the room.
An idea entered his head.
Instead of bending the metal around his battery, he could do everyone left alive a favor. He could simply reach into his chest, wrap his fingers around his battery, and tear it out.
Even if Space Opera Charlie had enough power to get them home, they could definitely use less weight.
One less monster aboard Charlie trying to get home. The absence of five hundred pounds of outdated hardware might make all the difference.
No one would miss him, of course. Such was his assessment of himself.
Jaycee Nayall, chief of Weapons & Armory aboard the search vessel Space Opera Beta.
Look at the weapons here, Jaycee thought to himself. Between Hughes, Anderson, and Manny, they can take care of themselves. They don’t need me.
He closed his eyes and gripped the battery between his ungainly, robotic fingers.
Even if we made it back home, which we won’t, no one would be there to greet you. No one would be jumping into your arms and smothering you with affection. You have no one, Jaycee. On the contrary, you’ll have USARIC on your ass. A lifetime of interrogation, which will certainly end only one way.
USARIC’s tear ducts were a marvel of technology. When an Androgyne Series Two was ever in danger of experiencing emotion, it activated the organic sweat gland to filter through to the front of the face and cry.
Even your tears are false, Nayall. USARIC have treated you - and everyone like you - like a marionette. Strings in their control. Putty in their hands. You’re pathetic.
He tugged at the battery with some vigor.
The further out he pulled, the less power his arm had to finish the job off.
WRENCH-PULL.
The slightest tug dropped the power in his arm. He could move the battery only so far before the energy drained from his shoulder and elbow.
You can’t even terminate yourself, you worthless piece of crap. Pathetic. Look at you, trying to tear out your battery.
The nightmare running commentary only brought back pangs of regret, particularly the time when Tor Klyce convinced Androgyne, Opera Beta’s “canary”, to detonate herself all those months ago.
Tor knew what to say to get her to do what he wanted. Now, a mind war took place inside Jaycee’s head.
One half convincing the other of their valueless existence. The other battling back, resisting temptation to take the easy way out.
You could always detach the gun and shoot yourself in the chest, Nayall.
“Ngggg,” he squealed, released the battery and shook his head.
WHUMP.
He slammed his fists on the floor and kicked himself to his feet.
STOMP — STOMP.
The ground could barely hold his weight as he stepped around on the spot. This particular Androgyne couldn’t fool anyone any longer, least of all himself.
He decided there and then to accept what he was.
No selfish acts.
Not anymore.
He felt his fingertips spider-walk up both sides of his head and sink their nails into his flesh.
TUG — TUG — SHRED.
Clumps of synthetic skin tore away from his endo-skull and slapped to the floor like flaps of three-day-old pancake.
He moved his head to the right and ran his nails down the front and back of his neck, pulling the material away from the wires and connectors that lay underneath.
SPATCH — SPATCH.
Flank after flank of white, human skin slapped to the floor around his feet.
What do you think you’re doing, Jaycee? He asked himself the same question over and over as he placed the back end of his palm underneath his overbite. You think this will help, do you? Pathetic.
He had no option. USARIC gave him no choice. If he couldn’t take himself out of the game, then he’d have to rig it in his family’s favor.
TCH-KLOCK.
The front of his endo-skull slipped away from his head - complete with his cheeks, nose and forehead - and into the palm of his hand.
His face stared up at him like an exhumed china doll mask.
It’s you, Jaycee.
He lifted his face into the air and slammed it against the ground.
SLAMMM.
He punched his fists together and turned to the weapon-filled wall. The USARIC logo took pride directly above it, around ten feet up from the floor.
“AARRGGGHHHHHHH—”
SCHTOMP — SCHTOMP — SCHTOMP.
Jaycee stomped across the ground, resembling an angry forklift mech-droid - true to the very fiber of his being - and held out his arms.
The droid bent both arms back and lunged at the logo.
KERRR-RAAACKK — SCHLAAA-AAAM.
The wall coughed out fragments of hardened ceramic and dust over the droid as it raised its back and threw another God-powered punch - this time into the “U” of the logo.
THWAA-KERRAAAAMMM.
The letter exploded around his fist forcing a shock wave across the remaining four letters.
“A”, “R, and “I” bust apart, leaving the letter “C” to suffer the weaponized monster’s fury.
THWAAAM.
The wall rumbled and broke apart as Jaycee stepped back with the chunk of wall in his palm.
The letter “C” stared up at him, unable to defend itself. Even if it was able to, it didn’t stand a chance.
He closed his fingers around it and crushed the damn thing in his hand.
“Arrggghhhhhhh—”
He squeezed so hard he bent his middle and fourth digit back against his thumb.
A moment of respite was needed.
He dropped the crumbled pieces of wall to the ground and expected them to hit his boots, but they didn’t.
Instead, they lilted and flew around like a gas wading towards the floor. He’d done a thorough job of decimating that piece of wall.
Lately, a lot of people had been running. Running for all different reasons, and from a variety of antagonistic forces.
Right here, right now, Jaycee ran away from what he thought was himself. If Mastazita had unleashed the beast within Jelly Anderson a little while ago, it was nothing - nothing - like the beast within Jaycee Nayall.
No one could be trusted.
No one.
CHAPTER FIVE
USARIC Research & Development Institute
Port D’Souza
(Ten miles northeast of Cape Claudius)
A helicopter ambulance lifted away from Research & Development Institution building and banked left.
Inside, Maar Sheck lay unconscious on a gurney with breathing apparatus attached to his face.
The medician held up a defibrillator as his colleague tore open the front of Maar’s shirt and exposed his chest.
“Okay, standby.”
The first medician placed the paddles on Maar’s chest, “Clear.”
BVHOOM.
His body jostled around as the paddles did their job. The second medician looked at the heart rate monitor
, “No. Still well above target.”
“Resetting paddles,” the first medician said as he recharged the paddles and placed them against Maar’s chest, “Okay, clear.”
BVHOOM.
The second attempt worked better.
Maar’s eyelids lifted as he gasped through the breathing apparatus.
He exhaled and lowered his arms.
A smile crept across his face as he saw his patient come around.
“Welcome back, Mr. Sheck.”
“Yugh,” Maar dribbled down his chin and grabbed the breathing mask, “Wuh-wuh—”
“You went into cardiac arrest,” the second medician said. “You’re very lucky.”
Maar turned his head to the side and looked out of the window. The dusk setting reflected in the window and painted his face a dull, grayish orange.
“We’ll need to keep you in for some tests, though. You’re not in the clear just yet.”
Corpus Christi Infirmary
The medicians wheeled Maar’s gurney into a private ward. The first medician replaced the man’s breathing apparatus with a fresh set that hung on the wall.
Maar’s breathing had normalized by now, and the last place he wanted to be was in a hospital. He tried to swing his legs over the gurney and stand to his feet, but the second medician caught him just in time.
“Ah, no, no. You’re going nowhere till we’re satisfied that you’re stable.”
“But, uh, I c-can’t—”
“—No, Mr. Sheck. Just relax and calm down.”
Maar surveyed the private ward and felt a sense of dread seep in. Two men dressed as medicians - and much stronger, taller, and younger than he - insisted he didn’t leave.
“I have t-to go.”
The first medician ignored the man’s request. He pulled off the temporary wires from Maar’s chest and hooked him up to the giant machine beside the bed.
Biddip. Biddip. Biddip.
“Right, enough lessense,” the first medician said. “We have you right where we want you.”
“What? What?”
Maar looked down at his wrists. They’d been tied to the gurney.
No escape.
He looked down the length of his body and saw that his ankles had been strapped in, too.
Again, no escape.
“What are you d-doing?” Maar screamed for dear life as the beeps from the machine appeared to rise in volume.
The first medician winked at his colleague, “Close the door. We don’t want anyone to hear.”
“You got it.”
The second medician hopped over to the door and carefully pushed it shut, “Okay, all clear.”
“What are you doing?” Maar shuffled around on the bed and tried to free himself from the restraints.
The needle from a syringe focused into Maar’s view a couple of inches away from the first medician’s face.
“You think you can get away with what you did?” the medician asked.
“Huh?”
WRENCH — PULL.
Maar’s physical resistance only tightened his shackles.
“No, no, you’re g-going to kill me—”
“—Would you shut this bastard up?” the first medician whispered to his colleague.
A sliver of neat liquid fountained out from the syringe.
Maar had no option but to beg for his life, “P-Please, don’t d-do this—”
WHUMP.
The second medician’s right hand clasped around Maar’s neck. His left hand pressed his forehead down, forcing the back of his head against the pillow.
“Ngggg, no, no,” Maar’s survival instinct ran at full pelt, “Someone, help me. They’re trying to kill me—”
“—I said shut up,” the first medician grabbed Maar’s wrist and slid the needle into a prominent vein, “Be quiet and go back to sleep.”
The second medician took the opportunity to lower his face to Maar’s for a final salute.
“Can I ask you something?”
“No, no—” Maar squealed from the pit of his stomach.
His oppressor couldn’t have cared any less and grinned evilly at the man they were about to execute.
Bip-bip-bip…
“How does it feel?”
“Ngghhhh—”
“—I’ll ask again, Marr Sheck. How does it feel?”
The contents of the syringe spewed into his vein and raced toward the man’s heart.
“Nuuh.”
“You’ve caused so much damage and destruction. Ruined lives. How does it feel to have it done to you?”
Biddip-biddip-biddip…
“You hear that?” the second medician grinned, “That’s the sound of your heart beating faster and faster.”
Maar gave up the struggle. He felt the lava coarse through his veins and burn him from within. His body slumped to the bed.
The liquid eventually smothered his heart, forming a gelatinous pair of hands and fingers.
Each digit ran around the quickening beating organ and prepared to squeeze.
WHUNCH.
“Gaaaah.”
Maar sat up straight and screamed as he exited his bad dream. Out of breath and sweating profusely, he tried to calm his breathing down.
Slowly, he acclimated himself to his surroundings.
A pale, white room.
Sure enough, he was sitting upright in a hospital bed.
But there was no one here. Not right now, anyway.
The frequent controlled beeps coming from the machine beside his bed.
“Uhm,” he muttered and wiped the sweat from his brow. He lifted his hands to his face and inspecting the residue.
That was one hell of a bad dream.
Maar squeezed his eyes shut and as hard as he could. After a long moment, he opened them to find the room hadn’t changed.
He lowered his left arm and brought the Individimedia ink on his wrist into full view.
Scritch-swipe.
His fingernails ran over the ink, but it refused to budge. For some reason, his communication device wasn’t active.
Someone must have disabled it.
But who did it? And how? And when?
“Christ, I have to get out of here,” he whispered at the walls.
He lifted his legs over the side of the bed and planted his bare feet on the cold ground.
A tingling sensation shot up his legs and dispersed around his body as he attempted to stand upright.
TUG.
A tube snaked out from his right arm and ran back to a drip standing beside his bed.
He slid the needle out from his forearm and placed it on the bed with great care.
The lower half of his gown unraveled down his legs. Standing upright was proving to be something of a challenge.
There was little time to waste. He needed to leave.
Off came the wires and pads attached to his chest.
The monitor flat lined as a result, underscoring the uneasy air in the room. Around ten footsteps from now, he’d reach the door and be able to escape - hopefully sight unseen.
LATCH.
The door to the private ward unclipped from the lock and sprung inward.
Maar hung his head through the gap in the door.
Medicians, doctors, and random civilian visitors made their way in all directions in the corridor outside.
An armed USARIC security guard sat on a chair to the left of the door, keeping an eye on everyone. The guard’s sleeve revealed his identity; Merc 451.
Maar had an idea.
“Pssst.”
The USARIC guard didn’t budge.
“Damn it,” Maar huffed. “Psst.”
The guard’s looked around for the noise. He saw Maar’s withered, old face staring at him from the crack in the door.
“You’re awake?” the mercenary asked, surprised.
“Yes, yes, I’m awake. Can you come in here, please?”
“Certainly, Mr. Sheck.”
It wasn’t until the guar
d stood up that Maar realized just how big the man actually was. At least seven foot tall, and with a nasty-looking handgun holstered in his belt.
Mercenary 451 was going to be a challenge.
Maar disappeared into the ward and left the door open.
“How are you feeling?”
Maar played up his fatigue and clutched his stomach, “I’m okay. I, uh, they say I went into cardiac arrest.”
“We were all concerned about you.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Maar pinched the sharp end of the freshly-discarded drip and went to reinsert it into his arm. “Look, I can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding me? There’s no end of bastards out here that want to kill me.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Guard 451 said with a sympathetic smile.
“Listen, I need you to get me the hell out of here.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?” Maar screamed in the man’s face. “I’m the chief executive officer. I’m your boss. And I want to get—”
“—No, sir. Since your health suffered, we’re under strict instructions to keep you at the hospital. The medicians need to be satisfied you’re well enough to return to the research institute.”
“Oh, really?” Maar asked. “And who gave the instruction?”
“Crain McDormand and your first in command.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir,” Guard 451 confirmed. “So you’re staying here.”
The skin on Maar’s cheeks and forehead began to burn.
The room started to rotate like a carnival ride. He staggered back to the bed and planted his behind on the mattress.
“You’re clearly not one hundred percent, Maar.”
“They think they can do this to me?” Maar muttered with incredulity, “Keep me here like a target and have this fat mound of whale blubber try to protect me?”
“What did you say, sir?”
Maar looked up at the guard and beckoned him over, “I, uh, n-need some help. I don’t f-feel too well.”
“Oh,” the guard made his way over to Maar and offered his assistance, “Do you want me to call a medician?”
“No,” Maar jumped to his feet and swung his right arm at the guard, “Don’t call a medician.”
JUTTTT.
Maar slammed drip syringe into the man’s neck.
Star Cat: Exodus: A Science Fiction & Fantasy Adventure (The Star Cat Series - Book 5) Page 6