by Mark Tufo
“You look like you gotta take a shit,” BT said.
“It’s called being pensive. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You always take on a pinched expression when you’re being contemplative?”
“Okay, you asked for this. I was thinking about whether I should call my wife and say goodbye or not.”
“Oh that’s great Mike, just make me feel like an asshole in my last few minutes.”
“Maybe next time you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“We’re going to be dead soon, there won’t be a next time.”
“You can use it as a reincarnation learning moment. I believe that we are continually reborn, bettering ourselves from the lessons we lived in past lives until we finally get it right and can ascend to our final destination, and I think it’s safe to say that you still have a lot of work ahead of you.”
“You must be used to people kicking your ass for talking too much.”
“Naw, I’m pretty fast.”
“Any last rabbits you want to pull out of that ass of yours?”
“Just how big do you think my colon is?” I asked.
We were quiet for a few seconds; you can only keep banter up for so long in the face of impending death. A sound like a whistle mating with an air raid siren erupted throughout the air. I could feel my eardrums beginning to rupture from the assault. I mistakenly thought it was a Stryver bomb just coming to finish us off…want to know what’s weird? That would have been preferable. Genos and mutes were moving in massive numbers, Keecan spared a second to tell BT and me that the sound was a mustering; we were being attacked.
I was going to tell him “no shit we are being attacked;” the whistleblower was about fifteen minutes too late. But he was running away from us.
“We’d better go with him,” BT said.
I had a feeling that wasn’t such a good idea. Genos were famously known for running into trouble, not away from it and fuck if we didn’t already have a plethora of trouble without adding more. Fortuitous or not, we ended up on a small knoll which afforded us a vantage point where we could at least see more than the backs of the nearest Genos. This was a case of not wanting what I’d wished for.
“What am I looking at, Mike?”
From this distance, it was nearly impossible to tell. Ever had a dog infested with fleas? It’s not a good time. So, you hold the poor canine’s fur back and instead of skin you see a seething, writhing, layer of black. And amongst that teaming layer of bugs, a certain percentage will be hopping around, looking to gain a vantage point from where it can bite and get a tasty blood meal before depositing a gelatinous glob of flea eggs.
“Please tell me that isn’t Stryvers.” BT pleaded.
It was. It was a huge mass of jumping, running Stryver soldiers hell-bent on killing us all. I’d wanted to get back into the war, and here it was. Next time, I’m going to wish for a puppy. The strikes from the Stryver fighters had diminished but not gone away. The ground was shaking as the enemy drew nearer, hundreds of them—no—thousands were leaping into the air at any one time, easily making twenty feet with each jump. Bolts were flying out from rifles even before the first of the Stryvers crash landed into our ranks and that’s when the real hell broke out. A six hundred pound centaur-spider leaping a span of twenty feet and diving in from ten feet high with bone crushing mandibles working overtime and a mini-rail gun spewing death was about as bad as I figured it could get. Rackinall’s head had been severed in one smooth move as the Stryver punched high-speed aluminum projectiles into his neck. I pivoted in time so that I narrowly avoided being skewered by one of the Stryvers legs; I didn’t even need to aim, I just jammed my gun into the monsters side and pulled the trigger. He convulsed, attempted to turn and get at me but I sent two more rounds in, frying his internal organs.
A Stryver had come in for Keecan, it appeared that his weapon had malfunctioned, he was out of ammo— or he just wanted to get up and personal for his kill. Keecan had put his arms up to absorb the blow. The Geno was stronger than I could have even imagined, he took all of that momentum and weight the Stryver had and twisted to the side, letting the spider beast strike the ground hard, even driving it in more. The thing was winded, may have even broke something…wishful thinking, since that would have been tough with the heavy body armor it had on. Keecan had sent his hand, claws first into the eye group, ripping through the soft material. The Stryver screech was nearly as offending as the rest of him. I turned and started firing the second I caught sight of another Stryver coming in to help his fallen mate.
Parts of armor flew off to the side, I ripped two of its legs clean off before I got one in its head, it fell a few feet short of our location. Keecan gave me a glance; he said nothing, but I could tell he was appreciative I’d saved his life, either that or mortified…tough to get a bead on what they’re thinking. BT was firing as well, I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like maybe us puny Humans hadn’t been discovered yet. At any rate, we were not being targeted. For once being the small kid on the block was paying off. Maybe the Stryvers didn’t see us as threats or who knows—maybe we did have an actual working alliance with them. I wasn’t taking that chance. I was blowing holes in every disgusting one of them. Many of the mutes and Genos were now locked in hand to hand combat with Stryvers. I’d not noticed, but the Stryvers had blades attached to the armor on their forearms; they would swing those out in great sweeping arcs slicing through anything they encountered.
Keecan had ducked under one arm and was about to get a little off the top from the next; he was faster than I thought and placed one of his hands on the Stryver’s wrist and the other on his shoulder, the ripping sound was one I won’t soon forget. He’d taken the arm clean off and spun it so he could use the blade on the Stryver. Sure it was poetic justice but holy fuck if it wasn’t gross as hell. Keecan, instead of discarding the ripped off appendage, was now wielding it as his primary weapon, moving and striking out at more of the Stryvers. Genos and mutes alike had noted this brilliant tactic and were tearing limbs from dropped Stryvers and using their own body parts against them. Blood was flowing on that field like a flash flood. On the front lines we were gaining traction, but the threat from above was still present and they were blasting the hell out of our rear echelons. Sure, we had done some good fighting, but the predicted outcome remained accurate: soon we wouldn’t have the numbers to fight up front and the Stryvers would run roughshod right over us. Couldn’t figure out which way I wanted to go out.
A trailing leg from a leaping Stryver hit BT in the head, plowing him over, sending the big man tumbling away. My heart got stuck in my throat when I figured his head had to have been caved in by the force of the strike. I sent three shots into the creature’s spine. When it landed it fell immediately to the ground; a mute cut it in half; the body split sideways and dropped with a sickening wet thud. I ran to check on BT; his eyes were half closed and rattling around inside his skull. Blood poured from a deep gash above his right eye.
“Was it a bus?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
“Pretty much. Don’t worry, I got its number.”
“Help me up.” He raised his hand.
“You sure? I ask because you look a little woozy and there's no way I can lift you without your help.”
“I’ve been punched harder than that.” His hand still in the air.
“By who, King Kong?” I helped him up; he looked a wee bit unsteady and staggered a step before righting himself. Blood was still coming out of the wound but I didn’t think his skull was cracked. We were back in it. At first, I’d kept an eye on him making sure he didn’t wander off to Tokyo or something, or couldn’t avoid getting hurt again because of diminished faculties. I was happy when he seemed to be in top form; it was already hard enough trying to stay alive in this battle without one eye keeping a constant vigil on his well-being. For the first time since we’d engaged the Stryvers, we were yielding ground. They had a seemingly endless supply
of warriors and ours were taking a beating on both fronts.
BT and I were almost abreast of the main line, whether the Stryvers considered us friend or foe would be put to the ultimate test here soon enough. Keecan had been pulled away from us, locked in his own deadly contest.
“Side by side?” BT asked.
“What the hell.” I got down into a kneeling position, BT did the same; we were braced at about a forty-five-degree angle next to each other and just started blasting every hairy spider motherfucker. I think it was BT that started shouting first but honestly I couldn’t be sure. I added my own voice, and as far as war cries go, it wasn’t too bad for a couple of smallish, hairless apes. We were holding our own, blowing holes into the Stryvers that were doing their best to get at us. Yeah, that lasted for a good minute or two before they started that leaping crap; they were getting behind us and to the sides. BT and I were turning quickly from side to side while constantly looking up to make sure we didn’t get trounced.
If I’d had the time, this would have been where I told BT it had been an honor fighting next to him, like every heroic war film I’d ever watched with my dad. Then something happened. It was difficult to say this was my colon-rabbit, not that I would have ever wanted this rabbit up there to begin with...but there are some strange fucking corners of the universe from where help comes unannounced. Prog fighters and gunships had shown up from seemingly nowhere—thousands of them—and these weren’t the redesigned Guardian fighters, either; these were the true, dyed in the wool originals. The Prog battleship had arrived and she was unleashing her fury on an enemy she knew all too well—different battlefield, same fight.
Heavy concussions flattened the air as airships fought for their own survival directly over the battlefield. The surprise attack had caught the Stryvers completely unaware and they were getting hammered in the sky. Prog fighters were strafing the entire Stryver line. The war cry I had been using to shred my throat had now turned into one of triumph, though I don’t know why; the Prog return could have meant disastrous results for Paul and the Guardian. I wanted to worry about him, but I could only handle one battle at a time. The Stryvers were hesitating; maybe it was the screams of those losing their lives overhead or maybe they weren’t quite so certain about the outcome of this battle and were debating the merits of staying any longer. The communication pipeline I had with them went from “Kill all enemies” to hesitant confusion. The “enemy” word didn’t translate over too well. Like most soldiers, they probably had a derogatory name for those they fought against. Not that they needed to de-humanize them in this case; maybe it made them fight harder. Who knows? What I did know was that they did not want to be here anymore.
“They’re leaving!” BT shouted, taking a moment from shooting to point off in the distance. Stryvers were running to large transport ships that had landed in the distance.
Their thoughts were consumed with “retreat.” Though it was more about preserving lives— obviously their own, but there was also a heavy concern for the collective. The Progs above were beating the living shit out of them and now those of us on the ground were exacting our own revenge for the punishment we had received. Normally at this point, a conscience should kick in, and shooting the enemy in the back would not be something I would want to be involved in. This time, however, that thought never even entered my mind. The only thing I could think about was killing every last one of them; that my life and everyone else’s on this little rock in the middle of nowhere depended on that very fact. In that respect, I guess the Stryvers and I were on the same page.
Transport ships were leaving the ground in black clusters, looked like startled flocks of carrion birds—there were so many of them. Prog fighters peeled away and were splashing down as many as they could. It was a fucking turkey shoot; thousands of Stryvers were dying and all I could think about was how the Progs needed to kill more. Do you think less of me for this? Imagine your house overrun with brown recluse spiders. Would you wish the exterminator to have mercy upon their souls? No, you fucking most certainly would not and no, you don't even have to think twice about it. You would pay him to kill every last one of the motherfuckers with unbridled fury for having the audacity to invade your home, your sanctuary. And that was what I was feeling.
“What now?” BT asked intruding on my thoughts.
“Party, I suppose.”
“Mike, we are completely surrounded by our other enemy. We should probably just get the hell out of here before we have a chance to wear out our welcome.”
That was a great thought in the abstract, but we were like two pieces of flotsam bobbing around in an ocean. There was nowhere to go and no way to get there.
I sought out the only being I could. I’d like to say “ally” but that’s like calling your favorite barista your friend. Sure you know him or her and you're maybe even on a first name basis, but are you going out for drinks during the weekend? Are you telling him or her personal aspects of your life? Doubtful. You keep buying the drinks, he’s your buddy. “Keecan we need help.”
“As do we.”
That felt like a slap in the face. So immersed in our own dilemma, I hadn’t taken a moment to think about Keecan and his people’s plight. Yes, they had fought side by side with the mutes, but in the eyes of the Progs, they were still rebels. There was not a point in history, or even space, probably, where rebels weren’t dealt with accordingly. The war we had fought this day was far from over. I was spent; my adrenal gland probably looked like a flattened prune right about now. My arms and legs, much like my spirit, were leaden. There were no commands at first, but I could already see the lines beginning to separate.
Grar was coming my way, maybe to shoot me. You tell me if you can tell when a crocodile wants to eat you or just say hi.
“You fought admirably,” he growled to BT and me. He was saying the words begrudgingly as if he would rather think we would have gone shrieking off into the night like frightened mice.
“Now what?” I asked him, much like BT had asked me. BT elbowed me as if to say “Don’t fucking remind him, asshole” Grar was huge, mean, ugly, and deadly. The one thing he was not was stupid.
“You are dead or you are a prisoner,” came his pragmatic reply.
“And Keecan?”
“You care about the traitor’s fate?” he asked, tilting his head like I had asked the most asinine of questions.
“One might say you are the traitor,” BT chimed in, oh-so-helpfully.
“I’m handling this,” I whispered to him.
“Yeah? Really?” the big guy said, not caring who heard him. "Because all I’ve heard is 'dead' or ‘prisoner,’ resulting in…yeah. Death. Great options.”
“Speak on,” I told BT. I was so proud of him.
“You have been sent down here to kill your own kind,” BT stated.
Grar started this gravelly, halting laugh—something I might expect a mass murderer who has swallowed razor blades to sound like after a particularly heinous kill. “Do we look like we are of one kind?” Grar asked sweeping his hand among his ranks.
Genos and mutes were as alike as bees and hornets, they both fly, both have stingers, but one is much larger and really has no redeeming qualities unless you count fuck-tards acting like assholes as redeeming.
“This isn’t going well, Mike,” BT said.
“Yeah, no shit…but you started it.”
For the moment, the Prog ships were still locked in combat with the Stryver fighters, which were doing their utmost to protect the transport ships. But once the spiders had either escaped or died, the Progs’ attention would swing back to us, violently. We were looking at a window, but it was a really small one and I didn’t think anyone could fit through the thing without making a lot of noise in the process.
“What about our temporary alliance? Does that union count for nothing once a single battle is won?” I asked.
“He knows no other way,” Keecan said. “His masters have created him with one purpose—to do
their bidding.”
Grar didn’t take that as an insult, like most thinking creatures would, but rather as a compliment. Got to admit, there was no part of me that was prepared for what happened next. I was caught completely off-guard. A rifle fired…
Chapter 6
THE GUARDIAN
Paul was watching the screens intently as his fighters disengaged. The swarms of Stryvers blanketing the screen made his skin crawl as well as that of his crew. This he could tell by the way they shifted in their seats, clearly agitated. He knew absolutely that he had made a deal with the devil—but what else was he supposed to do when no one else had come to the table? He was in the company of nearly every commander-in-chief throughout military history.
“You fucking coward.” It was Beth; she had somehow got back onto the bridge even after he’d expressly ordered the guards to not allow that. She’d made sure everyone had heard her words, too. That was it. He was going to put her under house-arrest as soon as this was over; maybe before…if he could manage it.
“That’s enough, Beth. You’re intruding on things you can’t possibly know the ramifications of.”
“Look at you talking all diplomatically. That’s your friend down there—not just the man I love—but your friend!”
Her words stung and Paul wasn’t sure if it was because Mike was his friend, or because Beth had just openly admitted to loving him.
“This is bigger than Mike…bigger than our friendship, bigger than anyone's personal relationships. If you weren’t so broken, you would see that; but he understands. Without this ship, Earth is doomed.”
“With you running this ship we are doomed. You are so intent on making sure nothing happens to your precious ship that it is clouding your judgment. Mike is going to be the one that saves us—not you and this fancy toy of yours!” She was shaking with rage, twisting her features into a mask Paul could barely stand to look at.