Genrenauts: Season One

by Michael R. Underwood

  The door slid and popped out the other side. A split-second later, it went ‘thud’ on the ground inside the base.

  “Gravity normal,” King said.

  “Excellent. EVA firefights are a pain in the …”

  “Yep. You going to retrieve that dangerous ordnance or what?”

  Roman headed aft and unlocked the box full of explosives. It held a rocket launcher, three RPGs, as well as a handful of standard grenades and an assortment of station-grade firearms, high-caliber enough to take out humanoids, but not so high end that they’d punch through the Doppel-eisen steel hull of the base.

  While Roman rechecked and recleared the guns, King pulled out the personal armor. The pair armored up, then strapped on the personal weapons, the rifles and hallway sweepers slung over them. It was enough firepower to clear forty mercs, though Roman hoped they’d only have to face half that many, and not at once. The Dark Stars weren’t military, had never been military. With a good leader, they might be able to work five or so at once, but otherwise, they’d be solo gunslingers looking to pick a fight. But they were still looking at 10:1 odds in total.

  Roman and King had been through easily fifty firefights together over the years, and could work as smoothly together as Roman had ever operated with a pack-mate back home. And King had another twenty years of experience on top.

  But all of that just added up to make what they were about to do possible, but not anything resembling easy.

  They didn’t know how many mercs were inside, how they were armed, or where the ambassador was. They’d have to take the place room by room, and with only two of them, they had very little margin for error. Even tac vests were only good for so much protection in the field. This region of the Science Fiction world didn’t have personal shields, so their super-kevlar was as good as it got.

  Roman took the rocket launcher for himself and floated the munitions box down the tube toward the base.

  “Start with the flares?” Roman asked as they hovered in the tube.

  King leaned over the hole and tossed a pair of red flares into the base, establishing their new “down.”

  “Youth before wisdom.”

  “Bullet shield before senior operative, you mean.”

  “More like don’t ever make the black guy go first on a story world,” King countered.

  “Roger that,” Roman said, jumping into the base.

  The flares illuminated a wide, open hangar, one drape-covered ship in the corner. The only other exit was a door in the far left corner, red lights above the closed door.

  “Hangar is clear.”

  Roman continued to scan the hangar as he walked forward. He flipped on the under-slung light on his MP5, red-filtered light banishing shadows as he swept side to side. He held the RPG launcher over his left shoulder.

  King thudded into the hangar behind him.

  “You going to bring these RPGs, or just swing that thing around like a big metallic rod of compensation?”

  “I’ll have you know this thing makes a totally inappropriate but terrifying melee weapon.”

  “Save the sass for the mercs.”

  The room clear, King handed down the box of ordnance. Roman pushed the box along the floor with his steel-toed boot, the box making ear-assaulting metal-on-metal screech.

  “Too cheap for the stealth package, then?”

  “These come last. And they’re not exactly sneaky weapons. But just you wait. Twenty bucks says these come in handy.”

  King countered with “Fifty bucks says they almost get us killed.”

  “You’re no fun. Coming up on the door. Ready to breach?”

  “Ready.”

  “Breaching.”

  Roman threw open the door and was met by the sound of gunfire.

  “Here we go!” Roman said, and opened fire into the hallway.

  Chapter Nine: Knock Knock

  Roman and King moved slow and steady. Rushing would just get one of them a bullet somewhere vital.

  Instead, they moved room to room. Roman took point, grenades and flares preceding him.

  He finally got to use the RPG to break open a hard-sealed bulkhead after working the console proved unresponsive. When the bulkhead blew, a flurry of gunfire came through the hole, sending Roman and King back to their firing positions.

  In the subsequent report, he would fervently deny any claims by King that he had a “shit-eating grin” on his face.

  Roman lobbed a stun grenade through the mangled bulkhead. He covered his ears as the grenade’s concussive blast filled the hallway, then leapt into the fray with the launcher, swinging it around like a thick fighting stick. He clotheslined two dazed mercs and then spun the launcher around to jab it at the third’s gut, doubling over and allowing Roman to deliver the KO with a snapping front kick.

  He double-checked to make sure all three were out for the count, then whistled the all-clear.

  King chided him. “You are completely nuts. This isn’t your home world where you can toss weapons around like they’re unbreakable . On this world …”

  Roman shushed his boss, which was doubtless a bad idea, but necessary. “Don’t say that. Doubt will make you right. We’re in an action story, and Science Fiction is as much a setting as a genre. I’m the hero. My powder doesn’t get wet, I’ve always got a bullet left in the chamber, and when I use improvised weapons, they don’t break. Got it?”

  King nodded. “You’re the hero, hero.”

  He was playing fast and loose with the genre conventions, true. But there was a reason he’d picked up the rules of Science Fiction so quickly. Every genre had points of continuity, parallels with others. And on the world where he came from, he’d been able to use and abuse weapons more ridiculously than treating a rocket launcher like a baseball bat, and they always came through in the end.

  Roman inspected the launcher, grinning as he found no dents or breaks.

  Still got it, he thought.

  “When are we going to tell Leah where I come from?” Roman asked.

  “Whenever you want. It’s your story to tell.”

  “Not particularly relevant yet, is it?” “No, but it will be.”

  “Oh, I know. Just not very fond of only ever being known as That Action World Freak Who Didn’t Die When He Was Supposed to.”

  “Mallery would hand you your ass on a silver platter if she heard you calling yourself a freak.” Roman stopped for a moment, memories flowing in, steadying him.

  “Remember what we’re here for, why you do this. And then let’s take that Hero luck and get moving,” King said, head-nodding at the open hall.

  The explosively opened hall had three doors, all arrayed on the right side. They were marked unhelpfully as 1, 2, and 3.

  Roman brought the launcher and the explosives to the outside lip of the hatch, then joined King. He pointed to the doors. “There’s no other way deeper into the base, so …”

  “Looks like it’s Let’s Make a Deal time,” King said.

  They started with Door #1. King pulled the door back and Roman leaned around the corner to scan the room.

  Door #1 led to a ready room, with four mercs, all in cover, overturned card tables and chairs giving them cover. Roman threw himself back to avoid the gunfire, which peppered the far wall in the hallway. King shoved the door closed.

  “Next one?” King asked. They tried Door #2, and gunfire opened even before Roman got his head around to peek. He dropped to the floor for cover as King closed the door.

  “Third time’s the charm, right?” Roman said, squaring up with Door #3. Actually, third time was usually something weird. But again, voicing doubt could make it real.

  King opened the door, leaving Roman to do the quick-pop to scan the room.

  Kids. The room was full of kids. And their parents. It was a nursery. Children and parents from a half-dozen races. All unarmed, up and fleeing for the back door.

  And screaming.

  “Gun! Gun! He’s got a gun!”

  S
hit. Roman pulled the door closed. Something weird, indeed. Of course the mercs would have their families here if it was a base of operations. Just grateful that he hadn’t just tossed a grenade in for good measure after seeing the first two doors.

  King chuckled. “So, Door #1?”

  * * *

  Seven mercs and a few reloads later, they reached another hard-sealed door.

  “I can head back and get the torch,” King said, leading.

  “Nope. I’m going to end the fight in one move.” With a manic grin, Roman dropped his last flare in front of the sealed bulkhead, then moved back, and back, and back some more, until he stood a good fifty feet away, back through the hallway, the last room they’d cleared, and beyond into the hallway before that.

  He had a clear shot all the way to the bulkhead.

  “I see. You’re really keen on getting your money’s worth on this hardware.”

  “Old salvager habits. Use what you can find or barter or someone will take it from you.”

  “I’m liable to deny the request next time just so I don’t have to see that disturbing smile on your face.”

  Roman loaded the second-to-last rocket in the launcher, tapped a command on his wrist-screen, then took position so that King was clear of the blowback. He used the flare to sight the shot, holding his breath as he locked everything into place.

  “Blowback area clear,” he said by rote, then “Fire in the hole!”

  The launcher drowned the hallway in sound, and the grenade arced through the hall, the room, and the second hallway, hitting dead-on. The hallway became a fireball, which roared back into the empty room, then receded.

  Roman lowered the launcher and reached for the last rocket. “Reloading.”

  “So we’re going with the naked display of force negotiating technique, then?”

  “Whoever ordered this wanted her ransomed, not dead. They won’t kill the hostage when threatened. That’s not how these stories work.”

  “But you do sure take glee in pushing stories right to their edge, don’t you?” King asked, covering the door with his rifle.

  “Makes them more exciting. Narrative gods will be happy.”

  “Keep it together, Roman. Don’t go off the edge.”

  “No problem.” Roman trotted down the hall with the loaded launcher pointed at the far door.

  The flare hadn’t survived the explosion, but there were dim red lights inside.

  “Don’t you come any closer!” said a human-sounding voice inside.

  “I’m here to negotiate!” Roman shouted, words carrying down the hall.

  “With a freaking rocket launcher?”

  “That’s my icebreaker.” Roman was still advancing.

  “Stop right there, unless you want the ambassador to bleed out on the floor.”

  “You don’t want that, either. You want the big payout from whoever ordered the kidnapping. And unless I’m wrong, you don’t get that if Reed is dead.”

  “Who the void are you?”

  “A friend of the ambassador, that’s all you need to know.” Roman nodded to King, who moved softly forward, hugging the wall. Roman was their heavy combat operative, but King was the stealth master. And as long as the mercs were focused on Roman …

  “She ain’t mentioned friends like you. I caught your ship coming in. You’re Terran, but you ain’t Terran Military.”

  “Just your ordinary pro-Interstellar Alliance patriot with high explosives and big brass balls. Who do you think will take your turf after this? Widowmakers? Seventh Sons?” Roman kept talking, full-voice, trying to cover up King’s advance.

  And as he escalated, the merc holding Reed would get angrier, more cocky. He’d step forward, move until he was visible from the door.

  “Ain’t no Seventh Sons gonna take our turf. When we space you and get our reward, we’ll be the only ones spared the coming wave. It’s gonna wash that Interstellar Alliance away so as no one will even remember it was so much as a glimmer in the ambassador’s eye.”

  Roman heard the sounds of struggle, a woman’s voice, gagged. And that would tell King what he needed to know about where Reed was in relation to the head merc.

  King reached the far hallway, still twenty feet out from the door.

  In an Earth Prime situation, this strategy would never work. But this was a story world, and tale types dominated here. Which meant that there was only one more trick left to pull.

  King gave the signal. He was ready.

  Roman shouted. “Blowback area clear. Fire in the hole!” But he did not fire.

  Instead, a second and a half later, the sound of a firing rocket came from King’s wrist-screen, recorded from the last rocket, doppled to sound like the rocket was coming in and flying into the room.

  Roman saw figures dive inside the room, then caught King’s shadow as he stepped inside the threshold.

  A single gun report echoed through the hall back to Roman. Then King’s voice.

  “Should have given yourselves up. Stay on the ground.”

  Roman trotted ahead, tending to the launcher to avoid any accidental firing. The sleight-of-hand trick had been the last thing they needed, no time to blow a hole in the top of the station and suck them all out into space.

  Another shot rang out, and a gun clattered across the floor.

  “Anyone else feel like doing something stupid?” King asked.

  There were no other sounds until Roman stepped up to the doorway.

  “Coming in.” He ducked into the final room and saw two dead mercs, another three cowering prone across the room, and a very tired-looking Ambassador Kaylin Reed kneeling beside one of the bodies. “Ambassador, are you well?”

  “Well enough now. That was … bold. You have my most heartfelt thanks, and those of the nascent Alliance.”

  “Let’s see if we can get you home on the double and remove the nascent part of that alliance, eh?”

  Reed stood, keeping an eye on the other mercs. They didn’t dare move. “A fine plan.”

  King addressed the mercs. “What shall we do with the three of you?”

  “We was just following orders, we was!” said a sniveling Yai, curled up in a ball in the corner.

  “As if that excuse has ever worked on anyone,” Roman said as an aside to King. King focused on the Yai. “Who ordered the kidnapping?”

  “It was the Ra’Gar!”

  “Don’t tell them, Fraal!” snarled another, a Jenr.

  “They’s going to kill us if they wants to, and I won’t want to die on this crap rock in the middle of nowhere!”

  “Snitch!” shouted the second merc. The Jenr went for his gun, taking a wild shot at Fraal. King put a bullet in the Jenr’s chest, and the alien dropped his gun.

  “The Ra’Gar. Do you have any proof, any digital trail?” Ambassador Reed asked.

  Fraal pointed to the dead leader merc’s wrist screen. “It’s in Yarden’s messages.” Roman covered Fraal with his pistol while King covered the last of the mercs, leaving Reed to retrieve the wrist-screen. “What was the passcode?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! But he wasn’t never that inventive. I bet your smart techies could crack it.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  King asked, “What would you like to do with these two, Ambassador?”

  The Ambassador leveled the mercs with a look of disdain. “Do you have room in your ship?”

  “It’ll be real cozy. But we’ve got ways to restrain them, no problem.”

  The ambassador drew herself up, regal despite ragged clothes, fatigue-mottled features, and unkempt hair. “Then they shall face justice. Bring them with us.”

  Roman closed on Fraal. “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Back on the ship, King watched the ambassador emerge from the airplane-sized bathroom, far more put together despite walking in there with nothing more than a hand towel.

  “Are the prisoners secure?” she asked, golden hair loose over her robes of state, which were
somewhere between a cloak and an A-line runway dress.

  “Yes, ma’am,” King said from the copilot’s seat. The prisoners had been searched, cuffed, and then locked to the bulkheads at opposite ends of the ship’s back room. There would be no napping on the way back, but they weren’t expecting a fight on the other end of this trip.

  King did another visual circuit of the sensors as the ship arced through the void, five hours out from Ahura-3.

  Behind him came the sound of pacing.

  “There’s not much to do other than wait, Madam Ambassador,” Roman said. “There’s a pulldown seat here.” He gestured behind and to his left, where the emergency fold-down seats lined the sides of the ship.

  “Thank you, Mr. Roman, but I think better standing. And as this ship is luxurious enough to have its own gravity, I will take that opportunity afforded to me to work on my speech. What of the Alliance? Is there still hope?”

  King nodded. “That’s what my colleagues just beamed me about. I’ll sling the message to your personal.”

  “This will do. Thank you.” The ambassador continued to pace, but her footfalls were calmer, steadier.

  “Can we get you anything else, Ambassador? Food? A change of clothes?”

  “I will manage, Mr. King. Thank you. Right now, all I need is the fastest ride home and this report your colleagues sent. I apologize if my focus undercuts my thanks, which are meant to be nothing less than overflowing. But celebration and reward follow success, not uncertainty.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just let us know.” King shot Roman a look, and the Afrikaaner tried not to laugh at his own boss’s surprise. This from a man with a nearly legendary game face.

  “Sensor sweep is negative on pursuit. Five hours to destination,” Roman said, moving the conversation back into businesslike routine.

  They’d done their part. It was up to Shirin and Leah to keep Ahura-3 from imploding until they could get Ambassador Reed back on-station.

  He pushed Shirin’s report to his earbuds for text-to-speech to listen without taking his eyes off of the space before them, even if the journey in front of them wasn’t 99.9999 percent emptiness.