“O-M-Fonking-G! This is so awesome! With me on your side, there’s nothing we won’t be able to do! I mean, did you see how I took that guy out?” he crowed, flexing his muddy muscles. “I’m a freakin’ fighting machine. I’m unstoppable!”
A stinger, roughly four feet long, burst through his chest from behind. Everyone, including Garunk, stared at it for several stunned seconds.
“Where did this come from?” Garunk wondered, then the stinger withdrew and he sunk to his knees, his thick, cakey mud-coating becoming thin and watery. It pooled on the floor around him, forming intricate patterns on the rock. He held a hand out in front of him, reaching for something only he could see. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a series of hacking sounds and something brown and phlegmy.
Nobody noticed. Instead, all eyes were fixed on a wasp the size of a baby hippo, which hovered in the air behind him, its stinger drawing back for a second attack.
“Shizz, Garunk, look ou—” Cal began, then he recoiled as the blade-like stinger stabbed Garunk through the head, spraying mud in an arc across the floor.
The stinger withdrew. Garunk made a noise not unlike water draining down the plughole, and then he toppled sideways and became a viscous muddy puddle on the floor.
Cal sighed. “Well, so much for unstoppable.”
“I guess he’s off the team,” said Miz.
Loren breathed with quiet relief. “Thank fonk,” she said, then she caught the looks from Cal and Miz. “Uh, I mean, thank fonk it was quick and painless,” she said. “He was a dear friend. I’d have hated for him to suffer.”
“Well, he got a three-foot-long spike through the chest and face,” Cal pointed out. “So, I’m pretty sure he suffered a little. And speaking of suffering...” Cal backed away from the giant wasp. “We should probably get the fonk out of here.”
Dozens of smaller wasps came zipping up into the air around it. An insect the size of a Chihuahua, crawled out of the hole, its back end caked in hot mustard that left a slug-like trail behind it as it crept toward Cal and the others.
Orange Hat, meanwhile, continued to dig, willfully oblivious to everything going on behind him.
“On three, OK?” Cal whispered. “We turn and we run as fast as we can. Only, not too fast, because my leg’s still huge, and I don’t want to get left behind. Run at the same speed as me so it’s fair. Or, ideally, slightly slower.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” said Loren.
“Three…” Cal began.
Behind him, Miz and Loren both set off running.
“Two…”
Cal heard the scuffing of footsteps and shot a glance back over his shoulder. “Where the fonk are you going?!”
“You said ‘on three,’” Loren called back.
“Yeah, so why are…? Shizz. I counted backward. Wait for me!”
He set off at what was meant to be a sprint, but could be generously described as ‘an assisted hop’. The various swellings had started to go down, but he still gave off quite a distinct ‘Quasimodo’ vibe as he hobbled away from the wasps, his back bent, his face ballooned beyond recognition.
Up ahead, Loren and Miz stumbled to a stop, then immediately began retreating toward him. Cal had almost caught up with them when he saw the group of Harvesters in Hazmat style suits approaching from the main cavern, each carrying a long-nozzled weapon attached to a large tank on their back.
“Oh, great. Now they’ve got flamethrowers,” Cal sighed. He puffed out his cheeks, jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder. “So, you want to go take our chances with the wasps, or should we stay here and get burned to a crisp.”
He smiled lopsidedly at the women on either side of him. “Ladies’ choice.”
Twenty
At first, Cal assumed they were flamethrowers, and that the wasps—and probably everyone else in the side chamber—were about to be burned to a crisp.
Instead, as the Hazmat Harvesters rushed into the chamber, a green mist billowed from the nozzles of their weapons. Cal, Loren, and Miz coughed and hacked and spluttered, their eyes burning as the smoke hit them.
The Harvesters pushed them against the wall. Something tingled across Cal’s chest, then tightened, slamming him against the rock, but his eyes were shut too tight to be able to see what it was. From the yelp and growl from Loren and Miz respectively, Cal guessed they’d suffered a similar fate.
The ground trembled in the way it usually did when Mech was pacing somewhere nearby. Cal hadn’t heard the cyborg’s distinctive clanking, though, although the Harvesters were barking orders at each other, and the wasps were buzzing angrily, and there was a general feeling of chaotic emergency which could easily have drowned out Mech’s dainty footsteps.
The worst of the coughing passed, and Cal chanced opening his eyes.
Ooh, shizz!
Fonk. Fonk.
Ow.
A full minute passed before he tried again. This time, it felt like his eyeballs were being lightly sandpapered and rinsed out with vinegar. This was a marked improvement on the last time, and he was able to keep them both open long enough to make out the crackling band of energy coiled across his chest, keeping him trapped against the wall.
He had just enough time to see that Loren and Miz were both pinned by similar energy bonds—Loren facing front, Miz smushed face-first into the stone—then was forced to shut his eyes again before they dissolved into a lumpy paste.
“You guys OK?” he called above all the shouting and the buzzing.
“Fine,” said Loren. “I think. What is this stuff?”
“Gas,” Cal guessed.
“Well, obviously it’s gas—” Loren began, but then she sighed. “Sorry. Not your fault. Miz, you OK?”
“Thith tothally suckth,” said Miz from the side of her mouth that wasn’t in the process of being squashed into the rock. She sounded thoroughly annoyed, which told Cal she was just fine.
“Anyone have their eyes open?” Cal asked.
“Not yet,” said Loren. “Too painful.”
“I hath,” said Miz.
“Great! What do you see?”
“The wall,” Miz replied.
“Shizz. That doesn’t really help,” Cal said. He took a number of deep breaths, which brought on a fit of frantic coughing, then gritted his teeth. “OK, I’m doing it. I’m opening my eyes.”
And he did. This time was an improvement again on the last one. Sure, it felt like his retinas were being injected with concentrated cat urine, but he reckoned he could just about handle it.
With his eyes open, Cal saw a towering figure dressed in black standing just twenty feet away.
This close, Manacle was pretty fonking intimidating. And blurry. Mostly blurry. Although, that was probably more to do with the gas than Manacle himself. The intimidating bit, though, was all him.
He looked as if he’d paid a visit to the Crazy Galactic Warlord clothing store, headed straight for the Darth Vader section, and maxed out his credit card. He was in all black plasticy armor, angular black mask, knee-high black boots, and a full herd and a half’s worth of leather. Black, obviously.
He stood watching as the Harvesters sprayed the wasps with the green gas, his gauntlets creaking as he flexed and unflexed his left hand, spreading the fingers wide, then balling them slowly into a tight fist. To Cal’s mind, this made him look like he was strangling an invisible goose, although he was aware that he was almost certainly the only one who thought this, so he decided it was probably best not to mention it out loud.
“Hey! Manacle! Is that you?”
The fist tightened with a jerk, snapping the invisible goose’s neck clean in two. Manacle lowered his arm and turned, ever so slowly, in Cal’s direction.
“It is you, isn’t it?” said Cal. “You know, I’ve heard a lot about you in the last day or so. Sounds like you’re making a real name for yourself.”
The ground shook faintly as Manacle swung a leg forward and strolled in Cal’s direction. He didn’t stop until
he was uncomfortably close, and while he no longer looked blurry, he’d doubled down on the intimidating part.
Cal saw himself reflected in the lenses of Manacle’s mask. Fonk, he was in bad shape. With his face partly inflated, he barely recognized himself.
Manacle stood just a few inches taller than Cal, and yet Cal couldn’t recall anyone ever looming quite so menacingly over him before. Cal had stood his ground in front of larger opponents before, not to mention godlike space clouds and Time Titans, and had been able to bluff through his nerve-jangling terror.
Something about Manacle stripped that ability from him, though. He wanted to put on the usual cocky swagger, but something about the very essence of the figure before him made his mouth go dry and his bladder set itself on Amber Alert.
Manacle had said nothing. Hell, he’d done nothing except take a casual stroll toward him, but Cal knew in that moment that Miz was right. A pickaxe through the head wouldn’t have stopped this guy, it’d only have fonked him off.
Cal rasped his tongue across the desert of his lips. “So, uh, I just wanted to say ‘good job’. Keep it up,” he croaked.
A gloved hand caught Cal by the chin, the fingers pressing like iron rods against his cheek. He saw his reflection go wide-eyed and panicky as Manacle forcibly tilted his head left and right, studying him.
Cal instinctively reached for some sort of quip—some kind of Cal-ism he could fire out to show he wasn’t afraid. He settled briefly on, ‘Take a photo, it’ll last longer,’ but the words refused to come out, and he could only stand there in mute terror as Manacle manipulated his head, scrutinizing every swollen, bloated inch.
The hand was cold through the glove. Cal blamed this for the way his own hands started shaking, and how his legs trembled like they might give way at any moment.
“Great Manacle,” said one of the Hazmat-wearing Harvesters, appearing through the cloud of green mist. He bowed three times, each one deeper and more respectful than the one before. Through the glass of his visor, Cal could see the guy was going through some Grade A emotional turmoil. It didn’t take long to figure out why.
“I have some bad news,” the Harvester confessed, rushing the words out with the grim determination of someone ripping off a band-aid in one sharp jerk. “We secured the Queen, as requested. And while we successfully secured several of the other larger males, the Beta was injured.”
Manacle continued examining Cal’s face.
“Meaning?” he said. His voice was an electronic crackle from inside the helmet that seemed to agitate the very air around him.
The Harvester wrung his gloved hands. “Meaning… We may not have a viable breeding pair. We may have to continue the search for a little longer to be sure we—”
Manacle’s free hand punched through the glass of the Harvester’s visor. Cal saw his fingers splay inside the hood until they clamped across the Harvester’s skull.
Manacle kept his own gaze on Cal as he squeezed.
There was a whimper. Then a crunch. Then a squelch.
Manacle withdrew his blood-soaked hand from inside the visor. The Harvester toppled backward onto the floor.
Cal swallowed, even more aware now, than he had been, of the fingers wrapped around his face. “Well, that showed him,” he whispered.
“I don’t need a Beta. I have all the subjects I need,” Manacle said, although Cal had no idea if it was aimed at him, the dead Harvester, or just the world in general.
The fingers tightened on Cal’s face. He heard the bones in his head groan their collective disapproval, and tried very hard not to picture his skull exploding like an overripe melon.
And then, to both his and his skull’s relief, the fingers released their grip. Manacle looked him up and down, glanced down the line at Loren and Miz, then let out a single, “Huh,” of indifference.
“Bring the Queen,” he barked, turning and striding into the green fog, his cape swishing behind him. “Load her onto my ship.”
“Yes, Great Manacle,” said a voice from somewhere else in mist. “And the workers? Should we dispose of them?”
Manacle stopped. Cal could just make him out through the gas. He appeared to consider this for a moment, then gave a shake of his head. “Resume digging,” he commanded. “Find me more.”
And with that, he was gone, swallowed by the billowing clouds of wispy green.
“Well,” croaked Cal, finding his voice. “He seemed nice.”
“Tolthd you,” Miz mumbled. “He’th noth thomeone we wanth tho meth with.”
“I don’t even know what you’re saying to me right now,” Cal told her. “But I get the general idea.”
There was nothing they could do but wait, listening to the sounds of shouting, the angry buzzing, and then a sound like cream being sprayed from a can.
Shapes moved in the mist, heading off in the direction of the main mine chamber. The fog was dissipating a little, and Cal saw flying boxes of various sizes go gliding through the air, as Hazmat-suited Harvesters scurried along behind.
As they all left, silence fell in the side chamber. Or… no. Not silence. Cal realized he could still hear the steady thunk of Orange Hat’s pickaxe striking the wall. Jesus, that guy had a work ethic.
There was another sound, too. A voice, in fact.
“Wow, that actually hurt!” it said, in a tone that suggested this was a good thing. “I can’t believe I got stung by a giant wasp! An actual giant wasp! How awesome is that?!”
This second sound was followed by an almost imperceptible third sound. It was a low groan that came squarely from Loren’s direction.
“Coo-ee!” called Garunk, waving cheerfully as he emerged from the mist. He held his arms out, presenting himself as he twirled on the spot. “Look who’s alive!”
“Hey, you’re not dead!” Cal remarked, observant as ever. “Loren, look. Garunk isn’t dead.”
“Yay!” said Loren, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Which, in all honesty, wasn’t much.
“How has that happened?” Cal wondered. “You got pretty definitively stabbed through the face and torso.”
“I don’t have any internal organs in any of those places,” Garunk explained. He patted himself on the stomach then rubbed his hands across his slick, muddy torso, a little too suggestively for Cal’s liking.
“What, not even in your head?” Cal asked.
“Especially not in my head,” said Garunk. He shoved a fist through the hole the stinger had made in his face, turned so Cal could see it emerging from the back of his head, then squelchily waggled his fingers. “See? Nothing.”
“Then where do you keep…?” Cal shook his head. “Forget it. Can you get us out of these things?”
“Energy restraints!” Garunk said, once Cal had drawn his attention to the crackling band across his chest. “Ah-may-zing! Now it feels like a real adventure. It’s like I always say, ‘It’s not an adventure until someone’s tied to a wall with energy restraints!’”
He waved a muddy hand. “Kidding, I never say that. But maybe I should start! You think? Loren? Loren? Loren?”
“What?”
“You think I should start saying that?”
“I don’t care!” Loren snapped. She took a breath and adjusted her tone. “Just… Can you hurry up and get us out of them?”
Garunk bent to study the energy shackles across Loren’s chest, then straightened up again. “You know what this reminds me of, Loren?”
Loren flinched, just a little. “Something from the Academy?” she guessed.
“Yes!” Garunk confirmed. “You know the one.”
“I don’t,” Loren said.
“You do! Of course you do! That time we…”
He broke into a snorting laugh.
“Remember? When Feltch… With the desk? Only it wasn’t…”
He exploded into a fit of guffawing. Loren and Cal watched him blankly as he doubled over, his body shaking with laughter. Miz continued to stare at the wall. She didn’t hav
e a lot of other available options.
“And then—oh, Kroysh! Hoof’s face? Remember? Remember Loren? Loren? Remember? Poor Hoof’s face!”
The thought of Hoof’s face set him off again. He buried what passed for his own face in his sort-of hands and surrendered to an all-consuming fit of the giggles.
“What the fonk is he talking about?” Cal asked.
“I have no idea,” sighed Loren. “Garunk!” she snapped. “Can you get us out of these or not?”
Garunk took a few seconds to compose himself, gave a long, happy sigh, chuckled a few more times, then shook his head. “No.”
“Great,” Loren muttered.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Garunk admitted.
He stooped and retrieved Cal’s fallen pickaxe. “I suppose I could try to smash them off with this,” he said, hefting the tool in his hands. “But there’s a chance I might hit you guys instead.”
“How much of a chance?” Cal asked.
Garunk considered this. “Fifty-fifty,” he said. He hefted the pick from hand to hand. “Maybe sixty-forty.”
“Sixty-forty the good way or the bad way?” Cal asked.
“Which one’s the bad way?” Garunk asked.
Cal blinked. “The one when you accidentally cave our skulls in.”
“Oh. Yeah, sixty that way,” said Garunk. He tried giving the pick an elaborate swish, but it slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground. Cal and Loren watched him in silence as he retrieved it. “Want me to try?” he asked.
“We’ll pass,” said Cal.
“I’ll thake my thanthes,” slurred Miz. “Go thor it.”
Garunk emitted a little squeal of excitement. “A daring break-out! Just wait until I tell everyone back home!”
Before Garunk could raise the pick, a metal figure came clanking out of the fog.
“Hey, look, who it is. It’s Robo-Judas,” Cal remarked.
“Mech, are we glad to see you?” said Loren.
“Are we?” asked Cal.
“I don’t know. It was a genuine question,” Loren replied. “I honestly have no idea anymore.”
Mech prodded a finger against a small device he had strapped to his forearm. The electric bonds holding Cal, Loren, and Miz in place fizzled out, and they all stumbled away from the wall.
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