Indian Hill 6

by Mark Tufo

  BT’s chest was puffed out in pride and I’m sure as a display of intimidation.

  “You have my word, as a colonel in the United Earth Marines, that if you hand over this ship, I will see to the safe transport of your people to the surface.” I could see the wheels spinning in his head. I think things could have worked out very differently if not for the very fortunate, or unfortunate series of events, all a matter of perspective. And you know what sucks about perspective? It’s very subjective. The event itself cannot be changed; it is how it personally affects you that determines whether it was a good or bad thing. When that Stryver ship laid strafing fire down our hull, it was both good and bad. Both of which I will explain, just not now. Naridead, thinking he had the distraction he needed, bolted for the door. BT lit him up, and not in a good way like a Christmas tree. Two bullets pierced his side, one took out his hip, and the other was a clean shot through his heart and lungs. He was dead before that fourth bullet ripped the top of his skull up.

  “Emergency protocol buckling engaged. Prepare for buckling. Emergency protocol buckling engaged. Prepare for buckling.” The canned message repeated two more times. We got rocked again right before the elongating feeling. Buckling sort of felt like I would imagine taffy must feel like, being stretched and contorted far beyond what is a reasonable amount. The beginning was like having one foot firmly planted on the ground while the other was not even within your line of sight; it was supremely disconcerting. Apparently, it was something you got used to if you did it enough times. I hoped I never got to that point because all it meant was that I was in fucking space, heading at extreme speeds to places and parts unknown. And contrary to what I thought when I was a kid, space sucks. There’s enough shit on good old planet Earth that wants to kill you; certainly no need to travel to distant realms in the pursuit of death; death is happy to pick you up at home.

  I was about to head out of the room; the cat was most definitely out of the bag now. In fact, the little fucker had his claws out and was tearing up the expensive Italian leather couch by now. “Help me get Paul, so we can get out of here.”

  “Do you even know what an attention span is?” BT asked as he headed to Asuras’s door.

  “I’ve heard of it, why?” I asked honestly. I bent down and grabbed Paul under his arms; he began to stir.

  “We didn’t come here to see if he’d been found out.” BT came back out of the room holding up Asuras’s insignia.

  “Oh yeah.” I shook my head; I would most definitely have gone back to Tracy without it. “Good call.”

  “What happened?” Paul asked he was looking at me, sort of, his left eyeball looked like it was swimming around, he was having a hard time focusing.

  “I’m thinking you have a concussion,” I told him as I hefted him up onto a seat. He immediately paled. Thought for sure he was going to get sick.

  “We’re in a buckle?”

  Me, personally, if I’d not felt that initial thrust I’d never know we were buckling but Paul was like those submarine captains that could tell you that the boat was turning and in which direction without looking at any instruments. One of those innate things…you either have it or you don’t. Nope, I was still very much a terra firma man. With my feet on the ground, I knew which direction I was traveling in and whether I was running or not.

  “We are.”

  “Do you know where we’re going by any chance?”

  “No clue, we got tossed around like sneakers in the dryer, then the bells went off and then a canned message about an emergency buckle.”

  “Help me stand.” He put his arm up.

  “Paul…General, you look as weak as a wet Kleenex. Let BT carry you.”

  “Yeah, nothing like offering another’s service.”

  “Hey man, I’m a colonel. I’m not offering, I’m ordering.”

  He flipped me off, but grabbed Paul’s other arm. We supported him between us and that left each of us a free arm for cover.

  “I blew up the Guardian,” Paul said as if he’d just remembered.

  BT and I exchanged a glance. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. To me, the ship was just a floating fucking nightmare, but it meant so much more to Paul, and to Earth, in general. Its designated name said it all. To those people on Earth, it meant hope; hope that while she flew, we could make it through the long dark night, that we would somehow survive until the morning. I’d never been much of a morning person, though. To each his own, I suppose.

  At first, we were mostly dragging Paul, wearing away the tips of his boots, but the farther we traveled, the more he tried to assist in his getaway. He had more color and was getting his faculties back. It was never good to have your brain slogging around inside your head.

  “Did you say emergency buckling?” Paul asked. He seemed to be struggling with remembering some lost nugget of information.

  I would have been a lot happier had he just kept it lost. When he finally stumbled upon what he was looking for, I thought it was me that was going to fall over from vertigo.

  “Yeah,” I answered him as we came up to a hallway juncture. We were keeping a vigilant lookout for the bevy of guards we were fully expecting to descend upon us at any moment.

  “Emergency buckling….” he trailed off.

  I figured it was just his head; he was going to have a killer headache or maybe he was already in the throes of it.

  “We’re heading back to Aradinia.”

  “What?” BT asked, beating me to the punch.

  “An emergency buckle. I learned that from the Guardian, of course. We had that feature disabled. Depending on the damage that a ship sustains or lack of a commander, the ship itself can initiate that function.”

  I wasn’t seeing the big deal quite yet. Even with buckling, Aradinia was more than a couple of years out. We’d do what was necessary by taking this ship over and turning her back around, all of it in the next couple of days, way before we started shooting across its horizon. And I told Paul as much.

  “It’s not that simple.” He was shaking his head back and forth, maybe to get the cobwebs out or maybe to shake away some particularly bad memories.

  A pit was forming in my stomach; as of yet, I didn’t know why.

  “Why?” BT, braver than myself, asked.

  “Once an emergency buckling has been started, I was told there’s no way to stop it.”

  “What the fuck does that mean, Paul?” I hate to be honest, especially when it puts me in a bad light, but I was near to hysterics.

  “It means, in two and a half years we’re going to be at Aradinia.”

  My jaw dropped open, nearly bounced it off the floor.

  Epilogue 1

  Captain Jordania sat in an offshoot of the now defunct tunnel system that had led directly to the supermarket on the far side of the Hill. After it had been blown up a few years back, he’d quietly ordered and secretly begun to excavate out a large enough cavity for those select few rebels that Beth had chosen. They needed to stay vigilant against the new regime that was beginning to rise, which threatened to be worse than the one they were currently fighting. She’d warned that lesser people would begin to become sympathizers to their aggressors and would even, in fact, begin working for their lizard overlords.

  The world was indeed a dangerous place. There were Genogerian reserves and a supposed Progerian prison which, if the rumors were true, was more like a five-star resort. One of the highest ranking officers in his beloved Marines, Colonel Talbot, had a pet Genogerian. He knew that many were fooled into believing they were friends, but not him…no, not him. He knew better. Colonel Talbot’s mind had snapped or been manipulated during his time aboard the Julipion; he was nothing more than a puppet to parade around in public and that big goon Drababan was his keeper.

  Beth had told him that the Progerians were keeping their enemies close, that they were lulling the Humans into complacency. That even the Guardian, the great bastion of humanity’s hope, was nothing more than a fraud—an empty monu
ment to what we had once been. She’d only married the general so that she herself could keep a close, watchful eye on the ever encroaching enemy. She was to be the true savior of their planet. She’d even warned him that the Hill was already compromised. It was no safer than any other place on the planet—more likely even more dangerous, as the inhabitants there felt secure. She’d said a time would come when he’d need to act and that he’d know when that was. It was the moment Drababan had stepped into his office and announced that he was now the highest-ranking officer on the Hill and would be assuming command. What more proof did he need that the damned aliens were taking over?

  Every time he thought about that monster walking into his office, HIS FUCKING OFFICE and taking charge, his anger would begin to seethe. That he’d only been able to win over five percent of the Human population to Beth’s campaign also caused him no small measure of distress. How could the idiots not see what was directly in front of them? Certainly, people weren’t that blind. Beth, ever wise, ever knowing, had told him that people will see only what they want to, what brings them comfort. Oftentimes they will block out what is right in front of them in favor for that which is convenient.

  “Sir.” Corporal Dillon had knocked lightly on the support structure they’d erected all over the shifting tunnel. Even the light rapping had caused some dirt to leak through the makeshift ceiling.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Jordania said as he lifted up his bottle of cheap bourbon.

  “Yes sir, but I thought you would want to know that the Hill is under mass evacuation.”

  “What?” Jordania stood up quickly and wobbled. “They have come to their senses and realized who their true commander is!”

  “That’s not it, sir.”

  Jordania attempted to focus his eyes on the corporal. “Then why don’t you just fill me in on what I do and don’t know!”

  “What I’ve gathered sir, is that Beth has given this location to the Stryvers.”

  “That’s a good thing. They are our allies. She knows what she’s doing.” Even in his near drunken stupor he could not completely hide the shivers he got when he thought about the Stryvers; he’d seen pictures of them and in no way could he imagine being around one.

  “Perhaps sir, but the command here is fearful that the Hill will be destroyed. It may be wise for us to leave as well.”

  “Nonsense. Now that the threat is gone we will welcome our new friends and finally be rid of the true menace that threatens our world.”

  It was two weeks later. Jordania and the remnants of his leadership were now housed in the main part of the Hill. The previous inhabitants had left quickly, leaving all manner of supplies and food behind. Jordania had called them fools innumerable times; he’d turned a blind eye when the first of his men had deserted. Less than half a month later and he had lost more than a third of his men. He didn’t know if the non-believers were prophets, that they somehow knew joining with the Stryvers was wrong, or if they were just cowards. At times he’d wanted to leave himself; it was the thought of what Beth would do to him if she found out that kept him in place. Instead, he drank himself into oblivion nearly every day, letting his subordinates deal with the dwindling operation of the Hill.

  Corporal Dillon came to a skidding stop right outside Jordania’s door. He entered before the captain could bid him to do so.

  “If you weren’t so loyal, I’d have you shot for continually interrupting me,” Jordania slurred.

  “Stryvers, sir,” Dillon said breathlessly. “Hundreds of them—possibly thousands, you were right! Our allies are coming to help!” He was excited.

  The captain leaned to the side and vomited in his basket. “Let’s go greet our guests.” He stood, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. “Corporal, open the main doors,” Jordania ordered.

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  As the corporal moved forward, Jordania instinctively moved backward, he was not even aware that his feet were betraying him. “Go, go,” Jordania urged with his hand as the corporal looked back.

  “Hello!” Dillon shouted from the exit. He moved farther away and went to greet the Stryvers. Jordania righted his ship and moved forward to peer out at the interaction.

  A column of Stryvers immediately peeled off from the main group and headed toward the solitary man. Jordania could not help but think how small Dillon looked compared to the monsters. And yes, that was how he thought of them, no matter what his beloved Beth preached to them all. And that stance would be confirmed beyond contestation as the first of the Stryvers reached his corporal. Its large, bladed forearm raised high in the air, pierced the man’s shoulder, and drove down and through his torso. The Stryver had sheared him neatly in half. The short cry of shock had died on his lips as the ruined lungs no longer housed breath. Jordania staggered back. He was in shock; they’d been betrayed. Beth had betrayed them. He frantically back-pedaled, one arm against the wall, to keep himself from falling.

  He vomited once again before standing back up, he was holding the wall until he’d got his feet underneath him. He got questioning stares from those in the hallway as he ran past; he gave them no warning of what had happened. He was only concerned with his self-preservation and he figured the fools behind him would be dealt with first, giving him the opportunity to escape. He’d not gotten far when he’d heard the first screams of surprise and then pain. Gunfire erupted next as he went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Hill. He thought he’d be safe there; he did not know that the Stryvers loved the deep, dark, nooks and crannies that the cave system offered.

  It was three days later when he was found. His flashlight had died two days before and he’d run out of his meager ration of food sometime the previous day. He’d heard the nightmarish click-clacking of an approaching Stryver. His mind snapped a precious moment before his throat was slashed to his spinal cord.

  FREETOWN INCIDENT

  Parendall held his infant son tight to his chest, his mate Demeta off to his left as they raced through the forest of Gravethorns. Pair bonding among Genogerians was infrequent but not unheard of, and Parendall had felt something spark deep inside of him the first time he had laid eyes on Demeta. They had been side by side then as well, fighting on the distant planet of Gritner. Legions of Stryvers had been discovered nesting deep within the planet’s extensive cave system and it was the Genogerian army’s responsibility to root them all out and extinguish their miserable lives.

  His platoon had been dispatched down the narrow and tangled southern tunnel network system. Intel had promised they would encounter little to no resistance. Parendall and his unit had fought long enough under this command structure to know that meant that they would in all likelihood encounter some of the fiercest fighting, and the Stryvers did not disappoint. They’d come around a bend that was nearly a ninety-degree angle, their lights barely piercing the absolute darkness. Even though they’d been half-expecting and knew their enemies, it still came as a shock when their lights reflected off a thousand eyes. The Stryvers were crammed into that tunnel like a cork in a wine bottle. As one they lunged forward into the front line of Genos, ripping the first of them apart before they could even register any shock or pain. They were among the lucky few that day.

  Genos opened fire almost immediately, attempting to keep the enemy at bay. Another of Parendall’s men was pulled from the front as strong, spindly arms twisted him in half; blood poured from his mouth as his internal organs were spun and crushed. The Genogerians were taught to never retreat—that their lives meant little in the overall struggle for the Progerian way of life, and by default, their standard of living. Whatever their beliefs and strategies, they meant nothing in the narrow corridors; the Genos could not fight effectively as a team when only a handful at a time could be in a firing position. Parendall had ordered the men behind him to get back to the massive cavern they had entered from and set up a defensive perimeter; at least there they could fight.

  He knew he was treading dangerously close to sediti
on in the eyes of their overlords; he would deal with that matter later, if they survived. Right now his only concern was that they had a chance to make it through the day. He received more than one questioning look at his strange order.

  “NOW!” he’d shouted. He stood with the remainder of his men in the front as they slowed the Stryvers down as best they could, grudgingly giving each backward step, foot by foot. A Stryver lashed out, his knife-clad arm easily piercing the armor of the soldier next to Parendall; arterial blood sprayed from the wound and across Parendall’s face. He grabbed the soldier by the arm before he could fall.

  “No more deaths today, Ziva.”

  “Is it not a glorious day to die in defense of the realm?” Ziva had asked in all seriousness.

  “Perhaps,” Parendall replied in a grunt as he hefted the injured Geno back. “Is it not also a glorious day to live in defense of the realm?”

  Ziva could only nod his head in acknowledgment. They were strange words, but that thought, that it was good to live; that was a truth that rang loudly. When Parendall finally pulled Ziva through the exit and to the open cavern, he saw his unit in a semi-circle around the opening waiting for the Stryvers. Another unit had come into the cavern as well, led by Chief Demeta. She was known far and wide as a ferocious warrior with a track record of impressive victories and was infamous for doing whatever it took to win. Parendall had not been expecting his heart to skip a beat when he caught his first glance of her; she was fierce looking with her battle armor, her face set hard as she surveyed the area.