by Jamie Sawyer
“We are Kindred,” P answered. “The nest is infected, but it is still of the Collective.” P turned sharply to me, and said, “The objective is beyond this portal.”
“Then let’s get to it,” I said.
I turned my shoulder-lamps deeper into the nest. A vast hold, with more skeletal ribbing lining the walls and deck. Pools of fluid pocked the floor; churning with dead Krell spawn. Pariah crushed several underfoot, making wet squelching sounds as the immature spawn burst.
“Do you have to do that?” Lopez protested, her voice a low whisper.
P didn’t turn as it responded; instead, it remained focused on the deep dark at the centre of the chamber. “Kindred are infected, Lopez-other. These will not make maturity.”
“Well, they won’t now…” Feng added.
“The eggs are corrupted,” Pariah explained. “They carry the infection.”
Jelly-like egg clumps—demonic frog spawn—floated in some pools, but it was all wrong. The stuff leaked black and silver fluid, polluting the liquid. The entire place had the feel of a crypt; of a sepulchre, a graveyard for the Krell species.
“We are sealed in,” Novak complained.
Back the way we had come, the hatch slicked shut: red-raw tissue covering the exit.
“We’ll worry about that on the way out,” I said.
The chamber was so big it was difficult to make out the perimeter. At the edges of my vision, the dark positively rippled with activity. There were Krell out there. They did not communicate with us at all, but they didn’t need to. Their intent was clear. They waited and watched. This felt like a Krell holy-place, and it represented not only the heart of the nest base but also a gateway to the Krell’s central intelligence network…
P froze ahead of me, poised.
“We advise caution,” it said.
“On the ready line, Jackals,” I muttered. “Target acquired.”
“Holy shit…” Feng whispered.
In the centre of the chamber sat a huge bio-pod, supported by a web of coral growths. Like machinery with a variable power supply, the pod glowed sporadically.
“On me,” I said to the Jackals.
The squad fell in, silent now. I took a cautious step down into the pit of the chamber and craned my neck to look at the pod. Something vast and alien and very fucking ugly lay dormant inside.
“Is this it?” Lopez asked me.
“I think so,” I said. Looked to P.
“This is the Krell warden-form,” P confirmed. “This is our objective.”
Graphics popped onto my HUD, superimposed over my vision. The warden-form was much, much bigger than any specimen we’d seen so far on Vektah Minor—two, maybe even three times the size of a simulant in combat-armour. Like all Krell, it was six-limbed, and covered in organic armour, with a distended head that was more cephalopod than fish. This was, so Science Division told us, some sort of warrior-caste off-shoot of the equally rare navigator-form. But whereas the navigators piloted the Krell ships through deep space, the warden-fish commanded the ground troops.
“Let’s get this bad boy secured,” I ordered.
“The Kindred are not gender-specific,” P intoned. “Jenkins-other is factually inaccurate to refer to this specimen as ‘boy’.”
I kept my eyes pinned on the xeno, but shook my head. “Whatever, P. Novak, deploy the launcher.”
Novak unshouldered what looked like an oversized missile launcher from his pack. This was a PT-5 netgun—non-lethal pacification technology, fresh out of R&D. No simulant team had done much more than train with it—because the device wasn’t made to inflict lethal force, it was at odds with other Sim Ops-issue weaponry.
“Am almost ready,” Novak said, checking over the enormous firing tube. The gun was so big that Novak was the only Jackal capable of properly carrying and firing it. “This is tax dollar at work.”
“You don’t pay taxes, lifer,” Lopez said, but then nodded. “Just don’t miss.”
Pariah clambered up the structure at the foot of the pod, using the bone-like cabling as support. It stroked a claw across the warden’s pod.
“Warden is in pain,” P said.
“It’s infected, right?” Lopez asked, without turning to look at P: keeping her eyes on the dark.
“I don’t know what gave that away…” Feng muttered.
“Of course,” said P.
“So why are you bothered about it?”
P paused. “We are still Kindred, Lopez-other. Even if we are Pariah.”
“We’ll need to open that pod, P,” I said. “Can you do your thing and get it to work?”
P paused. “There will be no need.”
Feng gave a strangled laugh. “Why’s that, P?”
“Because,” P said, its flat robotic tone matter-of-fact, “the warden-form is waking up.”
CHAPTER FOUR
HAMMER AND ANVIL
The warden thrashed inside the pod, untangling itself from bio-cables. The capsule ruptured, and fluid gushed across the chamber floor.
Lopez had her rifle up, aimed at the warden’s oversized head.
“Don’t fire!” I yelled, grabbing her shoulder. “We need this thing alive.”
Of course, the Jackals already knew that. We’d been thoroughly briefed on the capture of a live specimen as the primary objective of the mission, but instinct is a powerful mistress, and I could quite understand Lopez’s overwhelming need to shoot the xeno. The fish looked seriously pissed. Lopez didn’t look much better.
“It’s bigger than the briefing said,” she said.
“A lot bigger,” agreed Feng, as he fell back from the emerging xeno.
“Novak, fire the damned launcher!” I ordered.
“Am trying,” protested Novak. “Need to wait until it gets out of pod!”
The Russian lined up a shot with the netgun. The weapon’s control panel lit, indicating that it was ready to fire.
With unreal speed, the warden pulled free of the pod. It rose up to full height.
But Novak still couldn’t take the shot. His weapon’s laser-sight danced across the alien’s carapace, as it dodged sideways, out of range.
“Fucking shoot it!” Lopez complained.
The warden shrieked. I staggered backwards, away from the enormous son of a bitch. Without a word, the Jackals fell into a defensive perimeter around the creature.
“Use the batons,” I said.
Although intuition screamed that this was a terrible, terrible idea, I shouldered my plasma rifle and drew my shock-baton. Standard-issue shock-batons were designed for use on soft targets, but this particular model had an increased power output for use against xenos. I racked it, and the baton extended to full length: almost as long as my plasma rifle. The heavy charge pack incorporated into the hilt generated an energy discharge that would be capable of killing a human. It would, Science Division’s R&D department insisted, be more than enough to incapacitate an infected Krell warden-form.
Probably.
All of those thoughts ran through my head in the split-second I had to react as the warden swiped for me. Its claws scythed the air. I rolled sideways, barely avoiding the swing.
The warden-form was incandescent with anger. It stomped forward, and the very chamber seemed to shake with a combination of the warden’s movements, and its sheer rage. It was huge; barely capable of supporting its own weight on the twisted arrangement of limbs. But while the alien was enough of a physical threat, it was also much more than that. The oversized head throbbed with infection, and waves of dread emanated from the thing.
“Bring it down!”
Another swipe, and the alien was now properly out of the pod. Gas and liquid vented from the remains of the bio-machinery.
I dove forward, beneath the creature’s upper limbs. In the same motion, I slammed the shock-baton into its right leg, aiming for a dog-leg joint.
The baton impacted, and impacted hard. The noise was a little nauseating, even if my target was an infected fi
sh. I’d hit one of the warden’s lower limbs, and sparks shivered over the xeno’s skin. The scent of ozone and of fried fish filled the air.
The warden roared, and the sound sent shivers through my body and mind. It turned about-face, directing every ounce of its physical might in my direction.
I racked the baton again.
TAKE EVASIVE ACTION, my HUD insisted. THREAT LEVEL CRITICAL.
I cracked the baton into another of the xeno’s legs. It took the impact and drove a claw towards me. The light glanced off the xeno’s black, serrated fingertips. Its hands were webbed, limbs finned.
I scrambled backwards. The ground underfoot was slick, wet with the pod’s discharge. Compounded by the combat-suit’s heavy armour, I slipped. Felt the ground give, and winced as I anticipated the incoming blow…
Except that it didn’t come.
The warden pulled back, rearing up.
“We will assist,” said P, leaping between the warden and me.
Then Pariah was on the xeno’s back, holding on for dear life. A cowboy riding the biggest bucking bronco in existence. The warden-form stumbled into more of the coral structures, causing part of the chamber to collapse. P was tossed aside—thrown hard against the chamber wall, and the Jackals scattered in the big xeno’s wake.
Lopez activated her baton and launched forward. She struck the xeno on the torso, then dodged back, using her EVAMP to perform a limited jump. Feng saw what she was doing, and copied.
“Stay operational, troopers!” I yelled by way of encouragement. “Novak, use the damned launcher!”
“Am trying to get clean shot!” Novak said. He was tracking the fight with the launcher.
“Just shoot,” Lopez said, as she danced around the warden, her EVAMP blazing.
“I don’t know how long we can keep this up for,” Feng echoed.
The warden swiped a claw at P, and the xeno impacted another wall. Again, P was up and at the warden without pause. Say what you will about that fish: it was one hell of a trooper.
The warden shook itself angrily. It was covered in spiked armour plates, and those showed evidence of the combat: striped with dark Krell blood, or marred by burn marks from baton discharge. Now though, the carapace sort of shifted, as though the alien inside was inflating. It looked like a puffer fish, expanding, spear-tips shimmering as they popped up all across its shelled body, or in the softer flesh between armour plates. I had no doubt that those would be poison-tipped, and that poison would be debilitatingly painful. The Krell were specialists at that shit.
“Am ready!” Novak roared.
Just as the warden-form was about to activate whatever bio-weapon it was equipped with, Novak fired the net-launcher. The weapon emitted an electric hiss as it activated.
“Get clear, P!” I shouted.
“We are trying,” said P.
The net rapidly expanded as it launched. It instantly electrified.
P leapt free of the navigator, catching a pillar with outstretched claws, scurrying higher and out of harm’s reach.
The warden turned, realising what was happening.
The net caught the alien, full-on. Direct hit.
It wrapped around the warden. Microdrones built into the grid ignited, seeking to hold the alien inside the mesh. The warden slashed at them with its clawed limbs, but they were too fast. The net closed, and its electric field fired again and again.
Like a porcupine’s quills, the spines across the xeno’s body flattened. It convulsed with the current running through the net, and the scent of burning flesh grew stronger. The xeno collapsed to the floor. My HUD confirmed that the alien was still alive, but that it was incapacitated. Exactly as we wanted it.
I let out a sigh of relief. “Novak, Feng,” I shouted. “Secure that fish.”
They fell in around the warden.
“Fish is very heavy,” Novak protested.
Novak hauled the enormous warden along the deck, Feng at the other end. They looked like a bizarre parody of fishermen, except that the catch in their net was the size of a shark, and far more dangerous.
“Be thankful for the man-amps,” Feng said. “I know that I am.”
The combat-suits were equipped with manpower-amplifiers, which augmented the already impressive strength of a simulant body. Even those were being pressed to the limit by the warden’s weight.
Krell advanced from shafts in the chamber walls, and erupted from pods.
“Quit griping and get moving,” I ordered. “We’ll hold them back.”
P continued fending off the newcomers, and Lopez was doing the same now, glad to be firing her plasma rifle instead of relying on the shock-baton. She was far more comfortable with shooting shit than hitting it, which I could quite understand. I pumped my plasma rifle, launching grenades into the morass of targets.
“Just keep a grip on the fish,” Lopez blasted. “We won’t be able to hold these bastards off for ever.”
“Lopez-other speaks objective truth,” said P, as it fired a volley of barbs into an oncoming primary-form.
“Move on the exit, through the communion chamber.”
The portal had closed, muscle-fibre around the door twitching in protest at the invasion.
“Clearing door,” Lopez shouted.
She planted a demo-charge on the hatch. No time for a countdown or breaching discipline: we just needed to evac, and fast. The charge’s activation panel flashed green, amber, red, and we all paused as it detonated. Bloody chunks of flesh showered the area.
“I fucking hate this place,” Lopez whined, wiping gore from her visor.
“Then let’s pick this up, and get the hell out of Dodge,” I said. “Keep that body moving.”
The tunnel outside brimmed with more xenos. They were whipped into a fury; this was the Krell—infected or otherwise—at their most dangerous. Leader-forms—ordinarily, the biggest and baddest field-level bio-forms—lurched from side-tunnels, directing artillery-forms onwards. Secondary-form thralls, equipped with esoteric living weaponry, fired on us, splitting the air with bone-shards. My null-shield flared violently, repelling most of the gunfire, but never enough. Rounds hit my suit all over.
“Move, move, move!”
A route through the maze of tunnels appeared on my HUD. This was collected battlefield intelligence, derived from every operational simulant team, as well as the drone network.
“This way,” I directed.
Novak and Feng groaned as they took the weight of the xeno, and steered it around a corner.
“Easy at your end,” Feng said.
“Is not easy at all!” Novak answered back.
As though reacting to something in a dream, the creature lazily lashed out with a claw. The blow almost caught Feng, who only just dodged it—
“Feng!” Novak shouted.
The alien body slipped out of Feng’s gloves. It hit the deck, with a loud thunk.
The alien’s eyes flared wide. Angrier than ever. One claw sliced at the net.
“It’s getting free!” Feng said. “Novak, move up!”
“Secure that shit,” I said.
“We’re being overwhelmed,” Lopez replied.
I couldn’t even see where P was among the smoke, the debris, the mess. The fog of war had well and truly descended over the nest, and we were stuck right in the middle of it.
Only one thing for it. I thought-commanded my suit to open an all-channels comm-link.
“This is Jenkins’ Jackals,” I said. “Requesting immediate back-up. All squads! We have the objective. We have the objective!”
The warden continued to struggle. Lopez kept firing, repelling thralls with her plasma rifle. Novak had drawn his Widowmaker pistol, and was firing haphazardly into the oncoming horde. P was clutching the deckhead, firing away with its barb-guns. Such was their fervour, the Collective seemed to have lost their fear of Pariah.
“All squads!” I yelled. “All squads! Requesting assistance!”
There was a rumble through the
deck.
Ahead, a hatch blew outwards. New bio-signs appeared on my scanner, and a chime sounded over my internal comms.
“You assholes call for back-up?” came a voice.
Captain Marcus Ving, also known as the Phoenixian, commanding officer of Phoenix Squad, stood braced in the doorway.
Ving was tall but somehow also squat; his body broad, overly muscled. That was the same in or out of his sim: indeed, his real skin and his simulants were infamously similar. His features were stoic, heroic, disdainful. Like Lopez, he was Proximan, but now his lip was curled in a disgruntled sneer. Behind him, the rest of his team were present: four troopers in full Pathfinder suits. I heard muttered tuts and groans over the comm-channel. Phoenix Squad were no friends of the Jackals, that was for sure.
“Affirmative, sir,” I answered. I tried to avoid sounding patronising, but that wasn’t easy. Ving was still a senior officer, even if I didn’t like him very much…
Ving sucked his teeth. “We’ll talk about this later, Lieutenant. For now, we need to get that fish off-world.” He nodded to his team. “Fall in, Phoenix Squad. Let’s bail the Jackals out, and get this job done.”
Captain Marcus Ving was a poster boy for the Alliance Army’s Simulant Operations Programme. He was one of those guys you see on the recruitment adverts—riding the thin line between arrogant and intrepid, both threatening and promising that, by joining up, you can be more than human. Over the last few years, his chiselled features had become the face of Sim Ops, with Phoenix Squad nothing short of minor celebrities. Ving was a glory hunter, and revelled in the publicity and kudos. He was a favourite of both Captain Heinrich, first captain of my company and my immediate senior officer, and General Draven, head of the Sim Ops Programme. Marcus Ving also held the current record for the most active transitions in Sim Ops. That struck a particularly personal note with me: my mentor—the legendary Conrad Harris—had held the record for a long time, and it felt all kinds of wrong that a trooper like Ving now claimed it as his own.
I didn’t like Ving, and he didn’t like me. That’s life, I guess: not everyone is always going to get along. But the bad blood between Ving and I ran deeper than simple dislike.