Hostility (Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Book 3)

by J. D. Oppenheim

  Just then Koba ran in. “I fixed it! The Jessica will accept commands from you now, Jolo.” Koba bowed deeply. “I’m sorry about before.”

  “We’ll test it in the morning,” said Jolo.

  But the next morning Marco showed up in the repair bay and the Jessica was gone and with it Jolo.

  Jamis

  Bakanhe Grana Homeworlds

  Warumon 5, Humanoid Synthesis and Production Facility

  The two wet, soft Vellosians were of no use in any kind of fight. And the BG warlords, whose every step—alacyte tri-foot on steel grate: a metallic, unnatural sound that made Jamis’ head ache—viewed them with indifference and contempt. The guards “accidentally” prodded the two green creatures every chance they could. And then, especially the rank and file warriors, would make wheezing snorts that passed as laughter.

  Jamis could see Merthon’s hate for the shiny alacyte-encased worms boiling over, and Jamis feared he would do something rash. More rash than recombining the remains of a Federation war hero and sending the result off into Fed space in an antique escape pod.

  It had been a fool’s errand and the only good to come of it was to soothe the mind of his deluded, genius friend—to give him some shred of hope to cling to. But the sad truth was that they were going to die right here, and soon. The last of the Vellosians, the greatest creators the universe had known, would die at the hands of the worms.

  But Jamis would not let the fate of the universe rest in the metal grip of the BG if he could help it. Merthon, the creator extraordinaire, was not the only frog on this wretched rock with a plan. And while Merthon’s plan was brilliant and extravagant and hung by a thread, Jamis’s plan was colder, simpler, and involved one tiny omission which would destroy the thing they’d been working on for the last two years. He was going to kill the Emperor’s children and deny him the chance to beat the Federation and ruin the universe. And for that sweet morsel of recompense he would gladly trade his life.

  Warumon 5, where Merthon and Jamis were being held, was once called Montag, by the Vellosians. The smaller Vellosian moon was considered insignificant by most, but for one small fact: it held one of the largest Vellosian synthetic life form production facilities in the known galaxy. When the BG attacked the Vellos, their goal was extermination. And they nearly succeeded. There remained a few pockets of Vellosian life, but their rich traditions and heritage and their lush green home world of Vellos was destroyed.

  And the synthetic life forms that they created, used by Federation planets mainly for menial labor tasks were destroyed by their owners per a new Federation law enacted after the synthetic life forms had begun to revolt. A revolt the Vellosians say never happened.

  Montag was conspicuous because it was kept nearly intact. To the Vellos, Montag was just a small moon in Velosi in space but didn't attract much attention. They called it the dirty rock because it was devoid of the lush green landscape and water the Velosians needed for survival. But the BG prized it because its one redeeming quality, the synthetic humanoid production facility.

  There was one small green jewel on the dirty rock, and that was the Emerald pool which is the only thing that was keeping the two Vellosians currently living on Montag alive.

  Every morning Merthon and Jamis were allowed time in the emerald waters. It wasn't just bath time or relaxing time. The waters held properties they needed for survival. Their skin absorbed the nutrients from the water much like a human would drink or a BG worm gained sustenance from the soil. And even though the BG had allowed Merthon and Jamis to make special tanks to sleep in at night, they had convinced the BG overlords that full immersion was necessary for survival, which was a lie. But it was useful for something else entirely: communication. In the Emerald pool the Velosians could send thoughts to each other. They only had five minutes, but it was useful to trade secrets.

  One morning in the pool, Jamis was particularly upbeat. Merthon had grown gradually despondent with each passing day, as the glorious hero he had put all of his skill into, the one with special gifts that no synth had ever been blessed with, had not come.

  "Do not ask about him," said Merthon to Jamis under the water in the Emerald pool, the BG warriors standing above them totally oblivious to their thought waves.

  "I have begun something,” said Jamis. "Something that may get me killed. But I believe that's a foregone conclusion anyway."

  "What have you gone and done, you fool," said Merthon. Relieved to be talking about anything other than a hero that had failed to arrive. His hope that he would had now dwindled to nothing. "You didn't try and throw hydroxy tabs into the mix again did you? That nearly got us both executed. Very hasty on your part, I might add."

  "Yes, that was a bold move, and stupid. But this time it's not what is added, it's what I've begun to leave out."

  "You can't leave anything out, you old fool. Even the BG are smart enough to monitor the water content."

  "Of course. I'm not a fool. The thing that is left out must be left out gradually and with great care. Their water analyzers tend to read a little high on one particular nutrient that I have been slowly reducing."

  "Well, are you gonna tell me?"

  “Yes, but you’ll also need to know how to—” and then his words were cut off as a metal arm had reached into the water snatching them both up.

  The Vellosians stared at each other, held in the metal clutches of a BG warrior, the only sound was the drip, drip of water onto the surface of the pool.

  “The Emperor has decreed that you two shall no longer be in contact,” the warrior said.

  There was no time to argue. Merthon looked at Jamis, the water still covering both of them. “Tell me!” he thought.

  But it was too late, his thoughts were cut off once more.

  And Merthon and Jamis never spoke to each other again, each of them toiling away in separate sections of the synthetic life form production facility on the moon formerly known as Montag.

  Alacyte

  Duval

  Bakahne Grana Alacyte Production Facility #1

  Jolo stared out the portal window into the darkness. It felt good to be on the ship again. There were too many things in his head: Jaylen, the BG and Federation wanting to kill him, and the fact that he didn't quite know who, or exactly what, he was. It all swirled in his mind and clouded his thinking. A few hours earlier he found out where Jaylen was. And that still pulled hard in his heart, but for the moment there was something more pressing to attend to: the burning anger inside of him.

  He plotted a course for the other side of the planet. Koba had fixed the voice command issue so finally he had full charge of the Jessica. That was all he needed. If the bastards wanted him dead for being a synth, which he clearly wasn't, then he was going to give them all a much better reason to kill him. It's one thing to kill a man for being a synth when is not. It's quite another to kill a pirate who has rained down destruction and fire upon you.

  Standing on the deck of the Jessica, her fuel cells full, shields and armament ready at his command, the mountain chain to the east drifting away as the light of day from the star they called La Taiyo sending a pink glow on the horizon, Jolo was at peace. He was not much for backstabbing politicians and manipulation. All he needed was direction, a target, something to destroy. At his core he knew that he was a fighter, and that’s what he did best. He felt it in his bones--the 52% at least that were his, the other 48 along for the ride. And the closest target he had was the jewel of the black worms. He was going to destroy the alacyte production facility, or die trying.

  An hour into his journey to the other side of the planet the light of morning grew stronger and the orange sand began to give way to green forests and blue streams. The nav console said 3.8 hours to destination. That would give him plenty of time to pull up the alacyte facility layout on his computer and sketch out a plan of attack. He turned to sit down in the captain’s chair, and there, leaning against the logic array that Koba had worked on earlier was the synth, George.
His arms were folded and he had a half smile on his face. He stood so still that Jolo might have missed him were it not for his blue eyes and his blonde hair. He had a very slight plastic quality about him which made him blend well standing next to the logic array. Though when he moved he was very much human-like.

  "They're going to kill you," he said, smiling.

  "Yeah, probably."

  "Anger. That's a good sign. Especially for a human. It means you're moving past that difficult piece of news earlier. Or maybe I should say moving through it. But being dead won't help you, or anyone else."

  "I'm not dead yet."

  "Yes, but if you attack the alacyte production facility half-cocked like you're about to do, then indeed, you will die before you even get to fire a single blast from one of your beloved ion cannons. And so the Federation wins and the man claiming to be Jolo was nothing more than a synth after all, and now he is dead and the BG will continue doing their evil, nefarious deeds, etc. etc., ad nauseum."

  "I've got a plan. Take out the guard force first, then blow the whole thing up."

  "Not gonna work," said George, tilting his head, then going statue again.

  "Well maybe the real Jolo Vargas may have had a great plan, but the new, alien version is just plain winging it."

  "Does the alien version really want to die?" But this time it was Katy's voice. Jolo turned to face her and she was joined by Hurley, Koba, and the Greeley brothers.

  "Answer my question," said Katy.

  "Of course I don't want to die," said Jolo.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Katy. “Look me in the eye.” And she put her hands on either side of his face and stared at him for a moment.

  “I don’t want to die,” said Jolo again.

  "Well then let us help you," said the older Greeley. "You saved all of us. And I don't care who you were before, or what you are now, all I know is, you were the guy who saved us and who cared about us so we're not leaving you."

  "Not to mention the fact that you're trying to leave us right when there's gonna be a little gun play. Now that’s enough to piss me off. I'm ready to suit up and go worm hunting," said the younger Greeley, smiling.

  "How did you know?" said Jolo.

  "Your father predicted it," said Katy. "This is how you react to difficult news. He said you tend to fly off and do something stupid. When your mother died you stole a Fed transport ship and your father was convinced you were going to be a pirate."

  Jolo looked down at his boots. They were old Jolo's boots, but they fit perfect.

  "I guess I did fly off a little half-cocked. But I don't want to put any of you in danger."

  "We are here because we want to be here," said Katy. "Even Koba." Koba smiled and waved his bandaged hand trying not to say anything, but then he couldn't resist,

  "Yes, I'm happy to be here. But I really would like a better plan of attack."

  "I agree," said Jolo.

  ……

  "Do you think it's gonna work?" said Katy, handing Jolo the binoculars. They were both lying behind a sand dune watching George speed off on the hover bike. As he got further away all they could see was a tiny trail of dust heading straight for the BG communication tower.

  George had insisted he be the one to take the tower out. If he failed, then the ground force would put the call in to the battleship in orbit above Duval and they'd all be dead. The typical BG Destroyer held four cruisers, a full platoon of warriors, and hundreds of recon bots that could locate a rat in a 100 square kilometer area in hours.

  George was right, thought Jolo. He was quite happy to report that he was stronger than any human by a factor of 3.4 and at least twice as fast on foot, but nonetheless Jolo felt like he should be the one on the hover bike.

  Jolo handed the binoculars back to Katy. "Yeah, he's fine. And besides, if the plan doesn't work, there won't be a lot of time to fret over it." He smiled at her and they jogged back to the Jessica.

  ……

  The closer George got to the communication tower, the larger it became. He wondered if he had enough charges. The bike couldn't carry any more explosives anyway, so he’d find out soon enough. He smiled to himself. I'm carrying charges to destroy a building and I do not even know the weight of the charge or the size of the building. Calculations have not been made, nor have we done any testing at all. And 10 minutes ago I didn't even know how to set a charge. Mr. Marco would be proud. I am no longer fastidious George. I am rash, cavalier. Damn near human. Which will probably be the death of me, he thought, angry at himself for even thinking of it.

  Per the plan, George rode the hover bike straight up to the communications tower. He waited near the bike 10 meters from the large entrance, the tower reaching high into the blue sky above. He stood there holding his extra-heavy helmet with a smile on his face, trying to seem as human as possible: sloppy grin, slouchy posture, and remembering to fidget constantly.

  And sure enough his adversary emerged from the metal sliding door at the base of the tower. George had never seen a BG warrior up close. It was taller, longer and appeared much stronger than he had imagined. And if he was capable of fear, which he wasn't, he reminded himself, he should be feeling it right about then. He wondered if that particular sensation would come. He waited for it. There should be a buckling of the knees at this point, a shortness of breath, palpitations, something. And then he realized he was standing perfectly still again and so he initiated a bit of random knee movements, then scratched his elbow and widened his eyes, titled his head, half smile. Careless. Oblivious. Human.

  "This area is restricted," said the giant black mechanical being in front of him. His voice an electric hiss.

  George had to look up at the giant, right into the sunlight to reply. His eyes adjusted immediately, but he put his hand over his eyes like a visor, blinking the whole time, just like humans do. "Quite right. Quite right. I seem to be a bit lost. Here, catch this," George said, tossing his helmet to the warrior.

  Instinctively the warrior grabbed the helmet with both of his alacyte claws and at the same time George dove backwards face down into the dirt and there was a large explosion. And if he was supposed to feel burned, he should have, right at that moment. 7.84% of back and neck area have suffered minor burn damage, his internal sensors read. 27% hearing loss. 98.4% efficiency. He was good to go but made a mental note to tell the Greeleys next time they make a helmet bomb to consider less explosive. Now all he had to do was set the charges. The difficult part was done. He wondered at how foolish the BG were to have only one warrior guarding the tower.

  He stood up and dusted himself off, lifted the canvas cover off the charges and then heard the door open again.

  He turned, still holding the canvas like a child’s blanket as another warrior stepped out of the tower, right on top of the smoking, charred remains of the previous one. The head had rolled to a stop 20 meters off to the side, the arms and legs had become detached and the still smoking alacyte chest plate lay in the dirt, a large crack running along the side. Maybe the explosive amount was correct, he thought to himself.

  He looked up at the thing in front of him, like a smaller, blacker tower, he thought, its tiny gears and actuators whirring. 7.8% chance of survival. He couldn’t help it, the data just came to him. And now he was supposed to sigh, because his chances were slim and he only had the one helmet bomb and now was armed with a piece of cloth. So he let out a long breath of air and slumped his shoulders. It was the anatomically correct thing to do at that particular moment. This was the end. I hope Mr. Marco misses me, he thought.

  The black creature’s long stick was lit up on both ends, glowing bright red even in the full light of day. The mechanical thing raised up the weapon, said, “Die, tiny human!”

  He said, Human, thought George. A wonderful complement it would have been in any other circumstance. But here, on the sand, in the full sun, mechanical being vs. synthetic life form created on Vellos: it was an insult. And George felt a tang of the one emotion he c
ould almost feel: anger. It was a tightening of his being, when the calculations did not come as quickly but his reaction time improved greatly.

  The end of the energy weapon made an arc in the sky and swept back down to cut the little person in half, but George was no human. He jumped straight up as the electric blade swooshed under him, the creature’s large, metal head still aimed down. George kicked the middle of the pole and covered the large metal head with the canvas.

  He landed on his feet behind the black, mechanical worm.

  Chance of survival 9.4%. Hmmm, an improvement, thought George. The BG warrior struggled to remove the canvas that was blocking his vision and George had one thought: run. His first instinct was to sprint straight away from the tower but then realized that would be folly, there was no cover, and he had no weapon. At this point, even one of the crappy Federation energy weapons would have been useful. So instead of heading straight off into the sand to his death, he darted to the left and hid behind one of the giant tower pillars.

  The black monster whirled around, reacquired its tiny target, and came down again with the energy weapon. George darted away and the BG’s weapon took a large chunk out of the steel pillar, which gave George an idea.

  There were energy cells powering the tower, a row of three, four meters high, on the far side, so George made a one final sprint and positioned himself directly in front of the cells. This was a plan worthy of Captain Vargas, he thought. Or merely the last thoughts of a dead synth. He'd soon find out.

  In one quick leap the warrior was in front of him, and the speed with which he covered the distance caught George off guard. 2.43% chance of survival.

  And to make matters worse the warrior had broken his weapon in half and held each end in one of his alacyte tri-grip hands. The warrior feinted with the right and then came up with the left, severing George's arm above the elbow. Instantly, his survival protocol went into action sealing off all open arterial connections. He stared at the arm for just a split second, lying in the dirt under the tower, and thought that he must feel some sense of sadness for his loss, but then the large BG warrior coiled for the final blow. He pulled back to make a stab.