Kraken Mare

by Jason Cordova

  “You're weak, Baptiste,” Holomisa said, walking forward as the other man spun around. “Always have been. You give in to the darkness because it's easy.” He dodged a swipe, easily dancing to the side and landing a jab on Baptiste's chin. “You see power as a way to produce fear.” Another jab. “Men like you always want the control, but not the responsibility that comes with it. That takes work,” he punctuated the word with a right cross, “strength,” -left hook- “and hardship.” He finished with a quick right-left combo, knocking Baptiste back a step. “You don't have what it takes.”

  Holomisa sounded like a fucking Jedi. I would have loudly approved except, well, the pain. I did manage to gurgle out something that may have sounded like ‘Woo hoo,’ if you listened closely.

  Baptiste grunted as he took two solid body shots, one to each kidney. Holomisa may be the more honorable man, but it didn’t mean he fought by the Marquis de Queensbury rules, it seemed. Baptiste swung, a haymaker that could have taken Holomisa’s head off had it connected, leaving him open for another punch to the torso. I heard bones crack, audible even over the sounds of the fight. Baptiste recovered quickly though, catching the captain unaware, and scoring a nasty gash to Holomisa’s side. It was only the captain’s reflexes that saved him—a split second slower, and he’d have been gutted. Baptiste smiled, long tongue flicking over his fingers.

  “You taste good, Captain.” He continued to lick the blood from his hand, appearing to savor each drop. “You have a lot of heart.” Baptiste brought his hand down sharply, the remaining blood splattering on the floor. “I can’t wait to eat it.”

  Holomisa’s face became hard as the wound closed.

  “Do your worst, Lieutenant.” He stepped forward, features set in grim determination. “I doubt it will be good enough.”

  I became enraptured in the conflict. Granted, there wasn’t much else I could do—any attempt at movement sent spasms through my legs, and my arms were damn near unresponsive. I took several breaths, as deep as I could make them, mentally and physically preparing myself for one last ditch effort.

  Baptiste, even after all the punishment I had dished out, and on top of everything he was getting from Holomisa, was still fast, strong, and extremely deadly.

  However, if Baptiste was fast, Holomisa moved like Mercury. Quicksilver strikes flowed into each other, making it difficult to determine where one ended, and the next began. I had only seen a fighter move like that in old Kung Fu movies. It was mesmerizing.

  A feral howl of frustration and pain erupted from Baptiste as another of his punches failed to connect. Holomisa’s kick cut the sound short as it slammed into Baptiste’s lower jaw, knocking the lunatic backwards. He held the pose, one foot extended at eye level, both fists even with his hips, for about three seconds before lowering his leg slowly.

  “Control should be exercised by a leader on himself before it will be accepted by his subordinates.” Holomisa was barely breathing hard. “Trying to control those around you, but not yourself, is the sign of someone who fears losing it. This is why you will fail, Baptiste.”

  He watched with Zen-like calm as Baptiste caught his balance, shifted slightly, and rushed. Talons hissed through the air, narrowly missing the captain’s face and ribs as Holomisa danced out of reach. He was slowing down, though. A minor hesitation allowed Baptiste to counter a strike, opening up an opportunity to land a solid shot to the wounded side. Holomisa’s face paled briefly, before launching into a furious attack, hands and feet blurring into a kaleidoscope of motion. For every strike Baptiste blocked, two more made their way past his defenses. In desperation, Baptiste grabbed the other man, pulling him forward as he brought his forehead down. The impact bought him some space and time, allowing him to take a step back.

  The ferocity of the assault had taken its toll—both men were gasping for air as they broke contact.

  “I don’t understand you, Holomisa,” Baptiste’s words were labored, separated by short wheezing sounds. “What has anyone done for you in this life that demands your loyalty?”

  “It’s a concept you can’t grasp. Honor.” He moved, watching the other man carefully. “You lack honor, Baptiste. You only see people as a means to an end, a tool to get what you want. It’s why your men hated you, your superiors hated you, and no one trusted you.”

  “You’ve got a point, old man. I do have issues with ‘honor.’ It’s what allows me to do whatever it takes to win.” That nightmare grin reappeared. “Like this!”

  Holomisa had misjudged his opponent slightly, allowing Baptiste enough room to maneuver. With a large step, he moved towards the closest desk, grabbing it under one end and heaving in one smooth motion. It flew in the captain’s direction, spinning on both the horizontal and vertical axis, giving Holomisa only one way out.

  Holomisa dodged, a quick step to his right which placed him behind the projectile and a half second behind Baptiste. I could only watch in horror as Baptiste’s next two steps brought him within arm’s reach of me. My desperate lunge for the rifle fell short by a good foot.

  Joy filled Baptiste’s eyes, echoing the laughing yell of triumph erupting from his throat as he reached for me.

  Time seemed to slow, the murderous prisoner’s hand closing the distance between us in agonizing seconds, seemingly to prolong the dread of approaching doom. My traitorous legs wouldn’t find purchase on the floor, skittering across the smooth surface as I tried to get any amount of space I could. Baptiste’s talons locked on my foot.

  Holomisa’s angle of attack was wrong, but the only one he could take. He leapt, extending one foot in front of him, the other curled under. It was the opening Baptiste had been waiting for. The trap was laid, Holomisa had no choice but to walk into it.

  A quick step forward and the kick missed. No matter how good Holomisa was, he still couldn’t fight the physics of a flying kick. You just can’t change directions in mid-air. Baptiste’s other hand locked on Holomisa’s ankle, becoming a fulcrum for the other prisoner, using the forward motion of the flying kick to slam him to the floor. Holomisa tucked, taking the impact on his shoulder and rolling to his feet

  Directly into Baptiste’s combo.

  The uppercut snapped Holomisa’s head backwards, stunning him and putting him in perfect position to take the overhand punch square in the teeth. Holomisa dropped like a sack of potatoes, stunned by the ferocity of the attack. Another scream of triumphant joy from Baptiste heralded his final assault.

  Kick after kick pummeled Holomisa’s body, a nonstop barrage of violence that left the downed man broken and bloody.

  “Where is your self-righteous indignation now?” Bloody froth dripped from Baptiste’s jaws as his teeth tore into his lips and tongue. He didn’t seem to notice, focused as he was on his raving. “You could have ruled with me, Captain! But you had to cling to your precious morals!”

  He reached down, taking the other man by the throat. I watched in horror as his free arm reformed, skin peeling back, the bones of his hand and wrist fusing together. In seconds, what used to be a hand became a wide, flat blade.

  It was now or never. I lunged again, screaming as the pain tore through my body. Every nerve ending erupted in fire as I closed my hand around the rifle’s grip and brought it around.

  Baptiste dropped the limp form of Captain Holomisa and turned to me. “Give up, Johnny,” he hissed. “It's inevitable.”

  “The only thing that's inevitable is death and taxes,” I shot back angrily. I risked a quick glance down at the charge handle and reaffirmed that I had pulled it already. The carbine was primed and ready for any move that Baptiste might make.

  “If you put it that way…” Baptiste's voice trailed off. He cocked his head and it twisted unnaturally. Whatever the scientists had done to the prisoners on the station was something that never needed to happen again. Ever. He continued. “I have conquered death, and taxes can be avoided if you have a good enough accountant. Tell me, were you an accountant before all this?”

 
“Uh…no,” I said. I'm pretty sure that I sounded very stupid, but it was only the fourth strangest question I'd been asked that day. I was off my game.

  “Pity. It would have made one hell of a story, the accountant who does battle against monsters like me.”

  He moved almost faster than I could track. He weaved back and forth, his form almost a blur as he closed in. I whispered a silent prayer as I pulled the trigger, firing off four shots in rapid succession. Each round impacted solidly into flesh, distracting him enough to give me an opening as he staggered closer. Ignoring the lessening, but still present pain, I lashed out with a steel toed boot. While the shattered knee didn't stop him, it did slow him down just enough.

  I flipped the firing selection on the rifle from semi to full automatic and jerked back the charging handle one more time. A quick check confirmed that the proper round from the bulky magazine was chambered. While normally the high explosive was pretty worthless in a pitched battle, in close quarters it was almost as good as a bayonet on a rifle.

  The FUKU had a forty-round magazine, and every fourth round a high explosive cartridge. It wouldn’t go through standard battle armor, but it could wreck holy havoc on unprotected areas and even cause concussive damage upon impact, better even than standard ammunition.

  I shoved the smoking barrel into his chest and felt it break through the thin skin, my earlier suspicions confirmed. Baptiste was extremely strong and fast, but, like Isaac had said, they could not make their mass disappear or to create it from nothing. To add the extra strength to his bones and muscles, his body had to pull it from somewhere else.

  And one of the most overlooked, yet largest organ of the human body, was the skin.

  Baptiste looked at me in wonder as I shoved the barrel of the carbine deeper inside his chest. I looked him in the eye and saw a complete and utter lack of humanity within. If the eyes are a window to the soul, then that place had been burned to the ground a long time ago, ashes scattered by a million storms and all traces of it blown away. There was nothing left of his soul in those pitiless eyes.

  “Ouch,” Baptiste hissed, his elongated tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “That actually hurt.”

  “You ain't seen nothing yet,” I whispered and pulled the trigger.

  The explosive round went off inside Baptiste like a grenade, showering white-hot fragments throughout his chest cavity and damaging his heart, lungs, and stomach. The damage from one single round like that had the potential to be devastating. He jerked spasmodically from the impact and explosion. He howled in pain and fury, an inhuman sound that scarred the soul. Most people would flinch and run at the sound. It was very unnatural to the ears.

  So of course I went ahead and unloaded the entire magazine into him. One bullet for every goddamn stair. Yes, I counted.

  Shrapnel peppered my hands and arms, with a few managing to make it to my body armor. The fragments of the five-five-six millimeter, high-explosive rounds were stopped by the standard armor, preventing me from taking the same type of damage that had ruined Baptiste's body as every fourth round exploded inside him.

  Little rivulets of blood practically exploded outward as the HE rounds expanded on the damage that the standard rounds were causing. I was yelling loudly and incoherently as the sustained rifle fire nearly ruined what was left of my hearing. I kept the trigger pressed, however, even after it was obvious that I wasn’t firing any longer.

  He fell to the ground, quivering. His eyes were wide open in shock, and I could see something other than pitiless rage in them for the first time. Now I could see pain and, more comforting, fear. Baptiste was afraid, and he had good reason to be: he could feel my emotions, and the only thing coursing through my soul at that moment was wrath.

  I looked down at Baptiste's twitching body, my ears ringing from the gunfire. He was still alive, but just barely. The high-explosive ammunition of the carbine had done one hell of a number on him, rendering his entire midsection to pulp. He was bleeding from dozens of small holes in his skin, and I could only guess as to just how bad he was internally. The largest hole from where the barrel of the gun had been jammed into him was oozing with guts and blood.

  “You're one tough bastard, I'll give you that,” I muttered. At least, I think I muttered. It might have been a shout, I'm not entirely certain. My hearing was absolutely shot to hell, and there was a dull ringing in the background.

  I grabbed the last flash grenade I had and looked at it before letting my gaze drift down to Baptiste’s ruined form. A particularly vile idea came to mind, one that almost made me shiver. I grinned viciously as I stood above him.

  “I’m not the hero of this piece,” I growled as I clenched the stun grenade tightly in my hand. “I’m nowhere near it. But I’m not the villain. No, that’s you. Just because I’m fighting on the side of light doesn’t make me the hero.”

  I pulled the pin and slammed it into Baptiste’s mouth. I shattered his teeth with the steel edge as it went past his lips. Baptiste’s eyes widened as he realized what was going on, but he couldn’t move his arms. I’d done too much damage to him. One of the HE rounds must have done something to his spine, and while I was certain that he could heal himself eventually, there was no way I could let him. He was an evil that had to be eradicated, even if it meant damning my soul. I backed away and turned. I closed my eyes and covered my ears.

  The bang! from the flash grenade was surprisingly muted. It could have been due to my damaged hearing, but I was pretty sure that his brain matter, bone, and flesh absorbing most of the blast had more to do with it. The light from the magnesium flash was bright enough that I could see it through my eyelids, but it didn’t really hurt. Though it was muted, it was still loud and wet sounding.

  I opened my eyes and looked at Baptiste. Though I was fairly certain I knew what I was going to see, I had to make certain that the monster was well and truly dead. What I saw confirmed my suspicion of what a flash grenade would do when shoved inside someone’s face. While the flash grenade was designed to disorientate and stun, it was still an explosive device. And when the force of an explosion is compressed, it tended to be far messier than if it had exploded in an open space. Such as what happened to Baptiste’s head.

  Bits of bone, blood and brain matter had splattered all over the floor, the force of the explosion angled down and away from me. He must have tried to turn his head to spit out the flash grenade, to little avail. More blood dripped from his neck and pooled on the floor around where his head should have been.

  It was nasty. It was necessary.

  There are some evils one can live within this universe. Taxes, in-laws, and redheaded younger siblings come immediately to mind. Even if we don’t want to admit it, these are simply minor annoyances in the grand scheme of things.

  Baptiste was evil, plain and simple. The sort of evil that should not be allowed to survive or loosed upon the universe. He had been a convicted murderer before they’d pumped him full of alien shit to make him a powered-up killing machine. With the abilities he had before I had killed him, the damage he could have done to humanity as a whole was terrifying. Especially if he had made it off the station with Isaac in hand.

  I had been trying to save Isaac. In the end, I may have saved myself.

  “Is he dead?” a voice asked from behind one of the heavy cabinets in the corner.

  Baptiste was dead, that much was clear. Not just mostly-dead, either, but the type of dead where all one can do was rifle through his pockets and search for loose change. Doctor Isaac came crawling out of his corner, surprisingly healthy and unharmed for someone who had been in Baptiste’s not-so-gentle hands. He stood up and brushed his hands off on his pants. His hair was mused and his face covered in sweat and grime, but otherwise he looked fine to my trained eye.

  It’s amazing how Murphy seems to love some people while making others Her absolute bitch.

  “What was he rambling? He was yelling about a grand kraken or something?” I asked as my hearing slowly beg
an to come back. Isaac flinched. Okay, I may have asked louder than I wanted to. “Sorry. Hearing is shot to hell.”

  “The grand kraken is something he was going on about for long periods of time when he wasn’t babbling about how he couldn’t wait to get his hands on patient H-6– I mean, Captain Holomisa,” Isaac explained, his voice tinny and small in my ears. “He kept talking about how he was going to summon the grand kraken to destroy the station.”

  “Uh, okay?” That was weird. I knew that Baptiste had been a sick and twisted individual, but this pretty much cemented my opinion that he was batshit crazy as well. I chalked it up to my lack of experience in civilian matters and moved on. “That sounds…strange?”

  That’s me, Mister Eloquent.

  “It’s theoretically possible that there’s some larger version of the kraken in the depths of the lake that we haven’t reached yet,” Isaac said as he wiped his face off on his laboratory coat sleeve. He shook his head and removed the coat and tried to clean himself as best as he could with it as he continued, “I’m not going to say it’s definitely there, but it’s a plausibility we can’t dismiss.”

  “Okay,” I nodded. My hearing was coming back at a surprisingly good rate, “but not likely?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Shit.”

  “A ‘grand kraken,’ as that deranged lunatic espoused, would have a mass that would probably be unsustainable in the lake’s high-pressure environment,” Isaac put on his metaphorical doctoral cap and began to lecture me, “but that still leaves a small chance of it occurring. Of course, feeding a creature that is large enough to damage the station in a lake this small is highly unlikely and improbable. There just isn’t enough food to keep them alive.”

  “What if they eat each other?” I pressed. “What if they are like the Aztecs and sacrifice each other to appease a god?”

  “That’s actually a valid idea,” Isaac nodded, a grave look on his face. It was a bit unnerving to see a guy I had considered one of the friendlier people on this hell to be so dour, but then again we did just blow the head off of a shape-shifting maniac.