I can blame Captain Gibbons for killing members of his own crew and for insisting Salib’s squad return to the surface even after we’d agreed repairing the engines was our number one priority. The truth is, though, Gibbons is another casualty on my conscience. If it hadn’t been for my goddamned course alteration, he wouldn’t be locked away facing twenty-four counts of second-degree murder, along with the fleet’s in-house disciplinary measures for the laundry list of protocols he broke along the way.
Without that one course alteration, all his suffering could have been avoided.
In the end, you see, it all comes back to me, no matter how vehemently everyone exonerates me.
And it tears me apart.
The depression comes and goes, but when it arrives, it’s absolutely paralyzing. I think long and hard about suicide. Sometimes I even get to the point where the VP barrel is pressed against my temple, and I swear I’m about to pull the trigger. No note, no apologies, nothing. Just darkness. Nothingness. Sweet relief.
But then I think of all the times I could have ended it on Furnace and didn’t. I think about all the soldiers suffering in Tscharia and how trivializing their unending deaths by voluntarily ending my own life is a slap in the face to them. I made it, after all. I’m a survivor of the Rockne Hummel. And if I kill myself after surviving impossible odds on the Hell planet, then what was the point of all their sacrifices? Of Katrina standing up to the Watchman in the corpse fields? Of Sillinger being killed by his commanding officer for saving my life?
I think of all that, and the depression only gets worse. Because I’m ashamed.
And so, I choose to keep living. Not for myself, but for the memories of those I left behind. I guess spite fuels the choice a little, as well. Knowing that every breath I take represents a crushing defeat for the demons on Furnace. My existence is their failure, and it makes me smile to think how it would enrage them to see me walking through the soft grass of my home planet, almost completely healed from the injuries they inflicted upon me.
It’s still a part of me, though. He is still a part of me. The clown king of Tscharia. A horned demon exiled from this galaxy by a mysterious deity who may very well be the Judeo-Christian God, or maybe not. I guess in any war, we bring back the evil that’s touched us. It just runs a little deeper after a place like Furnace. It’s harder to root out.
He talks to me at night, you know.
He takes the form of my mother’s severed head. Sometimes I wake and the gristle from her neck has smeared red over my chest. Sometimes she’s resting on the windowsill, watching me with vacant eyes and a grin that’s too wide for her mouth. Sometimes she’s on my dresser or in my closet or speaking to me from the hallway.
Wherever you go, he tells me through her mouth. I will find you.
It terrifies me. But the worst part of all is feeling that he’s telling the truth. He wanted us to leave, after all. He selected each survivor specifically, based on our roles in the ship’s crew. I have no doubt about that. Lao to protect us, Teemo to fly us home, Rosie to fix the engines and life-support systems, the doctors to patch us up and discover which alien corpses were edible for humans on the way back when our food-stores ran out (I’m not proud of that, but our communications systems were extremely short range and we couldn’t have landed on an alien planet for trade even if there’d been one nearby), Gallagher to command the ship once the captain was unfit for duty, Marty to prepare the food, and me to do the navigation that would lead us back to friendly space once we were in the Milky Way. I can’t guess what the other eleven soldiers stuck around for. Maybe just some extra muscle in case of trouble along the way. Regardless, I know it was all part of his plan.
And in the cold, lonely hours of the night, I know why, too.
Because he came back with us. He used us as vessels to return to the planet from which he’d been exiled. After all those eons without catching a reliable human ship, he’d finally gotten lucky and seized the opportunity. And soon, he will break free.
Wherever you go, I will find you, my mother’s head tells me.
So I lock my door at night and dread the day he comes knocking.
Tscharia, she tells me.
Her shrill voice stops my heart, and sometimes I call her in the small hours of the morning just to make sure it wasn’t really her visiting me as the Devil’s mouthpiece. She’s always happy to hear from me, and always invites me back to visit the shores of Lake Huron and relive the days of my youth with the rest of my family. The sound of her actual voice always makes me feel better. It makes me feel at home.
But I know someday, she’ll answer the phone and start chanting, “Here…here…here…” in that monotonous drawl of the undead.
That’s how I’ll know I’m fucked.
END
Read on for a free sample of Salvage Merc One
One
When you’re a Marine, you’re taught that you only have two friends in battle: your H16 Plasma Carbine Multi-Weapon and the Marine standing next to you.
Everything else can go to Hell. Mainly because it’s your job to send everything else there.
Great philosophy if you’re still fighting dirty Skrangs and their B’clo’no allies.
But, damn if the second the War ended I didn’t end up having both friends taken from me. I really miss that H16. She was the best multi-weapon a hard-edged Marine could ask for in a tight spot. Killed more than my share of Skrangs with that baby. But I get it, you have to turn in your weapon at the end of your service. The Galactic Fleet is funny that way.
How’d I lose my second friend? The Marine standing next to me during all those firefights with the muscle-bound lizards and snot monsters? Okay, I didn’t lose him. Crawford stayed in the Fleet. They didn’t ask him to leave. He had all limbs and organs accounted for. Never had to cash in a single replacement chit. He was 100% human.
In other words, he was financially viable.
Me? I spent my two allotted repchits my second year in the Fleet. Lost both my legs below the knees when I stepped into a B’clo’no mating trap. I don’t know if it was a male or female or both in that pit, hard to tell with those mucus things, but after I was through with it, it was dead. Don’t care if it was holding a billion eggs like the lady ones do or if it was holding only a million like the guy ones. I wasted that pile of sludge as it ate away at my legs. Hooah to my H16!
With my two repchits spent, and some seriously heavy duty battle legs to maintain, the Fleet decided I wasn’t cost effective. The Galactic Fleet really clamped down on spending once the War funds began to dry up. All that money being spent on peace instead of trying to wipe out the Skrangs and those damn, sticky B’clo’nos.
Crawford got to stay, I got the boot.
Ain’t no thing, really. Not anymore. Sure, at first it hurt like a mofo, but that’s life. I drank myself silly for quite a few months until I happened into a wubloov tavern on that one planet… Xippeee. That was it.
I know, I know, who names these planets? Xippeee with three E’s? That crud drives me ten kinds of crazy. But, they have to be named something, I guess.
Where was I?
Xippeee, right.
So, I’m getting stunk drunk in this tavern and in walks this woman. She’s a halfer, one of the rare mixed breeds that happen in the galaxy. Part human, part Gwreq. She totally had the Gwreqian stone skin going on, but had two arms like a human, not four. And she was fine. I mean, stop conversations, make heads turn, fine. Men, women, herms, asexers of all races dropped what they were doing to watch her walk into the tavern.
Now, I was drinking wubloov, which after six pitchers takes you on one seriously messed up hallucinogenic ride, so I thought I was looking at something my brain invented. I honestly had no idea she was real. I’m not kidding. This halfer crossed the tavern, ignored everyone staring at her, and took a seat at my table. The second she sat down, I ordered another pitcher of wubloov because I wanted that trip to keep on going.
It wasn’t until
she pulled out her KL09 hand cannon and set it on the table that I started to suspect that maybe she wasn’t a figment of my imagination. Which was really a bummer since I knew I had a shot with her in my imagination. In reality? No way a gorgeous woman like her was going to get with a scarred-up, washed-out, mostly drunk ex-Marine like me. Even with my sexy battle legs.
“You Sergeant Joe Laribeau?” she asked me after the barmaid had set down my pitcher of wubloov. She waited until the barmaid was gone then poured herself a pint, downed it, and pointed at me with the empty glass. “I’m speaking common, so I know you can understand me. Are you Sergeant Joe Laribeau or not?”
She said the last sentence really, really slowly, like I was an imbecile that couldn’t track words faster than three a minute. And considering I was about to pour a pint from my seventh pitcher of wubloov, she was probably right.
Except I have a gift. No idea how I got it. Fleet doctors think it’s an alien virus that I contracted during one of my campaigns, but none of them would say for sure because then the Fleet would be contractually obligated to pay for any long-term health care issues that may come from it.
My gift? I clarify. Fast.
Simply put, no matter how drunk, sick, injured, or whatever I am, I can get laser focus in an instant. The noise of life disappears and I see the world in crystal clear detail. It came in handy during battles. Turned me into a man that couldn’t miss. It was like everything around me slowed down and I could track my targets down to their molecules.
You’d think the Fleet would want to hang onto a man with that kind of gift, but, like I said, they had budget cuts and didn’t want to worry about me putting in a health claim if I suddenly lost my gift and grew eight toes out of my forehead. I’ve seen that happen. Not pretty.
Plus, it isn’t a reliable gift. It doesn’t always kick in. But it did with the halfer woman, so I paid attention. A halfer knows my name, and pours a pint from my pitcher without asking, I don’t care how hot she is, I get suspicious and perk up right quick.
“Who?” I asked.
“You’re him,” the halfer said.
She started to pour another pint, but I clamped my hand on hers and shook my head. She raised an eyebrow, which considering her rocky skin, looked like a row of pebbles was turning into a small arch above her eye, and looked down at my hand on hers.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked, hand still on hand, her eyes still on hands, my eyes still on her, the whole tavern quiet as a dead nuft.
“Remove your hand, please,” she said.
I glanced at her KL09 and she switched her focus from our hands to the heavy pistol.
“I wanted it on the table so you knew I didn’t have it under the table pointed at your junk,” the woman said. She sighed and pushed the weapon across the table with her free hand. “You can have it. I’ve got a dozen more on my ship. All I need is for you to confirm that you are Sergeant Joe Laribeau and hear me out for five minutes.”
“Five galactic minutes or Sterli minutes? Because I was on Sterli once and those minutes can last forever,” I responded.
“Real minutes,” the woman replied. She sighed again. “Please let go of my hand.”
I did. Only fair since she’d pushed her pistol across the table to me. She took her hand off the pitcher and leaned back in her chair. The bare skin of her upper arms rubbed against the seat back and half the tavern cringed at the sound. Not quite fingernails on slate, but damn close.
“Do I have to ask again?” she said, almost pleading.
That tone changed things. Why would a halfer be pleading with me to confirm my name? Didn’t make sense. Especially since she could probably reach across the table and crush my skull with her bare hands if she wanted. If she got the Gwreq strength to go with the skin, that is. If she wanted me dead then she could have just done it. Hell, half the people in the tavern would be too afraid to report her and the other half were so hot for her that they probably would have forgotten the whole thing if she gave them a sexy smile. I could have been a puddle of blood and bone with two battle legs in the middle and she would have walked away free.
“Yeah, I’m Joe Laribeau,” I finally answered.
The look of relief on her face was priceless. There was a bleeping from her belt and she pulled out a small scanner. She put it to her eye and held it there for two seconds. Once it stopped bleeping she relaxed, put the scanner back in the pouch on her belt, and sighed a third time. The third sigh came with a smile that could melt a ship’s hull.
“I’m Hopsheer Balai,” she said and offered me her hand.
I shook it and pushed her pistol back to her.
“I’ve got one,” I said as I reached down and patted the heavy pistol strapped to my thigh. “Don’t really need a spare.”
“You always need a spare,” Hopsheer said and pushed the pistol back to me. “We go through firearms like candy in our line of work.”
“We? Line of work?” I asked. “You want to tell me what this is all about before my wubloov kicks back in.”
“Kicks back in?” Hopsheer laughed. “Your pupils are bigger than a Venti moon. I’m actually surprised you’re able to use your speech centers. How many pints have you had?”
“Pints? No clue,” I said as I filled my empty one with more drink. “But this is pitcher number seven. Pour yourself another, if you want. But only if you tell me what the foing hell is going on.”
“Thanks,” Hopsheer said and did pour herself another pint. She tipped the glass to me and then downed that one. “Oh, man, that is good. Only stuff in the galaxy that can get through my metabolism. Being half Gwreq pretty much nullifies my enjoyment of substances.”
“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” I replied. “I had no idea that was even a possibility.”
“Only for halfers like me,” she said as she reached for the pitcher again then stopped. I nodded and she poured a third pint. “Genetic anomaly when Gwreqs and humans mix.”
“I’m no bigot, but that there is an argument for keeping bloodlines pure,” I said and smiled, making sure she knew I was joking.
“You’re telling me,” she said and sipped at her pint instead of pounding it. “I was shot six times in the belly and went through seventeen hours of surgery without the anesthetic doing more than making my skin tingle.”
“Fo,” I said.
I waited for a few seconds, watching her closely because who the hell wouldn’t want to, but she didn’t say anything else.
“Yeah, so this is getting kinda creepy,” I said. “You’re hot, but I am not into crazy chicks. Sorry. I’ve been there, foed that. Took me three weeks to ditch this Nemorian woman. She actually loaded up her water tank onto a GF freighter to track me down. Left her water planet just so she could tell me how much in love with me she was.”
“Nemorians are a nymph race,” Hopsheer said. “They bond emotionally when they have sex. You should have known it would get messy.”
“Yeah, well, my gift didn’t make that part very clear,” I said. “All the fun stuff we did with each other was super clear, but future stalker stuff wasn’t.”
“Your gift!” Hopsheer basically shouted.
Some of the staring patrons turned away. Halfer or not, no one wants to be caught looking at a Gwreq when she raises her voice. That’s how a person loses an arm or two.
“That’s why I’m here,” Hopsheer said. “Your file was given to the SMC and my bosses saw the notation about your gift. Perfect clarity under stress.” She pointed at the pitcher. “Explains the drinking and still talking thing.”
“And…?” I asked. “Wait, did you say SMC? As in the Salvage Merc Corp?”
“The very one,” she said and gave me that smile again as she took another sip from her pint. She set it down and leaned forward. “The SMC is looking for new recruits. We’ve had some unfortunate losses lately, mainly due to the Edger separatists racing around the galaxy and gumming things up. They see a salvage merc coming and they get nervous, think
the number is gonna take them for a ticket punch.”
“Aren’t they?” I asked. “Hold on, what’s a number?”
“Huh?” she asked, looking over her shoulder as two men walked into the tavern.
“What’s a number?” I asked again. “I know that getting a ticket punched means you have claimed a salvage, but I have no idea what a number is.”
“Me,” Hopsheer said, her eyes still on the men that moved from the doors to the bar. “Us. Mercs. We all have numbers. I’m Salvage Merc Eight. We call each other numbers. It’s an inside thing.” She turned her attention back to me and her hand casually went to her pistol that was still on the table. “You’ll learn all of that back at headquarters.”
“I never said I was going with you to your headquarters,” I replied.
The two men at the bar ordered then turned around and stared right at our table. They were strapped with sawed-off scatter blasters. Rusty things that looked like they’d explode in their hands if they pulled the triggers. I automatically assumed they wanted the blasters to look old and useless. That probably meant they were in perfect shape and would take my head off with one shot.
“I think you really should,” Hopsheer said and nodded backwards. “Those guys? They aren’t here to drink.”
“I guessed that,” I said.
“When I said my bosses got a hold of your file, well, that’s because someone leaked every file of every decorated ex-Marine onto the Grid,” she said. “Not a problem for the average spacehead, but for someone like you, with your gift, and those battle legs of yours, that is a problem.”
“How so?” I asked. “I’ve been out of the Fleet for nearly two years.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Hopsheer said, her hand tightening around her pistol’s grip. “Those guys are bounty hunters. They’ve been sent by someone to collect you so you can be used by whatever organization is paying them. All it takes is an AI chip in the back of your head and you are one controllable killing machine.”
Furnace Page 25