Alien, Mine

by Sandra Harris

  And if it had been Eugen down there, she’d gladly and instantly sacrifice any and all self-respect in order to rescue him. No question. Even if she was pissed off and hurt. In the fast fading afternoon light, she shook her head with solemn determination. “God alone knows what they’re doing to whoever they’ve captured, or that rasque.”

  “You’ll have to keep moving,” Kendril warned. “The downside to these laser rifles is that the pulse is quite visible, especially at night, you can be sure they’ll not only return fire, but send out—”

  “I’m sure they will,” she broke in. “Don’t worry, Shrenk’, I’ve got Dexter to keep an ear open. And this time when they come, I’ll be armed with more than harsh language. What else?”

  In the deceptive peace of lingering twilight, Kendril told her of the electronic surveillance likely to be in place around the perimeter of the camp.

  “Do you reckon they’ll have anything concealed in the surrounding woods?” She knew precisely when Kendril’s second thoughts voiced serious concerns about the enterprise. “Come on, Shrenk’, you know I can look after myself.”

  “There will be more than this one guard post . . .”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  Darkness fell like a closing eyelid and evening chill settled like a cold blanket around Sandrea. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to starlight and the faint afterglow of sunset. She could just make out the black silhouette of Kendril fitting goggles to her own head before shoving a set at her.

  “Night vision goggles. I’ve adjusted them to wideband infrared. You won’t need them for aiming as the rifle has built-in, full-spectrum sights.” She handed over the weapon and demonstrated how to change the sight wavelength. “But keep the goggles on in case you need them. They’ll be helpful working your way through the woods and they’ll detect any electronic or laser sensors.”

  “Safety’s on?” Sandrea slung the heavy rifle over her shoulder before setting the adjustable strap of the goggles around her head and swivelling the lenses down. Everything jumped into a weird, false colour.

  “Yes. Ready?”

  Sandrea smiled. “Shall we go kick some ass?”

  Chapter 12

  A Sticky Wicket

  Cloaked in night’s shadow and the cover of the woods, they circled around the guard post and halted at the tree line close to the enemy camp.

  “Sandrea.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Don’t take any risks. If Bluthen come, get the hells clear of here.”

  “You take care too, Shrenk’.”

  Kendril took a step away her. Halted. Turned back.

  Sandrea lifted a hand and shoved her friend in the shoulder. “Get him out, Kendril,” she said and moved off into the woods.

  Dexter mounted himself like a miniature radio dish on her head and she crept down a deep, natural gutter. The odd, multi-coloured vision of the goggles distorted the woods into a weird caricature of nature. When she guessed she was about midway down the camp she crawled up the rough, stony embankment and wriggled, belly down, to the edge of the thick trees. The cool damp of the ground seeped through her trousers as she lay beside the huge girth of a tree, forearms propping her upper body.

  She peered under the low branches down a long slope providing a clear field of observation and fire. Blue orbs of light illuminated scant patches of the dark camp, numerous orange, humanoid-shaped blobs dotted the area. She rummaged in a vest pocket, pulled out her comm-pod, and clipped it to the collar of her vest. Cricket-like chirrups tweeted through the soft, quiet night. Dexter’s suctioning feet massaged her scalp as he turned a circle. She flicked up the night vision goggles, clicked off the rifle’s safety, and peered through its magnified, infrared sights. The heat producing, perimeter security boxes Kendril told her to expect lit up like the Sydney Harbour Bridge on New Year’s Eve.

  She scanned within the compound and started in surprise when a female voice emitted from the rifle. It expressed a warning then identified a threat as rapid-repulse guns. In her sights, a thin, blue line outlined a number of large, cube shapes.

  Great, now I’m getting advice from a weapon.

  She located the rasque and her heart cried. From the centre of what she suspected was a bloody leg wound, a thick ring hobbled the creature to a post by a thin length of cable. Dark rage burned through her.

  She pulled in a slow, steady breath, eschewed the laser guidance that would give her position away, and used the infrared sights to target a rapid-repulse gun. Dexter’s warm tail smoothed around her ear. Anticipation squirmed through her gut. She tightened her stomach muscles and waited for Kendril’s warning of her imminent entry into the compound.

  Heat bloomed in an abrupt red wave across her sights. A rapid volley of shots exploded from within the camp and arced away over the far side of the enclosure. Sheer fright drove her up and back. She scrambled behind the tree and crumpled into as small a target as she could manage. One of Dexter’s feet suctioned firmly to an eyelid.

  “Hold your fire, Sandrea!” Kendril hissed.

  “That wasn’t me, Shrenk’,” she whispered, gently removing Dexter’s foot from her eye.

  Agitated shouts rang from the Bluthen camp.

  “I know, hold your fire.”

  “Why?”

  “Automated defence, rapid-pulse gun. It will extrapolate the origin of an incoming round and return fire within a second.”

  “Well that’s just plain rude.” Sandrea leaned closer to the huge trunk.

  “Don’t use the laser targeting. That will activate it.”

  “It was not my intention to, Shrenk’. Think that was one of our guys?”

  “Yes, or one of T’Hargen’s militia.”

  T’Hargen has militia? Why doesn’t that surprise me?

  She duck-walked around to the side of the tree, then bent a knee and balanced her weight between her left shin and right foot. “You about ready to go?”

  “Yes. Whoever that is will probably target another repulse gun. I’ll go in under the confusion of the next attack.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Sandrea powered up the rifle to its highest explosive impact and scanned the camp. The sights of the gun outlined running orange blobs in blue and identified them as Bluthen. Quite a few streamed into the woods on the far side. She snugged the butt of the weapon into her shoulder and muttered Shepard’s prayer.

  Dear Lord, please don’t let me fuck up.

  A burst of fire from a repulse gun lit her sights. She targeted another, fired, and ducked. The tree above her head exploded. A hail of wooden debris and splinters rained down. Her head reflexively pulled down between her shoulders. Shock waves of thunderous noise rumbled through her body.

  Fucking hell!

  Cold terror rasped across her taut nerves. Adrenaline lit the fuse of self-preservation. She jumped into the gully and pelted away over stony ground. Half a dozen freaked-out seconds later, she halted. The terrible feeling of exposed vulnerability slithered over her skin. Heart pounding, she flipped down the night vision lenses. She twisted her anxious gaze in a rapid circle and listened. Dexter settled his stomach in the nest of her hair, then tapped her on the forehead.

  “You good, muffin?” she whispered.

  Her communicator squawked.

  “It’s okay, Shrenk’, we’re alright.”

  There was a second’s silence before Kulluk’s voice queried, “We?”

  Oh shit.

  “Slip of the tongue, Sergeant,” she replied.

  All senses on full alert and scanning her surrounds, she rubbed a bruised knee. “Was that you firing?” she asked.

  “Ragnon, and you have a confirmed strike,” Kulluk approved.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Corporal Shrenkn
er has already advised of my fate if I do not check my targets. I’m on my way to you.”

  “Where’s—” She broke off abruptly at Dexter’s hiss.

  “Sandrea?”

  “I’ve got company,” she whispered.

  Kulluk maintained silence. She crouched low, backed to the gully wall and took her torch from a vest pocket. It would be an excellent weapon to cause temporary blindness in someone using night vision. The noise of another attack on the encampment and its response blasted in the background.

  Dexter’s feet pushed against her scalp. With sudden, heart-clenching speed he leapt away. His multi-coloured image in the night vision goggles disappeared behind a trunk. She whipped the muzzle of her weapon up. Sounds of a scuffle filtered through the dark. A gurgle. A thump. A crack. Another thump. Silence.

  Dexter reappeared at a fast clip, halted, peered around with frill extended, then ambled over to her.

  “Good boy.”

  He jumped onto her outstretched hand and ran up to her shoulder. She stared in the direction he had come, knowing she needed to investigate his handiwork and confirm the threat no longer existed. A ripple of fear rejected the idea. She forced her body forward, took protection behind a tree trunk, and peered around the base.

  Right, no grey areas there.

  Two presumably dead Bluthen lay on the cold, dark ground. Warm liquid oozed in a copious flow from the neck of one. The head of the other tilted at such an improbable angle she suspected a complete fracture of the spine.

  “Did you do that?”

  She stroked Dexter’s head and he coughed a soft bark into her ear.

  “I guess T’Hargen is right. You are dangerous.”

  She turned her back and sought her next hide.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Miss Sandrea. Are you in trouble? I’m nearly with you.”

  “All good here, Sergeant, thanks.”

  She crawled over a soft bed of decomposed foliage under the spiky needles of a fir and turned to Dexter.

  “You’re going to have to hide, muffin.”

  He bunted her chin, snatched his head around, then chittered a very specific iambic.

  Hell, Sergeant, you must have sprinted all the way.

  Gratitude warmed her heart.

  “Over here,” she called softly as Dexter scurried into the darkness and undergrowth.

  An Angrigan shaped blob appeared in her lenses. “Miss Sandrea, are you injured?” Kulluk greeted.

  “Nope. You?”

  “No.”

  And Eugen?

  Something tickled the fine hairs of her face and she wiped her cheek into her shoulder.

  “Where’s Kendril?” she asked.

  “Entered the camp. If you have no objection to continuing to provide covering fire, I’ve got your back.”

  “Will do.”

  She settled onto her stomach, slipped the night vision lenses up her forehead and scanned the camp through the rifle sights. She skimmed her gaze over the hectic confusion and identified a kneeling orange blob as Angrigan. She halted, guessing it was Dovzshak. His arms appeared locked behind his back. A Bluthen held a weapon to his head. Anger focused her mind.

  An Angrigan suddenly loomed behind the Bluthen. The orange heat signatures merged. Two more Bluthen lunged toward the trio.

  Hell and damnation! “Prepare for incoming, Sergeant.”

  She gripped the rifle, took a bead on a Bluthen, and pressed the trigger. A bolt of light speared from the muzzle and she threw herself sideways. Twigs and stones stabbed at her torso and thighs. A slashing rain of incoming rounds and forest debris exploded through the air above her.

  She spread her legs, dug the toes of her boots hard into ground, and arrested her frantic rolling. Her head spun for a second then she snapped the rifle to her shoulder. Dovzshak, hands still fettered behind his back, sent a grin up the slope toward her position.

  Damn, the man had balls.

  Kendril gave her a thumbs up. Sandrea raised the rifle a touch and dropped a Bluthen twenty feet from her friends. Kulluk’s hand grabbed the waist of her trousers and hauled her behind a tree. She curled into a tight ball and squeezed her eyes shut. Her tense ears failed to hear the expected sounds of destruction. No laser fire tore apart the branches. No wood cracked or splintered. She unscrewed her eyes and peered through the dark.

  “The remaining pulse gun must have been neutralized,” Kulluk murmured from behind.

  “Who’s in the woods over there with Ragnon?”

  “A number of disenchanted locals.”

  “Friends of T’Hargen?”

  “So I believe.”

  She rolled to her knees and stood. “Well then, Sergeant, I think it’s time we gave the Bluthen a bit more of a sticky wicket, don’t you?”

  She bent low and scurried down the leading edge of the slope. Before her, the twisted bole of a ravaged fir stood clear of the woods. Stars glittered in a deep, black sky. The bellowing of the rasque and the clamour of conflict drifted up the slope.

  She took cover behind the misshapen fir, widened her stance, lifted the rifle, and drew a line on the restraint holding the rasque. The bulk of the creature’s body obscured the post. It waved its injured leg in the air, its great head thrashing those huge teeth in wide, savage arcs.

  “Just turn a little to the left,” she encouraged the animal. “That’s it. A bit more.”

  From the nearby underbrush a screeching whistle pierced the night. She snapped her head toward the cry, straining to capture every sound. A warble floated with comforting reassurance from the dark.

  “Where in the first hell’s lower pits are they headed?” Kulluk muttered.

  “Who?”

  “Corporal Shrenkner and Dovzshak. South-west corner.”

  She whisked her rifle around, marked the two Angrigans, and lay down covering fire. The two charged into one of the structures. Another screech ripped through the air. Impact tremors rippled up her legs.

  Uh-oh.

  The thunder of numerous advancing, stampeding hooves shook the ground and reverberated through the air.

  “Heads up, Shrenk’,” she murmured into her comm. “Company’s coming.”

  “So I gathered,” her friend replied. “Drop bears?”

  Sandrea flicked down the night vision goggles and glanced up the slope. A tumultuous, heaving tide of surging rasques charged directly for the Bluthen camp. The sight lifted a memory from Earth, a sign at a train crossing in a town near her home that read ‘OUR TRAIN TAKES NINETY SECONDS TO CROSS THIS CROSSING—WHETHER YOUR CAR IS ON IT OR NOT.’

  “Ah-huh. Shrenk’, whatever you’re doing, stop doing it. You have to leave now.”

  “We’re already on the way out.”

  She swivelled the lenses up, returned her focus to the imprisoned rasque and sighted on the tether. A Bluthen soldier moved into her vision and raised a rifle toward the creature’s head. She pulled the trigger. The restraining cable snapped.

  Wow! A ton and a half of angry animal slamming into a smaller, weaker body certainly makes for an interesting blood spatter.

  “Come along, Miss Sandrea,” Kulluk urged, “we’re done here.”

  She secured her rifle and backed into the trees. Kulluk herded her away like a well-armed mother hen, but she knelt beside a tree on the pretence of checking her boot fasteners. The density of the trunk would hide Dexter’s approach by absorbing the infrared light his warm body emitted. Gentle feet landed on her lower back then squirmed up under her vest as Kulluk grumbled impatiently at the delay. She half-expected him to start clucking at her.

  She rose to her feet as movement flickered behind the sergeant.

  “Thank you, Sandrea,” Dovzshak said as he and Kendril joined them.

>   “You take any hits?” she asked.

  Kulluk grasped her upper arm and dragged her forward.

  “No,” Dovzshak replied and fell in behind her.

  Over her shoulder, she inspected his false colour image through the night vision goggles. She couldn’t even tell it was Dovzshak, let alone if he was wounded.

  “Is he lying, Shrenk’?”

  “His injuries are not life threatening.”

  “Good. One thing you have to remember about us human females,” she said, stumbling along in Kulluk’s rapid wake, “we don’t let anyone mess with our Boy Toys.”

  In the enclosed dimness of an implement shed on the outskirts of T’Hargen’s holding, Mhartak paced. Agitation scraped along his nerves as he awaited the arrival of his soldiers and, most of all, Sandrea. The constant terror for her safety since their departure from the destroyer carved through his gut.

  He reached the far wall, turned, stalked back. Concern over their relationship raged within him, desperate to be addressed. His heart craved the lost closeness of their physical union.

  Where the hells are they? They should be here by now.

  A wicker lamp cast his shadow before him as he pivoted and marched back over the same line he’d been grinding for the last hour. Temptation to break the restrictions he’d placed on long-range radio silence gnawed at his control.

  “Pacing won’t get them here any quicker,” T’Hargen murmured.

  He cast a glance to his brother and the brutalized Magran he tended. “How is he?”

  T’Hargen smiled down at the bruised and swollen face of the man he treated.

  “He may not think it, but he’ll live.”

  Mhartak stared at his brother.

  Ten years. Ten years we’ve been apart and I know nothing of you.

  “How long have you been an agent for the Alliance Council?”

  T’Hargen glanced up. “Long enough.”