by Max Carver
“Looks like the right place.” Alanna stepped into the mostly intact office. “No surprise Bowler Junior's office was the most secure room down here. Notice how the other offices and the employee cafeteria were completely caved in, but this ceiling is fine. I bet there's a cross-hatch of tungsten beams up there.”
Then she walked toward another mahogany door at the back of the room and tried the handle, but it was locked. She knocked. “Hey, Porkscrew! Did you fall in? Or just wet yourself? I bet you wet yourself, didn't you?”
“This is a waste of time,” Bartley said. “We're sitting here like a bunch of fat ducks in a narrow barrel, just waiting to get attacked while Princess Peach plays around with her rich buddy.”
“Then let's stop wasting time ourselves,” Hagen told him. “Let's go to the security office and see if we can find anything in the armory.”
“Now you're talking English!” Bartley leaped down to the blood-smeared rock floor, clearly cheered by the idea of searching for weapons.
Eric climbed down slowly—no enthusiastic leaping for him—and searched the rubble with the others. He couldn't help watching the scene in the executive office from the corner of his eye.
The heavy door opened, revealed a gaudy marble and gold-leaf bathroom, just as Alanna had predicted. It was the young man from the video, still in his tailored suit but with his tie loosened and his perfectly styled hair disheveled. He staggered out like a drunk meeting the sunrise after a rough night.
“Oh, Satan's red-hot balls,” Bowler Caffey Junior groaned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “I escape the giant snake monsters just to get hunted down by a psycho ex-girlfriend.”
“I'm not hunting you down, Bowler,” Alanna said. “I'm rescuing you. And I'm only doing that because I know how much it humiliates you.”
“They really tore the place up.” He shook his head at the devastation. “Those are some seriously huge aliens. And where the hell is Maverick Emergency Systems? This place should be crawling with guys in combat suits and medics with ambulances.”
“Maverick never showed up to our mine, either,” Alanna said. “We'll have to reconsider our contract with them. By which I mean sue their asses and fire-bomb their offices. Then their houses. And salt the earth where they stood.”
“Do you think maybe the big snakes took out their headquarters? Up on the surface? In the middle of Canyon City?” Bowler asked.
“We've been calling them worms,” Alanna said.
“They look like giant alien dicks to me,” Bowler said. “Giant dicks fucking shit up, leaving blown-out holes everywhere.”
“Well, that just gave us way too much insight into what goes on inside your mind,” Alanna said. “I can't believe I dated you for more than an hour. Get your ass in the back of that truck if you're coming.”
“The back of a dump truck?” Bowler Junior looked horrified.
“Or you can walk,” she suggested.
Hagen stepped out of the security office wreckage carrying a chunky plasma rifle, black and yellow to reflect the Hornet brand, smeared from stock to barrel with fresh red blood. “Looks like somebody didn't get much of a chance to use this. Nine bolts left. The rest of the weaponry's cleaned out—the security officers must have taken it when they left.”
“Or else the guns got swallowed up when the worms ate the security guys,” Bartley said, stepping out from the armory empty-handed and looking annoyed.
“Let's hope the plasma gives them some deadly heartburn, then,” Hagen said.
“Meanwhile, I'll be fighting the damn worms with sticks and stones,” Bartley grumbled.
Eric moved away from the others, hobbling toward a fire-scarred truck that lay on its side, its windshield shattered, the cab a molten crater. He wasn't interested in the truck's front end, though.
His heartbeat picked up as he circled to the back. One of the two rear cargo doors lay wide open, as though inviting him to peer into the darkness within.
The huge logo on the outside of the truck had drawn his attention—Arenson Intergalactic Mechanix. “Intergalactic” was a gigantic overstatement, since human exploration, even hyperaccelerated by the wormhole gates connecting far-flung systems, had never reached beyond the local galactic arm, much less into other galaxies.
Despite their hyperbolic name, Arenson was indeed an interplanetary presence, best known for their flagship exoskeletal chassis. The company had originally developed combat mech suits during the war, later branching into extravehicle-operations suits, and mech suits specialized for asteroid exploration, construction, and mining, among other uses.
By comparison, Eric and Bartley had been using obsolete BodgerTech U300 underground mining suits, sluggish and bulky, but definitely cheap.
Eric barely allowed himself to hope as he dropped to his knees—not an easy move for him—and peered into back of the truck, his mining helmet illuminating the interior.
He couldn't help taking a sharp breath at what he saw.
“What's happening, brother?” Bartley approached him, glancing at the logo on the truck. “Anything good in there?”
“Nothing,” Eric said. Then he scrambled into the truck on all fours, moving as fast as he could, his leg braces clanging against the aluminum wall on which he crawled.
There might have been several new mining rigs in the original shipment, but only one remained now, still half-shrouded in bubble wrap.
ACE-M4000 was painted in fiery letters along one arm of the exoskeleton. The string of letters and numbers brought a smile to Eric's lips: Arenson Compact Exoskeleton, mining series, model 4000. The latest in mining rigs.
Anyone could understand the word painted down the opposite arm: Dragonfly.
“Hey!” Bartley leaned down at the door, still outside the toppled truck. “Don't tell me you found a brand-new Arnie in there.”
“Finders, keepers.” Eric reached the sleek blue machine, unhooked his cable from his leg braces, and plugged in.
He was worried that he'd encounter steep security barriers, but instead the brand-new rig invited him to create a user profile and a password, then had him set up security questions.
First pet's name? the rig's system asked, its voice soft and feminine in his ears.
Ballser, Eric replied with a thought. He imagined the German shepherd pup with a serious fetch addiction. Eric had been five when the puppy had arrived, licking him all over the face. When Eric was eight, poor Ballser strayed too far from the house and fell prey to a prairie lion, the hulking saber-toothed, green-furred cat that stalked the oceans of high grasses on Gideon.
As his nervous system integrated with the suit, he shivered with a kind of visceral pleasure as he instantly became a stronger, faster entity.
The exoskeleton closed into place around him, section by section. The Arenson had a sleek, slim chassis, in which he stood upright rather than sitting on a plastic seat. It was actually more comfortable than the old suit, though; the head, back, and leg supports were padded and slightly reclined. Eric could easily imagine pulling fourteen-hour shifts in this machine without batting an eye.
“It's a Dragonfly,” Eric said as he walked out of the truck, the hefty feet of the suit denting the inner wall of the truck with every step. He rose full upright and looked down on Bartley. The suit raised Eric's height by half a meter.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Bartley read the writing on the arms.
“And look. Five-fingered hands. Thumbs and everything.” Eric reached a long pair of robotic arms toward Bartley. “They're so precise, I can pick your nose from here.” He moved one of the mech suit's hands close to Bartley's face, extending the index finger.
“Sick!” Bartley dodged back. “Fucking weirdo. Get that thing out of my face.”
“Don't be jealous,” Eric said. Then he unfolded the two lower arms, which had been folded away behind him. The lower pair of arms reached around either side of his abdomen, just above his hips. They were smaller and shorter than the upper pair, each tipped with a rotating sele
ction of small tools. The Dragonfly was the first non-combat four-armed suit.
“Jealous? You look like one of the ugly mummy bugs. And you know you're not even close to rated on one of those new suits. It requires a six-month certification course.” Bartley pointed to the four-joystick control panel, inset with four screens scrolling data at illegibly high speed. “You'll probably rip your head off the first time you try to scratch your ass.”
“Rip my head off like this?” With one of the robotic hands, he unfastened his mining helmet's chin strap—a simple task, but requiring precise dexterity of the fingers. With another robotic hand, he removed the helmet, twirled it on one steel fingertip, then hung it on a helmet jack on the suit's hip, as though he were a flashy gunfighter spinning his pistol before holstering it.
“Whatever,” Bartley said. “You're just lucky you have that backjack. Makes you an instant expert with any rig, doesn't it?”
“It's easy to have the same luck as me. Next time you're twelve years old and the cute neighbor girl dares you to go cliff-diving at the river with her...just go ahead and jump. Maybe she'll make it into deep water. Maybe you'll hit a rocky shoal and broken bones will slice up all the nerves in your legs and damage your spine. Is that lucky or what?”
“That's what really happened, bro?” Bartley asked. The two of them were heading back to the dump truck to rejoin the others. “You tried to impress a girl and became a cripple for life? Daaaaamn.”
“It worked, though. I got my first kiss right there in the hospital bed.” He smiled, remembering Suzette nervously pressing her lips to his, for just a few seconds while all the parents were out of the room. Her father would have probably spanked her bloody if he'd seen it. That kiss had been intense, and ultimately life-changing, since he and Suzette had been together ever since.
“Hell, she probably just felt sorry for you, bro.”
“What?” Eric jumped a little, startled back to the present, as thought Bartley had jabbed him with something small and sharp. “What did you say?”
“You know. Little Suzy dares you to jump off a cliff, then you get all busted up and can't walk, she feels bad...” Bartley froze, just a few steps from the dump truck where everyone waited, Hagen already inside the dumping bed. “Oh, man, Eric. That's why you never go the whorehouse, isn't it? Spinal injury. Your ding-dong's just dead wood. Daaaaamn, I am sorry, brother.”
“No, that's not—my ding-dong is...just...great.” Eric couldn't help noticing everyone looking at him, including Iris. He felt a burning in his cheeks, and he hoped his face was too filthy for anyone to see him blush.
“I almost wish we'd heard the conversation leading up to that last part.” Alanna smirked.
“Me, too,” Iris said, smiling at Eric.
She probably just felt sorry for you, bro.
It wasn't possible that his entire relationship with Suzette was just an act of pity on her part. Was it? They'd lived in a tiny, remote farming community, after all. She'd had very few other options for dating...until now. No wonder she was pulling away from him, showing interest in other people, maybe already involved with someone else now that she'd finally been able to shed the burden of feeling guilty about Eric—
“She's not!” Eric heard himself say aloud, which did nothing to reduce his overall feeling of embarrassment.
“She's not?” Iris frowned. “Who are we talking about?”
“It's nothing,” Eric said.
“Everyone get in position,” Hagen said. He'd settled into the back of the dump truck and held the plasma rifle in his hands. “We're rolling out.”
“Finally,” Naomi said, returning to her scouter. She'd been scavenging, too, and filled her backpack with more plastic explosives and detonators.
Eric and Bartley climbed back into the dumping bed, Eric's suit making it much easier to accomplish this time. He didn't even need to use the truck's handholds.
“Go on, Porkscrew.” Alanna jabbed Bowler Junior. “Or get left below.”
“You shouldn't tell everyone my secret fraternity name,” he replied. “I told you that in confidence. It's a sign of trust.”
“You told me the night we met,” she said. “You were hammered and trying to get me into bed.”
“And it worked.”
“Oh, right.” She winced in disgust. “I was stupid in college.”
“Instead of riding back, I'd rather drive that.” Bowler Junior pointed to Naomi's scouting vehicle. Naomi was already perched on it, gripping the handlebars, impatiently waiting to flee.
“That's not happening,” Naomi told him.
“Or I could just ride behind you.” Bowler strolled over to Naomi, a cocky look on his face, his eyes on her chest. “I could just hold on tight the whole way...I think you'd like it. You'd lick it up.” His fingers brushed along her shoulders, toward the dark skin of her neck.
She slapped his hand away. “As far as anybody outside this mine knows, you already died here like everyone else,” Naomi said. “We could still make that happen.”
“She's got a point,” Eric said, stepping close to the rear of the dumping bed.
Hagen had been holding the plasma rifle upright, but now he dropped it forward and sighted it at Bowler Junior.
“I say we do it just for fun.” Bartley cracked his knuckles, looking down from the truck at Bowler Junior. “I've always wanted to kill one of those really snotty, really rich brats, you know? And this guy's got a face that's made for punching. It's going to take a lot of pounding to hammer off all that smug.”
Bowler turned pale and looked back at Alanna as if for help.
“In the truck, Porkscrew,” Alanna said, then she and Iris went up front to ride in the small cab.
The disheveled young aristocrat climbed into the back, warily looking around the three men who had just been threatening him.
“What's the fastest way the surface?” Hagen asked. “Just point us to the right tunnel.”
“The fastest way isn't a tunnel,” Bowler Junior said. “It's the freight elevator. That way.”
“Looks like your power's out here, though, bro-ski,” Bartley said.
“The elevator has its own fuel cell. And it can carry full-size trucks, so it can easily handle...whatever this is.” He gestured at the compact dump truck in which they sat.
It was a slow crawl around the destruction and fallen debris. At one point, Bartley hopped off to claim a rock bolter. It was a tool for firing long steel pins deep into local rock to hold it together, especially at ceilings and upper walls of mine tunnels. It was no exoskeleton, but it did move under its own power, on its own tires. Bartley stood on the narrow driver's platform at the back, steering the heavy tool like a mechanized chariot. The bolter was roughly the size and shape of a large cannon.
“Oh, yeah!” Bartley shouted, pulling up to drive alongside Naomi's scouter. “If those worms come back, I'll just put a meter of steel into each of their heads. The rest of you can go on lunch break.”
They reached the freight elevator platform, and it was as huge as promised, designed to move colossal mining trucks with tons of metals piled in the back. They parked the dump truck, scouter, and bolter with plenty of room to spare.
Bowler Junior walked to the control console at the center-back of the platform, near the cavernous room's rock wall, and got the elevator mechanism started. A metallic groan sounded, and the platform shuddered as safety railings rose and locked into place on every side. Finally, the platform began to rise.
To slowly...slowly...slowly rise.
“Hey, bro, I thought this was the fast way up,” Bartley said.
“It's not the penthouse express,” Bowler Junior replied. “It's not built for speed.”
“You can say that again,” Bartley muttered.
Bowler Junior looked out at the devastation, trembling. “My grandfather's going to be so pissed,” he said. “A billion-dollar investment turned to rubble.”
“And all your people who died,” Hagen said. “Think o
f their families.”
“Exactly. They'll probably launch a big class-action lawsuit just to ice the cake. As if we could ever have foreseen giant alien worms attacking our mines with plasma rays. I swear, everyone's always looking for a handout.” He shook his head as though already exasperated with the family members of all the victims. “And where the hell is Maverick Systems? Where are my combat drones and badass heavy-response units that I'm paying for every month? Someone tell me that.”
“Aren't you at all curious where these aliens came from? Or what they're doing here?” Alanna asked, watching Bowler Junior with a trace of disgust on her lips.
“Oh, I'll tell you what they're doing here,” Bowler Junior said. “They're getting me cut out of my grandfather's will. After he hears about this, he'll just toss my inheritance to the wolves. Probably give it to one of his stupid charities.”
The sound of rocks shifting, colliding, and tumbling echoed from the ruptured walls of the room.
“Oh, no.” Bowler turned pale and backed away until he bumped into the control console. “They're coming back. Why are they coming back?” His voice went high and trembly. “Somebody stop them!”
Hagen nodded at Bartley, and they took up positions at the front corners of the platform, looking out over the room as it gradually dropped away below them. Hagen still had nine bolts of plasma in his rifle, while Bartley had a couple dozen meter-long steel bolts in the can.
“Malvolio, I need your eye and arm again,” Naomi said.
“I am prepared to perform more than a hundred thousand songs, fifty thousand monologues, and staged readings of more then two hundred thousand pieces of literature, in every major human language—yet again and again I find myself tasked with the menial, the prosaic, the very lowest forms of labor—”
“Shut up, bot,” Hagen said, and Malvolio went silent, but began to pantomime as if yelling, using his dirty gloved hands as a megaphone. Naomi placed a plastic explosive with a detonator in each of his hands, and he widened his eyes and made an “O” shape with his mouth, as if shocked.