Suicide Mission: Unity War Book 2

by C. G. Michaels

  “Do you want to dance?”

  “Okay.”

  So they danced, and although Garner appreciated the way Agda moved, she insisted on grinding him, and so he called an end to the effort. They spent a half an hour waiting for a vacant table, or at least a place to sit, he struggling to make small talk, she ogling him and clutching his hand in both of hers.

  When they finally got a table, they had to share with two other pilots, a lesbian couple also on a date and not in the least shy about making out in front of strangers. They ended up playing cards with the couple, who won nearly every hand in spite of the fact they barely paid attention to anything but each other. It didn’t help that Agda kept distracting Garner by caressing his leg under the table.

  When he had spent a full, excruciating three hours with his date, he said, “It’s pretty late. We should turn in.”

  She looked crestfallen. “Oh. Okay.”

  He walked her back to her bunker, a slow, torturous walk that she made all the slower by pretending at intervals to have to adjust this or that piece of clothing. When at last they reached her bunker, she stood in the open hatchway, gazing up at him with an intent expression. Garner could see Ness in the room behind her, smirking.

  “You’re welcome to come in,” Agda said. “Ness won’t mind.”

  He blushed. “Uh . . . No. No, thanks. I’ve got to get to bed.”

  She ran a finger down his sternum. “That’s what I mean.”

  “Garner,” Ness said, “don’t you want to give your date a good-night kiss?”

  At this, Agda seized his shirt and pulled him down into a full-on tongue wrestling match. He braced his hands against the hatch’s frame to keep her from dragging him into the room, as she kept trying to do. When he finally managed to come up for air, she smiled, ran her tongue over her lips, and air kissed him.

  “Remember that the next time you’re lonely,” she said, and ran her finger down his chest again.

  She couldn’t know that he was lonely all the time, that he missed Ilana and wanted Jaden. She couldn’t know that she was the last person he’d sleep with, even if there were no Jaden and Ilana hated him forever.

  He went down the hall to his own bunker, feeling like a bastard and not knowing why.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Just outside the Osiris atmosphere

  Brid sat in her office, where she spent much of her day when not working on the bridge. She had on her touchscreen computer, a device built into her desk that could be set on an angle more comfortable for viewing than the desk itself. She oversaw ship’s functions here, monitored the everyday goings-on, dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s. The ship’s main computer did much of the work for her, organizing and categorizing items into how desperately each needed her attention; but Brid herself completed the hands-on part of the process.

  She had just finished her first dozen tasks for the day when a knock came at her hatch. “Come in,” she said, and was pleased to see Grim Moore, the Takarabune’s top technician, enter. The tech smiled, a broad, white-toothed grin, bright in a dark face, and took the chair Brid offered him.

  “May I get you some coffee?” She kept a pot brewing when she inhabited her office.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” Grim said, declining. He stood only five feet tall, and his heels didn’t touch the floor when he sat. “I came to tell you that the orb we found is as suspected: it houses the aliens’ wormhole technology inside it.”

  Brid concealed her elation behind her mug. She didn’t want to gush, and she was afraid that if she allowed herself even a modicum of expression, she’d do just that.

  “It apparently broke free of its casing during the crash and rolled out of the warship. It’s lucky the pilots found it.” Grim crossed one leg over the other and smoothed out his uniform.

  Brid nodded, though she believed luck had only played a small part. The 15th Squadron was a good group.

  “What I’m getting at,” Grim said, “is that my team can reverse-engineer this bad boy. If that’s what you want.”

  “If”? thought Brid. “If”? She drank the last of her coffee—sad how the end always came when she was enjoying it most—and said, “That would be exactly what I want, Mr. Moore.”

  “We’ll get right on it, then.” He handed her a memory stick. “This contains our findings, should you care to peruse it.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Mr. Moore.”

  He took his leave, and she popped the memory stick into her computer. She went over Grim’s conclusions detail by detail, taking mental notes and committing certain parts to permanent memory.

  Of particular interest was the theory that the aliens had housed the orb in some sort of casing to protect those using it from radiation damage. The alien ships, Moore had surmised, must also be coated in a similar casing, because—as Takarabune scientists had already found out—the wormholes were filled with such extreme radiation that any human-made ship or equipment would suffer severe damage if they went through the wormhole; and a human being would be reduced to ash within minutes.

  While fixing herself another cup of coffee, Brid mused over the information she had absorbed. An idea had begun to stir in her mind.

  She capped her mug and dashed out of her office, hoping to catch Grim before he got in the lift.

  * * *

  Brid walked into the heat of the docking bay, trying to curb the length of her strides to match those of Grim Moore. She found Nuria Gomes berating one of her mechanics for doing a shoddy job; but what passed for shoddy in Nuria’s opinion could well be nonpareil in others’.

  Nuria finished her tirade, then turned to see Brid and immediately came to attention. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t see you.”

  “At ease. Nuria, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Ma’am?” The mechanic’s dark, arched brows knitted together. Nuria had an exotic flair, with almond-shaped, hazel eyes set in an olive-complexioned face. She had a singular mind, thought Brid. A pity men never saw past her breasts.

  “If I asked you to build some Copperhead look-alikes,” Brid asked, “could you do that for me?”

  “Of course I could. But I’d need a blueprint or an actual Copperhead to make sure I got the specs right.”

  “I’ll get that for you,” Brid said. “Have a team of mechanics ready. You’ll be working closely with Grim, here. Grim Moore, Nuria Gomes.”

  Nuria’s brows knitted again. “I work fine by myself, ma’am.”

  “I insist.” She nodded to Nuria and began making her way out of the docking bay.

  “Ma’am? May I ask what this is all about?”

  “A fact-finding mission,” Brid said over her shoulder, and left it at that.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Just outside the Osiris atmosphere

  Garner entered the shooting range armed with his M9L71, the latest Military 9 laser pistol, commonly known as a Beretta M9. The M9, the official sidearm of the United States military for decades, had become the official sidearm of Star Force and was used the world over, as well as by some of the Colonies. No other pistol could beat it as a combat and tactical sidearm, and it had proven safe and reliable in extreme conditions long before it had evolved into a laser pistol. Garner liked it because of its ease of use and accuracy, though others lauded its durability; whatever the reason, however, it had grown popular among the troops as well as the brass.

  Not that Garner had had much cause to fire it until the war with the Snappers started. He had practiced its use and the use of various other weapons because it was required, not because he had ever expected to have to use it on another living thing.

  Now he had killed. He had killed, and while those he had killed hadn’t been human, he thought he should still feel remorse. Which he had, at first. But then the human death toll had risen. The aliens had taken Ilana. Adam had died. And suddenly he didn’t mind the killing so much anymore.

  It bothered him, that lack of remorse. It had hurt to think he had taken another’s
life, but the fact that it didn’t hurt anymore . . . disturbed him. Could he still call himself human if he didn’t care? What kind of damage had he done to his soul to make himself so callous?

  He found an empty booth and set up the target. The cardboard cut-out used to form a human shape; the crew had replaced that with the likeness of a Turtle, a round-headed silhouette with a long neck. Someone had drawn an evil-looking expression on the target in black marker, complete with a twirling handlebar moustache on the otherwise hairless face.

  Garner sighed. He didn’t like the face. He didn’t like seeing the eyes, no matter how cartoonish, no matter how evil.

  If only life wouldn’t get so complicated. Why did he have to feel so deeply for two women at the same time? The way he’d left things with Ilana . . . They needed space, she’d said; but he hadn’t wanted space, hadn’t wanted her to transfer to the Galapagos. And he hadn’t told her. He’d let her go, even after that kiss . . .

  God, that kiss. It made him crazy just thinking about it. What that tongue of hers could do.

  He missed her. He missed that pixy face, those sage green eyes, that luxurious blonde hair. He missed her intelligence and adaptability. He even missed her jealous tirades.

  He settled into position, aimed, took a deep breath, and fired.

  Way off the mark.

  He tried again, pausing a little longer before he pulled the trigger. All around him Garner heard the clatch of safety hammers pulling back, the fzzz-fzzz-fzzz and pdg-pdg-pdg of laser guns going off. Lasers didn’t actually make a sound—they were just coherent monochromatic beams of light, after all—and troops found shooting with no sound off-putting, even distracting. So the brass had ordered the techs to add a sound effect. Rifles sounded different from pistols, and both sounded different from laser cannons, and so on. It was pretty cool, really; as Garner understood it, you could learn to tell the difference between all the makes and models by sound alone. It made you feel like someone had cast you in some blockbuster sci-fi action flick.

  Until the killing started, anyway.

  Damn. Another miss. He had to get his head on straight. But every time he opened his eyes, he saw Ilana and wondered where she was and if she still lived. And if she lived, then what the aliens were doing to her. Were they hurting her? Starving her? Raping her? (For that matter, would the Turtles bother to rape another species? Could they?)

  Why had the enemy taken Ilana and the other survivors of the Galapagos? Would they (God!) eat them? Brainwash them and force the human captives to fight the war for them?

  He missed his mark again, and yet again. Frustrated, he lowered his weapon and wiped his forehead on his sleeve, took a breather.

  He loved Ilana. And yet . . .

  And yet, there was Jaden. Dark-haired, sultry Jaden, blue-eyed, beautiful, and both physically and emotionally strong, capable of handling herself in the worst of hairy furballs. He had seen her get in a barroom brawl and come out on the better side of it, and he knew from experience that she could beat him in hand-to-hand combat. She was one of the premiere pilots he’d ever known, and, aside from An, she was also the best friend he’d ever had.

  And that voice. Low, warm, and sexy. It was like melting candle wax. She had a tantalizing figure and great legs; he’d seen her exercising in the rec room, and he’d had to restrain himself from complimenting her on her muscle tone because Ilana had been watching. She had an unexpected vulnerability, and best of all, she never failed to be there for her friends. She always knew what to say, whether it was words of encouragement or sympathy, or if she was telling you to suck it up and drive on.

  All of which told him he should seek a relationship with Jaden—except for the fact that she was a) his friend, and he didn’t want to jeopardize that, and b) a fellow pilot, and he thought pursuing something other than friendship might prove disastrous should it not work out. The regs didn’t outright state you couldn’t date a fellow officer, but they sure frowned upon it, and therein lay another concern: if he did decide to go for a romantic relationship with Jaden, would she be willing, even if she felt the same way? Jaden didn’t normally bend the rules. It was one of the things he liked about her.

  And if he started something with Jaden, what would he do if Ilana ever returned? They hadn’t actually broken up; and after her capture, Ilana would need all the support and love he could give her.

  Garner paused in his target practice again. He hadn’t made one good shot in all the time he’d stood here. He just couldn’t focus.

  He thought about the aliens that had captured Ilana and the others, thought about how they had hurt them as they took them away from all they had known, to suffer perhaps more abuses and indignities.

  He aimed. Took a breath. Let it out. Fired.

  Fzzz.

  Well, at least that one hit the target. Sort of. He surrendered and discarded the target in favor of something more entertaining. He considered the rec room, but he didn’t feel like being around all those people. He could go to the docking bay—Jaden sometimes hung out there; but so did Fault, and the thought of seeing them together did unpleasant things to his current state of mind. He could just walk around aimlessly, but what he really wanted was to sit and brood.

  He made his way to the bar, trying to remember how much money he had left on his wages card. Enough, he thought, for a beer and a little left over. The beer in The Canteen wasn’t his favorite, but it was cold and he liked it better than soda water.

  The bar, dark and moody, with a sad song playing on the old-fashioned juke box, suited Garner just fine. A few people sat at tables, and one lonely soul leaned against the juke box, beer in hand, swaying to the music. Garner chose an empty stool a bit away from the juke box and the majority of the customers and ordered his drink. Rottweiler, the bartender (Garner didn’t know his real name), served him without preamble or questions. That was what Garner liked about Rotty: he always knew when to leave a guy alone.

  Garner sat and nursed his beer for a while, mired in his own thoughts. He got so absorbed that he almost didn’t notice when a tall, lean figure approached the bar: Fault, who ordered a beer and sat a few seats away, his eyes on his drink.

  On impulse, Garner went over and sat next to him, but Fault didn’t even glance in his direction. “Could we talk?” asked Garner.

  Fault shrugged and sipped his drink. He’d never been much of a conversationalist, but this was pushing it.

  “You’ve been avoiding everybody but Jaden lately,” Garner said.

  “I’ve been dealing with some stuff. It’s no big deal.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Fault shifted. “Personal shit. What difference does it make?”

  Garner guessed personal stuff remained off limits. “But you talk to Jaden.” He hadn’t meant for it to sound accusatory, but it did.

  If the mech detected his jealousy, he didn’t say so. “Jaden’s different.”

  “Yeah.” Garner swallowed some beer and studied Fault’s face: chiselled features, a square jaw, but enough character to make him not stereotypically model-like. He had dark hair that fell in unruly waves across his forehead, narrow blue eyes that regarded the world with disdain, and—at the moment—about a day’s worth of stubble shadowing his face.

  So that was Jaden’s type. Garner—reluctantly—had to admit Fault had him beaten there. His own face, Garner had always thought, was too long, the bone structure too pronounced. His eyes, large and round, gave him a boyish look, and while Ilana had complimented him on his full lips, he had always been self-conscious about them. His nose was too big, and he was too thin, bordering on downright skinny. His hair, straight and unimaginative, was simply parted to the side and cut short in the back.

  But Fault? Angry, moody, terse Fault? They couldn’t possibly have anything in common. Fault never expressed ambition, he barely participated in anything he didn’t have to, and he never so much as cracked open a book unless it was the single Batman comic book he had stolen from Adam’s box of
belongings when Adam died. Jaden had a plan for her future. She was a team player. And she read constantly, just like Garner did. They borrowed each other’s books, for God’s sake. Was he destined to be her library buddy and nothing more?

  He turned in his seat to watch the comings and goings of the bar, preferring that to comparing himself to Fault and wondering where else Jaden thought him lacking. Temple came in, ordered a beer, and, seeing them, tipped the beer in their direction before moving off to find some company.

  Garner sighed. “Sometimes I hate that guy.”

  “Why? Because he’s gay?”

  “No!” Garner said, appalled. “Because he reminds me Adam’s gone. Every time I see him, I think about Adam.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know it’s not his fault, but I can’t help blaming him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that all you can say?” Garner asked, irritated. “ ‘Yeah’?”

  Fault stared into his glass. Then, “It’s just . . . I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Handle it all. I mean, it feels like I’m just hangin’ on when everybody else has a good head on their shoulders.”

  It struck Garner as funny that Fault should think that about him. “Looks can be deceiving. I feel like I’m barely hanging on, myself.”

  “Yeah, well, I feel like I’m going crazy.” Fault looked away, shrugged again, tried to glaze over it. But Garner had heard a note of desperation in his voice, and now he understood: Fault really did wonder if he was going crazy. Mechs all went crazy, in the end. Or at least that was the scuttlebutt. It was one of the things Ness hated about Fault, not knowing when he might snap and kill somebody. All the pain of the war, losing Adam . . . maybe Fault didn’t know what grief was. Maybe he couldn’t understand, because he wasn’t human, or not quite, anyway.

  “Everybody feels that way sometimes,” Garner said. But the words sounded hollow, and he felt strange trying to comfort Fault.

  “Hey!”