by Mark Tufo
“Or for everything,” BT added. He was strapping another ammunition belt on. Looked like he was using them for armor, which to me seemed an odd choice of protection.
“If you want in, it’s your call,” I told Paul.
We were a deck away from the bridge when we had our first contact. It was a hastily thrown together mute defense. At some point, the Progs had gotten wind of our movements.
“Go back hu-mans.” I think it was the same mute, Harker, that had been with Eenos.
I had the renderer wheeled to the front. “Leave this hallway, Harker. The ship is ours, the sub-commander just doesn’t know it yet.”
He started to laugh. “This ship? This ship that is rapidly sinking in a quagmire of infinity! You risk your lives for nothing.”
My troops gave pause to look over at one another as if to ask what he was talking about.
“Talbot, your pathetic fighting force seems confused. Have you not told the other apes what is going on?”
“Fire,” was my command. The mutes quickly dispersed, except for Harker, who seemed all too willing to go out this way. I had hoped he would stand tall and proud as he was stripped of his flesh, then I could put a bullet into his skull as the pain began to pull him over, instead, at the last second, he turned and fled faster than I’d thought capable.
The small mute force of guards was quickly reduced to cold lumps of flesh. I had pangs of guilt for firing before the declaration of war was issued. I had to remind myself that these beings had started this conflict and I was doing all I could to stop it. I knew that at this point, there was no right or wrong, just action. Historians could plow through the wreckage at some point and let my legacy know if what I had done was on the right or the left of moral.
As far as waging a battle, having a hundred men and women shoved into a hallway moving like a large chunk of ice through an ice maker is not my idea of optimal fighting conditions, and we were going to get a severe lesson on that soon enough. There was the oh-so-familiar twang sound and burnt ozone smell of the mute rifles coming from our rear. As best as we could, we began to turn to face the threat. That was our first mistake, and could ultimately be our last. The mutes had laid a trap; legions of the fuckers were bearing down on us from the other side.
I got on the horn as fast as I could. “Captain Fields, deck 6, hallway C-2, we are pinned down on both ends, going to need some help.”
“Roger that.”
Collins was sheered in half as he attempted to swing the renderer into position.
“Shields now!” I screamed, though it might have been superfluous; when you’re getting shot at and you have a way to deter those rounds it’s instinctive to use it. In this case, the shields were half inch plates we had taken off the walls. They were lighter than steel but stronger. The blasters would eventually heat up and break through the material, but it gave us a huge advantage as long as it held. The concentration of fire was directed at the renderer in an effort to take it out of the battle. I got two of the people carrying a plate to block me as I grabbed it and got it fixed into the right position.
“Move now!” I shouted and hit the power. I yelled out in pain as a streak of red fire burned my arm. “Fuck you, mutes!” I was melting flesh into puddles before me, sweeping the device barrel back and forth in an effort to clear out the hallway. My hat caught fire on my head, as another round streaked past. I quickly brushed it off and onto the floor. “Draw the shields tighter.”
Corporal Rodriguez, who had been holding the one on the right, cried out as he received a bevy of shots that turned the plating into a molten lava color before shots pierced through and into him. He fell over with the shield landing on top, and began to sizzle and fry under it. The smell was gut churning, but it was nothing compared to the ozone shredding stink of the renderer as it flayed the mutes. They were still advancing, marching right over the corpses of their fallen. Savagery in their eyes was met by the ferocity of our rounds. In the confines, it was basically bowling with bullets. Blood sprayed all around from both sides. We’d easily lost a quarter of our force. A fair number of them were dead, the rest wounded beyond the ability to fight. And maybe half that number again had some battle injuries, myself included.
Bullets whined and careened as they buzzed around like angry, deadly hornets. The wall of dead mutes was so dense to our front that it was impeding their advance, giving us more time to focus our aim and the results were ruinous to the mutes. Forward was absolute, inescapable death, and they were learning that lesson one life at a time. The battle to our back was not going quite as well. No matter how much savagery we unleashed on them they kept pushing ahead, condensing our ranks, making it harder and harder to get enough room to maneuver and allowing seemingly errant shots by the mutes to find unwitting victims regardless of aim.
“BT, help me!” The cords in my neck were strained as I did my best to turn the pelt peeling contraption. The problem was it was more than a one-person job and I was trying to move it over the body of the person that had been helping me previously. The waging of war is a thinking tactician’s game; the act of war is not. It would be later, in the quiet of my own mind, that I would have great remorse for Lance Corporal Collins, who I was attempting to push out of the way with my boot. Yes, he was dead, but it still felt like a desecration of his body, and I couldn’t allow those thoughts at the moment. He nearly sat up in protest as we rolled over his midsection. BT and I shared the smallest of glimpses. BT’s shirt strained to stay in one piece over bulging muscle as the big man single-handedly lifted his end up and over the fallen Marine.
“Move! Get down or to the side!” I was screaming, although me, personally, I wouldn’t want to have this ray shooting above or even in my general direction. We were losing personnel at an alarming rate. Half of my men were dead or dying and we could not get the mutes to yield, though we had killed at a ratio five times greater than our own. I spared a glance at Paul, who was behind a shield to the side. He had his eyes closed and was grimacing with each percussion. He must have felt my eyes upon him for he opened them and looked at me. Blew out two great breaths.
“I’ll hold the line!” he shouted, getting up to rally the men to cover what was our rear now. Something hit my knee, possibly a ricochet. My kneecap shattered and my leg locked into the flexed position. I was in agony as I turned the renderer back on. Tears of pain flooded my eyes as I swept the barrel back and forth. Another shield heated up; this time it exploded, sending shrapnel into our ranks. The right side of my face was ripped open and my side was peppered with metallic bits that burned themselves in even deeper.
“Shit, Talbot! Get out of the fight!” BT moved to take control of the weaponry. I moved out of his way by just falling over. My left leg was junk; I was bleeding from at least a half dozen places and two of the holes were cause for concern.
“I’m in trouble,” I said as my head hit the wall. I’d been in more pain throughout my life, and even what I was feeling then was beginning to ebb, which as I thought about it, seemed like a bad sign. I was failing, no two ways about it.
BT was like a man possessed. He looked like he wanted to pick that thing up and wield it from his hip like an action movie hero. Hell, if anyone could pull off that look, it’d be him.
Chapter 8
BT
BT single-handedly held the line as the mutes tried in vain to advance but were met with the unending fury being wielded by the large man. Beams flew past him, seemingly unable to penetrate his self-willed force field.
“Talbot is down!” he screamed for help that wasn’t coming. He was angry that the mutes wouldn’t stop and allow him to tend to his friend. He was pissed that they were losing soldiers at an alarming rate, he was fuming that he was on a ship in the middle of nowhere, he was livid he couldn’t kill enough of the enemy, and finally, he was outraged at the indignity of it all. Paul had briefly turned to see Mike, his head lolling to the side. He thought that his buddy had already passed until he saw a small cough and a splatter of blood i
ssue from his mouth. He knew it wouldn’t be long if they couldn’t get out of this situation. The mutes had sacrificed hundreds and gained mere feet. The hallway was beginning to fill up with the accumulated blood loss of so many victims. A horn sounded; Paul thought it sounded like something a Viking would blow in Valhalla, which might have been a preferable sound to them all and their fallen. It was a rally to signal one final push for the mutes still left fighting.
The wall of dead fell over as crazed mutes rushed through. The beleaguered defenders held their ground, but only because there was nowhere else to go. Scores fell on both sides as the mutes broke through the front lines. The advantage switched heavily to the much larger beasts, who were no longer shooting but rather swinging their rifles around like medieval clubs, breaking skulls open like eggs, fracturing femurs and arms. The heavy strikes hemorrhaged internal organs and wrenched limbs free from their sockets. The only thing that kept it from being a complete rout was the numbers. The mutes had run out of able bodied soldiers. Those humans left riddled the mutes with dozens, sometimes hundreds of rounds, felling the giants like large trees in a forest. Finally, only one remained, and he was on a straight-line mission for Talbot. Paul had turned to follow, he’d placed one round in the monster’s leg before his bolt froze open, signifying he’d run out of ammo; it would be over by the time he could make use of the fresh magazine on his hip.
The mute lost his footing as he slipped on the battered body of a dead soldier. With less than ten feet left until his mark, he began to bring his weapon back over his shoulder to bludgeon the leader of the human-infested Planet Earth into oblivion. Paul sprinted after him, dropping his weapon as he did so. Even as he ran he wondered what he could possibly do to stop the behemoth. The mute’s swing was in full arc when Paul reacted. He’d first meant to go for the arm in a desperate bid to slow or deflect the blow and when he realized he could do neither, he placed himself directly in harm's way. The damage was immediate and fraught with ruin as his rib cage was shattered, sending bone shards into his heart and shredding his aorta. His head landed next to Mike’s. He was dead before he made contact.
BT, with a primal scream, had picked up the heavy weapon long enough to send a burst into the mute’s torso, ripping the skin from him like a five-year-old might a scab on an oft-bloodied knee. The mute tried to lift his weapon again, but the muscles weren’t moving correctly. Instead, he thought to crush the general underfoot. BT swept the machine up to the mute’s head; the eyes swiveled over to BT before he fell over backward. The battle for Hallway C-2 had come to a blood-bathed conclusion and there were no winners.
“The generals! Get them to sick bay now!” BT ordered the dazed survivors as he looked for any more threats.
BT nearly shot his own men as Captain Fields and a fresh platoon bounded into the hallway. “Jesus!” was all the captain could say as he looked upon the scene. Blood was running down the center of the hallway like a stream on a warm spring day, it would pool around the dead before finding a way past them.
“General Ginson and Talbot are both down!” BT could not bring his voice under control, neither could he chance a look at his fallen friend. Paul was dead, that he knew, nobody could survive the hit he’d witnessed the man take, but if Talbot were dead as well…then so was hope.
“I don’t have a pulse,” Corporal Peppard said. He’d been an EMT before the war had struck and had been called upon to perform medic duties in the field more times than he cared to count. BT snuck a peek to see that he was talking about Paul, as two men gently lifted the man up and placed him to the side. Peppard moved in on Talbot, whose color looked far worse than the dead general to his side. He placed his hand on Mike’s neck. His eyebrows furrowed; he leaned in closer. The muscles in his neck began to move as if he was about to shake in negation. “Thready,” he said, hopefully. “There’s something here! Let’s go!” They’d got the man out so quickly, BT had not enough time to release the breath he’d been holding. Captain Fields’ team began quick checks of all those that were injured and evacuated them out. When he was done, there were seventeen men and women physically uninjured. They would, however, carry the psychological scars for a great many years, provided they survived the next few hours.
Those left were in a battle daze; the endorphins and adrenaline had been cranked so high that when it was turned off they were left sluggish and drained.
“The weapons–gather the mutes’ weaponry,” BT ordered. He knew after they’d blown up the armory that the enemy was dangerously low on arms, and if there were to be some sort of victory ripped from this defeat it was that these weapons would not be used against them again. More men showed up, some to gather the dead, some to relieve the few remaining, and still others to keep guard, yet none of the seventeen left the hallway until the job was done. BT steeled himself to go to sick bay, he had to go check on Mike. Worst case scenario, he had to prepare himself to tell Tracy.
Tracy was already aware, that much he knew when he saw her standing beside the glass partition that over looked the surgery room. BT walked in; she gave him the briefest of glimpses before letting him enfold her hand in his own. They said nothing for over an hour as they watched a team of Progs, being guarded by an even larger team of soldiers, work on the general.
“Right now, you’re in charge,” BT finally said.
“General Ginson?” she asked, still not taking her eyes from her husband’s prone form. “Because I shouldn’t have even left sick bay.”
“He’s gone.”
She squeezed his hand hard. “Was it worth it?” A lone tear escaped her eye.
“The mutes, as an effective fighting force, are no more.”
“Funny, that’s what the generals said about the Vietnamese back in the seventies.”
Drababan burst in, he had been in a full sprint. “I came as soon as I heard. How is he?”
“If he lives, he will probably lose his left leg.” She could barely contain herself as she said words that felt utterly incredulous and fraudulent as she spoke them.
Drababan said nothing, though a deep scowl formed on his face. “Is it true about General Ginson?”
BT nodded.
“Colonel, I realize this is a difficult time–for you, especially–but whether you like it or not, you are in command of the Earth Forces and there are some rather important decisions that must be made now, rather than later.”
BT felt a crushing force on his hand, something he would have thought not possible on a woman so small. He wondered if she was going to rail on the Geno, but then she eased her grip. “Of course. Let me put my uniform on.”
When she left, Dee took her space at the viewing port.
“I tried, Dee. I tried to protect him.”
“I know. Right now, it may be best if cooler heads prevail, ones willing to act on diplomacy rather than rage, like Paul, or instinct, like Michael.”
“I think you have your signals crossed if you think the Colonel is going to be of the cooler head variety. Her husband is lying on an operating table and may not survive, I don’t believe she is going to be accommodating.”
“Perhaps, though none of it may matter soon enough.”
“How long?”
“If our calculations are accurate, the time dilation will be on the hull within the next three hours; the inner most part of the ship has perhaps ten to twelve. I wanted to tell Michael this battle was folly, that he fought for pride, knowing full well that our existence was being measured in moments.”
“Isn’t that what life is, Dee? Our entire lives are merely a series of moments. What you do in each one of them defines who you are. Why is it so hard to believe that Talbot, knowing full well we only had a few hours left, would want to go out on top? That he would choose to prove to the Progs, who arrogantly believe their superiority over us is irreproachable, that we will not back down, not even when we know the end is nigh, regardless the outcome.”
“He was wise to befriend you,” Dee said as he turned to BT. “
The Colonel will be waiting for us.”
“I’m staying here. If you need me for anything, you’ll know where to find me. If these are to be our last moments, I’m going to spend them in the company of the truest friend I have ever known.”
“As you wish,” Dee said as he left. He’d no sooner turned the corner when a shrill alarm sounded off in the surgery room. BT pressed himself up against the glass in a vain attempt to get a better look at what was going on. He wanted to tell the men down there that if Mike died then just kill the doctors as well, but what would that prove? Just fewer medics and more death and BT thought that perhaps the reaper’d had his fill for the day. Though he knew that entity could not be sated quite that easily.
“You dine on my friend tonight and I will hunt you down,” he swore. He thought he heard the faintest of laughs.
“Colonel,” Dee said as he came into the crew quarters. The people had assembled and were waiting for news to be reported.
Tracy was up front, Dee thought she looked a little pale and unsteady on her feet, though he didn’t think anyone else would notice as she powered through her grief and injuries.
“I’m sure most of you have heard by now. Tragically, General Ginson was killed in battle and my hus…General Talbot,” she said, quickly changing gears, fearful she would choke up. “Is incapacitated.”
“How bad?” someone asked.
Dee stood and moved next to Tracy. “Now is perhaps not the best time to discuss the General’s condition. There are doctors working to restore him to full health. Right now, we must be more concerned with what we are going to do moving forward. As you also may know, we are trapped in a nodule of time and it is collapsing inwards. If we do not escape its clutches soon, it is likely we never will.”
That created some turmoil verging on panic; most knew they were in trouble, just not the magnitude.
“We have got to agree to work with the Progerians while there is still time to find an answer,” Dee said.