by Eric Thomson
Zack reveled in the exhilaration of flight. Only crazy people would jump out of a perfectly good shuttle, trusting their lives to a square of material strapped to their backs, but Decker was one of those, and he knew it. You had to love parachuting to be a Pathfinder. And he loved being a Pathfinder.
At a thousand meters, the kite-parachutes popped open, and the Marines' descent slowed to a shallow glide. By now, they could make out the richer black of the island as it grew in their visors. Lights too had begun to separate land from sea as Amali's compound came into view.
Tugging on the wires above his shoulders, Zack controlled his 'chute's course, his computer projecting a target grid on the inside of his visor. This was the most dangerous moment. They were close enough for a sharp-eyed watcher with night vision gear to spot them and then kill them. But Amali's mercenaries didn't expect a Marine assault on a Commonwealth planet, let alone a tricky and dangerous airborne attack. Surprise, as always, would be the Pathfinders' best ally.
And if all else failed, they could always call on the Warthogs, whose shallow glide had brought them to a nearby, deserted island.
*
“Everything quiet?” The mercenary noncom hitched up his trousers as he walked into the compound's operations room.
“So far, sarge,” the duty tech replied. “Our Lord and Master can have another night of undisturbed sleep.”
“More like undisturbed perversion, if you ask me.”
“Dangerous talk, sarge, especially since that fucking Marine got away. The boss has been acting vicious.”
“Scared is the word you want to use.” The sergeant sat on the corner of a console and burped. “He's fucking scared that Marines will come down here and wipe the island off the face of the planet.”
“Would they do something like that?”
“Naw. It'd be against the fucking law. Only the buggering Senate can authorize military action on a member planet, and there's damn little chance they'd to do it for this place. The boss' family and friends own half the cocksucker politicians. This is just bullshit we're doing, acting like we're a fucking Marine base on the edge of the fucking Shrehari Empire. Still,” the noncom burped again, grimacing this time as acid rose in his throat, “gotta keep up appearances, so pay attention to your screen and make sure the logs are complete.”
“Yeah, yeah, sarge. Cover my ass. I know the drill.” The tech turned back towards his screen and yawned. “Nothing out there but a flock of stupid birds coming in.”
He pointed at the indistinct blips a few hundred meters away from the shoreline and the same distance up.
“Hah,” the mercenary sergeant cackled, “with any luck they'll be geese, and we'll get some hunting tomorrow morning.”
“Doubt they're geese, sarge. Too big. Must be another kind of bird. Maybe they'll make good hunting anyways.”
“Yeah. What's weather say for tomorrow?”
“Another storm coming up, as big as the one the other day, when this Decker guy vanished.”
“Fucking hurricane season's started early.”
“Yeah.”
“Take it easy. I'm going to go have a crap and then take a walk outside.”
The tech yawned again and gave his sergeant an ironic wave. The noncom grinned and replied with the rigid digit salute before leaving the ops room.
*
The ground came up fast under Zack's feet, and he could no longer judge the distance. Facing in the direction of his drift, he bent his knees slightly and waited for the impact.
It came as a surprise as it did every time.
His feet hit the ground with a jarring thump, and he took several quick steps forward to absorb his momentum. Then, when he was sure he had his balance, he knelt to reduce his silhouette while his canopy collapsed to the ground with a sigh. Around him, muffled thuds and the rustling of parachutes were the only signs of Third Troop's landing. To Zack's ears, they were incredibly loud, but he knew the jungle's nightly concert of bird chants and predatory yowls would cover the noise.
With practiced ease, he freed his carbine and swung it out while his other hand twisted the 'chute harness buckle, releasing him from its anchor-like drag. His helmet visor, set to light intensification, showed the estate in detail. He marked the building he'd been taken to after his arrival and quickly spotted the door.
Two red blips suddenly appeared in his visor's targeting grid. A loud shout of alarm rang across the tarmac, and a bright plasma shot split the night.
Instinctively, Decker raised his carbine to his shoulder and lased the merc who'd shot. When his weapon's sight found the target, an exercise that took less than a second, he pulled the trigger twice, in double-tap fashion. His shots were true, and the merc died without another sound. A trooper beside him dispatched the other sentry with the same efficiency and speed.
But neither had been fast enough. The night gave birth to the eerie wail of an alarm siren.
The troop leader slapped Zack on the shoulder.
“C'mon, Decker, let's shag. Let the CO take care of the opposition.”
They reached the relative safety of the blind walls after a short sprint. Zack was pleased to see he wasn't even breathing hard though the weight of the armor dragged at his body.
From somewhere on the other side of the estate, a mercenary machine gun opened up, but it was silenced quickly when a Marine rocket launcher whomped in reply.
Ignoring the developing fight, as Major Ryent had instructed them to do, Zack slipped around the corner of the building, carbine at the ready. He immediately came face-to-face with a five-man merc patrol emerging from the barracks. His reflexes still ran true, and he mowed them down in a sustained burst from the hip, nearly cutting two of them in half at the waist, while the others died when his shots flash-boiled their innards.
With the sounds of a growing battle around him, Zack sprinted from cover and headed straight for the dark rectangle that led to the labs, and ultimately the hive.
*
Walker Amali moaned with pleasure as his latest lover, the daughter of a Senator with more ambition than ability, rode him with consummate skill. She had arrived on the island earlier in the day, sent as an offering by her father, who wanted to join the select circle of politicians who held the real power, and he knew Amali was the financing behind that power. He also knew the head of ComCorp had a weakness for well-rounded and pliable women. His daughter Yelena was both.
Amali's climax was building when the alarm siren started wailing and mounting panic replaced the pleasant warmth of lovemaking. It turned to a sick feeling of nausea when he heard gunshots outside.
He pushed the girl away and rolled off the bed, stabbing his vidcom terminal. She protested at the treatment but fell silent when she saw the look in his eyes. Gunfire lit up the night, and he thought he saw black shapes move with deadly swiftness among the shrubs and trees of his gardens.
“Amali here. What the hell is happening?”
“Technician Hillier, sir,” a frightened voice replied. “We're under attack by Marines.”
“What?” Amali demanded, wide-eyed. A tic tugged at the left corner of his mouth.
A sweaty, panicked face replaced the tech's. “Sir, they're Pathfinders. We're under airborne attack. I figure there's more'n a hundred of 'em, a full squadron. The captain is down, and we're getting slaughtered.”
Amali was stunned, speechless. Not only had Decker escaped, but the bastard had also come back with a commando force.
He abruptly cut the link and headed for his walk-in closet. All that mattered now was to flee and save himself. The girl looked at him, frightened by what she heard, but even more frightened of the tortured expression on his face. She remained silent.
The magnate quickly dressed in a black one-piece outfit and strapped on a pistol belt. The Marines had murdered his cousin and wouldn't stop at killing him either. As for the experiment, he mentally shrugged. It was over. There would always be more experiments. One day, the Navy would pay for all
the outrages. He swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat.
Walker looked at the girl, still naked, still beautiful and still a whore, sent here by a pimping father who lusted for power. She whimpered softly, flinching every time a burst of plasma came too close to the windows. Amali couldn't take her with him, she'd be a liability, and he couldn't afford to leave her behind to tell the Marines about his bolthole. Her father wasn't important enough to matter. The daughter mattered even less.
Slowly, he pulled out his pistol and aimed it at her head. She stared at him, wide-eyed. With deliberate care, as if he were on a shooting range, he breathed in and out, tightening his finger on the trigger.
The shot punched a small hole in the girl's perfect forehead, leaving a smoking hole in its wake. But its exit wasn't so neat. The plasma flash boiled her brain on the way out, and when it blew away the back of her skull, pinkish-white matter bubbled out, splashing all over the bed. She voided herself as she died and a strong odor of urine and feces mixed with the smell of charred flesh.
Without warning, Amali vomited on the plush carpet, sickened by the stench. He had never killed anyone with his own hands before. Someone else had always done his dirty work for him. Trembling, he heaved until nothing but bile joined the growing stain at his feet. Sounds from the mansion’s front hall snapped him out of his misery: the Marines were inside.
He ran to an ornate wooden panel in one corner of the room and placed his palm on an elaborate design in its middle, opening the door to a hidden lift. No one but his father knew about it, the builder having long since died in an accident.
Walker slumped against the lift's curved walls as the doors closed, his entire body trembling. He was swept down into the island's underground warren, where a submarine waited to whisk him away. But when he stepped out of the lift and into the tunnel, the sound of exploding charges from the submarine pen pushed his panic to a peak.
He ran to the pen's door and poked his head around the corner. A squad of Marines in black armor had found a way in and were busy sabotaging everything in sight. One of the troopers spotted him and pointed in his direction.
Amali vaguely heard a voice call his name and order him to stop, but his instincts drove him back into the tunnel, towards the other door that opened into the jungle. His father had used that one for solitary walks and quiet assassinations.
The thick steel door opened with a creak at his command, and the humid night air hit him like a fist. Pounding feet echoed behind him, and he ran out of the tunnel into the dark forest. With a loud clang, the door slammed shut again, cutting off his pursuers.
When he stopped running, deep in the jungle, Walker Amali realized he had nothing but a small handgun with a half-empty magazine. All the Marines had to do was come pick him up.
Hidden and alone, the most powerful man on Pacifica trembled, fighting his fear and rage, unable to think of a way out of his predicament, except hope the Marines didn't come after him.
Things like this weren't supposed to happen. The Amali family was meant to be above the law.
*
A single shot fried the door's locking mechanism, and Zack pried it open. Major Ryent and his troops had turned the raid into a full-scale battle, distracting every mercenary in Amali's employ. Most of the arc lights had died, shot by snipers, plunging the compound into a darkness punctuated by the flash of plasma ammunition, rocket exhaust streams, exploding grenades and satchel charges.
One of the Pathfinder troops had already taken out the ops center, cutting the island off from the rest of the universe. Another had captured the fusion reactor, selectively cutting power to enemy-held areas, while a third was rounding up everyone in the private part of the estate, looking for Walker Amali himself.
Helmet visor switched to infrared, Decker stepped into the darkened corridor and put his back against the wall, to reduce his silhouette. There was no one in sight, no unusual heat signatures, and no booby traps. He signaled for the troop's scouts to join him.
Two armored figures slipped past, one holding a sensor, the other covering him. They moved carefully but quickly, searching for signs of life, human or alien. At the first door, they stopped and signaled. Zack didn't need to look inside to know what it was.
“Interrogation room,” he said over the radio.
“Clear it,” the troop leader ordered.
“Roger. T'chin, Douala, number one team. Sisulu, Rajmurti, security positions. Move.”
The two scouts crouched on either side of the corridor, weapons pointed into the darkness. Number one team stepped up to the door, one on each side, concussion grenades in hand. Corporal T'chin slapped the lock pad, and the door slid open with a sigh. In unison, the two Pathfinders armed and tossed their grenades into the room.
Before the explosions died down, the team burst into the room, weapons at the ready, eyes scanning for survivors. Decker followed them in. Other than the slight damage from the grenades, it was unchanged. Seeing the mind probe, he remembered every painful second of the interrogation. A crimson curtain of hate closed before his eyes, and a murderous rage gripped him.
“Someone in the back,” the scout warned, “single human, no sign of weapons.”
“Cover me, Dal.” T'chin cautiously neared the door, keeping to one side and out of the line of fire. He palmed the lock, and it opened. “Whoever's in there, surrender or die.”
“Don't shoot, don't shoot,” a quavering voice replied. “I'm coming out.”
Zack knew that voice intimately. When Doctor Cantos crossed the threshold, the former sergeant stepped forward and grabbed him by the throat.
“Remember me, you fucking mind rapist? Or did you see so many customers in the last week you forgot Zachary T. Decker?”
“N-n-no,” the doctor croaked weakly. “P-please let me go.”
Zack laughed. It was an ugly, hate-filled sound.
“Not a fucking chance, Cantos. You raped my soul, now it's time to pay the piper for your fun.”
Decker lifted the man and threw him into the reclining chair he'd occupied so recently. Snapping the restraints into place, he lowered the probe over Cantos's head.
“What are you doing, Zack?” A low voice asked from the doorway. “We've still have a mission to complete.”
“Your major said I could get my revenge, Reggie,” he snarled back. “It'll just take a moment.”
Sergeant Reginald Warwick, the troop leader, shrugged and ordered his men to continue their advance down the main passageway. Decker, true to his word, spent little time fine-tuning the probe. He switched it on and set the automatic programming to the most acute setting. Cantos screamed in terror as he felt the awful tendrils of the machine bore through his skull and sink into his brain, infiltrating his mind and tearing at his soul.
In a few minutes, his personality would start to break down, and he would slowly, irreversibly, turn into a human vegetable, alive only because the probe could not destroy the brain's autonomous functions. Without a backward glance, Decker left the room and shut the door behind him. A rape for a rape, and a soul for a soul: frontier justice had come to Pacifica.
The red haze lifted enough for him to remember his duties, and he rejoined the scouts. The mercs had abandoned the laboratory complex where the gunner had been held prisoner, ordered outside to fight off the Marines. They met a few technicians who gladly surrendered. A loaded plasma gun was a convincing argument. Quickly, they cleared out sophisticated labs, taking precise recordings of the extraordinary array of powerful scientific equipment.
“This is it.” Zack pointed at an unremarkable door on the right side of the corridor, just before the passage ended at a set of heavily armored portals. “That's the room where they showed me the bugs.”
“So it probably figures the hive is behind those starship hatches there,” Warwick replied. “It'll take more than we have to blow them.”
“No problem. The window in there'll give under a rocket.”
“Your call, Zack.”
<
br /> The viewing room was as dark as the rest of the compound, and the scouts slowly scanned it before anyone else went in.
“Human, hiding behind the sofa,” one of the scouts warned. “No weapons.”
“Another of your friends?”
The gunner stepped past the scouts and stopped at the sofa.
“You can get up now, Professor Rocheford. I promise that you will come to no harm.”
He still remembered her silent tears when Amali had displayed the depth of his depravity in this very room. The woman rose unsteadily, unable to see him in the dark.
“W-who are you?”
“We met a few days ago, Professor. I was strapped into the chair over there while Amali showed me his home video of Diego Strachan getting eaten by a bug.”
“The Marine.”
“Ex-Marine, Professor. Zack Decker, in case you forgot. But the people with me are still serving. We're here to destroy the hive.”
Rocheford sighed and reached out to steady herself.
“Then the nightmare is finally over.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn't know what he intended to do with the Quas, Mister Decker, I swear.”
“Later, Professor, later.”
But the floodgates had opened. She had to justify her part in this experiment, rationalize her participation in cold-blooded murder.
“He hired me from the University as a private researcher, promised me the best labs and facilities. And money, lots of money. By the time I realized what he wanted, it was too late. He would not let me go.” She sobbed. “He's sick, Mister Decker. I had to do as he ordered.”
“I know, Professor.” Zack laid a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder. “You're as much of a victim as I was. Sergeant Warwick, can you escort Professor Rocheford out of here and keep her safe?”
“Sure, Decker. C'mon, Prof.”
“No, wait. What will happen to all this?”
“We're going to kill every bug, pupa, and egg, and then wipe the hive from the face of the universe, along with the labs and all.”