Derktha, Agwaren Capital City
Jennifer Delaney
Jennifer Delaney, mid-twenties space-babe adventurer, rather decent improvisational swordswoman and evidently an awe-inspiring force of obliteration that crushed her enemies and terrified civilians alike, which had proven an unfortunate drawback in several instances when she’d been unable to convince the locals that she didn’t also intend to slaughter them all. With the language barrier as it was, the best she’d been able to do for them was to point in a direction and wildly wave her weapon at them until they got the damned hint that they should scarper right quick.
Aliens; even on a Deathworld they tended to be thicker than her older brothers, who she’d often held mustn’t have been standing in line when brains were being handed out. This lot couldn’t even handle fending off a small force of alien death machines.
The problem there was in how they thought about things, their minds and bodies both limited by the inflexibility of the latter. They were bigger than her, and much stronger, but they were slow to move and that took a lot of the danger away unless they actually managed to catch you. They preferred swords, but they would sharpen them brittle and, with slow movements, would press them slowly against each other in pitched battle. From a distance they could, in theory, use the bulky crossbows they carried around, but those were also unwieldy and decidedly inaccurate besides.
Agwarens looked threatening, but that was about it, and it was no good at all for dealing with robots that could flit around and kill you with fire, robots possessing qualities that, in the grand scheme of things, were much closer to that of Jen than the Agwarens: fast, deadly and more than capable of avoiding anything as slow as the Agwarens seemed to be.
Jen’s sword, its brittle edge now melted blunt, smashed through another alien death machine, bursting through with a trail of blue plasma that followed it like some magical force. Even in the all-too-literal heat of battle, she was able to recognise that she must look really cool, and that it was a failing of the universe that there was nobody around with a video camera to make a recording of it.
“For posterity,” she mumbled, ducking behind a burned-out chair to take shelter from the plasma-blast. Although it would only count as posterity if she actually managed to survive this situation.
She had to admit that things did not look good. Jen had arrived in the throne room, summon by screams and war cries and then silence, to discover a wasteland of barbequed corpses and scorched décor. She had taken down the two robots responsible for the carnage, twin flashes of steel bringing them down in short order. But not fast enough to stop them from summoning the others.
Jen had been sitting on the throne, catching her breath and rubbing her aching arms when they had arrived in force. Twenty of them flooding in through the front doors as a single force and bearing down on her while, from on high, a handful of survivors watched from the galleries.
“Well, at least somebody’s here to appreciate my efforts,” she grumbled in grim resignation, knowing that odds were good that she was either going to die or find herself gravely wounded. The throne room was an open space, although there were steps that rose against each wall, lined by the large seats capable of accepting Agwaren bulk. These had largely survived the slaughter, unlike the Agwarens themselves, and now provided Jen her only real barrier against the grave. That was not especially reassuring.
There were, however, two factors that were in her favour: her diminutive size meant the chairs provided more than ample protection, and her speed gave her the edge she would need. All she needed to do was kill twenty alien death machines in a single, pitched battle and there would be nothing more to worry about.
“So then,” she whispered, speaking only to herself, “that’s something to look forward to.”
Jennifer Delaney started the battle by hurling a dagger straight through the plasma conduits of the lead robot, a component of critical importance in preventing the whole thing from exploding a few seconds later. She was back behind the chair when it went off like a bomb, spraying the room with burning shrapnel carried on a wave of heat. Four others, those closest to it at the time, were twisted into molten wreckage before they could reach a safe distance, and the total force set against her was immediately reduced by a full quarter.
Not bad for an opening move, and the cheering that rained down from the galleries gave her a dark satisfaction. The people above had been witness to a horrible slaughter, the end of their High Lord and much of their leaders, all blasted into ash by monsters beyond their understanding. Enough people had died in front of her today to last a lifetime, and while Jen couldn’t promise them victory or entertainment, she could promise that she’d put every last ounce of energy in her towards stopping the invasion.
Although the cheering definitely helped, as did the fact that for the first time of all the times she’d had to set herself against someone there was no question about right or wrong; not when it came to evil killer robots, and not when it came to whoever was controlling them. There was only the question of how it should be done, and the answer was a refreshingly simple ‘by whatever means possible.’
Right now that meant she killed them with swords and knives, but God help them if she ever got her ship back, or if the wrath of Earth was ever to fall upon these fuckers. Hell might be a woman scorned, but even that would pale in comparison to a pissed-off Irish redhead working a grudge.
The first of her attackers flung itself up into her row of chairs, its spindly legs catching hold of the furniture to arrest its motion so that it could pivot its weapons towards her. It was slower that she was, though, and exploded under the might of her oversized sword, the wreckage gouting a plume of blue plasma that trailed after her blade like a magical force. She spun it round to strike the dying machine with the flat of the blade, batting it into its allies as it exploded and reducing their number by a further three.
They were down to eleven, and she’d only just gotten started, but Jen was under no illusions as to their intelligence. The machines were capable of learning, at least to some degree, and they would not try the same thing after the first attempt had been so disastrous. If they were anything like death-machines in the movies, they would try to adapt, try to predict her next move, and try to make a plan around it. The secret would be in not giving them the luxury.
Jen burst from cover, snatching up twin knives that had survived their owner, and rolled back into cover as a burst of plasma annihilated her previous cover. Two things resulted from that: she knew where every one of the machines now lurked, and so long as the robots weren’t dumber than a box of rocks they knew that the chairs weren’t worth a sack of crap for cover. Things were about to get a little more desperate on Jen’s side of the fight.
She rolled out from cover, flinging one knife and then the other, with Old Jen vaguely wishing she’d been born ambidextrous. New Jen did just fine without that sort of unnecessary benefit, however, and managed to put one of the daggers through a sensor unit and the other through a particularly ugly tapestry.
That was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped; the robots would adapt to her methods and would increasingly learn to evade her knives. She couldn’t expect to hit an erratically moving target every time in the best of situations, let alone when they were actively attempting to avoid it.
She still had her sword though, and for the moment she had her cover, and-
The chair in front of her exploded in an enveloping burst of hot plasma that showered her with hot ash that she only barely avoided letting blind her. Even so it settled on her skin, searing it with black flecks. It hurt, but she pushed through it, springing through the billowing cloud of debris as her cover exploded under concentrated plasma fire.
That had been a clever strategy, to force her to pause before raining down heavy on her actual position. It was somewhat unsettling to realise that, not so long ago, her choices would have gotten her killed, but for now she only had to deal with some slight pain.
But there were still eleven robots left, and they’d adapted quickly enough to pose a legitimate threat. If she didn’t end things quickly…
She sensed the heat before it hit her, and rolled clear of a spread of plasma that would have rained down upon her in full. The wave of pure heat still swept her, blasting her skin dry and searing it painfully, and setting light the edges of her clothes.
Jen’s head was swimming, and her chest ached for the sweetness of cool, unpolluted air, but there was no way to escape, and if there was no way to survive she was going to do the only thing she could: she was going to take as many with her as she possibly could.
Through fire and flame, and with sword in hand, she launched herself at them with a last burst of energy and a guttural roar.
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Record 573-Black-12
+Recovered from C11-Orange-712-Yellow-6+
“I’m telling you there was something,” Vivrez insisted. “Look… this still works, I’m going to get it on film. Vassa?”
Vassa frowned, shaking her head and spilling her long, straw-coloured hair around. “You do what you want. And stop filming me.”
“Look,” Vivrez told her, “Boph would-“
“Boph is dead,” Vassa replied flatly. She stared at the camera with an empty gaze. “I wish you’d died first.”
Vivrez paused, then turned the camera around to film his own balding face. “I’m not done yet… maybe if Boph was right… if there are aliens out there, maybe we can get them to help us. I have to try, and even that girl on the video… ‘Oiri’, she said that the police woman suspected they were going around.”
“Going around killing people,” Vassa said nastily from off-camera. “You think you can climb that mountain? You think you can fight the ‘killer aliens’?”
Vivrez looked away, off toward her. “And then you’ll be alone. I’m going tomorrow.”
End Record
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Mountain lair of the Dark One, Agwar One-Thirty
The human was faster than any creature One-Thirty had seen before, and more than capable of wielding the heavy Agwaren weapons that had, traditionally, posed no threat at all to her Abrogators. It had somehow managed to throw a knife across a room into an Abrogator’s primary plasma conduit, and had destroyed a total of five of the machines in the ensuing explosion. Then it had sliced straight through the combat-ready hull of an Abrogator, and swatted it back amongst the others where it would do the most damage.
That was when One-Thirty began to take direct control of all units, a move that would have been impossible for most members of her kind, but was merely quite challenging for somebody who’d had thousands of cycles to practice. At first she’d had one unit put down suppressing fire while her main force had targeted the human’s position, only to have the human launch itself through the explosion into relative safety. Then it had narrowly avoided a widely-spread attack that had been intended to slow the creature down.
One-Thirty had been preparing to leap upon a weakened target, to mob it and kill it with all the force she could muster. She had not expected it to be leaping back, even angrier and more vicious than it had been before.
There was an angry snarl on the human’s face that put One-Thirty in mind of ancient enemies, and a burning hatred in its eyes that showed the kind of rage that only a predator was capable of. One-Thirty had only seen that kind of rage once before, upon the very face she now wore.
Ironically if it had been the machines acting alone, they may have responded with lethal precision before the human could even reach them. They would not have recoiled on an instinct that transcended time, flesh or programming, and they most certainly wouldn’t have panicked as the human set about ripping them to shreds.
Within moments there were too many plasma explosions for her to keep track of what was going on, damage reports from all units were flooding her senses before abruptly terminating.
Two units destroyed, sword thrust. One more on the recovery, and another three as those units detonated. The remaining five scattered as she sent the command to escape the blast radius, not noticing that the human rode one of them.
That unit was destroyed a moment later, not even able to get a good look at the human that had annihilated it. The others saw it though, a haggard and burned remnant of its former strength. Its skin was blistered and red, its hair burned away and its clothing blackened. Only a deathworlder could have stood up after that, and only the worst of them could have kept fighting.
In One-Thirty’s judgement that meant this creature was the worst to ever live.
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Derktha, Agwaren Capital City
Groddi
Lord Groddi had not left the Chosen One behind by choice. He had been scared, that was true – terrified, in fact – but he had his pride and his courage to guide him through such weakness. He had set aside all of those things to ensure that, while the Chosen One sought the enemy, he would see to the populace of the city.
It was not without some ulterior motives that he did this, however. Groddi knew that he would most likely die in any encounter with the Dark One’s forces, just as he knew that if the High Lord were to die the people would be in search of a new ruler. That being the case, why not ensure his own survival along with the lives of those who would be left to make such a decision?
Without shame, Groddi knew that he had advanced himself while his peers had spent their lives dying in service to their High Lord. The only thing that concerned him now, as Groddi, and not as the young Lord of his family, was that the Chosen One was fighting for its survival against the forces of the Dark One, and that without his help it may very well fail. Without his help, it might also overlook his importance in the world after the Dark One, where its opinion would undoubtedly decide his future fortunes, but there was also the strong possibility that it might also mean that there was no future to be had whatsoever.
Groddi knew little of the Dark One besides the legends, but he had known the Chosen One and had seen it move. He had seen it destroy a minion of the Dark One like no Agwaren ever had, and if there had ever been a stronger piece of evidence that now was the time, and that this truly was the chosen one that fate foretold, then he did not know what it was. Now was the time to bet it all, to gather the strength of his conviction and to inspire those around him. Now was the time to rise to the banner of the Chosen One and to claim his rightful destiny. Now was the time when the Agwarens took back their world from the foul creature that had soiled it since time immemorial and carved a line in the stone that would mark history as being ‘from this time on, Agwarens rule’!
With a force of six dozen he arrived just in time to find the Chosen One at its limits, surrounded by the corpses of friend and foe alike, and preparing for its final moments. The strange creatures of the Dark One converged on the Chosen One, reluctant in spite of their superior number, and paid no attention to Groddi or his men.
Groddi snarled under his breath, deeply offended to be so thoroughly disregarded, and in that moment made a vow that the Dark One would never again underestimate any Agwaren. He vowed that he would become a nightmare to haunt the thoughts of the Dark One until the foul creature could finally be laid to rest.
He vowed to claim victory here, and at every battlefield henceforth. He roared the charge, and his men descended upon the shining horrors, blades raised and crossbows loaded. A cheer flooded down from above as the men charged, and the foul creatures whirled to face the onslaught.
It was then, in that unforgettable moment, that Groddi witnessed doom lifting from the Chosen One like a black cloud, and the Otherworlder, already standing to its full height, seemed to raise itself taller still. He would never be able to explain how, to those not present, the Chosen One had seemed so large despite its size.
He would never be able to explain its ferocity, and, upon later reflection, he would hope to never again see its like.
But that, as it turned out, was not to be.
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Corporate Secret Holding Pen, Perfection, Class Three World
Layla
Layla did as she had to, and maintained her cool smile until she’d exited the chamber that contained Chir’s cell. She had managed to keep up the façade of the uncaring enemy agent, she’d even lied to him about bearing his child, but those had been the hardest lies she had ever told. And yet there had never been any question about telling them; there wasn’t anything a good Mother wouldn’t do to keep her cubs safe, and Layla, in spite of everything, still thought of herself as a good Mother.
But even she had to admit that the line was becoming a little blurry.
Her composure only slipped when she was sure that the Gaoian legend wouldn’t see, and that was entirely the best she could manage.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve developed feelings for that pirate,” said the nameless Corti operative in charge of this facility. His gaze was coldly analytical, and his voice equally so. He was, in Layla’s estimation, the Cortiest Corti she’d ever met, and that was about the furthest from high praise as she cold get.
She turned to him, hardening her resolve once more. “I’m a professional, Agent,” she told him. “It doesn’t matter what I feel, I get the job done.”
“If only everybody exuded your professionalism,” the Corti replied humourlessly. “I was watching your interaction, and I believe you have successfully subverted him. What are your thoughts on the matter?”
“He’ll do everything you want him to,” Layla replied, half hoping it was untrue. “Though I can’t promise how well he’ll do against the human. They say he destroyed a city on his own.”
The Corti managed an involuntary frown. “Merely a rumour,” he told her. “It was little more than a couple buildings and a space station, and it wasn’t entirely by himself. Rest assured that your companion in there is more than capable of taking the human down if he is smart about it.”
To Layla, that seemed a lot less likely than the legendary human simply obliterating Chir at the first sign of treachery, but she had to admit that it wasn’t entirely impossible that the Gaoian strategist might be successful. He might hate her forever for what she was doing now, but it would be a lighter burden for her to carry than if he died.
“He’s smart enough,” Layla told the hateful little alien. “But I don’t know whether the human has brains to match. If he’s with his Corti companion I suspect it will be impossible for Chir to succeed.”
“Don’t concern yourself with that one,” the Corti replied. “We have resources who have been keeping track of anything we can find on him. We are confident we can catch him in a moment of weakness.”
“And what of my cubs?” Layla finally demanded, unwilling to withhold the question any further. “Are we done? Do I get my children back?”
The Corti answered with an expression that only gave her despair, plunging the last of her fragile hopes into darkness. “We still have use for you for a time. Be patient.”
Another adjustment to the agreement, then. It had already passed beyond all semblance of the original contract, and she was an increasingly unwilling participant in her masters’ plots. At first it had been a simple job that paid a small fortune, and her only responsibilities had been to gain Chir’s trust and involve herself in his plans, suggesting the vessels of some corporations over others. That had been hard enough, and she had not been willing to allow Chir to get any closer to her than a working relationship, but she had been able to justify it by thinking of all the lives she was saving, and of all the money she would be paid.
The return of Adrian Saunders had changed everything, and she’d received an answer almost as soon as she’d made that report; her assignment had come to an end, and she was being offered a new undertaking for even greater reward. She had refused, but her declination had only gotten her children kidnapped to change her mind.
“I have done everything you told me to,” she said, her words carrying an angry growl.
The Corti’s reply was terse. “And you will continue to do so. Or are you operating under the mistaken belief that we were merely bluffing? Let me give you a helpful piece of information: this company does not bluff. You will remain in our service until you are of no further use, and I would suggest ensuring that the eventual parting is amicable.”
Anger swelled within her, but again she could do nothing. She may not believe she would ever see her children again, and she was beginning to doubt she would even survive past the end of her service, but for the moment she was alive and that gave her possibilities. They wanted to keep her scared, wanted to make her fear for the lives of her children and clutch to whatever crumbs of hope they gave her.
But there was no trust left for her to give them. She could obey and hope, or she could plan and act, and Layla had never been the sort of Gaoian to prefer the former. She was a piece in their game, completely at the mercy of her masters, but that didn’t mean she had no options. There were still those who could be convinced to help her, and those who had every reason to want to do so.
She left the facility quietly enough, but on her way back to her hotel she purchased a pen and some paper, antiquated instruments that now served as luxuries. They weren’t electronic, and were therefore an expense, but they couldn’t be monitored by digital surveillance and in this day and age few people would even think of communications being sent in such a manner.
She could only hope, however, that the person she was addressing it to would receive it, and that he’d know what to make of it if he did. There was also the question about what he’d even manage to do if he was inclined to follow her request, given his current circumstances, but he was a human, and they seemed to have their ways.
At her hotel desk she leaned close to the paper so that no hidden eyes could see, and began to compose her letter. Dear Darragh, it began, I hope this letter finds you well…
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Superior Firepower, subverted Hierarchy Command Cruiser
Adrian Saunders
The transition in and out of warp was one that Adrian had always been able to identify for as long as he’d been able to recall. It was a tingling, not uncomfortable, that focused in all of his nerve clusters. Not uncomfortable per se, but it certainly got his attention.
He was, therefore, well and truly awake when Askit relayed the fact. “We’ve just entered Local Space,” he advised. “Although I suppose you already know that. We’re about (three hours) out though, so there’s no need to hurry.”
Adrian lifted the thermal dampener that blindfolded him as he slept and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Thanks, mate,” he said through a yawn. “But I’m up now. I’ll just get an early start on things.”
Askit acknowledged and ended the communicator link, leaving Adrian to get his shit sorted out. He’d felt better with getting solid hours of sleep, and he’d even taken up whatever he could remember of the meditation and yoga stuff he’d been forced into joining by his wife, back when they were newlyweds. It hadn’t done much for him back then, but now… it calmed the simmering madness that threatened to boil over whenever he was put into a stressful situation. He wished he’d paid more attention to it at the time.
“What are you doing?” Xayn asked with interest, witnessing the breathing and exercise routine for the first time. “Some form of exercise?”
“‘Warrior One’, one of the few parts I can remember of something we call Yoga,” Adrian replied. “It’s meant to build strength, and improve balance and state of mind. Fuck knows I need the last one.”
Xayn nodded. “My people also make use of physical repetition to improve combat effectiveness. My father ensured that I spent much time in this practice when he still lived.”
Adrian eased from his stance. “Your father died bravely.”
“Yes,” Xayn said, looking thoughtful. “I know. Perhaps I could join you in your practice?”
Adrian shrugged, feeling a little interested in seeing what the ancient civilisation had to offer. What happened next made him glad that the V’Straki had not yet managed to interpret a stifled laugh.
Adrian disguised it with a coughing fit, not wanting to insult the saurian, but jumping up and down on alternating legs while furiously scratching at the air wasn’t exactly what he was hoping to see.
“Yeah, mate,” he said, once the absurd demonstration was complete, “I can tell you spent a lot of time on that.”
“The secret is in the hopping,” Xayn confided, glancing around as if worried they’d be overheard. “You need to keep the right kind of rhythm. I am told that, on the homeworld, there would be fields full of students moving as one. It must have been glorious.”
“I wish I could have seen it,” Adrian said truthfully, his face a frozen mask. “It’d be unforgettable.”
Xayn looked away wistfully and then nodded. “Do not worry, if we are successful then I will ensure you have the chance.”
Adrian moved his head up and down in a very deliberate nod. “It would be a dream come true.”
His voice threatened to break under the sheer effort of keeping the laughter in, and he forced himself into another coughing fit.
That merely brought on an expression of concern however, and Xayn studied him carefully. “I hope that I have not infected you with something…”
“Nah, mate,” Adrian reassured him. “Totally fine.”
Askit provided a mercifully well-timed interruption, arriving on scene. He looked tired, as he always had since they’d stolen the ship; he’d been over the systems twice and still didn’t fully trust them. Not that Adrian felt any better about it; he slept in Spot, regardless of the relatively cramped quartets, and kept his vacuum suit – sans helmet – on at all times. It wasn’t paranoia if you’d learned the hard way.
“You look troubled,” Adrian observed, noting that the little Corti hadn’t offered any sharp remark on joining them. “What’s wrong?”
“As bizarre as it sound,” Askit replied, sounding puzzled, “what’s wrong is that nothing is wrong. We’re approaching Perfection-“
“Some might say we’re already there,” Adrian joked, waggling an eyebrow.
Askit gave him the disgusted look he deserved. “We haven’t been detected, and nobody is shooting at us. I have a bad feeling about this enterprise.”
“Something to do with this Vakno?” Adrian guessed. Askit had seemed to respect her abilities, which really was something to be concerned about, but in the end she was only one Corti.
“I attempted to pry into her systems,” he revealed. “The only seriously secure systems on the planet, prison included. The connection was terminated within moments.”
“Ah, fuck.” Adrian grumbled. “Did you leave any fingerprints?”
“He was working on a computer, Adrian,” Xayn reminded him. “He would not have been able to touch those computers.”
“The walking fossil is correct,” Askit agreed. “My arms are not quite that long.”
“It’s an idiom,” Adrian said with a sigh. “It means ‘does she know it was you?'”
“I suspect that she will figure it out if you go down there shouting your name,” Askit replied. “So please don’t do that.”
“Well that’s Plan A dead in the fucking water,” Adrian retorted. “I guess I will just switch over to Plan B.”
Askit’s response was predictably dry. “Business as usual, then.”
“We have a military tactic on Earth called ‘Shock and Awe’,” Adrian replied, shifting gears for serious discussion. “Basically it boils down to using way too much firepower.”
“You’re attacking a prison complex, not a space fortress…” Askit noted. “It wouldn’t be expecting an attack at all.”
Adrian grinned, and waved a hand around to gesture at both ships abd everything in them. “Then they really won’t be expecting what we’ll ve serving up. You know where Darragh is being held?”
Askit shot him an indignant look as an answer.
“So we’ll start the show with some cloaked missiles, follow up by my arrival, and sustain coilbolt fire until we’ve got the Irishman out of there,” Adrian explained. “Any questions?”
“Let me understand this,” Xayn said after a few moments of consideration. “You intend to maintain artillery fire on the facility you are invading. Are all humans this reckless?”
“I’m once again amazed that I’m saying this, but your crazy plan could work,” Askit added. “You just need to avoid being shot by coilbolts. It should be easier for you because you’ll be the only one not being targeted.”
“That was the idea,” Adrian replied, as overwhelmed as usual by the show of support. “Now you all tell me what the fucking problems are.”
“It is completely insane,” contributed Xayn.
Adrian glared at him. “Except for that one.”
“You’re a human,” Askit said, “and if they caught Darragh we can assume they have human-level weapons.”
“There’s also the local guard unit,” Trix added, chiming in over their communicators. “They’ll probably get there within a few (minutes) of your attack. That’s not a lot of time.”
Adrian frowned; he’d been hoping for a reasonably soft target that would surrender rather than fight, thereby reducing the number of casualties. An armed response would change that. “So, what kind of response can we expect, and what would slow them down?”
“That would depend on what they’re expecting,” Trix replied. “Against a human they’d bring their big guns, although it’s hard to say if they’d hesitate. The only target they’d delay against would be…”
“Hunters,” Askit finished. “The response teams are always late to attacks by Hunters. And you just so happen to have a Hunter ship.”
“And we already know what Hunters will do against anywhere found to be harbouring a human,” said Trix. “It might even be possible to get through this without firing a single shot.”
“You’re saying we should pretend to be Hunters?” Adrian repeated, turning over the idea in his head. “Could that work? I don’t exactly have a fucking Hunter costume lying around.”
Xayn hissed unhappily. “I am sorry to interrupt, but what is a ‘Hunter’?”
“Short version? Space-Cannibals,” Adrian told him. “Long version? Creepy white aliens who like eating other intelligent species. I killed a whole fucking lot of them a couple times, and it’s for the best that they still think I died on take-two, but now they’ve got issues with my entire species. My bad, I guess.”
“So you will pretend to be the enemy of all species to secure the release of one of your own?” Xayn asked. “A bold plan. I like it!”
Adrian smiled at him. “The big question is, can anybody do a convincing Hunter accent? Trix?”
“You want me to speak in Hunter?” she asked, somewhere between surprised and disgusted. “My understanding of them is that they communicate through their implants. I’m not sure there’s much of a language to be spoken, and what does exist is foul beyond measure.”
“I believe that’s a no,” Askit supplied. “But it’s not as though they’ll know that what’s being given to them isn’t the Hunter language. You probably just need to advertise your vessel and start making obnoxious demands. I’ve a feeling you’ll be good at that.”
“Fuck you, too, mate,” Adrian replied with a laugh. “Well, it sounds like a real Plan A to me. You’ll be supporting me from the Superior Firepower, mate?”
Askit nodded. “Of course. I will retain Xayn here for everybody’s safety. The killer robot can go with you and Trycrur.”
“And when do you make your assault the Prison and take the human male from your enemies?” Xayn inquired excitedly. “I will wish to be watching as you rain fire upon their puny bastion.”
“We’ll call that Plan B,” Adrian told him. “Don’t worry, things normally go tits up real fucking quick, so the odds are good that you’ll get your fireworks.”
“Such confidence,” Askit noted. “I suppose that I should just ready the missiles.”
“And I,” Trix said, “have some ideas I’d like to add to this ‘Shock and Awe’.”
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Perfection Penitentiary, Perfection, Class Three World
Darragh Houston
Darragh Houston had never been in prison before, unless of course you counted being held in captivity by the Corti, but that was hardly the same thing. Back then he hadn’t done anything to deserve his incarceration, and moral indignation was entirely justified.
Now, however… not so much. He had to admit that the charges that they were laying against him were serious, and equally as accurate. He was a pirate, and a killer, and actually being confronted with that fact was rather depressing. Back home, in Ireland, the sentence for that sort of thing was measured in years; out here they were less squeamish about the death penalty, and didn’t mess about with delays. At a guess he’d have no more than three weeks before he was ‘processed’, and that would be that.
He supposed it could be worse: waiting around for months or years would be more than he could handle. As it was he was already having trouble keeping it together.
The cell they were keeping him in was large for a human, clearly built to hold even the largest of alien offenders, and came with what aliens deemed as only the most necessary of facilities. It had a bed with, in human terms, a luxurious mattress, along with a hygiene unit capable of dealing with the bodily waste of just about anything except for a human – he’d already broken it twice in his stay. Food was provided to him in the form of nutrient spheres, but not in the quantities needed to sustain a human, and nothing he’d said had made any difference; when he died he was going to die hungry.
Then there was the matter of his clothing, or more specifically the fact that he didn’t have any. They’d taken it from him while he was unconscious, determined to prevent their captured human from having anything he could use in the process of escape. Clearly, if they thought he was clever enough to escape with only his clothes, they had no idea who they were dealing with.
If silver linings were to be had, it was that the climate was more than sufficient to make nudity comfortable, and that Keffa wasn’t here to pass comment. As to where Keffa actually was, he hadn’t a clue, but he did know that there was no chance of him ever seeing either Keffa or Chir again.
So much for silver linings, he thought bitterly. Ultimately he didn’t have a thing going for him; he was completely and utterly fecked.
He looked up at the entrance to his cage as one of his guards, a Robalin male wearing a proudly yellow guard sash and a Irbzrkian stungun tentatively tossed him a folded piece of paper. “Delivery for you,” the guard said as he released it. “Looks as though there’s still somebody who cares about you out there, human, although why they couldn’t have sent a digital message is anybody’s guess.”
Darragh picked it up and looked it over, spending several minutes looking at the alien glyphs that covered it before scrunching it up in one hand; his translator was not sufficiently advanced to allow for translation of non-digitised text. The best he could do, and this was solely from his experiences alongside Chir, was identify it as Gaoian.
He looked up at his guards, not sure he should ask but not seeing that he had any choice. “Can you read what it says?”
Normally they ignored his questions or requests, no doubt finding it easier than repeating the same answers, and they did not break this trend now. He muttered his thoughts on the matter without much care whether they heard him. “Feck you guys.”
Half a moment later, Darragh Houston’s life began to take a distinct turn for the worse.
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