Reunions
by
Patrick Walts
“I’ll
never get used to WETsuits.”
Iskander
stopped walking and sat down on a rock. “A technological marvel,”
he snorted. “Impervious to compromise, they say.”
Stavros
turned, then seized his friend by the wrist. Both men felt a fleeting
tingle as their suits touched.
“You
want to breathe it, don’t you? The air.”
Iskander
was silent.
“Well
stop
wanting
that, right now, do you understand me? Put it out of your head.”
“I
know, I know,” huffed Iskander, breaking free from Stavros’ grip.
He looked out over the cliff edge. “Still, to fill one’s lungs
with the breath of home; to touch the soil with one’s bare hands …”
“Their
pathogen detectors are far more sophisticated than you realize.”
Iskander
bristled. “Same training under my belt as you, Stavros. In fact, I
do believe I scored higher than you in stealth.” He sniffed. “A
man can have fantasies –”
“I’m
sorry,” cut in Stavros, he too finding a rock to rest upon. “And
truth be told, I share them. But we’re on a mission.” He turned.
“And there’ll be plenty of time for reflection once that mission
is completed and over.”
“If
it’s
completed,” came the answer from his friend.
Stavros
raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, gazed down
upon the sea that crashed into the rocky beach at the bottom of the
cliff. How
it must be teeming with life,
he marveled. Sharks,
whales, octopuses …
it made his blood boil with a lust for adventure, for discovery.
“Don’t
think I don’t see you getting all misty-eyed over there, Horatio
Hornblower.”
Stavros
glanced back at Iskander who was tapping at his ear for emphasis.
“Your
heart’s pumping faster too. Maybe this suit’s not so bad, after
all.”
Stavros
smiled. Fantasies.
“All I ask is a tall ship. And a star to steer her by.”
“What?”
“Old
earth poem. A very old one. And this …” Stavros paused, gesturing
grandly towards the sea. “This
was the inspiration behind that and so much other literature. The
ocean,
the great unknown …”
“Profound,”
mimicked Iskander, his eyes following a flock of seagulls passing
overhead. “I hope our little visit here is worth starting a war
over.”
“Listen,”
said Stavros, “the only way there’ll be war is if we get caught.
And we’re not going
to
get caught. You may be seventh level stealth, but I’m no slouch
myself, you know.” He stood up and brushed himself off, out of
habit, knowing full well that the suit had already analyzed and
expelled all foreign particles from his body. “Let’s go find what
we came here for. It’s not far.”
They
walked and climbed their way over the untamed terrain in relative
silence for the next hour until finally, suddenly, Stavros felt the
suit readjust.
“Right
here.”
He
plucked a small tool from his waist and pointed it at the ground.
“Cross your fingers,” he said. “Their sensors should
read
the excavation as normal seismic activity, but if they don’t …”
“Yeah,”
said Iskander, “Nice knowing you, too.”
The
beam from the device stirred up a tight whirlwind of rocky debris,
drilling its way into the Earth.
Iskander
stepped forward with a different device in hand. When the beam
stopped he waited for the dust to clear, pointing at the perfectly
round borehole. A rather large, cube-shaped rock, nearly as tall as
an a man of average height emerged from the hole. Iskander carefully
guided it away and onto the ground.
They
both stared for a good long while, transfixed with wonder.
“Hundreds
of thousands of years,” whispered Iskander. “They never found it.
I’d give my right arm to crack it open and have a look at what’s
inside.”
“Not
our place, not our job,” said Stavros. “This, in addition to the
data the suits have collected, fulfills our mission, end of. Back to
the scout, scoop this thing up and haul outta here. Once we’re past
the barricade, there’ll be plenty of time to kick back and relax.
Process what we’ve seen,” he breathed. “Until then we’ve got
to
remain focused. I’m addressing myself,
as well.”
Iskander
nodded.
“Right,
then. Let’s get moving.”
The
journey back to the scout was a long one, an urgent sense of anxiety
preventing either man from fully appreciating the scenery. The suits
were recording it all, though. Every glimpse of every deer darting
between every tree, every bird soaring across the clear blue sky,
every lizard skittering across every rock, every … bumblebee?
Stavros
had never before seen a bee in the flesh, but something about the one
presently hovering in front of his face seemed terribly amiss. He
zoomed in on the creature’s eyes and swallowed hard. “We’re
busted.”
“What?”
More
bees followed, and within moments they were surrounded.
“They’re
mechanisms,” said Stavros. “Primitive drones made to look like
insects, to blend in with the environment. They’re watching us.”
“Why
aren’t they doing anything? They’re just … hovering.”
“Confused,”
said Stavros. “We look
like
humans, but we’re not producing carbon dioxide. They aren’t sure
what they’re looking at, and are probably running a systems-wide
self-diagnostic, trying to determine whether or not their visual
receptors are malfunctioning. Perhaps if we –”
Iskander
had stuck his arm into the eerily still, silent swarm.
“Kill!”
The
bees sizzled, sparked, smoked and spiraled to the ground.
“You
idiot!” shouted Stavros, already running full speed towards the
scout. “I may’ve been able to reprogram them to ignore us!”
Iskander
stubbed his toe as he too broke into a run, but he didn’t slow
down; he didn’t dare spare a single second to look back.
By
the time they’d made it to the scout, the viewport was completely
obscured by a blanket of bees.
“Gonna
be trickier getting back through the blockade now that they know
we’re here,” said Stavros, placing his hand on the smooth,
featureless console.
“Welcome
aboard, Captain Stavros,” the
computer said cheerfully.
“Shut
up. Burn those things off the hull and get us outta here! Arctic
entry point 237! Transfer controls to manual, soon as we hit the
thermosphere. I wanna be ready for them.”
“Inadvisable,”
came the warning,
though the computer complied nevertheless.
“If
I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it,” said Stavros. “Go!”
The
viewport cleared and the scout shot upwards into the sky.
“You’re
not going to get the box?”
Stavros
scowled over at Iskander.
“You’re
kidding, right?”
“Come
on. We’re probably gonna die, anyway. Let’s get what we came
for.”
“You
mean die because of your
itchy
trigger finger?” Assuming manual control of the craft, Stavros
dived back down to the earth.
“What’s
an itchy trigger finger?” muttered Iskander through clenched teeth,
his body glued to his seat – his suit, having heard the query,
quickly went to work accessing TREE and feeding him a wealth of
information about both the etymology of the phrase itself, as well as
the primitive projectile weapons that inspired it.
“Clear!
This isn’t the time!” Iskander spat, swatting at his face as if
there were a sapgnat buzzing around his head.
Stavros,
ignoring him, piloted them to the excavation site.
“There!”
said Iskander, pointing unnecessarily. “Covered in bees.”
“Drones,”
Stavros corrected. “Not real bees. Open cargo doors!”
He
activated the collector and brought the box aboard manually: there
was a loud clunk
that
shook the scout as their ‘treasure’ settled into the compartment
beneath them.
The
drone-bees were beginning to accumulate on the viewport again.
“Buckle
up.”
Iskander
maintained a firm, white-knuckled grip on his chair, the scout
soaring skyward.
“Uh
oh,” said Stavros.
Iskander
saw them, too – six flaming shapes entering the atmosphere, burning
the sky in their wake. They fanned out and soon cooled down enough to
be recognizable – Namuu interceptors; automated, likely constructed
eons ago, but tactically brilliant and ruthlessly deadly.
Stavros
cursed under his breath. “The weapon,” he said.
“The
one we weren’t supposed to use under any circumstances?”
Stavros
sighed; shrugged. “Let’s start a war.”
Sliding
his hand across the panel, he activated the targeting grid on the
viewport. He selected all six targets and fired.
Everything
– even the plumes of smoke they’d left in their wake – turned
into clouds of white vapor, retaining their shapes for just a few
moments before momentum dispersed them and they vanished from sight
and sensors.
“Nothing
left at all,” said Iskander. “Not a single molecule.”
“Yeah,”
said Stavros. “Ever hear of Pandora’s Box?”
“No.”
“Well,
we just blew the lid off it. They’re gonna wanna know what
technology we just hit ’em with; and if
they
find out the truth, this strained tolerance they practice, allowing
us to live independently of the Relocs as our own sovereign world …”
“It
all ends,” finished Iskander, unable to say more. He looked over at
his friend, knowing full well that Stavros preferred to be kept
talking while piloting. Instead he suggested some music.
“Good
idea,” said Stavros, entering the troposphere. “Hey. Computer.
Play something from one of the 10gen composers.”
“Please
specify.”
“… how
about some Markus?”
“Eighth
or ninth?”
came the computerized response.
Stavros
snorted. “You kidding? Eighth.
And make it something jaunty and upbeat.”
Music
began to pour into the cabin as the computer obliged, while at the
same time Iskander winced at that weird little twinge he always got
in his stomach during the switch to artificial gravity. They were in
space.
“Now
comes the tricky part. Hang on!”
A
shiny metallic sphere was heading towards them at an alarming speed.
It suddenly made a full stop, hovering directly in the scout’s path
as if it were taunting them, daring them to collide with it.
Stavros
maintained course, his fingers dancing across the console like those
of a concert pianist, his eyes fixed dead ahead.
“Destroy,”
he uttered, and the sphere shattered into hundreds of smaller globes.
“They’re
closing in,” said Iskander as the orbs started to glow and spin,
surrounding the scout and within seconds they’d joined themselves
together in an energy net.
“Got
a perfect score on the sim for this,” whispered Stavros. “Piece
of cake.”
The
scout spun wildly about as Stavros expertly maneuvered her with tight
little movements through the rapidly closing net, its flailing blue
tendrils caressing the hull like tongues of fire. “Almost there,”
he breathed.
Iskander
took in the Earth’s moon, reflected perfectly in the pupils of his
friend’s eyes.
There
was a dramatic swell in the music as they narrowly slipped sideways
through a too-close-for-comfort gap in the glowing, burning mesh of
blue net. Glancing at the rear monitor, Iskander watched the tiny
globes disengage and coalesce back into a larger sphere.
“See?
Piece of cake.”
They
were approaching Luna.
“You
did that on purpose, didn’t you? Timed it to sync with the music.”
Stavros
winked. “Now, let me see if I remember where we parked. Gonna fold
as soon as we’re aboard Kutan, so be ready.”
“Oh,
they’ll love
that,”
said Iskander. “As if we haven’t already pissed them off enough –
now you’re gonna do the thing they hate the most.”
“Don’t
see we have much choice. Unless you got any alternatives, Mr. Seventh
Level Stealth?”
Iskander
said nothing. The large sphere was getting closer.
“Class
two Nammu cruiser has entered the solar system. Estimated arrival:
five minutes,” said
the computer.
“Don’t
worry, we’ll be long gone by the time they get here,” answered
Stavros as he spotted their ship, nestled against the eastern inner
wall of Orlov Y.
“Never
been so happy to see that slimy blob of intelligent goop.”
“Don’t
talk like that around her,”
Stavros
called over the strains of the bombastic march now flooding the
ship’s cabin.
“Hey,”
said Iskander, “I did
say
it was intelligent.”
They
laughed.
“Feeding
time, baby girl.”
The
ship lit up as it saw them approach, and oozed its way out of the
crater like a dog greeting its master. It stretched itself outward
like a long, gooey string of melted pizza cheese and reached past the
scout to snatch up their pursuer: the sphere became encased within an
undulating mass of glowing pink slime, and there was a split-second
flash of blinding white light.
Meanwhile
the scout plunged into into the ship’s warm, welcoming insides, and
the first stages of fold were initiated. The stars around them seemed
to blur and stretch as the scout was devoured by Kutan. Iskander
screamed as the suits exited their bodies and rejoined the living
vessel. He was never
going
to like traveling naked inside a giant ball of slime. The universe
around him bent in half and his brain blinked out for a moment.
Then
the familiar words from Stavros:
“Home
sweet home.”
Their
vision cleared and Galenia came into view.
Reunions
is one of a series of interconnected short stories that will
eventually comprise an anthology; many of them will be posted as he
writes. You can check out more of Patrick’s short stories here,
find his blog here, his amazon page here and connect with him on
goodreads here.
