Pain Bringer (The Constant War Book 2), page 34
But Char was edging toward the airlock. As he turned his attention back to her, she abruptly halted.
“That’s quite the, uh, something, you got going there,” said Char.
“I very much agree.”
“Yeah, so uh”—she reached back, grasping the airlock flap between her fingers, and tugged at the zipper—“what is it?”
“Such a disappointment. No one understands my genius.” Dr. Scott closed the distance between them. He ran a hand down the side of her cheek, no longer soft and fleshy against her skin, but a harsh sandpaper touch.
“I understand, alright.” She pointed at the monitor. “You’re the one trying to run Sindarhe into the Earth.”
He paused for a moment, his brow raising. “Oh. I guess you do understand.”
“But why? You’ll kill everyone.”
“And from the destruction, life will bud anew.”
“Uh yeah, squiddie life.”
Dr. Scott made a tsk-tsk-tsk clicking sound with his tongue, or perhaps it was with new parts of his anatomy. “Unlike humans, they don’t trash the places they inhabit. They make them suitable for life. They reinvigorate the old with new. We could learn so much from them.”
Char winced at the pulsating, oozing flesh between his plated skin. “That’s your answer? Que sera sera? Buh-bye humanity. Hello, calamari world?”
“Of course.”
“Why do I keep picking these losers?”
“We will usher in—huh? Losers? Wait. What are we talking about? I was talking about Sindarhe.”
Char jabbed him in the chest with her pointer finger. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
Dr. Scott nervously jittered. “But—I am smart.”
Char stomped forward, creating space, pacing back and forth. “Why do I always end up with these guys who are unavailable or complete and total psychopaths, huh?”
“I—” Dr. Scott put a hand on his chest. “I’m available.”
“Right, which leaves…”
“I’m not a total psychopath.”
“Um, hello, yes, you are.” She jabbed her pointer finger right between his brows. “Take a look in the mirror lately? And I mean, like in the last two seconds, cause ew! And if you weren’t a complete and total psycho before, you totally are now.”
Dr. Scott checked over his shoulder, searching for a mirrored surface, then returned his attention to Char. He raised his arms wide, gesticulating to the contents of the room, and beyond. “This is all for the betterment of mankind.”
“You’re trying to exterminate mankind. If that’s not psycho territory, I don’t know what is.”
His hands clamped down on her wrists, more like pincers than fingers. “I need you to understand.”
“You need a lot more than that.” Char twisted her head away from the tentacles jutting out of his face. “Like a breath mint, for starters.”
“I know you can feel it, Char. The effect Sindarhe has. Its power. Being connected to everything. You’ve felt it before.”
“I’ve got my Painbringer.”
“I’m not talking about your mecha. I’m talking about Sindarhe. You feel it here and now. The sensation it fills you with. That night you came to me, you were under its effects. You know the power that comes with it. The connection. The oneness.”
“What can I say, I prefer my toys.”
Dr. Scott scoffed. “Your mecha is circuits and electricity. Your senses only heightened by technology. There is a limit, a ceiling. It is a shallow experience compared to this.” Dr. Scott reached out to her. “Come. Join us. Experience the oneness of the infinite.”
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.”
Char kicked him square in the nuts.
She wasn’t sure if he still had any, or if the squiddie transformation took those too, but she wasn’t going to hang around to find out.
She swatted at the green button on the airlock. The compressor roared to life. A hand grasped her shoulder, pulling her backward. She clawed at the wall for purchase, but found herself sailing through the air. She landed hard against an LCD screen, knocking it over.
Footsteps thumped to her side. Towering over her, Dr. Scott rolled a bone-white idol with blood-red markings over in his hand, smacking it into his palm like a baton. “It’s okay that you don’t understand. I will make you understand.”
Leaning down, he grabbed her by the neck and tried to jam the idol into her mouth.
She clamped her mouth shut. Pain erupted as the object blunted her lips into her teeth. Wildly, she swung, knocking his hand away.
With his free hand, Dr. Scott hooked a finger into her mouth.
“What?! No!” Char yelled.
He sank his fingers into her mouth, prying her jaw wide. She tried to worm out of his grasp. An elbow caught her eye. His weight sank on top of her, heavy, pinning her in place. Carefully, he lined up the idol. She whipped her head back and forth, not allowing a clear shot. With a grunt, he slammed his body into hers, knocking the wind from her lungs, and barred her throat with his forearm. Immediately, her hands raised, pushing against his forearm, gasping for fleeting breaths of air.
He was strong. Much stronger than before.
“Join us. Be one with us.” His mandibles clacked as he talked. His eyes, faceted and jet-black, flickered with flame. His fingers jabbed into her mouth, rigid and hard. A vise-like grip cranked on her lower jaw.
The idol touched the tip of her tongue. She struggled to break free, but he held her in place. There was nothing she could do. Every movement she made, he countered.
With all of her strength, she bit down on his hand. Instead of sinking into soft flesh, she heard a loud crack followed by an agonized scream. Salty fluid—was it blood?—poured from his wound. Dr. Scott shook his hand, trying to retrieve it, but that only made her bite down harder. In a panic, he placed his other hand on her forehead and pushed her away as hard as he could.
At the last moment, when she could no longer maintain her hold, she released her bite and rolled with the recoil. Scrambling to her feet, she bounced up on her toes in combat stance. Her arms were held loosely in front of her and her hands were balled into fists.
Dr. Scott stumbled backward, nursing his injured hand.
Char shuffled toward him. In response, he lunged, but this time, she caught him with a roundhouse kick. Her shin smashed his nose and the momentum sent him into the wall. He staggered, swaying in the now spinning room, but she didn’t give him a chance to recover. A second kick connected with his chin, wheeling him the other direction.
Through the flickering flames in his insectoid eyes, there was no mistaking the expression, she saw panic. He had not expected to have been outmatched by someone still so human. A teenage girl, at that.
Char bulled forward, letting loose a bloodcurdling scream, unleashing a combination of punches. Two quick jabs to his face, while his guard was low. As his hands came up to block, she landed an uppercut square into his abdomen. His body caved around the blow, his arms dropped to his sides, and his head lurched forward, presenting a perfect target. She reared back with an overhand left. His head whiplashed as the rest of his body followed it to the floor.
Dr. Scott may have had superior strength, but he was still a scientist. She had combat training and experience. She was an army brat with an entire lifetime spent playing with the boys. This was what Daddy’s little girl looked like when your father was the General of Heaven.
Char wasn’t about to allow Dr. Scott to return to his feet and give him a chance to exploit his strength. She was going to end this fight. Fast.
A low spinning kick swept his feet out from under him. Dr. Scott clawed the floor, trying to crawl away.
Char grabbed him by a boot and dragged him back. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. I’m not done with you yet.”
He jack-rabbited his legs, kicking her in the stomach.
Char hit the concave wall, buckling under it, and sliding to the floor. She rubbed the back of her head. Ouch.
She regathered her senses in time to see Dr. Scott charging her. She rolled out of the way, and onto her feet. Violently, Dr. Scott spun, catching her with his elbow. She staggered, her footing sloppy, all over the place. She barely got her hands up, able to deflect a punch away from her jaw. But his left connected with her cheek, rattling her brain. Blindly, she swatted at air, hoping to block the next attack. He simply waited—and the next punch bloodied her nose.
She screamed and lowered her head, ducking beneath his next series of punches, and rammed into his midsection. In a ball of limbs, they tumbled over a work table. His hands jerked out in front of him, bracing himself. Hers went to his face, pressing him forward, using his body to cushion herself from impact. They hit with a thud. Char rolled aside. As Dr. Scott writhed, trying to catch his breath, she leapt on top of him, arm reared back, and punched him in the face.
“You don’t ever—” Char hit him again. “Ever.” And again. “Ever.” And again. “Treat a lady like that.”
Dr. Scott lay still, beaten and battered. His blood-orange flesh bloomed purple, black and blue with bruises all over his face and body. Slow, heavy breaths wheezed from him.
“And just so you know,” said Char. “I was really, really into you.”
Yellowish alien blood dribbled down his chin. “And I, you,” he said. “Still am.”
“Yeah, well, now look at you. Who would want that, cause ew.”
The white noise roar of the airlock compressor cut out, replaced by rhythmic idling.
Dr. Scott’s eyes flicked to the airlock. Then back at her.
They had the same thought.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Char.
Dr. Scott clawed along the ground, desperately trying to scramble to his feet.
Char caught his foot. “Oh no you don’t.”
But this time, Dr. Scott’s hand went to the buckles in one quick motion, slithering free, leaving Char with nothing more than his boot in her hands. He dove through the open flap into the airlock and zippered it closed behind him.
Milliseconds later, Char slammed into the nylon-plastic wall. It bulged in at Dr. Scott.
“Hey!” Char pounded on the seal. “You can’t do that! That was my escape route, not yours!”
The compressor hissed, venting pressure as Dr. Scott backed away.
Irate, Char banged on the airlock window. “Why does everyone keep leaving me?!”
Part Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
Despite years fighting against the squiddie threat and repelling the attack when an Old God was pulled through a rift in spacetime, this was the closest Rousseau had ever been to Sindarhe.
He kept his distance.
And for good reason.
That thing gave him the heebie-jeebies.
Earth wasn’t far off, appearing far too large for his liking, and getting closer.
00:22:48:06 materialized on the canopy HUD.
Days, hours, minutes, seconds counting down. Unrelenting.
Rousseau adjusted a dial, making sure the countdown was front and center, the only constant in his field of view. He was getting accustomed to the extreme silence of space travel, when Einhorn’s voice crackled over the comm.
“Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s just…” Einhorn trailed off.
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you insinuating something?”
“I am not insinuating anything.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“How long has it been since you piloted a mecha?”
Rousseau grunted. Truth was, he hadn’t stopped to consider nor count the years it had been since he last piloted a mecha. “None of your business. That’s how long.”
“Very well, sir,” said Einhorn. “I’m sticking with my previous statement of ‘nothing’.”
“Cut further communication until I contact you again. Never know who is listening in and I’d like to see what they’re up to before they’re aware of my presence.”
“Of course, sir.”
Einhorn cut the feed, returning Rousseau to silence. The faint hum of instruments was the only reminder that the mecha was operational. It was a comfort in the otherwise sterile silence. If the white noise was ever to stop, he’d have bigger problems to worry about.
He tried to ignore the giant living planet and spindly tentacles floating around it. He could barely tolerate looking at the horrid pockmarked landscape. Instead, he focused on a speck glinting in the sunlight. The H.S.S. ASHLEY.
For as small as the science frigate was, the fate of humanity was in the hands of those onboard.
His comm blurted. “Tigerclaw two-zero-niner. Please identify.”
Rousseau tapped a series of buttons and opened his comm. “This is Rousseau. Nine-one-two-two-seven. Requesting permission to dock onboard science frigate H.S.S. ASHLEY. Transmitting docking identification now.”
Onboard Heaven when Rousseau gave a command over comms response times were instantaneous. He expected no less. But up here, in a one-man unit, where his authority was on paper only, he was forced to wait.
“H.S.S. ASHLEY,” said Rousseau, “did you get my authorization code?”
“We’re getting a little static up here. Could you repeat?”
He could understand interactions being less than immediate, but the lag time wasn’t putting him at ease. The task wasn’t rocket science. It shouldn’t have taken them more than the push of a button to comply. Simple, basic training covered all protocols and regulations of communications between vessels and docking procedures.
Rousseau shook his head, cleared his throat, and keyed his comm. “I repeat, this is Fleet Admiral Rousseau. Nine-one-two-two-seven. Requesting permission to dock on science frigate H.S.S. ASHLEY. Respond.”
White noise hummed.
Rousseau had a bad feeling. He hated waiting. For anything.
Maybe he was rustier than he thought? All that time helming the big battle cruisers. Taking charge of Heaven. Those giant ships dulled the senses—slowed reaction times. Everything onboard the big warships took deliberation and planning to execute. Any hiccup in the chain of command exponentially slowed the process.
It was why he could never tear pilots like Fairhaven away from her mecha. They loved the immediacy of combat. The sensory tactile response. It was probably why Char loved her prototype as well, being directly tied to the machine, able to respond at the speed of thought.
Rousseau positioned his Tigerclaw on the aft portside hindquarter of H.S.S ASHLEY. There wasn’t much he could do if such a vessel its size decided he was a threat, but there were places to position under the big ships, blind spots, that gave increased odds for survival and escape if they decided he was no longer a friendly.
Luckily, H.S.S. ASHLEY was a science frigate. Had it been a warship, and they deemed him a threat, guns would have already been swiveling toward him, locking on, atomizing him in deep vacuum.
Instead, they made him wait, and he could only guess at their intentions—which, all things considered, was even more frightening. At least, with a war vessel, he could see the threat materialize. Outside the science frigate, there was no way of knowing where he stood.
Positioning thrusters fired, and H.S.S. ASHLEY began to spin on its axis. A blue glow ignited from its underbelly.
Sweat beaded at Rousseau’s temple. He keyed his comm. “I repeat, this is Fleet Admiral Rousseau, nine-one-two-two-seven, requesting docking privileges with H.S.S. ASHLEY. Come in ASHLEY. Respond.”
Static blarted over the comm. “Reading you loud and clear, Admiral. Sorry for the delay. We weren’t expecting visitors. Locking on to you now with the tractor beam. You can shut down your mecha. We’ll bring you in the rest of the way.”
Rousseau’s finger hovered between two series of switches. One set to power down. The other to take evasive maneuvers. He considered resisting, but thought better of it. If they wanted him dead, he already would be.
The Tigerclaw shook, as the blue beam swept over it, spotlighting it in its center. Slowly, the beam pulled him toward H.S.S. ASHLEY. A pair of cargo bay doors opened in synchronization with his approach. The beam deposited him in the middle of the hangar and blinked out of existence as the doors clanked shut behind him.
The area wasn’t so much a hangar for spacecraft as it was a cargo bay. A large airlock for depositing and launching shipments and equipment from. Most warships had receiving receptacles that plugged the mecha into and carted them out of the way upon touchdown, hauling the machines into the depths of the ship for immediate storage, making room for the next wave of spacecraft to land. Military efficiency at its finest.
But the H.S.S. ASHLEY had no need for that kind of equipment.
Instead, everything was shoved into corners and manually pushed and pulled into place on automated dollies and oversized pullcarts.
The canopy opened, shushing air stabilized from the slight differences in pressure between cockpit and hangar.
Major Corman greeted him at the foot of the Tigerclaw. “Glad to have you aboard, Admiral. We weren’t expecting you.”
I’ll bet. It was amazing how the crew could have such difficulty with his authorization code, but the major could meet him in the hangar on a whim.
Corman looked rundown. Tired. His mousy brown hair was mussed. His skin was pale, splotchy, and discolored. Dark bags were present like multi-tiered pillows for his bloodshot eyes to rest on. Sweat clung to fissures and wrinkles in his skin, providing a dingy glow to his complexion, highlighting dirt and grime present from lack of sleep and routine hygiene practices.
“What’s the honor for the visit?” asked Corman.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries. Take me to the bridge.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Corman reached out, as if he was going to place his hand on Rousseau’s shoulder, but stopped short, hand hovering inches in front of him. A good choice, considering the difference in rank, and Rousseau’s potential reaction to direct contact from a subordinate. “This is all a little sudden. Is there something I could help with?”
