Pain Bringer (The Constant War Book 2), page 36
Fairhaven popped the canopy and climbed into her Tigerclaw. She was inside before Wilkins made it to his. She fired up the starting sequence. The HUD powered on. Electricity raced to her instruments, humming with intensity. She yanked the harness across her body, but didn’t take enough slack to get it completely over her belly. The ratcheting action kicked in, preventing it from reaching the buckle. She let the strap retract, and once again extended it, this time to its full length. On this second attempt, she was able to clip in.
By the time she fastened the shoulder strap and balanced her weight in the harness, Wilkins’ engines roared. Twin flames coughed from its backside, scattering loose sediment underfoot. From a crouching position, it leapt into the air, engines spitting fuel, propelling him into atmosphere.
Showboat.
She wrestled with the steering yoke. The control stick dug into her guts. Her God-damned belly was getting in the way. Searing pain shot through her as the steering column pressed against her. She gritted her teeth and jammed the steering yoke to the side, freeing it.
In her head, she heard every person she had encountered in the past eight months whisper, Toldja so!
She reached for the starter, but the shoulder strap caught. The tips of her fingers grazed the edge of the ignition button, but she couldn’t apply enough pressure to actually press it.
God damn it.
She sat back as far as she could in her seat, sliding her hips forward, and rocked in the harness, slapping at the ignition.
Squiddies crawled over the edge of the mesa, racing toward her like a tsunami of living flesh, an endless ocean of writhing, oozing bodies and flailing tentacles.
“Come on, you son of a biscuit.” As desperate as she felt, she couldn’t help but smile. Wilkins was rubbing off on her.
It wasn’t pretty, but a wild slap against the console caught the ignition.
Turbines whined. A high-pitched squeal of lubricated metal screeched against metal. Fire ignited in the engines. She felt the shift in weight as her Tigerclaw lurched upward. Its feet rose off the ground, now only supported by the thrust from the engines. She punched the throttle. A burst of flame shot out behind her. The cockpit rumbled against the force of gravity, and she was pressed into her seat.
“C’mon, baby.”
The altimeter cleared five meters.
Then ten.
As the white line crawled past twelve, a wave of squiddies hit her like a freight train.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Fairhaven turned the steering yoke, trying to compensate for the impact. Her Tigerclaw landed on its shoulder, thrusters at full, plowing a small canyon into the dirt. She rocked the steering yoke left and twisted. The Tigerclaw reached out with a stubby arm, pushing itself upright. As it sat up, squiddies pelted her like a jackhammer, forcing the mecha back onto its side. They climbed over the machine, tentacles wildly flailing and tearing at the armor plating.
“Melody!” Wilkins yelled over the comm. Through the crossbars of her canopy, she saw his Tigerclaw hovering above her. A squiddie skittered across the glass, blocking her view. It reared back on its haunches and squawked, revealing an underbelly ringed with teeth. At the center, a beaked mouth opened and a triangular pink tongue lashed out, leaving a slime trail across the glass. The beak spiked the glass, leaving a divot. The squiddie shook its head, repositioned, and pecked at the glass again. Spiderweb cracks formed around a widening breach.
Spittle and acid drool flecked the canopy, searing the surface. The squiddie raised itself for another attack. As the beak was about to rupture the breach, the squiddie sailed backward. It reached out with its tentacles, sucker-mouths adhering to the glass, but another yank, and the squiddie was torn free and tossed aside.
Wilkins was in front of her. Short particle blast volleys scattered squiddies. His Tigerclaw leaned forward, pressing up against hers. His head swiveled as he surveyed the cockpit. “You okay in there?”
“Not really, but better now.”
“Good enough for me.”
He latched on to her mecha’s arm and pulled it upright.
They faced the ocean of squiddies, side by side. A steady stream of slimy, writhing flesh and tentacles flowed over the mesa edge, joining the fray, far more than she had ever seen in a single place before. In vacuum, they always seemed numerous, but were easy enough to count. But this—this was more than had chased them from the nursery. This was thousands crawling over each other, piling up on top of one another, all reaching for them, an innumerable moving blanket of flesh, yearning to incorporate them into the gruesome tapestry.
Wilkins stepped in front of her. “Good gravy, there’s a lot of them.”
It was a subtle thing. Instinctual. Some might have called it chauvinistic, but the reaction was just who he was. He was always going to take the hit for her, even before she could make the decision. He was always going to step in the line of fire if it meant protecting her. Protecting their child.
He didn’t need to think about it.
He simply reacted.
On instinct, he would always protect his family. His loved ones. Those he cared about most. And would always place them above his own health and wellbeing.
In that moment, she realized he was exactly who she wanted as the father of her child.
Their child.
She only wished she had come to that conclusion sooner. Perhaps before she had decided to put their lives on the line to prove that she was more than an incubation pod.
“This isn’t good,” said Wilkins. “We need to find—”
But it was too late.
There was no time to do anything.
She knew the tactical thing to do was to back out and find cover. But there was no time. No time to get their bearings. There wasn’t even enough time to disengage.
Several squiddies pelted Wilkins’ Tigerclaw in the canopy. It rocked from the blows, as if dazed. The swarm surged beneath his feet. His Tigerclaw took a lopsided step, extended an arm, attempting to stay upright. A final push toppled the mecha. The squiddies moved out of its way, as it collapsed into the dirt, kicking up dust.
Fairhaven rocketed toward him, firing particles blasts.
Having toppled their prey, the squiddies turned their attentions, once again, to her. They lunged, latching on to her mecha. She fought the controls to keep her Tigerclaw upright. The steering yoke shook violently.
She saw her mecha’s feet out in front of her before she registered the impact. She felt like she was inside a washing machine set on spin cycle. Up was down. Her stomach was in her throat. Her mecha thudded to the ground, a sudden jarring impact that caused her ribs to ache.
Wilkins was on the comm, his breath heavy. He had keyed it, preparing to say something, but needed more time to gather his thoughts. To say the exact right thing. After all, you only got one shot at your last words.
“Don’t you dare say it,” said Fairhaven.
“I—”
“No! Don’t!”
“It was worth it. I’d come back a thousand times, face a thousand deaths for you.”
“Will you shut up! That’s what people say when they’re going to die!”
“Well…”
He let radio silence complete the sentiment.
Her mecha was on its back. She could no longer see Wilkins—only hear his faint breaths in and out. Her view was blue sky, obstructed by the intruding presence of Sindarhe and its craggy rotten flesh surface. Quickly, that view, too, was gone. Vanished to squiddies clambering over her mecha, engulfing it, until the canopy was so thoroughly covered that she could no longer see daylight.
Darkness shrouded her, as she tried the controls, but other than the impotent whine of servos making a vain attempt at locomotion, her mecha did nothing.
A part of her wished she had let Wilkins finish his goodbye. Instead of an overly sappy farewell, the last thing she was going to hear was the clitter-clack of beaked mouths hammering through her mecha’s armor plating.
Daylight beamed into the cockpit. They had breached the vehicle.
This was it.
This was the end.
A barrage of red particle spray spat chunks of squiddie flesh in all directions. Six Tigerclaws landed in front of her. Several landed on top of the squiddies, smashing them underfoot.
Her comm crackled with static. “You okay, sir?”
It took her a moment to register what had happened.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
“I am now,” said Fairhaven.
The forward-most Tigerclaw, the tip of the spear, rocketed forward, plowing into the squiddie swarm. It drove them back, creating a semi-circular clearing. The five other Tigerclaws marched forward, laying down suppressive fire, driving the squiddie swarm up against the mesa cliff.
“You didn’t have to…” Fairhaven began, but was quickly cut off.
“That was pretty tricky, sir. Telling us to leave so that you two could have all the fun.” A squiddie launched itself at his Tigerclaw like a missile. He stepped into the projectile and punched it out of the air. “Let’s light ’em up, boys!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Voices echoed in his head. His thoughts were mush. A soupy concoction of sludge. Lots of potatoes floating around.
Two distinct conversations were taking place. Neither of these were in his head. At least as far as he could tell.
One sounded far off. Distant. A technical discussion filled with jargon he didn’t understand.
The other was closer. More casual.
Two people speaking to each other. It sounded like English at times. He could make out most of the words, but the sentences were oddly punctuated by clicking noises.
Rousseau opened his eyes.
He was in a corridor of the H.S.S. ASHLEY. That much he recognized. He was on the ground. Cold corrugated steel sandpapered his butt.
From his low angle, he saw two crewmen carrying armfuls of bone-white objects with blood-red markings. Their backs were to him, stacking the objects next to the bridge entrance doors.
“Why do I always have to do the grunt work?”
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m right here doing the exact same thing.”
“But Corman always gets the cool jobs. Why is that never us?”
“Have you ever asked for that type of responsibility?”
The other crewman was silent for a moment.
“See, that’s your problem right there. You complain, but you’ve never exerted yourself. How’s anyone going to know what you want if you never tell anyone what it is you want?”
Rousseau rolled his eyes. Though their complaints were the most pathetically human thing he’d heard in recent memory, their appearance was something else.
Human-ish.
Their bodies were stitched together from bits of human flesh, conjoined by patterned seams. A human suit, for something else. Tentacles poked between the seams, constantly wavering. At a glance, tendrils like tusks sprouted from the corners of their mouths. The tendrils swatted at the air, occasionally returning to their host’s mouth.
Their appearance made Rousseau’s task much easier.
Silently, he rose to his feet. He grabbed the trailing crewman from behind, pinning its shoulder. Using its mouth tendril for leverage, he yanked its head to a side. There was a loud snap, and the body collapsed at his feet.
The other crewman abruptly turned. “What are you doing up?” Its gaze flicked down to the crewman he had disabled. “You shouldn’t be doing this. We performed the ceremony.”
Rousseau stopped mid-swing. “Ceremony? What ceremony?”
“You were there.”
“When you shoved that thing in my mouth?”
The crewman nodded. “You’re one of us now. You aren’t supposed to be aggressive toward us.”
“I’ve got news for you”—Rousseau punched the crewman, knocking him out—“jamming something down someone’s throat only makes them more aggressive.”
He dragged the bodies and neatly piled them behind a stanchion. A familiar voice, tinny and distorted, echoed down the corridor.
“They’ve outed me,” said Dr. Scott, “so I’ve taken control of the engines remotely.”
“I saw that on our end,” said Corman. “Is there anything you need from us?”
“It’s only a matter of time. Just keep them away from the engines for now. They can’t stop the Reinvigorating.”
“Praise be to Sindarhe.”
“Praise be to Sindarhe.”
“One thing before you sign off,” said Corman. “They sent Rousseau to check on us.”
“Rousseau? That’s surprising. I never would have thought he’d leave Heaven.”
“I don’t think they know he’s out here.”
“Where is he now?”
“We dealt with him. He’s one of us now.”
“Really? I’m pleased to hear that.”
“Of note, I don’t know what they were trying to accomplish.”
“Just wake him up and ask.”
“What if they send more?”
“It’s too late for them to stop us,” said Dr. Scott. “By the time they realize what happened, the collision of Earth and Sindarhe will be unavoidable.”
“Praise be to Sindarhe.”
“Praise be to Sindarhe,” Dr. Scott parroted. “There’s some tasks that need tending to here. Make sure things stay secure on your end.”
“With my life.”
Corman bowed his head as the comm cut out.
Rousseau hunkered down and crept into the bridge, sneaking up behind Corman.
Corman busily typed at the captain’s console. The giant viewscreen blipped to the familiar wireframe layout of Earth and Sindarhe. Their orbits around the sun. A big red ‘X.’ But the countdown was missing.
How long had he been out?
Corman’s complexion looked similar to the other crewmen. His face and body were altered. Seams and tentacles poking through them and face tendrils and grotesquely plated skin.
He stalked up behind Corman, about to bestow him with the same treatment he had given the other crewmen, when Corman abruptly turned.
“I see you are awake,” he said.
Rousseau held up his hands. He was still a good three or four meters away from Corman. “What happened to you?”
“The same thing that happened to you.”
Rousseau shook his head. “What are you talking about?” Absently, he touched his face, afraid he might be starting to look like the horrific hybrid between squid and human standing before him. “What did you do to me?”
“Interesting,” said Corman. “It hasn’t taken yet.”
Rousseau charged, tackling Corman. He pressed his forearm into his neck. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” With little effort, Corman’s mouth tendrils pried Rousseau’s forearm from his neck. The tentacles poking through his skin heaved Rousseau off his body. Casually, he returned to his feet, as if Rousseau’s aggression were futile.
“You could have just stayed on Heaven,” said Corman. “You didn’t need to come here. But I’m glad you did. You’ll be a welcome addition to the fold.”
Rousseau scrambled, trying to return to his feet. Corman grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and lifted him off the ground.
“I am very sorry that I have to do this, Admiral. But it is your own fault. If you had just stayed on Heaven, everything would have gone according to plan.”
Rousseau kicked his feet and clawed at the arm holding him aloft, trying to break free. But Corman held firm. Horrified, Rousseau relented, hanging limply in his grasp. He made eye contact, looking directly at Corman’s face, when he noticed something.
“We were wrong,” he said. “Those insectoid ringriders weren’t Sindarhe, were they? They weren’t another stage in your life cycle. They were an entirely different species that you were using as a host.”
“Very clever, Admiral. I’ll say the arrangement is not without its perks. Our hosts enjoy it.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Corman raised him up, pulling him so they were practically nose to nose. “We are neither he nor me. We are we. Two separate entities becoming a new and distinct whole. As you are becoming.”
“No.” Rousseau shook his head in disbelief. “I will never be anything like you.”
“Oh, but you will.” With his free hand, Corman gestured to his face. “Your Corman is no longer here. Nor is my original nameless self. It is just us now. Once Sindarhe and Earth become one, you will all see.”
“But why?” asked Rousseau. “Why are you doing this? You’ll kill everyone.”
“Even after all you’ve seen,” Corman chuckled, “you still don’t understand. Sindarhe is life.”
“Judging from your face, if Sindarhe is life, you can keep it. All I’ve seen from your kind is endless destruction.”
“So naive. Judging that which you do not understand. Sindarhe didn’t come here to destroy Earth. He came to bestow a dead planet with new life. And humanity killed him for that. But alas, even in his demise, he is able to bring life anew.”
Corman swept his hand in a grand sweeping gesture toward the viewscreen. “That’s what we’re doing here. That’s why we came to Earth in the first place.”
Rousseau shook his head. “I don’t…”
“I know you don’t. But you will. Soon enough.”
Rousseau wriggled in Corman’s grasp, trying to break free. “I don’t think so.”
“It is inevitable. You cannot stop Sindarhe.”
“I will stop you with my life if I have to,” said Rousseau.
Corman sneered. “It’s a nice sentiment, but—”
Before Corman could finish, Rousseau held up a plasma grenade.
Corman went wide-eyed.
“Sentiment nothing,” said Rousseau. And pulled the pin.
The spoon on the plasma grenade began to rise. Corman released Rousseau, both hands reaching for the grenade. He grabbed it, pinning the spoon to the grenade body before it could trigger.
Rousseau hit the ground with a thud. He clambered to his feet, and immediately tackled Corman at the midsection, going for the pulse pistol on his belt holster.
