“Incoming, incoming, incoming.” a voice shouted over the intercom of the Bunker Hill. Shortly afterwards, the launchers on the top deck discharged a salvo of RIM-250 surface-to-air missiles, followed by a throaty buzz as the laser point-defense guns opened up. A few seconds later, the alert cleared.
“Whaddaya think they’re trying to accomplish? They’ll never get through our defenses with the little raiding parties they send.” Pavlov remarked, laying back on the rec room’s sofa.
“Dunno. Maybe they’re trying to force us down?” Darren shrugged.
“Fat chance. The Bunker Hill has the most advanced aerospace defense grid in the US arsenal. They couldn’t punch through if they recreated the goddamn Tokyo bombing.” Simmons said, then shouted a curse, her remark having cost her the game she was playing on the terminal.
“Hell, they don’t even have missile countermeasures. I’d be surprised if this last one makes it home.” Sparrow added. He made a gesture with his hands, consisting of one hand in a rough airplane shape and the other solely containing the outstretched index. The two hands collided in a simulated explosion.
Suddenly, Darren remembered what he was going to do. He stood and made his way to the door.
“See ‘ya, Hardwell.” Pavlov saluted.
“See ‘ya.” Darren returned the gesture as he left. No one was acting out of place, even in the midst of an enemy contact. It wasn’t like they could really harm the ship, after all. The close-in weapons systems made bombing and rocket attacks impractical, and no pilot was stupid enough to try a strafing run. Thus, Darren proceeded calmly towards his destination.
Spatha gave the American salute to Darren as he entered her office. Darren saluted back, then sat before the towering Poslushi. Her desk had been specially constructed with two separate levels, one at hip height for humans and one at hip height for her. Darren could just barely put his chin on her side, and he could see that she was somewhat hunched over when not sitting.
Spatha clicked. “How do you do, Sergeant? Please, sit.”
“About as well as ever, Captain.” Darren pulled out the chair and sat. Spatha was almost twice his size, but she wasn’t anywhere near as intimidating as she had been when she was first brought in.
“Captain-General.” Spatha corrected him.
“Ah, correct. What’s that in American terms again?”
“Rear admiral, I believe, though our ranking systems don’t exactly correlate.”
“Of course.”
“However, I imagine you aren’t here for small talk. You aren’t one for that as far as I know.”
Darren nodded, frowning. “You know Captain McCullough, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Do you know what Corruptibles is?”
“Yes. Do you mean to say that you found him in one of the volumes?”
“Exactly.”
Spatha’s antennae lowered slightly. “The Dynastic Commissariat compiles those documents. They’re used as a quick reference for people who can, for some reason or another, potentially be used as agents or collaborators. If McCullough is on one of those volumes…” she paused, apparently unable to form the words.
“What I mean to say is that DynaCom is one of the only organizations in our nation that actively fights nepotism and corruption in its ranks, and they know what they’re doing. The fact that McCullough is on there at all is very telling, even if there’s nothing else in there.”
Darren nodded again. “I see. What should we do?”
“My best suggestion is to raise the issue with your security forces. If they don’t take it, do what you must. I won’t say anything after what you’ve done for me.” Spatha said. A sweet, pleasant smell permeated the air, possibly gratitude or contentment.
Darren was struck by curiosity. “You know, you said that we smell the same. What emotion do we smell like?”
Spatha’s antennae twitched, making out the smell. Then, recognition flashed through her mind.
“It’s a mixture, mostly negative, unfortunately. Insecurity, paranoia, and a distressingly-large portion of outright madness.”
“Well, you said ‘mostly negative.’”
“There’s a twinge of something else there, but I can’t quite make it out. It’s some sort of positive emotion, I know that, but I can’t tell what.”
“Thanks, then. I’ll be seeing you.” Darren stood and made for the door.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“Wait! I just made it out.” Spatha called.
“Oh?” Darren turned back, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s stubbornness.”
“That’s a good thing?”
“Well, not stubbornness. Steadfastness is a better word. That’s what humans smell like.”
Darren smiled as he opened the door. “We wouldn’t want it any other way.”
—
The squirming bag let out a muffled shriek as Hutchins dragged it along the floor of Waffen’s underground complex. “Oh, shut up,” Hutchins scolded it, “it’s not like anyone misses you anyways. Besides, you’ll be happier in our big family.”
The bag howled once more. Hutchins turned the corner into the place set aside for it.
They called it the Sitting Room, which simultaneously was and was not a euphemism. Indeed, the room was a large octagon, the only furniture present within a circle of twelve chairs with other bags propped up on them, a single one left vacant. The guard saluted Hutchins as she entered, then locked the door behind her.
“Recruitment found a new one, but he’s being less than cooperative. How many spare masks do we have?” Hutchins said. The guard checked the stockpile registry on his PDA.
“Enough to recruit a regiment, ma’am.” he replied, grabbing a shiny, flat, black headpiece from a hanger on the wall. Hutchins picked up the bag and sat it down on the chair before removing the hood. Underneath was a frantic-looking young man, bleeding from the nose and utterly terrified. He tried to scream again, but was still stopped by the duct tape over his mouth.
Hutchins grabbed the mask from the guard and tried to hold the panicking kid still. “Relax; you won’t feel a thing.” she said as she finally got it on. For a moment, the kid struggled and kicked so violently that he stood a genuine chance of breaking free, but then the stunner pulses kicked in, a set of neurally-disruptive patterns displayed through the headset that would render the subject a drooling idiot long enough for the actual indoctrination to set in. The kid let out a final, pained moan, then slumped back in his chair.
Hutchins realized that she had been cringing the entire time. She always hated this part of the induction process; she would have to find someone less discretionary to take over at some point.
Just at that moment, Hutchins’ cell phone rang. She picked it up quickly after seeing who was on the other end.
“Health inspection!” Andy exclaimed, most of his face still obscured by his bandana. Hutchins passively wondered if he ever took the thing off, but said nothing. She opened the door and let him in.
“Welcome. As you can see, we’ve redecorated the parking garage with the money you’ve given us–thank you for that, by the way–and now it contains everything we need for our more clandestine operations.” Hutchins said.
“You are very welcome, given that your latest intercept netted us a forty-million-dollar deal with the Italians. Now, what dastardly little deeds are you fond of? Ooh, I see a waterboarding chamber!” Andy said in a singsong voice, pointing excitedly to a room off to the side.
“That’s a massage chair, sir.” Hutchins corrected him.
Andy’s face dropped. “That’s a waste of money.”
Hutchins decided not to challenge him on this matter. Instead, she just followed him as he toured the new place. From the loading docks on the top floor all the way down to Dr. Zimmermann’s lab on the bottom, Andy displayed great interest in every detail, no matter how small. Still, Hutchins noticed that he never put all his attention on one thing. The slightest noises, the most unnoticeable shifts in the scenery caused him to perk up, undoubtedly a habit gained through years of experience and tough lessons.
The last room he decided to pay a visit to was the Sitting Room. The guard paled a little, standing aside as he saw the imposing New Mexican. Andy opened the door and stood in the frame, blocking Hutchins’ path in. He was inscrutable as he inspected its contents.
“Should’ve thought you would take a few of ‘em for yourselves. Eh, it’s fine; I’d have done the same.” Andy remarked, finally entering the room. He traced a large circle around the seats, looking each bound subject-to-be up and down. He paused at their most recent acquisition. “This one ain’t too old. How many years has he got?”
“Recruitment says he’s seventeen, sir.” Hutchins replied. Andy nodded, still enigmatic. He gestured to one of his enforcers, a hulking soldier in a leather jacket, bearing a briefcase, and then he and his entourage left the room. Andy had scarcely stepped into the corridor before he opened his mouth.
“Hear ye, hear ye!” he shouted. “I have a reward for the brilliant man or missus who came up with the idea of this… weird faux-Alcoholics-Anonymous method of brainwashing; I don’t really know how to describe it.”
A passing Acolyte Caste turned around and smiled at Andy. “Dr. van Zandt, pleased to have–”
The sound that followed was deafening, almost surreal in its intensity. It was like someone had taken a hammer and delivered a full-force blow to the inside of Hutchins’ skull. She staggered back, ears ringing, and tried to decipher what had just happened. First, the screams of panic coming from all around. Second, the .44 Magnum in Andy’s hand, still smoking. Third, the Acolyte Caste crumpled on the floor, a sunburst of blood slowly spreading from what used to be his head.
“What the hell!?” Hutchins screamed, one hand on her holster. Four different guards stood with their guns pointed at Andy. His enforcer took his left flank calmly, an M13A2 in his hands and a discarded briefcase behind him. For a moment, nobody moved.
“It appears that I have neglected to tell you my three rules, though all things considered, they should have been self-evident.” Andy said, holstering his pistol and lowering his enforcer’s rifle. Hutchins realized that she hadn’t seen him move when he drew his pistol.
“First rule: we are not rapists, we are not junkies, and we are not cannibals. If you wanted to act like a damn animal, you should’ve gone out to one of them primitivist colonies in the Sagittarius Sector.
“Second rule: you will remember at all times that you answer to me. You have been doing good with these first two rules.
“But the third rule is the most important: keep kids out of this business. This is a grown-up’s game we’re playing, and the only reason I don’t grab the boy you have and pop a cap in any man trying to stop me from leaving with him is, to be quite honest, that I don’t know what’ll happen if I take the mask off. So you get off easy this once, and if you ever break a single one of my three rules again, you will find that my rules do not make me a good person. You trackin’?”
Hutchins didn’t need any reassurance about that last part. “We understand, sir.” she squeaked.
“Good. You had better.” Andy said, spinning on his heel and walking away calmly.
Once he had gone, Hutchins regained the courage to speak. “Censure the man who recommended Smith’s induction. And somebody clean this up!”
—
Halberd still hated these deployments, despite how exciting they had become. Even on the most violent, disorderly worlds, Halberd’s entire job was ensuring the creature within the great black cube before him escaped without a hitch and returned when it was called. It never went wrong; Eidolons were all too happy to be let out and would return to their handlers once they had killed and dominated their fill and were ready to rest. However, because of some law from decades past, Halberd had to act as the psychics expert in their deployments, just because of his certification from the College of the Magi.
Halberd didn’t know what happened to Sirius, but a new Eidolon, a fledgling by the name of Polaris, was the denizen of the cube this time. It was far more well-behaved than the previous, at least.
Halberd could feel Polaris’ presence, but it wasn’t dominating like Sirius’ had been. Halberd took the chance of laying a hand on the cube. “What are you feeling, Polaris?” he asked.
Silence.
“I know you hear me.”
There was a faint noise echoing in Halberd’s ears, but he couldn’t quite make it out. Someone was whispering, but it was frantic, as though they were trying to avoid drawing the attention of something else.
“Drop altitude!” the pilot yelled. The loading door dropped, revealing a green landscape dotted with encampments, dozens of spacecraft drifting above the surface. It was a miracle they hadn’t already been detected, but this craft was designed for stealth.
Halberd pressed the lock on the box and it popped open. “This is your stop. It’s time to get off, Polaris.” he said in a calming voice.
No.
Halberd was taken aback. This wasn’t normal at all. “What do you mean, ‘no?’ Why?”
Another.
“What? Do you mean…” Halberd’s eyes widened. Then, he turned to the pilot. “Take us back up.”
“Negative, we have to drop.”
“I mean it! Get us back to the fleet!”
“Negative, we need to drop!”
No! Polaris screamed, a pulse of energy leaving the lights flickering and the engines of the shuttle sputtering. Then, the Eidolon exited the cube, its body glowing a rosy pink color. Halberd knew in the back of his mind that it was supremely dangerous to be anywhere near an unshielded Eidolon, but that was swept away behind a wave of utter psychic adoration that overtook the shuttle in moments.
Return. Polaris commanded the now-docile pilot, and he obeyed, steering the shuttle back into an orbital trajectory and back from whence it came.
The shuttle gently touched down in the landing bay of the Serelyni, greeted by a contingent of Dreamwalker null-troopers. Carefully, their leader opened the door, a psychic trapray in his hand just in case something truly went wrong.
The entire crew had died recently, the cause being a fatal severance of psychic domination. When such complete control over a subject ended suddenly, they were left without the motive to even retain a heartbeat. Curiously, the null-cube remained undisturbed, and was, indeed, locked. The troopers carefully unloaded it and had it returned to the stockpile, with an extra watchman. Just in case.