Nano Writing Month, 2017.24

[mc776]

Every day, write some bit of fiction. Preferably over 50 words, but there will be no standard beyond "something". Posting is entirely optional.

Split up like idiot protags in a horror movie? Why, of course!

I'm being facetious. The Ellobius had no defensive turrets that could be deployed while the ship was on ground: anything more than the main guns and the missile bays would have cost too much hull integrity and shield capacity for deep space fighting. The Phlogistroni's lasers could do the job, but even under ideal circumstances it would not have been able to defend both of them at once from the ground. We had plenty of spare Trashpandas to deploy and let Gunnerbot control, but someone had to reload them and make sure they weren't knocked over by wind or wildlife; and none of our plasma grenade launchers had remote-control functionality anyway.

Also, there was absolutely no way Orgoth would let us even think about abandoning a wrecked ship with a live AI in hostile territory ever again.

Before New Harfang Orgoth was our frontman, the kick-in-the-door, take-no-prisoners berserker-paladin who ate mortal peril like candy and handed it out like same. Alvarez and I (Finkelstein only joined us after) tended to be left with the emotional labour of picking up the pieces after the collateral damage; E.E. on her part loved every minute of it and that just enabled him - and he enabled her - more. Valuing my life and my friendship I would never have told him to his face he'd gotten soft since his wife's death; but still, when I saw the look in his eyes when he dismantled his psionic regulator to combine with what was left of E.E.'s core to build the Gunnerbot, we all knew nothing would ever be the same for him again.

But still, someone had to go out there and take out our fugitive. There were no mountains or big rocks in the way, which meant we didn't have to worry about anything blocking signals between the ships and our aerodrone, which meant the whole team should, weather permitting, be able to maintain communications for most of this excursion.

In strange territory like this it would have been idiocy not to bring our science officer; however, their only combat proficiencies were:

1. shooting at predefined, stationary, faceless targets;
2. complying when ordered explicitly to run away and find cover;
3. calling for backup; and
4. being a calm, compassionate voice of reason so that the other side would not think they had to resort to violence to begin with.

Since the last appeared to be inappropriate against them and was repeatedly demonstrated in the past to be futile against him, I had to go as backup.

It went without saying that Alvarez was leading the assault.

Having decided this course of action, we set the Trashpandas to perimeter-whitelist-auto-kill mode and went to bed, Gunnerbot, Ai and Orgoth taking shifts through the night. It was already dark by the time we set up the last Trashpanda; a tired crew trying to stage an asault raid through a strange forest would be suicide.

While the science part of it would be another matter altogether, I did not expect Finkelstein and me to contribute anything to Operation: Kill Bill other than endangering ourselves in a big ugly distraction while Alvarez capped him from his six.

Meanwhile, the howling began again.


...


"Turn them! Turn them! You fool! You traitor! They are upon us this very moment!"

Idiot! I am doing everything in my power! If I wanted you dead I would not be leaving you to drop me in this reeking muck!

He had no power. He could not telepathically control these ones at all. Any attempt to read their thoughts or senses elicited a bewildering red haze that caused his mind to recoil violently: there was no fear or emotion, just an immediate, instinctual response he did not understand. In these wilds outside the city, he could do nothing but argue with the man through whose eyes alone he was able to see the world.

He had to admit, he had underestimated his captor again. He was sure they would have killed him, this disgusting monocled craven, while they were in the jungle; but out of sheer will the bastard somehow managed to wriggle his way out from under the claws and fangs and strange barbed tails (what was the deal with those?) into the relative safety of the clearing. But now he was knee-deep in mud, and they were still coming. He had no idea his captor was such a good shot with a pair of plasma assault rifles.

Fortunately the muck wasn't deep enough to conceal their assailants; another six inches and they would have been surrounded by invisible aquatic predators. As it was, it just slowed them down enough to let Robertson blast them as they emerged into the clearing. But they still kept pressing closer, and eventually he would have to reload.

And then suddenly the onslaught stopped. There were bodies and bits of them everywhere, purple and red and grey and blue, shrouded in roiling steam flickering rose-red in the setting sun. One of them darted through the trees in the corner of his vision to his left; he blasted at it but it was not clear if he hit. There were howls behind him, and a splash. He nearly pulled a muscle trying to wheel around, and shot the head off one peeking up almost entirely submerged in the muck. Nearby, something in the pile of bodies moved: he blasted at the bodies and blood and gibs flew everywhere. The mover flopped out into the water but kept moving, heading towards his right. He followed it, stepping forward as he fired focussed, controlled bursts until it lay still.

Robertson did not notice it, but while he was doing this Jean could hear through his ears that there was a sssssschlorrrrp! of something large, lumpy and emanating a bewildering invisible red haze into his mind, mere inches behind his captor.

A terrible howl of rage rang through the forest. This time, it was human.