Salvage Merc One: The Daedalus System (25 page)

Twenty-Six

“Joe out?” Alya laughed as we sat at my corner table, pitchers of beer in hand. “That’s how you wanted to leave it? Joe out?”

“I panicked,” I said, pouring us each a pint. “I’d pretty much said what I’d gone there to say, and I didn’t have anything left. Joe out was what popped into my head and popped out of my mouth.”

“Well, it worked,” she said and raised a glass. “To Joe being out.”

“To Joe being out,” I agreed, and we clinked glasses.

“Hey,” Mgurn protested as he set down two bowls of peanuts and a bowl of chips and one of salsa in the center of the table. “No fair starting toasts without me. I had to fetch snacks.”

“You can make the next toasts,” I said.

“Oh, I am awful at making toasts,” he replied as he took his seat. “Just show me the courtesy of including me in the rest this evening.”

“Hey, Joe,” a number said as she walked by. “Good to see you back.”

“Thanks, Margery,” I said. “Glad to be back.”

“Joe! What’s up?” a very drunk number named Balcon said.

He was a Shiv’erna, an elephantine race with long noses, and he had his nose raised in the air, ready to spray beer everywhere. He was tackled by his drinking buddies first, and the beer leaked all over the floor.

“These are the people you wanted to be remembered by?” Alya laughed. “You are hard up for friends, Joe.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said and hooked a thumb at Mgurn.

“What?” he asked. “What was that about?”

“Pay better attention next time and you’ll know,” I said.

“I would, but I just saw someone come into the mess hall that may interest you,” Mgurn said. He nodded his quad-jaw at the doorway and gave me a small smile. “Should we leave?”

“Leave? Why?” Alya asked. Then she saw who Mgurn was talking about and winced. “Oh. That’s the woman from the cabin, isn’t it? The one that tried to kill you?”

“The one that tried to kill me only looked like her,” I said. “This is the real Hopsheer, and she wouldn’t dare harm me.”

I stood up and cleared my throat. The real test was about to begin. All of my pontificating about what the artifact wanted was just bluster. All I wanted was Hoppy to stop forgetting me. I wanted to be with her and stay with her and—

“Joe Laribeau!” she roared when she caught sight of me. “You son of a bitch!”

“Oh, this should be great,” Alya said. “Right, Mgurn?”

“I am most uncomfortable with what is about to happen,” Mgurn said. “Maybe I should leave?”

Hopsheer shoved about two dozen numbers out of the way to get to my table. They weren’t small numbers either. She sent them flying. Her face was rock hard pissed off, and her eyes were full on stone. I don’t know what the fo I did, but she wasn’t holding back on how she felt about it.

“Uh, hey Hoppy,” I said as she reached us. “I’m glad to see—”

“Don’t!” she snapped and held up a stone-skinned finger. “Do not!”

She looked at Mgurn and nodded then focused on Alya.

“Is she why you’ve completely blown me off?” she growled. “You found yourself someone new, and that makes it all okay to just not talk to me for months and months?”

“Whoa, hold on now,” Alya said and stood up. “This has nothing to do with me. I just got back here, and I do not need this drama.”

She patted me on the shoulder.

“Good luck, Joe,” she said. “I think you are about to experience the definition of be careful what you wish for.”

“You think you can just walk away?” Hopsheer snarled, blocking Alya from leaving the table.

Alya was a foot shorter than Hopsheer, but she held her ground.

“Little girl, you do not want to mess with me,” she said. “I was crushing halfers like you before your parents were even born.”

Hopsheer took a step back. You don’t call a halfer a halfer. Not when they’re the size of Hoppy and already ten kinds of rage pissed.

“Move,” Alya warned.

“Hopsheer, she is not romantically involved with Joe,” Mgurn said. “I would also advise that you move.”

Alya’s skin shimmered slightly, the look of scales appearing for a brief moment. Mgurn gasped, looked at me, looked at Alya, looked back at me, then looked at Hopsheer.

“Oh, yes, you will want to move,” Mgurn said.

Hopsheer saw the fear in his eyes and reluctantly stepped out of the way.

“This isn’t over, girlie,” Hopsheer said.

“Yeah, it is,” Alya replied. She looked back at me. I knew what she was going to say before she said it, and I cringed. “I can still crash with you and Mgurn, right? Just until the Bosses assign me my own quarters?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said and tried to give Hopsheer an innocent smile. “Stay as long as you need.”

“I will,” Alya said and casually strolled away from the table. Then she turned on her heel, came back and picked up one of the pitchers. “For the road.”

“Mgurn, I love you, but leave,” Hopsheer ordered as soon as Alya had left the mess hall.

“I will do that,” Mgurn said. He nodded at the snacks. “May I take these with me? Or will you be eating them?”

“Go,” Hopsheer snapped.

“Gone,” Mgurn said. He left the snacks.

Hopsheer sat down across from me and glared for a very long time. Half the mess hall had emptied by the time she spoke again.

“Why, Joe?” she asked. I could hear the hurt in her voice. Lots of rage still, but plenty of hurt. “You just went away.”

“I didn’t go away,” I said. “I’ve been here the whole time. It’s a Salvage Merc One thing.”

“You’re going to throw an excuse like that in my face?” she snapped. “Weak.”

“It’s true,” I said. “Until just a couple hours ago, no one could remember me. Only Mgurn and the Bosses.”

“And what’s her name?” Hopsheer asked. “Could she remember you too?”

“Yes,” I said. “But that’s because she used to be a Salvage Merc One.”

“Sheezus,” Hopsheer responded. She let loose with a cold, harsh laugh. “There has never been a female Salvage Merc One. Everyone knows that. The legend states only males. Although, considering what a nutless, gutless, sack of crud you are, I’m suspecting that maybe you don’t even fit that description.”

The conversation was going downhill fast. I had to save it. I had to…what? Salvage it?

“I love you,” I said. “More than I love myself. More than I love being Salvage Merc One. Hell, I’d give everything up in a heartbeat if that made you happy. Happy Hoppy is all I care about. But life didn’t turn out that way. The artifact is messed up.”

I tapped my chest.

“No offense, artifact,” I said. “Don’t boil me from the inside out or anything like that.”

For the first time in a long time, I saw Hopsheer look worried. She caught herself and returned to pissed, but I saw the look.

“How can I believe anything you say, Joe?” Hopsheer asked. “You meant the galaxy to me and then you were gone. No note. No nothing.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Dig deep, Hoppy. Search your memories. I wasn’t gone. We’ve played pool in my quarters and drank more than our share of pitchers together. You just weren’t ever able to hang onto the memories. Now you can. Just look inside. You’ll see it’s true.”

“Pool in your quarters?” Hopsheer laughed. “You barely fit your bunks in that box. You can’t…play…pool?”

I didn’t interrupt. I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was working it all out.

“Not your quarters,” she said to herself. “Salvage Merc One’s quarters. Your new quarters. It has a pool table.”

“It does,” I said. “Pretty sweet bed, too.”

Her eyes flashed with anger.

“Too soon, too soon,” I said. “I was just joking, anyway. I know we have a lot to talk about before we get back to the Joe and Hoppy boom boom show.”

That made her smile. Me sounding like an idiot always made her smile.

“A lot to talk about,” she said. She stood up.

“Wait? That’s it?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

“The same place you’re going,” she said. “My quarters. You obviously have company in yours, so we wouldn’t have any privacy there. So it’s my place. Unless you want to wait and talk some other time?”

“No!” I exclaimed so loud that more than a few numbers jumped in their seats. “No, I have waited too long. Let’s go talk. Now. Right now. All about the talking right now.”

“Good,” Hopsheer said. “But, just so you know, I’m not making you any promises.”

“Promises about what?” I asked.

“About not beating the foing crud out of you if I don’t like what you have to say,” she answered.

“You’ll like what I have to say,” I said. “You may not believe it, or maybe you will, but either way, you’ll like what I have to say. It’s all about you.”

“That’s a good start,” she said and picked up the remaining pitchers. “Come on, assface.”

“You have always been so sweet,” I said and grabbed two pint glasses.

“Shut up,” Hopsheer said.

“Anything you say, my sexy stone lady friend,” I responded and smiled from ear to ear. “Anything you say.”

The End

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Jake Bible
, Bram Stoker Award nominated-novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, has entertained thousands with his horror and sci/fi tales. He reaches audiences of all ages with his uncanny ability to write a wide range of characters and genres.

Jake is the author of the bestselling Z-Burbia series set in Asheville, NC, the bestselling Salvage Merc One, the Apex Trilogy (DEAD MECH, The Americans, Metal and Ash) and the Mega series for Severed Press, as well as the YA zombie novel, Little Dead Man, the Bram Stoker Award nominated teen horror novel, Intentional Haunting, the ScareScapes series, and the Reign of Four series for Permuted Press.

Find Jake at jakebible.com. Join him on Twitter @jakebible and find him on Facebook.

Chapter One

“Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.”

–Sun Tzu

The atmosphere of the woods was peaceful and picturesque. Birds flew from tree to tree, crying out their mating calls into the midday air. Other animals moved swiftly through the dense underbrush of the thick forest, some hunting, others gathering, all with a steady purpose to complete the circle of life. This deep into the vast forest, there was little sign of humanity's colonization of the small, alien world. It was a quixotic, tranquil scene of nature and life itself.

It was almost a shame that I was about to blow it all up in a few moments.

Almost.

I exhaled slowly as the first of the rebel scouts came into view. Despite the fact that I had whittled their numbers from somewhere near one hundred down to twenty over the past seven days while I've been on the run, they had continued with their dogged pursuit with a determination that had surprised me. I was running on practically no sleep, hadn't eaten anything other than something which may or may not have been poisonous since four days earlier, and I was almost certain that the sores on my feet were becoming infected. They certainly hurt like hell at the very least.

Granted, I figured that my pursuers were in just as bad shape. Their lone ATV had tipped over and fell into one of the many ravines that I had skirted during the chase, the men inside screaming as the vehicle tumbled down the steep slope. A few of the rebels had tried to recover the vehicle, but I had put four rounds into four heads to disabuse them of that notion. Naturally, that had pissed them off, and the next three hours were a bit of a blur as I barely dodged a non-stop artillery bombardment and somehow managed to not only escape, but continue to whittle their numbers down further.

My mission debrief, assuming I survived this, would include some choice words at the intelligence officer who had given my now-dead Special Forces platoon the pre-op briefing. “Lack of obvious artillery presence” doesn't ever mean “no artillery around, you guys don't need to worry about it.”

That rat bastard. I briefly wished that the guy's starched and ironed BDU's would slit his throat while he was taking a dump in a field latrine on a rainy day in the middle of a swamp. It was the kind of death that a horrible intelligence officer like that deserved.

I shook the random thought from my head as the rest of the beleaguered unit of rebels came into view. For rebels, they maintained a certain degree of professionalism during the chase, which I probably would have lauded them for, if not for the fact that they were trying to kill me. Experience also told me that professionalism would go the way of the dodo if they managed to catch me. I had heard stories about what the Socialist India Revolutionary Army did to soldiers they captured, and could only surmise what they would do to me if they caught me alive. Everyone seemed to hate Special Forces, and especially hated the snipers in those units. I can't blame them, really. I hate enemy snipers as well. They’re dicks.

My heart rate slowed to a crawl as I zeroed in on the radio operator. It would be a tricky shot, taking out the radio and the man simultaneously. The wind was always unpredictable from this range, and while my .50 caliber rounds should easily destroy the comms, if the rebel was wearing reinforced armor under his camouflage, I'd have to take more shots than I wanted. I’d probably end up giving away my position either way.

Fuck it. I was tired of running, my feet hurt, and I really wanted a beer.

Their voices rose faintly in the distance as they discovered my trail, growing more excited when they saw the blood. The stray round had grazed my hip – shallow, but leaky enough to leave the equivalent of a sign that said “This way!” It burned like crazy, and the constant rubbing drove me nuts. It had continued to ooze and bleed due to the friction. However, it had also given me an idea.

Two days before, I had circled back to the ruined ATV. Ignoring the smell from the decomposing bodies, I snagged a few supplies, grenades, and a couple blocks of C-4. To my surprise, a few detonators had survived both the environment and the fall. I added them to my stash, figuring they would come in handy, as would the remote detonator. The command radio was still inside, thanks to my earlier insistence that the rebels not try to recover the ATV. It joined the rest in my pack.

It was Christmas come early. You could say that I was extremely pleased, but that would have been an understatement.

The remaining twenty rebels stepped closer to my kill box, excited by their find and completely unaware that they were supposed to find it. A few heads were up and looking around, but, at over a mile away, mostly buried in muck and dead leaves, there was little chance that they would see me until I took my shot. I clucked my tongue under my breath. It surprised me that they hadn't questioned why they were still following my blood trail so easily. It should've been their first clue that something was just not right.

Not that I was complaining. It’s my policy to never interrupt the enemy when they’re making a mistake.

The kill zone was set. The carefully placed explosives were ready. The electronic reticule of my high-powered scope was fully zoomed in. I held the detonator in my left hand, ready to squeeze the detonation sequence. My right hand rested on the grip of the sniper rifle, finger poised on the trigger. The gun was hidden better than I was, and the tripod I had rigged out of broken sticks and small rocks kept my aim steady. I was ready and in a second I would bring Hell down upon the bastards who were trying to kill me.

Granted, I would need more than a little luck on my side, as well as a healthy dose of religion to intercede on my behalf, but I figured that all the gods in the universe would align to help me out against a bunch of godless Communists hopped up on peyote and hash.

I mentally shook my head to clear my thoughts and get the train back on track. I was more than ready. “Never trust something that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die, you stupid fucks,” I whispered and stroked the trigger.

Even though the design was almost 150 years old, the Barrett M82 .50 caliber sniper rifle was still in high demand despite the vast technological advances of the day. With its distinct recoil, an effective range of just over 2,000 yards, and a maximum range of 4,400 yards, it was the preferred rifle of a classist who knew his weapons. People might have said I was a bit snobbish when it came to rifles, but that would be a lie. I was extremely snobbish about my firearms, and the venerable .50 caliber was one of the best rifles I'd ever fired.

The newer titanium alloy and composite material weighed less than its ancestor, but was still heavier than most modern firearms. Any sane human would have discarded the rifle long before in the pursuit. A normal individual would have used speed to escape instead of retreating at a slower pace and using their wits and rifle to whittle down the enemy numbers.

I was a Marine, though, and there was nothing sane nor normal about a Marine.

I fired a second shot almost instantly after the first and began to mentally count.

One.

I wonder if they've informed my family that I'm missing in action yet, I asked myself as my heart rate slowed to a calming beat.

Two.

That would really suck. God, I could cut a bitch for some of Mom's enchiladas right now. And a cold beer.

Three.

I clicked the detonator and watched as my pursuers were swallowed by a massive wall of flame and debris. The directional anti-personnel mines were filled with steel ball bearings and jagged metal bits, perfect for causing maximum carnage against unarmored troops. The rebels were caught completely off-guard and men were flung violently into nearby trees and rocks, their bodies torn asunder by the force of the explosion. Smoke filled the little clearing and would have made visibility hard and any further shots extremely hazardous had I not been prepared for it.

I peered through my scope and began to target anything in the kill zone which moved. I was down to guessing which direction they would move before I fired at this point, which wasn't entirely a bad thing. I had already scouted out where the most likely places to hide would be and the barrel of my rifle was moving before conscious thought took hold. The rebels were painfully aware of my presence now, though they still didn't know exactly where I was. They scrambled around, though a good majority of them were lying on the ground, broken from the explosion. The radio operator, the target of my second round, was missing his head. My first round had struck true and destroyed the radio he'd been lugging around.

There would be no artillery cover for them this time.

A warm, gentle breeze began to blow through and I adjusted my angles, taking the strength of the wind into account while shooting. It wasn't too difficult to judge how strong the wind was once it really started blowing, thanks to the reed-thin pine tree which sat near the front of the clearing. The rhythmic swaying told me all that I needed to know, and years of training helped with adjusting my shots.

I began to methodically scythe through the survivors, switching easily from target to target as they tried to find cover. Most of them were still suffering from the massive explosion and were in no condition to retreat in an organized manner. This was fortunate – for me, in any case – as it made tracking them that much easier. They lay on the ground, their rifles firing in every direction but the correct one. I fired again and removed another person from the equation. Three more shots in rapid succession and I waited.

The smoke began to clear, courtesy of the steady wind. Nobody was moving. I stayed calm and waited patiently for someone to twitch. Nothing. My breathing remained slow and steady for another five minutes, just in case. Still nobody moved.

I slowly dragged himself out of the shooting blind and looked at my ammunition count. I grimaced. Only three shots left with the .50 caliber, then all that would remain would be my pistol. I usually preferred to eliminate any threats from as far away as I could. The idea of someone shooting back at me from close range made me decidedly uncomfortable. Death from afar and all that.

The mile and a half walk took me almost an hour, slowed by the steep descent and my own natural cautiousness. As I drew closer, my senses grew heightened in preparation of further conflict. Smoke assaulted my eyes and made them watery. I could smell something sweet and pungent burning, like mango, which paired well with the all-too-familiar scent of charred flesh. I carefully approached the kill zone, looking for any sign that some poor soul had managed to actually survive this deadly trap. I couldn't see anybody moving during my initial approach, and as I drew closer I began to understand why.

I had timed the detonation and my following shots perfectly. The lead element had borne the brunt of the blast, ten bodies peppered with debris and ripped apart. Any exposed skin had been shredded by the force of the explosion and heat, leaving nothing but charred remains inside their camouflage. Half of the pursuit team had died without even realizing what was going on. The other half had not been as lucky, and there were signs that a few had died in agony, their guts ripped open by the blast and debris making short work of their skin and clothing. A few lay on the ground with massive holes in them, including one individual who was missing an ungodly chunk out of his shoulder and chest. I recognized the work of my .50 caliber. I began to root around, looking for the flamboyant young man I'd identified as their leader two days before.

I found him ten minutes later. The dashingly attired leader had been blown to the side of the clearing, his body largely intact and surprisingly unbloodied. I prodded him with the barrel of my rifle before I turned him over with a boot. The man's head flopped about limply, which told me just how he had died. The concussive force of the blast had snapped the rebel patrol leader's neck clean in half. Pleased with not having to perform a coup de grâce on the now-deceased rebel, I began to rifle through his pockets and search for something useful.

I hoped to find something good.

A few minutes of searching turned up a few bills of local money (which seemed to proliferate despite being banned and not officially worth anything; the black market was an amazing thing), MRE's that looked suspiciously similar to the ones that the Corps issued, and the only item of real value– a map. It was in excellent condition and covered the quadrant in fine detail. It also showed fire locations and varying rally points for the rebels. I smiled. Good maps were always a nice bonus when one was on the run.