He could hear Kim whimpering over suit-to-suit but there was nothing on the party frequency—and that was not a good sign. Then he heard a cry of pain followed by “damn that smarts.” Looking right he saw Skip raise his pistol and put a 10mm slug into the head of the bug that had just skewered him with a short spear.
Skip slid down the wall on the far side of the door, trying to remove the spear and fend off the advances of more of the chittering natives. Rick fired three short, aimed bursts dropping the crickets closest to the downed midshipman. Skip managed to remove the spear and, given a brief respite thanks to the SEAL’s intervention, reload his sidearm. Over the party frequency came a labored voice. “Thanks Chief, buy you a drink when this is over.”
Kid’s got some stones,
Rick thought as he turned his attention back to the aliens advancing on his own position. Over the emergency frequency he yelled, “a dramatic entrance right about now would not go amiss,” adding silently,
because otherwise we are surely going to be overrun.
Throne Room, Imperial Palace
“Captain, this is Gunny Rodriguez,” came a voice over the Captain’s suit radio, “The diplomatic party reports that they are under attack.”
“Roger that, Gunny, I heard the mayday,” Jack replied. “We are under attack ourselves. Lot’s of crickets with Medieval weapons, including crossbows. Go get our people back, Sergeant. We will see you on the way out.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
“Lt. Bear, I believe it is time for us to exfiltrate the palace.”
“Roger that, Sir,” Bear replied. “Do you think that Queenie will miss that big ass door?”
“I will ask her once we reach orbit, Mr. Bear.”
“Right. Head’s up, I’m going to take out the door,” he called to the squad. Turning to face the barred entrance, Bear raised his rapid fire cannon and prepared to fire. Before he could fire a score of stout javelins flew from slits in the surrounding chamber walls. “Incoming!” yelled Joey Sanchez.
One of the projectiles was aimed squarely at Ludmilla. Again, her well practiced reflexes kicked in. She bent backward and turn at the waist, allowing the hefty spear to clear her chest by less than a hand’s breadth. It continued on to thump Isbjørn in the ribs a few meters away. Isbjørn made a ‘woof’ sound and looked back.
The Captain also escaped being harpooned by deflecting the bolt fired at him with one arm. He stood up with his arm almost comically cocked at head height, waiting for the impact distributing polymers in the suit armor to relax. “Damn, I felt that even through the armor. I don’t think it would be healthy to take a direct hit by one of these on a bubble helmet.”
“I think you are right, Captain. You and Ludmilla had best get to the center of the formation,” said the female bear.
“There must be catapults behind the surrounding curtain walls,” called LCpl. Roselito Acuna. “Fire at the slits.”
“Let me give you a hand,” said Isbjørn, as she demolished the section of wall nearest Ludmilla and the Captain. “Are you about done with that door, Bear?”
Bear, who had been distracted by the javelin attack, growled and turned back to the door. “Fire in the hole!” A burst of 42 HE 15mm rounds walked up the seam where the two door halves met. The result was dramatic, the sound almost deafening, even inside of the spacesuits. A ripple of bright flashes was followed by a spray of dust and debris and when the smoke cleared the door was no more. What had been an impressive wooden barrier was now a collection of sticks and splinters scattered down the terraced steps to the main hall. “All right Marines,” Bear rumbled. “It’s time to un-ass the throne room.”
Diplomat’s Chamber, Imperial Palace
Chief Morgan’s two brother SEALs followed the diplomatic party’s floating robotic “herald” down the right side adjoining vault to an imposing door. A smattering of brown haired Ktchzz, most armed with short spears, attempted to slow their advance, drawing deadly fire from the running men. As they drew up to the door, Bud Jones called “Chief, we’re going to blow the door!”
“Do it already!” came the answer. “There’s a shitload of angry bugs in here so hurry up.”
The SEALs started to place plastic explosive charges against the doors when a deep base voice yelled, “OUT OF THE WAY!” Scant seconds later, a ton of armored polar bear slammed into the center of the doors. Timber snapped, masonry flew and in an instant Inuksuk was through the portal before them.
The sudden appearance of a large, four legged armored monster in their midst gave the hairy cricket hoard a momentary pause—just long enough for the two SEALs to recover their wits and charge after Inuksuk, weapons at the ready. On the right side of the doorway, Skip Tanner sat in a pool of his own blood, still gamely firing into the crowd of hostiles. Bud quickly beat back the crickets and moved to shield the wounded midshipman from further attack.
On the left Phil found his boss standing over the huddled figure of another party member, one of the women, though he could not tell which one. “You call a cab, Chief?”
Morgan snarled and emptied his weapon into a cricket trying to flank him on the left. “About fuckin’ time, Kowalski. That was the last of my ammo.” Without speaking, Phil took two magazines from his backpack and handed them to Rick. Slapping a fresh magazine into his weapon the SEAL Chief resumed picking off aliens with careful aimed fire.
Before Kowalski could think of a suitable reply the first of the Marines arrived: Tusi “Book” Mapusua and Kato Kwan, followed closely by the Gunny. “Clear a path to our people,” the Gunny shouted, as the Marines added their firepower to the counterattack. Inuksuk had also recovered his composure and unlimbered his 15mm.
Approaching one of the downed figures the Gunny got an unobstructed view of a large white Ktchzz with its shaft stuck into the body of a small blood soaked human. The cricket was rhythmically thrusting its abdomen in and out, causing the impaled body to move as well. “Mother fucker!” the Gunny hissed between clenched teeth, “these hairy freaks are raping them!”
Switching from flechettes to shotgun mode the Gunny blew the Ktchzz’s chest out through its back, spraying the crickets behind it with insect gore. The second round caused the rapist’s head to disintegrate. A steady stream of obscenities flowed from the Gunny as she walked forward firing scatter shot into the large alien until all that was left was the shaft, still implanted in Sally Li’s abdomen.
“Corpsman, get in here,” the Gunny called. The Sergeant kneeled beside the ruined corpse that had been Dr. Li and examined the obscene thing stuck in her gut. Betty White came running up to join her beside the body and stopped cold when she saw the remains of their crewmate. Through the clear helmet she could see Sally Li’s face, blood around her mouth and chin, a few drops splattered on the inside of the transparent bubble. Lifeless eyes wide open, staring up at infinity. Betty did not need to check Sally’s suit readouts to know, “She’s gone, Gunny. Nothing we can do for her.”
“The hell there ain’t,” growled the Gunny. Switching to the squad command frequency she yelled, “kill ‘em! Kill ‘em all.”
Grand Staircase, Imperial Palace
Led by Isbjørn, Jon Feldman and Roselito Acuna, the Captain’s party exited the now ruined audience chamber. As the trio entered the grand staircase leading back out of the palace they immediately came under crossbow fire. The balconies lining both sides of the terraced stairs were swarming with cricket archers. Isbjørn swept the balconies on either side while the two Marines fired grenades into side portals from which pike wielding Ktchzz were trying to emerge.
“There is just an acre of these things,” said Rosey, pausing to insert another seven 20mm grenade rounds into her weapon from a tubular speedloader. Rosey had been a U.S. Marine for four years before she was caught in the downsizing. When she was offered the opportunity to join the Marines aboard Peggy Sue she jumped at the chance. Raised on science fiction movies and video games, her childhood dream was to fight vicious space aliens on some faraway planet. Sometimes dreams do come true.
From the other side of the blasted doorway, Jon was firing three shot bursts into any side opening that showed movement. Since every third flechette was a tracer round, each burst sent a streak of bright green fire into the gloom of the poorly lit hallway. “Moving left,” Isbjørn called, before crossing into Rosey’s line of fire—the trio would provide overwatch for the others.
As Isbjørn moved aside, the rest of the squad advanced, moving through their position—a pair of Marines, closely followed by Bear, Ludmilla and the Captain. Finally, the remaining two Marines moved down the stairs, stopping to fire when targets presented themselves. The party advanced, clearing the stairway until the lead Marines reached the foot of the stairs. There they halted to allow the rearguard to catchup.
Getting the signal to move out from Bear, Isbjørn holster her weapon and headed down the staircase at a casual gallop. Rosey looked at Jon and said, “let’s take a last look at the throne room and make sure we aren’t being followed.”
“Roger that,” he said. Together they stepped back inside the shambles of the Queen’s audience chamber. The walls on all sides were crumbling, blasted by high explosive rounds, the surrounding galleries collapsed. The floor of the chamber was an abattoir, covered by mounds of shattered insect bodies splashed with yellow-green viscera. Arms and legs stuck out of the carnage at random angles, some of them still twitching. “Looks like our work here is done,” Jon quipped.
“Not quite,” Rosey said, noticing the large wooden chandelier suspended from the ceiling. She raised her weapon and fired a single explosive grenade, striking the support chain at the point where it met the ceiling. The explosion severed the chain and brought the heavy wood construct crashing to the floor, where it splashed flammable liquid in all directions and then caught fire.
“With all due respect to Douglas Adams,” Jon commented, “‘mostly harmless’ my ass.”
“I didn’t know you were so literary, Feldman. The Hitchhiker’s Guide is a classic.”
“Yeah, and this place is history.” The pair of marines turned and sprinted to rejoin their squadmates, while behind them the chandelier snapped and popped merrily as it burned.
Diplomat’s Chamber, Imperial Palace
Phil Kowalski took a knee beside Betty and the Gunny. Every Ktchzz in the chamber was either dead or dying. Staring at Sally’s stomach wound he shook his head. He had seen his share of vicious wounds during his years with the Teams but this was a first. “That son-of-a-bitch actually stuck his spiked cock into her stomach?”
“That bitch,” Betty corrected, pulling a four centimeter long rounded object from the broken end of the shaft in question. It was the shape, color and texture of an oversized grain of cooked rice. “The shaft isn’t a penis. This is an egg and the shaft is an ovipositor.”
“A what?”
“Ovipositor, an organ used to lay eggs. Some insect species on Earth use them to inject eggs into paralyzed prey—parasitic wasps for instance. Later, when the eggs hatch they find a supply of fresh food all around them.”
“You mean they hatch inside the victim and start eating their way out?” Phil asked. “Like in that old Alien movie?” Hands down, he had never heard of a more horrible way to die.
“Yeah, they eat the victim alive,” Betty confirmed. “Except these hairy bitches miscalculated and killed her.”
“Sweat merciful Mother of Christ,” the SEAL swore. He pivoted and put a burst into the white Ktchzz that was draped over top of Jean-Jacques’ body. Someone else had already relieved that cricket of its head, but it had expired in the act of laying its eggs in the unfortunate Frenchman.
“Stop!” Yelled Betty. “I saw his fingers move! The Frenchman is still alive!”
“What? We gotta get that thing off him,” said the Gunny, moving to where Jean-Jacques lay, face down. “It looks like the bug’s whatchamacallit is stuck up the frog’s ass.”
“That’s gotta hurt,” said Phil. “Let’s get the bug carcass off of him.”
“Wait, don’t pull the shaft out of him,” cried Betty, hurrying to help the others. “If we yank that spiked thing out of him, he’ll bleed out for sure.”
“So what do we do?” asked the Gunny.
“I’ll grab the shaft where it enters the Frenchman’s body,” she replied. “Gunny, use your Woodman’s Pal to cut the shaft while Kowalski pushes the dead cricket off of him.”
“Gotcha,” Phil responded, moving into position.
The Gunny drew her military grade machete and crouched to examine the ovipositor shaft. Instead of striking with the flat blade on the front of the machete, she hooked the wickedly curved backside around the shaft. That part of the tool was intended for clearing vines and jungle undergrowth. “Ready?”
Getting a firm, two-handed grasp on the base of the shaft, Betty nodded affirmative. With a quick jerk, the razor sharp hook severed the ovipositor. Phil heaved the dead insect off the prostrate Frenchman, throwing the carcass several meters. “You think he’s going to make it, Doc?” Phil asked, using the military’s traditional sobriquet for all medical personnel.
“I don’t know, but if we can get him back to the shuttle where Dr. Tropsha can work on him he might. Shuttle two…” she called, changing frequencies.
“Go,” came the instant reply.
“We need that sled, ASAP. We have three wounded and one KIA.”
“Roger that. FYI, the Captain’s party has fought their way to the bottom of the staircase and are waiting to cover your extraction. It’s going to be hot on the way out, the damn bugs are everywhere.”