Salvage Merc One: The Daedalus System (16 page)

Sixteen

It was a poker table. A poker table with dogs sitting around it.

“Seriously?” I grumbled as the blackness of the corridor solidified into a smoky den that stank of old cigars and cheap beer. Really cheap beer. I nodded at my sword and shield. “It’s not bad enough that I have these, but now I don’t even get to use them? What? I have to play poker with a bunch of dogs?”

The game stopped, and furry-browed eyes all turned to stare at me.

“Not likely, jackass,” one of the dogs, a beefy bloodhound, replied. “Do you see any humans playing at this table?”

“Well, no,” I said. “I don’t.”

“That’s because humans are awful at poker,” the dog said. “You give everything away with your body language. You’re too easy to read.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said.

“Come on,” Alya said. “This is why you need a guide. You’ll get sidetracked too easily.”

She took my elbow and steered me past the poker table, and the glaring dogs, to a door I hadn’t even noticed. It was made from the same paneling as the wall, and was set flush with it as well, so it was pretty much hidden unless you were specifically looking for it. Alya pointed at the doorknob.

“I can’t open it,” she said. “You have to.”

“Not a problem,” I said, tucked my shield under my arm and grabbed the knob. I twisted, but nothing happened. “Okay, maybe there is a problem.”

“Is it locked?” Alya asked, looking puzzled. “It shouldn’t be locked.”

“No, it’s not locked,” I said. Twisting the knob again. “It turns just fine. The problem is the door won’t open.”

I twisted and pulled, twisted and pushed, twisted and shoved to the side in case it was some strange pocket door. Nothing.

“I swear, if this trial is supposed to be how to open a foing door, I’m going to be really pissed off,” I said.

The loud and low growling from behind us told me that the door wasn’t my biggest problem. I slowly turned around, fetching my shield from out from under my arm. My sword was held out at a forty-five-degree angle, the rusty steel reflecting the dim, green light that hung over the poker table.

Eight dogs were coming toward us, walking upright, each holding a different weapon. One held a broken beer bottle, another a jagged-ended chair leg. Two held what looked like blackjacks, thick hunks of material that were wrapped and filled with probably heavy steel bearings or lead weights. They were old fashioned, but they did the trick when needed. The four behind those held knives of various lengths and sizes.

“Sheezus, it looks like we’re gonna have a rumble,” I said.

Not that I could talk since I was outfitted like a sad extra from one of those Ancient Rome holo vids.

“Who’s a good doggy?” I said.

Alya coughed back a laugh and gave me a wicked look that told me to both knock it off and also what a funny guy I was. Probably more in the knock it off court, but still, I made her laugh. I had to wonder when the last time the woman had been able to laugh.

“Hey, jackass,” the bloodhound said, an eight-inch chef’s knife gripped in his thick paw. Hard trick when you don’t have an opposable thumb. “You want to play now?”

“Not really,” I replied. “It’s been a long day, and I’d rather have a nice corned gump sandwich, extra mustard, and a few pitchers of beer. But if you’re gonna deal me in, I guess I can play a couple hands before I go.”

The bloodhound stopped and looked confused. “You know I’m talking about killing you, right? That wasn’t an invitation to play cards.”

“Yeah, I got that,” I said, nodding at his knife. “I thought we had a metaphor going.”

“To hell with metaphors!” the bloodhound snarled and leapt.

His long, springy legs covered the distance in a flash. I barely had time to dodge to the side as he swiped at my belly with the knife. I thrust the sword forward as I spun, and the dog yelped then quickly retreated, his left leg limp beneath him.

“Bastard,” he growled. “That’s my strong leg.”

“No idea what that means,” I said.

The rest rushed me before the bloodhound could respond.

I slashed down and hacked off a poodle’s arm at the elbow. His knife clattered to the ground as he howled in pain. No, wait, it was a she. Caught a glimpse as she was shoved aside by the German shepherd with a filet knife.

The shepherd feinted at my face then went low to try to take my belly. The dogs seemed to like belly stabs. My head rocked back then I sucked in my gut, barely escaping disembowelment by a centimeter. I shoved my shield against the dog’s huge head and heard bone crack. It yelped, jumped back, then came at me again with a speed that might have made me tinkle a little. Might have.

A whiskey bottle cracked against the shepherd’s head before he could get to me. Alya stood there, her face nothing but rage, blood dripping down from the broken neck of the bottle. The shepherd lay on the floor, shards of glass sticking up from his temple.

“Thanks,” I said just as a Boston terrier leapt for my throat.

He held one of the blackjacks and got a good shot in to my shoulder as I ducked to the side. His body continued to arc past me, and I brought the sword up in a fast swipe, opening the mutt from stem to stern. Bloody offal splattered everywhere as the terrier collided with the top of a side table then hit the wall with a thickening thunk.

A sharp bark drew my attention to a golden retriever that had Alya cornered while a husky and an Irish setter came at her from each side.

“Fetch!” I yelled and threw my shield at the husky.

The dog’s bright blue eyes widened as the shield nailed it in the forehead. Then they clouded over as half its brains leaked out from the crack in its skull.

The Irish setter turned on its heels and sprinted at me. Only a few feet from me, it jumped at the same time as I dove and rolled. I took it out at the knees, sending four limbs falling to the floor. Blood spurted everywhere, including all over me, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was the sound the dog made when it landed hard on those bloody stumps. It yelped and yelped, a high-pitched wail of pain, anger, and surprise.

I let the thing suffer as I hurried over to pull the golden retriever off Alya. She had her hands jammed up under its chin, keeping it from tearing her face off with its huge canines. But I could see she was losing the battle. It was a big foing dog. One of those nearly hundred pound suckers that knock over and trample small children in its rush for treats.

I jumped at it, spun my sword around point down, and thrust the blade deep into its back. It screamed and tried to get away, but between Alya’s hands and my sword, it had nowhere to go. I drove the blade deeper until the dog shuddered, shuddered, then stilled. It fell onto Alya, pure dead weight.

She managed to shove it off her, taking my blade with it, and held out a hand. I helped her to her feet, retrieved my sword from the dog’s corpse, then turned and surveyed the room.

“You didn’t know that was going to happen, did you?” I asked.

“No,” Alya said, shaking her head. She had dog blood all over her face, and she wiped it off with her shirt sleeve. “We were supposed to go through the door before the first trial.”

“How do you know that?” I asked. I tried to keep the accusation and paranoia out of my voice, but like I told the bloodhound, it’d been a long day, and I was tired. “How much of this is scripted?”

“None of it,” Alya replied. “I’ve just been here for a very, very long time, and I know this labyrinth like the back of my hand. What lies beyond that door is supposed to be the first trial. This is just a distraction, silly entertainment for those waiting for the party to start.”

“Party? What party?” I snapped. “This wasn’t a party!”

“There are plenty of races in the galaxy that rent out the labyrinth for birthday parties, coming out parties, class proms,” Alya said. “That sort of stuff. Not humans or any of the civilized races, but more your other dimension monster races. The labyrinth sees a lot of traffic from the Klatu System, let me tell you.”

“Insane,” I said and stomped over to the door. “This place, my life, everything is foing insane. Why do I even try to keep my reason? Why not just go cuckoo like everything else!”

I tucked the shield under my arm again grabbed the doorknob again, and twisted again. It opened without a problem.

“Of course!” I shouted and looked over at Alya. “Want to tell me what’s next? A heads up would make up for this foing mess here!”

“I don’t know,” Alya stated. Her tan skin had gone pale, and she craned her neck to see past me at what was beyond the door. “Every time I’ve gone through there, it’s filled with spiders. I don’t see any spiders.” She squinted hard. “I don’t see…anything.”

“Betcha the moment we step through, we get transported to some nightmare Hellscape that… Wait? Spiders?” I asked. “I was going to go through this door, and spiders were my first trial?”

“Yes,” Alya said.

“Of all the nightmares that can be thrown at me, spiders were going to be the first?” I nearly screeched. “Spiders? Is this elementary school amateur hour?”

“They’re big spiders,” she said.

“How big?” I asked.

“Bigger than the dogs,” she replied. “And about a hundred of them.”

I thought for a second then nodded. “Okay, that would have sucked.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “I’ve seen them take out a platoon of Skrangs before.”

“Why would a platoon of Skrangs be here?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” she countered. “Has anything made sense since you got here?”

“Good point,” I said.

“I know,” Alya said. “Again, I’ve been here a very, very long time. Most of the time in the shape of a snake lady. I still haven’t figured the place out yet.” She pointed at the door and the unknown beyond it. “Perfect example. No spiders when there have always been spiders.”

I turned back to the door and looked through it. There was nothing to see. I don’t mean it was black and dark and gloomy. I mean there was nothing. It was like my eyes couldn’t focus beyond the door frame. It went all fuzzy and just wasn’t there.

“We still have to go through,” Alya said.

“No, we don’t,” I said.

“Yes, Joe, we do,” Alya argued. “You must complete the trials.”

“No, I meant that you don’t have to go with me,” I said. “There doesn’t have to be a we. This is my quest, these are my trials, and obviously you won’t be too much help as a guide since the labyrinth seems to be foing with us.”

“I may not be much help as a guide, but I can be of help,” she snapped, her hands on her hips, her face scrunched up with enough rage and anger to fuel a small star cruiser. “You forget I was a Salvage Merc One. I don’t have balls, but they’re bigger than yours. I guarantee it.”

I was quiet for a minute then smiled. “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “I just don’t want you to die because of me. I’m really not worth it, trust me.”

“You’re a Salvage Merc One,” Alya said. “So the artifact thinks you’re worth it. Come on. We can’t waste time.”

She bent down and snagged one of the blackjacks and a butcher knife. She tucked the blackjack into her belt and held the butcher knife in a grip that told me she knew how to foing use a knife.

“Alright,” I said and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

We walked through the door.

Seventeen

I held the H16 to my shoulder, my visor displaying the targeting information as I slowly took step after step across the bloody battlefield. The corpses stank to high heaven, their bodies bloated and leaking gasses that were so foul I swore I saw stink lines coming up from them.

“Watch our nine,” I said to Alya. “Blindspot over there.”

“Roger that,” Alya replied. “I’ve got our nine. Careful of the two. That one doesn’t look like he’s given up.”

“I’ve got him,” I replied and moved quickly between the bodies to the mutilated Skrang that struggled to right himself.

I dug the toe of my boot under him and flipped his ass over. He hissed up at me, lucky his helmet was still attached to his suit. I thrust my H16 forward, and he stopped struggling. His lizard eyes bored into me, their yellow slits nothing but pure hate.

“Stay down,” I ordered. “Move and I put a bolt through your head.”

My sensors scanned his body, noting the broken bones, the internal damage, the bleeding in his right thigh. He would be dead in seconds. I needed to use that time to get the intel I was sent to get.

“Where is the device?” I asked. “Just tell me that, and this can be over quickly.”

He snarled at me, spitting words I couldn’t understand.

“Translate,” I ordered, but my visor blinked red and refused to comply. That was odd. “System, translate. I don’t foing speak Skrang.”

The Skrang at my feet finished speaking and laughed. Blood speckled the inside of his helmet, and he laughed harder, closing his eyes as his body quivered then stilled.

“Dammit!” I yelled. “Lost another one! Alya? What have you got?”

I turned from the dead Skrang and swept the battlefield with my H16. My targeting system hunted the scene, but didn’t find a living body. Plenty of dead; more dead than I could count. But, Alya wasn’t there.

“Fo,” I growled. “Alya? Do your read me?”

There was static in my com, and a possible voice, but nothing more. The static became silence, the silence became ominous.

“Widen the scan,” I ordered. My visor increased the area, but still no Alya. “Pinpoint her last position.”

A holo map came up in the bottom right of my visor. A red light blinked continuously. She had been right behind me, a meter and a half away when she disappeared. The red light blinked one last time then was gone.

I hurried to the exact spot she’d been and knelt in the dirt, mindful of the rivulets of blood that streamed around me. I glanced around, making sure I was still alone, then felt the ground. Solid as soil covered rock. She didn’t go through. So where did she go?

I stood and spun in a slow, crouching circle. My finger hovered over the H16’s trigger. No movement. I pushed the sensors to maximum, but still no movement. The place was dead, and Alya was gone. What the fo?

I checked the coordinates that flashed green in the bottom left of my visor, studied the route, then set off at a brisk jog. I couldn’t exactly run since the way was so choked with the dead, but I could hold a steady enough pace to cover the ground I needed to cover in the time I needed to cover it.

Because… Why, again?

I stumbled slightly as doubt crept into the back of my mind. What was I looking for?

I shook the thought from my head.

No time for second guessing command, Marine! You have you orders, and you will carry them out!

Yeah, but who gave the orders? The master sergeant hadn’t. I’d remember if that rat-nosed bastard had been barking in my face. The stink of his breath lingered in everyone’s nostrils for hours after he gave one of his patented, almost kissing you he was so close rah-rah speeches. I certainly didn’t miss that part of being a Marine.

I stumbled again, righted myself, then slowed to a stop. Miss that part?

I looked at the H16 in my hands. It was my weapon. I’d know that carbine anywhere. The scratches on the butt, the gouge by the trigger guard, the greenish stain on the side where B’flo’do gunk had sprayed it. It was my H16, no doubt.

Yet there was doubt. Serious doubt. Every molecule of my being started to scream at me. I’d had the jitters in the field before, every Marine had, but not like the jitters that had my guts twisted up like a Xippeee tavern pretzel.

That reminded me, I was hungry as fo. When was the last time I ate?

Had to have been during the briefing. We always stuffed chow down our throats while the lieutenant, the prick, laid out the battle plans. Get it while you could before a Skrang made sure you couldn’t anymore. The lieutenant was never happy about us eating during a briefing, it broke every rule in the book, but he also didn’t have the balls to stop us. Two things you never got in the way of: a Marine and killing, and a Marine and chow. The lieutenant was smart enough to know that.

My stomach rumbled, and I tried to shake it off. The mission was all that mattered. I could eat some reconstituted crud later when I got back to the BOP.

Which was where?

The uncertainty and confusion was beginning to bug me. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“Alya? Come in,” I called over the com. Still nothing. Not even a click telling me my com was active.

I took a risk and slung my carbine so I could tap at my wrist and bring up my suit’s systems. Com was offline. Sensors still worked, but they didn’t look right. I focused on a Skrang corpse by my feet, and it gave me readings that fit with a dead Skrang. But then I turned the sensors onto another corpse, and I was shown the exact same readings. The exact same.

Not possible.

Even if they were the same race, they should have had slight differences in readings. Size, age, body structure. Rate of decomposition, even though the bodies were fairly fresh, should have been noted. Wounds. The wounds would have been different, but they weren’t. Each Skrang had taken two bolts to the chest and one to the head.

I took some deep breaths and told myself not to freak out. There was a logical explanation.

I retraced my steps to the point where Alya disappeared.

Alya…

She wasn’t in my platoon. I knew every Marine like I knew my own family. Not that I had a family. My parents had been killed by Jerks. Murdered by skintakers looking to make a quick buck back on Bax. Senseless.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was I couldn’t ever remember Alya being on a mission with me. Crawford and all the other Marines, sure. But not Alya. Yet she had to have been. She had to have…

“Alya!” I yelled into the com. “Alya!”

There was a hollow click from behind me, and I swung around, H16 back in my hands, barrel glowing plasma red.

“Don’t shoot,” a young female said.

She was from the local species, a Ferg, and she held up her shaking hands, her head ducked low, waiting for the bolt to take her out.

“Please,” she said.

Fergs were a small race. Like a beaver and a praying mantis had a one night stand and neither wanted to talk about it ever again.

“I need help,” she said. “My brother is stuck in our burrow. His leg is caught.”

She took a cautious step towards me, and I thrust my H16 forward.

“Do not move,” I said. “I don’t know you, lady. I’m not here to help you. I have orders to—”

“Not here to help?” she shrieked. “What are you here to do? Just kill Skrangs? That it? Kill Skrangs, destroy our planet, and then leave? Are you going to take the bodies with you? Are you?”

I didn’t have time for a Ferg rant. I needed to get Alya and complete the mission. Whatever that was. I couldn’t quite remember.

The Ferg moved closer. I knew what I had to do. Native or not, she was posing a threat. Rules of engagement were very clear. Avoid wounding or killing the locals, but if they became a problem, a threat, a possible liability, do what needed to be done.

My finger tightened around the trigger. She froze, her eyes on my H16.

“No,” she whispered and immediately backed up. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for saying that. I don’t need your help. I’ll get my brother out of the burrow on my own. Forget I said anything. Forget I was here.”

“I…can’t,” I replied.

My finger continued to tighten. I wanted to stop. I wanted to lower my weapon and let her run off. But I couldn’t. I physically couldn’t.

The sound of the blast startled me, and I cried out as the plasma bolt tore through the Ferg’s head. Her short, squat body fell to the ground, adding yet another corpse to the almost infinite body count that spread out to the horizon.

I stumbled to the left, back to the right, tore the H16 from my body, snapping the carbon strap in half as I yanked the weapon clear and tossed it onto the ground.

What had I done?

I couldn’t get my helmet off fast enough. The vomit splattered across the rim as I tried to yank it up over my head. My own sick splashed back at me, coating my face and neck as I fell to my hands and knees. I ignored the mess and continued retching, puking up everything in my stomach. Which wasn’t much since I remembered I hadn’t eaten since back in my ship when Mgurn…

Mgurn!

I spat bile from my mouth and sat back on my haunches. I looked about at the battlefield and finally realized what it was: an illusion. Maybe not an illusion, per se, but it sure as crud wasn’t reality.

I was in the labyrinth. On a quest. This was a trial. I wasn’t Sergeant Joe Laribeau with the Galactic Fleet Marines. I was Salvage Merc One, and I was in some deep crud.

“Alya!” I shouted as I stood up.

The air smelled of death, tasted of death. I knew the corpses weren’t real, but I also knew they were completely real. All around me was an authentic illusion of the senseless slaughter I had witnessed, and participated in, years before.

“Alya!” I shouted again.

When there was no response, I bent down and picked up my H16, gave my helmet a quick kick since the readings it showed me were terpigcrud anyway, and started walking. The direction didn’t matter. My gut told me that no matter which way I went, I’d end up right where I was supposed to end up.

I patted at my belt and found a micro-canteen of water. A quick flick of the top and it activated the molecular generator, letting a cold, clear stream of water pour from the mouth for about two seconds. I gulped it down and clipped the canteen back to my belt as I wound through the never-ending carpet of death.

An hour later, maybe longer, and I had reached a ridge. I steeled myself for what I would see and wasn’t disappointed when I crested the ridge and stared down into a shallow valley filled with dead Marines.

Of course.

I looked back over my shoulder at the dead Skrangs then turned back to my dead comrades. Or dead comrade. Just like with the Skrang corpses, the Marines below were all the same person. I didn’t need my helmet to tell me that. I recognized the patch on the battle armor instantly. A bloody skull with crossed carbines.

I’d put that patch on myself during my second tour.

The bodies below were me. Every single one of them.

“Nice,” I muttered as I started down the narrow trail that lay at my feet. “Real nice. Subtle even.”

I sighed, sick of the games.

“What is this supposed to represent?” I shouted up at the sky. A black, starless sky. The labyrinth wasn’t even trying. “What in the Eight Million Gods’ names are you trying to tell me? Huh?”

There was no answer. I didn’t expect one.

I reached my first corpse and knelt. I yanked off the helmet, confirmed I was staring at my own face, laughed, then stood up and kept walking. I ignored the rest of me that lay there. When you’ve seen one of your own corpse, you’ve seen them all.

“Alya!” I cried. “Where the fo are you?”

“Here,” Alya said, suddenly appearing close to my side. She spun about, her H16 up and ready, her eyes taking in the identical bodies. “What the fo?”

I put a hand on her carbine and lowered it.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “None of this is real.”

“I know that, Joe,” she said. “I’ve been stuck in this labyrinth for a long time. It doesn’t mean things can’t hurt you. It may not be real, but it is always very real. Remember the dogs?”

A flash of fur and teeth raced through my mind. I looked at my H16 then down at my battle armor.

“Whoa,” I said. “Where’s the sword and shield?”

“That is the sword and shield,” Alya said and patted her H16. “This is the knife I took off that mutt. We stepped into the next trial and things went from there.”

“Sure, why not?” I replied. I shook my H16. “I wonder what this thing will become in the next trial.”

“We have to get there to find out,” Alya said. “But first, we have to finish this one.”

“Any thoughts on how to do that?” I asked. “So far I’ve experienced a little PTSD, was forced to kill an innocent Ferg, then wandered my way to the valley of the Joe clones. No clue what comes next or how we get through this.”

I stared at her for a second.

“Where’d you go?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I know I was gone, but honestly, I went from our last position to here without a lag in time. Your guess is as good as mine.”