AVENGER
A soul survivor bent on revenge...
The first thing that struck Remmon was the fathomless stench. He didn’t need eyes to observe the sea of scrap and decay when it burned his sinuses, especially when he made the mistake of opening his suit’s olfactory sensors out of morbid curiosity. Everything stunk of methane. Gazing at the scenery made it worse. He watched the inhabitants slog through their own filth as they would a swamp, oblivious to long-term effects on their health. Their music was no different. Throbbing rhythms pounded the buildings, shook the ground, and stirred the air as someone rambled in a cadence that hardly qualified as singing. They matched their environment down to the grime caking their flesh. If he had to venture a guess, they had likely sprouted from the grounds on which they trudge.
The base wasn’t hard to infiltrate, thanks to his identity cloaks used to sneak through enemy transits during long hauls of interstellar flight. Remmon would have been blasted the moment he roved anywhere near the enemy’s launch zone without it. Though, it amused him that he got as far as he did. The place hardly passed for a military base, too primitive to give the impression of harboring the power to subdue more advanced societies, let alone pilfering the resources of those they’ve conquered.
It was no walk in the park either. He spat an expletive when the shuttle landed well outside the targeted central hub, forcing him to wade through endless trash to reach his destination. Whoever lived here seemed aversive to anything resembling efficiency. It seemed no one had the mind to replace the endless clutter with functional infrastructure. That would hinder valuable time and raise his chances of getting caught. But the battlefield always changed, and he took it as contingency.
This sickening blight would soon end, Remmon promised. Inside his helmet, he plastered five gel-photos of his mother, father, and siblings, mementos that kept him plied to his objective: vanquish the enemy, hell or high water. Remember the Siege of Halot! he reminded himself as he recounted the day’s itinerary.
Buried within his organs lay the epitome of vengeance: the fission trigger in his stomach, the uranium shell in his thorax, the plutonium core in his throat—weaved with tubes for respiration—and the actuator embedded deep within his skull, which he controlled by visual interface. With a single thought, a virtual timer shimmered into view.
He was the last of his kind, nor would he survive to pass on his genes. It was a pity, and he wouldn’t envy another in his place. But he had a job to do. His objective was reaching the central point to maximize the blast zone. Given his loss of everyone he loved, it was well worth the sacrifice. Not only would it give him a sense of purpose, but it would strike a mortal blow to the enemy’s stronghold.
He triggered a thought; a tiny red light blipped in his HUD. The countdown began. Twenty minutes remained. He chuckled dryly.
With marked stoicism, he plodded on.
Everything he saw was an affront to beauty. The structures were formless, ugly, and shoddily patched together from whatever laid around. He barely distinguished one from the other. Additionally, the base was hot. Temperature readings increased as soon as he left the ship. A glut of UV radiation bombarded the planet and seeped inside the hull, including traces of cosmic rays that periodically gave him Astronaut’s Eye. Small wonder. The installation lay on an airless world, baking under a white subgiant sun. He wondered how its inhabitants still walked around like someone plucked them from the jungle. They could have long adapted, or their chromosomes were damaged beyond repair. They certainly acted the latter.
Everything seemed to move. Though, not all of it was human. Some lay flat on the ground, creeping and crawling wherever they went. Roaches, he wondered, but the planes of squalor confused his sense of scale. Curious, he zoomed in his sights. What seemed like insects turned to throngs of unmanned vehicles. They trundled past natives who shambled with a hunch, bobbing from side to side and swinging their arms like dithering primates, practically dragging their hands on the ground. Although aimless, dumb, and unperturbed by the presence of invasive machines, the inhabitants skulked with sunken eyes, prowling for trouble. The last thing Remmon needed was confrontation.
Something pattered and clanked, growing louder by the second. Assuming what it was, he dodged behind a bulwark the size of a house; it turned out to be the cross-section of a cargo ship, hollowed out and tattered like the frills of a carpet. He kept still, waiting for the pops and crackles of rubble to fade. Soon, the patroller vanished over what he thought was a heap of median, and out toward a cluster of wilting hovels and bustling crowds. When his breathing levelled, he braced himself and returned to his path.
A commotion flared. Curious, he whipped back around. A flash mob sprang from nowhere, practically swarming the buildings. The shouts erupted into the din of a demon’s den. Whatever the source of provocation, Remmon could only observe. Soon, bodies stirred; limbs thrashed; some were shoved aside, others lunged into the fray, picking up pieces of litter and wielding it like clubs. After a minute of swinging fists and shuffling heads, they parted like the tide, leaving behind remnants of their spoils. Four bodies sprawled like flotsam. Then a patroller barged onto the site. It was the one Remmon had seen moments ago, ramming pedestrians out of the way before skidding to a stop. The undercarriage lifted, revealing an open cage. Gears hummed and whined. A platform spat from underneath, shuffled up the carrion, and pulled it inside. Another whine as the carriage dropped with a buck, and the vehicle rolled from sight.
Remmon stared in horror, unable to shake his rage. What vile creatures! Left to their own device, they turned on each other. They only knew self-preservation and the thrill of the kill, a thought that practically stopped his heart.
They need to pay in blood…atoms preferably, he mulled as he ground his teeth down to their roots. It hurt, though it paled to the memories haunting him every minute. He only found consolation when glancing at the countdown.
Someone screamed. Ahead, several men loped across his path and disappeared among structures of weathered parge. A woman pouted, wriggling her hands in the air. She kneeled down and caressed the cheek of a man who lay unconscious. A gash pierced his head. Streams of blood trickled down his face, garnishing her hand as she slid it past his chin. She choked, then bawled louder and louder until screaming in anguish. Another victim. A couple of soldiers, armed with crude shell penetrators slung behind their backs, snickered as they ambled past, never lending a hand.
Remmon suffered a flashback. He saw his kith and kin struck down, blasted, and burned to cinders. The ones intact lay strewn about, their limbs twisted in every direction. Strafers came and went, reducing his world to ashes, and the memories that tore at his conscience. Besides the sounds of vehement screams were the laughs and taunts of the invading force. It was glued to his conscience.
Part of him wanted to run to the woman’s aid. She didn’t deserve any of this, and would live out her life under the gun of these benighted thugs. But it was a lost cause. Here, barbarism reigned supreme, and worthy of obliteration to quell an existential threat that destroyed his world. There was no recourse. The women would soon be collateral damage. Unfortunate, but it would end her misery as it would for him.
He didn’t plan to wait for roadkill service, and resumed his mission with added alacrity, hoping no one tracked him down. So far, the vehicles kept their distance, but he listened for signs of approaching wheels sneaking up from every corner.
His sensors flashed something new, detecting a stream of ionized particles with a 2.2 microsecond rate of decay. He cursed his haste. A magni-drone hovered above, showering the grounds with a muon beam in search of intruders. Remmon suspected himself as the culprit. He scanned the premises. The closest building resembled one a bomb had hit. He scanned the area. Underneath, he found a grotto large enough to hide himself. It might have been abandoned, but it was hard to tell with the one-piece garb and empty rations strewn about, left behind by unknown transients. The same conditions applied everywhere he looked, but without the luxury of ample time, he took a chance and made his decision. He got down on his knees and shimmied through the hole, getting as low as physique allowed. He was still vulnerable; no one escaped a muon ray that permeated every type of matter. But he came prepared, and sprayed his environs with a shield of positive muons. The beam passed over without an issue, its effects negated. Sighing with relief, he climbed out of the hole.
But company abounded.
The rotting heaps came alive. Heads turned. Eyes leered in his direction like the glowing orbs of predators. He didn’t see them outright, but he felt their presence like burning lasers. Any minute they could pounce him. Although from what he had observed, they were limited, both in accoutrements and, as far as he discerned, intelligence, a good indicator they lacked supplies with which to capture his form and face beneath his suit. But that didn’t stand him out any less; his climate suit betrayed his presence, and changing his stride to suit how they scuffed the ground would be as futile as miming their speech.
Using sonic amplifiers, he heard the patter of approaching footsteps. The rise in pitch was unmistakable; they were stalking him. He wished he brought his blaster, but had no room inside his suit. If captured, he only had one advantage: it would be hard for the enemy to diffuse the big surprise deep inside him, unless they were smart enough to aim for his throat and cut his head off on the spot, severing the actuator. But he made sure to trip the bomb in such a case. Observing the timer, he had only five minutes to act. His goal neared; he felt the adrenalin rush prodding him forward. But he had to focus; anything could happen within the time he had left.
Two cuboids approached. He lunged into the alley between. Shouts echoed from behind. He scanned his HUD, confirming five pursuers. He tried to pick up speed, but the suit hampered his pace. He broke out of the alley; the base’s jaundiced light flooded back into his eyes. His sensors wailed; a blur cut him off. Delayed response. He lunged, tackled to the ground. Someone grabbed his suit. His body shifted, and he faced the vaulted ceiling that filled his line of sight. Five silhouettes closed in. Grimy hands clawed at his suit, attempting to rob or kill, but the microfibers dampened their blows. They still had him pinned. Keeping composure, Remmon commanded a thought. His HUD responded, triggering an electrostatic field. He savagely grinned. They jolted back in shock and scattered like a swarm of flies.
How this pack of vicious boors wiped out his family, people, and livelihood beguiled him to no end. Someone smarter, craftier, and invisible controlled this stronghold, drafting a population of goons on the cheap. Yet he questioned why they allowed their prime node to fall into disrepair. Perhaps, Remmon surmised, as long as they had the resources and the numbers to maintain their spoils—his own Halot among them—they could afford to build newer, more powerful installations, leaving older bases to rot away or use as elaborate petri dishes for the propagation of their shock troops. Galactic history was rife with examples, but it was still baseless speculation.
He bounded back up. It was a race against time. The hub lay dead ahead, its qualities as drab as the rest, identifiable only from the map he compiled from various sources over the time he spent in preparation for his mission. Just another two minutes. That’s all he needed to cripple the base.
Another warning flashed. Too late! Paralysis seized him. He tumbled, landing face up. A magni-drone drifted into his line of sight and settled in position. What a fool! While absorbed in his goal, he stumbled into a trap, an impasse in which he had warned himself. The muon beam swept past him faster than his sensors could detect, evidence they already had him pinned.
He tried to get up, but a spear of pain shot through him. He was unable to stand. To his horror, he discovered they had blown off one of his legs. With a grunt, he dropped his head, feeling it squelch against whatever sullied the ground.
A mini-carrier pulled up, shuffling waves of junk. Ten troops picked from local stock alighted, primed their rifles, and gathered around his helpless form. Grimaces filled each face, relishing the moment for a fresh, new kill.
The countdown continued: less than twenty seconds remained. Remmon smirked. They grumbled something incomprehensible, shot him a menacing glare, then beat him with the butts of their weapons. His visual field sparkled in a flurry of abstract images. A glitch. One of the troops babbled into his helmet. It wasn’t hard to make out the words, ‘We got ‘im.’
But Remmon’s HUD said otherwise.
Four…three…two…one…
A pause. Nothing. What happened? he asked himself as the only thing exploding was his pain, made worse by the new abrasions overshadowing the condition of his leg; he figured something else was broken, something vital, but he didn’t know what.
The troops hoisted one of his arms and tugged. He screamed, but his suit was soundproof, dampening his cries. Without a gurney, they dragged him to the carrier, gave a heave-ho, and tossed him like a brick. He hit the floor. The pain spiked. Another glitch flashed in his eyes. He lay face down with his leg still gushing away. They laughed, like they always did at the fallen. The transport bucked and trundled off. Five minutes passed of rocking and swaying on the jagged terrain. Finally, the carrier made a sharp turn, pulled inside a compound, and slammed the brakes. He rag-dolled against the seating platform, buffeting a few of his captors’ boots that shoved him out of the way.
Vibrations rattled the floor. He barely made out the feet shuffling into position. One grabbed his leg and dragged him off, smearing his blood into a crimson trail. There was no ramp. He hit the concrete, head first. Visual chaos. The words ‘FUNCTIONAL ERROR’ strobed. He assumed they fractured his skull, which might have damaged his brain, extending all the way to his temporal-occipital region that controlled the actuator. The connection was severed. So was his leg. He could barely utter a word, let alone a scream. Shock took hold, and he couldn’t feel his own blood pooling around the contours of his suit.
Barbarians! The only ones he loved stared back at him in balms of gel. Tears welled up. He not only failed his mission, but also his people. Apologizing was hard, especially to graven images of those long dead. He wished he was dead, but he more hardily wished his task wasn’t in vain.
The troops flung their hands around as they quarreled amongst themselves, discussing what to do with this fatuous outlander. As soon as they stopped, one stepped over and kicked him in the side. It hurt, shocking his prior wounds and jostling the uranium shell; the pieces of the bomb pinched and pressed against his organs already disfigured from prior accommodations. A second troop stood over Remmon, cracked a devilish sneer, and cocked back his weapon to club him some more. But his smile vanished and he dropped his eyes, distracted from his orgy of torture. With a swipe of his hand, his comrades parted like the curtain of a play.
Clattering.
What appeared to be a massive praying mantis scuttled from behind and arched over Remmon with six slender legs. What was it? It looked metallic; parts of it glinted in the ambient lighting. An extensor peeled from its cowl with a mechanical hum, faceless, staring into his eyes. He expected to be grabbed and his head bitten off. Instead, it swung away to probe the rest of his body, then retracted when finished.
The mantis straightened its limbs and swiveled around; the soldiers snapped to attention. One of them cocked his brow, reacting to something he was told, probably some instruction from the robot as it clattered away. Remmon suspected they found the bomb, but he didn’t react. He was too numb to care, but at least he now understood the pecking order between man and machine.
Slackening their postures, the troops regathered around Remmon’s beleaguered form, splashing his blood as they stepped. One made a taunting face, then dragged him outside, dropped his leg, and spat on his visor. Another strode up, grinned like a clown, and pulled out the penetrator, its circumference spinning a new round of energy, ready to sear off Remmon’s head.
I tried! I tried! I tried! he silently shouted, yearning to pound the goons to dust. But he was too lame to retaliate, soundly defeated of purpose, and awaited the blast to erase his miserable existence.
Someone kicked him from behind. His head rocked. He groaned in agony as the interface erupted in random patterns of madness. Everything was broken, including his will. As the executioner leveled up his weapon, retaining the simian grimace that burned into Remmon’s soul, the signal, “ENGAGE” flashed across his retina. Success! The final blow reconvened the actuator. The countdown resumed.
Glancing one last time at his dearly departed, he curved his lips in triumph. A white light embraced him in a happy twist of irony.
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Phantom Whispers, Issue 3
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