Killbox

Spilled blood lubricates my spin, though it looks as if I’ve fallen. On the ground, I mimic injured prey. I lure the other one closer, a calculated risk since one brush of its fangs will immobilize me. A spiked forelimb drives into the floor where I used to be, a hard blow as I roll sideways, and it’s caught momentarily, a victim of its own strength.



Using my blade to vault, I push into a kick, using my weight to increase the velocity. Impact, feet first. The Morgut staggers back, and its limb snaps. While it’s still off balance, I press the attack, but I’m not quite fast enough. It lashes out with a sideways, glancing blow, and if my uniform didn’t contain light armor woven in the filaments, I’d have a spear through my chest instead of a stab wound.



The pain takes my breath. I twist away, resuming a centered stance, and try to ignore the blood trickling down my belly. I can’t tell how bad it is, but I know it didn’t pierce my sternum. Thank Mary for the Armada dress code.



To my surprise, the Morgut makes a sound that the chip in my head interprets as conversational. Unfortunately—



My head fills with cascading whiteness, superimposed over my eyes. I can’t see. Panic spills through me. It’s no more than a microsecond, but my blade wavers. I’ll die, right now, because I can’t defend myself.



But no, it doesn’t move. Its limb drips blood, pooling at our feet. The Morgut speaks again, and this time, the clicks and hisses that sound so unnatural to my ears coalesce into meaning.



Why does the meat fight?



It worked. I can’t believe it fragging worked. I remember the conversation on Ithiss-Tor with Vel as if it were yesterday.



“Are there any other languages you would like while we are doing this?” he’d asked, just before injecting me with the translator chip. “We will not be able to modify the chip once it is in your body.”



“Is there anything that would help me understand the Marakeq natives?”



“They are class-P, so no translation programs have been written—and the only available research comes from Fugitive scientists.”



“I suspected as much.” I shook my head. “Never mind, then. What about the Morgut?” It seemed like it would be an advantage to understand my enemies.



“I can offer you a partial vocabulary, I think, but I do not know how it would interface with your brain stem. I can’t offer any guarantee of complete comprehension. The Morgut language is alien, even to me.”



“Give it a whirl.”



Revulsion coils inside me now. Obviously I can’t answer, but it sees comprehension in me. The Morgut takes a step back, and its eyes widen. In a human I would interpret that look as shock or horror. Froth dribbles out of its maw, tinged with ichor. Its limbs twitch uncontrollably now, poison devouring it from the inside out.



It understands me?



Driven by some instinct, I offer a wa in answer: Brown bird sees the fierce hunter. The Morgut respect the Ithtorians as fellow predators. If the Morgut are long-lived as well, then this one may remember the silent language, though it has been many turns since the Ithtorians passed among the stars.



The monster takes another step back, as if I’m something beyond its experience. I can see that it knows what I said, but it is having trouble parsing my facility with civilized conversation. Slowly, it returns the honorific: Yellow dog greets brown bird. Its gestures are simple, without grace or eloquence; but I cannot be sure if it thinks it needs to speak to me as if I am slow, or it simply does not know the nuances.



Out of respect for its possible limitations, I keep my response plain as well: The house of yellow dog steals from brown bird.



Brown bird has no tongue and cannot speak. The Morgut does not offer wa this time; it has decided I am not worthy, but I understand its vocalizations. The house of yellow dog claims all.



I shake my head, my wa clear and emphatic. This is not respect; I am interrogating it. I don’t know of any human who has ever done so before. Yellow dog loses all. What seek you here?



Power, it spits.



Belatedly, I notice the battle has ended around me. This creature is the only one left. The others have gathered, watching with disbelief. Their blood-spattered faces reflect the same horror I saw in the Morgut: What the hell are you? No human has ever been able to do this, and it doesn’t seem like the time to explain about the experimental chip and Vel. No, they just see what I am feeling: that I’m a freak with a head full of unnatural tech.



Perhaps I should rename myself talks-to-monsters, instead of brown bird.



Brown bird takes yellow dog, I tell it with my final wa.



It sees. It knows.



The monster doesn’t fight when I run it through. While I stood talking, someone gutted the one whose lower limbs I severed. We lost five men here. Torrance passes among the Morgut, covering the corpses with chem-burner. Soon there will be nothing left but ash.



I stand there, blood trickling down my belly, wondering what I’ve become. Eventually, I gather myself enough to clean my blade and return it to its sheath. That was drilled into me in training; if I don’t take proper care of my gear, it will let me down at the worst possible time.



“Were you talking to it?” Dina asks.



She’s the first one brave enough to approach me, although that’s not entirely fair. Bravery doesn’t factor into March’s decisions. He can’t come to my side anymore; he can’t treat me differently from the other soldiers beneath his command.



“Yes. I think I was.”



She nudges me. “How?”



“I’d guess the nanites upgraded me, including the chip Vel put in. He put the rudimentary vocabulary in place on Ithiss-Tor, but said he couldn’t guarantee results. And the first batch of nanites was trying to configure me to speak Ithtorian or Morgut or maybe even a hybrid. There’s no telling exactly what they did to the language centers of my brain before being terminated.”



Dina hesitates. “Did you know that would happen?”



“I’ve got three pieces of experimental tech in me now. I’ll be surprised if all my hair doesn’t fall out.” Fingering my coarse curls, I consider their loss grimly.



“You might also glow in the dark,” she offers, helpful.



“Thanks.” I give her a sour smile.



“No problem.”



“Everyone ready to move?” March asks.



“I could use a patch.” I tap Drake on the arm to get his attention.



The medic parts the lapels of my jacket and cuts through my undershirt to expose the wound. His touch is warm and gentle, but his eyes are wary. I’m something beyond his comprehension, too. I feel more alien now than I did on Ithiss-Tor.



“It’s deep, but not dangerous,” he tells me. “No bone fragments. I just need to clean it and cover it with some Nu-Skin. That should hold you until Doc can take a look.”



“Do you have a local for the pain? Nothing that’ll mess with my head.”



Drake nods. “Sure.”



“You hurt, LC?” March comes up beside us, watching the younger man’s hands on my skin. There’s nothing proprietary in his manner, but I wish there were.



“Nothing major. I’ll be good to go in a minute.”



Actually it takes nearly five for Drake to finish with me, but once he’s done, I feel almost good as new. I tug my jacket in place and look at the faces of those who survived. We have six name patches to send back to Lachion. I wonder how many civilians we saved.



“Let’s finish this,” March says.



He leads the way down the ramp to the last set of doors and taps the comm. “The area is secure. Your people can come out now.”



Within a few moments, the denizens of mining colony Dobrinya venture out from behind the seal. There are almost a hundred in all, including women and children. Despite my grief at losing good men, I know we did the right thing. Their grimy faces and too-fierce handshakes tell us so.



I’ve never had this feeling before. Sure, I’ve waved to the gutter press and celebrated a jump, but it’s a different kind of triumph. This is raw, gritty, and personal. This little girl with the dirty blond hair and the heaven blue eyes is alive because of us. By her tentative, awed smile, she knows it, too. She takes a step forward, extending a hand.



Since nobody else is paying her any attention, I offer mine. “What’s your name?”



“Calesta.”



“You live here?”



A wide-eyed nod.



“How do you like it?”



“It was okay until the monsters came.” She beams then, showing me she’s missing her front teeth. “But you guys got them all. We heard the shooting. Pew, pew, pew! Did you use your sword? Can I see it?”



I start to tell her it’s called a vibroblade, but what the hell, she’s all of six. Instead, I draw the thing from my back and pose with it, delighting her. I smile back. This isn’t the sort of thing the old Jax would do at all. The old Jax didn’t even see little kids.



“Thanks,” she whispers.



I don’t know if she means for saving them, or for the little show, but I etch her a salute before turning back to the larger group.



“We won’t forget,” the mine manager is saying to him.



“We will never forget that the Armada came when we called. Thank you.”



March inclines his head. “Before we go, we’ll sweep the place one last time, just to make sure we didn’t miss any of them.”



“Let me go, sir.” Torrance steps forward. “I’ll make sure the whole complex is secure before we call it clear for civilians.”



March says, “Do it.”



“If there’s time, I’d also like a look at their ships,” Dina adds.



Her face is incandescent at the prospect of checking out their alien tech. Like anyone who’s worked salvage, she loves to scavenge and adapt. Who knows, maybe she’ll even figure out their secret for making direct jumps.



I nod. “That’s a good idea.”



Looks like this is a day for firsts.



.CLASSIFIED-TRANSMISSION.



.INSTRUCTIONS.



.FROM-SUNI_TARN.



.TO-EDUN_LEVITER.



. ENCRYPT-DESTR UCT-ENABLED.



Your honesty is appreciated. Perhaps I can be forgiven for wanting to see the best in my colleagues, but I begin to think I have romanticized the idea of what your best may be. It occurs to me that you are discouraging me from viewing you in any heroic light. I shall let that stand, as it does not impinge upon our business.



I’m pleased to hear of your success with Hydra. I followed your recommendation and sent medals to the families of soldiers who died aboard the Dark Tide. Unfortunately, I have more lost ships to mourn and more families to commend. I am tired, and I wonder where it all ends.



For now, take no overt action against Ramona Jax. Market shares indicate she is too popular to be removed at this time. Instead, focus your energies on a smear campaign. If the Syndicate can use the media, so can we, and I expect you will be better at it than any of their people.



After looking over your proposed tariffs, I can only say: If you had chosen politics, you’d have my job. I am a little afraid of your ingenuity; this is nothing short of brilliant. I like the indulgences to offset the luxury tariffs. I am bringing this matter to a vote at the summit, quietly attached to another proposition. If all goes well, the measure will pass without notice.