Shining Sand
August 2650: The Red Eclipse Mercenaries, accompanied by Stumppaw Sandwalker, hunt for Halffang Whitestar in the Sand Mother Desert…
Stumppaw walks out of the gates of the Sandwalker estate, accompanied by three sturdy underclassers who look like they belong in the battle cages, a weary-looking Demarian scribe, and a pair of six-legged padraki desert bumblers loaded with supplies for the journey.
Resplendent in gleaming crimson battle armour stands a tall figure … no, wait. This figure may be tall and clad in deep red armour, but it’s not resplendent in the least. His face hidden by the visor of his smartsuit helmet, James Sterling stumps up to the Senator’s entourage and gives the politician a confident nod. “Looks like yer set fer the journey, there, Senator,” he drawls, his voice digitised by his suit’s vocoder. He smacks one metal-clad fist into the other. “I’m ready ta help ya find that jerk Halffang an’ give him what for.”
Stumppaw swivels his head to regard the armored Sterling, fangs clacking as he scratches absently at his stumped arm. “I certainly hope that armor includes a coolant system. Otherwise, you are liable to cook inside it before we reach Wickclaw Ridge.”
Jocaira’s armor, on the other hand, is moderately resplendent; it looks like someone’s done a fine job arranging the white pinstripes for adornment and emphasizing purposes. Her visor is currently down, as she is smoking a pungently-scented cigarillo, and she cants her head to the side to observe the Demarian official. “Full climate control, moisture cycling, and air filtering, Monsieur,” she says, extending an armored hand. “Jocaira d’Agneau, Capitan and presently at your service.”
There’s nothing particularly resplendent about The Limping Moth. It’s just a tiny little ship flitting about among the mercs.
Following rumor and scent, and for once not looking particularly out of place, Razorback Cliffwalker strides down the road. He spots the brightly-painted smartsuits and a faint smile creases his muzzle, a hint of white fangs gleaming in the sunlight. His armor may not be as obvious, but he is clearly well-armed. He begins to make his way over to the group, pausing only for a moment upon seeing Senator.
One of the bumblers mistakes the Limping Moth for some freakish bug, lashing at it with its tail as Stumppaw shakes the offered hand of Captain d’Agneau. “When’s the last time you had these suits inspected and run through full diagnostics? The Sand Mother gets her gritty fingers into everything.”
Sterling’s deep laugh causes his vocoder to crackle slightly. “Oh yeah, Senator, that’s part o’why I’m wearin’ it.” He lowers his visor and reveals his scruffy face. “We came equipped fer a desert trek.”
“End of every shift week, Senator, all smartsuit are turned in for inspect and maintain before mercenaire leaves for R and R.” Joca says, taking a drag on her cigarillo and blowing it downwind, away from the party in general, “And sey are full-rated for sand, so long as you run se blow-out cycle -before- you put back in case, ne? Usserwise it is se many hours wis se tiny brushes. Is sere anysing outside of standard intel sat we should expect in your Sand Musser, Monsieur? We ‘ave based loadout on available reference material.”
With an amused fanfare, the Moth darts out of the way of that tail and alters its flight to one a few feet higher.
“Miss Jocairrra,” a voice rumbles from behind the mercenary queen. Yes, it’s Razorback. “I received your response. I thought that I would offerrr my assisstansce.” He offers a slight bow to James, than another to the Senator. “My Lord,” he says in Demarese, his ancient dialect notwithstanding, with a respectful flourish of his tail.
Stumppaw inclines his snout in respect to Jocaira. “If you are confident in your gear, then you have my confidence as well. The trail is difficult, but with the latest topographical satellite maps, we should be able to navigate to the Shining Sands encampment with few problems.” He turns his attention toward the newly arrived Demarian, scratching once more at the stump of his left arm as his fangs clack. “Which house are you from?” A dangerous edge creeps into his voice as he studies Razorback.
Sterling glances toward Razorback, his eyes narrowing momentarily before he returns his attention to Stumppaw. “When d’we leave?” he asks, tapping at his thigh to open a storage panel from which he retrieves a battered packet. He slides an equally battered cigarette from it with his lips, then returns it to the compartment.
Jocaira raises a pale eyebrow at the arriving Razorback. “Eeehn? Well, I suppose sat is one way to make a clear up on my calendar, Monsieur… I am not going to be able to cut you in, but of course, alsough if you would like to make an assistance I certainly believe it will earn you discount when you make a ‘ire of us, ne?” Her eyes dart between the two Demarians; whether or not they are speaking in a language she understands, she seems to be -very- attentive to tones and body language. She runs her finger and thumb down her tongue, pinching the lit end off with a soft ‘hss’ before depositing the extinguished half-cig into a compartment in her armor’s arm. Wordlessly, she taps her thumb behind her ear three times, mercenary cant for “Problem,” with her expression reading it as an interrogative.
The tiny pilot of the Limping Moth apparently feels no need to comment just now. Not past altering its flight path again to more of a steady hover a little weays behind James’ head.
“Cliffwalkerrr, my Lorrrd,” the dark-furred Demarian replies to the Senator, his ears sliding deferentially forward, “I am called Rrrazorrrback, though I have been away frrrom home forrr quite some time.” He nods agreeably to Jocaira. “I do not rrrequirrre payment,” he rumbles.
“We leave now,” the Senator rumbles in Standard. He beckons the underclassers to lead the bumblers onward in the direction of the waiting dunes. The scribe gives a sad sigh and follows after, leatherbound tome clutched under one arm and a satchel slung over his shoulder. He fixes his attention on Razorback once more, shifting to Flick, with the fingers of his right hand, twitches of his ear, the lifting of whiskers, and the lashing of his tail: “I watch you, Cliffwalker. Suspicion high.” He then stalks off after the departing bumblers.
The cigarette’s end bobbles as Sterling repositions it, taking a lighter from that same compartment and lighting the cigarette with it. He smirks, turning his head slightly to regard the Moth. “Should have a lighter built into the fingers of the gloves,” he tells the little ship, holding up one hand and snapping his fingers, though the action doesn’t produce the usual sound due to his armoured hands. As the Senator and his entourage start moving, he stumps along after, though he stays closer to Jocaira and Kilroy than to the Demarians.
Jocaira purses her lips, observing all of the Demarians in play for a long, long moment. She, too, stays closer to the mercenaries, but keeps herself between both groups to continue steady observation of both. “Initiating hydro-conservation sequence,” her suit says, in a bass male rumble, before her visor slides shut. “Intairesting culture,” she muses, over private comms. The blue-green optics on her visor drift back and forth, the HUD marking friendlies as her gaze passes over them.
A voice from the Limping Moth chuckles at Sterling “Imagine we can work that out. Should probably keep it seperate from that other project, though. Confusing the two would be painful.”
A fang-filled smile splits Razorback’s muzzle as the Sandwalker walks off. He turns to take up a rear-guard position in the group. His ears swiveling about observantly.
Some hours later, as Demar Major and Minor start disappearing beyond the horizon, the team arrives on a ridge overlooking the rippled expanse known as the Shining Sands. Stumppaw opens a pack on the side of a bumbler and pulls out a PDA, which he rests on the saddle and uses to call up a local topographical map. “All right, the camp we want is inside a cavern network beneath the stretch of desert before us.” He zooms in the map display, showing the cavern entrance. It is blocked by a Frankenstein’s monster of a sliding door made of cobbled together metal plates. “Scans inconclusive for any other defenses or emplacements outside.” The Senator swivels his face to look at the Limping Moth. “A scout might be useful.”
Sterling peers at the Senator’s PDA, then turns his head to look at the Moth. “Yeah,” he agrees, “we need ta know if there’s anything or anybody waitin’ fer people like us ta come stompin’ in.” He smiles behind his visor. “It’s a good time ta be tiny, Kilroy.”
“When sey smile, sey remind me of my musser,” Joca muses, idly, once again on the private comm. Switching to public, she adds. “Scan and sweep, if you would, Monsieur Keelroy, and let us know ‘ow se door is locked, ne? We should know if we are going to ‘ave to come in quiet or loud.” A glance towards the entourage. “Possibly not going to be much of our choice, but it is good to know if se possibilitie exist.”
Razorback comes up from his position at the back of the line, nearing the door and closing his eyes. His ears swivel forward, moving back and forth as he conducts some scans of his own; his nostrils twitch, taking in the dry desert air and sifting it for signs of … well anything untoward.
The Moth rings out a quiet affirmative sort of chime before darting off close to the ground towards this monstrosity of a door. Once close enough, the tiny ship abandons the ground in favor of getting a good and detailed scan of things, with a particular interest in what may lie past, what kind of mechanisms are involved in its operation, and any potentially lethal counter-measures installed therein.
The Moth detects a fairly standard metal lever and gear system controlling the door from the inside. The door is built into a rocky hill, concealing a cavern passage that leads back about thirty feet before it descends under the ground. Six humanoid heat signatures are detected within the entrance corridor. They may be armed with plasma weaponry. Kilroy might also notice the bulbs of sensor modules poking out from the peak of the hill. At the moment, he hasn’t triggered them – but he might before much longer.
Sterling chuckles as the Moth zips off. “Good ol’ Kilroy,” he says. On the private comm channel he adds, “Hope he don’t bring the house down on us.”
“‘e should not,” Joca replies via private comm, “I mean, bring down on ‘sem, maybe, but not us.” More publically, she checks her HUD for the signal from the Moth. “Still strong signal, should be getting ‘is results to us momentary.” The panels on the outer thighs of her armor cycle silently open; a pair of blades are revealed, one short, one long, and at the ready. “Remembair,” she says, although this could be more of a reminder to herself than anyone else. “Alive.”
“Bluetongue and I will remain here and make camp,” the Senator says, settling down onto a bumpy canvas-covered cushion that he pulled off the second bumbler. He waves a clawed hand toward the three underclassers. “They will show you the way through the dunes to the door and offer any assistance against issues foreseen or otherwise.”
It looks like The Moth has scanned all it’s going to for now, as it is making a quick return to the group, skimming along the ground as it does. During the trip, the tiny speaker folds back in as he flips over to comms instead of the usual PA system. “Looks pretty sturdy. Easiest way to open is with a lever on the inside… fat lot of good that does us. Possibly half a dozen guys waiting on the other side.”
“Perrrhapss if we knock loud enough …” Razorback says, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. He shakes his head back and forth, rippling his mane. Ears and eyes turn towards Jocaira as he waits to see how she wants to proceed.”
Sterling’s sneer isn’t visible behind his visor, but it’s audible in his cranky grunt. With a slight movement of his shoulder and elbow he unslings the Longtooth Battle Rifle and checks it, detatching, scanning, and reattaching the magazine, pulling back and releasing the slide, and dragging his thumb over the safety switch, then tapping it with his thumb, causing an audible click. “Alive,” he grumbles over the private comm, letting the rifle rest in the crook of his elbow, its barrel pointed at the ground. “I hate that word.”
“More credit, you like -sat- word,” Joca replies, in a gentle sing-song. She draws her weapons, both seeming to be crafted of future-available materials in -very- ‘classic’ designs, a cutlass of crystalline Lyiri make and a left-handed basket hilt knife of some kind of matte black alloy. “Well, if sere is no lock to pick, only one way to make open, ne? Possibly ‘alf a dozen? Is se corridor narrow enough for choke attack?” She looks over at the underclassers, once again raising an eyebrow, observing them for enthusiasm for said mission, or lack thereof.
The underclassers seem indifferent, but vigilant – they are for the moment focused on any movements amid the dunes between the ridge and the cavern hideout. Like Razorback, they are testing the air with their nostrils, seeking out-of-place scents.
Another message comes through the comms from the Moth’s pilot “Seemed fairly narrow, yeah.”
The Cliffwalker seems quite content to stay out of any planning for the moment. Possibly taking mental note of everything. He waits patiently, though maintains a fairly high level of alertness.
“Yeah, yeah, I like the cash too. It don’t matter if we kill the guard dogs, right?” Sterling switches back to the public comm. “How narrow?” he asks Kilroy. “Big enough fer two ta stand side-by-side?”
In the lower level of the cavern hideout, Halffang Whitestar sprawls on a pile of dusty blue cushions, watching a Demarian opera holovid for about the umpteenth time since he had to go into hiding. He grumbles at the empty plastic goblet on the floor next to him: “We’re out of wine.” One of the three human mercs in the lower chamber rolls his eyes at the snaggle-toothed fugitive and says, “You’re alive. Could be worse. Next shipment of supplies should come tomorrow. But if I got my wish, your pals would come take you off my hands. I’m tired of cat sitting.”
In the upper level, two of the human merc guards stand next to each other in the corridor. They’re staring toward the closed door. “That rust patch, right there, in the top left quadrant – swear to god, it just got a little bigger.” The other guard replies: “I don’t think that’s rust. This place is way too dry.” The first guard tilts his head. “If it’s blood, how did it get up there?” The second guard ponders: “Good question. Better question is why would it get bigger?” The first guard answers: “Trick of the light?” “Could be,” the second guard agrees. The third guard, farther back down the hall, snaps: “Would you two fart-heads shut the hell up about that goddamned metal stain?”
“Monsieur Keelroy, do you sink you could blow se lock wis small shape charge, if door is too tight for se flash bang?” Joca says, assessing the data from her HUD. “If it is two by two, Monsieur James, I will come in low, and if you will covair me over top, sis will make room for support to advance or retreat as necessaire? Is anyone ‘ere capable of suppressing fire?”
There’s a thoughtful pause from the Moth “I think that if the gate doesn’t start opening while I place the charges, it will never be closed again.”
“Sssuprrressssion firrre is likely all I am good forrr with thiss,” Razorback says now, hefting the chain gun dangling from his shoulder and turning it to face forward. “At the very leasst, it will make it undesirrreable for anyone to take the time to aim at you.”
Halffang gets up from the cushions in the lower level of the hideout and skulks over to the holovid player. “Will the next supply shipment include something more interesting to watch than this wailing about the Demarian plague from six hundred years ago? Maybe some Nobles Gone Feral vids?” The talkative merc, who sits at a table next to the cavern passage, glowers at Whitestar and replies: “I’ll see what we can drum up for you, Princess.”
Sterling nods slowly while he listens to Joca, his gaze on the door. “Flash-bang,” he mutters absently, “cover fire, Kilroy in.” He looks over at Joca and the others. “If these guys aren’t professional soldiers we oughta take ’em by surprise. Kilroy can sneak in an’ feed us info while we finish wreckin’ the guards.’
“You ever kill a man, Dusty?” asks the first guard of the second guard in the upper passage. The third guard looks curious at this inquiry. The second guard, Dusty, checks the charge level on his plasma rifle. He notices the third guard watching him. The other trio starts wandering their direction, piqued to learn more. Dusty clears his throat, then tells his companion: “Oh, yeah. I’ve killed plenty. And not just men. I butchered an Odarite once.” The first guard marvels at that: “No shit?” “No shit,” Dusty assures him.
Jocaira’s blue-green optics take a moment or two to swivel over the chain gun, and the low whistle she produces is distorted somewhat by her vocalizer, but the general impression is clear. “Bien. Check. Flash bang, cover, suppress. Monsieur Razorback, sat will do nicely. Low shots, move to disarm and disable in case our target is among sem or if only sey know where to find ‘im. All affirm, please.”
“Enough chatter,” the third guard in the upper passage snarls. “Dusty, Pembroke, take the night watch outside. Lobo, open the door.”
The Moth bobs around in a vaguely impatient manner. “Ready to remove the gate. Couple of small charges at the top should do it. If we’re lucky some poor shmuck will be standing where the gate falls.”
Razorback nods curtly in response. “Underrrsstood,” he rumbles, leaning his head first one way, than the other, each motion producing a satisfying cracking noise.
The merc identified as Lobo yanks the lever that causes the hideout door to slide along its track, opening as Dusty and Pembroke approach the entrance with their rifles at the ready.
The low growl emitted from the back of Sterling’s throat sounds strangely alien through his suit’s vocoder. “Understood,” he grunts, lifting his rifle and grasping it with both hands. Motion draws his attention and he looks back toward the door. “Open sesame,” he says, his hidden grin audible in his voice. “They’re comin’ out ta see us. Can still flash-bang ’em if we hit ’em before they come out too far. Mind visibility,” he adds, moving to ensure he’s concealed by the sand dune.
That’s about the time the rumbling begins beneath the patch of desert where the Red Eclipse mercs are lurking. The underclasser Demarians hunch and brace themselves, claws readied as one of them hisses: “Sand eels.”
“Affirming,” Joca says, going to move forward but absolutely -freezing- as the underclassers stop. “Merde.” There is a long pause, before her comm starts up, much more quietly. “…actually… Oh, je suis une mauvaise fille. Monsieur Keelroy, can we get distraction for se guards, pull sem small in sis direction, and sen, if someone could… what is se word… thump thump, away from us, yes? Wis se machine, or ordinance. For sem to meet in middle? Senator, do not move and discourage your carriers from moving unless you would like sem to make a bait.”
Shivers of sand spill from small cracks in the ceiling of the lower chamber in the hideout. Halffang looks up, whiskers flattening against the side of his snout. “It’s back!” He jabs a clawed finger accusingly at the human merc at the table, who’s already unslinging the rifle from his back. “You told me it was dead!” The human just shakes his head and replies, “I told you it was *gone*. Never said it wouldn’t come back. Anyway, you’re safe in here. Solid rock all around us.”
The Moth swivels around in the air for a moment, getting a passable scan of the current situation. “I think that would not only work, but be potentially hilarious.”
Senator Stumppaw Sandwalker is on his feet, but unmoving, as he hears the communication from Jocaira. He peers down from the ridge toward the shadowy desert valley. “Can it be?” he wonders. The Demarian turns toward Bluetongue and says, “Ready your sketching tools. I suspect we are about to witness a marvel for the ages.”
“On my way down,” Razorback calls out, reaching down to flip a switch on his belt before dropping to a four-footed run. His path takes him at a forty-five degree angle off of the line between the mercenaries and the cave. His energy shield crackles to life as he races out into the sand. Upon reaching a reasonably open area, he stops and unslings his chain gun. He lifts it skyward, and with a roar drives it butt-first into the ground at a steep angle. He draws a knife from his belt and jams the hilt into the trigger guard, forcing it to fire a burst every half a second. That accomplished, he aims for the nearest patch of rock and _launches_ himself toward it.
“Aw, no,” Sterling breathes, crouching automatically to help him keep his balance as the ground beneath him shudders. “You want us ta draw the guards an’ the sand eel together?” He glances up as Razorback takes off. “What the fuck is that guy doin’?”
Dusty, Lobo, and Pembroke at first are troubled by the rumbling beneath the dunes. But, really, it’s the bursts from the chain gun that drive home the concern that something has gone horribly wrong. A sand eel they can deal with. Someone making a move on the hideout? Time to hunker down. “Close the door! Close the door!” Dusty yells at Lobo, who’s already on his way to shove the lever in the other direction. Pembroke yelps into his link to the mercs down below with Halffang: “Shots fired, Chet! Shots fired!”
Jocaira just watches all of this, open-mouthed behind her visor. “…oui,” she whispers, perhaps instinctively. “I think ‘e is making a t’ump t’ump? Worm away is first, worm and guards finding each usser, bettair. Damn I wish I jump sat ‘igh.” She hears and sees the panic ensuing. “Merde, well, cover blown, let us get sis sand snake away so we can advance before se shits dig in.”
The speaker on the Moth not only folds out, but it lowers enough that it can be pointed directly downwards, and some curiously bass heavy music starts coming out, and the Moth darts out above the sound, attempting to lure the eel away. “On it!”
Beneath the dunes, slithering through gaps between the rock below the desert, about the length of an airplane runway moves with sinuous purpose. Its pebbled flesh is marked, pocked by time but also scarred by slashing weapons and bristling with stumps from broken-off spears, swords, daggers, and here and there the odd wing or chunk of fuselage from a flying vehicle. The steady pattern of Razorback’s chain gun summons a familiar memory and it can smell the stench of the Demarian whose hand it claimed so many years ago. Now, perhaps, it could claim the rest. It homes in on the gun.
“Interesting,” muses Chet as he hears Pembroke’s cry over the commlink. “We may have more than that damned worm to worry about.”
The Cliffwalker’s claws scrabble at the rock, pulling him up and away from the sand. He turns, his ears flattening tightly and his tail brushing out to several times his normal size as the largest sand eel he’s ever seen comes barrelling towards him. He reaches behind his back and unhooks his axe from its sheathe. A growl rumbles from his throat that steadily grows in volume until it becomes a roar as he prepares himself shoult the beast attempt to reach him.
“Great, yeah, they know we’re here now.” Sterling grumbles, muttering over the private comm, “Fuckin’ glory hounds. New plan, Joca?”
“He comes for me,” Stumppaw realizes as he stands on the rim of the ridge and gazes down at the star-lit trail of dust and sand kicked up by the great sand eel’s passage. The creature takes no obvious interest in Razorback, but lurches from the sand and flings the chain gun toward the sky in a chit-chit-chittering kill spiral that sends bursts of bullets in all directions. Two of Sandwalker’s underclassers are felled by shots. One is killed by a blast to the head, while the other goes down, wounded from a leg injury. Another spray of bullets zings around the Limping Moth, narrowly missing.
Jocaira takes in the scene, HUD finding and tagging friendlies, loose sand patches, spraying ordinance, and potential enemies. There is an awed exhalation as the great worm rumbles by. “Oui, get worm away -first-, worry about sings -not- big enough to swallow us in se one gulp next,” she replies, doing her best to duck down and make herself a smaller target before adding, “Senator, I would recommend un burdening one of your burden beasts and giving it good sharp reason to run away from you and us. Affirm please, if you are still alive.” Pause. “Going to be rough trip back but rougher if we do not live to make it.”
The Moth sends over another message over the comms while zooming across the sand “Eel doesn’t seem to care about me. If there’s no objections, I’m going to zip over and plant those charges so they’ll be ready when things are quiet outside.”
There is a moment of clear relief on Razorback’s face as the worm turns away and passes him by. That relief disappears though as he realizes that his ploy has failed and the worm has turned towards the others. He gathers his legs under him again and springs towards where the eel made the turn, his axe outstretched in an attempt to at least snag a ride as his chances of doing anything from a distance being slim to none.
What goes up must come down. Razorback’s chain gun crashes into a flat slab of rock, wrenching the barrel and knocking the knife loose. The weapon stops firing and won’t fire again without significant maintenance. The Moth’s musical lure now kicks into the behemoth’s thoughts and it loses interest for the moment in the old Demarian waiting on the ridge. It arcs around, looming up from the sand, rising behind the Moth and preparing to drop upon it. Razorback may be riding now, but the beast seems untroubled by the passenger.
Sterling hits the dirt instinctively as the madly firing chaingun spins through the air, landing on his belly with his rifle held out in front of him. He starts a low-crawl toward the huge door, watching nearby targets on his HUD, hoping the lessening light and the distraction of the sand eel will sufficiently keep him from being targeted by the guards in the cavern.
The old Demarian on the ridge actually suffers some sagging whiskers of disappointment as he sees the massive sand eel turn away to chase the Nemoni ship. And then he spies the Cliffwalker launching himself onto the creature with axe in hand. Stumppaw looks at the remnant of his left arm. “Maybe the beast gets a matched set this night.”
“Qu’est-ce que l’enfer est que fou chat faire?” says Joca, as Razor jumps on the barrelling sand-worm that appears to be carrying enough bits of armament to open its own secondhand shop, and there are no buffalo things stampeding away to lure it off with the promise of a free lunch. “Merde! Keelroy, evasive. Sterling, cover door so we do not get stuck between devil worm and shooting from be’ind. Senator! If you are still alive, affirm please! Burden beast, running away from us, good plan.” She ejects a small grappling hook and line from an arm compartment, and looks for a likely outcropping to hook onto.
For the moment, Sterling is unseen – the sensors atop the cavern hill are rattling from the passage of the sand eel, which is wreaking havoc with any readouts inside the cavern. Not that anyone’s paying much attention to sensor displays inside just now. The six guards in the entry passage are now hunkered down, crouching, rifles held at the ready and aimed toward the entrance beyond the now closed and locked door. Down below, Chet paces toward his two companion mercs and says, “Get a card game going. Deal Whitestar in. I’ll stake him.” Halffang protests: “I can’t bluff when the walls are shaking!”
The Moth really doesn’t respond right now. Clearly the plan to plant explosives must be tabled for now. So the tiny ship does what is most sensible right now. It adjusts to its more normally evasive flight pattern, listing away from the population of course, with a substantial increase in volume from the speaker.
The Cliffwalker, still retaining both of his hands for the moment, hangs up his axe and begins to race towards the front of the word, his claws extended to hang on through shifts in the worms course and what-not. He races forward on all fours towards the front of the beast, his ears buried in his mane as he dodges between the bits of of spears and arrows. He spots an aircraft fuselage sticking out of the animal’s flesh and leaps up towards its edge, hoping to find a more vunerable area of the creature inside.
Physics being what it is, the eel keeps falling after it starts. The Moth successfully evades the beast as it slams into the sand and rock beneath it. Razorback is not so fortunate. The impact bounces him out of the fuselage chunk and sends him tumbling, slamming against the door of the hideout, just before the worm pursues the music again. Up on the ridge, Bluetongue informs Stumppaw of Jocaira’s suggestion about the bumbler. The senator waves his good hand dismissively, “I have lost two perfectly good underclassers. I will not sacrifice a precious bumbler.”
“What the hell was that?” asks Lobo after the Demarian clangs on the door.
With the door now closed again, there’s not much Sterling can do on his own to get inside the cavern. He hears Joca’s command and sets up at the edge of a low dune, sighting in on the door with his HUD, then with his rifle so he’s ready to pick off anybody who sticks their nose out. “Acknowledged, Joca,” he calls into the comm. His head jerks back from the rifle’s sights as Razorback impacts the door. “Goddamn it, well -now- somebody’s gonna come out.” He reports what he sees over the general comm.
The senior guard in the upper passage contacts Chet about the noise of something slamming into the door. “If it was the sand eel, pretty sure it would’ve just busted through. Must be our other guests,” the guard says. Chet considers the report quietly, watching his two downstairs companions as they settle into a nervous card game with their ward, the Demarian known as Halffang Whitestar. Chet turns his back to the group at the table and mutters into his link: “Open the door. Kill anyone who tries to come inside.”
“Merde, cannot get politician to follow orders wis sere pants up,” Joca muses, before sinking the grappel end of her zipline into a higher-up rock outcropping and beginning a cautious ascent, keeping her movements uneven and as in time with other environmental noises (and people whanging into doors) as she possibly can. “Affirming. Unable to get outside distraction, Keelroy, keep moving, but do -not- ‘ead for open sand, keep bouncing ‘im off rocks until ‘e loses appetite. Sterling! I am approaching from opposite side, if door opens, anyone who is not our mark… No quarter.”
Claws reach out, but skitter uselessly across the metal of the fuselage as the Cliffwalker is flung outwards. He grunts as he hits the door, then again when he falls to the ground, his axe clattering to the ground next to him. A low growl comes up from his throat as he starts to rise, shaking his head. By the time he is on his feet, the eel has passes well out of his range. Alone by the door, his ears swivel towards it; he lifts his axe, taking a couple of steps back from the cave, still shaking off the fall.
Someone listening closely might here some tiny cackling from the speaker underneath all the heavy bass he’s keeping the eel’s attention with. Cackling or not though, the Limping Moth once again alters path so that its general flittery evasiveness heads in the general of one large rock after another.
The door to the entrance passage rumbles open after Lobo pulls the lever. Pembroke looks over at Dusty and asks, “You really iced an Odarite?” Dusty shrugs: “Well, I think I winged him.”
The sand eel, meanwhile, is slamming into solid rock and forgetting its primal urge and ancient memory. It loses interest in chasing ghosts around the Shining Sands, plunges below the dunes, and abandons the pursuit for some other time – leaving the Red Eclipse Mercenaries to focus their attention on the inhabitants of the cavern hideout.
Sterling’s rumbling chuckle is tinged with bloodlust. “Acknowledged, Joca,” he calls back over the comm. He holds his sight steady on the door as it opens, groanimg when Razorback stands up right in the middle of a beautiful shot at anybody dumb enough to stick their head out of that passage. “Suppose it’s bad form ta shoot the goddamn glory hound, Joca?” he asks over the private comm, holding his shot for the moment in hopes of getting a clearer one — unless, of course, his boss tells him to shoot anyway.
Static crackles as a public address system is channeled through the sensor modules atop the hill. “Look,” a man’s voice says over the speakers, “you’ve had a rough night. So far, you’ve survived the desert and a sand eel, and now you want to take your chances with what’s behind Door Number One. That’s fine. But we all know why you’re here. Same reason *we’re* here. It’s all about the contract.”
“Monsieur Cliffwalkair, cover, to the side, NOW,” Joca says into her comms, and prepares to roll a flash-bang down said corridor. One of Micky’s special concoctions, featuring a smell like the product of a polecat and a ferret’s drunken love-fest at the bottom of a fast food joint’s dumpster, and a thick red smoke of similar hue to the mercenaries’ smartsuits. “Bad form to shoot anyone willing to ride giant fucking worm to save our asses, yes, even if ‘e is crazy son of beetch,” she replies over private comm, and then reopens the group channel. “Preparing to deploy smoke. Initiate friend or foe ‘eads up system. If you do not ‘ave system, -stay se fuck down-.” The blue-green optics roll, and her suits vocalizer hisses to life. “Fine. You ‘ave fifteen second to make better offair or give up se target. Usserwise se rough night is going to be worked out upon you and your men. Savvy?”
The tiny cackling from the tiny ship starts to trail off as the worm eel thing scurries away beneath the sandy waves. The bass heavy music comes to an end as the speaker pulls back into its normal folded in and firmly attached position. A quick bit of darting around has it hovering in a convenient cluster of rocks behind the tall folks.
Chet lowers the commlink in his hand, then looks toward the men playing cards with Halffang. “Let’s take him for a walk upstairs,” Chet says. The Demarian’s ears flatten against his head as he growls. The mercs all pull guns and aim them at the fugitive as he flips the table. Cards go flying. He doesn’t make a run for it, though. He raises his paws, then obediently walks ahead of Chet and his friends as they lead him up the passage toward the surface. Chet speaks into his commlink again. “No one else has to die,” he says, before lifting his gun and blowing a hole through the back of Halffang’s head. The Demarian topples forward onto the sand. “No one else but *him*,” Chet clarifies. “He’s all yours. We good?”
The Cliffwalker’s eyes widen faintly as the door begins to open. He does not need to be told twice by the mercenary queen and leaps up and out of the way, his claws reaching for purchase on the rock in an attempt to get out of sight of anyone looking through the door. Just in time to watch Halffang drop to the ground he once occupied.
Sterling chuckles as Joca tells Razorback off, his finger ready on the trigger of his rifle. “There ‘e is, Joca,” he calls into the private comm. “There’s our –” He stops abruptly as the man behind Halffang casually kills the Demarian. “Fuck. That’s cold. We still get paid if he’s dead?”
Jocaira’s vocalizer utters a significant quantity of profanity in several languages as she is robbed of both a live target and anyone to murderhobo upon. “Vous tuer voler nigaud!” She gets to her feet, tamping down the flash-bang’s fuse to stop the timer. Her fellow ‘merc boss with poor impulse control’ seems to be her only focus at the moment. “…sere was intel in sat skull you just -perforated-, what in se shit, Monsieur? Could you not ‘ave ‘eld it for a moment?”
“Your contract pays dead or alive,” Chet replies with a shrug and a faint smile. “Our contract pays alive or dead if he goes quietly about it. Neither one of us gets the big payday we’d prefer, but, hey, we get paid. It’s just business.”
There’s just a sigh from the Moth.
The Cliffwalker remains at his perch, waiting to see how things pan out. Risks he is willing to take, but only to protect others. As long as the two mercenary groups are not shooting at each other, he is not getting involved.
“Intel …” Sterling had forgotten about the connection Halffang had to the explosion aboard the Implacable, but Joca’s accusation recalls it to him. “Ah, shit, that’s right. I guess we’ll never know, then, unless these jokers had some kinda connection other’n a merc contract.” He stays where he is, watching the passageway carefully, regardless of what the other merc team’s leader says.
Jocaira’s visor snaps up, and she huffs, petulantly. “I would ‘ave preferred ‘im to go -noisy-, I still ‘ave usser marks in sis chain…” A slow grin crosses her face. “…a chain sat was apparently paying to keep ‘im quiet, dead or alive. ‘ow much, do I wonder, was sis quiet worth? Obviously love nor money was enough for you to keep ‘im alive.”
The Moth’s little speaker folds back out to play the Let’s Make a Deal theme.
Razorback remains silent through the exchange, despite his precarious perch.
“His life ain’t worth mine,” Chet replies. “What he knows doesn’t matter to me, just so long as no one finds out. And, before you ask, I got no cares about who hired us for the contract. The money all changes hands through anonymous transfers. Just business.” He waves his gun barrel toward the Demarian corpse. “Now go on, haul him off. I have to explain a few things in a report and I hate goddamned paperwork.”
Sterling smiles behind his visor as Joca speaks, chuckling at Kilroy’s choice of music.
Jocaira’s flirty little grin turns back into huffy-face. “Mordre mon cul,” she hisses, gesturing at the dead mark while keeping her eye on the opposition. “Monsieur Keelroy, keep an eye out for any more eel worm. Monsieur Sterling, cover our departure. I will make sure our generous ‘osts do not change sere minds. Someone pick up sis empty meat sack and let us get se fuck out of ‘ere.”
The Moth emits a chirpy little chip tune fanfare before a voice comes out “Scanners active. I’ll yell if anything shows up.”
Lobo gives the lever another push. The hideout door starts sliding along the track. Chet gives a jaunty salute and says, “Next time, maybe just think about knocking.” The door clangs shut once more. On the Moth’s sensors, it’s apparent that the guards are lingering in the passage, but don’t appear to be making any offensive efforts.
The dark-furred Demarian above the door drops down from the rocks now, hanging up his axe and leaning down to haul the corpse up onto his shoulder. At least he can make himself useful. He begins to make his way across the sand to retrieve what’s left of his chain gun before rejoining the group.
As the door slides closed, Sterling gets to his feet, flipping the safety on his rifle and resting it against his shoulder. “Well, that was annoyin’,” he declares, heading for Joca and Kilroy.
“Sere was giant sand worm, beetch!” Joca yells at the door, before her visor snaps shut and turns the end of that pissed off exclamation into a digital hiss-pop. “James, did you bring cryo-whatevair body bag or is it in my suit? Son of squeerrel-fucking ass for a ‘at. I see sat boy again I am going to give ‘im a knock… right in ‘is taint.”
.
