Terminal Velocities and Gallows Humor #2
“Rational probability calculation,” I replied coldly.
I unsnapped my thigh holster and drew the heavy plasma revolver.
Checked the energy cell. Full. “Two targets bunched together create more noise, more scent, a larger heat signature. We’re easy prey.
If we split up, we cut the chance of local predators or patrols tracking us down in half. ”
I reached for my belt, unclipped the small matte-black tracking beacon, and pressed it hard against her chest. She grabbed it reflexively.
“You go into the jungle. Head north. Use the undergrowth for cover. Avoid open water.” I spoke in clipped, dictated sentences. No room for discussion. “The beacon’s signal is encrypted. I’ll find you once I’ve secured a new ship.”
Jules stared at the small device in her palm. Then she raised her head. Her sarcasm crumbled for a fraction of a second, revealing pure, naked panic. “And you? You’re just going to march into that damn fortress? It’s guaranteed to be crawling with soldiers. Slavers. Worse.”
“Exactly.” I slid the plasma revolver back into the holster and straightened up.
Pain flared in my ribs, but I pushed it down.
“Because I handle enemies better than wild animals. Animals eat you out of instinct. Enemies have structures. Chains of command. Greed. Ego. All of that makes them predictable. I’ll infiltrate their systems, find their weaknesses, and get us off this rock. ”
Jules snorted. A rough, dry sound. The panic in her eyes gave way to resignation, paired with that defiant gallows humor that kept her alive. She knew me too well. She knew arguing was a waste of time. When I made a plan, reality bent to it. Or it broke.
“Fine,” she said, slipping the tracker into her breast pocket and zipping it shut. “But if I get eaten by a tentacle monster, I’m coming back as a poltergeist and hiding your damn holo-pads every time you need them.”
“Noted.” I took half a step back. The heat from the burning ship behind us was building. The metal groaned. “Clock’s ticking, Jules. Ten minutes.”
She nodded curtly. No hug. No tear-choked words.
Our friendship was built on survival, not sentimentality.
She turned, raised her blaster, and trudged into the dense black foliage of the jungle.
The undergrowth swallowed her after a few meters.
The crack of branches faded until only the hostile breathing of the forest remained.
I didn’t stay a second longer.
I turned west. The neon-violet silhouette of the mining city burned into my retinas. The path ahead led over jagged volcanic rock and through knee-deep undergrowth. I started moving. My boots found purchase on the rough terrain. Every step calculated. Every breath controlled.
Two minutes later, a massive shockwave tore the air apart.
The freighter’s reactor went critical. The pressure slammed into my back, nearly throwing me forward.
An infernal roar ripped through the atmosphere, followed by a blast of heat that singed the collar of my leather jacket.
I didn’t turn around. The ship no longer existed.
It was a burned variable in an already solved equation.
The march to the fortress took its toll.
The humid heat draped over my skin like a wet shroud.
Sweat plastered my shirt to my torso. Mosquitoes the size of my palm buzzed around my head but kept their distance, repelled by the metallic smell of blood at my temple and the ozone still clinging to my clothes.
The closer I got to the archaic structure, the more details emerged from the darkness.
The fortress was no delicate palace. It was a brutal statement of power.
Steel beams drove into the mountain like rusty nails.
Pipes five meters wide pumped black smoke into the sky.
Violet neon tubes illuminated the sharp edges of watchtowers and armored gates.
The steady, rhythmic pounding of heavy machinery vibrated through my boot soles and into my bones.
It smelled of sulfur, hot metal, and sweat.
I reached the outer perimeter. The natural vegetation had been stripped away here. A trench of jagged gravel separated the jungle from the first metal barricades.
I crouched in the shadow of a fallen tree trunk and pulled a small tactical monocular from my belt pouch. I scanned the walls. Infrared cameras swept the terrain in mechanical rhythms. Guards patrolled the platforms. Humanoid silhouettes, but more massive. Broader.
Their movements were disciplined. Military.
My lips twisted into a hard, joyless smile. Perfect. Not some ragtag mob. An army. Where there was an army, there was a commander. And where there was a commander, there was someone whose authority I could undermine, manipulate, or break.
I stowed the monocular, wiped the dried blood from my forehead, and pulled up my collar. The pain in my ribs had faded to a dull throb, drowned out by the cold adrenaline pumping through my veins.
I hated taking orders. I refused to be prey.
I stepped out of the jungle shadows, chin raised, shoulders squared. I wasn’t walking into this fortress to hide or beg. I was walking in to take what I needed. The arrogance burning in my chest was my shield. It kept me alive. It held back the memory of the icy shackles.
With firm, relentless steps, I crossed the rubble field and stepped into the harsh violet light of the watchtowers. I waited for the howl of alarm sirens. For the click of rounds being chambered.
Let them come. I was ready to rewrite the rules.