Chapter Three: Ex-Life

Chapter Three: Ex-Life

The command center, in a word, overwhelmed Stefan. Holo-screens all across the octagonal walls displayed topographical maps, sonar scans and all manner of sensor data. A variety of people sat at rows of metal desks, screens in front of them. At the center of the room, several people sat around a large, brown table. One of them stood upon his entry. He could tell it was a woman, and the sight of her shocked him.

            “Ah. The prodigal son comes home.” Stefan nearly flinched at the sound of the voice. It was a long time before he said a word. The woman standing in front of him was tall, statuesque. She had long black hair and flashing blue eyes. Her body might have been lean, but he knew from getting hammered in multiple training exercises that she was tougher than she looked. Her beauty added to her aura of inaccessibility.

            “L-Anders,” he said finally. “What are you doing here? And where is here, exactly?” The woman smiled, putting her left hand on her hip.

            “You sound surprised to see me. Why?” Stefan shrugged.

            “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that you never, ever would work with an underground rebel organization. How’s that for a start?”

            Commander Elisabeth Anders, colloquially called Lacey, raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think that’s what we’re doing?” Raising his metal hand, the Russian began counting off on his fingers.

            “First, we happen to be in an underground bunker. That’s not standard military procedure, and I’d be willing to bet my bottom dollar that you’re not with some secret government organization, given that you don’t have a chip in your head.”

            “How…” Stefan tapped the left side of his face.

            “Eagle Eye, Anders. Not painless or cheap, but I can see right through your empty head. Now, where was I? Oh, that’s right. I was busy poking holes in your cheap façade. Second on the list is that your pet Neanderthal mentioned something about you choosing criminals for operatives. Even I’m not so stupid as to think the government would choose me for black ops. Third, the government barred someone with your neural disorder from active service again. Therefore, you’re not serving with the government. I rather suspect that you’re working for, or with, I don’t really care which, someone desperate enough to take you after seeing you service record. That’s what clinched it. So, who’s your boss?” Anders grinned.

            “Still sharp, I see,” she said. “No, I don’t think that I’ll be sharing something quite that sensitive with you just yet. But as to where you are and why…” she swept her arm across the table at the people assembled. “Have a seat. I’ll explain.” Reluctantly, Stefan cooperated, taking a seat next to a woman with caramel-colored hair and green eyes and a man with sand-brown hair and eyes to match. Anders pointed to one of the screens, which changed to show the faces of eight people, including Stefan.

            “I’ll begin by introducing our organization. We work for the Interspecies Cooperative, commonly called the Separator’s Coalition. I wouldn’t ordinarily consider something as rash as this, but recent events have forced us to change our priorities. Several high-profile members of our organization have been recently killed under mysterious circumstances. We believe that a government counterterrorism unit is responsible, but we don’t have proof positive yet.”

            “And we’re involved how, exactly?” Asked a woman on the other side of the table. As Stefan’s eyes scanned her, he noticed several things. First, unlike the other people present in the room, she was wearing actual combat gear, what looked like a Type Seventeen Everest-Class Battlesuit. Second, her skin was blue-grey, and her hair dyed fiery red-orange. Her face was marked with several yellow streaks. A Gin’Luthet, he realized. A tactile telepath. He noted her face up on the screen. According to her vital statistics, her name was Psynder Firzaak.

            “You’re all involved because you’re among the deadliest liars, thieves, and killers we gathered stats on. Some of you served in the military, and others should have. Let’s list your friends from the top.” The alien’s face flashed on the screen first.

            “Psynder Firzaak,” she read. “Your partners called you “She-Devil” for good reason. Expert hand-to-hand combatant, medic, and strategist. 291 confirmed kills. Her telepathy allows her to predict her opponent’s next move, and her sympathetic cognition allows her to read emotions through pheromone changes. Military training included special instruction in wound treatment, and her background in medicine also provides her with experience in treating more serious injuries.” The next face that appeared was that of the woman sitting next to Stefan.

            “Danielle Watkins. Arsonist famous for her activist stance and creative target choice. 407 counts of arson, 15 of destruction of government property, 34 of attempted murder. Explosives expert, chemistry genius, and possible pyromaniac. Having faked her death and suffered severe burns on multiple occasions, she is more than willing to sacrifice her life to achieve her ends. She is also fluent in several languages, both human and alien.” Stefan started at that. Four hundred counts of arson? This girl was mad. The number of government targets she had selected, and high-profile ones on top of that, made him appreciate her guts, at least. The next face was Stefan’s own, and the charges he heard stunned him.

            “Stefan Pietro Bakrylov. Former Counterforce operative with the callsign Cobra. Expert infiltrator, black belt in eight martial art. Adept infiltrator, capable of breaking into and out of the highest-security facilities in the galaxy. Since his supposed death in the Charon Bomb explosion, he has acquired an impressive rap sheet as well. 47 counts of assault, 18 counts of breaking and entering, and 6 of theft of government property.” The next face that appeared on the screen was a female he had never seen before. She had reddish brown hair and brown eyes, and her vital statistics indicated that she had been born in Washington Falls, a poor neighborhood on Saturn.

            “Natalie Shepard. Linknet codename Little Bo Peep. 728 counts of illegal transfer of electronic banking units, 29 counts of falsification of records. Famous hacktivist, moderately skilled hand-to-hand combatant and repairwoman.” Looking around the table, Stefan saw the girl. She was wearing a simple green blouse and blue jeans. The girl seemed quite nonchalant about all of this, as though antigovernment espionage was the kind of thing she did daily. Then again, given her hacking skills, maybe it was. Anders continued, now showing the face of a man with mouse-brown hair and steel grey eyes. His cheekbones were high, almost inhumanly so, and he had three long scars that began above is right eye and vanished beneath his hair.

            “This is Arthur Jonathan Brooks. Hunter and poacher, responsible for six of his siblings. 242 counts of poaching, 137 counts of illegal sale of endangered species. More impressively, he killed most of these beasts at almost a mile of range. One thousand twelve yards was his most impressive, according to his statistics. Crack shot, fluent in four languages, and skilled tracker. Also, tier one knife fighter and adept hand-to-hand-combatant. Favored weapon: kukri knife.”

            “There’s one more name on the list,” Danielle Watkins said. “Who is it? There’s no one else here.” At that point, the door to the control room opened. Stefan turned, and his jaw dropped for the second time that day.

            “Sorry I’m late,” Tyler Kane said. “I got held up.”

            Stefan’s first reaction was not to greet his former cellmate. Rather, it was an explosion of Russian that Anders wouldn’t have translated for any money.

            “What’s he doing here?” Stefan asked when he started speaking English again. “You sent him to attack me. You set this up!” Anders raised an eyebrow.

            “And you thought we’d simply ask?”

            “You could have,” he shot back. “I’d have done it. You know that.”

            “And you will now?” She asked. The Russian leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs on the table. He went from the picture of explosive rage to calm control in a veritable instant.

            “With him, under one condition. I want one last dose of Likunne. Take it out of my paycheck. Then I’m in. No questions asked.”

            Anders smiled. “We’d intended to give you one anyway. So, here’s your last operative. Tyler Kane. 89 counts of murder of the first degree, 12 counts of aggravated manslaughter. Expert hand-to-hand fighter and master of nine different martial arts. A bit of a linear tactician, so not someone you want planning engagements. Still, he’s good in a tight spot, as long as he doesn’t run away.” Stefan raised an eyebrow at that, but he didn’t say anything. “Now, any questions?”

Arthur Brooks’ hand went up. “My siblings. If I’m no longer caring for them, how will they survive?” Anders grinned.

 “As part of your service package, they will receive a monthly stipend triple to officer’s pay in the standard army. We are well-funded, if under-manned. Any other questions?” Danielle Watkins raised her hand.

            “I have another one. Why do I have to work with these idiots?” Anders smiled.

            “I’m glad someone asked. See, I tendered this to you as a choice, but you don’t really have as much of one as you might think. Our organization drafted many of you out of prisons, and we could just as easily serve your sentences here. And, given that many of them are either lifetime incarceration or death…” Her voice trailed off.

            “So you’ll imprison us if we don’t work for you?” Anders shook her head.

            “Not quite. Only those of you we don’t execute summarily.” Watkins didn’t say anything more, but Stefan saw her mouth something highly uncomplimentary. “So, any dissenters?” No one’s hand went up; then again, not getting shot or thrown in another cell was excellent incentive for doing whatever the crazy woman in front of them told them they had to do. “Didn’t think so.” She pointed to a man standing in one of the corners of the room. “Dalton here will show you to your barracks. We’ve provided you with an armory, a hangar, and a training area. I do suggest that you don’t try anything stupid, though. We have auto-targeting laser turrets programmed specifically to target you if you should try to leave when armed.” The man, who wore a black suit and blue glasses just like Nathaniel Carson. This man lacked Agent Carson’s dark good looks, however. Instead, he looked deathly pale, and the skin of his face seemed painfully stretched across his skull. He gestured for them to follow.

            “Come with me,” he said, his voice a low, guttural hiss. Reluctantly, the recruits followed him out of the room. Psynder Firzaak went first, followed by Brooks and Shepard. Stefan was behind Shepard, with Watkins and Kane in the absolute rear. The man kept a good pcae for someone just this side of Hades, and he led them out through a winding series of hallways and then through a wide set of double doors. As they swung open, he intoned, “Welcome to the Underground”. What they saw next can only be described as breathtaking. It was as though someone had sliced a small piece of the world out and then buried it to keep for later. Rank after rank of men and women in grey and orange jumpsuits marked ICRF (Interspecies Cooperative Rebel Front). Some were performing exercises and calisthenics, others working on Adder-class light attack fighter ships, and still others were performing firearm drills using paint guns. While energy weapons were nothing new to humanity, many projectile rifle systems were still in use. Therefore, paintball guns calibrated to real weapon range and rate of fire were employed by many military and paramilitary groups to train soldiers in firefight situations. Stefan gaped at what he saw.

            “How in heaven’s name do you hide this stuff?” He asked. “There’s no way a base like this goes completely unnoticed.” Dalton smiled.

            “That’s the beauty of our little endeavor here, my boy. This operation is a purported government military base. Because we’re so distant from the Front, though, they don’t know we’ve actually turned it into one of our own bases.” He pointed to a large, brown building with an inverted shape similar to two lined-up D’s. “That’s your barracks over there. I have things to do, so don’t expect a tour. Run along now.” And with that, he simply walked away. After several seconds spent aimlessly standing about, Danielle snapped her fingers.

            “All right,” she said, her voice surprisingly commanding. “Let’s move.” Tyler Kane raised an eyebrow.

            “Who died and made you my boss, girl?” Watkins put her hands on her hips.

            “Didn’t see you stepping up, punk. Got a problem?”
            “I think I…” before Tyler finished, he felt someone grab him by the shirt collar, flip him onto his back, and dig an elbow into his ribs. Stefan was crouched above him, an angry look in his yellowish eyes. The long, unkempt blond hair on his head added to the look of manic fury his face had assumed.

            “No, you don’t,” Stefan growled. “You don’t think. You rush in headlong because you have no desire to plan or any contingencies in place for whenever you get knocked on you rear end. So listen. Until someone displays tactical proficiency equal to or surpassing the girl, she’s our leader.”

            “I don’t take orders well,” Tyler managed to gasp out. Stefan brought his stubbly face closer to Tyler’s, until they were barely two inches apart. His expression went from manic to icy calm.

            “Then you will learn to.” Stefan slowly rose to his feet, throwing a quick knee into his opponent’s stomach. Tyler scrambled up as well.

            “And if I don’t?” He challenged. Stefan shrugged.

            “Then no one would find your body, even if they cared to look.” The blue-haired vigilante glared angrily at his blond opponent for several seconds. Stefan met his gaze evenly, and then he slowly slid one eye down in a wink. Something about that microexpression didn’t seem quite jovial to Tyler. Instead, he saw a hint of malevolent joy at the prospect of a fight. Wisely, he said nothing more.

            “Any other objections?” Dani asked. When no one replied, she said, “Then on we go.”

 

The barracks were, to no one’s great surprise, quite sparse. There were three bunks in one room and three in another. Each of these rooms, fortunately, had vaporizer toilets and plasma-heated showers. Dani naturally ordered that the recruits divide by gender, and threatened anyone violating the other sex’s living space with severe punishment. They all found jumpsuits and boots in the lockers in the bedrooms, each one having a name plastered on the right side of the chest. Stefan slipped into his after stripping out his prison uniform. Ordinarily, he would have used the shower first, but he suspected that Anders had at least one training exercise planned for the day. Inside one of the uniform pockets, he found a syringe full of a smoky pink liquid he recognized as the drug Likkune. Without thinking about it for more than several seconds, he jammed the syringe into his arm, wincing as he felt the drug enter his bloodstream. Last does, he thought. I’m free. After they were all dressed, Watkins ordered them into the armory at the rear of the barracks. It was more impressive than the sleeping areas; rack upon rack of all manner of firearms and melee weapons lined the walls, and some of the stocks on the guns had proportionate padding greater than that on the beds . Brooks immediately went over to one wall and removed a long, dangerous looking rifle.

            “Karakama Sport Verminator Rifle,” he said reverently. “Big Game Model. This…this gun is phenomenal. It has better range than anything I’ve ever used. I always dreamed of buying one, but I never had the money.” Kane carefully examined the melee weapons, focusing on blunt implements almost exclusively. It took a good while, but he managed to find a pair of escrima sticks that suited him. He tucked them into his belt and grabbed a pistol-grip shotgun off the close combat projectile rack. Dani picked up a heavy-looking grenade launcher and closely examined it.

            “You’d think they’d give us a flamethrower or two,” she murmured. Stefan looked at her, surprised.

            “You want one of those things?” He asked, incredulous. She nodded.

            “A defoliator is vital to jungle operations. Besides, its sheer terror value makes it ideal for use against unprepared opponents.” He shook his head.

            “Have you ever used one on a real person? Have you ever really killed someone?” Dani lowered her eyes.

            “Once,” she whispered. Stefan took that to mean she hadn’t enjoyed the experience.

            “Doesn’t really feel good, does it?” She shook her head. “If you didn’t enjoy that, then don’t ask for flamethrowers.”

            “Did you ever use one?” Stefan nodded.

            “A few times,” he replied. “Castor 3 was the last time. Since it was actually a jungle, they issued flamethrowers to each squad, but since we were special forces, I didn’t think we’d need it. Turned out we did…” His voice trailed as he looked through a collection of small rifles. “They don’t have one,” he remarked.

            “One what?” Dani asked.

            “A disintegrator,” he answered. “I use those almost exclusively.”

            “Why?” Stefan shrugged.

            “It’s a preference. See, I used to work as an infiltrator. In which case, it doesn’t pay to leave bodies around. Disintegrators are therefore ideal; you don’t leave a trail of blood or corpses.”

            “And you enjoy using those?” Psynder asked, from the other side of the room. She had chosen a weapon that Stefan didn’t recognize. It looked like a cross between a carbine and a Taser, with wires and pipes coming out of it at odd angles. The Russian shook his head in a response to the remark.

            “I don’t enjoy it,” he answered, “but it’s the best weapon I can use. It’s not a painless tool, but it gets the job done.” He took two of the rifles off the rack. “If Anders will agree to give me a couple power tools, I might be able to make one. Maybe there’s a workbench here somewhere.” Tossing the rifles into a pile in the corner, he went over to the knives section of the close-quarters weapons section and grabbed three knives, two of which he strapped to his boots and the other of which he lashed on his right shoulder. Then, he went to the Grenades section and grabbed a whole belt of concussion spheres. Arthur Brooks was there with him, taking a few knockout gas bombs and two sonic charges.

            “What are you two doing,” Tyler quipped. “Planning on blowing something really big up?” Brooks shook his head.

            “Nope,” he said. “Just a bunch of small somethings.”

            “Hey.” The voice wasn’t loud, but it was insistent. Dan was standing next to the back door of the weapons room. She was wearing crossed bandoliers full of grenades, and she held the launcher she had chosen with both hands. “If you ladies are finished gossiping, I’d like to see the hangar.”

            True to her word, Anders had provided them with a ship and a hangar. However, as they had perhaps expected, both were lackluster. The ship’s frame was small, but parts literally hung off the sides. The panels were blasted black, and Dani could literally smell plasma wafting off the damaged plates. The hangar itself had one small tool, rack, and did not even appear that she had given them a cutting torch, a vital piece of tech for this kind of work.

            “Well,” Stefan said, “she gave us a rust-bucket. That’s rather inconsiderate.”

            “She said she gave us a ship,” Dani answered. “She never said it was any good.” Tyler rolled his eyes.

            “Why are you two complaining?” He asked. “What difference does this make?”

            “If you fall out in space, you tell me,” Dani snapped. “Can you stop being a moron for at least a minute and take this seriously?” Kane shrugged.

            “Why bother?” He asked. “It makes no difference to me whether or not the ship works. I’m busting out of here ASAP.”

            Stefan laughed. “Watkins is right,” he remarked. “You really are a fool.”

            “Why?” He growled. “Because I don’t do what I’m told?”

            “I think you’re an idiot because you don’t understand what you’re up against and you don’t care to find out,” The Russian snapped. “If you won’t listen to anyone, walk out that door right now. Maybe Anders was lying about the automatic targeting systems. Or maybe not,” he added.

            “What makes you think I care about this?” Kane snapped. “I have no life. What difference does it make if I die?”

            “Because we need you,” Stefan exploded. “It doesn’t matter whether or not you believe in this mission. I don’t, to be frank. Anders gave us a mission she doesn’t understand fully, and she won’t help us at all. But, again, it doesn’t matter. Like it or not, we’re in this together. So sit down, buck up, and pay attention. Or I’ll knock you on your butt. Again. It’s not just your life that depends on it. All of us depend on each other now.”

            “How do you figure?” Arthur Brooks asked.

            “Anders has done this kind of thing before,” he explained. “And she shared more info last time.”
            “So you’re telling us not to trust her,” Psynder extrapolated.

            “No,” he replied. “I’m telling you to think while you work. Keep a weather eye, all of you. Nothing is ever simple or straightforward.”

            “You don’t believe her, then,” Dani muttered.

            “Never believe anyone,” he cautioned. “You’re a fool if you take everyone at their word.”

            “So…what now?” Psynder asked. “We’ve seen everything Anders said was in here.”

            Dani shrugged. “She said to stay inside. As long as you do, I don’t much care what you do. I, for one, am going to work on the starship. So if you’re not going to help, bug off.”

            About an hour later, Dani and Stefan were alone in the hangar. Despite Dani’s order, Stefan wasn’t helping with the ship. Instead, he had taken several weapons apart on the sparse workbench and was busy reassembling them into another. She was patch-welding ship parts and retrofitting capacitors, although it seemed that little progress was being made. Having taken off the jumpsuit, she was wearing full welding protection over her tank-top shirt and armored pants. For his part, Stefan removed his jumpsuit in favor of a black t-shirt with ICRF plastered on it in yellow lettering. He had removed the hand from his prosthetic arm and ratcheted an arc-welder in its place. The new attachment sliced through the thick metal plates on the guns, and he was crossing wires and refitting batteries. He swore more than once, as the welder’s sparks splashed across the skin of his biological arm, but still worked tirelessly anyway. After about two hours, an exasperated Dani Watkins took off her welder’s mask and glared at him, her hands on her hips.

            “Are you going to help?” She asked.

            Stefan didn’t look up from his work, but his face tightened as he mixed and matched pieces. “Help you what, exactly?” He asked. “Weapons are my thing. Starships aren’t.”

            Dani shook her head. “You could at least have offered to help,” she exploded. “You’re the only other person who stayed here, and you’re busy toying with firearms.”

            “I am not toying with them,” he snapped, closing a panel on the gun and driving three rivets through holes in the grip. “But fine.” He dropped the gun and turned around. “What do you need?”

            Dani smiled inside. At least he listens, she thought. “I just need an extra set of hands. That’s all.” Stefan nodded, disengaging the clasps on the arc welder attachment and returning his metal hand to the wrist. Walking over to the ship, he grabbed onto the ladder rungs on the side and pulled himself up into it.

            “Okay,” he said. “Where do I start?” Dani grinned widely.

            “Right here,” she said. “We’re retooling the power feeds to the cannons. They’re thirty years old at least.”

            Stefan nodded. “Okay, they’re weapons,” he murmured. “How hard can this be?”

            Control Room

            ‘How goes it?” The man on the screen asked. Although his face was masked in darkness, Anders knew full well what it looked like. In fact, she was the only member of the ICRF who did.

            “Well,” she said, “they’re stubborn and dysfunctional. Still, I think I may have a solid core to the team.”

            “Firzaak?”

            “No,” she replied. “Watkins, actually.”

            “Psynder let Watkins take charge?” The man said, his voice toneless.

            “Not quite,” she answered. “Watkins just did it. It’s strange. Bakrylov actually backed her up when Kane challenged her.”

            “As expected.”

            Anders nodded. “I determined that I would let them rest for a day for commencing their training, sir.”

            “That is no longer an option,” the man replied. “Two more of our leadership are dead. They were actually assassinated; they did not simply vanish. Start them tonight, after the meal. Live-fire."

"Sir?" She asked. 

"You heard me," he replied. "Push them as hard as you are able. We are now fighting for our lives, Anders. We cannot fail.."

Author's Note

Note mistakes on spelling, grammar, and mechanics. Positive feedback is appreciated but not required,