Darren Wearmouth - Critical Dawn

Despite his temporary reconciliation with Gregor, he hoped Denver would make the bastard pay for overseeing that kind of treatment.

A low hum vibrated through the container’s sides, making his teeth rattle.

It must be close now.

The sounds of whirring motors from somewhere behind him indicated that the mother ship had closed its docking hatch.

On clear days and nights, Charlie had watched the underside of the ship through his scopes. When the hatch opened, he’d often get a brief glimpse of the inside. It featured the usual croatoan pragmatic style: off-white smooth surfaces with light blue and pink accents much like their anti-grav projectors.

He wondered why they hadn’t invaded during the ‘80s. They’d have got a kick out of the neon colors. That aside, he knew that shuttles were held in corridors just wide enough to accommodate the shuttle and someone to get into the cockpit on either side.

The sound of metal on metal came to him, and the shuttle rocked. He could feel movement. The aliens were coming into the storage area from the cockpit. His heart remained steady as he thought about this mission.

Once the container was taken out and delivered to the main distribution area, he’d have to find a way back toward the edge of the ship. He needed the bomb to rip a hole in the structure of the ship and preferably take out the anti-grav projectors.

The ship had eight of them in pairs at each corner.

Mike was sure that if they were to take out one corner, the ship would be destabilized enough to succumb to gravity. But with it now docked and a part of the terraform ship, that plan needed some modification.

The container rattled and moved, gaining speed down the ramp until it leveled out with a bump. The voices of the croatoans seemed more relaxed, their clicking and grunts less high-pitched. They continued to push the container further into the ship. After a couple of minutes, they came to a stop. Charlie felt the sensation of rising in an elevator. Up and up they went, and that’s when he had the idea.

Throughout, he had only heard two distinct voices. And with this perpetual rising, they were probably in a confined space. He reached behind him and grabbed the small bottle of oxygen, making sure he didn’t make any noise. Not yet anyway.

Once he had that tucked into his belt, he pulled his hunting knife free of its belt holster, keeping it low and hidden by his side. He’d pushed the bomb free of himself and hidden it under a number of foil-packed trays.

That’s when he kicked out and banged his elbows against the container. He carried on until they stopped rising.

The latches sprung open, the lid twanging with the freed tension.

Two black barrels of croatoan pistols pushed into the gap before the lid was removed fully. The aliens looked down at him. Their faces didn’t change, show surprise, or show any emotion. They simply observed before then breaking their attention and looking at each other, no doubt trying to figure out if there was a protocol for this.

The one on the left turned away, revealing that they were indeed in a kind of elevator. Circular with white walls, it must have been about twenty feet in diameter.

Ideal.

When the one on the right leaned further in, Charlie kicked up with his legs, scattering trays and foil packs over the edge, knocking the pistol away. He thrust up his arm, driving the knife underneath the alien’s visor and the blade into its tough skin, but the knife was made from their own metal and honed over the years.

It broke through the hide with a pop and sliced easily into the alien’s brain.

Its arms and hands twitched. Reaching up, Charlie grabbed the pistol and let the alien fall to the ground.

The other one spun round from behind the container, clicking and grunting in urgent tones. It mustn’t have seen Charlie grab the pistol, for when the croatoan leaned over to point his own weapon, Charlie was already aiming and pulling the trigger.

With a loud reverberation, both pistols fired. White-hot blasts of pain burned into Charlie’s chest. His oxygen tank hissed. Air started to escape from the valve before it popped completely, draining the precious air.

Yellow blood dripped onto his shoulder.

The croatoan slumped over the edge, its visor in pieces with a hole burned through it and through the creature’s skull.

Charlie placed his hand over the valve to try and stop the flow of air as he stood up and got out of the container, stepping over the body of the still-twitching alien.

He checked his chest; the fabric of his camo shirt was frayed at the edges where the alien round had grazed by. The skin had risen into a bright red welt across his pectoral muscle. Kneeling, Charlie opened one of the root packs, grabbed a handful of milled root powder, and rubbed it in until the skin started to tingle, healing the cells.

While that continued to do its magic, he controlled his breathing, reducing his heart rate, and assessed the situation. He couldn’t tell how sound proof the elevator car was, but the fact it stopped meant that someone would likely have noticed. Perhaps they were waiting for the delivery of the container.

Looking at the alien control panel, there was no way to guess of its destination or how it might work. A clear glass square, maybe eight by eleven, featured a series of symbols that he wasn’t familiar with.

In all the time he had fought with the croatoans, they’d been careful not to leave any of their tech or communications behind.

Even the ones he had killed rarely had anything with their writing on it.

The valve continued to release the pressurized oxygen, and he began to feel lightheaded, not just from the shallow breaths, but the alien atmosphere within the ship.

Ripping off a foil cover and spitting into the remnants of the root powder, he made a paste and used the rippled foil to press and hold the paste around the broken valve. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it’d buy him time.

A flash of light came from the glass control panel on the circular wall. A light blue ring spun around, reminding him of the waiting icon on PCs back in the day. And then the car jolted and started to lift.

It appeared that someone had realized there was a problem. Charlie knew he didn’t have long now. Even with the oxygen mask, the atmosphere burned against his skin. With the alien pistol in his left hand, he reached over with his right to grab the bomb from the container, throwing it over his shoulder and putting his arm through the strap so he could wear it like a backpack.

He kneeled behind the container so he would be obscured when the doors opened. He knew it was unlikely he would get another chance at this.

One way or another, he’d set the bomb off.

For sixty long seconds, the elevator continued to climb until finally it stopped and the doors opened. Charlie saw the darkness reflect against the back wall. He gripped the pistol tight and strained his hearing, all the while trying to suppress the urge to cough.

The oxygen ran out. Each inhalation brought nothing. He cast the mask and the small tank to the side. He felt drunk, his vision spinning. Pain pinched at his nerves and muscles as they knotted with cramp.

Still he gripped the pistol and waited.

A voice called out to him. It sounded from somewhere far away and dulled as though his ears were full of water. Louder now, closer, the words became distinguishable.

“Oh Mr. Jackson, what have you done? The scourge of my employers fancied a tour of the ship, did he?” A shadow loomed over Charlie, and he knew this to be the one named Augustus. “Come out, little wasp, unless you wish to choke to a slow, painful death. I’m not concerned either way. Come see what you want to see. It’s too late for everyone else now. Maybe you’ll prove worth keeping around? Your choice.”