The Perfect Weapon (Short Story) Page 4

  At each of the building’s four corners, a gigantic pile of trash was neatly stacked, and Bazine ran for the shadow of the nearest one. Up close, she saw a hodgepodge of humanoid detritus, including chairs, keyboards, and droids, all mixed up with chunks of browned wax, bits of sodden white fluff, and the yellow-and-black-striped sawtooth legs and mandibles of generations of dead dacs. A loud hum jerked her attention away from the building and toward one of the insects, zooming straight toward her and clutching an empty eggshell the size of a sleeping bag in its mandibles. Bazine froze, holding the palm frond to block her body, wishing she knew more about how these creatures viewed the world and whether they would see her as an enemy, a food source, or a mere inconvenience.

  Experience had taught her that it was usually one of the first two.

  The apidactyl, fortunately, didn’t notice her, but Bazine had a brief chance to study its physiognomy as it carefully fit the eggshell into the puzzle of garbage and flew off. Her conclusion was that the dacs were flying death machines, and she wanted to get into and out of the building as quickly as possible without getting close to another one.

  She couldn’t remember if such creatures saw more clearly during the day or at night, or if they had any sense of smell, and when she tried to pull up info on her datapad, she found only a cheerful entry on uses for honey and wax. Forced to choose between facing the creatures by light of day or in the dark, where it was possible they’d have the advantage even with her night-vision goggles, she chose day. A pitch-black hive full of killer bugs did not appeal. What she needed was a distraction.

  Kicking up one foot, Bazine flicked the catch that released the thermal detonator cradled in the high wedge heel of her boot. She thumbed the button, reared back, and hurled the metal sphere toward an outcropping of glistening wax on the front side of the building. Just as she’d hoped, the blast radius created a gaping spherical hole that dripped honey—and brought the entire hive of angry apidactyls scurrying from every angle in a writhing mass of berserk black and yellow. The moment the front door was clear, she dropped the palm frond and ran, dived through, and rolled to her knees, finally inside the last known home of TK-1472.

  —

  The eerie silence inside the gold-tinged building wouldn’t last, which meant Bazine didn’t have much time. She took her bearings amid the ruins of a lobby filled with smooth plastic chairs and jogged to the remains of a front desk. Anything that could be carried away by sentient beings or insects had been; only the furniture firmly bolted to the floor and wall remained. The comp screens had all been broken, and gray glass littered the desk. She’d hoped to find a map or logbook, but everything appeared to be digital, which meant there was no way for her to get into the system. For just a moment, she wished she’d brought Orri. But then she imagined a chittering dac catching the back of his vest and lifting him, screaming, into the air. They were better off with him sleeping on the Sparrowhawk.

  Bazine had expected to sneak through the darkened halls of a simple retirement facility, jamming the cam feeds as she hunted for Tribulus and passed unnoticed among the staff and patients. She was trained to deal with sentient creatures, whether through deception or force. But she knew nothing of giant bugs and barely more than that about coaxing data out of broken computers. If the hologram in Suli’s cantina had mentioned a hive of apidactyls, she would’ve walked away from the job.

  Orri had told her that data servers were often stored in an underground room, ostensibly so their records would be difficult for outsiders to access and safe from any weather or fire issues. That was her goal: get to the data room, find a way to boot up the servers, hope there was an unbroken screen and keyboard, and poke around for what she needed. If nothing else, she would pull the datachips and take them back to the ship for Orri to manipulate with his slicing skills. All they needed to know was when TK-1472 had been evacuated, where he’d been sent, where he was from, or where he was buried. Child’s play, she hoped.

  It was kind of funny how Orri had wanted to learn true spycraft, never realizing that most of it had to do with keeping a cool head at a time like this, when the job went south. She needed his skills as much as her own right now.

  She checked that the front doors were still empty before bolting down the single hallway. Her heart pounded, her boots skittering over ripped carpet and palm-sized chunks of wax as she hurried past open doors that revealed rooms filled with hexagonal cells. Everything was tinted the same warm, golden yellow, and a sickly sweet scent rode the still air. Bazine felt as if she were running in slow motion past endless doors full of endless cells. Realizing too late that the hallway took a sharp turn up ahead, she nearly ran into another wall of the meter-wide, tightly packed cells. Face-to-face with one of the chambers, she put a hand to the partially translucent wax. When it pulsated against her palm, she jumped back, just as a hideous white grub pushed up against it, the wax bellying out under its bulk and its alien black eyes roving as if seeking her out.

  That just made her run faster.

  The next hallway was darker—this side of the building faced away from the sun. Bazine had goggles and a head lamp and flares, but she didn’t want to attract the attention of the dacs, so she’d keep going until she ran out of light. This hall looked more like rooms or dormitories for the retirees, each door marked with a number, some with last names rendered unreadable by a coating of wax. Rails were bolted to the walls, and she passed a series of horrible landscape paintings broken up only by a rusted laundry chute. Just ahead, she saw a closed door marked STAIRS.

  As Bazine picked up speed and ran toward the stairs, a fully grown apidactyl exited one of the open doors, wings buzzing inquisitively, and turned to face her. Immediately she knew: Whatever the creature saw, it wasn’t good. Its buzzing took on a dark, aggressive tone, and it barely paused before flashing mandibles and flying right for her.

  Spinning away from the door, she ran back down the hall. Dozens of dacs were returning through the front doors, their heads cocked toward her as they heard either her footsteps or the angry buzz pursuing her. With little choice, she yanked open the laundry chute and swung into it, feetfirst, not knowing what she would find at the bottom.

  Chapter 7

  The slide was brief, pitch-black, and smooth. Bazine steeled herself to a deadly calm as she rocketed downward with her knees instinctively bent, ready to roll and cushion the blow of whatever she landed on. Much to her surprise, her boots sank into near-softness. Somehow, miraculously, a pile of old laundry had been left to rot where it had fallen. Sinking down, Bazine slipped on her night-vision goggles and took in her surroundings before proceeding.

  Revealed in shades of black and green, the room took shape. One wall was a bank of washing and drying units, and across from that was a long table that still held folded linens, the laundry droids a row of frozen sentinels bolted to the wall just above it. Much to Bazine’s satisfaction, the room was utterly empty of wax, apidactyls, and signs of destruction. It was as if everyone had left in the middle of the workday and…never come back.

  Bazine emerged from the pile of musty fabric and dusted off her pants. Espionage was often a dirty job, but this mission was, unfortunately, proving dirtier than most. As she walked toward the open door, she ran a hand along a line of hanging jackets. The fabric was stiff and white, the uniforms clanking as she brushed past. When she reached the last one, she recognized the truth of it: straitjackets.

  No wonder Vashka Valley Retirement Facility 48 was so far away from proper civilization. No wonder their records were confidential, hidden. It was an asylum. A remote, private place for broken soldiers and war victims to live out their days safely and healthfully in peace. Well, until the giant flying insects showed up to stake their claim.

  Before passing through the doorway, she drew her blade. Considering how the dacs had reacted to the explosion upstairs, she was going to be as silent as possible. Even if they hadn’t yet discovered a way down to the basement, she didn’t want to give them a r
eason to explore.

  The next space was another hallway, spreading left and right in equal darkness. Nothing moved, and the silence was so profound that she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Recalling the layout above, she turned right, hoping the data banks would be located directly underneath the check-in desk. If she knew the usual habits of the corner-cutting Outer Rim contractors that did their business this far from the New Republic’s prying eyes, they would’ve planned their construction to minimize the wiring needed to connect the systems.

  With her back to the wall, she glanced through the next open doorway and sighed in silent relief. The data room was right where she’d hoped to find it, and all the machines appeared intact, if dusty and abandoned. Tracing the cords, she hurried to the electric box to throw the switch and power up the system. As she reached for the metal door, the hairs on her neck rose, and a blur of motion barreled into her, carrying her to the ground and knocking her goggles off. It felt like an apidactyl, hard and pointy and random in its blitz attack, but instead of buzzing, it grunted. Like a humanoid. Bazine’s mind switched from defense to aggression, and she escaped the thrashing weight, flipping her assailant to the ground and grasping what felt remarkably like wiry human biceps.

  “Who are you?” she growled, low and vicious.

  “Quiet, fool! You’ll attract the dacs.”

  Considering the ragged voice, the weakness of the flailing limbs, and the acrid scent of unwashed flesh and rotten breath, Bazine realized she was dealing with someone older than her grandfather would’ve been, if she’d had one. And she didn’t need to see him to guess that he was most likely insane. Whether he’d been one of the original residents or had taken up shop once the dacs had moved in, this wasn’t a place to inspire confidence and healthful sanity. All that constant buzzing got to a person.

  “Stop struggling and explain yourself,” she whispered, albeit more quietly.

  The man went very still but remained tense. “Can I at least sit up?” he asked. “Back’s no good.”

  Bazine planted one hand on his chest while she searched him, disgusted though she was. Aside from a rough knife, she could find nothing resembling a weapon. He gave a small cry when she tossed the knife far away to clatter against the wall, and the struggle went out of him. When she released him and he still didn’t sit up, she exhaled in annoyance and yanked him by his shoulders, leaning him to sit against the wall.

  “Many thanks,” he muttered.

  With her hands free again, Bazine resettled her goggles and studied her attacker. He was even more pathetic than she had imagined, a wizened, twisted man wearing rough armor fashioned of apidactyl plates and familiar white plastoid bound together with wire and coated with golden wax. He had a pair of goggles, too, cracked in multiple places and hopelessly old-fashioned.

  “Retiree or facility worker?” she asked.

  His face twisted with annoyance. “Retired stormtrooper, served at the Battle of Endor.” He snorted and fussed with the armor over his shoulders. “Don’t tell me I’m so far gone you couldn’t tell.”

  “Name?”

  He settled himself more carefully against the wall and studied her in return. “Woman of few words, eh? Me, too. Once you start talking to the dacs, it’s all over.”

  “There’s no one else?”

  “Not down here. Most of ’em are upstairs.”

  Bazine brought her blade to the old man’s neck. “One more chance: What’s your name?”

  He seemed to deflate. “TK-1403. Aric Nightdrifter. Born on—”

  “I don’t care. I’m looking for TK-1472, Jor Tribulus. You know him?”

  Nightdrifter barked a laugh before catching it behind a hand and clearing his throat. “Of course. My old captain in the service. Good man. Quieter than most.”

  Bazine set her jaw and pressed the blade with dark intent against the old man’s withered skin. “Is he here?”

  With a reckless slap, Nightdrifter shoved her blade aside and struggled to stand. She allowed him to perform both actions and rose to her feet, hand on her blaster.

  “Of course he’s here. Where else is he going to go?”

  Bazine shoved her blaster against his belly. “Take me to him. Now.”

  Nightdrifter sighed. “Let me get my supplies. You got to do everything I tell you to, though. The dacs get nasty if you don’t know how to handle ’em. And they’re gonna hate that shirt of yours. They only recognize their own hive’s patterns, see?” He pointed to the yellow-and-black-patterned plates of apidactyl exoskeleton strapped to his body. “To them, you look like the enemy.”

  With a quiet curse, she shrugged out of her new shirt, folded it up, and stuck it in one of her pockets, leaving her in head-to-toe black. That was the thing about gear: What would save your life on one mission might backfire on the next.

  “Let’s go.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him toward the door.

  “Here’s how it happened,” he began.

  Bazine nestled her blaster against his back. “Again, I don’t care.”

  After that, he finally went silent and hobbled down the empty hall, around the corner, and to the only closed door, which he slid open manually to reveal an ascetic room lit by a single wax candle. It was a sad echo of a soldier’s bunk, cobbled together of bits and pieces from the asylum above. A stormtrooper helmet sat on a low stool like a shrine.

  “They let you keep your helmets?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He chuckled as he rummaged through a drawer. “No. They were kept in a locked display case. To remind us of our glory days, I guess, and help us remember what we’d once been. When the workers left, we smashed it open. Divvied up everything we could find in the building. Lockers, drawers, our own confiscated belongings. Found some good stuff, too.” He seemed stronger when he stood again, holding up a green bundle of dried herbs, a lighter, and a ragged silk fan. “I wasn’t going to go up again for another week, but we should be okay.”

  Bazine nodded and flicked her blaster toward the door. With a heavy sigh, Nightdrifter led her through the maze of corridors to a set of stairs.

  “When that door up there opens, you’re going to be blind for at least a minute as your eyes adjust. Make sure you have your goggles off and your eyes closed. No matter how much it stings, stay in the smoke.”

  “Or else what?”

  His grin showed, finally, the insanity lurking within. “Or else indeed.”

  She stayed close as he limped up the stairs. At the top, he pulled a circular plug out of the door, and white light arrowed down the corridor.

  “Goggles off—now,” he whispered.

  Bazine slipped her goggles around her neck and pinched her eyes closed, her blaster muzzle pressed against Nightdrifter’s bent back. His lighter clicked a few times, and then the thick, muggy scent of smoke almost made her sneeze. She could picture his movements perfectly: He’d lit the bundle of herbs and was using the fan to waft the smoke through the hole and out into the corridor.

  “Doesn’t take much,” he muttered. “Just a little time. Damn things are telekinetic.”

  The smoke was soporific, and Bazine had to put a hand against the wall to stay standing. It had been a long couple of days with more than the expected amount of running, fighting, and chemically induced seizures, and something about the heavy scent of the wax and smoke was lulling.

  When Nightdrifter said, “That’s got ’em. Eyes closed. Here we go,” she startled awake and pressed the weapon more firmly into his spine.

  “Lead on. And don’t do anything stupid.”

  Even with her eyes squeezed shut, it was blindingly bright on the other side of the door, and red lightning imprinted on the back of her eyelids. She wrapped one hand in Nightdrifter’s cloak, just in case he should decide to bolt despite her threat. He chuckled and pushed on through the smoke.

  As they turned a corner, she was finally able to squint, and what she saw was eerie: All the apidactyls had crouched or fallen, legs crumpled, on the gr
ound. Their wings were still, their mandibles softly snapping as if they were dreaming.

  “Are we close?” she asked.

  “To what?”

  “To Tribulus.”

  “Very.”

  “Why’s he up here instead of in the basement?”

  “Oh,” he said absently. “The basement is mine.”

  All the halls and rooms looked the same, the walls coated with golden wax and glowing with late-afternoon sunlight. Nightdrifter led her up a gentle, twisting ramp, past fallen hoverchairs and rusting droids, her blaster never leaving his back. A bright light up ahead suggested a change in terrain, and she drew her blade and made ready for whatever strange new people she might find living in the ruins.

  “Here we are,” the old man said. “The Atrium.”

  He slid open an ornate glass-and-metal door to reveal a tall, open space filled with light. And wax.

  It had once been a cheerful recreation area with couches, games, and telescreens. Now it was the heart of the hive, the ground mounded with twitching, unconscious dacs. The walls rose in intricate hexagons, the light filtering through a three-story-tall bank of clear glass windows. The insects knew well enough to leave room for sunlight, apparently. But still, she didn’t see any sign of people.

  “Is he on the roof?” she asked with a growing sense of unease, shoving him with the blaster. “I’m done with your games.”

  Nightdrifter pointed to a closed door, the twin of the hallway they’d come from. “He’s in there, with the others. The dacs can’t open doors.” A beat later, he added, “Yet.”

  “Open it.”

  “You’re not going to like what’s on the other side.”

  She sighed. “I don’t like any of this.”

  He opened the door and walked inside. When she followed, blaster and blade drawn, she came face-to-face with dozens of stormtroopers.

  Chapter 8

  Or, technically, stormtrooper armor. Empty stormtrooper armor, standing upright and at attention in front of a long wall of golden hexagonal cells reaching from floor to ceiling.