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"We’re approaching a planet that seems interesting." Durandal's voice came from the terminal in the security officer's quarters.
He laid on the odd sofa-shaped cushion that was left behind when he took over the place. He held a data pad in one hand and a glass of what Durandal had assured him was gin in the other. He was convinced it was actually gasoline.
"Interesting how?" He said, eyeing the terminal from over the data pad. "Interesting in 'breathtaking landmarks and alien strip clubs' or interesting in 'a nice place for me to send my favorite bullet sponge to get a few more holes put in him'?"
"Interesting in 'get your ass to the armory before you're teleported down in nothing but your civvies'."
With a sigh, he set his stuff down and pulled himself to his feet. Status quo it is.
The security officer wondered how long Stockholm Syndrome took to set in. Because he'd been on the Rozinante for about eight months now and he wasn't feeling a whole lot different.
Some days he wished that Robert Blake would have stuck around Lh'owon for a few more hours so he could have hitched a ride back to Sol, while other days he was perfectly happy taking orders from a self-absorbed AI and his little army of cyborg aliens. Most days, however, he just wanted to head to the cryo-chambers and sleep for a thousand years.
He understood that Durandal had big plans. What those plans entailed exactly were far beyond his comprehension, but he was a major factor in them. Almost as if Durandal needed him more than he needed Durandal.
"You know I'll never let you go."
Those words stuck with him. Whether it was a joke or not, it still made an odd chill run up his spine. He never knew a personality construct would be so possessive.
Being sent down planet-side to get shot at once every few days aside, Durandal was doing a good job keeping his security officer alive. He never went hungry (though he'd kill for a burger every now and then), he always had his trusty guns within reach and if he ever got bored, the AI was quite the conversationalist when he wasn't busy trying to answer the unsolvable questions of the universe.
He knew that he could have it much, much worse.
A welcoming smile pulled at his face as he entered the armory, his little home away from home. All of the weapons that Durandal had been working on while he was in deep cryosleep were just at his fingertips. Refurbished, reverse-engineered or built from scratch, he loved them all and they were his for the taking.
One of the shockingly many things he and Durandal had in common was their love of weapons. The AI was more into the ones that could carve a whole new mountain range into a planet, but he appreciated the little ones, too. The security officer wouldn't be surprised if the new shotgun was Durandal’s form of an apology for dragging him halfway across the galaxy to do his bidding. He certainly hoped this wasn't the case, because with how many times those things saved his skin during the tail end of his mission on Lh'owon, he may as well consider his apology accepted.
While he browsed his many destructive options, the door behind him opened and a few S'pht and S'pht'Kr entered. The main terminal in the room lit up with Durandal's symbol.
"According to my scans, this planet is home to a Pfhor mining operation." He started. "Now, I don't know about you, but I don't like the idea of the Pfhor digging anything but their own graves, so you have two objectives here."
The security officer grabbed two shotguns and strapped them to his back before looking at the terminal. "Kill the Pfhor and get whatever they're mining?"
"Don't interrupt me." Durandal said with a venomous tinge in his voice. "That is objective two. Objective one requires more... delicate hands. Which is why I'm sending you down with some S'pht."
Ouch. "Okay. What do you need me to do?"
"We both know that the Pfhor don't like to do things themselves, that’s what they have slaves for, after all. The ones operating the machinery is a portion of the S'pht'Vir clan. F'tha here was able to decrypt a distress signal they sent out."
A purple-cloaked S'pht approached the terminal and spoke to the security officer with a low, chittering sound.
"They say they'll be happy to work with you. Which reminds me, here, wear this." Something small was teleported into thin air, just above the security officer's eye level. He snatched it before it fell to the ground. It looked like a singular headphone and he slipped it over his left ear. "I have things to do up here, so I can't be your personal translator today. You're welcome."
F'tha spoke again and it only took a second after they finished for the translator to do its job.
"Is the translator functioning correctly?" They asked and he nodded. "Excellent." Durandal's terminal showed a sprawling map with a tiny yellow speck in the middle of it. "The distress signal has coordinates to the slaver's controller cyborg. We must destroy it first before attempting to rescue the S'pht'Vir."
"Right, just like before." The security officer said, holding back his apprehension. It was dead center of the base, meaning that every single Pfhor down there had its three eyes on it. They were no doubt prepared for the worst after what happened on the Sfiera eighteen years ago. Durandal better hold up his end of the deal and send down enough ammo.
"Try not to kill any of them." Durandal spoke up. "And any information you can find, send my way. I need to know what they're looking for."
The security officer walked back to the wall of guns. "You got it. Any info on the planet itself? Atmosphere? Water?"
"I don't detect any water around the base and yes, there's oxygen, so go crazy." Durandal said with a dark chuckle, one that the officer shared as he found room for an assault rifle and a rocket launcher in his loadout.
"Just be sure to keep my guns loaded." He said to the terminal while slamming a fresh pack of grenades into the assault rifle.
"Certainly. Promise me you'll give me a good show down there." Durandal's voice was smug. "Things have been a bit lacking in the entertainment department the past few weeks."
Before he put on his helmet, the security officer gave the terminal a smirk.
Without much fanfare or even a final passing comment, the security officer was enveloped in a staticky field and sent down to the planet. The sterile air of the ship was replaced with the scent of dust and mechanical smoke, definitely a mine hard at work.
"Alright." He turned to face his team. It consisted of seven S'pht and five S'pht'Kr. Hopefully, it was enough to get this mission done. He rested his assault rifle on his shoulder. "Leave the controller to me, all of you focus on finding the other S’pht. I'll radio in when the controller's taken out. I doubt the Pfhor are going to keep any of the S'pht alive when they're no longer under their command, so protect them until Durandal can get them on the ship."
The cacophony of chitters he got as a response was quickly translated into a collective "affirmative". He's already liking this new invention, almost feels like he's actually part of the team now.
He gave a firm nod and slammed the rifle into his free hand. "Let's go."
The S'pht split up into teams of two, half of them going east and the other half west, the security officer headed straight north, spotting his very first victims not that far away.
A pair of blue-armored Fighters, no doubt this outpost's pitiful excuse for front gate guards, honked loudly towards the inside of the outpost before lifting their staffs and charging towards him.
"Filthy biped! How DARE you trespa--"
The one speaking was torn to shreds by a grenade to the face before they could finish their threat. Their partner survived the blast, but was missing an arm, unfortunate since it was the one holding their staff. A quick burst of bullets finished them off while the security officer passed them and headed inside, kicking the staff (and the claw still holding it) towards the rest of the approaching aliens.
Durandal failed to mention that the translator worked on the Pfhor as well. He couldn't hold back a malicious smile at the idea of finally hearing all the insults and threats these carapaced creeps would throw his way before meeting their demise.
The howl of a distant Hunter echoed over the base, too far away to be properly translated. The security officer took in a deep breath, adjusted his grip on the gun and continued forward. He gunned down more Fighters, pulling back as he was fired upon from above. A few Troopers were perched on the catwalks, but a couple grenades popped their way took care of them. A few boxes of assault rifle ammo and two packs of grenades appeared out of thin air in front of him and he made quick work reloading. He climbed a nearby stairway to reach the catwalk and spotted his target.
Well, looks like he found out what the Hunter was howling about. Just as he expected would happen back in the armory, countless Pfhor stood in wait around the controller cyborg. Another foolish error on their part: not assigning any extra soldiers up here on the catwalks where a generous dose of surface-to-surface missiles would pierce a nice hole right into the middle of their defenses.
While any other marine worth their salt would take a safer, quieter option to this sort of operation, 'safe' and 'quiet' weren't anywhere in the security officer's vocabulary. This trait was just one of many that made him so intriguing to Durandal that he stole him for his own personal war. Maybe he saw a little of himself in the officer? Who knew.
He hefted the SPNKR onto his shoulder and took aim at the controller cyborg, hoping to kill a few dozen bugs with one stone. Holding his breath to steady himself, he pulled the trigger.
The rocket soared down and crashed into the controller, the resulting explosion reducing the center of the room into a crater. The surviving Pfhor all looked his way and fired back.
The security officer ducked behind a pillar and loaded another rocket. He jumped out of cover and fired again, wishing he could watch the carnage as he instead retreated to safety.
Once the dust cleared, he peeked around the pillar to take a look at his handiwork. With just two rockets, he cut down the small battalion of aliens to a little over a dozen. The Hunter, a captain by the looks of their blue armor, unnatural height and irritating ability to survive such an attack, pointed a claw towards the west.
"Eliminate the compilers! Leave the biped to me!" They roared and the remaining Pfhor split off into the four cardinal directions of the base.
"Everyone get ready, you got hostiles coming!" The security officer yelled into his radio. "Protect the S'pht'Vir at all costs!"
Another round of "affirmatives" hissed through his helmet's receiver. He dropped the rocket launcher and jumped down into the center room, flashing the Hunter a cocky grin. He pulled his fusion pistol from his holster as he slowly circled the alien. "So, I have you all to myself?" They likely didn't understand a word, but that didn't stop him from making a show. He pressed his free hand to his heart and swooned, discreetly holding down the trigger of the pistol. "Oh, you shouldn't have! But I don't have anything to give you!"
The Hunter stomped towards him and the second their shoulder-mounted cannon glowed green, the security officer raised his gun and released the shot.
It missed the alien's body entirely, flying over their shoulder to disable their cannon instead.
"How about that? Is that good enough?" He asked with the same cocky grin, clicking a fresh battery into the pistol.
He leapt back and fired as the Hunter charged again. Even without their annoying firearms, Hunters were a force to be reckoned with. Plus, it didn't help the captains were sore losers and equipped their armor with self-destruct mechanisms. No matter what weapon he used against them, they'd do everything in their power to take him down with them.
He jumped a little too far and found himself with his back against the wall. The Hunter slammed their armored forearm into his chest, forcing him into the wall and punching all the air out of his lungs. Their massive three-clawed hand grabbed his helmet and squeezed.
"Foolish biped." They snarled and lifted him up to their eye-level, close enough he could spot their three eyes behind their thin visor. "Your flesh will make a fine addition to my trophy room."
Their other hand wrapped around his throat, claws piercing through his kevlar bodysuit and into his skin. He tried to yell, but with his empty lungs and the crushing grip on his throat, he only managed to wheeze out a pathetic gurgle.
A volley of green energy bolts crashed into the Hunter's back and they dropped the security officer, who crumpled to the ground in a coughing heap. The alien turned around to confront their newest attacker with a low growl.
He held a hand to his throat and continued to gasp for air. Looking up, he watched as the Hunter approached a purple-cloaked S'pht. The fusion pistol thankfully fell close by and he snatched it, pulling himself to his knees and holding down the trigger.
"Get back!" He tried his best to shout at the S'pht and the Hunter whipped their head around towards him. The S'pht rushed into a far corner.
The Hunter gave out an aggravated groan. "Stubborn little pest, aren't yo--" And he released the trigger. On contact with the charged bolt, the armor exploded, leaving nothing but blue scraps of metal resting in a puddle of teal blood.
The security officer lowered the gun and coughed again, returning his hand to his throat.
"You are injured." The S'pht, which he recognized as F'tha from before, floated over to him. Their chittering sounded distressed. "I have located a terminal that is not far from here, we can contact Durandal and--"
"I'm fine." He assured them, panting. "I just need to catch my breath."
Slowly, he got to his feet while F'tha leaned into him to help keep him steady. They continued to make their distressed chitters, which his translator could only interpret as "blood" over and over again.
He finally pulled back his hand and realized what had them so concerned. He wiped it off on his vest then gently nudged F'tha's shoulder plate with his elbow. "Thank you, by the way. You saved my ass. I owe you one."
Their next noise was just as sad as the ones before. "Nonsense. I am content knowing I arrived in time to rescue you."
He gave them a weak smile, then remembered the mission. "Shit, how's everyone else doing?" The waning amount of gunfire in the distance could either be a good thing or a bad thing. He wasn't going to celebrate just yet.
A handful of fusion pistol batteries appeared at his feet along with a yellow power cell. He wheezed out a small, pained laugh and looked up into the hazy sky. Was someone a little worried?
After hooking up the power cell and properly getting his breath back, the security officer and F'tha made their way towards the far end of the mine.
"The S'pht'Kr are successfully holding off most of the Pfhor." F'tha explained. "The remainder of my kin are searching for the S'pht'Vir."
"Looks like Durandal made the right decision sending down the S'pht'Kr." He said.
"Quite the opposite, they volunteered to assist in the mission. They wish for the clans to be whole again."
The security officer hummed. "Sounds like a good plan, count me in. I can't speak for Durandal, but I have a feeling he'll help out, too."
F'tha made a sound that wasn’t translated, perhaps a bug in the translator's system, and they reached the terminal they were talking about. A red-cloaked S'pht was interfacing with it. "Sh'yal, any progress?"
"The others have located most of the S'pht'Vir." Sh'yal said and turned to the security officer. "I will link this terminal to the K'liah'Narhl and you shall join the others. They will require your assistance."
That was a little more blunt than he expected. "Um. Okay? Sure. Just show me the way." F'tha led him down a hall littered with dead Fighters and Troopers. "Glad to see you guys had some fun while I was busy."
"The Pfhor are indeed powerful, but when their plans go awry, they scatter like puny insects." Their noises appeared to have a little snark to them and he laughed.
"You've been hanging out with Durandal too much."
A few of the S'pht were gathered around a massive door, one he could only hazard a guess was holding their targets.
One of them hovered close. "Upon the destruction of the controller, the S'pht'Vir attempted to retaliate against the Pfhor, but their weapons were not strong enough. Several have been lost." They said mournfully before continuing. "The remaining survivors have taken to shelter themselves behind this barrier. It locks from one side and none of us can unseal it."
The security officer walked up and knocked on the door. "Hello? It's safe to come out. We're friendly."
"They lack the knowledge of your language. They cannot understand you." F'tha chimed in.
He sighed and stepped back, scratching his cheek. "Alright, well... can you at least warn them I'm coming in whether they like it or not and I'm NOT gonna hurt them?"
The other S'pht gave a gentle sounding chirp. "We are opening the door. We mean you no harm."
Well, that would have to do. He cracked his knuckles and wedged his fingers into the seam of the door. Planting his feet firmly to the ground, he slowly managed to pull apart the slabs of solid metal. As soon as he stepped into the room, he was pelted with yellow and green energy bolts.
"Hey! HEY!" He held up his hands, hoping it was a universal sign of surrender. "I'm not gonna hurt you! F'tha! I thought they'd be on our side after we killed the controller, the fuck's their problem!?"
F'tha floated in front of him and the other S'pht stopped firing, chittering quietly. "They are frightened. Allow me to talk to them."
He really couldn't blame them if he had to be honest. If he watched a six and a half foot tall creature armed to the teeth peel open his only means of safety like it was a sheet of tin foil, he'd also shoot on sight.
Expecting the worst from the rain of energy bolts, he was shocked when he inspected the damage. The plasma didn't do much but burn the hair off his arms and lightly singe the cloth layer of his armor. He could only guess that the Pfhor learned something else from Durandal's little rebellion and gave these ones peashooters to defend themselves with in case they decided to pull the same stunt. The thought alone just made him hate those bastard bugs more than ever.
"There is no need for violence." F'tha started. "I am F'tha of the S'pht'Lhar. This is my comrade. We and my kin are here to free you."
One of the S'pht wearily approached F'tha. "We deeply apologize. The Pfhor have taken drastic actions to prevent revolution. I am D'anr of the S'pht'Vir." They looked towards the security officer. "Inform your comrade of the situation. We can show them to the nearest healing station."
He brushed off some plasma residue from their attacks. "I heard. No biggie." He gave them a thumbs up, once again hoping it was universal, but he knew it wasn't. "I've survived worse."
"They cannot understand you." F'tha reminded him. "I shall translate."
He nodded to them. "Tell them I'm fine and we'll get them out of here and onto the ship as soon as we can."
"Their injuries are minor and we offer all of you shelter in our battleship, the K'liah'Narhl."
The name seems to get their attention, as they all make a low noise. It seems that he and Durandal's feats have even reached all the way to this backwater planet. The AI would no doubt make fun of him for it later, but he felt a little proud of himself.
After the S'pht'Vir talked amongst themselves, a little too quietly for his translator to pick anything up, D'anr hovered closer to the security officer. "We accept your offer. Unfortunately, I have failed to recall your name."
"Oh! Uhh. I'm Jack Brice of... of the Rozin-- K'liah'Narhl." He held out a hand out of pure instinct before instantly inwardly kicking himself. He was not making a good first impression, was he? Then a lanky, three fingered metal hand rose from D'anr's cloak.
"It pleases me to finally meet." D'anr said, not doing anything with their hand. Maybe they were just mimicking him? "We have heard much of your deeds. On behalf of all of us here, I thank you for saving us."
He slowly took D'anr's hand in as gentle a grip as he could and shook it. "Just doing my job. Speaking of which, I haven't actually done my job yet, so... let's get you guys on the ship." He turned to F'tha. "I'll get in contact with Durandal, you keep them safe."
"I shall. Please watch after yourself."
He smirked at that and ran back to where he saw that terminal from before. He hoped that Sh'yal was able to hook up with the Rozinante while he was busy.
Nearly running past the hall where it was, he was pleased to see a green light on the screen from a distance. The guy was one step ahead of him.
"We found 'em, Durandal." He said as he approached. "A bit shaken up, but most of them are alive."
"You have a name?" Were the first words to come out of the crackling speaker.
Jack gave the terminal a confused look and laughed. Durandal's first concerns weren't about the S'pht, the mine or even the possibility of incoming reinforcements. They were about something as trivial as a name. "Of course I have a name. What, do you think I just ran around calling myself Mjolnir Recon #54?"
Durandal made a few noises of disbelief. It was oddly charming seeing an AI act so human. "Yes? That's your designation on file. Excluding that and your physical and psych profiles, the entire document is a bunch of black bars."
"Yeeeeah." He leaned against the wall beside the terminal and playfully spun the fusion pistol around his finger. "Governments tend to do that whenever they know they've crossed a line."
"Well, how come you've never told me?" Durandal almost sounded insulted. "And don't say--"
"You never asked." He saw it coming a mile away and couldn't resist. "Kinda rude, if you ask me. We've been on this crazy road trip for how long now and the thought never came up in that massive head of yours?"
The speaker hissed with a little feedback before Durandal continued. "I just never needed to know."
"Like I said. Rude." There was a noise from the other end of the hall and it didn't sound friendly. "We'll continue this conversation when my life isn't on the line, alright?"
"Very well." Durandal agreed. "I'll start teleporting everyone on board and get them situated. You go and have some fun."
He took off down the hall. "I would if you dropped in some shotgun shells every once in a while!" He shouted over his shoulder, spotting a group of Fighters at the far end of the hall.
"I would if you gave me a reason to give them to you in the first place." He heard behind him. Bringing his arms back, he grabbed his shotguns by the ring guards and spun them into his hands, obliterating the Pfhor with a pull of the trigger.
Another mission accomplished. The S'pht'Vir were welcomed aboard the Rozinante and after an examination in the medical wing, Durandal had pulled D'anr aside to get more information about the mine. Jack was taken into a separate section of the medical wing to have his own wounds looked at.
"Shame it didn't do any serious damage to your larynx." Durandal sulked while he controlled a Pfhor medical machine. It applied disinfectant and bandages to the claw marks around his throat. "Then I could've put you on a very strict 'no talking' recovery period."
"Gonna take a lot more than that to shut me up, you know that." Jack smirked. "So? What were they diggin' up? Anything interesting?" He inwardly hopes it's not another ancient AI. One had been more than enough for one lifetime.
"Well, if raw Pfhorite sounds interesting to you, then sure, go nuts." A crunchy soundbite of a party horn played over the speaker.
"Shhhhit." Jack hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Pfhorite was the main material the Pfhor used to construct their ships, if the egotistical name wasn't obvious enough. Nothing to write home about, it's found on many planets in their current sector of the galaxy.
"I'm loading up what I can carry in a few of the cargo bays anyway. Feels wrong to just leave it all there." Durandal said before giving a mischievous chuckle. "Besides, I'd take any reason to steal stuff from the Pfhor."
"So what's next?" Jack itched at his new bandages and the medical machine's taloned appendages slapped his hand away.
"After our guests are finished with their check-ups, I offered them a little tour around the ship to encourage them in staying with us."
"Lemmie guess." He groaned, already knowing what was next. "I'm the tour guide?"
"Absolutely not." Durandal said sternly. "Look at yourself, your clothes are filthy, you're beaten to hell and covered in blood. You'll set a poor example for my business. Save me the embarrassment and just hide in your quarters for the rest of the evening. Get washed up and sleep or something."
Jack smiled knowingly at the terminal and got up off the gurney. "Thanks."
"Consider yourself lucky that I still need you." He tried to sound threatening, but Jack only found it oddly endearing.
A shower was first on his list. He was already peeling himself out of his sweaty bodysuit as he entered his quarters and towards his bathroom. He got the water as hot as he could stand it, stepped inside and stood there for at least a few minutes. All the dirt, blood and guts in his hair, face and arms washed away.
It took a modicum of effort to get out of the shower once he was clean. He wanted nothing more than to let the hot water relax his sore muscles until he either drained each and every hot water tank in the ship or Durandal started bitching about having to stop and resupply. Just the thought of dealing with the latter after all that happened today was enough for him to finally shut it off.
Dressed in a simple t-shirt and boxer briefs, Jack returned to his sofa and his glass of gin. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes open, Durandal's 'demand' to get some well-earned sleep was sounding better by the minute. He took a sip of his drink and moved so he was laying across the sofa. He held the glass on his lap, dropped his head on the arm rest and let out a deep, relieved sigh.
What a day.
The only sound in the room was the gentle hum of the ship's engine, which only lulled him faster.
Until the terminal dinged and his eyes shot open. Well, there goes his peace and quiet. He slowly pulled his head up and met the green logo with a tired glance. He answered the call with a grunt.
"You should've heard them while I gave them the grand tour, they were so impressed at all my upgrades on the ship." Durandal boasted while Jack slowly sat up. "They especially liked the new operating system I integrated from Boomer. I think that's what won some of them over."
It was shocking how far a handful of compliments would get you with Durandal, narcissistic little bundle of circuits that he was. It saved Jack a few times in the past year. All he had to do was remind him of how cool his new guns were or compliment him on their latest success and he'd be spared a slow, agonizing death in the vacuum of space. Or a long, boring monologue, which he would honestly consider a worse fate.
"Oh, and they wanted me to give you their thanks." He added as an afterthought.
Jack smiled sleepily and repeated. "Just doing my job."
"Reforging the S'pht'Vir clan has already improved morale considerably, and many of the new arrivals are eager to work with us. I've provided them with proper accommodations. Our S'pht'Kr are in contact with K'lia to reconnect those who wish to return home, so we'll be stationary for a couple of days while everyone gets situated."
His smiled faded a little. Though Lh'owon was spared the cruel fate of a supernova, its star was still a lost cause, leaving the system a cold, dead husk. Durandal was certain that somewhere in the galaxy, there was a planet suitable for the S'pht to make a new home and if anyone could find it, it would be the S'pht'Kr. It's entirely possible they've already found one.
"I guess I should thank you as well." Durandal continued in a low, embarrassed voice.
"No problem." Jack said and the AI was unable to sense a single speck of smugness in his response for once. "And hey, sorry the mine turned out to be a bust."
"Not necessarily." Durandal's voice returned to normal. "While yes, I'd be a lot happier examining a Jjaro artifact right now instead of hauling thirty-five thousand tons of dirty metal in the storage bays, it's far from useless. The S'pht have recommended that we start processing it so it can be used to make some repairs around the ship."
Jack gave an impressed nod. "Smart thinking."
"Also." Durandal continued. "This stuff does go for a pretty penny in some of the more industrial systems. Next refuel stop we make, I'll be on the lookout for any potential buyers. Waste not, want not."
"Killed some Pfhor, saved some S'pht, might make some cash later. Eh. I've had worse days." He raised his glass to the terminal. "All-and-all, not bad."
"Not bad... Jack."
He sighed and set the glass on a table to rest his chin on his steepled hands. "Fine. What did you want to talk about?"
An image of a document appeared on the terminal, most of it scarred with horizontal black lines. "For starters, you can help me clear up a few of these redacted sections in your profile."
"Well..." He fell back into the couch and folded his hands behind his head. "My name's Jack Brice, I'm a Taurus, I'm into guys that have a good sense of humor and likes big guns. Currently looking for someone who'll treat me right and take me on nice long walks through the galaxy."
"I think I may know a guy who's right up your alley. One question, though: would sudden shuttle decompression and forcing a collision course be considered a dealbreaker?"