Prog 8 : Big Drokking Heroes

Harmon struggled into the sting-proof oversuit as he drove, eagerly speeding down crowded and chaotic streets with lights flashing and sirens wailing. He was driving dangerously, too-excited to pay attention to his speed, signals, or other cars on the crowded and chaotic streets as overstretched Judges pacified riots and demonstrations. Judge Hershey had called him – him, personally, Officer Thomas Harmon of animal control – to help take-down a dangerous perp and rescue a female hostage. The Judges needed his expertise, the poor girl needed him to rush to her aid. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and pushed his foot more firmly to the floorboards, ignoring the honking of horns and squeals of brakes around him. No time for any of that; he had to get there in time!

The four Judges had just arrived outside the condemned hab-block and were dismounting from their bikes when the animal control van howled around the corner in a scream and tires, painting thick scars of burned rubber on the asphalt. Quartermain had pulled her notepad from her belt and was already scribbling traffic violations on it when Harmon mounted the curb and crashed into a rusting street sign, kicking the door open and leaping out without switching off the engine. "Officer Harmon reporting for duty!" he exclaimed with a flashy salute. "Animal control is always ready to assist fellow members of the Justice Department in protecting innocent citizens!"

Quartermain drew a very final line under her list and did some quick math, handing the paper to Cornelius. He glanced it, nodded approvingly to show she'd got it right, but crumpled it into his fist as a lesson in practical policework. "'Fellow members of the Justice Department'?" asked Anderson, not-a-little scornfully. The blurred vagueness of Harmon's face seen through the gauze mask of his oversuit crumpled with disappointment. He tapped his auxiliary shoulder flashes.

"It's technically the case," he said, sounding a little affronted. He hauled open the side door of the van and pulled out a large canister with a spray gun connected to it by a hose. He strapped it on his back and tested the pump. "Is the hostage safe?" he asked.

Cornelius raised an eyebrow at Hershey, who shrugged. "I might have told him about Dana," she said, a little apologetically.

"Ready to go, Sir!" exclaimed Harmon. Cornelius grit his teeth and glared at Hershey who at least had the good sense to remain silent. "Statistically speaking, Sir," Harmon said, "females have a heightened phobic response to insects compared to males. I suggest that you and I alone . . ."

"Oh, Dok no," Cornelius decisively told Harmon before any of the women could clock him, "you're staying well outside. What's in that bottle? Give it here."

Harmon clutched the spray gun tightly. "Insecticide," he said shortly. "Kills 'crete-wasps dead on contact – adults, larvae, and eggs. But it's a highly technical piece of equipment, Sir," he said desperately. "If you're not trained in its use, why, you could . . ." He made vague gestures. "Spray . . . things you . . . didn't mean to spray," he finished lamely.

"It's a water pistol," said Anderson, now definitely scornful.

"A highly technical water pistol, Ma'am," said Harmon doggedly.

"And I guess you only brought one suit?" Hershey asked. Harmon looked embarrassed.

"Ah, yes; now that you mention it, Ma'am . . . I was in rather a hurry, to get here, you see. The hostage, Ma'am, and . . ." His voice trailed off. "The suit isn't designed to be taken off without destroying it, I'm afraid," he explained sheepishly.

"And it's a highly technical water pistol?" asked Cornelius wearily. Harmon nodded. The Judge made up his mind. "Alright," he said, "follow us in – but stay behind us, no heroics. You're there for the wasps. Not perps, not to rescue the hostage – the wasps. You let me get shot – is that clear?" Harmon nodded firmly, his hands clenching and unclenching on the spray gun impatiently. Beside him, unnoticed by the others, Quartermain winced. "Hershey," Cornelius said, leading the way inside, "you and I've got point."

oOo

The hab-block – it didn't have a name, just an assigned project number – was smaller than most but designed to house about the average. It was cramped, crowded and brutal; a squat, square block of gray 'crete unbroken by window or decoration. The Judges advanced through the foyer quickly – it was deserted, but also miniscule by the standards of such things, and securing it took mere moments. The corridors were narrow, the ceilings oppressively low – Cornelius actually had to crouch to get through the doorways – and every single surface was the smooth, bland, depressingly-repetitive khaki-gray of poured rockcrete. The grim weight of psychic ennui oppressed Anderson the instant she entered, the grinding malaise of depression, futility and grim utility ground into the very fabric of the building. Coupled with the deafening psionic buzz caused by the nearness of the Swarm, the static smeared her psynses like watercolors in the rain – she could tell the Lord of the Flies was in the building, but exactly where eluded her.

So the Judges went old school – advancing step-by-step and junction-by-junction through the building, securing rooms, corridors and apartments with textbook precision. They were not there to raid the criminals who had made the hab-block their hideouts and homes, of course – but the perps didn't know that. They fought a running battle against the black-and-bronze, gunfire and screams echoing down the hallways as the Judges brought the order of The Law to a place that had long-ago abandoned it.

Their goal was not, of course, to kill – had that been the case, Cornelius would have just ordered Quartermain to cut indiscriminately loose with the blockrocker rather than assigning her to surgical support-and-suppression; 9mm rounds would make munceburger of anyone caught in the full-auto hailstorm. The goal wasn't even truly law-enforcement – they weren't there to arrest the perps, but rather interrogate them for information that would lead them to the Lord of the Flies. But to do that they had to take a perp alive, something the gunbattles didn't make easy. They managed it after the fifth firefight.

"Where do you dump your garbage?" demanded Cornelius. The prisoner, his Spark-ravaged eyes crossed as they tried to focus on the lawgiver pointed at his face, gaped and gawped. "I asked you a question, creep," Cornelius said meaningfully, tightening his steeltrap grip around the perp's throat.

The ganger coughed and choked, saliva drooling from his lips, trying to speak. Cornelius dropped him – he collapsed to the floor, slumping over. "We just toss it down the chutes, man!" he exclaimed. "I dunno where it goes!" Cornelius glanced at Anderson, her hands busy with the blueprints.

"This place is a drokking pigsty," she opined. It was obvious she wasn't talking about the trash and filth in the corridors – while disgusting, it was so par-for-the-course for a gang-haunted derelict hab-block it wasn't worth remarking on – but rather the design for the building itself. "The garbage chutes just drop into a room in the basement, that's it. No processing, no seals, it just . . . sits there, rotting, until someone shovels it out." She gave a convulsive shudder. "Urgh! Spugging credit-clipping grabby-handed bigot . . ." she muttered.

Cornelius hauled the perp upright, grabbing his chin and pointing his face at a hole in the wall. "That a garbage chute?" he asked. The perp nodded, the flabby play in his slack cheeks letting his bones move under the flesh. "Judge assault, possession of an illegal firearm, gang membership, littering," said Cornelius automatically. "Eighteen years aggregate." He shoved him against the wall, zip-tying his wrists to a galvanized pipe encrusted with calcium deposits. He glanced down the corridor – Quartermain was stationed at the junction, her blockrocker's mags taped together jungle-style. She stuck the barrel of the gun out, peering around the corner and letting off a quick three-round bust before ducking back. Bullets whined down the corridor, whipping through where her head had been instants before.

"Down the chute, let her cover our rear?" asked Hershey.

Cornelius nodded, reaching behind his hip for his climbing gear. He fitted the self-seating barbed spike into the barrel of his gun. "Piton," he ordered, bracing his shoulders and driving the anchor into the wall above the hole with a sharp krak! He uncoiled the 500-lb test monofilament line and dropped it down the chute. He beckoned at Harmon. "Gimmie the spray," he ordered. Harmon shook his head.

"You need me there, Judge," he said. "I'll go down with you." Cornelius weighed his options – if there were nothing down there but Sumner and his wasps, Harmon wouldn't be in danger. If the Lord of the Flies had gunmen with him, however, there'd be a firefight . . . and Cornelius couldn't afford to be distracted by faffing about with what might be a highly technical piece of equipment. "Trust me," Harmon assured him, "I've been in worse situations – one time, in the sewers, there was this rad-gator with . . ."

"Alright." Cornelius cut him off. "But no heroics – let us handle anything that doesn't buzz or sting, okay?" Harmon nodded. Cornelius pulled the line towards him, clipping an arrester handle onto it. "Cassie, you and Hershey . . ."

He got no further before a writhing fountain of wasps boiled out of the chute, filling the corridor in seconds. He flinched back, instinctively slapping at the burning stabs of pain punching through his uniform. Harmon pulled the trigger on his gun, spraying insecticide around the corridor and over the Judges. He stepped forward and jammed the nozzle into the hole, pumping chemicals down the chute. He looked down the shaft, grunting with satisfaction at what he saw – it was sloped rather than vertical, slick and slimy with unidentified muck. Before anyone could do anything even vaguely sensible like stop him he'd done something decidedly not-sensible and dived head-first into the hole, spraying insecticide ahead of him as he slipped and slid down the greasy chute on his belly.

"No heroics!" exclaimed Cornelius. "Did I not say no heroics? That's, like, at least two heroics! That's two more heroics than I wanted!" He grabbed for his respirator and slammed it in place, pushing the line aside and diving down the chute himself. His arms formed a plow in front of him, digging through the muck and sending it splashing into his face in a spray of filth. His visor was smeared opaque in seconds, his face plastered with it, rotting slime working its way into every nook and cranny of his uniform. Even through the respirator he could smell the sickly-sweet stench of fermenting garbage; he held his breath and tried to keep his gun clear of the slime so it wouldn't foul.

He couldn't see and so had no warning when he reached the bottom of the chute, tumbling as he landed on a pile of garbage. He rolled to his feet, trash shifting under his boots, and tore his helmet off so he could see. He took the situation in at a glance – the mouldering mounds of rubbish with their glistening skin of fungus, the alien architecture of the hexagonal hives drooping from the ceiling, the air thick and heavy with a hot haze of spores and insects, the gunmen carefully positioned to cover all possible lines of fire, the crazy and his hostage on the other side of the stinking room, she cowering on some kind of throne, he incandescent with rage. "You come to my palace and poison my subjects?" Sumner howled. "Your death will be one long scream!"

Harmon had face-planted when he hit, landing in a particularly disgusting-looking puddle of something best left unidentified, surrounded by an acrid lake of foaming insecticide in which a myriad of wasp corpses floated. He struggled to his feet. "Don't worry, citizen!" he yelled, presumably at Dana. "The Justice Department is here to save you!" He sprayed wildly; insects fell like rain, twitching in their death throes.

Cornelius crouched, seeking cover in the undulating dunes of garbage, and fired. Two of the yellow-and-black clad gunmen dropped, weapons tumbling from limp hands as bullets whined past. Behind him, Harmon was hit and cried out, tumbling to the ground. Angrily muttering "I told you to let me get shot!" Cornelius leaped up and dived toward him, intending to grab him and drag him into what little cover there was.

A bullet struck him in the chest under his outstretched right arm, spinning him in the air. It didn't penetrate the armor, but the impact hit like a jackhammer, a sickening wet snap of razor-edged pain telling him at least one rib was broken. He crashed to the ground beside Harmon, his lungs empty, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. Not good.

Hershey slid down the chute – she'd dropped feet first, using the line to slow her descent, so she landed with an easy flex of her knees, her lawgiver spitting death. Another gunman dropped, but then Hershey yelped and stumbled backwards, successive waves of wasps battering her. She lost her footing on the garbage and slipped, landing on her behind in the slimy fungus, her gun falling from her hand and sinking into the rotting mire beneath her.

Cornelius tried to stand, gasping for oxygen. He doubled-over like a lobster split live as pressure and pain circled his chest, hacking and coughing up bloody-froth. Moving his right arm was agony, his vision blurring at the edges and nausea twisting his guts as he struggled to breathe. He knew the signs – broken ribs, punctured lung, internal haemorrhage. Definitely not good, especially in the middle of a firefight with Hershey disarmed. Gritting his teeth against the pain he grabbed Harmon, hauling him backwards into the relative shelter of a depression in the garbage.

The Lord of the Flies cackled madly. "Foolish Judges!" he screamed. "The doors are locked – you are trapped in here!" He turned his attention to Anderson; the psi had just come down the shaft, her hands empty and her head bare, her concentration palpable in the enclosed space. Around her, the air seemed to still and chill with the frosty precision of her mind. "Your powers are useless now!" he exclaimed. "The Swarm is angered – you have trespassed in its domain! They do not need me to guide them – they will kill you all!"

Hershey let herself slide down the slope of garbage, coming to rest next to Cornelius and Harmon. Automatic fire raked the lip of the depression they were cowering in. Cornelius was on his knees, taking left-handed potshots at the perps. He was reeling, gasping for breath with bloody-foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. Harmon had only been winged – a superficial graze across his thigh – and with the unaccustomed flood of adrenaline he barely felt it. A sudden realization of his destiny overwhelmed him; with Cornelius seriously injured and Hershey being, well, a woman herself it was obviously up to him to save the damsel in distress. "Cover me!" he exclaimed, struggling out of his harness and discarding the canister so it didn't slow him down. "I'm coming, citizen!" he cried, leaping to his feet and running towards Dana.

There was nothing Hershey could do to stop him – the wasps were still attacking her, and he at least was protected by his special suit. She grabbed the insecticide and frantically sprayed, trying to create a safe haven from the stinging menace. It wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a highly technical piece of equipment – it was a simple trigger and a twist-to-select nozzle. She sprayed in a wide arc, harsh chemicals plastering her uniform and dripping off her hair. Beside her, Cornelius was wavering, his skin ashen and face slack. Pinned down, it was only a matter of time before bullets punched through their flimsy cover and found them.

Anderson was distractingly-aware of Cornelius' injury, the agonizing flare of his determination a beautiful heartbreak she could not allow herself the luxury of dwelling on. Resolutely, she pushed her compassion aside and focused on the task at hand. She knew Sumner was right – that blocking his communication with the Swarm would do no good; the wasps were enraged by the trespass and would attack the intruders instinctively, stinging until they were dead. She reached out, taking the measure of the link, psynsing the connection Sumner and the Swarm shared.

She plunged into the Lord of the Flies' mind; it was too alien for her to quickly decipher, too connected with the hive-mind of the Swarm for her to easily influence. Most of the flavor of his thoughts was not human . . . but there was one thing that was. Atrophied and shallow it might have been, but it was a recognizable emotion, lying within her experience. It was his affection for Dana, his desire for her to be his queen, the ruler of the Swarm as he was.

The Swarm did not understand 'love', of course – but it understood command, and gender, and the rule of the fertile feminine over sterile sisters and lazy drones. Of course, she realized with a smile as Harmon reached Dana, struggling with the irate Sumner over the girl, of course.

She poured her mind into Sumner's, not trying to block his powers but rather enhancing them, turning the torch of his psyche into a flamethrower. He staggered drunkenly, intoxicated by the sudden surge of mental potency. While he was still reeling, Anderson focused their combined energies on his desire for Dana, searing her identity as queen onto the Swarm through his connection to it. This is your queen! the imperative howled. She you will obey! She is the commander, the ruler, the mind of you all! Her commands are law, her whims your passions, her survival yours! What she wants, you will do!

"Unhand her majesty!" Sumner bellowed – Anderson's psychic surgery had increased his desire for her tenfold. Enraged, he slugged Harmon. The animal control officer slumped against the throne, he and Dana tangled in each other's arms. "You cannot separate us! She wishes to be with me!"

"I wanna go home!" howled Dana, sobbing furiously. "I don't wanna be here! I don't want you!"

When describing emotions, Anderson often struggled to find words others would understand and which accurately conveyed their potent reality. Heat was a popular metaphor – sparks, flames, fire, inferno. If that were the metaphor, then Dana's terror and horror and despair were a sector-wide conflagration, a burning holocaust visible from orbit. It engulfed Anderson, resonating within her own psyche, shaking loose memories and searing through her shields.

She opened herself to it, blanking her mind, letting the inferno of Dana's panic wash through her psyche like flames through a chimney – howling, burning, but directed and barely touching the sides. Anderson poured it into Sumner's mind and – through him – into the Swarm.

Something shifted in the heady, enclosed, sweltering hive – Anderson could psynse the change in the tin-tasting mind of the Swarm. The queen – the fertile feminine they all obeyed – was threatened, terrified for her life. The survival of the Swarm was the survival of the queen – they could all die without cost if only she lived. And she had identified the threat to the Swarm.

Sumner.

As one, the Swarm descended on him in a solid mass, covering his body in a thick writhing carpet of warning-banded bodies and buzzing wings. He howled inarticulately as he was stung again and again and again, thousands of wasps injecting venom into every inch of his flesh. Mentally connected to him, sympathetic envenomed agony slashed through Anderson's mind, driving her to her knees with a scream of pain, clutching futility at her head. Dana screamed too, flailing her hands and hiding her eyes so she did not have to see the mangling of Sumner's body, torn apart as it was ravaged by thousands of barbed needles.

The Swarm didn't let up – it held him there, a twitching marionette of venom-swollen meat kept upright by the sheer mass of insects clinging to it. Harmon grabbed Dana and – his own personal theme-song swelling in his mind – swept her off her feet and into his arms, running across the room in great strides. The effect was rather spoiled as he slipped on the fungal slime, his feet sliding out from under him and the two of them collapsing into the garbage.

Three gunmen advanced on Cornelius and Hershey's position, three-round bursts of suppressive fire forcing them to keep their heads down. The perps probably needn't have bothered – Hershey's weapon was deadly only to wasps and Cornelius so lightheaded his best shots were missing. They reached the edge of the depression and grinned triumphantly as they aimed at the helpless Judges.

Behind them, the door burst open, its lock blown by a breaching charge. Grim-faced, holding the blockrocker at her hip, Quartermain raked the gangbangers across the kidneys with a full clip. At close range the effect was devastating; they fell to the ground, cut in half at the waists as if by a steel whip. She shucked the taped magazines, spinning them in her hand and slamming the opposite end home even as Hershey scrambled out of cover. "Gun!" she ordered.

Left handed, Quartermain tossed the blockrocker in a flat spin towards Hershey, already snap-drawing her lawgiver with her right. While the LSW was still in the air, she'd put a bullet into a perp's chest, dropping him before he could draw a bead on her. Hershey caught the submachine gun, she and Quartermain cutting down the remaining perps with carefully-controlled bursts.

Hershey ran forward, dragging Harmon and Dana to their feet. Her face was thunder and the poor animal control officer flinched from her. "I'm sorry, Judge . . ." he began.

Hershey shook her head in exasperation. "Stow it, you nutter," she said without malice, shoving the two of them towards the door. Clinging together, Harmon and Dana stumbled through the trash as quickly as they could.

She glanced behind her – Quartermain had reached Cornelius and was helping him scramble out of the hollow in the trash. He turned back to Anderson – the psi was on her knees, knocked there by pain she couldn't comprehend. She ran forward, grabbing her and helping her up as Harmon and Dana struggled through the door. "Come on!" she said. "Gotta go!" Anderson shoved her away, shaking her head and drawing her lawgiver.

Cornelius was staggering, his chest an ocean of pain, his vision gray. He slipped and stumbled on the unstable garbage, falling to one knee and dropping his gun. Quartermain made up her mind and – trying not to think about just how much six-foot-four of solid muscle in full Street-kit weighed – holstered her lawgiver and bent her knees to get her shoulders under his hips. Drunkenly, he shook his head. "I c'n make it," he slurred. "Too big for you, anyway." He took a stride up the slope. His other foot slipped, sending him pitching forward to land across her shoulders.

The impact drove her to her knees and knocked his badge loose. It splattered face-down in the garbage, exactly as he would have done if she hadn't been there. With trembling fingers, she retrieved his badge and gun, magnetizing the pistol to her own armor and clipping the scarred shield to her belt. She settled his semi-conscious bulk – if not morecomfortably at least less uncomfortably – across her shoulders and wove her arm between his legs in the fireman's lift, grabbing his massive wrist with a vice-like grip. She grit her teeth and straightened her back, her thighs screaming at her as she unbent her knees. "You ain't heavy," she grunted, mantra-like, as she lurched with trembling determination towards the door, "you're my oppa."

The wasps were still clinging to Sumner's body, a pulsing bivouac of insects still following the echoes of instincts, but Anderson knew that would change in seconds. With the Lord of the Flies dead and his mind destroyed, they would soon revert to their natural behavior. They would protect their hive and true queen from the invaders. "Incendiary," she ordered through gritted teeth, and fired.

The phosphorous shell detonated as it hit the writhing mass of wasps, splattering them with burning gobbets of chemical fire. The swarm flew apart instantly, not only blown by the wind of hot gasses, but individual insects frantically trying to get away from the scorching heat. But it was too late – their wings caught, exoskeletons popping open as moist innards vaporized and expanded, cracking their banded bodies. Hershey grabbed Anderson once again and the two of them sprinted for the door. The air was thick with smoke from the burning trash, pockets of methane detonating like grenades. The two Judges dived through the door, throwing themselves to the ground as the fire reached critical mass, a broiling tide of flame rolling along the ceiling like an inverted sunset ocean. With a great hollow boom, the doors to the basement room slammed shut, shoved closed by the outward rush of hot air.

Wearily, grateful for the clean, dry air outside the festering hive and the refreshing coldness of the poured 'crete floor beneath her, Hershey rolled over onto her back. Anderson was already on her feet, hastening towards where Quartermain had set down Cornelius. The rugged carry over the shifting dunes of garbage hadn't helped his condition and his skin was deathly pale, his head hanging, wheezing in his chest as he blew bloody-bubbles with every shallow breath. Quartermain had her bootknife out and was systematically sawing through the straps of his armor web with the serrated edge on the rear of the blade. "Medi-Teks to my GPS, immediate!" Anderson frantically ordered. "Judge down!"

Quartermain sliced his fatigues open, freeing his chest from the constricting leather, pushing him down so he lay on his wounded side. Anderson looked at her as if she were mad and actually tried to sit him up, but Quartermain shook her head. "Trust me," she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. "Know what to do 'bout punctured lung. Asked the docs in the hospital."

Anderson glared at her, cradling Cornelius' head in her hands so it didn't have to lie on the dirty 'crete of the floor. He certainly seemed to be breathing more easily, his unwounded lung having more room to expand. "You knew this was going to happen?" she shrieked. "You knew, and you didn't tell anyone?"

Quartermain shook her head – she knew Anderson was overwrought, but Cornelius meant just as much to her and the implication hurt worse than her throat. She swallowed painfully before whispering, "Doesn't always work like that – just get the notion. Anyway," she asked, her voice cracking, "would it have stopped him?"

Anderson wasn't mollified. "You were ordered to guard our rear!" she snapped. "If he dies . . ."

"I guess she must have heard 'save our asses'." Hershey's voice was cool and calming, but quick and crisp enough to cut off any further outburst. She was standing guard over the psis huddled protectively around Cornelius, the blockrocker held tightly to her body, her eyes scanning the corridor. "Good work, Cadet," she said without irony, "look for a commendation in your record. He's gonna live?"

Quartermain nodded. "Yes, Ma'am," she whispered with certainty. "And thank you, Ma'am."

Hershey looked over at Harmon – clutching at his wounded thigh, but flushed with his success – and Dana – alive and rescued, fawning over her savior. "Perps're dead, city's safe, hostage's freed, and no-one's going to resyk," she said with a wry grin. "Dunno how PsiDiv slices it, but – in sector two – we call that a win."

A/n : I have had this chapter written for ten days – seriously! And I wasn't happy with it, and I went back and forth with it, editing it and cutting it up and reworking it. I am still not 100% happy with it – but I just wanted to get it done.

Frankly, there were times in Bee-Movie when I just didn't think it was working – I just didn't like it at all. But, thanks to JudgeTrask, Khayr and "anon" I was encouraged – seriously, I think this story has got more positive feedback than any other Dreddfic I've written!

Just goes to show what I know, huh?

The action here was, once again, rather silly and over-the-top – it's not a serious thing. This is a guy who looks like Sting controlling wasps while an animal control officer with delusions of heroism tries to impress a bimbo secretary. It is hardly serious drama! But, the comics were often like that.

Once again, I have broken the chapter up – yes, what was going to be one chapter is three! This is the "end of the action" - really, this is where the story would end if it were a comic. Perp's dead, city's safe, we know our hero will recover.

But . . . well, we all like some feels, right?

Maybe we do, maybe we don't. But you're going to get them! The next (last) chapter isn't essential for the story – but you might enjoy it.

Please – leave a review saying what you thought, and (if you are so minded) read what happens afterwards in the next chapter!