Episode Two
Last Gas Station For 3 Light-Years
" I missed! " Steel growled over the comm. " I can't believe I fucking missed! "
"Easy, girl, it's a good thing this time," Carbine replied, almost so softly that her mic didn't pick up the words. Carbine's hands tightened slightly on Halogen's waist, hugging the sinewy Mouse against her for comfort. She refused to believe what she had just witnessed, downright refused to accept what her eyes told her. Halogen patted her hands, but for once, kept his mouth shut.
"Did you destroy her?" Carbine asked suddenly.
" Yes, of course, " came Steel's sharp answer. Carbine could tell that the sniper was climbing down to meet the rest of them at Delta Point. " What got you spooked, boss? "
Carbine could only laugh softly; Steel's concern wasn't for the leader, Steel coveted Carbine's position. "I think I saw a ghost," Carbine answered softly. She sighed. "We have everyone accounted for?"
" I got Torque, " The answer came from the giant Northern Mouse named Lug riding slightly behind Halogen and Carbine. " I think he's a little worse for wear, but he'll survive. "
" Bastard nuked my ride, " an identical voice continued. Carbine smiled, the twins were good if they were complaining.
" Coming up on your six, Carbine, " Rimfire sounded disturbed to say the least. She was worried that the boy had seen the same thing she had.
" And… I got you babe, sang Halogen all too cheerfully, and off-key. Carbine rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless.
" Delta Point secure, boss, " Steel ruined the moment, with her carefully trained report. As far as she was concerned, this was a battlefield, and required respect.
"ETA one minute," Carbine replied. With a sigh, she rested her helmet against Halogen's back, and watched as Rimfire fell into place on their eight. The young Mouse gave a hesitant thumbs-up, to which Carbine responded by cutting her fingers through the air, inches in front of her throat.
The minute it took them to join Steel at Delta Point seemed like an eternity. Once they pulled into the spot, a small thin alley between two decrepit buildings, they dismounted and stretched their legs. Carbine first checked on Lug and Torque. The twins seemed to support each other as they stood near Lug's shining green fat-bodied low-rider. They were identical twins, a rare occurrence among the Martian population. They were also gigantic, born to the heartiest stock of the Northern Mice. Their fur was a sandy-strawberry, and shaggier than most other Mice. Torque sported a deep gash on his arm, where a piece of shrapnel from his exploding bike had caught him. His peroxide blond topknot wobbled as he nodded a greeting to Carbine. Lug was combing his fingers through his mane of blond, happy to let it be freed from the confines of the helmet.
"You guys koshe?" Carbine asked quietly, laying a hand on each of their arms. She felt like such a dwarf between them, even if she was on average for a Martian female. Lug nodded as he fished a first aid kit out of his saddlebag.
"We'll be fine," Torque answered in his stead.
Carbine smiled, and turned away from the twins. A soft jingle alerted her to another presence within them. Steel had descended from her vantage point. Carbine sighed, and turned to the black Mouse. The sniper had her rifle slung over her shoulder, and she nearly blended into the dark shadows at the base of the alley. The tiny bells woven into the ends of her waist-length corn-row braids were the only reason Carbine knew she was present, and that was only because Steel had allowed them to jingle. Dressed in a matte black uniform that matched each of their own violet and red ones, Steel cut an imposing figure. She towered over Carbine by a full head. Steel slipped her arm around Carbine's waist to lead her away from the others a slight distance.
"Who were those Mice, boss?" she asked softly, her azure eyes boring into Carbine's brown ones. "The two at the Last Chance. You pulled us out because you recognized them."
Carbine sighed, and motioned for Rimfire to join them. The youth came over quickly, but found his exuberance cowed by Steel's glare. "If, they're anything, they're clones. I don't know how the humans got the technology to do it, or the skin samples… but I could have sworn that was Throttle."
Rimfire swallowed, and tried to point without being too flagrant. "And the one that almost took Torque out…it was my Uncle Modo's bike, and… and he had the cyber arm…"
"The great Freedom Fighters?" Steel snorted, unladylike. She waved a hand dismissively at the two. "Humans in wanna-be suits, riding around on mock-ups. Probably intercepted some ol' Martian transmission or something."
Carbine could only nod. Just tell yourself that, she thought bitterly at the black Mouse. "Let's get back to base; Torque and I're gonna have to put in new specs for bikes." She turned towards the other aspects of her team, and could only stifle a chuckle as Halogen magically produced a shiny silver quarter from Lug's ear. The twins just groaned.
Halogen spun and saluted as Carbine opened her mouth. He fidgeted, tapping his fingers against his sides, and swishing his tail through the air. He flashed her his most charming smile, and slicked a hand back through his feathery Mohawk. With a debonair bow and a sweep of his arms at his flame-painted chopper, Halogen grinned.
"Your chariot… awaits," he cooed in as deep a voice as he could muster. As Carbine graciously played the part of his leading lady, he emitted a high-pitched chuckle, which ruined the moment. She resisted the urge to smack him, afraid of what reaction she may bring out of the unpredictable one. She watched as the rest of the team saddled up; Steel's sleek midnight racer was idling silently less then a hundred feet away. Carbine nodded at Rimfire.
"Let's move'em out!" he ordered over the communications set. Everything was automatic, rote memory, as the riders fell easily into formation. Halogen and Carbine leading the pack, while Steel bringing up the rear, her silent machine the most fearsome out of the bunch. Carbine could feel the headache rising, and hoped in vain that Limburger would give them a break once they returned.
The gates of the vast complex swung open slowly, the hydraulics whining in protest. They turned through the grandiose courtyard, the only spot in Chicago that still had any measure of greenery, into the giant arena that led them underground to the garage facility. Humans scurried out of their way, dressed in the drab gray's of slavery. Most of them were physical laborers, but the six that ran out to meet them were their personal mechanics. Limburger had countless slaves, as the entire population of Chicago had bowed directly to him.
Torque and Carbine moved off with their respective mechanics, while the others simply dropped their bikes into the wrench-jockeys' capable hands. Steel jingled softly as she sidled up to Rimfire, making a gesture with her head. Rimfire nodded, and followed her out of the garage bays and into the rest of the complex. Steel's boots were noiseless on the metal grating of the corridor, while Rimfire clattered and banged in his haste to keep up with her. Steel was soundless, silent, like a great black ghost that moved through the corridor.
Rimfire found that he, as always, admired the way she moved, the controlled violence that crackled in the air around her. But he was also one of the few, who knew she had been augmented, changed by the Plutarkian scientists during the drawn out Martian War. But even augmented, she hadn't lost perspective on the things that mattered most.
Their personal quarters were underground, four units with a shared common room, at one of the farthest ends of the complex. The level directly above their rooms housed Karbunkle's laboratories. As they passed it, Rimfire noticed that the hydraulic lift was open, water pressure still hissing to his sensitive ears. Steel's eyes were almost luminescent against her black fur as she exchanged a worried glance with the youth. She punched her access code in quickly, her dark fingers dancing over the keypad like air.
The door slid open with a hiss, and Steel allowed her bells to jangle as she stepped through the portal. A pair of orderlies dressed in crisp white linen glanced up at her, but continued with their duties. They lifted a blanket-wrapped form from their gurney onto the couch.
"Sissy?" a weak voice queried, shaking with the exertion of speaking. "Sissy, is that you?"
As the orderlies stepped away, Steel let loose a deep breath she hadn't been aware of holding. Rimfire patted her shoulder lightly.
"Hey Rico," Steel greeted her little sister gently, coming forward to sit on the floor by her head. Rimfire joined her, sitting on the floor by the young Mouse's hands. He took one of them in his, giving her soft, gunmetal gray fur some gentle whirling strokes with his thumb. She was only a year younger than him, but she seemed so soft and vulnerable.
"How're you feeling, Ricochet?" he asked softly.
The orderlies nodded at Steel as they rolled the gurney out. The sniper glared back at them, as if daring them to speak up. "Nothing's working yet, huh?" She asked, smoothing her little sister's silvery bangs away from her face.
Rico's nod was barely perceptible. "'M tired," Rico murmured, barely stifling a yawn. "But, 'm not seein' nuthin' anymore."
Steel seemed to deflate. She lost all the bluster that had carried her through the fight earlier. She looked almost as drawn and tired as her sick sister did. Rimfire reached out, taking one of Steel's hands in his gently. "You need some sleep, Steel." As she shook her head, he squeezed her hand. "I'll stay with Rico, promise."
Ricochet managed a weak smile for her sister, trying to assuage all her fears in one stroke. Steel frowned, but obeyed, rising from the couch side and disappearing through the portal into the bedroom. Rimfire shifted slightly so he could see Rico's face. Once upon a time, she had been the counter to Steel's darkness. Light and bubbly, her laughter used to fill the complex with the most profound joy. But a year and a half ago, she fell dreadfully ill.
"Th'nk you," Rico sighed, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. Rimfire always found their strange violet shade calming, soothing. But they were unfocused, blurry and flat with illness. "F'r bein' good t'Sissy…"
Rimfire pressed a finger against her mouth, quieting her. "That sentiment goes for you as well, Rico. You should sleep." Her fingers twitched against his hand, and Rimfire squeezed gently. "I promise I'll stay. Cross my heart."
Rico smiled again at him, and drew as deep a breath as she could muster. Rimfire stroked her hair and smoothed her fur until he was quite sure she was asleep.
Dan approached the two hale Mice as they returned triumphant from repelling the Death Squad. "I had to sedate your friend," he said quietly as he gave the two a quick exam for injuries. "He was getting a little riled up; wanted to join you in the fight."
Throttle chuckled softly. "That's Vinnie for you. Can't keep that Mouse down."
"However, it's in our best interest to." Danny countered, escorting the Mice back underground. "The injuries he has sustained are life-threatening. One wrong move and one of those ribs could puncture his lungs. I don't have the equipment here to deal with something of that nature!"
"Oh, mama," Modo muttered. "We'll try 'n keep him calm. Right, bro?"
Throttle nodded, and after a moment, flipped his bangs out of his vision. "Do me a favor, Danny? Can you tell me who… those Mice were?"
"Charley can," Dan answered after a few moments of thought. He led them down a dirt corridor to perhaps the largest room in the complex. The plywood door even read "war room." Dan pushed it open, to reveal that the room consisted of only a long table, and a beaten up desktop computer in one corner. Charley sat at the computer, her long auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail.
She turned as Dan cleared his throat, and scowled a moment after. "Thank you," she said. Danny left, closing the thin door behind him, leaving Throttle and Modo to stand uncomfortably under the scowling visage. Modo swallowed, hard and loudly. Instantly, everything about the Chicago they knew came flooding back, and the big gray Mouse was homesick.
"That was nicely done," Charley told them as she rose from the computer terminal. "I haven't seen anyone read the tactics of that particular Death Squad that well." Throttle waited, lashing his tail through the air behind him. "Carbine runs a tight crew; some of the best and craziest Mice work for her."
Throttle's heart hit the floor. That had been Carbine. He lowered his head, studying the tops of his boots until Modo patted his shoulder lightly.
Charley gestured towards the computer. "Here, these are the Mice she runs with."
Throttle
and Modo drew closer, preparing for the worst.
They read the names silently, most where unfamiliar, or vaguely
remembered from tombstones on Mars.
Modo drew back and walked away as he found his nephew's name. Throttle continued on. "Steel and Ricochet? Modo, weren't those the names of the sniper
team that tried to take Lord Camembert out on Mars?"
Modo roused from his
melancholy and glanced over. "Yeah,
they were put to death by the Plutarkian high council."
Charley reached out and placed her hands on the Mice's shoulders. Neither of them liked the expression she wore. "I have a plan. It involves you, and your injured friend. If you're game, that is…"
The alarm shattered Steel's sleep like a cannonade breaking glass. The bells at the tips of her braids jangled, but were swiftly silenced as she swung out of her hammock. Instinct took over; she glanced down at the bed to wince at Rico's fitful, feverish sleep. She grabbed her rifle from it's home by the door, and slipped an energy pistol into the empty shoulder holster before she entered the common room.
Carbine and Halogen were already present, pointing at display panels that had dropped down from the ceiling. Rimfire, clad only in shorts, and groggy from the interrupted slumber, staggered through his door, while the twins lumbered in from their room. Steel spared the screens a glance, as she set a booted foot on the table to buckle it up.
Three Mice approached the outer gates; all beaten up, battered. No helmets, no gear; and they supported one between them. Steel tilted her head.
"Those…"
Carbine cut her off with a snarl, as the scene before them unfolded. One of the newer Death Squad's was rolled out as the welcome wagon. Ushering the strange Mice through the gates, they surrounded the trio, circling slowly around the courtyard.
"Carbine, bring your squad to my offices immediately," Limburger's voice shrieked over the intercom. Carbine clapped her hands together, and the screens rose back into the ceiling.
"You heard the boss! Let's roll!"
Steel was a silent black ghost behind the five others. Not even her clothing whispered as she moved.
Carbine and Rimfire stood at the positions of honor, at Limburger's left and right hand sides. Behind them, by rank, the others waited. Steel and Halogen, backed by the giant forms of Lug and Torque, all watched the proceedings in silence. They certainly weren't fakes; they smelled enough like Mice to be true. They could still possibly be cleverly created robots, or clones. But the human's couldn't possibly possess that kind of technology. Unless a Plutarkian had given it to them.
Steel's mind swam with ideas, conjectures, and suppositions, but she kept them all silent. The brains and the boss were the ones who would figure this mess out. Steel's luminescent blue eyes focused momentarily upon Carbine. She kept her mouth set in a hard line, her eyes focused on the tall beige Mouse. Throttle. Steel recognized him from the picture Carbine kept hidden in her room. The other two were in the image as well. Modo: the giant gray Mouse with the old-fashioned augment arm, and Vinnie: the Mouse who'd lost his face and his pride to the Plutarkian War. But, to all accounts, even Rimfire's first hand account, they had all been slaughtered in a bizarre crash-landing on Earth, three years ago.
And yet, here they were, pleading with Limburger for shelter, bikes and healing. Steel felt a deep pity for them, for she knew what they would find at the hands of this particular Plutarkian.
"Of course!" Limburger cooed, strutting before the trio like a cock before hens. "Of course I will open my arms to you! If you agree to work for me, that is." His tone lowered, descended into the pits of hell. A snide grin crept across his wide, piscine lips. "Only a year… it's such a small price to pay."
The limp white Mouse between the two moaned, as if forcing his companions to make a choice. They were striken; their ears and their eyes animated and worried. Finally, Modo nodded, his notched ears drooping. Throttle heaved a great sigh.
"All right," he purred, in a voice so liquid it seemed to seep through the room. Carbine's tail swished in response, curling through the air as if encased in a private memory. "All right, a year."
Limburger squealed with glee just then, clasping his hands together like a child. But as quickly as the puerile emotion came, it vanished in a puff of demands. Slamming his fist upon his desk, he summoned Karbunkle and his orderlies. A viscous grin split his lips as the unconscious Mouse was wrested from the arms of his comrades. A withering cry turned Steel's stomach; she focused upon Karbunkle, as the doctor remained to glance over he remaining two.
"Yes, yes, good. Good." He hummed to himself as he poked and prodded. "An old model. Not my best work…" Karbunkle's dry cackle made Steel straighten up, his goggled eyes turning towards her after a moment. "But certainly not shabby."
"Halogen, show them to the Quarantine Quarters. We want to make sure these vermin don't have any diseases… don't we?" Limburger caught the glares of his Death Squad, and smirked at their expense.
"Speaking of which, your cheddar cheesiness," Karbunkle mused as the Mohawk Mouse stepped forward. As Halogen laid a hand on each of their shoulders, Karbunkle motioned for Steel and Rimfire to come closer. "How is our rodent of repetitive rebounding doing?"
Rimfire glanced blankly at Steel. But the black Mouse simply shook her head. "She's got a fever again, Doctor. And… I don't think the sleeping draught is working very well; she's still having nightmares."
The doctor seemed to think, closing his eyes behind the goggles. "We shall just have to try something... new..."
Vinnie woke, groggy and sore; his head felt like it was filled with cotton, and his side… Every muscle down his torso was tight and knotted up, uncomfortable, despite the sweet smelling sheets and the squishy mattress. Content, he lay in the bed for what seemed like hours, swaying between wakefulness and sleep. Finally, he yawned, breathing deep…
And gagging on the stench of Plutarkian that invaded his senses. His sleepiness began to melt, leaving his head clear and wary. Flickering memories drifted through his skull, a dreamscape filled with nightmarish images. Chicago, dead and gone. Charley, angry, hateful of them. His own bro's all too quiet, defeated. Despite the screaming of his muscles, and the sharp, stabbing ache that lanced through his torso, Vinnie pushed himself up, to finally survey his surroundings.
Cold fear dripped down his spine, levying fines against his body. This place was all too familiar; the surgical cleanliness, the Plutarkian technology. Numbly, Vinnie traced his fingers down his ribs, a lightweight plaster, over a pressure bandage greeted his fingers, as did the bumpy surface of a laser suture. His bandoliers were gone, and a quick scan of the room revealed no trace of them. So, his only choice became clear. He was going to have to find his bros and find out what was going on.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and immediately grabbed the blanket, pulling it up as he moved. They had taken his pants too! The fiends! Blushing, Vinnie swallowed and looked around again. This time it wasn't so bad, his pants and boots, as well as his trusty bandana were all neatly folded upon a chair not too far from him. Grinning, he pressed his feet to the cold floor, and crept to the chair. His tail lashing through the air, Vinnie dressed himself quickly. He patted his chest; how naked he felt without his bandoliers.
From the stench of things, Plutarkians overran this place, more than he'd ever known to be in or even around Chicago. But there was the question… was he still even in Chicago? Well, one thing was for certain, this was still Karbunkle's laboratory level. The antiseptic smell lay beneath the stinkfish, but it was still there, hinting of cinnamon and cloves. Vinnie pushed the door open slightly, and peered out into the hallway.
Humans scurried past, all wearing white lab coats, or purple uniforms, and they all seemed to be on a mission of some kind. Vinnie's red eyes widened; there were so many of them! And not a single one paid him any attention. As he slipped out into the hall, he wondered why he hadn't even been restrained, nor locked in. Things were all wrong, and it bristled his fur to think about it. He let the flow of humanity sweep him down the hallway a short distance. Then, something beneath the steady buzz of the throng caught his attention.
With one well-placed footstep he was out of the throng, pressed against a wall. He listened again, letting his ears twitch at the slightest hint of sound. He smiled. There it was again, a weak cry, a feminine voice calling for… something? Chivalry, honor; hey! He'd be a hero if he could rescue a damsel in distress! Maybe she'd even reward him with a kiss, or something! His mind was made up; he would brave the trials of whatever kind of stinkfish was running the place!
He drew a deep breath, and his side twinged, causing him to flinch slightly. For a moment, but only for a moment, he wondered if he would be smarter to lay low for a while. "Nah," he muttered to himself, wading through the humans toward the door he figured the sound was coming from. It, too, was unlocked. They didn't care too much about escapee's around here, Vinnie figured. Maybe because they were on a spaceship! Maybe because there was no escape from these particular stinkfish? A thousand reasons slipped through Vinnie's mind as he edged the door open slightly.
There were two figures in the room… and one of them was…
"Karbunkle!" Vinnie spat his name out like a curse.
The doctor turned at the sound of his name, and a little smile suddenly played on his lips. "Aaah," he rasped, softly. "My albino athlete returns to the waking world! Good, good! Come, come, hold this for me, would you?"
Vinnie blinked. He had expected the guards to get called, or a gun to be pulled. Not to be offered an IV bag of some amber liquid, and a smile! Dumbfounded, Vinnie approached, letting the door close behind him. "Uhm, aren't you, like, supposed to try to kill me or something?" he finally asked, accepting the bag.
"Hold it up, yes yes, like that." Karbunkle directed, pushing his arm higher into the air. "Why would I? You work for his fragrant frommageness; you are under contract." He chuckled dryly.
The second figure that Vinnie had seen, was the one lying in the bed, almost completely motionless except for the slow, shallow rise and fall of the blankets. Karbunkle had a small, thin arm held like it was porcelain in his hand, and was trying to get the IV's needle past the dull, gunmetal gray fur. Vinnie peered over the doc's shoulder.
A girl! A Mouse to boot! Her head lay to the side, facing away from the two of them. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open as she panted desperately for air. Her hair was lighter, almost silver, but lank and dull. Vinnie's heart lurched as she gave a small, weak cry, corresponding with the needle sliding into the vein. Karbunkle laughed softly again.
"Don't worry, my sweet, this won't hurt much longer," he cooed, to the little female.
Vinnie's stomach twisted as she whimpered again. He couldn't watch any more, so he turned to look at the IV bag she was being administered. 2-methyl-2(methylthio)propionaldehyde O-methylcarbamoyloxime. "Huh?" Vinnie's brow furrowed, as he tried to read it again. What a long name, what a confusing situation. "I'm under contract?" His brain switched back to the other thing, before it began to slowly spin out of control.
"For a year," Karbunkle mused, while he worked. "Though I wouldn't expect you to remember the agreement…" The goggles, wrapped around his bulbous head, turned slightly towards the white Mouse. "And so, what did you say your name was?"
"Vinnie." He instantly kicked himself for that, maybe he should have gone with a pseudonym, maybe he should have lied. Maybe, he was still dreaming! Yeah, that was it, this was all jus a horrible dream.
"Alright, then Vinnie, hook that bag there," Karbunkle pointed, and stepped away from the bed. "I'll inform your friends that you are conscious."
Relief flooded him; his bros were still alive, and inside this dream too! Curiously, he watched Karbunkle carefully peel the label from the IV bag before he exited the room. Leaving Vinnie alone with the strange, ill Mouse, Karbunkle carefully closed the door behind him. Vinnie looked down at her, and idly wondered if what she had was contagious.
Her head lolled, one thin arm tried to move, and Vinnie noticed for the first time that she was restrained. Her mouth moved, like she was trying to speak. And Vinnie crept closer to her bedside. For a split second, he was the focus of a pair of lavender eyes, before they rolled back in her head. Lavender eyes. He'd never seen the like on a Mouse before. He leaned there, by her bedside, listening to her breath laboriously, stunned by sheer, unmasked terror that had captured his gaze.
Slowly, he lowered himself into a chair by the bedside; he ran his hand over his Fleximask, and wondered just when this horror dream would be getting over. He wasn't sure how long he was sitting there, his head held between his hands, but the hydraulics in the door hissed as it slid open. Vinnie looked up, and smiled. His bros returned the action, as they all met in the center of the room.
"Vin-man! You're alive!" Modo dropped an arm over Vinnie's shoulders, and grinned widely. "We were gettin' worried!"
"Who's she?" Throttle asked, giving a head bob in the direction of the bed's occupant.
Vinnie shrugged, causing the beige Mouse to herd the other two further away. "What's going on?" Vinnie then asked, thoroughly confused. "Why aren't we kicking stinkfish tail?"
Throttle sighed. "Long story," he muttered, crouching easily to the floor. His tail swirled against the cold steel as he waited for the other two to join him. "But the short of it is... we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."
Vinnie swallowed hard. "You mean, I'm not dreamin?" He deflated, shaking his head. "This is great, just great! So? What do we do?"
Throttle then shrugged. "We sit tight. We're getting assignments soon, so we just have to do our best to fit in. If we play our cards right, maybe we can bring down this place from the inside out."
"But... but there's nothing left to fight for!" Vinnie protested. "Earth's toast; Mars is toast! I... I can't believe the fish won..."
"They haven't won yet," Modo rumbled, patting Vinnie's shoulder. "Not while we're still around."
"But... assignments?"
"Death Squads," Throttle answered, taking off his glasses to clean them on his vest. Blindly, he looked around at his bros. "They own us right now, Vinnie; we're nothing but expendable slave labor."
"But on the plus side, Carbine and Rimfire are both alive," Modo tried to smile, but found himself failing miserably. "But, we haven't gotten the chance to talk to them, yet."
"How... how long have we been here?" Vinnie asked, almost afraid to find out.
"Two weeks." Throttle returned his field specs to his face, and rose up smoothly. The clock on the wall showed Plutarkian sidereal time. "We're supposed to be down at the garage putting specs in for our bikes in twenty. Let's get going."
Numbly, Vinnie rose, and glanced back at the young sick Mouse. She stirred weakly, and whimpered in her drug-induced sleep. Feeling guilty for a crime he could not name, Vinnie turned away, and followed his bros out the door.
End Episode Two
Go To Episode Three
