Surefoot 81: Murderers' Row

The Security personnel of the Ekosian Government barely had time to react; attempts to call for assistance were met with interference remotely generated by the terrorists, who raced down the highly-polished floors of the building.

Their leader, a huge pale-skinned woman with blonde hair tucked under a shiny peaked cap that matched the black uniform and boots, stopped at the foot of the grand staircase, turning and pointing. "Elamich! Bard! Set the explosives and proximity triggers at the doorways! Rasah! Get to the Chancellor's Office, bring him down here, eliminate any other traitors you find!"

Then she noticed her comrades looking up past her, and turned to see the huge flag hanging up over the landing of the staircase: a green-blue monstrosity of clasping hands, some revolting liberal adoption of an old Ekosian design from before the Age of Steel, replacing the Beloved Swastika as part of the new so-called 'Reformation'.

Her ice-blue eyes flared with naked disgust, and without hesitation raised her machine gun, firing a stream of bullets at the fittings holding up the flag, sending it fluttering to the landing. Then she turned back to her comrades. "Tomar! The transmitter!"

Screams from other sections of the building peppered the air, as she watched her comrades set up the communications equipment, or unpack more explosives, setting them around the foyer. Good, good, all was going according to plan.

Noise from above drew their attention, as Rasah frogmarched the Chancellor, a fat, jowly, pitiful-looking bureaucrat, down the stairs, Rasah sneering. "I found him hiding under his desk!"

Their leader chuckled as she regarded him, slipping her machine gun over her shoulder. "Such courage. You do credit to your voters-"

He was red-faced and trembling, in fact looked ready to pass out. But still, he tried to protest. "You- You have no right to commit such heinous acts of terror-"

She backhanded him with her gloved hand, before turning to the transmitter. "Begin!"

The equipment came to life, as she raised a broad chin, her speech she had rehearsed a hundred times in her head flowing freely and naturally. "Fellow Ekosians, I am Colonel Ilsa Wölfin, and I was the Standartenfuhrer of the Ekosian Office for Genetic Purity and Enhancement - until the liberal traitors and weaklings like this pig-" She reached out and dragged the Chancellor into view. "Dismantled it. Just as they have dismantled our strength and resolve. Dismantled our very way of life!

Over a century ago, our First Führer rose among us, showed us our true value, our true strength, as the Master Race of the Galaxy, destined to purify and dominate! But he was betrayed!"

The Chancellor shook his head. "N-No- He was- He was a Federation historian, an observer- he was misguided, mentally ill, remodelled our culture after an evil Terran society-"

"Lies!" Wölfin snapped at him. "Fake News! He was betrayed, assassinated! By agents of the Untermenschen Federation! And you lackeys to the mongrel aliens have tried to weaken us, to defile our strength and purity, and bend the knee to the Federation!

But there are Ekosians who haven't forgotten the old ways, who refuse to surrender and submit! The Agents of Kaos will rebuild the Reich!" Her eyes flared in anticipation at the Chancellor. "And we will rebuild it on the bodies of you and every other race traitor!"

He pulled back, but she was too quick for him, as her hand shot out, grasping him by the neck... and snapping it with the ease of anyone else snapping their fingers.

His body dropped to the floor, as Wölfin turned back to the transmitter, her face flush with excitement over once again killing again with her hands. "Reject the lies spun by the mongrel aliens and the race traitors! Our numbers grow by the hour! Kaos awaits-"

She paused as she saw the lights die on the transmitter. "What has happened?"

Tomar checked the equipment, alarm rising on his face. "They're blocking the signal, the power, causing feedback-"

Suddenly the windows surrounding them blew inward, showering them with glass and debris. The others ducked in response.

Wölfin didn't, instead stood there letting the glass shards bounce off her, while she changed the magazine on her machine gun. "They're avoiding the ground entrances! Defensive Position! Stand your ground! HAIL KAOS!"

The Agents of Kaos obeyed, circling around her, echoing her cry. "HAIL KAOS!"

Stun grenades were flung inside, exploding. Some Agents of Kaos fell, others fired upwards in the direction of the windows, the gunfire deafening everyone.

Everyone except Wölfin, who cackled with glee as she continued firing upwards in all directions, oblivious to her comrades as they succumbed to grenades and gunfire: Elamich, Tomar, Bard, the others. They were expendable; there would always be others to take their place. As long as she survived, the dream of restoring their people's supremacy would survive.

And she would survive, thanks to the secret experimentation she underwent from her scientists, before her Office was shut down.

Wölfin replaced her magazine, feeling bullets cut through her uniform, strike her skin beneath... and bounce off without any effect- no, there was an effect: she felt ecstatic. Ecstatic at the reminder of her invulnerability, and the knowledge of what these pitiful inferiors would think and feel when they saw her still standing.

When she emptied another magazine, she reached for the weapons from her fallen comrades, firing until she emptied those, too. More bullets bounced off her. No, Mongrels, you do not bring down an Übermensch so easily.

Then she heard their commands to enter and bring her down by hand, and she licked her lips. Commandos in anti-riot gear emerged, raising batons in their hands, and charged at her from several directions, and she laughed. Deftly she took blows that would subdue ordinary people, while she responded with kicks and punches that crippled and killed, breaking bones and crushing skulls.

And all the while she listened, listened until she heard the sounds of reinforcements swarming inside, and she reached into the pocket of her tattered jacket. Yes, Mongrels, come closer. Ilsa the She-Wolf has something special for you.

She triggered the detonator.

The explosives set around her erupted as one, creating an explosion and fireball that engulfed Wölfin, the police.

Everything.

*

Moments later, a cloaked ship in direct orbit over the capitol city of Ekos that had been watching the terrorist incident below, targeted a transporter beam on the only surviving lifeform detected amidst the carnage, and brought them to the ship's Sickbay.

Kazan stood in the background, allowing the medical personnel to mill about the biobed where Ilsa Wölfin lay, nude and unconscious but alive, the charred areas of her body receding, like patches of water evaporating under a hot lamp.

Ben the Rat hopped up onto a nearby table, observing the proceedings with his new ally. "Wow, they grow them tough down there."

Kazan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "She's unique, an experiment in Augmentation on a genetic level: strength, speed, durability, rapid cellular regeneration. She's pulled this trick in other places on the planet, awakening in the rubble or in the local morgue and running off to continue her fight to resurrect the Nazi Regime on Ekos."

Ben wrinkled his nose. "How long will it take her to wake up?"

Suddenly Wölfin sat up on the biobed, swinging out and knocking Sickbay personnel aside.

"Not long," Kazan replied simply, showing no apprehension to the violence on display.

The Ekosian woman hopped off the biobed, noticing Kazan, her face contorted with rage. "You! Release me, whoever you are!"

"'Whomever'," Kazan corrected her dryly.

Wölfin charged towards him - slamming into an invisible forcefield along the way that sparked in protest. She drew back, before attacking the field again.

Ben looked up at him. "Is 'whomever' grammatically correct?"

Kazan shrugged. "I have no idea; I just wanted to piss her off."

She kept striking the field, again, and again, her fists pounding repeatedly against the energy barrier, cursing and snarling.

Kazan remained unmoved, in every sense of the word, raising his voice above the noise. "If you think you're going to continue this for any length of time, I'll go have lunch and come back afterwards."

She paused, then pointed at the personnel she disabled. "I'll rip them to pieces! Beat them to death with their own limbs!"

"Then I'll come back after dinner. Or... you can stop now, and listen to the offer I was sent to make. And if you accept, our sponsor will give you enough money, weapons and resources to help you become your planet's next Führer, and Make Ekos Great Again."

Wölfin glared at him for a moment of regard, before lowering her fist, without actually unclenching it. "I will listen."

"Maybe we can get you some clothes, too?" Ben suggested. "Humans aren't very attractive naked. Not enough nipples."

*

Deep Space, outside of Bolarus System:

"How lucky can one guy be?

I kissed her and she kissed me.

Like the fella once said,

'Ain't that a kick in the head?'

The room was completely black.

I hugged her and she hugged back.

Like the sailor said, quote,

'Ain't that a hole in the boat?'"

Inside the Ferengi Marauder Filthy Lucre, racing away from the system at high warp, the crooning voice filled the air on the Bridge, making the Ferengi working at the stations wince, but the human sitting in the DaiMon's chair in the centre tap his spats and snap his fingers to the beat.

"My head keeps spinning.

I go to sleep and keep grinning.

If this is just the beginning,

My life is gonna bee-yoo-ti-ful!"

To the human's right, Weapons Officer Drag turned, crooked teeth grinding as he shouted over the infernal hyoo-man music. "DaiMon Nova! Vessel closing in on an intercept course!"

The human bolted to his feet. "Cut the crooning, Sinatra!" As the music ended, he stepped down, tugging at the sleeves of his pinstripe jacket and running his hand through his slicked-back hair. "Okay, Boys, get your gats ready. The Feds won't take us alive!"

"It's not Starfleet, DaiMon! It's an Orion vessel, designated the Green Death!"

Frankie Nova smiled. He was a tall, thin, swarthy human male, with a sharp nose and dimpled chin, and he cracked his knuckles with anticipation. "Competition, huh? Well, then, let's teach those Jolly Green Giants that no one steals from the Ant Hill Mob! We do the stealing!"

Around him, the Ferengi cheered, and Nova grinned. These mugs may look like they should be mounted on top of cathedrals, but they appreciated the value of hard-stolen gold-pressed latinum. It had been a sweet deal, grabbing the shipment in transit to the Bank of Bolaria, without having to whack anyone on the way, and he was damned if he was going to let his luck run out now. "Evasive Manoeuvres! Bring the big guns online!"

First Officer Krep called out, "DaiMon Nova! The Orions are sending us a message!"

"Yeah? And what do those mugs have to say to us?"

The Ferengi frowned, his beady eyes narrowing. "'Hold on to something'."

Before Nova or anyone else could comment, the ship was enveloped by a yellow-white energy beam, and suddenly the Filthy Lucre lurched to a halt.

Amidst the klaxons, Engineering Officer Turot reported, "A spatial charge! Disrupting warp fields, shields, weapons!"

Nova sneered, drawing a gleaming silver .45 automatic pistol from inside his jacket. "We ain't licked yet, Boys! Waste 'em as soon as they finish sparkling-"

The rest of his instructions were lost as he was enveloped in a transporter beam-

-Emerging on the Transporter Pad of the Green Death, minus his pistol, facing three armed Orion guards, the one in the middle barking, "Stay where you are! You're our prisoner!"

"Sez youse mugs!" Nova charged.

They fired disruptor bolts - the bolts passing harmlessly through the gangster as he continued onward, punching the Orion who had spoke, sending him sprawling.

The other two forwent firing to try to grab him -- only to find their hands passing through him like he was a ghost.

Nova proved to be more substantial, when he wanted to be, slugging them both with ease, before grabbing one of the disruptor pistols and racing out into the corridor, glancing around. He didn't know Orion vessel schematics from a map of his butt, but he figured he could grab some goon and turn them into a guide.

A door just ahead slid open, and he raised the pistol in their direction. No one appeared. Instead a smooth, educated-sounding voice called out, "Come in, Mr Novarro. We've been expecting you."

Nova hesitated. "You mugs better start throwing away your gats and tickling the ceiling, or you'll be filled with more lead than a pencil factory!"

There was a pause, and the voice continued. "If I understand the vernacular, we have no weapons in here, I can assure you. Please, Mr Novarro, see for yourself. There's even some libation on hand."

Nova stepped closer, scowling as he reached the doorway and peered inside cautiously. "What in the Sam Hill-"

The interior resembled a speakeasy, with small round tables and wooden chairs, a bar lining the far wall, and a low stage where a man in a tuxedo tinkled the ivories on a piano.

Apart from the piano player, there were two figures, sitting together at one table: a grey-haired, smartly-dressed human male, and a huge bald Orion male in leathers and chains, both with drinks in hand. The human male beckoned to him. "Please, Mr Novarro: what's your poison?"

Nova strode in, pointing his weapon at the Orion, the more likely threat. "Okay, Green Gertie, you're gonna send me back to my ship and am-scray, or-"

"Or you'll do nothing," the Orion replied simply. "The weapons I gave the guards have biometric locks. Only my people can use them."

Nova frowned at him... and squeezed the trigger. Quickly he flipped it around, holding the weapon by the barrel and brandishing the handle. "Bet I can still blackjack ya both!"

Beside the Orion, the human smiled. "Before you try, however, why not have a drink, and we can talk?" He indicated the Orion. "My associate is Surinh Dag, commanding this vessel, and I am Bastien Dumont. Please, sit."

Nova frowned at him now, before setting down the pistol and taking the unoccupied seat. "Okay, Frenchie, since you're buying, I'll take a Rigellian whiskey, double."

Dumont made a gesture, and a glass of amber liquid materialised on the table. Nova lifted up the glass, looking ready to somehow employ it as a weapon now. "What about my boys? They'd better be okay, or there'll be trouble."

"They're in our holding cells," Surinh Dag informed him. "Pending the outcome of our talk. I'm surprised at the loyalty you have for Ferengi, though. They're not very pleasant to look at, are they?"

The gangster sneered at the comment. "Hey, they may not look like bathing beauties, but Frankie Nova has never discriminated! Even when I was a kid, growing up in Butchertown, in the poorest, roughest part of San Francisco! Never cared what colour or creed you are, you play straight with me, and I got your back!"

"But you were never a 'kid', were you?" Dumont pointed out, looking fascinated. "And never grew up, anywhere; that was all written into your programming. Three years ago, you were nothing more than Franco Novarro, aka Frankie Nova, a fictional 20th Century character in a murder mystery program on a Starfleet vessel holodeck. Then you were transformed into a sentient 'photonic lifeform' and escaped your program, and the vessel." He reached for his own drink. "The Starfleet reports we obtained were unclear as to how this happened, however."

Nova shrugged. "You can thank the cosmic clown who gatecrashed my program. One moment I was running around not knowing no better, putting the muscle on Dixon Hill for clues as to the location of the Black Orchid. The next moment, some plummy bozo with a letter for a name popped out of nowhere, and what he said burned into my memory, even if I didn't understand the meaning behind it at the time: 'Oh Jean-Luc, are you still wasting your time with these frivolities? Let's see what happens if I cut the strings on your photonic puppets.'

Then he snapped his fingers, and suddenly I knew who and what I was, knew that 'Dixon Hill' wasn't ever real, and was now just the Captain of the starship playing the part, and that I could just walk out of there and do whatever the Hell I wanted." He drank in one. "And I did."

"And the knowledge about the artificial nature of your existence doesn't cause you any conceptual or existential crisis?"

Nova shrugged again. "It did - for about five seconds. Then I figured I wasn't gonna waste the life I've been given wondering the Whats and Whys of it all. Philosophy ain't in my library, Frenchie. I don't believe in putting Descartes before the horse." He chuckled at his own joke.

Dumont smiled. "Well, despite your... limited programming you've certainly adapted to 24th Century life, even acquiring a ship and associates. No doubt helped by the advantages your photonic body brings you."

"Yes," Surih Dag agreed. "You're immortal, indestructible, you can control the density of your fields. No wonder they want you."

Nova looked at him again. "'They'? Who the Hell are 'They'?"

"The sponsors of our... gang," Dumont replied. "We're seeking individuals with unique talents and skill sets for a rather large and audacious operation. This little meeting of ours served as an audition of sorts, a confirmation of your suitability,"

"And our sponsors have deep pockets," Surinh Dag added, grinning as he drank.

Nova looked between the two of them, smiling. "Is there a reason my glass ain't been refilled while we talk some more?"

*

Farmlands, Macilles III:

Across the arable sections of the planet, the automated agricultural machines moved across the endless fields of wheat and rice, inspecting and maintaining and gathering and storing and reporting. They moved day and night, tirelessly, faithfully performing the tasks programmed into them.

Watched over by corpses.

And one survivor. Thomas Joad struggled to crawl across the wide space between his house and the vehicle bay. It was only forty metres away. He had crossed this distance with ease more times than he could count. Now, his body had seized up, and he could barely breathe, let alone get his limbs to work for him.

The plague had fallen upon them quickly, defying the efforts of their local medical professionals to even identify it, let alone cure it. They had tried to send a distress signal to Starbase 234, the nearest help in this sector, but the colony's subspace transmitter was experiencing some strange interference.

Then, when the people had begun dying by the scores, and then the hundreds, all efforts turned to survival, to holding out until the next scheduled transport arrived.

But even that proved futile.

Joad thought he had been safe, as far away from the communities on Macilles as one could get, living alone and with no physical contact. But then, just after he lost contact with the Colonial Government Offices, he saw the blotches on his skin, the ugly, disgusting pustules that spread like a fire in the field, causing him pain when he began doubling over from the stomach cramps.

He should have left sooner, headed into the main community to put himself in isolation with the rest of the infected. But he had been a fiercely independent man all his life, never wanting to rely on others, needing others.

And, yes, he had been scared about the diagnosis. It was irrational, but that's who Tom Joad was.