Author: Jared S Moya
A sharp pain pierced Darya’s side. His knees buckled as he drew his hand to the wound and toppled to the ground. His shoulder slammed into the packed dirt of the dry riverbed, his teeth clacking against each other. Rolling onto his back, he noticed a lancer round had penetrated his jump apparatus control panel, leaving a large piece of aluminum embedded in his side through his jacket.
Further down the riverbed, the repeated windup and pop of Fibbley’s energy rifle sounded off like a broken fan blade.
Clenching his jaw, Darya grabbed the exposed end of the shrapnel and yanked, removing the sliver with a wheeze. Blood gushed out and touched the cold Dormini air, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing up his spine. He took a deep breath. His hand wandered to his ChestPak and pressed the blinking yellow button.
A series of loud beeps sprung forth, followed by a monotone robotic voice.
“Assessing,” it said.
Darya breathed a sigh of relief. He felt lucky to have retrieved the ChestPak from the Compliance officer on Sintra-3. The officer had him pinned, fists hammering down, and Darya was losing fast—until Fibbley landed his lucky shot. After that, it was as simple as taking the pack off the corpse.
“Compressing,” came the robotic voice.
The sharp prick of the syringe caught him off guard. He’d forgotten to adjust the settings again. No matter, it was over in a split second, then the sealant spray deployed. The icy grasp of the sealant sent a shiver up his spine. He looked down again when he felt the cold mist of the spray let off and saw his ChestPak running codes.
“Medical care complete. Diagnostics complete,” it said. “Diagnostics confirm: deep laceration of the abdomen, fracture of rib. Blood loss staunched. Setting sensors to monitor lung and breath control for further disruption.”
Another close call. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled towards the near bank, collecting his battle rifle off the nearby ground as he did so. Fibbley’s rifle charged and fired off a volley again. Another set of lancer rounds flew over the riverbed, whizzing past his head. The locals lived up to their reputation, Darya thought.
“Darya,” came a voice over the comm system.
“Cap’n,” Darya said.
“We’re nearly there. You boys alright?”
“Good as gold,” Darya grinned, patting his ChestPak.
“You got the artifact?”
“Fibbley has it.”
“Good. Hold on. We’re coming. Out.”
Darya beamed a broad grin. Nearly there? Well, loot splits better five ways than six, and Fibbley’s energy rifle always felt good in his hand. He chuckled, raised his rifle, and aimed it at Fibbley, his brow furrowed. Shouldering his rifle, finger above the trigger, he breathed out, feeling his lungs empty. Fibbley looked over at the last moment. His face snapped into an image of shock.
“Alert. Irregular lung motion. Compressing.”
The syringe punched out. Darya’s hand clamped down on the grip as he rolled back. The magazine sprayed into the air as he shrieked out in pain. The syringe receded, and he heaved himself onto his knees.
Ignoring the beeping of the ChestPak, he swapped in another magazine. The overhead flak had stopped now, and Darya realized he’d not heard the iconic windup of Fibbley’s energy rifle in several seconds. At least, he hadn’t until he turned to see it was pointed right at him.
The last thing he heard, aside from the windup, were just two words, spoken methodically and clearly.
“Compression complete.”