Tritium Gambit

Prologue. The Wendigo King

We have been forced to turn on our own children for sustenance. I wish it had not come to this, but I cannot contest the will of my people. Still, I have a son that I have been secretly harboring against their hunger, but my ability to protect him wanes with each day as he grows too large to hide. I have seen the suns rise on my planet two hundred thousand times, and I’m the oldest of my kind. During my rule, we have conquered every race to the horizons, and yet the other ancients, my brothers, would eat my son on sight. For as my people have grown, so has our hunger, and now there isn’t enough to eat.

As I ponder the future of our people and planet, a small ball of fire falls from the sky. I have seen other falling stars, but this one is curious. I can make out glints of metal amidst the flames.

I leave my soft bedding and the company of my brothers who, the suns still high in the sky, prefer sleeping, to investigate. One of my brethren would probably steal my spot were they awake, but that would give me an excuse to pulverize him later. The small creatures of the forest flee before me unnecessarily as I make my way toward where the fallen object must have landed, none even a mouthful for me.

I trudge through the jungle until I come to a barren hill where a strange metal object an arm’s length across sits, and as I gaze at it, a small creature steps out. His hair is dark with streaks of gray, and he is shaped vaguely like our kind but he only has two eyes.

Hail, mighty one, he says. His voice quivers slightly, and I find this strangely satisfying.

I consider eating him immediately, but I have not become the oldest and strongest of my kind by being hasty. Then it occurs to me: this creature is not from our planet. Maybe I have found a way for my last son to survive.

Chapter 1. Miranda

I braced myself when I reached the door to the infirmary. My partner was inside, and I had to see if his condition had improved. I pressed my hand to the chrome panel on the wall.

Please provide authentication, a female computer voice ordered.

Agent Miranda.

Please present your badge, the voice said.

I… I didn’t bring my badge with me, but I know my badge code.

Please say the first letter of your badge identification code.

P.

Did you say T as in Tango?

No.

Did you say D as in Delta?

No.

Please say the first letter of your badge identification code.

P.

Did you say T as in Tango?

No.

Did you say D as in Delta? the computer asked more firmly.

No!

Please say the first letter of your badge identification code.

P!

Did you say ‘help’?

Yes!

One moment while I contact a security escort.

I had waited for ten minutes, agonizing over the condition I might find my partner in, when the voice returned. I’m sorry, but there are no security escorts available at this time. Please come back at a later time.

I kicked the chrome panel, crumpling the metal and causing sparks to fly.

Identity confirmed. The door opened.

Powerful white lights blazed in the infirmary, which was filled with polished machines and hummed with medical devices. People in white coats spoke softly, offering comforting words to despondent visitors, but I didn’t listen as I walked quietly to my partner’s bed and sat down. He looked awful. The doctors at the Intergalactic Secret Service are skilled and have access to incredible technology that can quickly mend tissue and bone. Better medical care could not be found on this planet, not that the inhabitants of the planet knew of this secret facility and so could not avail themselves of these skills or this technology. However, there were some things that even medicine and technology had no quick fixes for. My partner was covered in large red welts oozing yellow pus over nearly every inch of skin I could see, the little skin not covered in swollen wheals pale and clammy to the touch.

Hours passed. I didn’t look up when I heard the click of heels on the hard floor or the beeps from IVs that needed to be changed. I had more urgent concerns to focus on than the quiet hubbub of the room.

A woman wearing a white coat walked over to me. She appeared to be human. Agent Miranda?

Doctor, is he going to be okay? I asked.

She shook her head and put a hand on my shoulder. I’ve never seen a case this bad, sweetie. He must have been stung a hundred times. She sighed. We’ll have to keep him in an induced coma until the effects wear off. Otherwise, between the mental effects of the toxin and the sheer discomfort, he might hurt himself or others.

Mental effects?

Mortalis wasp stings have a number of physiological effects beyond the burning, itching, and general discomfort of the swelling. The venom is also a neurotoxin that damages the brain.

I gasped. You can fix that, right? I covered my eyes with both hands and shook my head. I wouldn’t cry, I told myself. This must have happened before.

Agent Riley should survive, but we won’t know what his personality will be like, or even what he’ll remember. It’s going to take some time to determine the extent of the damage, maybe months—even years. I’m sorry.

The doctor patted me on the shoulder and walked to an unconscious man in a plastic bubble, an incredibly muscular woman crying in a chair next to him. A man with piercing green eyes and short, dark messy hair stood next to the bed looking distraught. He didn’t look like a doctor, and so I guessed he was an agent. You could tell he worked out, though obviously not as much as the woman, his partner I assumed. Maybe spending time in the gym was how they survived this job.

There were two other occupied beds in the infirmary, a man and woman side by side, both emaciated and unconscious with no visible injuries. Both had IV tubes going into their arms.

Agent Riley took me under his wing on my first mission, sacrificing his own safety to keep me alive. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together at this thought. They warned us in the Academy that this was a dangerous job, but I didn’t expect my first assignment would end this way. I couldn’t go to pieces. There were only nineteen agents at the Earth outpost, and four were incapacitated in the infirmary. The Service needed me.

I decided that exercise would clear my head. I patted Agent Riley’s arm and left the infirmary for the gym. I changed in the lady’s locker room and put in my earbuds. I enjoyed listening to Madonna while working out. The energy of the music kept me moving.

I’d been to a human gym before, where they have primitive machines, free weights, treadmills, and exercise mats. Here there were virtual reality compartments that tied right into your muscles and nerves. While you climbed rock walls, played basketball, or swam, the machines triggered hormones in your muscles that stimulate growth at an optimal rate. Because you didn’t actually move, you didn’t risk injuring yourself or tearing down existing tissue. Simply add a healthy diet to this virtual exercise regimen and a person remained as healthy as she could be.

Thirty minutes into my workout, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Computer, end simulation, I said. The martial arts trainer that I had been sparring with and the dojo both vanished. I blinked a few times to clear my vision and saw Agent Wendy, her expression all business.

She was the mission coordinator in charge of logistics, gear, and briefings. The only time I had talked to her was four days ago when she briefed me on my first mission. I noticed that she didn’t have a single blond hair out of place in her ponytail. She struck me as possibly the most intense, and most anal retentive, agent I had met. Definitely the right person to be a mission coordinator, I had thought at that first encounter.

I took out my earbuds. May I help you?

Captain Johnson needs to talk to you in the command center. You are getting a new partner.

I’ll get dressed and be right there.

She nodded. I wouldn’t keep him waiting.

The workout might be in a virtual reality, but the sweat and stink were real enough, and so I hit the showers. Then I put on the clothes I came in, a pair of faded blue jeans and a gray T-shirt with the immortal words of Captain Picard written in small white letters on the front: I refuse to let arithmetic decide questions like that.

I made my way down halls glossy and clean to the point of being boring. Living in a compound run by the Intergalactic Secret Service is to live in a very sterile environment compared to the human world, everything maintained with the strictest level of adherence to regulations. The compound was not at all like the Academy dorms, where the cadets did most of the cleaning and only because they were forced to. Detailing the porcelain thrones with your own toothbrush is not a rewarding experience, but at least the place tended to look lived in. The command center always looked more like a lab to me, a place people came to do experiments and went someplace else to carry out their lives. Alas, I lived here.

As I walked, I wondered why Captain Johnson had chosen me for a new mission. I had shown that I was perfectly capable of getting my partner put on the permanent disability list and nothing more. I had graduated at the top of my class and thought I was ready for anything, and so, on my first assignment, I had been a bit cocky. Maybe the captain was trying to punish some poor schmuck by sticking him with me.

I placed my hand on the chrome scanner next to the door. When the door opened, I walked in. The captain was waiting for me.

Agent Miranda, how nice of you to drop by, he said. The tone of his voice didn’t sound like he thought my arrival was nice at all. Finally made time for me, then?

Sir? I asked.

Agent, do you know what some people call the Intergalactic Secret Service?

The Service?

The intergalactic shit storm. He sighed. I’d like to strip you of your credentials and send you off to that piss-water planet you came from, but we have an agent in sudden need of a partner. Unfortunately, I can’t find anybody better than you. He smirked, obviously privy to some information he had yet to reveal about my new partner. Maybe you’ll get each other killed and save me the paperwork of transferring the two of you.

I tried to reason with Agent Riley, I said.

Agent Riley survived a dozen missions before you came along. By the time they take him out of the induced coma, he’ll only be useful for copious drool samples and mission debriefs rendered in Crayola’s primary color palette. That’s not what I called you here to discuss though. A smile that looked genuine enough actually settled on his lips. I need you to pack your things and meet your new partner, Agent Maximus, in the hangar in thirty minutes. Wendy will be your mission coordinator and will brief you on the details.

Yes, sir.

Dismissed, he said.

As I turned and began walking to the door, I heard him mumble too low for most people to hear, but my hearing wasn’t human. Seriously, feel free to get each other killed.

I walked out. When angry or embarrassed, my face lights up bright red, and right now my face burned with both anger and embarrassment. I shook my head. I needed to ignore him and keep focused. I couldn’t let him get to me, I told myself. I took slow breaths as I walked to my room to get my gear and tried to think about positive things, like the fact that I had another chance.

Normally, my room is regulation clean, but with Riley’s incapacitation, I hadn’t found a reason to make my bed or keep my trunk tidy. I needed to adjust my attitude, I said out loud, and I decided I would start with my personal space. Using my innate speed, which is many times the speed the humans are capable of, I made my bed, straightened my trunk, and then grabbed my gear belt and pistol. I then put on a light jacket so I could conceal my weapon.

I walked to the hangar, focused on the opportunity to earn my place. I would make Captain Johnson respect me by showing that I was a valuable team member. I was the top graduate from the Academy and wouldn’t roll over when the going got tough. Things were difficult now, but I was going to use my difficulties as motivation, use this situation to my advantage.

Wendy was working on the engine of a Cherokee 140. She turned toward me as I approached.

You’re early, she said.

I was told to meet my new partner at the hangar and that you would brief us.

I’m just finishing up some repairs on this plane. I understand that you can fly it, she said.

I nodded. I’ve had basic training on small aircraft. I looked past her into the engine compartment. It looks like one of the mags is disconnected. I reached past her and fixed it.

She looked irritated. I was getting to that. Her tone was all venom.

Sorry, I said, and I meant it. I did not mean to show her up. I’ll wait over here while you finish.

Chapter 2. Max

The door to the infirmary slid shut behind me. After a few steps toward the command center, I became aware that I was not alone. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Hillary McMasters.

Max! She hurled my name at me like a curse.

Generally, men have more muscles than women, but Hillary was built like a tank. She had muscles in places that I couldn’t even grow them. Her skin was pale white and had a slight red glimmer to it. I wondered if that was some kind of warning system built into her DNA.

You realize that you’ve ruined my wedding, don’t you? Her voice was a low growl. I began desperately trying to remember what Dozer had said about her, but I couldn’t recall what planet she was from or what nasty surprise she was about to unleash on me.

I sighed. You’re an agent. You know the job is dangerous and that sometimes... Well, sometimes agents get smelly.

She grabbed my shoulder and yanked me around with serious force. He was sprayed by a half-dozen Krylian boars. That’s not smelly. That’s a life sentence.

It could have been worse. He could have been gored. I lifted my shirt to show her what I meant, but there wasn’t even a scar left to demonstrate where I had been slashed open by twelve-inch tusks. Sometimes healing fast was a curse.

I can’t kiss him without vomiting.

It might help if you close your eyes, I suggested.

He’s in a plastic bubble right now because his odor can be detected a mile away.

Yeah, I keep telling him that his ‘lucky socks’ aren’t as lucky as he thinks.

She stomped her foot. Every partner you have ends up this way. I’m going to talk to Captain Johnson and…

Hold on! I’ve never had another partner end up smelling like an Ogerian armpit, except Jameson but he came that way.

Jameson was a good agent before he was turned into burnt toast.

Yeah, I sort of feel bad about that.

Sort of? Her face glowed red—literally glowed red. You’re partners end up dead, or worse, terminally smelly.

It isn’t my fault, I protested. It’s a dangerous job, and I’m usually the one that gets hurt the worst.

But you always walk away and your partners don’t. I saw a tear escape the corner of her eye. She turned and ran back toward the infirmary.

Usually, I crawl away, I whispered.

I strolled through the familiar glossy white tunnel ribbed with evenly spaced black arches. When I reached the end of the corridor, I hesitated before a door that had the lustrous shine of a MacBook. I placed my hand on a cold chrome panel and lights came to life across the surface, scanning both me and the surrounding area. Standard procedure, I reminded myself. Nothing entered the command center without authorization. Nothing from this planet anyway, I thought.

A disembodied female voice purred, Identity confirmed. The door slid open.

Thank you, I said.

The voice responded, You’re welcome.

I couldn’t contain my smile. What are you wearing?

I am wearing nothing. She paused briefly, and then her synthesized tone changed. Why would you ask me that? I’m distributed artificial intelligence.

I snickered. It’s so easy to get the AI upset. I stepped into a circular room that glowed with wall monitors displaying high definition maps, security camera feeds, and threat profiles. The door slid shut behind me. Was it me, I wondered with a chuckle, or did the door slide shut unnecessarily hard? A man stood motionless in the center of a tsunami of swirling information. A cone of stadium-bright light bathed him.

He wore a crisp tan uniform with small colored metals on his chest. His blond hair was parted perfectly to one side, not a hair out of place. He reminded me of old pictures I had seen of World War II captains.

Agent Maximus, the man said without averting his eyes from the displays when I approached.

Captain Johnson, I replied.

I see you survived the North Carolina incident.

Just a dozen Krylian boars, sir.

I take it that they didn’t gore you. He sounded disappointed.

They did, sir.

He looked distracted and I wasn’t sure if he heard me. Excellent, he said absently. He sniffed the air. Did you take a shower?

No, sir. Is one missing?

He sighed ever so slightly. Agent, there’s a level nine disturbance in Texas, and we’re deploying primary and secondary agents to engage hostiles tonight.

Yes, sir! Level nine, I thought! In the four years that I’d been with the Service, there had never been a level nine incident. I’ll bet we get to use the cool toys to handle this one.

We’ll be dispatching two teams in Raptor Sixes armed with Archer III Stingers deployed via the Space Curve Rail. Each agent will be equipped with Wolverine Two-Eighties and Rayshark body armor. However, I’m not sending you. He paused as he continued his study of the display panels.

What?

There’s been a ping in northern Minnesota, and I’m sending you in to investigate.

But Sir…

Your mission coordinator will brief you. I need somebody who can handle the Minnesota case without assistance. Unfortunately, all I have is you, he said. So, this is the plan: get your ass to Minnesota.

Sir, I could help in Texas and then go to Minnesota.

Listen, Agent Maximus. We exist to squash problems before they squash the pitiful little humans going about their ordinary lives unaware of the aliens on their planet. If the humans knew how precarious their situation is from day to day, how near doom they are each and every day, they sure as hell wouldn’t worry about whether their neighbor had a nicer Audi or whether their next TV should be plasma or LCD. That’s what they are supposed to be doing, going about their days without a care in the world beyond the utterly mundane. It’s our job to keep them thus oblivious. We let the humans grow at their own pace as a race until they are ready to join the Intergalactic Alliance or they destroy themselves.

What does that have to do with Texas, Sir? I asked.

Nothing, but it has everything to do with Minnesota. I dispatch resources to keep the dirty apes on this planet glued to Dancing with the Stars instead of worrying about the future, and frankly, I don’t have to explain my decisions to you. That is all, Agent Maximus. He sniffed the air again. Oh, and take a shower.

I stood my ground for a second, fighting the temptation to argue, but I knew there was no sense arguing. I wouldn’t get to use the cool toys after all, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up in the mess hall cleaning pots instead of investigating pings. At least I got to do this next