Chapter Seventeen
"If you are thinking of refusing me, I have one more reason why not to." Rymar inclined his head. The outer air lock rolled open and an obscenity to creation was there. Thirty meters long and as thick as two men covered in green scales with orange markings lay Goramund. The monster snake god slithered in, its eyes curiously human. It kept its venomous gaze locked on Deckard and Kitka. Kitka hissed loud and long, tacking growls on the end of it. Deckard could feel each single hair on his body stand and quiver in horror. Ice water formed in the base of his spine and spread to his fingers and toes. The blackened split tongue darted in and out.
The snake coiled up and raised his head. Looming before them, he spread his hood open like a massive bat-wing and then let loose a volley from his rattling tail. It sounded like human skulls shaking around in a metal garbage can.
Deckard stared at the immense size, as it dwarfed him under its aggressive stance.
"So you see, Mr. Blaine, the odds are in my favor." Stoltz stood there, hands behind his back, chuckling softly without mirth. "You've been curious for Goramund for some time, I think. Curiosity, Mr. Blaine, killed the Cat."
Deckard stared at him. His overbearing confidence made the decision easy.
"But satisfaction brought it back," Deckard spat back at him, leveled his dart thrower, peeling off shots. Stoltz ducked under the hurtling spikes and the order of battle was decided.
He sharply whistled to Kitka, and she leapt to attack Stoltz fading from view as she did. Deckard fired his grappler above him and Goramund struck as he sailed upwards. He felt the slipstream of the beast as he rose. Deckard sent a burst of darts towards him. He could hear them thunk into the olive colored scales below him. Goramund moved up quickly and slashed sideway into Deckard. The hook snapped loose and he crashed into the bulkhead in a heap. Deckard scrambled to the balls of his feet, shaking his head to clear it. A look around. Goramund was slithering up, carefully setting up his next strike. That's how it would come, rapid deliberate moves. Deckard would have to gauge the movements and deliver the killing blow with just as much deliberation. The snake was quick and deadly, but not as smart as Stoltz thought he was.
Kitka was engaged in close combat with Stoltz, from the look of it. She was using the same strategy. Stoltz had been able to fend off her best move: a bound to the neck with claws laterally tearing open the jugular. He had several slash marks on his fine white suit, blood seeping through the fabric. Shrouded, she would assault him, doing as much damage as she could, she break it off before he had a chance. Eventually, she would wear him down and then kill him, if he didn't get in too many swipes of his own. Stoltz was crouching and circling around, searching for his adversary, electric stiletto whips in his wiry hands. They crackled and sparked as he slashed out with them.
Deckard pulled out some flashers and threw them behind him as he ran towards the spider walk. Goramund stuck out and bashed Deckard with its arrow shaped head as the flashers went off with loud pops. Goramund was shaking his head violently and snapping all around. Deckard fit another hook and loaded his grappler. It was blinded for the moment and judging from its reaction it relied on its sense of sight rather than on smell or hearing. Deckard ran towards it, firing wildly. The darts stuck in the bulkheads, in Goramund, in the floor, everywhere. Unseeing, the giant serpent snapped all around itself. Flaring out it hood, Goramund's eyes blazed red. It gave out an earth shaking roar, and Deckard could feel and smell its foul reptilian breath. The fangs were as long as his forearm and dripping with poison. The darts were sticking in the thick scales and had done minimal damage at best. Deckard was paralyzed by the roar and the awesome display of ferocity. Goramund whipped forward and struck. Deckard snapped out of it at the last moment, leapt backwards, firing two darts into the open maw.
The snake jerked back and uncoiled to surround him. Goramund let off another rattle, freezing Deckard to the core. It struck and sunk its right fang four inches into Deckard's leg. He gave out a shout of pain and anger. It was a spear of acid violating his flesh. The venom burned, but it broke the grip of fear that had encompassed him. Deckard caught the tooth, stepped on the bottom jaw, and pulled the trigger on the dart gun. The darts sprayed out with short whistles, sticking in the nose, mouth and right eye.
Goramund whipped his head back and forth, tail rattling, lifting Deckard off the floor and he was thrown off. He landed on the floor with an impressive impact. His leg had been ripped open and was injected with poison. Deckard had underestimated the serpent's abilities to inflict fear and distraction.
The pain was a fiery seeping grip that he could feel spreading quickly. Deckard would have to end this soon, or never. From the floor, he aimed his grappler above Goramund and planted the dart there. He reeled up and over Goramund's writhing. Deckard was already beginning to feel ill. His head was light and his leg was now numb. The snake lessened it erratic movements to scan for moments from his prey.
The neck, it would have to be the neck! One try would be all he would get. Deckard waited until the right moment and released the hook. Falling through the air, he landed on the behemoth serpent. His claws flexed out, his finger tips stiff and he buried them into the mammoth snake hide. Goramund was crashing through the bay now, roaring out his impotent anger. Deckard ripped his left hand out and sunk his claws into the top of Goramund's head.
The monster snake slammed his head on the ceiling, on the wall and on the floor. Deckard was dazed from the blows and the poison. He had no idea how much damage he was under going, but it was severe. Mustering his strength, Deckard retracted his right hand claws and brought his dart thrower to bear on the remaining eye and fired. He spent the rest of his darts on the eye.
The darts sunk below the surface of the sickly orbs again and again with sharp whistles. The eye burst and black ichors spilled out. Deckard could smell the combination of his blood and Goramund's filth. His thrower spent, but the snake was finally feeling the effects of Deckard's attack. Deckard grasped under Goramund's chin. He whipped the empty wire from his dart thrower around his and grabbed the loose end, locking in the mammoth garrote. He concentrated all his remaining efforts on crushing his spine, blocking the blood, anything, anything that would kill it.
His grip was slipping, ripping through the scales, and warm putrid liquid spurt out. Deckard wrapped the wire around his hand again to maintain his grip. His eyes closed as he maintained his Sisyphean hold. Goramund stopped his thrashing slowly and with one last phantasmagoric roar, fell to the bay floor, the vibration shaking the whole area.
Deckard lay there gasping for breath and then rolled off the head. Goramund's tail was quivering but it soon stopped. Deckard's legs were now numb, and breathing was painful. He dragged himself over to the wall, where he could sit up. His chest was on fire with agony and his breaths were short heaves of effort. Several ribs must have been broken and were now slicing into his vitals. Blood seeped from his forehead and down his cheeks. Deckard felt a weight crawl on his lap. Kitka unshrouded, greeting him with a small voice. It was full of agony and knowledge. Blood was coming out of her mouth, ears, and nose. Her beautiful fur was missing in patches and was matted with wounds and burn marks. She was missing part of an ear and some of her whiskers. Her claws were covered in blood and more than two of them were torn out.
Deckard could see Rymar Stotlz's body was still and silent not far from where Goramund lay. His white suit was now mostly crimson. Tears sprang into Deckard's eyes as he stroked her face. Kitka curled up weakly in his lap. She was tired and would now sleep. Deckard's vision was blurred and shadows rose up from the corners of the bay.
Deckard thought about what gods might take them into the afterlife. The ancient Egyptians worshiped cats, maybe Kitka could speak to them for him and they would be together there. Maybe they would go through to the fields of the Nifhelm to forever rest. They had been in the army, perhaps they could take solace at Fiddler's Green with the other soldiers that had gone before them.
A cat had kept the Chri
st child warm in his manger one night and purred for him, maybe it would be there they would find refuge. It was said cats would not enter the kingdom of heaven without their master. They would wait by the gates, year after year until finally joined.
Cats were favorites of Muhammed, who once cut off a part of his robe in order not to disturb a sleeping kitten. Perhaps they could lie in the garden, one of the lower of the seven. Did there exist a place for them, marred by science and man, after death? Who would hear their petition for entrance into whatever reward or punishment they deserved?
Deckard realized with dread that Kitka had stopped purring, had stopped breathing. She was dead. He wept bitterly, shaking with overwhelming sorrow. He looked up and saw her shade sitting before him. Her ghostly form was shinning in the darkness that was falling. She was restored, her beautiful fur was sleek and smooth, her whiskers were long and twitching at him, her delicate peaked ears were unmarred and pointed at him. Her whole calico being seemed to shimmer in the dark.
Kitka knew where they could go and would lead him there, as she had always led him, from the front and behind. He had nothing to fear now. Where she was leading them, they would be at each other's side, and that was enough. Kitka stood and trotted away from him to a bright light. She had left her body behind. Kitka stopped and opened her mouth to ask him to come along. He could not hear the sound, but only felt it.
"Wait, wait for me, girl, I'm coming, coming." He managed to say. Deckard's heart slowed and then stopped. He breathed out his last breath and rose, leaving his own body behind and joined his beloved pet. Deckard's shade knelt and rubbed her forehead with his, scratched her ears, and smoothed out her whiskers. Then they went through the light together.
.
Dog Green had buzzed with activity after that. A United States Space Corps ship had docked and a dozen Corpsmen had rushed in, armed and ready. It was a newly formed agency designed to keep peace among the space stations. It was the military arm of the recently formed EarthNet, the latest successor in world government. Clearly more had been happening down on the big blue marble than anyone had realized.
Ray Gibson was cooperative with the commander of the Space Corps. He was a large figure in fatigues with a crew cut accompanied by a huge German Shepherd. The commander had the North Bay sealed off completely while his team worked around the clock to dismantle the Pulse Engine. He himself put the plans to the torch. The message Ray Gibson had sent for Deckard was acted on as soon as it had been received. The bodies of Wouk/Stoltz/Spotta, and Goramund were jettisoned into space. No mention was made of Deckard Blaine or Channelle Kitka.
Ray and Renee Gibson inquired about them, as well as Michael Flannery. The commander shook his head and gave them his condolences. They had gone in but had not been able to come out. The commander told them Deckard Blaine and Channelle Kitka had accomplished their mission, even if they had not been able to save themselves.
"They sacrificed themselves for the safety of Earth." The commander said, his eyes looking towards the blue orb that rose like the moon each night. "As his friends, you should be proud that he was able to fulfill his destiny and be known as a hero forever afterwards." Night-and-day put his arm around Renee, who buried her face in her hands and cried. He bit his lip, his own eyes brimming with tears.
"As he had no family back home, I think he would like you to have this." The commander held out a small black box. Inside was a medal of gold and a ribbon of red. The legend on it proclaimed it to be the Medal of Victorious Honor.
"The highest medal that the USSC and the EarthNet can bestow." The commander said.
The operation was wrapped up in a week and the Space Corps cleared out, leaving Dog Green almost as it was before. The Dog Greeners were fascinated by the whole incident and treated the arrival of the USSC as a sort of holiday. The USSC soldiers were treated to great hospitality and the businesses had a surge of profits and goods in trade. Then the USSC troops and their commander left. Right before they did, the whole command gathered in formation. They turned towards the bay where Captain Deckard Blaine and Commander Channelle Kitka had died, saluted, held it for one minute. Then they broke ranks, disembarked Dog Green and their ship left.
.
Michael Flannery sat at his usual table, his processor on, but was not doing any writing. Renee Gibson joined him. They sat in silence.
"Well, Chevy, are you going to be writing about this whole thing?" Renee asked.
"Naw." Chevy replied.
"I guess not." She let out a sigh. "I can't believe he's gone."
"Yeah." Chevy smirked. "I don't believe it either."
Renee looked at him as the implication sank in. "What do you mean? What have you found out?"
"Nothing, really." He said with dark satisfaction. "I only know what I saw, what I heard. Some of the equipment taken out of the North Bay was in an oxygen tent. Two USSC medics were attending it. Couldn't see what it was, it was covered up. It was about seven feet by four, I think. Big enough, in any case."
"The Space Corps said was because it was delicate equipment. It wouldn't function right in the stations atmosphere. And how do you know they were medics? All their uniforms looked alike."
"Yeah, you go right ahead and think that, that's fine with me." Flannery tossed Deckard's drink ticket on the table. Renee could see from the numerous notches it was empty. "Those USSC boys sure can drink, and after they do, they'll fill you in on all sorts of things. Like how to tell between uniforms. Who does what. How many medical specialists were attached to them, including former OSS doctors." Flannery cracked his knuckles. "Like I said, believe what you want, but you know what they say about cats."
Renee thought. "They always land on their feet?" She answered, tilting her head.
Chevy nodded and leveled his sardonic gaze at her.
"They have nine lives."