Ergal Brook found himself lying on the unyielding floor, his sigh filled with a mixture of resignation and contemplation. The current predicament had rendered him virtually powerless, and after experiencing the initial waves of panic, anger, and the subsequent emotional turmoil, he had now entered a state of deep introspection.
As he allowed his thoughts to unfurl in the recesses of his mind, Ergal recollected the series of events that had brought him to this point. He was a mere custodian, one of the ordinary janitors selected to accompany the momentous occasion of first contact with extraterrestrial life. Technically speaking, it was the second contact, but the first face-to-face encounter with beings from beyond our world. It appeared that Earth and the entire solar system had found itself ensnared within a perilous region of space, amusingly dubbed a "Negative Space Wedgie" by the enthusiastic Star Trek enthusiasts. Countless names had been assigned to this phenomenon, with each alien civilization offering their unique linguistic interpretation. It seemed fitting that we should add a few names of our own.
Really, but what did this enigmatic wedgie entail? It defied nearly every law of physics required for faster-than-light travel and disrupted the fundamental systems crucial for spacefaring vessels. Artificial gravity? Nullified by the whims of the Wedgie. Efficient life support? The Wedgie showed no mercy. Reliable astrogation? With the Wedgie's influence, even one's own eyes became untrustworthy.
Apparently, the most concentrated manifestation of the Wedgie's effect was observed in what other races referred to as our Ozone Layer, which they deemed a naturally evolved planetary disruption field. Rare in the galaxy, it encapsulated all the debilitating consequences of the Wedgie, entwined around our small, azure orb. This convoluted presence rendered advanced technologies virtually futile.
Approximately few years prior, the interstellar equivalent of the United Nations had managed to dispatch a probe to Earth, establishing contact with a rudimentary artificial intelligence that had been purposefully deactivated until a mechanical timer was activated. This measure was taken in adherence to their laws, which dictated that anyone trapped within the clutches of a Wedgie-like phenomenon deserved, by decree, a rescue attempt. We were fortunate enough to fall under this classification. Now, this AI program—akin to Alchademy or any other educational game for children—had been designed to aid in the creation of specialized ships capable of escaping the clutches of the Wedgie. However, the first obstacle arose when it became apparent that attempting to pass anything with engines required for crude faster-than-light travel through the Ozone Layer resulted in a cataclysmic explosion of catastrophic proportions.
Thus, we heeded the program's warning and constructed our vessel in space. Employing slingshot railguns, developed with the assistance of AI technology, we propelled components into orbit to mitigate costs. Nevertheless, the descent still presented an arduous first step.
The subsequent challenge was crewing the colossal behemoth of a ship. The program stipulated that, for a proper first contact, they sought a diverse assortment of human representatives from every corner of the world. I participated in the lottery and fortuitously secured my place. They provided me with training, albeit under the unassuming title of doorkeeper. In reality, I underwent instruction as a mechanic, a soldier, and to a certain extent, even as a diplomat. During our basic training, a few comrades and I shared jokes that, should we ever be separated or find ourselves bored, we possessed the requisite skills to ignite a rebellion on an alien world. Such musings were particularly amusing considering we were studying the art of gunsmithing at the time.
My role on this vessel was, essentially, to remain idle and hope that circumstances would never necessitate my active involvement. The Valiant harbored thousands of individuals like myself, each one trained sufficiently to assume the responsibilities of an engineer, a soldier, or even a diplomat when required. Though, to be fair, the diplomatic training consisted mostly of a crash course in the universal trade language. We had to prove our proficiency by conversing solely in Cosmic Trade for an entire day under constant surveillance. Following that, we were subjected to mandatory readings of numerous political texts, accompanied by demanding final essays and exhaustive thousand-question quizzes, all of which needed to be completed with a certain minimum score. I, regrettably, found myself in need of remedial training not once, but twice.
Initially, everything had proceeded rather smoothly. The Valiant performed admirably, fortified by both the experimental technologies and the familiar stalwarts that we had grown accustomed to. It navigated the treacherous realms of the Wedgie, shielding us from harm. However, the moment we breached its outermost reaches, our vessel nearly collided with an observation outpost, a blunder that nearly cost us dearly. After that unfortunate incident, we commenced our voyage through the vastness of the cosmos, assembling the disparate components of our advanced equipment.
The ship underwent a remarkable transformation, evolving from a gravity-defying inconvenience into a veritable luxurious haven equipped with warp drives. We soared amidst our fellow cosmic travelers, and rumors abounded throughout the ship that the alien beings communicating with us via the intercom not only possessed a human resemblance but were exquisitely attractive. Indeed, it appeared that Star Trek had managed to capture at least one aspect of reality.
Then the pirates struck.
As it turned out, the Galactic UN was no more effective than its Earth counterpart. Just another bureaucratic institution with no real power or standing army. The so-called escorts accompanying us were nothing more than a glorified charity organization, as their laws prevented them from teaching us anything about weapons or combat. Our ship, The Valiant, had been outfitted with ablative plating for protection against the dangerous region known as the Wedgie, and we had managed to sneak aboard a considerable arsenal of missiles, guns, and torpedoes out of our own paranoia. But when a fleet of raiders, several hundred strong, descended upon us, the amount of metal we possessed or our size mattered little. They would draw blood.
And so they did, and I was among the casualties. In my military training, I had chosen the specialization of Sniping, enticed by the opportunity to handle one of the larger guns, which still served a purpose beyond committing war crimes. The training, though, proved frustrating, demanding that I shoot with pinpoint accuracy while balancing a coin on the gun. However, when the boarding torpedoes struck The Valiant, disgorging their metallic monstrosities, I swiftly assembled my weapon, loaded my favored ammunition, and took the exact amount of time necessary to thoroughly ruin a pirate's day.
The corridors of the ship transformed into a slaughterhouse. Their weapons proved effective at a range of merely ten meters, a distance that was an insult when faced with my firearm. I fired off about a dozen shots, three confirmed kills, while others with closer-range weaponry took care of the rest. The shotgun-wielding soldiers relished close-quarter combat, and the Grenadiers lamented their inability to employ their beloved weapons within the ship. The standard troopers, well, they had a standard good time, much like basic bitches.
But then came the second volley of torpedoes, tearing open the wall to my right. The impact sent me flying, and before I could regain my bearings, I found myself staring down the barrel of an energy weapon, a surge of electricity meeting my face.
When I awoke, I was confined within a small, reinforced cube, its door as sturdy as a bulkhead. Cool air circulated within, but the reinforced and magnetically sealed vents prevented me from tampering with them. It was evident that I was being observed. Checking my person, I discovered I still had my clothes, including a Kevlar vest, steel-toed boots concealing hidden knives, and little else. They had taken my beloved firearm, my sidearm, backup revolver, and the few grenades I carried. It was the revolver that vexed me the most; a gift from my father, its wooden grip engraved with the names of my entire immediate family—a gesture both cheesy and endearing, a means to keep my loved ones close even across the light-years.
Soon, my chance to escape would present itself, and I must be prepared. Growing weary of lying around and waiting, I sat up, crossing my legs as best I could. During my combat training, they had drilled us on an unusual Eastern method of sitting that allowed for swift and steady movement. A useful skill, although the emphasis had been primarily on firearms, vehicle combat, and the urgency of getting the project off the ground, leaving unarmed combat sorely neglected.
The wait did not stretch on for much longer, just enough to make me wish for a toilet, regardless of the watching camera. As I contemplated relieving myself in a corner, the door creaked open, and the first thing that caught my eye was the sparking taser rifle, the same weapon that had incapacitated me before. Clearly, they were not here for idle chitchat.
Slowly rising to my feet, I examined the armor before me. It appeared to be either a robust and well-crafted robot or power armor. Bulky and angular, it presented no obvious vulnerabilities from the front, except perhaps for the head section. Shooting at that part with a sniper rifle had disabled, if not killed, the others. These machines seemed to overload and paralyze when struck by their own weapons, an oversight on their part that provided ample opportunities for amusement. A costly mistake indeed.
The armor was predominantly painted in dark green, adorned with patches of black featuring skulls and crossbones, a macabre touch for reasons unknown. A score tally marked its left side, likely concealing a missile port or housing formidable weaponry judging by its prominent protrusion.
"Get over here. Now," the voice said, metallic and monotone. I felt no emotion from it, just a cold, calculating demand.
I was left with little choice but to obey. I stepped forward, my gaze fixed upon what I assumed to be the "head"—the chunk on top adorned with a glowing red sensor line. It seemed to be the location from which whoever controlled this contraption observed me. A sensor line encircled by reflective material. An idea began to form in my mind.
Another massive mech, armed with a sparking taser gun, turned away from me and commenced its movement. The first armor gestured for me to follow suit, its weapon still trained on me. As I moved, I noticed handholds at the back of the departing armor and observed a few seams, presumably for maintenance or pilot access. The odds seemed to favor these being piloted machines.
Glancing over my shoulder, I focused on the reflection in the sensor of the mech. Matching their pace, I directed a penetrating stare through the suit's sensors, determined to unnerve the pilot. Only a few moments passed before the weapon was raised, but I refused to flinch. I maintained my pace and my glare.
"Stop looking at me like that," the mech pilot commanded, confirming the presence of a human or remotely controlling mind. I knew it was a person, not an AI. A machine would require a much longer time to falter, unless it possessed an eccentric AI. This one was quick to respond.
In response, I turned around and began walking backward, maintaining my stride and intensity. Both eyes bore into the suit's sensors, and I could almost sense the pilot's unease. This was not the behavior they had anticipated. Excellent.
"Stop it,"
The pilot's voice was strained as they commanded me to stop. I shook my head slowly, my defiance clear on my face. They shouted again, their agitation palpable. I intensified my glare, stretching my eyes outward like a cartoon character. Suddenly, a woman's scream pierced through the suit, reaching my ears. I realized there was a woman inside. The gun sparked, and I quickly sidestepped. The surge of electricity struck the other mech, providing the opening I needed. I propelled myself forward, sliding between its legs, then turned around and climbed up its back, utilizing the handholds. The topmost handhold concealed a button, which I pressed to unlatch the back panels.
"!!!" the woman inside the mech screeched, flailing and tearing a panel off the wall. My grip was tenuous, and I knew that once the shock wore off, my life would be forfeit. With a forceful kick, I propelled myself into the opening, unwilling to engage in a losing battle.
In my engineering training, I had learned about these passageways—an intricate network of maintenance hallways. FTL-capable ships required an extensive array of wires and tubes to ensure flawless operation. Consequently, the walls were compressed, allowing only a few feet or several meters of space. The one I found myself in was a meter version, providing me with ample room to dash down the maintenance hallway. As I hurried along, I reached a small bulkhead with a ladder that allowed access to different levels of the ship. Without hesitation, I descended an entire segment, sealing the bulkhead behind me to buy some precious moments.
Now, I found myself deep within the bowels of the ship. My immediate priorities were to locate a map and a restroom, but soon enough, I would unleash chaos upon this vessel. A mischievous grin spread across my face as I weighed my options.
