Chapter 34: The Photon Oasis

The fireteam slogged through the mud. By the time they reached the rectangular hallway around the central room, the wet soil reached over the top of their boots. The slimy moisture pooled around Dozer’s feet. A chill sapped all the warmth out through his soles. With each step, the stench of fetid plant matter filled his nostrils.

Model peeked around the corner. “We got a long hallway,” he casted, “but there’s a glow from the entrance to the central room. Don’t see no bots.”

“Alright,” Buttstroke moved around Model. He took in the hall’s length, right to left. “We get to the entrance together. Dozer, you pull up the rear and march backwards.”

“What?” Dozer left his mouth hang agape even though no sound came out. They had practiced the tactic during training, but not in treacherous mud.

Buttstroke loomed over to Dozer. “You’ll do it over magma if you get the order.”

“Yes, sir.” Dozer let the sarcasm drip off the words. He had to choose his battles to resist his team leader’s authority. Constant pettiness wouldn’t help.

On Buttstroke’s signal, Model slipped into the hallway. Despite this Invader ability, each footstep slurped and belched in the wet mud. The rest of the team followed in a commotion of damp sounds. Any Pithites around would know the team slogged through the muck.

Like Model said, a band of aquamarine glow, cut short on each side by the straight lines of the entrance, beckoned to Dozer. Like the mosquitoes buzzing through the team’s lights, the illumination drew him toward it, a siren’s song of safety from the brutal darkness. Still, he turned his back to it. If a bot tried to paralyze them from behind, it would be Dozer’s fault.

“Filipek,” Buttstroke lumbered through the mud, “how’re ya doing?”

Nothing came back over the comm. A chill filtered through Dozer’s fatigues. It triggered a shudder in his legs. Something wrong hung in the silence. No one responded, not Filipek, not any of the other team leaders on the exercise.

Dozer holstered the pistol and raised his rifle, deadly to any bot that stepped around the corner. The beam streaked down the long, dark hallway. Shadows grew and danced behind the ragged grass, the ridges of mud. Footprints appeared in the light. Another fireteam, either ally or enemy, must have come through. He couldn’t tell whether they came or went.

The rest of the team left him behind. Dozer kept his eye on the doors down the hall and tried to follow his teammates backwards. One ridge caught the back of Dozer’s boot. He stumbled. His leg slid out from under him, and his ass landed in the mire. Filthy water filtered through the material of his trousers.

Dozer lifted his rifle so it wouldn’t get covered. His other hand sank into the sludge. He clenched his jaw, and his teeth ached.

“Fuck this fucking game.” He said the words out loud. It wasn’t any louder than the noise their feet made, but he chastised himself all the same. The next time he slipped might be when he needed to stay quiet.

Errorist cupped his hand under Dozer’s armpit and got him back on his feet. “Careful there,” he casted.

Together, they kept on down the hall. Instead of walking backwards, Dozer sidestepped and kept his rifle pointed down the hall. He couldn’t watch the team’s six if he got caught up in the muck.

Model pressed his back to the wall beside the illuminated entrance to the central room, still inside the shadow. He peeked inside with one eye and pulled back. Mosquitos projected minuscule shadows in the unreal light. The dank stench of rotting plants billowed out.

“Bots?” Buttstroke leaned against the wall next to Model.

“None in sight.” Model wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, underneath his helmet.

Errorist lined up beside the other two. “What’s there?”

“A swamp,” Model casted.

“You’re shitting me.” The clammy water made Dozer’s trousers cling to his crotch, to the inside of his thighs. His fatigues wouldn’t get any drier by the end of the exercise.

“I shit you not.” Model leaned out to look at Dozer, even though the comm didn’t need line of sight. “There’s a pool in the middle with trees around.”

“Trees?” Errorist straightened up.

“And big-ass glowing mushrooms.” Model shouldered his rifle to hold out his hands about half a meter apart. “Like, this big.”

Dozer checked where they came, but still, nothing followed. “You see Filipek and the zeros?”

“Hold on.” Model peered into the room. “They’re in the trees.”

Buttstroke rolled his eyes. “What the fuck are they doing there?”

“Not much.” Model pulled back. He pressed his lips together. “They aren’t moving. Didn’t make it.”

Dozer gripped his rifle a little tighter. “Did they get a pass before the bots took them out?”

“How the flying fuck,” Buttstroke furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes at Dozer, “are we supposed to know that?”

If they didn’t get the pass, they lay there, paralyzed, waiting for death in the recycler, a waking nightmare. Dozer couldn’t imagine a worse thing to happen inside the game.

“What more,” the muscles in Model’s jaw flexed, “they’re posed.”

Buttstroke raised his chin. “Posed in what way?”

“Like the bots crucified them on their rifles and hung them in the trees.”

In history class, Dozer’s teachers taught them about the slow, torturous death sentence the ancient Romans used to condemn their prisoners, a lesson on humanity’s brutal past so the students would be glad to live in the enlightened present. The Romans strung their victims upon the crucifix, and there they languished until they didn’t have the energy to hold themselves up and they asphyxiated. Filipek and his team couldn’t even stand, let alone to stop the suffocation.

“It’s a trap.” Errorist pressed the back of his head against the wall. The shadows on his face seemed to deepen.

“No shit.” Buttstroke shook his head. “We’ll get our passes somewhere else.”

From behind him, Model made a quick nod to the side, to the opening to the central room. He used Buttstroke to block Errorist’s view. Only Dozer saw the gesture, so he gave the barest of nods back.

Model stood and disappeared behind the corner. His shadow grew along the wall.

“What the fuck?” Buttstroke struggled to stand, but his feet sunk into the mud.

By the time he got to his feet, Dozer had already gone around and followed Model into the light.