I can't pick up on anything that would give away the position of our invisible enemy just yet. No sight, no scent, and no discernable heat signatures left over any of the gleaming steel bulkheads. Beckett wanders ahead of the Colonel and I, M60 trained at the corridor ahead of us, his light streaming out into the void until it finally disappears into a pinprick at the end of the inky darkness. Colonel Greiss has his heavy weapon tucked under his right arm into a rough firing position, the other clutching tightly around my neck with a deathgrip on my collar. I know that if he were to fire, we would both be taken to the deck, and I expect he knows this too -- but the gesture is more to appear prepared in front of Beckett than to actually defend ourselves.

I have a revolver in each hand. My revolvers. Crafted over twenty years ago during the latter days of the Initiative, while the rest of the Primarchs were fooling with dogtags and flak jackets, I created something useful. Jessy and James. I've read a lot of Terran history, and found that Jessy James was one of the 'West's' most famous gunslingers. I rather like that image, save for the fact I can never be famous for it. .357 caliber rounds, twelve-shot capacity chambers, electric firing system -- to keep up with how fast I can pull the trigger -- open rear sights, and a muzzle velocity in excess of one thousand, two hundred feet per second.

Most call me obsessed. The Colonel calls me dedicated.

I think that's where he and I are alike, in our appreciation of anything finely crafted, or that has had adequate time spent in it's preparation. I appreciate my revolvers. I suspect he appreciates me. Actually, I can't say I expect it, I know it. All those years of pointless drills, ceaseless training, and I can remember him beside me. Ever calm, giving me whatever answers I asked of him. Ever present, ensuring I was well. I suppose that those poet's genes would say that if DeValera was the brains of the outfit, then Greiss was the heart. Well, my heart, anyway. While others killed without remorse, fearing nothing but the sword that DeValera dangled over all our heads, Greiss was constantly reminding me of our purpose; we were created to protect.

I glance across at him, to see how he fares. Sweat streaks down his forehead, trailing thick lines of shifted grime across his lined, craggy face. Gaunt, pitted and scarred, I could swear he has carried the woes of the galaxy on his shoulders for a millenia. He looks back at me, hissing breath with each jerky step of his good leg. His twisted lips lift back, and he smiles.

"Sir, are you alright?" I can't help but sound like Beckett. I want to know how Greiss is.

His head tips foward, then slowly raises again, as if lifting it on his shoulders were a great effort. "Sure, I'm fine. Just been sliced up like Christmas turkey, but other'n that, I'm dandy." His chiseled grey eyes turn sharply, looking back down the corridor where Beckett's light flashes around spasmodically, fearing attack from any direction. "You?"

"I am fine, Sir." His wounded thigh rests against my right side, and he jerks another step foward. "Certainly in better condition than you." A thin, dry chuckle forces it's way out through equally dry lips, he looks back down back at his leg, concentrating on moving in such a way he will not be so bothersome. "Lean more of your weight on me, Sir, I will not falter." I pause for a moment before attempting something I don't often. I joke. "I did not see you often in the Mess, and you are certainly not a large man."

Despite the fact the joke was not a particularly good one, Greiss snickers softly, his hand on my collar laxing in it's grip just enough to give me a good natured pat on the chest. "Call me Derek."

We're as good as dead. Or he is. Either way, I can't help but be concerned at the Colonel's strange request, forcing myself to look straight ahead through the shades I wear. I'm glad of them, once again, neither Beckett nor Greiss can see my eyes narrowed, trying to find a spot of calm in the storm of new information to think.

***

Beckett has begun to sing. So softly, though, that I wonder if even he realises that he is. Greiss' wounded leg has begun to tap against my thigh, and with some shock I realise... He's keeping the beat?! This is insane.

"So be it... Threaten no more..."

Metallica. Ancient Terran band, and they were human, at that. Had an interesting song about men becoming wolves, strangely reminiscent of the recom project before it was even initiated. But now, I'm not sure I want to hear Beckett's half-whispered reproduction.

"To secure peace is, to prepare for war..."

I decide swift action is necessary to shut him up. "Corporal, how far is it until we reach the flight deck?"

Snapped from his reverie, Beckett stops still for a moment, turning around to face the Colonel and I. "Well, Sir, I figure we're on deck three now. Couple more down, and that should be our way out of here."

"You know that this whole plan relies on our shuttle still being intact?"

"Yes, Sir. But I figure if this thing is carnivore, it ain't going to be that worried about a shuttle, Sir."

Greiss finds that amusing, of all things. Almost every time Beckett has called me Sir, he's broken into a thin fit of chuckling. I suppose he can't imagine me in the same position as he was those years ago. The flashlight hits me square in the eyes, and though I'm wearing glasses, the glare is still enough to be irritating. I throw one paw up, covering off the glare. "Beckett, get that damned thing off my eyes."

There's a loud metallic thumping in the vent above us, so jerking one pistol upwards to meet the noise, Greiss slips from me and pushes himself up against the wall where he's able to fire. I crouch to one side of the hall, and the light leaves my eyes. On the deck lays an M60 heavy machine gun with a flashlight taped to one side.

The thumping overhead stops.

"Shit." Greiss grunts heavily, before sliding to the floor. "I guess we don't have to go looking for it."

Pointing Jessy -- the silenced of the pair, James being the pistol that carries a scope -- towards the ceiling, I estimate from last know position, speed, and possible bulk... I squeeze the trigger, and with a sharp hiss of air the revolver jerks back at me. Taking the recoil with practised ease, I dart across the space available to avoid a counterattack.

A thin, piercing wail rebounds across the metallic bulkheads, amplified to ear-splitting. Whatever's up there, I hit it. Greiss mutters something to me, but I can't make out his words over the shrieking in the ceiling -- it stops.

The deck plates all lift from their rivets with a line of snap-snap-snap-snap as overstressed metal gives way from a great shock, and recovering my footing, I look up. Over the weapon on the deck stands a creature so large as to be impossible, it's bulk almost blocking the corridor before me. A set of eyes on each of it's heads blink at me, confronted with something familiar. Arms, I lose count after twelve, poke haphazardly from the matted fur around it's torso, each another species -- I see a crab's snapping claw, an immense hare's foot, and a gigantic fist that could well be mine, except motley brown, tangled in amongst the other limbs.

A nose on a canine head sniffs ferally in my direction. It's... Confused. Stupid, yes, but it hasn't had to operate on anything but base instinct until now. I confound it. The Colonel behind me seems aware, his hands tightly gripping his weapon, but refusing to fire.

Then it moves. Unbelievably fast for something so huge, it tears the space up between us until I can see exactly where I shot it, an equine head hanging limply from the thing's shoulders. I leap back with the grace and skill of a gymnast; Greiss opens fire. Muzzle flashes from the M60 illuminate the creature's shifting mass with each staccato burst of fire, lead streaming from the barrel in a ceaseless line of bullets. The thing howls again, another pair, or three, or four of it's heads snapping back as the .50 calibre rounds slam into it with the force of an oncoming train.

Still, there's plenty more where that came from.

It lurches into the withering hail of bullets, taking most shots in it's impossible chest, each surviving head arching back and howling defiance through the station. A long, speared arm lances foward, stabbing through Greiss' chest and spearing him to the wall like a sausage on a toothpick. I stare, unable to move myself but to stammer pointlessly. 'Are you alright?' screams my mind, but my mouth refuses to comply. The thing lifts Greiss into the air, dangling from it's spear, his blood streaming down the already slick, greasy fur of it's arm.

To his credit, he never stops firing.

It does him no good, though. The Voronid monstrosity snaps foward with the crab's arm, and with no sound but the snap as the crusteacean mandibles rejoin each other, Greiss' head drops to the ground. Strangely, what's left of him is still trying to fire. Over heavy, ragged breathing, I can hear a constant clicking as the firing pin tries to strike a round which has failed to jump up from the ammo hopper. The body is pushed distastefully off the spear, and the creature turns, each set of eyes on me.

I stare back at it. "You picked the wrong man to kill." I'm not operating on sense, anymore. I don't know what I'm doing. I leap foward, boots pushing me from wall to opposite wall as I close on the thing whose head's try desperately to follow my blistering pace, confused as I am. I hit the deck, pushing upward with one pistol hand and both feet, sailing gracefully through the air. I don't need to aim. I know exactly where my barrels are pointed. I squeeze both triggers, the added force spinning me upright with a singular blast of gunpowder from each weapon.

The thing howls as I land on one knee, staring into the darkness. Still alive. I estimate eight heads survive.

It whirls determinedly to kill me, spearing arm extended to simply lop off my head like the axeman. Unfortunately for it, I have other plans. Vaulting from the floor a second time I launch myself directly upward, left arm out to kill another of it's hideous brains. The spear catches me in the forearm, and I realise the error in my judgement. It's searing speed pushes it almost entirely through my arm. I hear a short, pathetic crack as one bone gives way to admit the length of the spear. My pistol slips from my hand, I can't contend with the sudden pain. Gravity -- even the artificial gravity of the station -- takes hold of me, and I slip from the thing's arm, dropping to the ground in a heap of limp bones. My arm feels as though it's on fire, years of training forgotten as I clutch what remains of my left arm to myself in agony.

My glasses have fallen from my face. Eyes glistening with pain, I look back up at the thing. Somewhere in that mass of deformity, it's laughing at me. I can hear it. Weak, I hear. Weak? I am not weak. I am Paelyn Tango Blaquerocke, self-styled gunslinger of the century. My right arm snaps upright, clutching James. Eleven shots left. I open my mouth, and with a bestial roar, years of hidden, darkened fear and terror finally finding an object to come out on. I open fire. "DIE!!!"

***

For the first time in my life, I failed a mission. The mission to save the only man who ever tried to teach me that the mission wasn't all that mattered.

I wonder what is to become of me now.