The prognosis is good. There is a shadow of a chance to come home before the airlock closes. If we succeed, then Dubay 13 will be free until the next perihelion. Unless something else breeds on it. If, however, we do not make it on time, we will be on our own. And it gets cold here during the aphelion. Really cold. What we’re looking for is hiding deep beneath the factory, apparently sensing the oncoming cold. Its’ will to survive is hardly surprising. Time will show, though, whose instincts are stronger.
Loaded with ammunition and grenades, I resemble a comic book version of a prehistoric lizard from times when reptiles ran on two legs and waged wars.
I have a good old M4 slung over my shoulder and I tell you it surely is a confidence booster. One might fancy that once you start colonizing something like Dubay 13, your weapon of choice should be some weird invention of tomorrow, some rebel-stifling Blaster, wall-piercing Thunderbolt or whatever fantasy offers. Truth be told, if we mercenaries may seem a little old-fashioned, it is not out of choice but out of resources. Besides, the rest of my team deals with gadgets – I deal with lead.
I have been dreaming of music quite often recently. Still the same old track – Black Sabbath with Saint R. J. Dio. He was a god. Few specimens of homo sapiens deserve the recognition I have for Dio. Really few. But what was that track called? Heaven and Hell, I guess. I hear it in my dreams, every night, like an ancient prayer of some pagan tribe.
And everything would be fine, if in my dreams the music was coming from the guitars instead of the whirring heavy bursts of machine guns.
My word, on Dubay 13, all dreams are fucked up. And my dream team is no exception.
There are eight of us. Over there, behind that big console, that’s my man Wolfgang «Schabziger» Cello, computer scientist, he never parts with his favorite Swiss cheese. Our girls, Katie Mouse and Lil Pippi specialize in the explosives – they never part from each other. Huey Donavan, mechanic, a savage in close combat, he likes big, loud and greasy vehicles. Marian Tripps, Holder Vinci and Ratt Chimney – these gentlemen specialize in death.
And then there is me. Schwartz Anger. I do the commander thing.

Donavan looks like he’s already on holidays. Leaning on a swivel chair of some high-ranked production coordinator, his paws dirty with grease, he browses some intergalactic dating site and smokes a joint. A bit further, Schabziger sits bent over a laptop, supposedly busy with his hacking magic – or perhaps just pretending to be busy. All you can hear is the clatter of the keys and the soft smacking sound of him chewing successive bites of diced cheese. Thanks to Wolf, gotta give it to him, we can be sure that the security system of the entire building is under our control.
The girls are somewhere on the lower floors, setting up mines and activating photoelectric cells. The rest of the crew is playing cards.
Perhaps I should scold them for their improper laziness if our mission required more discipline, more concentration. But there is no need, is ther? It’s just one more assignment and we’re good to fly the hell away from this damned planet. Our operation code-named Oni should be over soon. Why the name, you ask? They told me that Oni was some kind of demon from ancient beliefs, created on Earth, back in times when humankind was unable to rise into the air. They would invent angels and other holly beasts to put them on a pedestal and worship blindly, hoping for grace.
Oni. No more than a made-up deity. But it sounds good.

We are sitting on the zero level of the Neko headquarters building. This is one of the companies that produces all these wonderful killing devices. Indeed, Neko makes all sorts of weapons, although in recent times, they call «deratization equipment». Villains.
In the building, somewhere deep underground, there is supposedly MHC – Medium Hadron Collider. Equipped with super-sensitive detectors, a medium particle accelerator, it is primarily a whim of the company director. Neko spends huge sums of money on research that hardly anyone is doing. The subsidies are tax-free and all of them go back to the company, which starts the accelerator from time to time, in order to prove its scientific activity in the event of an inspection. Thanks to this, the company does not have to explain itself in the thick, untaxed millions.
Officially, the Neko company invests in quantum physics.
And to think that Neko means «Cat». Now that’s a bummer. Would you call that your company? You might as well start a business under the name of a fruit or … I don’t know, a door in a wall.
Humans can be trivial.

Katie Mouse is back. She sniffs her nose and proudly shakes her shapely butt. I believe she has more grenades stuck in her belt than I have hair. Right behind Katie walks her gorgeous companion, Lil Pippi. They’re my treasures.
«Levels -2 and -3 clear,» Katie informs in her tiny little voice. “There are photocells on each floor”.
“Our prey must be much lower now”, adds Lil Pippi. “If it tries to slide to a higher level, we will know”.
Prey. It sounds pretty tasty. Somewhere deep underground hides the last miserable representative of its species. At least on this planet. Frightened and hungry, it will finally come to us. Then the bullets will sing. Unless, of course, the poor bastard gets torn in pieces by all those mines that girls left downstairs.
«Close all other entrances to our level,» I ordered. “If the filthy little bug reaches floor -1, it will earn our respect. We will welcome it with dignity”.

It started quite unexpectedly.
Wolfgang Cello, without much passion, without changing the rhythm of chewing the cheese, closed all the remotely controlled hatches on the ground floor. Donavan and Tripps – the strongest of our pack – locked all the manually operated entrances.
There is only one way left to enter our level. A huge airlock in the floor could only be opened from the other side, with a photocell. It is used for unloading products from below with a large crane suspended from the ceiling. The gantry crane places the goods on the transporters which leave the building along a gigantic, closed highway to the second airlock – the one controlled by the satellite. The second airlock is the only exit to the planet’s surface. This is our only way home. We have seven hours to complete the task. Later, Dubai 13 will begin to enter aphelion, and the satellite controlling the airlock will lose communication with the headquarters and will likely crash into some stray asteroid.
Why don’t we ourselves look for the parasite lurking in the bowels of the building? Our client warned that the previous mercenaries screwed up the job and accidentally provided him with a lot of weapons, opening access to the warehouse. I’m not going to take any chances. As soon as the hatch opens, we will be sure that the bug is on the shot. Someone will hit the damn thing with a series and it will be over. The floor of level -1 is too well protected for this animal to get here. Even if it is in fact an animal endowed with a trace of intelligence.
There is, in fact, a certain probability that the undesirable element has already multiplied. Our contractors were unable to determine the gender of this creature. It is not known whether it reproduces sexually or by spores. They could not even name the wild tenant of the company, after all, they saw only his victims.
Other hired professionals died in mysterious circumstances. The price goes up, therefore, due to the conditions, haste and danger. And we need funds.
«If nothing comes out within the next three hours, we get our asses out of here,» I informed the rest. “I’m not going to risk missing the exit, you guys remember that: if we stay here, we die”.
Katie nodded eagerly. Donavan scratched his balls. Wolfgang Cello yawned loudly. And at that moment the airlock opened.

The hacker looked the computer screen, then turned to us:
«It’s not me,» he looked quite stupid for a genius.
I gestured for him to be silent. I signaled the other six to take their positions.
Katie crouched down next to a large console that was likely to control a gantry suspended from the ceiling.
She pulled her elegant Uzi off her arm. She looked at me. Everyone looked at me. Lil Pippi and Holder Vinci, crouching behind the bulletproof balustrade of the stairs leading to the glassed-in management office overlooking the entire venue. Marian Tripps, Ratt Chimney and Huey Donavan surrounded the airlock at a safe distance, which everyone was aiming at with the M4. The three of them looked at me stupidly, although they should all be focusing on the goddamn airlock. In their eyes I saw disbelief. And I knew right away why they stared like that.
There was just nothing down there.

With a gesture and a suggestive glance, I ordered Tripps to come closer to the edge and look around the lower level. Chimney and Donavan were covering him. Marian Tripps walked to the edge of the airlock and crouched down so as not to lose his balance. He tilted slightly and looked down.
Suddenly, something emerged from the airlock. It was out of his field of vision. We heard thrilling squeal as it grabbed Tripps by the collar. The struggle lasted no more than a second. Shots rang out. Chimney and Donavan spit out half a series with obvious fury. But they shoot in vain.
Tripps was gone.