Salvage Detail

Arthur

 

Fifty miles downriver from occupied Minneapolis, cottonwoods along the Mississippi were blushing with the first faint greens of spring. Pussy willows bloomed in the low areas, and the last dregs of snow from a recent blizzard were dripping away into the thawing soil. The river was running fast and high, with chunks of ice from up north swirling on its surface. Breathing in the gusty air felt like inhaling raw life.

But I wasn’t risking my soldiers’ lives to appreciate the season.

“Freddy’s at the SURC,” I said, signaling to the strangeling on the Mississippi’s far bank to proceed. The odd little toad man pulled himself out of the water onto the old Small Unit Riverine Craft’s bow, resentment of his task etched in every line of Fugly Freddy’s warty body. Abandoned in the evacuation, the boat had been concealed under waterproof tarps and sand twenty-four years ago. I’d noticed its prow sticking out of some bushes while scouting three years prior, and this was the first flood since high enough to reach its stern. 

A “Norwegian stone giant” had just crawled out of a river up by Grand Marais, and I had a feeling our standard-issue weapons wouldn’t do much against it. While Strangeling Brigade was the state’s main monster-hunting troop, our unit of mutants and screw-ups, unwanted by any other Minnesota Guard unit, sat at the very bottom of the supply chain. Since the Elsecomers had vaporized most of Earth’s weapons manufacturing capabilities twenty-five years ago, that meant extremely limited resources. The troop’s only significant military-grade armament beyond machine guns was a single shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, and ammo for that was in very short supply. 

We need that gun.

Unfortunately, the SURC rested a good hundred and fifty yards past the “KILL ZONE: NO HUMANS” signs that designated the alien elves’ protection zone around the Stolen Cities. Death by disintegration awaited most trespassers. If the aliens caught my troop attempting to commandeer the SURC, we could all be goners.

Which is why the main troop is two miles away, and I’ve got a skeleton crew on salvage here.

“Any sign of hostiles, Captain?” Lt. Birch whispered. Division 51’s human commander had freckles and a tow-headed mop on his head that resisted all attempts at regulation order. He was just 22, and the face paint, fiddlehead ferns, and random leaves he’d stuffed in his hair and collar “for camouflage” were not helping him look like a serious adult. 

I scanned upriver, leaning against a tree for partial concealment, but saw only slabs of broken ice riding the current. It was late afternoon and the weather was clear, but Elsecomer fliers moved so fast I often heard them before they came into view, especially since they often used cover until the last second. My pointed ears twitched. I strained for the sound of air whistling over a near-silent craft, but all I heard was redwing blackbirds, snowmelt dripping in the afternoon sun, and the distant honking of Canadian geese on their trek north. Since I’d Changed, my senses had sharpened; I was fairly confident I could see better with my slit-pupiled eyes than Birch could through his binoculars. When I wasn’t clamping down on my strangeling impulses too hard – usually a bad idea – the antlers growing from my forehead would tingle in proximity to anything Else. Right then, I was risking it.

“No visuals. Don’t hear any incoming either. We’re good.”

Changing wrecked my life, but it came with one or two perks. If only I could trust myself to use them.

Deep inside me, something fae growled in its haunted green shadows. I fixed my attention on the river, ignoring my monster.

“Captain, you’re a bit visible there,” Birch whispered, trying to keep his nerves out of his voice as he held out of a tin of ground charcoal mixed into corn oil. The oil had gone off, and the “paint” smelled like old popcorn. “At least break up your lines a bit.”

“My uniform’s trimmed in blaze orange,” I said, making an effort not to mute the sarcasm. My other side was… undisciplined. “The fuck’s a bit of camo paint going to do to hide that?”

He winced, but kept holding the tin out. I took it, sighing internally. A little of the tension eased from his shoulders. Birch was in charge of the troop, however unqualified for the job he may have originally been, and I had to remind everyone of that almost daily. “Captain” was just my nickname now; the Change brought legal death, loss of military rank, and incarceration. Every strangeling in the brigade was prison labor, myself included, out here to soak up cryptid attacks before any human soldiers got hit. 

My troop had been so thoroughly abandoned by the regular military that they were picking officers by vote or lot when I arrived. The Edgeland hostiles had killed so many officers, brass just stopped sending any. Choosing between someone who’d been getting fast-tracked up the army ranks… until he grew antlers… vs the fresh-from-Basic human kid they’d elected as “main cryptid target of the week” took about two minutes. And that was over four years ago.

Following an order or two myself was simply setting a good example. I sighed, dipped two fingers in the goo, and smeared a couple of stripes across my face. Birch let out a breath.

Now I smell like the floor of a cheap movie theater.

“Progress?” Birch asked, trying to smooth things over.

“He’s got the rope around the prow,” I said, glancing back at Freddy. “You might be onto something about sensors for modern weapons. Good thinking.”

“The smugglers never seem to trigger a patrol,” he replied, binoculars sweeping the tree line. Leadership might not exactly come naturally to him, but he was excellent at research and problem solving. “And they never carry firearms. It would make sense.”

“Or they’re working for the Elsecomers,” I said, “and get free passage.”

It was an old argument. We’d been having it almost as long as we’d been in the brigade. We first caught hints of smuggling operations going in and out of the kill zone a couple months into our joint leadership, and it was one of the few things on which we had significant disagreements.

“Been ten minutes,” he said, shrugging off my suspicion, and I hid a smile. He was finally getting brave enough to disagree with me in front of other soldiers, or at least the ones here with us. “So far, so good.”

He might actually be right. Patrols typically respond in under two minutes if someone with firearms enters their territory.

Across the river, Fugly Freddy, naked except for some indescribably horrible red Speedos and a tool belt, gestured at me, not exactly politely. The little frog man had tried to eat me my first day in the Box, while I was blinded and incapacitated with iron burns. I got him in a headlock and almost cracked his non-existent neck before other inmates pulled us apart. He was a walking attitude problem, and usually managed to avoid patrols because no one wanted him along; he fucked things up just to amuse himself. Getting forced to do actual work offended all his dubious morals, but he was the only strangeling in the Box who could swim the Mississippi in full spring flood.

Freddy ducked down, opening some sort of container, and pulled out an old pistol, then a small machine gun. They looked relatively rust-free, from what I could see. Might even be in working order. My genuine hope was for the big belt-fed turret gun. It probably wasn’t operational, but if it was, it’d become Division 51’s biggest weapon. Ammo could be challenging, but we were already making half our own in the barracks workshop. We just had to get the boat floating, pull it past the warning sign, and strip its armaments. A patrol jeep would meet us when we called one in, and we’d be home in time for dinner.

We’ll test the belt-fed on the stone giant, I fantasized. Later, we can mount it on a patrol vehicle and ride straight into a redcap raid, mowing down those slaver fucks by the dozen.

But even if the ‘caps stay in the Bakkens, given the array of monsters in our patrol zone, we’ll get good use out of it.

I waved our “keep going” signal to him. He put the guns back and started checking structural integrity along the stern.

“That’s a thumbs up from Freddy. The metal’s still solid. And the forward gun looks promising.”

“Should I start feeding out cable, Captain?” Bastion rumbled from behind a tree to my left. The ten-foot-tall giant had‌ draped a camouflage net over himself to hide his red skin and Strangeling Brigade uniform. It didn’t so much conceal him as give him the appearance of a large, ominous poinsettia. The man might look like a demon, but his demeanor was typically that of a college English Literature professor. I smothered a grin.

They’re not scouts, I reminded myself. No one else on the team, human or strangeling, had specialist training. But they show up in a fight. They hold the line. I don’t need them to look perfect while doing so.

“Do it. ”

Freddy heaved on the rope he’d swum across the river, hauling it in until the cable’s steel hook came out of the water, then secured it to the wrecked gunboat’s aft railing. He looked up at me. Another quick hand signal told him to keep going. He pulled the entrenching tool off his belt and started working on the sand holding the boat in place. Wet sand can stick like concrete, and he’d have to break the suction around the hull before we could haul the SURC free.

“Pull in the slack, Bastion,” I ordered. He started winding the winch handle. Our jeep might have been stronger, but its frame was in bad enough shape I wasn’t sure the vehicle would hold together under stress. Also, this way was quieter.

I scanned again upriver. Things felt… too quiet.

And Freddy had just waved around a variety of guns. 

My monster stirred inside me, something halfway between a growl and a purr. My antlers started tingling. I froze, and heard the faintest, far-distant hint of that tell-tale whistle.

“Incoming!” I yelled. The frog man didn’t hear me, half-submerged on the far side of the boat. “Freddy, swim!”

He crawled up onto the boat and cupped a hand around his ear.

“SWIM!” I bellowed, stepping away from the tree and putting both hands to my mouth. Bastion frantically let out slack, and the metal cable sunk below the water.

Freddy made another face at me and spread his arms like, “Why?”

Bloody hell. This is what comes of letting everyone vote ‌regarding who should and shouldn’t patrol with the team. Freddy’s weaponized incompetence kept him home. Now it’s going to get him vaporized.

I pointed upriver and mimed slitting a neck. He turned, peered that direction, and crossed his arms.

“Freddy, get your butt in the water right now!” I yelled at the frog man. Putting one hand to his eyes, he peered around looking for threats, then gave an exaggerated shrug.

A transport craft full of Elsecomer elves zipped around the bend of the river, flying just above the water. He completely froze.

I saw their guns coming up. Muscles bunched in Freddy’s legs and he dove for the waves. For a second, stretched out midair, he looked exactly like a bullfrog leaping from a lily pad. A blazing bolt from an Elsecomer blaster clipped him, and he spasmed midair before hitting the water with a tremendous splash.

I felt him dive deep. Wounded, but alive. My erratic magic at least let me know that.

Fuck this whole situation sideways!

I tore off my guns, placed them at the base of the tree, and raced down to the water’s edge. Heedless of the aliens, I scanned the water for Freddy. He surfaced for a gulp of air, ten feet behind the warning post, and another bolt boiled the water six inches from his head.

“He’s unarmed!” I shouted, waving my arms wildly. “He’s not a soldier!”

I glimpsed the angle he was swimming and glared at the spotlessly elegant elves in their flying craft as I ran down the shore to where Freddy was likely to come up. He came straight to me, making the last 50 yards without another breath. I waded thigh deep into the frigid water, grabbed his webbed hand in mine and pulled him up onto the shore. He staggered out of the water, pale and clammy and cold… well, even more than usual. A wound like a burn mark, in texture but not color, covered his left shoulder. A ghost of light shimmered across it and went out.

Freddy fell to the sand, exhaled, and went still.

“Fuck,” I swore, staring at his unmoving body. I dropped to my knees. He was an asshole, but he was a total civilian, and I got him killed. “CPR, CPR. His mouth is wider than my entire head. There’s no way to get a seal…”

I clamped a hand around his mouth, trying to see if I could keep those froggy lips closed and any air in.

It’s impossible.

There’s a spark in him still, though.

I couldn’t blow air into his lungs. I focused, inhaled, pressed my mouth against his, and blew life into that, somehow.

Stay here!

His body twitched. He sighed, a wet gurgle of sound, and seemed to deflate.

Oh god, no.

I leaned over him and tried to figure out where to check for a pulse.

“Come on, Captain, pucker up and give me the kiss of life,” the little amphibian asshole whispered. “Make me wanna live.”

I slapped his head, jumped to my feet, and pulled a just in case white scarf out of my pocket. I grabbed a stick of driftwood, knotted the improvised flag around an end, lifted it over my head, and marched straight towards the alien elves, stopping directly on my side of the border.

They looked at me and their eyes widen as one. They glanced at each other, shocked and unsure of what they were seeing. They obviously recognized our resemblance, the same way every mirror made me.

No, none of them have antlers or cat eyes, rancid “camo” face paint burning their nostrils, or look like a half-drowned muskrat. They must think I look like a feral version of them.

And none of them would ever be seen dead in prisoner orange, even if it’s just trim on an army uniform.

“You don’t need that wreck,” I called out to them. “It’s of no use to you, and a cannibal giant is eating people up the North Shore. Redcaps are gathering on the Dakota border and will be raiding for slaves all over the state when summer comes. I can save hundreds of civilians with its guns. They won’t be turned against you. Can we deal?”

Humanity is so impossibly outclassed by your military, there’s no point in further fighting. And you keep to the lands you stole, so we’re not in direct conflict anymore.

They stared, studying me uncertainly, even as their stances remained immaculately professional. There were seven of them, elves in the uniform I recognized as the local guard. Five men, two women, with skin in colors ranging from ivory to ebony, and hair in exotic styles and shades from across the rainbow. Every time I’d seen Elsecomers, they looked flawless, beautiful, with a finesse to every movement that made humans seem raw and grubby in comparison. A blonde in the back said something urgent in their liquid language to the man beside her. He shook his head, and the confusion in his eyes deepened as they ran over me. Some magic brushed against mine, which purred and growled back.

My troops glow like campfire sparks in my mind. These elves shine like stars.

They feel like…

My mind shied away from it. Earth’s invaders could never be my people.

Their officer wore a slightly paler version of the common uniform: high-tech, shimmering a silvery white in the spring sun. He stared at me, expressionless, but his eyes were cold. A shiver ran through my antlers, and for a second, old furious grief hung in the air around him like a shroud. Then the elven man next to him, with bronze skin and dark, wavy hair, smirked and said something derisive.

The officer lifted his blaster. He adjusted something, and without even looking to aim, pointed at the SURC. A red beam shot out and sliced the boat in half lengthwise. The big gun fell over sideways in smoldering pieces.

Rage lit inside me, my monster snarling at those who’d keep me from protecting my land and people, and my vision went literally red.

No. Not now. Not them. They killed half of Earth’s people. I’m not restarting that war!

“Captain,” Freddy whispered urgently, suddenly next to me and tugging at my sleeve. “Captain. Look at the water.”

I spun towards where he was pointing. A slick expanse of inky skin sliced through the Mississippi’s waters, spiny dorsal fin held high, at least eight feet of the creature’s back visible.

An eel? I wondered, horrified at the size of it. A whiskered head surfaced, glaring hungrily at the flying craft. Its eyes were far too intelligent for an animal. No. A catfish. A horribly mutated, oddly humanoid catfish. One the size of a small whale.

Someone on the Elsecomer craft swore.

They know those things.

The officer grimaced, shot me a final, unreadable glare, and made a sharp spinning gesture. The flying transport banked, spun, and sped away back the way they’d come.

Birch and Bastion left cover and joined us on the strand. Two more monster catfish surfaced behind the large one. They followed the Elsecomers, all of them swimming steadily upstream. We backed away from the shore and watched the river. A smaller catfish, more humanoid than most, rolled in the waves and looked straight at me. Scars stretched out from its mouth in a grotesque parody of a smile. 

I’ve seen that thing before, in a time more nightmare than memory.  

“Cable’s still stuck to that boat, Captain,” Bastion said, voice apologetic, shocking me back to the present.

We looked at the water. The enormous fish kept swimming. Smaller backs breached the surface behind them. A few minutes later, the… school? swarm? pack? had swum out of view. I glanced at Freddy and raised my eyebrows.

“Maybe we could at least save the cable?”

“I’m never gettin’ in that river again,” Freddy said, as if swearing an oath. “Not for love or money. Not for a full night with your momma.”

Behind me, Birch got on his radio, letting the team know the mission failed and we were heading back. I swore, stomped back to the trees, punched one hard enough to split the skin on my knuckles. That pain was clean, simple. I rearmed myself on muscle memory, wiping a trace of sand off the pistol’s barrel, one question rolling over and over through my mind:

Why would an Elsecomer look at me and feel grief?