Gamblers, I think you'll find, take the worst jobs in all the galaxy. Even drunks and junkies, they have the good sense to either rot in their beds or crash their ships into space stations. But gamblers like me and Dodson? We'll take every disaster clean-up and smuggling mission we can get our hands on.
So it's no surprise we ended up all the way out here, on LV-1201, where even the dumbest human hasn't lived since the early 2200s. Apparently, according to the guy Dodson took the job from, a few folks want to kick the tires on the abandoned base and restart their precious research project. And by kick the tires, I mean send in a couple of idiots to clear out the roaches and make sure the lights still work.
The Primary Operations Complex is located out in the middle of the weirdest damn jungle I've ever seen, all red grass and bony trees, which almost makes me happy to see the complex's tall girders and observation pods. But a few steps inside its steel walls changes that real quick. The power is dead, and the wind and rain have hit the place hard. It's like an indoor jungle, with the insects to prove it. And on LV-1201, some of the bugs can get up to two foot long—even the flying kind.
Dodson, he hands me an M240 Flamethrower he won off a marine and tells me to check out a storage room while he sets up some extra lights. Tells me to cook anything that moves. I can't say I want to listen, but the M240 has a way of giving a man some extra confidence.
Ten feet inside the lightless storage room, the door shuts behind me and locks. Before I get a chance to shout about it, I spot something in one corner of the room. It's waist-high, kind of round, and more leathery than an old captain's jacket. Maybe it's the humidity from all this trapped rain, but it also looks wet to the touch. Not that I'd dare touch it.
Dodson pops up at an observation window on the side of the room, and there must be enough power to run the control panel, because a speaker crackles to life and spits his voice out at me. “Sorry, bud, but I sort of lied to you,” he says, like he's speaking at my funeral.
The thing in the corner, an egg of some kind, trembles and quivers in the dark, almost like it knows I'm here. Then the top peels open like rotten fruit, and something peeks up from inside. What comes up looks like spider legs, except they have fingernails at the ends.
As whatever the unholy thing is crawls up and perches on the lip of the egg, staring at me without any eyes I can see, I remember the M240 in my hands. I give the trigger a pull and find, to no one's surprise, the fuel tank is empty.
“What kind of extermination job is this?” I ask Dodson, tasting acid in my throat. And Dodson, that gambling son-of-a-bitch, he smiles at me.
“It's not an extermination job,” he says. “It's a transport mission. And unfortunately, my friend, you’re the crate.”