Blake fired, but his gun clicked. Empty. He had another clip in his backpack, but there was no time. Phin’s gun was chewing up the Monkey Cat, bits of honey-colored blood spurting with each strike, but it didn’t stop until it slammed into Phin.
Phin flew backward with the force of the hit, the alien going with him. He grabbed onto the Monkey Cat’s ears, feet on its shoulders. It snapped its bifurcated jaw, spittle flying, trying to get a piece of Phin to latch onto. Something it could use to drag him into that lethal mouth. Phin was fighting, his bloodied teeth flashing. Blake took two steps toward him.
The mission.
He wavered. If he didn’t help Phin, he might die. But if he didn’t kill the Queen—the mission would be a failure. Triage. Blake knew how to triage.
Dropping the gun, he reached into his pocket. His clammy hand clasped around the thick plastic syringe. He pulled it out and ripped the cap off the needle with his teeth. It felt heavier than it should. Blake turned on his heel and ran toward Queen Dolly.
Gabriel told him to aim for center mass with a gun, but he could do it with a needle too.
The Queen had regained her senses and was stalking toward Phin and her guardian Monkey Cat. Brown, thick blood leaked down her crest from the bullets. She couldn’t quite close her jaw because of the broken tooth; she held her mouth open, feet stamping in pain and rage.
She turned at the last second, her crest shaking as she made to leap for him. He rolled out of the way, all the way to the junk wall, hitting a broken mirror with a grunt. The Queen leapt after him, but the filaments pulled taut, yanking her back.
While she was distracted, Blake darted forward. Boots slipping on the roof and heart hammering in his chest, he threw himself at her front leg. He struck her side, the hard, raised armor plates cutting into his shoulder. With a hand on her crest for balance, Blake plunged the syringe into the soft flesh in her armpit.
The needle sank deep, and the Queen roared, immediately twisting to snap at him. Thick alien blood splattered over his face and arms. It was so hot it burned, but Blake held on. His thumb found the raised plastic edges of the plunger, and he pushed. He couldn’t go too fast, or he’d risk breaking the seal on the needle, but her teeth were getting closer, breath a rancid mix of old tomatoes, sweat, and dust.
She shrieked again, rearing up high enough that Blake was yanked off his feet. He clung to her crest, watching the meth in the syringe get lower and lower. There were only five milliliters left when she managed to twist enough to get her jaw clamped onto his bicep.
Blake screamed at the pain. It was like his arm was caught in a shredder. The acute pain from her teeth came in a flash, then the terror of the pressure behind it. She was going to shatter his arm. He kicked at her side, screaming. The Queen yanked him off, shaking him like a dog with a bone.
The syringe came free with him. She shook him so hard he could feel his bones creak. Blake clenched down on the almost empty syringe. Hot red blood burst from between her teeth, splattering across her bulbous eyes and flat face. Tendons and muscles twisted, and he screamed again, his vision fading. Queen Dolly slammed him into the roof, her sides heaving with exertion. Blake fisted the needle and slammed it into the space between her jaw and teeth. The needle slipped into her gums, and she bellowed, staggering back, releasing Blake.
Stars danced in his vision as he found unconsciousness. Groaning, he looked up in time to see the syringe fly from her mouth. The three intact points of her jaw were soaked in red and gold blood.
Her shadow blanketed Blake as she came for him. One leg raised, four claws extended. His arm wouldn’t work. He had nowhere to go. He threw a hand up to protect himself.
The Queen faltered.
First, it was just a twitch. A hiccup, almost. She looked as surprised as Blake, her big ears standing straight up, guard hairs trembling. Then she retched, back arching and sides sucking in. She scrambled backward, slamming into the junk wall so hard it wobbled, a section collapsing.
Blake tucked his bad arm close, pulling himself further from the overdosing Queen. She snapped at her legs, her sides, throwing her body from side to side. Claws ripped chunks out of the roof as she flailed, muscles spasming uncontrollably, tail curling under her belly.
She’s dying.
Her muscles tightened as she fought the drug, tiny slits of nostrils gaping as she tried to get enough air. The filaments above her vibrated, knocking against each other. They were darker too. Easier to see against the sky. They seemed to bepeeling up from where they attached to her back, the skin pulling before ripping around the base.
Almost like they were going to retract. To save the ship.
So they could send another Queen Dolly.
It wasn’t over. Killing the Queen wouldn’t stop the Monkey Cats. They were cloners—they would just send another. And another. As long as they had the means.
Pushing himself up to his knees, Blake withdrew the second syringe from his pocket. The contingency syringe. He popped the cap off, ignoring the screaming pain in his arm. He bit down on the plastic syringe and limped forward.
The portion of the wall the Queen knocked over was scattered across the roof. Blake used an overturned metal rack to get high enough so he could throw a leg over the dying Queen. Her back was broad, but she was bucking hard, fighting the drug. Blake scrabbled, his fingers catching on some of the sliding plates. Digging his knees in, he blindly reached out until he grabbed hold of the filament.
It felt strange in his hand. Wide enough, he could barely close two hands around the pulsing translucent jelly. Blake could feel the energy through his skin. It reminded him of those water snake toys from every gift shop he dragged his parents to.
Gripping it, the fluid inside squished to either side of his palm. The Queen threw herself to the side, and Blake’s shoulder hit the roof. He groaned around the syringe between his teeth, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
As she got to her feet, he let go with one hand and pressed the syringe into the filament. The beveled edge of the needle slipped into the viscous walls. Blake pressed the plunger.
The fluid inside the filaments turned brown, then black as the drug was absorbed. Blake could follow the swirl of methamphetamine as it shot up toward the sky and presumably, the ship.
When the plunger struck home, Blake let himself get bucked off. Shielding his arm as best he could, he rolled out of the way of the stampeding Queen.
