NOT TO PLAN (Revised 12/18/23)

Krone seized Benson by the front of his armor, yanking him uncomfortably close. The two brutes stood eye to eye. Each loathing the other. "What do you mean, you lost him?" Krone asked, accentuating every word. "You couldn't lose him. Its written in stone."

Krone's need to divert the possibility of a mission failure away from himself was nothing new to his men. They'd all seen it before. Certainly Benson had. He had been next in line for Krone's current post. But had failed to receive the posting when Krone framed him for passing bad Intel. Faulty intel Krone provided; not Benson. Unfortunately, no one survived that failed mission to report Krone had passed the information. Krone, a favorite of command, routinely relied on their protection.

They all knew Krone was a self-serving prick. He always lurked in the shadows, looking for the next scapegoat to help him move up through the ranks. They had all bore the brundt of Krone's insults and treachery, and all of them wanted him gone.

"I mean," Benson said, peeling Krone's hands off his armor, and shoving him away. "He got away." Benson fought down the urge to punch Krone in his treacherous face. The way he had held himself back many times before. 

"Impossible," Krone bellowed, darting forward and shoving Benson against a nearby wall. The dull thwack of bony skull impacting an unyielding helmet filled the darkness. It sounded like a ripe melon bouncing off rock. Benson's eyes rolled back momentarily and then reformed into paper thin slits. He glared as Krone drew back a wide fist.

Benson stood his ground, making no attempt to move away or raise his hands in self-defense. He invited Krone's punch; welcomed it. His fiery eyes twinkled menacingly in his team's rifle lights, as if daring Krone to throw the first punch. There's no one here to save your ass now, he thought. Benson wasn't afraid of Krone and everyone knew it. Especially Krone.

But now, not only a 15 million light years from home, but years before there would be any protection from the reigning Lord Marshal. Krone was finally alone. He could no longer rely on ill-gotten ties to a master who did not exist in this timeline. Benson smiled maniacally.

"There's no way he could have changed course without you knowing it would happen." Krone raged, lowering his fist and stepping away. "It's impossible."

"And yet it happened, nonetheless."

Benson's men glanced sideways at one another. Krone didn't throw the punch. Although they all knew, Krone rarely struck first. Especially, if he thought there may be a return strike.

"The history of this day is set in stone." Krone said, staring into the darkness. "And we alone know all its eventual outcomes."

"Did anyone tell him?" Benson asked, stepping forward as he peered over Krone's shoulder at the brute squad behind him. Benson's mouth flashed a fleeting smirk and a sea of menacing gazes crashed over Krone like giant waves trying to erase the breakers. In an instant, Krone had lost control of his men and he never saw it happen.

The old Necromonger rules of hierarchy no longer apply. In a decade they would again. But at this moment, Benson saw opportunities for advancement and payback. His dead smile grew terrible in the dark. Innumerable scenarios of Krone's demise danced in Benson's mind. And all the .en watching saw them layout o er Krone's head.

Even the two men in Krone's personal protection detail glared and scowled. None of them liked or respected Krone. His had made himself target number one. And none of them needed a tracker to find him.

Under the best of conditions, Necromongers did not like one another. The horrific Necromonger conversion process diminished sensory pain receptors, essened one's ability to feel pleasure and eradicated any sense of empathy. Either way, every man there harbored a vehement loathing for the cowardly ex-Master Sergeant. And unfortunately for Krone, they had come to the one place in time and space where they could express that anger without fear of reprisal. No one would come to his aid. He was adrift in a sea of swirling hatred.

"Either our target is gifted," Benson said, shaking his head for his team to do nothing. Now was not the time to move against Krone. They still needed him. He hadn't told them about the complete mission. "And... I don't believe he is." Benson continued. "If he was, he would have vanished sooner. Perhaps someone outside this timeline has cloaked him without his knowledge. That seems plausible. But… unlikely."

"It's not possible." Krone protested angrily. "To cloak him, someone would have to have him in their sphere of influence." He reeled on the others as if seeking confirmation their target had indeed gotten away. They said nothing. They only glared at him through dead, coal dot eyes. Krone squinted suspiciously, noticing a change in squad demeanor. He motioned Dumort forward. "Give me your tracker, soldier." he demanded, holding out his hand and snapping his fingers impatiently. "Now, dammit."

"And yet, he is gone." Benson stressed, nodding for Dumort to hand over the tracker.

Dumort considered wiping the memory before he handed it over. It would only take the flip of a switch and it would be gone. As gone as their target, he thought. He saw Benson's frown ominously and handed it over without further hesitation. However, he entertained a fleeting fantasy of using the heavy tracker to shatter the bridge of Krone's already furrowed nose. The thought drew a very animated, un-Necromonger smile no one noticed.

Krone stared through Dumort, dismissing the idea that an outside force interceded on their target's behalf. Their target must be alone. If he wasn't, then someone else's head would roll for this little screw up. Or maybe one of these men know the true purpose and power of the object buried in the moon's core and they wanted the power for themselves? He shook off the thought, securely knowing that they had been careful to cover the true mission. Not even the Necromonger high command knew why they were here. Only Lord Marshal Vaako knew their true mission.

Krone booted up the unit's memory file and fast-forwarded the data, watching as the dots played a series of cat and mouse games. Then, just as Benson said, the target vanished without a trace. There it was. Proof the target had vanished and the proof he was screwed beyond belief. Now, the only question waswho to frame. As Krone stared into the abyss of failure, he noticed something else had changed. Dumort was grinning at him like a lunatic.

"There are few who can negotiate the time streams." Krone said to himself as an ominous expression drew his naked brows down. "And even fewer can cloak their presence while cloaking others." He paused in thought as the oppressive darkness seemed to constrict around them. Time slowed, space narrowed and, he said, "No mortal could do this."

"Agreed." Benson replied. "The technology and power required to move through time is beyond imaging."

Krone knew the mission was in trouble. The timeline had veered, dragging them off course with it. He looked at the men and saw they knew what he was thinking. Who do I blame for this fuck up? "It had to be the traitor." he said, weighing his next words carefully. "He is the only one with such gifts." A grim expression contorted Krone's corn-rowed face. "Not even the black-hearted bitch herself can cloak others. Her gifts are many, but even she has limitations."

"It is unlikely the traitor is involved." Benson replied, "The Lord Marshal had me visit the traitor's cell hours before we arrived. I assure you, he was still there."

"Sure. then." Krone admitted. "But what about now?" he asked, turning to Benson. "Can you be certain he is there at this very moment? It would take but a split second of freedom for him to cause an incalculable amount of damage to this time stream."

"If he has, that time stream may have dissolved, and we have no way home."

"An eternity of preparation gone in the blink of an eye." Krone said, "We finally get here… and this happens." He turned to Benson, wheels and gears unexpectedly spinning in his mind. You were the last one to see him. Did you make a deal? Did you set him free."

"Why did the master send you?" Krone asked.

"He was concerned the time shift may affect us in unexpected ways."

"Why, exactly, did he send you?"

"The Lord Marshal wanted me to find out if she was up to something."

"Is she?"

"When I asked, he laughed and said, the dark one is always up to something. That's why he's scared of her."

"The Lord Marshal fears no one." Krone said. "Did he say anything else?"

"Just that we should be careful how we get here. Time has a nasty habit of resetting itself when we least expect it."

"That remains to be seen." Benson replied, shrugging. "But I can assure you, the tachyon containment field surrounding his cell was fully functional when I spoke to him." Benson assured Krone. "No one in their right mind would let him out. He is a threat to us all."

"And yet," Krone said, staring through Benson as if trapped in an ever building conspiracy theory. "I'd venture a guess that someone let him out."

"If that is true," Dumort blurted. "Then this timeline has indeed changed and we are all truly fucked." The giant's unnaturally pallid complexion had turned uncharacteristically rosy in the sterile light of his teammates' weapons. He looked warm and alive. Although, his earlier grin had turned a pale shade of we're up shit creek now.

Everyone stared at his uncharacteristic change in demeanor as if he were some strange creature that looked healthy and alive. Healthy and alive for a Necromonger grunt is a troubling complexion. Benson gestured the others forward. He wanted them away from the outsider. They moved to the side. Dumort held his position, staring around in terror, unaware his teammates had deserted him to an oncoming storm he could not see coming.

Krone turned towards the man, surveyed him with furrowed concern and watched him shaking in the near dark. Necromonger foot soldiers did not feel fear, question orders, or shake like frightened children. They did not feel pain, fatigue, remorse and definitely not happiness. This one obviously felt everything. Something had changed. Krone studied the man gravely, thinking his well-trained dog had slipped its leash. And then, realizing the footsoldier was the newest member of the Necromonger faith, considered the time shift may eventually affect them all?

Krone turned slightly, making eye contact with Benson and said in an eerily calm tone, "As soon as the Lord Marshal realizes we have not returned as scheduled, he will send his hound to fetch us home." Krone slid his right hand to his hip, just above his sidearm. "Until then," he continued, returning his full attention to the shaking man. "We carry on as ordered."

Benson nodded and asked, "Dumort, how long have you been with us?"

"What?" he stammered. "What... does that have to do with anything?"

"How long?" Benson repeated.

"5 years."

Benson turned to the others and said, "Sound off. How long have you been with us?"

The team sounded off with terms of service ranging from 11 to 14 years, except for Benson and Krone, who had been in the service of the Necromonger faith for 25 years.

Krone and Benson walked to a spot where they could have a private conversation. "Is this the effect the traitor spoke of?" Krone asked.

He nodded and said, "a gifted did not bring us here. We used tech to get here."

"What did we get wrong?"

"We didn't shield ourselves from the time shift. We're not supposed to be here."

Krone shook his head in disgust. "Well this went to shit fast."

"We have a much bigger problem." Benson said. "They all have weapons, and they hate Necromongers. Or… at least they will, when they finally remember what we did to their families."

"We need to go now." Krone said, moving back to the men. "Our mission priority is to retrieve the artifact. And that's just what we are going to do. From this point on, all other objectives are off the table." Krone gestured to Benson's comm set and added, "Recall team two. Have them regrouped here, A.S.A.P. Then, we'll go into the interior and secure the device. When the purifier arrives, we will return us home with the device in hand."

Benson turned away, speaking into his Mic.

"If it's still there." Dumort said, staring into the tunnel leading down into the raptor pits far below. His eyes were enormous and sparkled a brilliant blue. The transformative conversion process had vanished completely.

Krone saw the un-Necromonger fear contorting his now crimson cheeks. Warm blood coursed through his normally icy veins, bringing back the color of life. Bringing back desire and self-awareness. "If our target could disappear," the soldier said, "who's to say our mission aim didn't vanish right along with him? And what happens if the Lord Marshal no longer remembers where… or who we are? I say we seize their ship and go home now."

"What home?" Krone asked, hand moving far faster than it should have for a man of his cumbersome size. He drew his sidearm in a flash, thrust it outward until the barrel touched the tip of Dumort's nose. His eyes exploded wide, Krone squeezed the trigger and so did his head. The intense flash and ear-splitting report erased the silent darkness. None of his teammates flinched or batted an eye as their comrade's headless corpse hit the floor spewing torrents of blood across the floor. 

Krone wiped chunks of flesh and bone off his side arm, placed it back in its holster content in the thought that their conversions were, for the time being, still in place. "Does anyone else think we should go home?" he asked, holding out a large hand, forefinger pointed at them as if he were still brandishing his sidearm. "Anyone?" he asked, looking from one man to another. "No." he added.

Master sergeant Avenesque ran in with three men in tow. Blood and wounds covered them from head to toes.

"Do I even want to know?" Krone asked.

"She was waiting for us."