Messenger

by James Walker

  “All right, Union,” he muttered. “What's your next move?”

  33

  Lambda held her position in the rear line, watching the flashes of battle in the distance. She kept her comm tuned to the shared channel, which was filled with status reports and shouted orders broken up by screams of fear and pain and the ever-present staccato of gunfire. Her face was impassive, but a hint of sadness could be detected deep within in her mismatched eyes.

  Her console alerted her to a transmission directed to her suit. She muted the shared channel and accepted the transmission. Koga's face appeared on her viewscreen.

  “Lieutenant Lambda,” he said. “The enemy is putting up heavy resistance. The front line is getting bogged down. We almost breached their southern defenses, but some kind of elite unit came forward to fill the gap.”

  Lambda's only response was to stare without expression at her commander's visage.

  “Time is running short,” Koga continued. A satellite map of the district appeared next to him, and a red line snaked its way from Lambda's position to the center of the rebel force. “You're to launch an attack from the north, to hit them with a pincer maneuver. Punch a hole through their lines so we can pour through and shatter their formation. Don't let up until you've broken through. If you can penetrate all the way to where they're keeping the target—well, you know what to do. Understood?”

  “Yes sir,” Lambda responded.

  The transmission terminated. Lambda squeezed her wrist to inject the linkage fluid, then revved up her suit's engines and blasted off down the street, great fiery wings erupting from the suit's shoulders.

  At that speed, it took only a moment for Lambda to reach the battlefront. As she turned a corner, a homing missile launched from several blocks away and streaked toward her. She pulled up hard and spun out of the way, causing the missile to explode too far away for the shrapnel to reach her, then she targeted the source and launched a fragmentation round at the inciting infantry squad.

  She did not even wait to confirm the enemy casualties before blasting off down the street again. A rocket-propelled grenade came flying at her out of a nearby window; she repelled it with her deflector shield and drew her sword, tearing through the side of the building whence the attack came without slowing her advance.

  The next block down, a rebel exosuit leapt out from concealment as Lambda passed, aiming to cut through her torso. She simultaneously braked hard, flitted around to the rear of the enemy exosuit, and ran her sword through its power generator, causing it to slump into an inert mass. Her console flashed a warning as a light tank rolled into view and began swiveling its turret toward her.

  Lambda grabbed the suit that was slumped on the end of her blade and gave it a heave to interpose it between her and the tank. At the same time the tank's cannon blasted the hapless suit to a charred shell, Lambda drew her plasma rifle and pulled off several shots at the tank, reducing it to a pile of melted slag.

  Lambda checked her surroundings and found no more enemies in the immediate vicinity. She withdrew her blade from the wrecked hulk of the enemy exosuit, then put full output to her thrusters and took off down the street, making her way deeper into the rebel formation.

  *

  Vic traced the path of his missile as it arced through the air and exploded near the enemy VTOL, downing it. He let out a long breath and checked his suit's status readout. He still had plenty of fuel and he had suffered no major damage, but he was running low on all types of am­munition. This could not afford to drag on much longer.

  He connected to the shared channel and demanded, “How much longer until the Cage is opened?”

  Esther's voice, punctuated by static, answered him. “A few m— minutes. W— —ost there. Just hold —little longer.”

  “A few more minutes.” Vic closed the connection. “We can do this.”

  At that moment, his sensor readout emitted the high-pitched whine that indicated a friendly signal had been lost. He thought nothing of it at first; he had already heard that sound many times over the course of the battle. But then he heard a second signal go out. Then a third.

  He looked down at his sensor readout.

  A fourth signal disappeared. The lost signals traced a path that was heading directly for him.

  “Oh, no,” Vic whispered. He opened a connection to the rest of the squadron.

  “Captain, we've got problems,” he said as soon as the connection went through.

  “What's wrong?” Tinubu asked.

  Vic watched a fifth signal vanish before his eyes. “We've got an augment headed straight for us.”

  *

  Tinubu felt a lurch in his stomach, but he quickly took control. “Don't panic,” he said. “No matter how good the pilot is, it's only one enemy. We can overcome it with teamwork. Shown, take up position at the intersection on 6th and 13th. Northwood, you take 8th and 17th. I'll take 10th and 15th. As soon as the target comes within range, we'll hit it from all sides.”

  “Roger,” came the replies.

  The three of them moved into position, set to catch the enemy in a pincer movement. Faster than Tinubu would have believed possible, the enemy exosuit—a flighted model with oversized shoulder-mounted thrusters—appeared from around the corner and rocketed straight for him.

  “Northwood, now!” he shouted.

  Cena opened fire as the enemy suit crossed the intersection. With extraordinary agility, the enemy weaved around the attack and took aim at Cena. Tinubu chose that moment to fire. The enemy suit deflected his barrage with an electromagnetic shield; then, just as he had hoped, rocketed down the street away from Cena to escape the cross­fire.

  “Northwood, press the attack,” he commanded. “Shown, move in to cut it off. We'll pen it in and keep it trapped in a crossfire.”

  He skated down a block at maximum speed on his rollers. He could hear the continued staccato from Cena's rifle, soon joined by a second as Vic entered the fray. He came around the corner just in time to see the enemy suit emerge in the intersection a block away. He cut off its retreat with a quick burst from his rifle, forcing it to fly down the street toward Vic's position.

  “Got you now, you auggie bastard.” Tinubu took off down the street after the enemy and brought his crosshairs to bear over its retreating back. “Trapped on both sides.”

  As soon as he opened fire, the enemy dove beneath his stream of shots, hovering over the street with just centimeters to spare; spun around, and rocketed toward him in a reversal that would have rendered any normal pilot unconscious from the inertial force.

  Tinubu likewise slammed his suit into reverse, and barely managed to avoid two shots from the enemy's plasma rifle with frantic weaving dodges. He darted around the corner at the intersection and leveled his rifle at the edge of the building, ready to open fire the instant the enemy came into view.

  Nothing.

  “Where...?” he whispered.

  “Captain!” came Vic's frantic call. “Above—”

  An explosion rocked Tinubu's suit as his left shoulder pod was blasted off. He jerked the main camera up and saw the enemy suit's silhouette standing atop the building next to him. He raised his rifle only for the enemy's next shot to tear through the magazine, causing the rifle to explode in his hand, taking half of his right arm with it. The shots continued pouring down, blasting his suit apart piece by piece. Finally, one of the shots hit the head, taking out the main camera so that the viewscreen dissolved into static; then the suit toppled over and hit the ground with a thunderous crash, disabled.

  Tinubu punched the inoperative viewscreen so hard that he opened a crack in it and screamed. “Dammit!”

  *

  Vic watched in horror as Tinubu's signal vanished from his readout. He darted into the nearest alley, leapt up, and planted his suit's feet on the buildings to either side. He had practiced this maneuver several times in simulation. As long as it was a reasonable approximation of the real thing, he should be able to do it.

 
With his rollers at full output, he shot upward until he reached the tops of the buildings and came flying out of the alley. He landed awkwardly on the roof and sighted the enemy exosuit several buildings away, stepping back just after firing its shots down at Tinubu. Vic raised his rifle and fired.

  The enemy rocketed to the side and spun around. Vic followed its path with his rifle and fired ahead of it to compensate for its movement. The enemy suit raised its arm and deflected the shots with its shield, then raised its own rifle and sent a series of burning emerald pellets blazing toward Vic. He skated to the side to dodge the first few rounds, but he could not escape the enemy's tight shot pattern. The next round struck his right shoulder pod, destroying it and all the ammunition inside. Only the suit's careful design to direct all the force from destroyed ammunition outward saved it from total destruction.

  Vic knew he would meet the same fate as Tinubu if he remained within the enemy's field of fire. He vaulted over the side of the building as several more shots flew over his head. He once again grabbed hold of the walls with his rollers to slow his descent and dropped to the ground with a jarring impact.

  The difference was just too great. The pilot, twisted into an inhuman killing machine; the exosuit with its superior mobility and armaments—in every respect, Spacy's forces had them drastically outclassed.

  Vic purged the defeatist thoughts from his mind. Pierson fought on par with the augments. They were not undefeatable. If he could just rendezvous with Cena, make another attempt to attack from multiple sides—

  His gaze fell to his sensor readout. It was a flood of static, even more useless than usual. Maybe the sensors had been damaged by one of the impacts. Whatever the case, he would have to rely on his eyes now.

  He rushed to the point where he had last seen Cena and swept his camera frantically from one side of the street to the other. There was no sign of her. He moved down the street, glancing down the adjoining alleys and roads, searching for some sign of his allies or the enemy.

  “Cena?” he called, opening a transmission. “My sensors are flaking out. Where did you go?”

  “Vic, help,” came the frantic reply. Cena's voice was edged with terror. “It's all over me, it's too fast, I can't—”

  The transmission cut off. Vic's console emitted a trill. He looked down and saw that a signal had broken through the static of his sensors. No, two signals, right on top of each other, the next street over.

  He raced to the intersection, barreled around the corner at top speed, and screeched to a halt as he reached the next street. He looked down the street just in time to see the enemy with its blade impaled through Cena's cockpit. The enemy suit's angular head with its one-eyed main camera turned to look at Vic as it pulled the blade out of Cena's lifeless suit, the edge dripping with blood.

  Vic felt bile rise in his throat. His whole body shook. Time seemed to stop, the scene before him frozen in eternity like some kind of grotesque painting. He couldn't stop staring at it; that hideous image, like a monster pulling its teeth from the corpse of its helpless victim.

  Terror flooded through him as the enemy suit turned toward him in slow motion. These were not amateur soldiers; these were not weak armaments. The Mad Ox was a powerful suit. Cena and Tinubu were elite pilots. And yet this one enemy, this monster, tore them apart as though they were nothing.

  It was hopeless. Before Spacy's monstrous soldiers and advanced technology, there was nothing to do but die.

  In the second it took the enemy to face Vic, a transformation took place. A great wave built within him as his terror melted into fury, his hopelessness into a reckless disregard for his own life. If death was inescapable, then what purpose did fear serve? It lost all meaning. All that remained was a seething hatred for this monster that had taken the lives of so many of his comrades.

  Vic's thoughts raced as he searched for some way to defeat this enemy. He quickly enumerated his observations of its capabilities. It was a high-mobility type, designed to keep its distance from its target. It could deflect bullets. Its energy rifle was effective at long range. Its main body looked light and fragile. Certainly a beastly suit like the Mad Ox should be able to push it around if it could get close enough.

  It all pointed to one conclusion. Vic had to close the gap and engage the enemy in melee. It was his only chance. As this rudimentary plan took shape in his mind, time began to return to its normal flow, and the enemy swung its rifle to point in his direction.

  “You,” Vic whispered, twisting his body aside to avoid the first of the enemy suit's shots.

  “I will...” He blazed toward the enemy at full speed, firing his rifle in a continuous burst, forcing the enemy to cover itself with its shield.

  “I will kill you!”

  The rifle clicked as it fired its last shot. Vic hurled the spent weapon at his opponent and drew his heat edge, falling upon the enemy in a fury. The enemy knew it could not afford to lock blades with the heat edge, which would melt just about any surface; so it batted Vic's swings away by striking the flat of his blade.

  Vic continued his ferocious assault, his swings seemingly wild, yet each one aimed with precision to kill. The intensity of his assault forced the enemy back, moving the battle down the street as they traded blows, Vic using the superior mass of his suit to send his foe stumbling with every impact. The enemy was forced on the defensive, all of its concentration focused on avoiding Vic's deadly swings.

  Finally, the enemy dropped its rifle and drew a second sword, then circled around Vic with a blast from its left shoulder thruster. The tide began to turn as now the enemy could engage in offense and defense simultaneously, using one blade to deflect Vic's swings while it countered with the other.

  Vic was now the one being pushed back, struggling to evade his foe's attacks. Despite his efforts, his suit was being taken apart piece by piece. First a hit to one arm damaged the actuators and froze the hand in the closed position. Then an arcing swing severed his suit's head, forcing him to activate the inferior backup camera. He barely twisted out of the way of a follow-up stab aimed at his cockpit, which dug its way under his torso armor and tore off a chunk of plating.

  Vic realized the idiocy of his plan. He had gravely miscalculated. The enemy suit's mobility was not meant for maintaining distance from its foe. Its purpose was to close with the enemy as swiftly as possible. It was a close-combat specialist.

  As Vic stumbled back from the onslaught, he crashed through a large sliding door and landed on his back in a warehouse. The enemy followed him through and leapt at him for a finishing blow. He responded by lashing out with a desperate strike from his heat edge. The enemy suit caught his sword between both of its blades and pushed it to the side. Vic returned to his feet and rammed the enemy, intending to overwhelm it with his greater mass.

  For several seconds, the two suits strained against each other. Vic's Mad Ox just began to gain the advantage in the struggle when the floor lurched beneath them. Vic glanced at the periphery of his viewscreen and saw to his horror that his lunge had forced the enemy suit to push his trapped heat edge into the ground, which was now melting beneath their feet.

  With a thunderous crash, the ground fell away and both suits found themselves in momentary free-fall before crashing to the floor far below. Pieces of rubble and metal scaffolding fell around them, kicking up clouds of dust.

  The airbags in Vic's cockpit had activated, saving him from any major harm. They automatically retracted as he righted his suit and took in his surroundings. He had landed in one of the subterranean storage compounds that lay beneath the industrial sector.

  As he continued scanning, Vic's view came to rest on an unexpected sight. Contained within a transparent tarp that they had erected in case it contained hazardous materials lay the Cage. Despite the partial collapse of the ceiling, both the Cage and the surrounding machinery seemed undamaged. Esther and the members of the technical team stood around the Cage in hazmat suits, staring in horror.

  Sounds of mo
vement prompted Vic to turn around. He sighted the enemy a short distance away, pushing itself to its feet. He also noticed his heat edge lying at his feet and a piece of scaffolding that had come loose, lying at an angle between him and his foe.

  Vic grabbed the scaffolding and hurled it at the enemy suit. The enemy raised its arms to deflect the improvised projectile, but the blow caused it to stagger. Vic swept his sword off the ground and leapt at his opponent, aiming a falling blow at its head.

  The enemy reached up and grabbed the flat of Vic's blade between the palms of its hands, redirecting the blow to the side. Vic pressed forward, putting full power into his suit's limbs, knowing that he held the advantage in a contest of raw power.

  “Damn you,” he snarled, “why won't you just die!”

  At that moment, all the lights on the machinery surrounding the Cage flashed green. One by one, the locks on the side of the Cage came open with loud thunks. Then its shell began to open, pouring a vaporous gas out from its widening cracks.

  Vic ceased his attack to stare in wonder. Even the enemy suit stopped struggling, the camera in its head swiveling to focus on the unfurling Cage.

  At last, the Cage's shell came fully open. The clouds of vapor dispersed to reveal a human shape inside some kind of stasis pod. Vic zoomed in and saw that the pod contained a ghostly young woman dressed in a pure white medical gown, with sheet-white skin and pale hair that spilled from her head in a curtain. She looked thin and frail, yet there was an otherworldly radiance about her, like a fey creature out of ancient legend.

  Her eyelids fluttered and came slowly open, revealing blood-red irises. Then, to Vic's shock, a third eye opened in her forehead, not merely red but luminescent, and swiveled to look directly at him.