by Gwynn White
Margaret let out a long breath and nodded.
They turned back as the Baronians screamed and charged into the narrow pass. These men held short swords and knives in each hand, much better weapons for such close quarters.
Alan allowed himself a step backwards as he ducked beneath his opponent’s blade. Before he could counter, the man reversed his attack, driving the sword for Alan’s stomach. Swinging kanker downwards, Alan deflected the disembowelling cut, and retreated another step.
The gravel slid beneath his feet as he moved, sending him staggering sideways. A grin appeared on his opponent’s face, and he barely had time to raise kanker to block the next blow. Metal shrieked as the short sword scrapped across the steel head of his hammer and then slid into Alan’s flesh.
Alan screamed as the cold steel stabbed deep into his left shoulder, but he refused to succumb to the pain. As the man raised his knife to finish him, Alan dropped kanker and reached up to catch the man’s wrist. The Baronian’s eyes widened, then his brow deepened and he began to twist the blade deeper into Alan’s shoulder.
Gasping with the pain, Alan bit back a scream. He gripped the man’s wrist tighter and stared into the man’s eyes, seeing the hatred there, the anger. But Alan knew such emotions were only a front, a mask to hide the fear in every man’s soul – the fear that somewhere there was someone better than them.
Grinning at the man, Alan threw back his head and laughed. The Baronian’s eyes widened, the black of his pupils shrinking with sudden doubt. In that instant, Alan reversed his pull on the man’s knife hand, dragging him forward into a headbutt. The thud as their heads clashed sent them both reeling. Reaching out with his good hand, Alan righted himself against the wall of the cliff, and then searched for his opponent. He grinned as he found the man on the ground unconscious.
With the short sword still embedded in his shoulder, Alan staggered past the fallen man. Kanker lay a few steps to his left, but he no longer had the strength to lift the heavy hammer. His eyes slid up the pass to where Margaret still stood between the narrow cliffs, another man dead at her feet. But the last two Baronians were pressing hard, and their leader waited not far behind.
Alan started towards her, searching desperately for some ounce of strength to aid the girl, but finding only a sickening weakness. He watched as she was forced back a step, then another, the hunting knife in one hand, an enemy’s short sword in the other. Despite her exhaustion, she moved with surprising speed. But he could see it would not be enough.
Then she was right in front of him, the steel ringing loud against the cliffs as she fended off their blades.
“Run, Margaret, I’ll hold them back,” he grated through clenched teeth. Gathering his strength, he prepared to throw himself at the men, to do whatever he could to slow them.
“Not a chance,” Margaret growled.
Tears stung Alan’s eyes as he watched her turn aside another blow. He could see she was slowing, that the thin air and relentless attacks were dragging her down. But there was nothing he could do now. He was past the end of his strength.
Closing his eyes, Alan waited for the end to come.
Thud, thud, thud. Then silence fell across the pass.
Alan opened his eyes again, expecting to see the Baronians standing over Margaret’s unconscious body. Instead he found the girl standing alone in the pass, her shoulders heaving as she gasped for breath, sword and knife gripped tight in each hand.
And the three Baronians dead at her feet, their skulls caved in from behind as if struck by some great, invisible fist.
“Wh – what?” he whispered.
His eyes travelled past Margaret and the bodies of the Baronians, to the mouth of the pass. A new comer stood there now, his face hidden by a hood. His grey robes fluttered in the violent wind, the silver lines running down their length flashing in the sunlight. As he stepped into the pass, pale white hands reached up and drew back the hood, revealing short grey hair and a face lined by the beginnings of age. His emerald eyes swept the pass and a smile tugged at his lips when they fell on Margaret.
The girl gave a small wave in response. Then she spun and stepped towards Alan, her smile fading as she looked at him.
As she stepped closer, the last of Alan’s strength slipped away and he found himself on his knees, looking up at the tiny girl. Darkness ate at the edges of his vision, and then he was on his back, looking up at the shrinking blue of the sky far above.
Alan let out a long gasp as a wave of pain washed through him. Clenching his hand tight, he strained to lift his arm, to reach up and pull the sword from his body. A groan burst from his lips, but for the first time in his life his strength failed him, and his arm fell limp to the ground.
Darkness swept across his vision, turning the sky grey as Margaret’s face appeared overhead. He stared as shadows played across her skin, as though death threatened to take her too. Tears watered in her hazel eyes and her mouth moved, but Alan could not hear the words. All sensation was fading: sight, sound, smell. Everything but the awful pain.
As the last pinpoint of light faded away, he saw Margaret lean down and grasp his shoulder. He waited for the pain to grow, to feel the agony of the sword leaving his flesh, but none came. Darkness rose to claim him, and he found himself suddenly alone, drifting on a sea of black.
Then a brilliant white flooded the darkness, and sensation rushed back to him. Blinding agony shot from his shoulder, dragging him back to life, before a warmth flooded him, washing away the pain.
Alan lay still, letting the warmth flood his broken body, unwilling to open his eyes for fear it was a dream. But the gentle fire did not retreat. It filled him, washing away his fear and pain, coaxing him back to life.
Letting out a muffled groan, Alan opened his eyes. He found the hazel of Margaret’s eyes staring back. She smiled at him, her face lighting up like an almond shaped lantern, and he couldn’t help but grin himself.
“Magic?” Alan croaked.
Margaret gave a short little laugh as she sat back on her haunches. “I’m as surprised as you.”
With that she released his shoulder, and the flow of warmth vanished. Holding out a hand, she helped Alan up into a sitting position. He looked around then, spotting the bloody blade that had impaled him lying close by. Reaching up, he laid his hand over where it had stabbed him, surprised to find the skin whole beneath his fingers.
The healers of Lon varied in strength, particularly those who served the army, and it was unusual to find a wound healed so completely after such a short dose of magic. Usually there would at least be a scar, reminder to the soldier of his mistake.
Alan glanced up at the crunch of boots on gravel and saw the grey cloaked man had reached them. Cool emerald eyes looked down at Alan, so like the daughters, only far older, and harder. But his face took on a gentle glow when he looked on Margaret.
“My daughter, you are a healer,” he spoke in a soft voice, but there was strength in his words.
“So it would seem,” Margaret smiled as she looked down at Alan.
Swallowing, Alan pulled himself to his feet and offered his hand to the older man. “Alan,” his voice came out as a croak and he coughed before continuing. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, sir,” he finished formally.
“Alastair,” the man replied as he reached out and took Alan’s hand. “Thank you, Alan, for fighting alongside my daughter. I…” his voice trailed off as he shook his head. “I… there are no words to express the depth of my gratitude.”
With that he pulled Alan forward and embraced him.
Alan’s cheeks flushed with warmth as they disengaged. Turning, he looked down at Margaret, feeling suddenly awkward in his massive body. He towered over her, a hulking behemoth next to her small frame. “She’s quite a woman.”
Margaret’s eyes flashed and he caught the fire in their murky depths. “I’m standing right here, you two do realise,” she growled. Crossing her arms, she raised an eyebrow. “What took you so lo
ng, father? Were you late again?”
This time it was Alastair’s turn to give a sheepish grin. “Sorry, dear, I was delayed. You know your mother…” he trailed off as Margaret reached down and picked up Alan’s hunting knife.
She studied it for a second, turning it over in her hand, as though deciding whether she still needed it. Then she flicked it into the air, caught it by the blade, and offered it to Alan.
“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” she said.
Alan shook his head and held up his hands. “You keep it, missy. It’s far more use in your hands than mine.”
Margaret grinned and slid the knife into her belt, then turned to her father.
“Well, what do you think?”
Alastair blinked. “Think of what?”
“Of Alan here,” Margaret’s face did not change as she met her father’s gaze.
Alastair glanced at Alan and raised an eyebrow. Alan could only shrug, unsure where Margaret was going with her line of questioning.
“I… Well… Yes…” Alastair stuttered.
Margaret smiled. “Good,” she looked back at Alan. “Me too. I think he’ll make a wonderful husband.”
Alan blinked, staring down at the little woman. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, then finally decided he had better speak, before things got any further out of hand. “Hus…band?”
Margaret nodded. “Yes. Husband. I would like to be your wife, Alan,” her eyes widened as she looked up at him, suddenly uncertain. “Or do you not find me attractive?”
Alan gaped. “What? No, yes, of course…”
Margaret’s smile returned. “Good, then it’s settled then.”
Without another word, Margaret crossed the distance between them and reached up to grasp the collar of his shirt. With surprising strength, she pulled him down to her. A tremble ran through Alan as their lips met and the warmth from before spread through his skin. Then he was kissing her back, pulling her hard against him, the taste of her mouth in his, the fire of her magic thrumming through his blood.
There were no more arguments after that.
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Petra
Nirina Stone
Petra © 2016 Nirina Stone
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Petra
Allendian Post-Apocalypse 1
She’s their friend, their protector, their keeper; and their assassin.
On a remote planet with two moons lies a dome.
Where once its modern city homed thirty thousand Allendians, it now sits quiet, empty but for the one that stalks its streets, hunting for the last of the ill, removing them from its surface so that the re-emergence can happen.
Ten-year-old orphan Sidney lives in these empty streets, scratching the grounds for scraps and hiding from the one that will kill her.
She means to find her way to the lands her mother talked about, the lands where she can get healthy again, and she knows she will succeed.
Until the killer catches up to her.
Prologue
In a two moon system, on a remote world named Allenda, lie three domes.
The first, called the Blue Dome, several hundreds years old, used to home thirty thousand Allendians, in a grid-structured smart city, shiny and new as the day it was built.
Today, the city lies quiet, empty, but for the hunter that stalks its streets and the last few Allendians with the flu. The last of the ill need to be eliminated for the re-emergence to happen.
The one hunting them is not Allendian in the traditional sense. It is a humanoid bot, one of many that served Allendians in their homes and businesses.
It roams the streets, quiet and clean but for the silver dust that flows and sets on every surface, as if looking for a final spot to lay.
Street-cleaning bots go about their day swooping up residual dirt and bits from the streets twice a day. The silver dust swirls and flies up in to the air, only to dance around the cleaners’ brushes and fall back down to the ground again, far too fine to be sucked away.
The bot walks around a corner and pauses as it analyzes the area, sensing an Allendian nearby.
If it is healthy, the bot will need to bring it to the Red Dome where it can be taken care of and made to sleep until the launch of the re-emergence.
If not healthy...
Some of the newly settled silver lands at the bot’s feet and it watches as the dust moves closer, as if magnetized, as if to attach itself to the bot’s feet. After another quick scan, it runs north as its analysis comes back: Positive with the flu.
Tazer in hand, it is set to eliminate the threat, to ensure that the re-emergence can happen.
Its target takes a corner faster than an Allendian would deign to run and the bot increases its speed in the opposite direction, meaning to cut off the sick person at the next intersection.
It comes to a halt and scans again, sensing the person’s heartbeats, not five feet away. Then it turns another corner, and there it is—what appears to be a male Allendian, an average height of six feet two, but underweight and wheezing from the run.
The bot scans and confirms for the third time that this one is definitely a carrier of the flu.
It walks up to the man, weapon in hand, and speaks. “You are ill, Allendian.”
He jumps, not having heard it move up to his side. Then he turns and narrows his eyes at it, taking in its stance, its tazer.
“Do you remember who you were once?” the Allendian says as his eyes roam over the bot’s face. “Do you remember what your programming was before you became—this—?”
The bot analyzes the words and decides that the Allendian is simply stalling. “That is not relevant to your case. You are ill, you have the flu.”
The Allendian sighs. “Well get on with it then, android. Why waste words or time?”
The bot, having confirmed the illness, is surprisingly reassured. Its past programming, though moot, reminds it that an Allendian’s approval is paramount.
It doesn’t hesitate as it brings up the tazer set to kill, squeezes the trigger, and watches the man slump to the ground.
The bot’s about to clean up when its sensor indicates another Allendian is near and it makes a note to come back here and clean up later.
When it receives the first confirmation that this new Allendian is also a carrier of the flu, it breaks into a run.
Chapter One
The hunter bot’s new target runs so fast, its heartbeats drown out all other sounds. For two days, the target’s evaded the bot, but its task is clear, and the human sounds like it’s finally tiring.
The bot increases its speed, but slows again when the joint in its right leg strains and creaks slightly at the extended effort.
It leaves a note in the database to find a new leg, maybe on the south side where it saw broken bots last week. The oil isn’t working anymore. Only a new limb will do.
The bot runs through mud—there’s no avoiding it these days, with all the rains—and up a slippery ramp that leads it to an old car lot. A car cemetery, really. I
t’s sat here for the past two hundred years, thousands of cars piled one on top of the other, rusting, creaking, waiting—
As the bot leaps over a pile of old green and gray rust buckets, something shifts and explodes to its right, but it doesn’t stop.
It simply makes another note to come back and clean the mess after this mission is complete. It can’t leave things unattended just to blow up, it can’t afford to die again.
Because even if it’s not a permanent situation—for now—it’s inefficient. There’s only one other body left. It would take five hours of unproductive downtime to wait as the new body is charged and uploaded with information, then deployed into the field.
Then add on the hours for that body to find this spot. The bot knows it has no time for all that.
It hears the heart race faster and stronger, louder—closer now. It ignores the creak in the leg and rushes ahead. The target’s stopped moving as it hides behind a thick metal pole.
The heart continues to beat as the hunter bot slows down and turns a corner. The beats are so fast, the bot wonders for a moment if it’s an animal this time, but the sound is clearly human.
It sees a small form, large brown eyes, and water on the form’s face. It hasn’t come across one this little yet. All the others were about the bot’s size—all adult.
But the bot’s job is to scan the form, analyze its health and threat factors, then collect or extinguish it, based on the results.
If unhealthy, it must be extinguished. The world must be cleansed, for the re-emergence.
The bot scans but only sees a warbled line where the stats are displayed. Are the scanners malfunctioning? Or has this small form some sort of blocker?
Before it can be fixed to determine what’s wrong, the bot dies.
Five hours later.
