Darwin's Soldiers

by Ste Sharp

  Heads up, here comes the fire, Olan messaged.

  Before Samas could look up, the blue beast was facing him.

  ‘Extinction time,’ it growled and slashed at Samas.

  Behind, Dakaniha lay dazed on the ground. Down came a shovel claw, then another, crashing into the dirt inches from Samas’ sandalled feet. Quickly, he lunged for the eye as before, but with his shield held high, and rolled out of the move as a pincer caught him, slicing a red line across his shoulder.

  ‘Too close.’ Samas got back on his feet and saw Dakaniha do the same. ‘Come on!’ he shouted and threw his spear to him.

  Without checking if he had caught it, Samas drew his sword and ran in for another attack. Down came the shovel blades, harder this time, and Samas turned and sliced between them, parrying the mouth pincers that jabbed at him from above. Samas was freer now and quicker. He was sure something was wrong with the beast – it wasn’t moving like before. Samas ran out of its reach and stared back. One of its claws was wedged in the ground. Dakaniha had noticed too and was busy stabbing at its hind legs. Out of the corner of his eye, Samas saw movement and ducked away as an explosion tore into the shell of the Brakari-mole, which screamed as it fought wildly to release its embedded claw.

  Nice shot, Samas thought-cast Li.

  It wasn’t us, she replied.

  Samas looked up and saw an orange ball of flames dripping from the lava dome.

  ‘Let’s finish this!’ Samas ran back in to stab at the beast’s face.

  He ducked one sweeping pincer, then another, but was too slow for the third, which punched into his shield arm, sending him crashing to the ground.

  Dakaniha was by his side. ‘Captain?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Samas lied, feeling shooting pains down his side. He’d felt worse before, so knew the pain would go away.

  ‘Your shield.’ Dakaniha pointed.

  Samas’ rock-cast arm sported two leather straps and a spray of loose splinters.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He grimaced as Dakaniha pulled him up. His anger was rising and an energy with it. It washed away his pain. Even when the Brakari pulled its trapped claw free, Samas felt no fear. His battle calm was back.

  ‘Attack!’ he shouted and ran at the Brakari as they turned to face him.

  A claw came swinging at his head and Samas fell and slid on the dusty ground, through the creature’s legs and under its belly. He caught a view of Dakaniha pole-vaulting onto the creature’s back. This was the moment! Samas stabbed at the beast’s underbelly with his short sword, dodging the pincers slashing at him, but his blade bounced off the shell. A long, whip-like arm thrashed at Samas, knocking the sword out of his hand, so he did what was natural: he punched. His good hand bruised against the hard shell, but his plastered fist crunched into the underbelly with a satisfying hollow thump. He punched again. And again. Cracks were appearing. The whip-claw flicked at his face, so Samas grabbed it with his good hand and punched with his rock-fist, each blow sending shivers through the mighty beast.

  With a shriek, the Brakari-mole scampered away, leaving Samas lying in the violet blood-splattered dust. He sat up and saw Dakaniha standing on its back as it ran off, reminding him of the elephant drivers of the Persian army. Dakaniha lifted both arms high, his axe and knife blades shining and, with one almighty strike, plunged them into the Brakari’s neck, sending it crashing to the ground.

  ***

  ‘Rekarius!’ General Panzicosta swore as he watched the battle unfold. His mouth-pieces twisted with contempt as he watched waves of aerial and ground attacks fail to break the human–Sorean army.

  Both he and Belsang had assumed these soft-bellied warriors would be easily swept aside – not only were they physically weak but they had fallen into the trap with ease. So why did Belsang ignore his advice to launch a three-pronged attack? Aerial cover, slaves in the centre to absorb the bulk of the human army and Brakari soldiers on the flanks, free to use their abilities. But no, Belsang maintained his slow and steady range of attacks, reforming the troops and poking at the enemy like a scared hatchling eating its first live meal.

  This was war, not a game!

  Panzicosta had given up. He wouldn’t admit it but he was sulking. The battle was not being fought the way he would have commanded it and he didn’t want to be part of another defeat. Still, he waited, ready to kill when the need arose.

  A Sorean messenger limped past and Panzicosta stretched out a rear leg to trip it up. He found himself hesitating for a second before leaning in to slice its tail off. The Sorean squirmed and looked up at Panzicosta with its large eyes. Was that hope he saw? Was this creature resigned to death and actually hoping for it?

  ‘Go.’ Panzicosta flicked the broken cat-like beast back onto its feet and pushed it away. ‘Weak creatures.’ He released a snort through his spiracles. The black armour fitted well but the lack of air holes made it hard to breathe. He looked at the hazy sky and found the dull sun beyond. At this rate, the battle would last all day. They needed a decisive victory or they would never leave this land.

  Naturally, he thought of his last battle.

  After half a day of failed attacks, defeat had become inevitable for the Brakari. Their leader, Kantoff, was desperately throwing every last troop at the Ladrof and Scarpinelloss alliance. Even when the white obelisk rose from the battlefield, surrounded by the dead and dying, Kantoff would have battled on: wasting more soldiers by attacking the victorious army on their journey to the silver gates. So Belsang had killed him before he had the chance.

  After the battle, a legend had built up around Belsang. They said he’d killed five Ladrof warriors and bathed in their fluorescent blood. But Panzicosta was there and knew the truth. Belsang had been larger back then, although not as broad as Panzicosta, and had cut his way through dozens of Scarpinelloss as the Brakari foot soldiers rushed the enemy position. The part about the blood was true, but it was Panzicosta who had sliced the Ladrof’s belly open. The blood had a light of its own as it sprayed over Belsang, who had screamed in pain as his shell shrank and crushed his body within. Panzicosta was about to put him out of his misery when the shrieking stopped and Belsang imploded with the sound of a thunder clap. The white obelisk rose and Belsang had transformed into a tiny, glowing ball of raw energy. Belsang floated to Kantoff, decapitated him with a shock of white light and turned to pronounce, ‘I am Dominus.’

  Panzicosta had wondered what would have happened if he had been in the path of the Ladrof’s blood. Would he have survived and evolved? Or would Belsang have struck him down as he writhed in pain? Either way, he couldn’t help dreaming about becoming Dominus.

  General. Belsang’s words stabbed into Panzicosta’s head.

  Yes, Dominus.

  Prepare to release the Skrift .

  Yes, Dominus.

  Panzicosta waited for the sensation of the icicle in his brain to retreat before allowing himself to think openly. What good would the Skrift do now? Look what had happened to the first three who had escaped and charged the humans – their bodies were the first to wet the ground.

  ‘You,’ Panzicosta shouted at the nearest Brakari in his battalion, ‘tell Forshaq to whip the Skrift, I need them ready.’

  ‘Yes, General.’ The Brakari lowered his head and scampered across to the makeshift pens.

  Starved and half mad, the Skrift would kill a handful of humans but it wouldn’t be enough. This would be just another half-hearted skirmish. Panzicosta scanned his army and saw other captains on the move, ordering their troops in various directions. Weapons were being primed and, behind the rear lines, the red chemists were busy preparing more of Doctor Cynigar’s potions.

  Belsang hadn’t moved and neither had his Vaalori. Beside it, Panzicosta could see the half-blind human, tied to a stake in the ground. A shiver ran through his shell. Maybe he could come back for him after the battle? His death could be part of the celebration party, along with John Greene’s. Now that would be a treat.

  The icic
le drilled into his head again.

  General.

  Panzicosta’s attention flicked to Belsang. Yes, Dominus.

  Alpha formation. Belsang’s voice came and went.

  Alpha formation? Panzicosta was taken aback. Really?

  Yes, Dominus, Panzicosta replied.

  Finally, something big was going to happen.

  ***

  Mihran sat on his tocka while his army battled the Brakari-moles and defended against the falling, flaming sky and incoming missiles. His head robotically scanned the battlefield: left to right, then back again. Everything he saw – every death, injury, new weapon or enemy movement – fed into his primary model. Each human or Sorean death was a push towards defeat or a new choice, while every Brakari loss added weight in their favour. The balance of the battle was calculated automatically as Mihran filtered the thought-cast messages coming to him. Some had code words but many didn’t, which meant Belsang was trying to distract him so, in his head, Mihran was fighting a battle of his own.

  Mihran had pushed each message away to start with and even replied with false messages of his own but the effort was draining. He needed a mental wall like Li’s dust dome so, using some far corner of his well-connected brain, Mihran constructed a cloud of messages designed to interact with one another: false conversations between fake personalities. He created voices: some from his past, some new personas. As his skills improved and the voices interacted fluidly, the pace quickened until he had a bee swarm of voices shouting, answering and questioning one another. He released it into the ether of thought-cast frequencies where no human would hear, just anyone trying to listen in to his mind. And only one individual was doing that.

  Mihran’s shoulders relaxed. Freed from the intense filtering and counter-messaging, he was able to focus on individual soldiers. He watched Kastor and Osayimwese. They fought well, competing with each other to be the first to kill their Brakari-mole. Rather than dodging the pincer jabs and hammer blows, as Samas and Dakaniha had done, these two athletic warriors had systematically sliced off the enemy’s limbs one by one. Even under enemy fire and with the sky falling in about them, they had been fearless: swapping positions and attacking with lightning speed every chance they could. Mihran recalled how Samas had wanted to split the pair up, but Mihran’s instincts had been correct: competition drove them to new heights. While Samas and Dakaniha still fought to overpower their opponent, Kastor and Osayimwese’s mole was dead and the two men were exchanging laughs and taunts.

  Mihran let his eyes wander. The new trench cut by the explosives was good defensively, but the Brakari army beyond had plenty of warriors left, most of whom were the adapted soldiers he feared the most. Belsang was holding back his favourites. Mihran saw energy pulses running down their shells, much like they did along Millok’s shell. Maybe, like John suggested, he should have asked her for information? But how would he have known what was true?

  He turned to the right flank of the army, where Sakarbaal’s mines had killed three out of every four Brakari-moles in front of Gal-qadan’s cavalry, who had casually finished off the survivors without revealing the tocka’s true carnivorous nature. Lavalle had held his horsemen back, defending the river, as ordered, although Mihran knew the knight was eager to charge into the melee and test his metal horse and obsidian armour.

  On the left flank, where the Sorean fought, the delay in explosions had allowed more moles to break through. The cat-like soldiers had proven as vicious as Olan had told him: spinning and leaping over the cumbersome enemy, whose every other thump and slice bounced off the Sorean’s invisible armour. But the Sorean were losing numbers.

  Li, Mihran thought-cast. The Soreanneed support.

  Yes, Commander. A new cloud of dancing arrows, loaded spears and flaming incendiaries flew at the Brakari-moles.

  Above them, the green disease had eaten through Li’s dust shield, opening the skies, but it was too late. The last of Belsang’s white petals had lit what remained of the frozen lava and the view to the clouds was clear again.

  Then everything changed.

  Commanded by an unheard order, the surviving Brakari-moles broke off in unison and scampered back downhill, diving into their underground tunnels.

  They’re regrouping, Samas thought-cast.

  On the other side of the valley, Belsang’s troops were reshaping again.

  Samas’ men caught their breath and the Sorean took the opportunity to rest, while Li’s troops picked off the injured Brakari diggers who had strayed into the open.

  Prepare for the next attack, Mihran ordered.

  He re-evaluated the battle. So far, the human–Sorean alliance had seen off two attacks with varying success – the Sorean had lost ten percent of their number and the humans had lost less. Everyone’s strength had been sapped by the encounter. The Brakari had lost a large number of diggers but the main Brakari army remained intact.

  Mihran sighed. He knew the subterranean attack, just like the aerial attack before it, had been a test. They were being prodded like some vulnerable prey, softened up and made ready for an easy kill. Well, think again, Belsang, Mihran thought. I still have plenty more surprises to come! He looked to where Lavalle and his mounted soldiers waited patiently – yet to draw their swords. Confidence rose in the Arab’s chest as he pictured each of the hidden secrets in his army: the tocka; Li’s rifle; Gal-qadan’s devastating weapon; Crossley’s mission; and the Lutamek, if John could retrieve the box in time.

  The Brakari army finished manoeuvring into a long rectangular block, less than a hundred paces from the trench, leaving a thin line of archers to their rear. It looked like Belsang was desperate enough to launch an all-out assault.

  The floating blue Brakari leader opened his mouth, raised his arms and spoke with a voice that seemed to resonate through the very ground itself.

  ‘I invoke the rite of the dead!’ the words echoed around the valley, turning the heads of every soldier, ‘which allows the formerly defeated party to bring back those lost in battle!’

  Mihran’s throat dried. Had Belsang acquired some greater knowledge of this strange land? Was he using a hidden rule to win this game of war?

  Belsang swung his arms down and a deep vibration rang out across the battlefield.

  Olan, ready the troops! Mihran watched with dread as the patch of lumpy ground off the left flank – the area he had been wary of – started to shake. Tussocks of grass rose and cracks crept across the ground’s surface. The intensity of the earthquake grew, enlarging the cracks and shaking clumps of grass and soil, as though the ground was boiling.

  Mihran gasped as the undulating surface spawned the broken bodies of dead Brakari soldiers.

  ***

  John stared at the floating Brakari, who shivered as pulses of green energy ran over its black shell.

  ‘Yes, I’m John Greene,’ John spoke clearly. ‘Who are you?’ Despite his bravado, John was nervously making shapes inside his gun: spikes, corkscrews and cubes.

  ‘Why don’t you tell him, Millok?’ The dark Brakari’s voice jumped mid-sentence as a green shiver ran up his body. ‘These are the animals you have sworn allegiance to? These soft-bellied cowards?’

  ‘This–’ Millok tried to speak but was cut off.

  ‘I am Doctor Cynigar,’ the creature bobbed a little higher, ‘master of the biological and keyholder to the genetic lock. Am I not, Millok?’

  ‘Yes.’ Millok was crouched but not cowering, John noticed, and her spiracles were open. Was that a defensive or aggressive pose?

  ‘I am responsible for the might of the Brakari army, am I not? And responsible for your excellent adaptations, which you intend to turn on your own kind.’ One of Cynigar’s back plates slid back and two sets of black, skeletal wings folded out. ‘I know all your secrets, Millok, you have nothing to hide from me.’ He floated forward a pace, keeping one pair of eyes on John. ‘I know your weaknesses and your strengths.’ He darted forward and back again, teasing Millok. ‘If you do not retur
n to the army I will have to kill you, do you understand?’

  ‘You are mistaken, Cynigar.’ Millok didn’t sound nervous, which calmed John’s nerves. ‘What you know about me is limited… my skills have multiplied.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Cynigar shrieked and a ball of green energy erupted from his mouth, smashing a hole in the side of the nearest dome, sending dry mud over Millok. ‘I have read your genetic map. Added to it, preened it and taken from it.’

  ‘Like you took my eggs.’ One of Millok’s legs twitched, betraying her emotions.

  ‘It was a trade.’

  ‘A one-sided trade, Doctor, just like the society Belsang and Panzicosta have fostered here. It’s nothing like the home world, where we were progressing… developing towards equality and–’

  ‘In your time maybe,’ Cynigar snarled. ‘It was different in my time…’

  John took a step back, unsure whether to stay and help or run away while the two Brakari fought it out. He would be of no use if he had to help Millok, and he needed to get the Lutamek box back to Mihran.

  ‘Inequality is always going backwards,’ Millok said.

  ‘Nobody is equal!’ Cynigar shrieked. ‘Even hatchlings. I see it in the design. The patterns. The origin. It’s all there if you take the time to look.’

  ‘You’re crazy, Cynigar.’ Millok was sidestepping now, keeping her eyes on the doctor, who turned to face her. ‘You were a soldier like us but you’ve been corrupted by this power.’ She stretched to make herself taller. ‘You are not a god, Cynigar.’

  Another section of shell slipped back on Doctor Cynigar’s body and a long, spiked tail unravelled from within. ‘Not a god, no, but when you have seen what I have seen – the majesty of it all – then you would feel the power… the power over life and death.’

  Millok was circling away from John. ‘You have no right to that power, Cynigar. No right to choose who lives and who dies.’