by Ste Sharp
‘Or who is healthy? And who lives a full life?’ Cynigar replied. ‘A doctor has that right.’ He shivered once more as a line of green energy writhed across his shell. ‘What I have attained has been in the name of science and for the Brakari cause. Victorio Brakarius!’ He darted forward and whipped his tail at Millok, who batted it away with ease.
‘You’ve spent too long in the laboratory, Cynigar.’
‘Not at all.’ Cynigar was flitting around now, darting back and forth with random movements. He dipped at Millok again, scratching her carapace with one of his bladed wings.
John watched nervously, clicking his gun as Millok refused to retaliate. She crouched a little lower, John noticed, and the flaming stripes down her shell had returned.
‘What’s it going to be, Millok?’ Cynigar taunted. ‘Will you stab me with your enhanced chela? Spit the poison from your veins?’ He leapt forward, jabbing with his tail, and missed. ‘Will you use the sonic erupter I built in your empty egg chamber? Or use your speed to run away, leaving this defenceless creature to me?’ Cynigar leapt at Millok and stabbed with his tail, catching her between the plates on a hind leg. She leapt back with a whistle from her spiracles.
John felt useless, watching from the doorway with his gun-arm making strange noises and his good hand gripping the tin soldier under his shirt. He had to be strong. Strong? he thought. No. I have nothing to be strong for. What I need is revenge – someone must pay for taking me from Joe… for leaving him alone. John felt heat building in his gun-arm and pictured the shapes he was nervously creating. If his gun worked like it had during his war he could give Cynigar a quick burst of fire, but when he’d fired it at the Draytor, the gun had gone off like a trumpet.
Cynigar attacked again and Millok fought back, scratching the doctor’s black shell.
‘I have other weapons.’ Cynigar bobbed back and forth. ‘But these will suffice.’ A green wave ran up his body and he vomited a ball of electricity at Millok. For the first time, John saw a hint of Millok’s powers as she leapt away with a flash of orange. She was quick, but not fast enough to avoid the shower of soil that rained down on her shell. ‘You will tire soon,’ Cynigar continued. ‘And I will kill the human. I’m sure, by the rules of this land, that by killing you both – as enemies of my army – I will be granted safe passage through the silver gates without risking myself on the battlefield.’
‘Are you sure?’ Millok replied. ‘The battle’s already started – it could be over now, for all you know.’
‘No,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Belsang is in constant communication. He expects me shortly.’
John stepped nervously from foot to foot and wanted to distract Cynigar, but was scared he would turn on him. He concentrated on his gun-arm and pictured a smooth, long bullet spinning in the chamber. Could he fire it? He aimed the muzzle at Cynigar’s back and waited.
Millok scuttled and dodged as she sparred with Cynigar, who leapt in again and again with a tail sting or a slash from a wing. If Millok was injured, John would have to push her on the cart back to the battle. They would never get back in time and… he fired. Everything slowed down. The recoil surprised John, but his back absorbed the blow and he kept his footing. He felt the bullet burn its way up the barrel and fly out with a blast of hot air. Time sped up again and the bullet smashed into Cynigar’s left shoulder, cracking his shell and sending him flying towards the nearest building.
‘Shit!’ John shouted and shook his gun-arm. ‘It’s burning!’
‘Fire again!’ Millok shouted.
Cynigar spun around and bore down on him. His shoulder glowed pink. ‘Self-healing shell,’ he said. ‘One of the adaptations I refused to give to you, Millok.’
John pictured another bullet rotating in the chamber. He gave it a three-pointed tip and fired it at Cynigar. With a jet of steam, it hissed out and hit Cynigar with a sharp crack, clipping his abdomen, spinning him through the air again.
‘Keep firing,’ Millok said, before slipping out of Cynigar’s peripheral vision.
John built a new bullet and an odd thought came to him – where did the bullet’s metal come from? Was it using metal from the gun itself? He fired again: a musket ball this time, which glanced off Cynigar’s right wing, snapping a blade.
‘Damn it,’ John cursed as a hot burn ran up his arm.
He couldn’t keep this up and it looked like Cynigar was barely affected by the shots. John needed something more powerful. He focused on Cynigar’s belly plates and imagined drilling into them with a twisting motion.
Cynigar rushed at John with wing blades and whip flailing. John blasted out a corkscrew blade with a rush of hot smoke – but Cynigar was dead before it reached him.
Millok had leapt up and deftly sliced the doctor’s head from his body with her razor-sharp forearm. John’s corkscrew bullet hit a second later, tearing through the doctor’s shell and into the soft tissue within.
‘Teach you to threaten me, you freak!’ Millok panted, as Cynigar’s body hit the ground.
John didn’t have time to congratulate her: his gun-arm felt like it was on fire. ‘Water. Water!’
Millok pointed to a pail of liquid by the holding pens and John ran over and plunged his arm in with a hiss and a cloud of pink steam.
‘What’s this?’ He looked down.
‘Sorean blood,’ Millok replied.
John shook his head, lost for words.
Chapter 19
‘I made i t… but it’s not what I expected . ’ Delta-Six re c orded his log while he hid in the shadow of a pile of bodies. ‘I have more questions now.’
He could see the silver gates, some ten metres tall and thirty wide, surrounded by camps made by hundreds of alien soldiers who, like Delta-Six, had drifted here. Were these defeated soldiers?
He detoured, avoiding the sprawling huts and tents, and walked to the immense gates, which reached high into the low clouds. He scanned and studied the metal with little outcome. There was no obvious opening mechanism and, judging by the piles of ash at its feet, it was protected by a sophisticated security system.
Wary of receiving attention from the myriad and deadly looking soldiers gathered in the camp, Delta-Six retreated to a safe place, from where he watched the comings and goings.
As the hours, and days, passed, the gates remained closed. New soldiers joined the camp, mostly in small groups, but Delta-Six noted one group of red worm-like fighters leaving on a herd of huge beasts, laden with rocks and primitive catapults. Off to war, he guessed.
***
The white obelisk, which commemorated the Brakari’s defeat, stood on an island of calm as the soil rose and fell around it like an undulating sea. Olan caught his breath and stared at the deformed and half-rotten Brakari soldiers rising from their war graves.
‘Can you see those?’ Olan pointed to the strings of vapour wisping from each warrior and into the sky.
‘No,’ the nearest Sorean replied.
Olan patted his gold chest plate and his eyes remained fixed on the rising creatures, which seemed to be pulled out of the ground by the white wisps. The Brakari walked with erratic movements as they came to attack, swinging their rusted blades and cracked claws with unpredictable speed.
‘Formation!’ Jakan-tar called its troops away from the dead Brakari-moles who woke from their short death.
What rite is this? Lavalle’s voice echoed around Olan’s head and he closed his eyes to focus.
Is there anything like this we can use? Samas asked.
Olan joined in. I see strings. They are being worked like puppets.
Belsang must be controlling them, Mihran said. It’s trickery.
So kill him and they all fall? Samas replied. We should send the cavalry wide todistract them,then my men will attack.
The river’s too close. Not enough room, Gal-qadan thought-cast for the first time.
I agree, Lavalle said.
Why can’t Li shoot Belsang? Olan said.
Belsang has an e
nergy shield, Li replied. Even on full power, I won’t penetrate it at this range.
Wemuststrengthen the left flank, Samas said.
Lavalle started. Why can’t we–
SILENCE, Mihran thought-cast louder than before. Prepare to defend and I will issue my orders.
The voices faded and Olan opened his eyes. It always took him a second to deal with thought-casting. None of the other captains seemed to have that problem. Was it the chest plate filtering the messages, he wondered? His eyes refocused on the advancing enemy and he felt a presence by his side.
Jakan-tar looked up at him. ‘We have an issue.’ The green aura of the Sorean’s shield was flashing. ‘Our shields.’
Olan stepped back. ‘What’s happened to them?’
‘Interference.’ Jakan-tar nodded to where a gang of slave species clustered around the feet of Belsang’s Vaalori, moving boxes with lights. ‘They must have hacked into the shields they took from my captured soldiers.’
‘The shields John brought back with him?’ Olan asked.
‘Your troops will be affected too,’ Jakan-tar replied and walked away to join the front line. ‘You must inform your commander.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Now we fight without shields, we fight with pure energy!’
Olan nodded and closed his eyes to thought-cast. Mihran,the Soreanshields are failing.
Samas,did you hear that? Mihran replied. Do not trust the Soreanshields.
Hearing you loud and clear, Samas responded.
Your orders, Commander? Lavalle asked.
Defend and hold, came Mihran’s terse reply.
Olan’s eyes flicked open. Defend and hold? How do you defend against an army of the dead?
The Sorean moved back from the uneven ground and created what Olan assumed was the defensive line Jakan-tar had told him about. It was an ancient method, he’d said, used by the first Sorean when their planet had been invaded by a self-replicating mechanoid species intent on consuming the Sorean planet’s metallic resources for procreation. Like now, they’d been outnumbered and outgunned, but had defeated their enemy on the battlefield. Jakan-tar had gone on to explain how most of the Sorean’s technology was derived from the remnants of the defeated mechanoid army, including their shields.
Now, with no trust in their technology, the front line of Sorean bore a sword in each arm while those behind, armed with long spears and curved halberds, held back, ready to thrust at a moment’s notice. A wall of blades. Olan noticed the front warriors wore shield brooches donated by those behind in case they still worked.
Olan searched the battlefield and caught sight of Mata strolling casually through the melee. His tattooed body writhed as he ducked the blades of a Brakari-mole and swung his patu club in response. Only, he didn’t use his arm: a long, thick tendril flicked out and smashed the club down on the mole’s armoured head, cracking it with two vicious swipes. Mata paused mid-stride but didn’t look back.
Back at the Sorean front line, the first Brakari smashed into the swinging blades, which held for a second before the weight of the attack was too much and the Sorean stumbled back. Flashes of colourful shields were lighting up the front line where Brakari claws and tails smashed into the Sorean soldiers, but Olan could see by the number of dead trampled and scattered across the grass that many shields were useless now. The picture repeated along the line and Olan felt a pain in his belly: the Sorean had put everything into fighting the diggers and for what? A realisation came to him: he had never defended a position before. All of his battles had been attacks. Destruction. He had killed the weak to save them from the evils of his brethren, but now what could he do to save the weak?
Fight. That was all he could do.
‘Don’t worry,’ he shouted as he unclipped his battleaxe and ran to help the Sorean, ‘we’ve killed them once before and we can kill them again!’
He focused on a rejuvenated Brakari-mole with a brave Sorean on its shoulders, who stabbed at its neck with a long blade. Even the Brakari’s severed claws were attacking: flipping across the ground like beached sharks, snapping at ankles and feet. Olan rushed in with his axe high, shimmied to one side, then swung down, slicing between the neck and head plates. With one blow, the dead head was severed and fell on the floor with a hollow thud.
But the body fought on.
Olan parried a slicing arm and dug his axe into its remaining digging claw. The axe bit into the thick chitin and Olan fought to keep his feet as the arm pulled back. Dakaniha was beside him with all four eyes open, slashing at the shoulder joint with his knife, stabbing until the arm broke free.
‘Thanks.’ Olan stepped on the arm to wrench his axe free.
The body jumped and shook as it tried to dislodge the stubborn Sorean still on its back.
‘We must stop the dead creatures before the rest of their army arrive.’ Dakaniha pointed across the valley, where lines of live Brakari marched to the bottom. Only the trench stood in their way. Behind them, a pack of dark wolves rushed down the valley towards the centre of the human army.
‘We’ll have no energy left by the time they get here.’ Olan took a step back and looked up at the white lines flowing from each dead Brakari through the air to Belsang. If he could cut the links the undead would have no power. But how? Olan felt for Thor’s hammer hanging around his neck but his hand tapped his chest plate instead. His eyes widened. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ Olan pointed to where a Brakari-mole spun around, defending against a host of Sorean troops. ‘I need to get on its back.’
Dakaniha blinked and opened his mouth to protest but was cut off.
‘Just distract it and I’ll do the rest.’ Olan ran towards the large Brakari-mole with his axe high.
The Sorean who saw him coming stepped back and the Brakari spun to face him with blades slashing and its digging claw snapping wildly. Olan threw a glance to his left, where Dakaniha was fitting a long arrow to his bow. Olan dodged right, saw a flash of white and the enemy dipped as the arrow stabbed a foreleg. The angle was perfect: Olan ran up the leg with strong strides as another arrow made the Brakari-mole turn again. With a scramble, Olan was up on the shell and, with a burst of energy, leapt high and slashed the air with his axe. Two lines of diamond dust sparked and Olan felt a surge of energy rush through his chest plate.
When he landed, he stood on a motionless corpse.
‘You did it!’ Dakaniha leapt up beside him with a smile that turned into a frown. ‘What did you do?’
Olan thumped a fist against his chest plate and looked up into the sky, where the detached wisp coiled back to Belsang. ‘I’m not sure, but I think I’m going to have to do it again.’ Olan jumped down and away from the nearest fighting. ‘Give me a second.’ He closed his eyes and thought-cast to Mihran and the captains. Li, can you see the connections between the undead and Belsang?
What connections? Mihran asked.
They’re like fishing lines, Olan replied. Cut them and they drop.
You’d better cut them quick, Samas replied. We’ve got wolves coming over the ridge and the rest of the army isn’t far behind.
Li?
Okay, I’ve found the frequency. I’m surprised anyone can see at that level.
Can you cut them? Samas asked.
Sure, Li replied. Mihran, I think it’s time to use my rifle.
Agreed. Fire at will. And if you get close enough, take out Belsang.
Olan opened his eyes to see Dakaniha staring into the clouds, blinking his new eyes. ‘I think I see them,’ he muttered. ‘Another has been cut.’ He pointed.
Olan stared up and saw the second strand flailing back to where the powder-blue Brakari sat on his behemoth steed. Then another and another. He turned to Li’s section of archers and could make out Li, crouched behind a rock, aiming her rifle and steadily picking off the connections.
‘Great.’ Olan turned to Dakaniha. ‘Now we can fight the real soldiers!’
***
Mihran closed his eyes and checked the voices he had sent to counter Be
lsang’s disruption. They were still talking and arguing. He removed the few rambling voices that had gone mad and started new voices in their place.
With no time to lose, his eyes snapped open and scanned the battlefield and he readjusted his models. The undead Brakari soldiers were crashing to the floor as Li severed the connections between the puppets and their master. She managed to get two or three shots away before someone in the Brakari army located her and sent rapid missiles her way. Soon she would be running out of hiding places.
Find a good spot and stay there, Mihran thought-cast to Li.
On the left flank, Olan was leaping from enemy to enemy, slicing the ghostly fibres and reducing the pressure on the Sorean. Jakan-tar’s warriors had taken the brunt of the new attack and needed time to regroup before the wave of fresh, enhanced Brakari warriors entered the battle. The thick line of dark Brakari was already at the trench.
Mihran scanned Li’s troops. One man stood out from the rest as he took potshots at the newcomers: Ethan Turner. Gal-qadan had said he was accurate, but Mihran had taken it as bluster. Whether it was the man’s gun or his skill, Ethan was clearly hitting his mark with every shot. The bullets rarely killed but they were injuring and slowing down the oncoming Brakari. Mihran needed more soldiers like him: reliable and accurate.
Ethan, Mihran thought-cast, get close andaim for Belsang.
The American glanced back at Mihran, gave him a nod and ran downhill to find a clear shot.
Mihran let his main set of models run forward: five minutes; ten; thirty. None of them looked good. Forgetting the Lutamek, and as long as they had no more surprises from Belsang, the human–Sorean alliance would have to absorb every attack with minimum losses if they were to swing the battle in their favour.
Divide, demoralise, defeat.
Mihran caught a glimpse of movement beyond the river off the right flank. Brakari reinforcements?
Li, Mihran thought-cast. I need you or Bowmantolook beyond the right flank. Who is coming?
