by Wearmouth
“It’s rocky ground leading around the coast.”
“We have to move now. Free your shackles. Two of you grab the slavers’ rifles.”
Vingo turned and spoke to the other two prisoners. They bashed rocks against a locking pin in the circular metal joints of each other’s shackles and freed them after a few meaty blows.
The two tredeyan prisoners Charlie didn’t know picked up the rifles. Vingo slid a knife out of the first casualty’s belt and held it in front of his face. Charlie hoped the realization had sunk in that they didn’t have a choice now, after three slavers lay dead around them.
Gesturing them forward, he edged to the mouth of the cave. A beam at the front of the shuttle cast light across the black volcanic sand. He glanced to his right at a cluster of jagged rocks. Good terrain for putting distance between themselves and the remaining slavers. Hopefully they would be more interested in preserving their own lives, rather than getting involved in a firefight.
“Head for the rocks,” Charlie said and waved them forward.
The three tredeyans scampered out. Charlie followed and backed away from the shuttle, keeping his aim on the side ramp.
A slaver walked down it and looked toward the mouth of the cave. He took a few steps forward and glanced around.
Charlie fired two aimed shots, careful to preserve ammo. The slaver clutched his chest and crumpled headfirst off the side.
The tredeyan prisoners scrambled behind the rocks. Charlie followed, skidding by their side and observing the shuttle for signs of movement.
A white shaft of light punched through the darkness from a square assembly mounted on the shuttle’s roof. It swept across the rocky ground, brightening the area around their hiding place.
The tredeyans and Charlie ducked. He couldn’t see a pulse cannon on top of the shuttle, but only had a view of the front end of the craft.
It was only a matter of time before the slavers would be either forced to assault them, or decide it wasn’t worth it and leave.
Charlie hoped for the latter, but things never worked as he wanted. The alien in green body armor sprinted out of the side of the shuttle, dove behind rocks and focused a thin red beam on their position.
“You were right, Charlie—” Vingo said.
A hollow pop split the air. Charlie glanced up. A projectile fizzed into the dark sky and arced down toward them. Vingo and the other two prisoners pressed themselves against the sand. A loud explosion boomed in front of their cover. Fire and sand shot in the air.
Through the decreasing flames, five slavers split in different directions and projectiles peppered the rocks and ground around them.
Charlie grabbed the tredeyan prisoner who crouched by his side, clutching the captured rifle, and shook him. “Get up and fire the damned thing.”
Dark figures moved from rock to rock on either flank while rifle fire kept Charlie and the three tredeyans pinned down. He knew they would be quickly overrun and killed if the tredeyans didn’t start to fight back.
Taking a deep breath, Charlie leaned around the rock and hoped they had enough ammunition, and luck.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
An explosion erupted a few meters behind Denver’s position, the sound reverberating off his helmet as though he had been struck by Thor’s hammer.
The force pushed him back into the seat of the catamaran, bringing with it the realization that the craft had struck the ground of the valley and embedded the front of its twin hull into the black, volcanic sand, upending the rear so that the vehicle was lying at a steep angle.
Only his left arm, trapped between the door and open window of the catamaran, stopped him from falling over the smashed windshield and crashing to the ground. Denver’s arm freed. The suit’s servos whined as he hauled himself upright, placing his feet against the dash panel and then clambering up the netted section until he could fling one leg over the rear of the vehicle.
He shook his head, trying to clear his blurred vision.
Another explosion, only marginally less powerful, lit up his surroundings as a cloud of sand and dirt launched into the air and rained back down. In that brief scintilla of light, he managed to see from the corner of his eye what at first glance resembled a croatoan harvester, the outline of which remained visible on the inside of his eyelids even as the flame-yellow nova of the explosion dissipated into the inky black night sky.
A deep rumble, made louder by the vibrations travelling up through the dead priest’s transport, shook Denver from his perched position. The harvester-like machine lurched forward and stopped some fifty meters away from him.
Twin headlights, shining out sharp slices of pale blue light, cut through the darkness and showed him that they had crashed into a valley. High walls on either side of the hundred or so meter expanse rose up to the sky, showing him just how far they had fallen.
As the croatoan vehicle continued to scan the landscape with its antennae-searchlight beams, Denver scanned the vista for any sign of Layla. He knew she was still alive; her breathing came over the intercom in short shallow undulations.
He suspected, given the regularity of her breathing, that she was unconscious somewhere. That ignited a flicker of hope, even as the croatoan’s searchlights arced around to his location.
Flinging his legs over the side of the catamaran, he braced himself for the fall as he hit the ground and rolled with the momentum. The suit dampened the impact, enabling him to get to his feet and dash behind a section of a destroyed scion ship lying between a sheer rock formation and the catamaran.
The matte-black angular fighter had clearly been shot down some time recently, given the heat still coming from its single engine and the smoke that rose from an ugly wound in the side of the fuselage.
Looking at the size of the hole and the splintered metal surface around it, he guessed the fighter had fallen victim to the croatoans’ massive plasma-gun platform—the thing parked just half a football field away from him.
Although it shared a few similarities with the machines the croatoans had brought to Earth, it looked to him to be an upgraded or more powerful version. The cannon barrel extended out from a circular base at the top of the roof.
A pair of the small driver croatoans were sitting behind an armored glass panel at the front, the low interior blue light giving them a ghostly hue in the pitch blackness of their surroundings.
Coming from overhead, a deep subsonic growl grabbed his attention.
One of the huge scion ships was descending from the clouds.
Half a dozen of the smaller, triangular-shaped fighters launched from bays within the larger craft’s four pyramidal sides and headed off to the east, disappearing behind the valley’s tall walls to Denver’s left. Their low altitude meant that light from their engines showed him the deep ridges of where the catamaran had gone over the edge and gouged into the side of the valley wall before coming to a jolting rest.
To his right, shrouded in darkness, the croatoan gun platform roared into action. The barrel started to move, following the sweeping path of its searchlights—right into Denver’s path.
Through his blurred night vision, he spotted a trio of hunters drop down from the side of the hulking, square machine. They carried heavy, wide-bore automatic weapons, a bandolier of ammo hanging over their right shoulders. Over the din of the machine, Denver made out an increasingly high-pitched whine—hover engines.
He spun round, facing south, looking down the valley. From a darker patch that just looked like a large hole in the wall, at least two hundred meters away, four hover-bikes shot out into the war zone of the valley.
Before Denver had a chance to run for extra cover within the barren, rocky valley, one of the hunters opened a volley of auto fire in his direction. A series of wide-caliber shells pounded into the carcass of the downed scion fighter. Sparks and debris lit up the air around him, and he was running, strafing to his left, going northwards down the valley as stones and dust kicked up behind him.
His
pulse pounded as he leapt over boulders, desperate to stay one step ahead of the croatoan hunter’s fire. And then there was the plasma cannon… and, hovering above him like the Sword of Damocles, the scion prism, which seemed unusually quiet… until the sky cracked and it seemed like the universe itself was splitting apart to reveal the swirling blue mists of creation beyond the tear. From that awe-inspiring wound, a directed bolt of lightning the width of the valley and the thickness of an insect’s wings struck down, slicing the croatoan’s heavy weapon’s platform in two as though it were made of nothing more than cardboard.
Denver, his attention on the scion prism and the blue mist that surrounded and obscured its base, struck his boot on a low boulder and crashed onto his chest.
He didn’t have time to tense in the suit and the impact rattled him within his shell.
Swearing with the pain of the jolt, he spun over on to his back to take a deep breath when he saw the shadow go over him, created by the croatoans’ hover-bikes. Like the birds he used to watch fly over the clearing back home, the bikes rolled and dived, but unlike the birds of Denver’s memory, they did not make it safely into the woods.
Denver just laid there in among the black sand of the valley’s floor, staring up into the cracked sky, mesmerized by the crackling blue energy, the likes of which he’d never seen before and had no words to describe.
Once, twice, four times, the ribbon of lightning slashed outward, cutting through the croatoans’ hover-bikes in much the same easy, almost carefree manner as it had the cannon platform.
The heavy fire of the croatoan hunters belched out. Their shifting, phasing forms swarmed over the wreckage of the gun platform, aiming their weapons at the scion ship above them.
A laugh started to bubble up inside Denver’s throat. “You fools!” he shouted, almost delirious with panic and humor. How could their weapons possibly damage something so advanced, so… massive?
But it didn’t stop the hunters, their need for vengeance and honor driving them to fire everything they had at their enemy. To Denver’s surprise, black fragments of hull started to peel away from the giant prism and crash down into the valley like flaming meteorites.
One piece, at least twice as large as he, smashed into the ground a few meters to his left. He heard a scream over his intercom, the slight sound almost drowned out by the thundering fire around him.
From the hole in the valley wall, another gun platform rumbled out. This time, it wasted no time in aiming its colossal barrel at the scion prism. Two ground-shaking pulses thrummed out, sending vibrations through his suit and scrambling the visor’s imaging systems.
Dark red bolts of superheated energy slammed into the prism, rocking it violently. My god, Denver thought, they were winning. The croatoans were defeating the scion.
For some reason he found this to be a particularly disturbing thought as though he were on the scion side. What was it about them that seemed to draw his admiration and feelings of understanding? For a moment, he viewed them as an ally, but he dismissed that, finally getting to his feet, as a counteraction to the hatred he had for the croatoans.
On and on the thunder roared as increasingly more parts of the scion ship came clattering to the surface. It flashed out its laser beam, but it was weaker, narrower, and missed its target as the great pyramid listed to the side.
“Denver!” a voice over his intercom shouted.
She hit him before he had a chance to turn around. They both slammed into the rocky, sandy surface as a stream of heavy shells from one of the hunters flew overhead, slamming into the side of the valley wall, blasting great chunks of rock and debris over their heads.
“Layla, that you?” Denver asked. He tried to move out from under the weight on him as yet more firing flew overhead. His reactions felt slow as though someone had just turned up the gravity on his suit.
“Come on, we need to run, now,” Layla said, grabbing his arm and dragging him to his feet.
They sprinted toward their catamaran. A blast of croataon weapons had knocked it loose, sending it hovering sideways along the valley on its twin engines.
Following Layla’s lead, Denver raced across the ground, most of it now on fire with burning fragments of hardware and debris. The scion ship was now lowering, its blue lasers becoming increasingly weaker, but not weak enough for the hunters to call off the attack.
Layla had vaulted over the side of the catamaran and took the driver’s controls. Denver looked over his shoulder just in time to see two of the hunters raising a large rocket launcher onto their shoulders.
“Move!” Layla yelled.
Smoke billowed out from behind the rocket launcher and Denver tried to reach the catamaran. A falling piece of debris struck his hip plate and he staggered to his left.
The collision jarred Denver’s suit mechanism and he couldn’t move inside the suit for a moment as the servos failed to respond. He panicked and thrashed, only to meet solid, unyielding resistance.
This is it, he thought. My time is up.
From the reflection in his visor, he saw the croatoan hunters adjust their aim on the rocket launcher. He kept his eyes open, wishing to burn the image of his murderers into his cold dead eyes so he would know them in the afterlife—if there were such a thing.
The scion ship became dark. All of its lights shut off, sending the valley into a deeper black. The bottom part of the ship, some hundred or so meters tall, broke away from the main bulk and didn’t just fall to the ground—it launched.
The scion projectile launched faster than the hunters could get their aim and fire their rocket.
Their bodies were speared by the point as it slammed into the ground with the force of an earthquake. The crash sent a wave through the valley floor, a rolling rippled crest of dust and rocks flying outward.
The wave slammed into Denver, pushing him into the air. The impact reactivated the servos in his suit. He adjusted himself, reached out for the catamaran, and managed to grip the outside edge of the craft’s cockpit.
His momentum sent his legs and hips slamming into the side, but he locked his hands and rode the wave as further ripples continued to buck the catamaran.
“Go!” Denver shouted.
With the hunters dead, they had a route out, but there was still the second croatoan gun platform to contend with.
For now it seemed preoccupied with the final piece of the scion ship barely hanging in the air, slipping over on to its side like a massive seafaring ship taking on water and being dragged below the surface.
Layla punched the throttle on the catamaran. The engine warbled to life, raising the craft off the ground with its anti-g drive. “Go north through the wreckage!” Denver yelled as he hauled himself into the cockpit.
“I’m on it. Hold on.”
Layla pushed the catamaran’s engines to their full capacity and they shot like a dart from their position as they weaved in and out of the wreckage of war. The croatoans’ pulse cannon boomed into the remaining part of the scion ship.
Eventually they managed to weave their way through the worst of the debris and out into a clearing of the valley. A hundred meters away it ramped up and banked to the right. “It’s a road,” Denver said. “Follow it; it might take us back to that damned priest’s tracks.”
“Will do,” Layla said, piloting the craft with surprising skill. When they were clear of the valley and heading into a wooded section, Layla slowed down until they came to a stop. She leaned down and looked into his eyes. “Are you okay?”
Denver checked himself over. The stats on his visor told him he had lost some air and water, but there were no major mechanical malfunctions. But his mind, though… he wasn’t entirely sure what happened back there.
“I’m… in one piece,” he said. “What happened to you?”
“I just fell down the valley wall and bumped my head. I was out for a moment, but I’m all right. I’ll just need to rest at some point. I thought you were…”
“Dead? Yeah, me too�
�� I know this sounds crazy, but I think…” He tailed off, his thoughts now suddenly ridiculous when put into words.
“Go on, what is it?”
“I think the scion were helping us.”
Layla didn’t say anything, just stared ahead. He wondered what she was thinking about. Was she assessing his level of sanity? Before he had time to ask her, a crackling static came over the intercom.
Layla spun to face him. “Is that?”
Denver listened to the static. Mixed in with the white noise was a voice, the words not quite clear, but the voice was unmistakable.
“Dad?” Denver said. “Is that you?”
No response, just shouting and the sounds of distant fire.
“Through the woods,” Denver said, pointing toward the sound of the fighting. “It’s Dad; he’s there!”
A smile crept across Layla’s face as she gunned the engines and flew toward the gunfire. Denver reached over to the back of the catamaran and grabbed hold of the priest’s rifle, loading a magazine and preparing for another fight, this time with renewed energy and hatred for the croatoan scum. Earth or Tredeya, he didn’t care, he wouldn’t stop until those bastards were no longer a threat.
And deep down, he felt some kind of desire… a desire for vengeance at the destruction of the scion prism.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mike turned, staggered back toward the basin, and glanced over his shoulder. The snap of croatoan rifles split the air. The riders of both hover-bikes paused above the edge of the forest, steadied their black beasts and fired.
Mai’s head appeared above the step leading to Unity. He flapped his right hand, motioning her to get down.
Projectiles whistled past and threw up lumps of dirt and root. Mike’s right boot snagged between two thick stems of the flourishing crop and he crashed against the ground.
Pain coursed through Mike’s right shoulder after it took the brunt of the impact. Turning on his front, he expected to see the bikes hovering above him, ready to deliver their coup de grace.
