Warriors

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Miles let out a whine and curled up at his sandaled feet. The dog looked up as the double doors cracked open. In walked the last person X wanted to see. Colonel Carmela Moreto, cockatoo perched on her shoulder, strode into the chamber wearing ceremonial armor. Her black cape sported the octopus crest. Four Cazador soldiers followed her.

  Next came Colonel Forge, also in ceremonial armor and black cape. His iron jaw was set, and his gleaming dark eyes roved the room, revealing no trace of emotion.

  Samson and a group of sky people filed in after them. The chief engineer, his face red from coughing, sat at the table with Carmela. With several council members still en route aboard Discovery and with General Santiago dead, the council was down to just these two and X.

  Wind rattled the shutters. X focused on his breathing and tried not to shiver. His body trembled from the bone-deep chills. It was too late to call off the meeting now.

  More people entered the room. Most were militia soldiers and new Hell Divers, but the Cazadores were well represented with soldiers, Imulah and his scribes, and two accountants in suits.

  Lena, Hector, Alberto, and Ted took the front row of seats, with the other new Hell Divers sitting behind them. They all stared at X, clearly disturbed by his condition.

  X wondered whether Ted had his silver flask with him. A bit of shine could do him good right now. At the very least, it would warm his gut.

  “Let’s go,” Sergeant Wynn called out. “Close the doors.”

  He gestured for the two militia soldiers to close the doors as soon as the last civilians walked into the room—Cole Mintel and his wife, Bernie, accompanied Les’s wife, Katherine. They all looked anxious for news of their loved ones on the airship.

  X put his hands on the armrests of the throne and pushed himself up, trembling again. Spots darted about in his vision from the exertion.

  Sloan glanced over her shoulder again, her lazy eye on X. He managed to wink at her and walked over to the edge of the platform, trying not to stagger like a drunk. He was so unstable, he felt as if he had just polished off a bottle of shine and then fallen down the stairs.

  “King Xavier,” Imulah said, joining X on the platform to translate the proceedings.

  “Discovery is still flying home from the mission in Rio de Janeiro,” X said in a loud, clear voice. “Their arrival has been slightly delayed due to electrical storms, but they should be home by this evening, with the thirty-one survivors they rescued.”

  The Hell Divers and sky people in the crowd applauded the news, even though it wasn’t exactly fresh. Rumors had already spread like windblown spores across the rigs.

  X watched Carmela and Forge, wanting to assess their reactions if his vision would cooperate. It blurred for a moment, then cleared. Another chill washed through him, making him shake slightly.

  Imulah finished translating the first few statements, but the Cazadores in the audience didn’t seem as thrilled as the sky people. Not that he blamed them. Only two soldiers were returning home from the mission.

  X continued. “As many of you know, General Santiago, Lieutenant Alejo, and most of the Lion’s crew were killed on this mission, and Star Grazer was attacked and sunk by a pod of mutant whales.”

  Imulah gestured with his hands as he translated.

  Several grunts came from the Cazador soldiers in the audience, but Forge and Carmela looked on with stony expressions.

  “That brings our fleet down to only a few vessels,” X continued. “And with the added loss of Colonel Vargas and General Rhino at the Purple Pearl, it severely diminishes the Black Order of the Octopus Lords.”

  That didn’t seem to get much of a reaction, either, but what came next would. X turned his attention to Carmela and Forge, watching for the reaction.

  “What we haven’t told you is exactly how the Cazadores and several of our people were killed,” X said. “Since I’m told there are those who doubt what happened out there, I’ll show you.”

  While Imulah relayed his words, X nodded to Samson.

  Samson turned on the projector, and footage from the airship’s drone, Cricket, played on the metal bulkhead. The robot had captured some of the battle with the skinwalkers.

  The footage wasn’t great, but even with his limited vision, X could see the armored men covered in human skins. Horn and his demon warriors seemed to act like defectors, hunting humans and wearing bits of them as trophies.

  A coincidence? He doubted it. More likely, Horn worshipped the machines.

  X focused his good eye on the Cazador leadership while they watched.

  Both Carmela and Forge had stood for a better view. They watched for several minutes before Forge turned to the platform and said something in Spanish to Imulah.

  “What did he say?” X asked.

  The scribe leaned over. “He said, ‘So it is true. The skinwalkers have returned.’ ”

  “Indeed, it is, and what I want to make very clear is . . .” X blinked at the blurring scene before him. A wave of dizziness took him.

  “What I want to make clear is . . .” he repeated.

  “Sir,” Sloan said quietly.

  X held up a hand to her and regained his composure. “Horn has no right to this throne,” he said, pointing behind him at the sacred chair. “If he comes here, he will die, and I’ll kill him myself.”

  A chuckle sounded from the audience. X scanned the rows of seating but didn’t see who it was. When his good eye roved to the table, he saw why.

  The laughter hadn’t come from the outer gallery, it had come from the head table, where Colonel Carmela Moreto stood with a smirk on her wrinkled face.

  Anger flared in X’s chest. He walked down the stairs and out onto the floor, with Miles at heel. The cockatoo on Carmela’s armored shoulder squawked at the dog, and Miles growled back, putting the bird to flight.

  The smirk evaporated.

  “You find something funny?” X said.

  Imulah translated.

  She shrugged, then reached into the air for Kotchee to return.

  “Then why are you smiling?” X said.

  She stepped up to meet him, and they came together face to face. Her lips curled back, and she spoke rapidly while holding his gaze.

  “Imulah,” X snapped when the scribe paused.

  “Uh,” Imulah stuttered. “She says you don’t look as if you could put down Horn.”

  “And what else? That’s not all she just said.”

  Imulah unclasped his hands. He cleared his throat. “She also said that you are underestimating Horn, just as General Santiago did in the wastes, and that he will be the new king.”

  “Did she, now,” X muttered.

  It was obvious some of these people thought he looked weak, but that was precisely why he now stood in front of Colonel Moreto—to prove that his injuries and a fever weren’t enough to keep him from the important task of protecting the islands.

  As long as he didn’t pass out, he would prove he could still lead.

  “You just focus on the mission to the Iron Reef and protecting the fuel outpost,” X said. “Let me worry about the defense of these islands.”

  Imulah relayed his words. Carmela narrowed her brows, clearly not happy about being sent off when she had her sights on a higher position in the Cazador military.

  Rhino had been right about wanting to kill her after she invoked the Black Order at the Sky Arena, during his match against Warthog.

  Maybe if X had listened, Rhino would still be alive. But killing Carmela now would just cause more problems. Sending her far away was still the best option.

  X held steady, not taking his gaze off her.

  “How are the repairs to Shadow and Renegade coming along?” he asked.

  Carmela raised a graying eyebrow and replied through Imulah.

  “She says they expect to be complete
by tomorrow on Renegade, but Shadow is ready to go,” he said. “Colonel Forge has taken over that ship.”

  “I want you and your dumb bird out of here as soon as it’s seaworthy,” X said to Carmela. “You got that?”

  Imulah explained his orders. Even with a moment to think, X didn’t regret his tone or words. She needed to know who was in charge. He would not tolerate her open disrespect.

  Her jaw clenched in anger, and her hand went to the hilt of her sword.

  The Hell Divers all stood, even the Cazadores. Ted reached down to his holstered blaster, gripping the handle of the sawed-off triple-barreled weapon.

  Footsteps clanked as Ton and Victor moved in to flank X.

  X raised a battered finger. “No sea estúpida,” he said.

  Her eyes burned with rage, but Colonel Forge clicked his tongue to draw her attention. He spoke rapidly, and she finally backed down.

  “Lieutenant Sloan, please join us,” X said.

  Already right behind him, Sloan stepped up by his side.

  “I want you to work with Colonel Forge, making our defenses ready to destroy the skinwalkers if they decide to embark on a suicide mission. Colonel Forge will use Shadow to patrol our borders, while Moreto takes Renegade to Belize.”

  Sloan didn’t seem to like the idea, but she didn’t protest, and when Imulah had finished relaying the orders, Forge nodded.

  “Usted . . . have my sword, King Javier,” Forge said in broken English. Then he shut his mouth, concealing the sharpened teeth that, unlike a lot of the Cazadores, he rarely showed off.

  “Gracias, Coronel,” X said. He eyed Carmela once more and then walked back to the platform. Miles trotted after him. Climbing the stairs brought on a second wave of dizziness, but X kept going up even as his vision blurred.

  He misjudged the second step and tripped, banging his knee.

  Ton and Victor rushed over with Wynn to help him back up.

  “I’m fine,” X said, waving them back.

  X paused a second to take a breath and then stood. Another wave of chills rattled his bones. Then he started to go numb, much as he had when dying of cancer in the wastes.

  He staggered to the throne and plopped down, heart thumping, afraid to look out over the room. His fall had basically proved Carmela’s point. It didn’t matter how many Cazador warriors he had slain or how many monsters he had gutted. He was in no shape to fight Horn.

  In the eyes of everyone in this chamber, X suddenly didn’t look like an immortal. He looked like a dying old man, and that made him a target for any Cazador warrior eager to take the crown.

  Horn wasn’t the only one X had to worry about now.

  THREE

  An alarm blared across the airship, and this time, Les couldn’t just order Timothy to shut it off. This was an automatic emergency siren and would blare as long as the threat remained.

  He stopped inside the enclosed ladder that led down to the bridge.

  “Timothy, what the hell triggered that alarm?” Les said into his headset.

  “Most of my sensors are offline, Captain, but I detected a fire in compartment four. I’ve already sealed off the section and am neutralizing the flames.”

  “That’s right above engineering,” Les said. His blood iced at the implications. The wiring there powered the turbofans and the six thrusters.

  “Come on!” Les said to the three militia soldiers behind him. Corporal Banks didn’t waste a moment.

  They pounded down the ladder to a landing, cleared the next flight, and hit the final landing outside engineering with a thud.

  “Michael, Mags, where are you?” Les asked over the comms.

  “Outside the hatch up to the top mezzanine,” Michael replied.

  “Be careful, and don’t hit anything critical,” Les said.

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  “Timothy, you got a reading on the Sirens inside engineering yet?” Les asked.

  “Afraid not, Captain,” replied the AI. “Most of my sensors are still offline.”

  “What about the cameras?”

  “Offline in that sector.”

  “Damn it, Timothy,” Les said. He turned to face Banks and the other two militia soldiers.

  “It’s up to us to kill these things,” Les said. “Make those bolts count, and make sure you have a clear shot.”

  “Yes, sir,” the soldiers said simultaneously.

  Les nodded, and Banks twisted the wheel handle and popped the hatch open. Another soldier followed Les through the gap and into the large open space.

  They stood near the starboard hull, where the boilers were positioned in a row along the bulkhead. On the far side of the boilers towered the central nuclear reactor. This part of engineering was bright as day, but several of the lights behind the reactor flickered.

  The huge bulb-shaped engine hummed so loud Les couldn’t hear much else, but he couldn’t miss the two piles of Siren scat on the other side of the boilers.

  A streak of white goo curved around the tanks and led out into the central deck between the tanks and the reactor.

  Les crept around the boilers, crossbow shouldered, checking the deck and then the mezzanines above for Michael and Magnolia. Across the chamber, a diver was moving slowly toward the top of the reactor.

  The speaker in his helmet crackled. “Captain, we’ve contained that fire,” Timothy said. “Too early to say how bad the damage is, but we’ve lost control of turbofan three.”

  “Copy that, Timothy.”

  Coming up on the last boiler, he gestured for the militia soldiers to fan out through the gaps between the tanks. He moved around the first boiler and out onto the open floor near the Siren scat.

  With his bow, he swept the area between the reactor and the other industrial equipment that powered the airship. The militia soldiers moved with him, their weapons covering all directions.

  Magnolia and Michael were both crouched down on the mezzanine, pointing at the back of the reactor, where one light flickered.

  The trail of goo led right toward the reactor.

  Les gave the signal to advance, and the three militia soldiers fell into combat intervals, their footfalls nearly silent amid the hum of the reactor. Michael and Magnolia crouch-walked on the platform, getting into position.

  Moving his finger to the trigger, Les led the way, taking slow strides. The whitish slime curved around the left side of the reactor.

  Large conduits snaked out the side. He carefully stepped over one, then brought his crossbow up at the space behind the reactor.

  What in the holy wastes . . .?

  A webwork of glistening slime stretched across the conduits, forming an enclosed tent that was some sort of nest. Michael looked down from the end of the mezzanine, and Magnolia aimed her crossbow.

  The militia soldiers moved in to cover Les as he pulled out a knife and sliced through the gooey ropes. The thick and ropy material fell away, and after clearing a path to the nest, he sheathed his knife.

  Instead of giving the order to fire, he motioned up to Magnolia and bumped on the comm channel. “Mags and I will shoot first,” he said. “If we miss, Banks and his men will fire. Michael, you’re the last resort.”

  “Copy that,” Michael replied.

  Les eyed the conduits. The metal was sound, but a bolt could puncture the exterior and shred the wiring inside. If that happened, they were in a world of trouble.

  Reaching up, Les turned on his helmet light, illuminating the nearly translucent tent in the dark space. Something was definitely inside the folds of the hardening goo. He lined up his arrow and pulled the trigger.

  The bolt punctured the nest, and a screech rose over the sound of the engine.

  Before Les could back up, the Siren, a winged male, burst out of the nest and jumped into the air on springy back legs.

 
Another bolt sailed through the air from the platform above, missing the beast and punching through the aluminum deck in front of Les. He pulled out his knife just as the creature leaped to the side of the reactor.

  The militia soldiers squeezed off their arrows. Only one hit the Siren, in the shoulder. It extended its wings and dropped toward Les.

  The maw of jagged teeth opened in the eyeless face as frayed wings spread outward. He shoved the blade into the sinewy chest muscles. The beast came down on it, knocking Les backward into a conduit that gave under the weight of his armor.

  Even with two arrows protruding from it and the knife deep in its chest, the monster was still very much alive, writhing in agony and slashing at Les.

  The conduit holding Les up sagged, threatening to shear away from the bulkhead and uproot the wiring inside. He pushed at the beast, but that just made things worse. Claws scraped his armor, and searing pain knifed into his shoulder.

  “Help, God damn it!” Les shouted.

  The three militia soldiers moved in with knives drawn, cutting and stabbing the beast across the arms and back.

  Les tried to push it off again. It screeched in his face, obscuring his visor with saliva. The wings beat the air, pulling the creature backward with the knife still in its chest.

  It slashed at one of the militia soldiers, knocking him backward. It tried to gain altitude, but the wings slammed into the conduits, trapping it above Les.

  Michael aimed his crossbow down from the platform. “Get out of the way!” he yelled.

  Les rolled off the damaged conduit and hit the deck. He scrambled several feet before looking over his shoulder.

  The Siren crashed to the deck in a crumpled heap of wings and limbs, an arrow shaft jutting from the back of its skull.

  “Got it,” Michael said. “You okay, Captain?”

  Les gave a thumbs-up, then pushed himself off the deck, grabbing his crossbow.

  Banks was crouched next to one of his men, who gripped a gut wound.

  “Get him to the medical ward,” Les said. “Banks, you’re with me. There’s still another one of those things.”

  “Hang in there, kid,” Les said to the young soldier.