One of my escorts is staggering on his feet, wobbling, reaching for me. I hear the rattle of automatic weapons and realize he isn’t in control of his Tools. His head and torso come apart. He sprays all over me. I can’t see…
I hear. Screaming. Shouting. Cursing. Something metal gets sheared apart. More explosions. More gunfire.
I have to wipe gore off my facemask. I can’t see my companions. A broken Bug is flailing in the shredded plants. Everything is smoke and ruin and blood… I try to crawl on my back, try to get away…
I CAN HELP YOU.
I hear a voice in my head, over my link.
LET ME HELP YOU.
Soothing. Reassuring.
GIVE ME YOUR HAND.
As I crawl backwards, the debris suddenly begins to push up between my legs—something rising out of the ground…
One of the Bugs comes charging at me then, but gets stopped dead. It’s not a field. It looks like something has a hold of it. Internally. It jerks, convulses, begins ripping itself apart.
LET ME HELP YOU.
The debris falls away from whatever’s grown out of the ground. I see light. Shimmering. Gold and silver. It sings to me.
BE WITH ME. JOIN WITH ME. AND LIVE.
It’s a… a sword. Double-edged. Broad. Straight. With a simple but ornately decorated hilt. Still planted tip-first in the planet.
TAKE ME. NOW.
The crushing grinding cubic shapes of a Box robot comes lumbering at me, spinning its guns to lock on me. In desperation, I lunge forward, grab the convenient but probably useless weapon, and tear it from the ground.
My hand instantly convulses tight around the grip, an overwhelming shock going up my arm, taking over my muscles, dragging me to my feet. The robot starts shooting—high-caliber armor-piercing full-auto—but the blade makes me hold it up in front of me, and the bullets deflect off of it. I’m screaming. I feel the sharp impact of each shell against the blade, hammering me all the way up through my shoulders and into my clenched jaw, but the sword is immovable, impenetrable.
My scream shifts from terror to rage, washing over me until rage is all I am. The robot’s gun runs dry, and it tries to spin another weapon on me. I see my companions, mangled, in pieces, white suits all red. Like mine. And I charge forward…
The blade hacks away the next gun like it’s soft plastic, then drives into the machine. My vision goes from red to white as I’m blinded again, this time by an arc of plasma, and the Box dies violently. I feel the life—the corrupted enslaved organic matter inside—broken down and… absorbed. Along with the energy from its reactor. The sword is drinking it, eating it. And then it feeds me…
I convulse now with a rush of strength, of power, of rage. I feel like I’ve suddenly become bigger, stronger, faster… My mind flashes on images of violence that weave themselves into my motor memory—the sword is teaching me how to fight, how to kill…
Another Bug comes at us. I spin, hack. Hack. Hack. The metal monster comes apart, helpless against me, pitiful, fragile.
My world spinning, I walk over to the damaged one, the one still flailing on its back. My body floods warm with rage and I chop the disgusting thing to pieces. Then I plant the sword in one of the torso sections and feel it drink the thing’s dying energy. And sharing it.
It’s quiet now. I stand on the battlefield, sole survivor, upon the wreckage of my enemies and the butchered remains of my friends, all massacred beyond unassisted regeneration. I need to call for help. I need to get them back to the Station.
The sword vibrates in my hand. Alive. And it speaks to me again, inside my consciousness:
I WILL TAKE YOU TO YOUR BROTHER.
PLEASE WAIT WHILE I FINISH YOUR UPGRADES.
I feel a renewed shock go up my arm, even worse that the first. My flesh feels like it’s tearing apart. I’m being stabbed all over, down to the bone. I can’t move, can’t even scream. The world goes bright white and I…
Chapter 2: Swords of Mars
Erickson Carter:
They don’t stop coming. But they still don’t seem to see me, either.
As I sit here, crouched low to the slope amongst the rocks and holding absolutely still, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve just incidentally wandered into their mass advance, or triggered it.
I estimate that I’ve come about four kilometers since I so impulsively abandoned the Nomads, running headlong through the brush toward the eye of the unnatural storm. I managed to make it all the way to the rise that partially surrounds what the locals call Lucifer’s Grave, which I can only guess is a crater since I have no direct sight-line. I was climbing up-slope, just out of the thick growth a few hundred meters above the forest floor, when the first wave of them started pouring over the top of the crest well above and ahead of me: First scrambling versions of the Bug bot, then the rolling and tumbling Boxes. I lost count of how many in the dozens, and that’s just what I can see.
But they can’t see me, or are intentionally ignoring me, which makes no sense. In any case, they just pass me by.
They could be set to target heat, perhaps motion. My freezing at the first sound of them coming, before they cleared the top of the crest and had sight-line on me, may be what’s spared me. My sealsuit’s efficiency masks my heat, and it’s now very dirty and battered red shell—while poor camouflage down in the green—may be just enough to confuse their optics up here on the rocky slope. As long as I stay perfectly still.
The problem is, I know what lies in the direction they all seem to be headed. And I already hear gunfire coming from that way, explosions; see smoke and dust rise from the canopy back toward the tail end of the Spine Range. If any of my fellows tried to follow me…
I spin plans in my head: I could wait until the wave of bots passes, then strike them from behind, go to my friends’ aid. I doubt I would get very far, just me against an army of bots, but I can’t let my friends face this threat alone, especially if I did bring it down on them. My only other option is to press on, make it over the crest that’s still hundreds of meters above me, and hope when I get inside the crater I can find means to hurt Chang, maybe destroy his work. I remember that the villain Fohat controls his monsters from a transmitting “crown” on his head, sees through them with a prosthetic eye. If I could get close enough to use my sword…
It’s not just the threat keeping me pinned here, it’s the doubt: crushing me, paralyzing, making me feel sick in every cell of my being. I’ve rushed into something too big. I have no chance.
But I must try.
And cowering here as the killing machines pass me by, I realize: for the first time in my long journey, I am absolutely terrified. I only got this far because my rage covered it up. But now, up here just above the green, I can see my situation: I am isolated, alone, with just a sword, two knives and a pistol that I can’t shoot straight. I shouldn’t have come here.
I shiver in my sealsuit. I want to cry, to scream. I don’t dare move, not now. But I know I’ll never be able to live with myself if I just sit here.
Another Box rolls down the hill, passing barely meters from me. I want to fade into the rocks, become a rock.
I need to make a decision…
I carefully tilt my head to look uphill.
And there, as if to help me make my decision, stands Syan Chang. Pitch-black silhouette against the sky, way up on the crest but still unmistakable, his equally black cloak blowing in the wind around him. (He never wore a cloak in any of the videos I’ve studied. A new affectation? Or some necessity due to whatever damage he sustained in the blast? Does that mean he’s weakened, vulnerable?) He’s just standing up there, watching his monsters go off to do his murder, not caring if he’s seen, almost as if he wants to be.
I want to charge him, hurt him, stop him, but I know that nothing I have can injure him. And I can’t get past him. But if I turn and run, chase his machines, he’ll see me. He’ll…
He sees me now. He’s waving at me. Like my predicament amuses him. Like h
e’s daring me.
So I jump up and run away, go to hide in the brush like a coward.
I get maybe a hundred and fifty meters back into the thick growth, and then hit something. Or something hits me. Across the legs. Hard and sharp. It sends me tumbling head-first into the brush.
I try to get up, but feel something stab me in the back, a blade in my ribs just under my left shoulder blade, below my armor, pinning me down but not running me through. It presses, twists.
I flop over, block the weapon away as I roll (ripping it through my own flesh as I do so). I try to draw my gun because I can’t reach my sword. I get hit in my faceplate by something blunt. Then I get stabbed in my right hand, between thumb and forefinger, and lose my pistol as the pain shoots all the way up to my eyes.
I see a figure over me, not much more than a silhouette against the light through the trees: slim, long-limbed, with a sort of pole arm, like a Japanese naginata: a short single-edged sword blade on a long metal staff. My nanites are sealing my wounds as I roll, try to get away. The figure pursues, but seems to hold back, lets me get my legs under me, lets me draw my sword with my mangled hand. I can barely hang on to it. But I get a better look at my assailant:
His proportions are similar to Terina’s, as is his clay-stained coloring. He wears sectional armor, laced together like a samurai’s, complete with helmet. Everything is painted red and green, stylized camouflage. He wears no mask or goggles, so I can see his face: strong, high cheekbones; angular jaw; long nose; deep, intense, thick-lidded black eyes; thin mouth framed by a black and gray beard. I hold up my left hand to stop him.
“Terina… I’m with Terina… Kah-Terina Sher-K…”
He jabs me in the faceplate faster than I can react, wedges his blade into the seals and pries, popping my mask off like he’s done this before.
“Lie!” he spits at me like I’ve just given him unbelievably bad news. Another jab skillfully rips my helmet off. He jerks his head uphill the way I came. “Call back your machines!”
It sinks in like a slap in the face: He saw me following after the bots, and they were ignoring me. He assumes…
I get stabbed in the left shoulder, his blade finding its way through my armor. I hack, swat his weapon away, jab my sword at his face to warn him back (I have to hold it with both hands just to keep from losing it).
“I’m not with Chang!” I insist. “I’m his enemy!”
He parries my blade like it’s no threat, slashes my face, then pauses while he watches my nanites knit the wound back together.
“You’re like them!”
“I’m ETE!” I keep trying. “Look…” I risk letting go of my sword with one hand to show him my belt buckle insignia. I smear it slick with my blood in the process.
“Eternals do not wear red! And you do not have their power-objects! Maybe you took that for a trophy, killed one. Maybe you turned, joined the Shadow.”
“Neither! I‘m trying to destroy him! And I’m here with Terina, your war-king’s daughter!”
I have to back up when he hacks at my face again with renewed viciousness, almost falling on my back as I trip over brush. My nanites are trying desperately to do Stage One repairs, but he keeps cutting and stabbing me before the prior wounds can finish closing (and each one leaves me with a burning mesh of Tech-Scar). I have to fight back, just to hold him off. I should be stronger than he is, so I aim my blows at his weapon, try to jar it out of his grip, get him on the defensive, discourage him. But this only enflames him.
He’s fast—maybe as fast as Azrael and the Ghaddar. I can barely track him. He gets the butt of his weapon into my jaw. And then I’m down on my knees because he’s stabbed me through the left calf.
“If you’re Katar, I’m a friend!” I sell poorly, because I’m hacking at him with all I’ve got while I say it. He’s making me really fight him. I could hurt him, kill him. But every time I hesitate, hold back, his blade bites into me again, adding to my damage, overtaxing my systems, lacing more of my body with Scar, making it harder and harder to move. “Terina is here! She’s here!”
I try to indicate the direction of the Spine Range, but I realize he probably took it to mean Chang has his princess, and possibly because of me. He actually increases the ferocity of his attack, slams my sword out of my grip, nearly breaks my jaw, jabs me in the throat, and then stabs me in the upper right chest, pushing me back off my feet and pinning me to the ground. I grab the shaft of his weapon, struggle for control over it, even wrapping my legs around it. He flips around partially on top of me, getting purchase closer to his blade-point, driving it in, through me into the ground, twisting. I try punching him—his facial bones flex like plastic. I go for his eyes. His leg wraps over and pins my arm down away from his face.
“Where is my daughter?!” he growls at me.
Oh.
Hell.
“…safe…” I try to say, but he’s injured my voice box, so I can only rasp. “…close… She’s…”
He backhands me with an armored fist. I taste blood.
“Where?!”
I can’t even point.
“…Black Clothes… had… We… rescued…”
He shifts a knee down onto my throat, choking me… How does he expect me to answer…?
I CAN HELP YOU.
…blacking out… hallucinating…
LET ME HELP YOU. GIVE ME YOUR HAND.
…voice in my head… shock… can’t keep up with Stage Two…
GIVE ME YUR HAND.
…how can I give you my hand if I can’t…
I let go of the blade twisting in my chest, flail out with my right hand… like I’m going to find a solution in the undergrowth...
Hallucinating, I feel the ground heave.
My enemy jumps back off of me like he’s been scared by something, tearing his weapon out of my chest. I think the undergrowth next to me is moving, pushing up… One of Chang’s bots? I can’t see…
TAKE ME. JOIN WITH ME.
Flailing, my hand does find something to grab, something sticking up out of the ground, and it immediately cuts into my fingers. I feel metal grate on bone and a shock goes up my arm, fire and electricity. But I can see (and almost breathe).
Sticking up out of the ground, out of the growth, is a new sword. I’ve got it by the stout double-edged blade. It’s slicing me to my reinforced bones, passing effortlessly through my gloves, my flesh, but I can’t let go. I pull it up out of the ground. It falls across me like a body, heavier than I thought it would be. I do the obvious thing, fumble around until I find the hilt, take hold of it…
And then I’m screaming because my entire body is lightning and fire.
But my enemy is backing up, backing away. Eyes wide. Terrified. Of me? What…
He’s raising his weapon, his guard, planting himself for a fight.
My brain floods then. I’m bombarded by thousands of images of violence, but I can feel them, feel myself doing them, fast, strong, efficient, lethal… I look at my enemy, catalogue every move he’s shown me, flash on dozens of ways to beat him, to kill him. And I want to kill him. I’ll enjoy it. He needs to pay for doubting me, for not listening. He needs to pay for hurting me. He needs to die for it.
I get up, hold my new sword in front of me, show it to him: It’s so beautiful, perfect—a fine artwork of elegance and brutality. So much better than my old one. It feels so good in my hand. It’s part of my hand. Part of me.
KILL HIM. NOW.
What?
The sword drags me forward, makes me advance. I realize I’m suddenly fully patched, my nanites somehow boosted through Stage Two and into Stage Three at an accelerated rate. And I feel stronger. Much stronger.
KILL.
And it shows me again how to do it, like it can teach me in a flash-download of VR, like…
It’s a machine. It’s not just a sword. It’s nanotech. Maybe AI. And it’s wired itself into me, body and mind. Trying to take over…
“No!”
&nbs
p; I WILL HELP YOU. I WILL MAKE YOU EVERYTHING YOU WANT.
I take another involuntary step forward, move the blade to strike.
“Run!” I shout at my opponent. “You need to run! Now!!”
He doesn’t budge, reinforcing his stance against his shaken resolve, either paralyzed with fear or too stubborn in his sense of honor to flee.
I redirect the blade, hack it into a nearby Graingrass trunk. I expect it to slice clean through, but it sticks in the leg-thick stalk. And the tree begins to shrivel, to desiccate. I feel more power, more strength, flowing up my arm. It’s agony in my veins, but it feels so good. But somehow it’s lacking. And I know what would feel unimaginably better…
“RUN!!!”
He does, his eyes giving me a flash of gratitude for my effort, maybe even respect.
The sword hacks around me in a whirlwind, as if I’ve angered it. It kills more plants, drains them. It’s feeding us both. But it’s unsatisfied. It needs something more. It makes me need something more. The need starts to hurt, right down to the marrow of my bones…
“You need to kill something?” I try asking it. Then offer: “All right… Maybe I have someone in mind…”
The sword stops its reaping dance, seems to settle in my grip (but I can’t let go of it).
PLEASE WAIT WHILE I FINISH YOUR UPGRADES.
I open my eyes to sky.
I’m on my back in the undergrowth. The sun tells me that it’s still morning. (I can only assume it’s still the same day.)
I seem to be lying in a shallow rut, an impression in the ground that’s shaped the way I’m sprawled, as if I somehow sank into the dirt and rock.
I manage to sit up. My body doesn’t feel like mine. It reminds me of how I felt after my implantation, but more intense. Every system seems to be overcharged, overpowered.
The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades Page 16
