by Lee Bond
Ute, still humming, pulsed a probe outward, looking for signs of life from the oddly rippling shadows. Nothing confirmed yet, but there were … hints … of a centralized location of consciousness. It dawned on Ute that he should've stolen a Goddie combat utility belt, but then again, he'd never really considered the possibility of running into Heavies. Ute motioned to the leader, prompting the cagey warrior to come back and dance some more.
***
Kaptan Innit, moodily caressing the blue stone in his chest and not-so-secretly regretting every choice he’d made in his life since coming to join the Specters –up to and including mentoring one Garth Nickels in the proper art of war- looked up at the nearest monitor once alarms decided to ruin his quiet reverie.
He watched, open mouthed and more than a little dumbfounded, as cameras driven by some fairly sophisticated and high-ranking AI minds failed to deliver unto him more than a mere approximation of combat. Sidescreens blazed and burned with supplemental data streaming from the Heavy Elites and their connected support systems; Barnes was down and would likely remain that way for more than a week, all of her internal organs completely ruptured, the only thing keeping her alive being the tenacious virus that’d turned all of her bones into the shimmery opalescent deposits that made her bite so vicious.
Moorehouse was missing a hand, the pain sending his vitals into redline with every pulse of a heart; that moment, he was panicking, hastily attempting to apply a temporary hemovac-bandage over the bloody stump and failing miserably.
Sliverslick was presently sailing through the air, stomach also a fiery mess of ruptured skin and heavily abused organs. Lifesign monitors indicated that the Heavy was doing better than his other two comrades, but that would only hold true so long as the Specter somehow contrived to avoid slamming into either the ceiling or –failing that- the ground, which was terribly far away. And that was assuming the Goddie in the middle –moving so fast and furiously now that the fucking AI-driven cameras were having to wireframe him into place- didn’t decide to swarm on over and drive a size eighty armor-plated foot on his head.
Still, all wasn’t lost. Cronkite was injured –also in the stomach, though it appeared the fine bones of one wrist were fractured, no doubt from that nasty-looking hammer- but gearing up for round two. Evershot –once he picked his damnfool ass up off the ground- would theoretically be able to fire some of his deadly bullets and in the background, lurking like a deadly dream, was Black Angus.
Everything was still under control. Moorehouse’d get back in the game as soon as he stopped himself from bleeding to death. Cronkite was pretty stern. Black Angus, in his dread aspect, was nearly impossible to hit, let alone injure. Evershot was too far away to get hit with any random blow, and the soldier in the middle wasn’t even packing any weapons other than the hammer.
“This is fine.” Innit rumbled softly to himself. “This is … computer. Give me an actual fucking face for that fucking God soldier or I’ll rip you out and test your offensive weaponry for shits and giggles!”
It took a few seconds for the AI to comply, during which time Cronkite took a prote-arm to the side of the head that sent the Heavy reeling into the side of the escape pod, but when Innit got a good, long gander at the features of the God soldier quietly and certainly murdering his Heavies, the commander for Trinity’s Assembled Army nearly shat himself inside out.
“FUCKING CHRIST IN A FUCKING SIDECAR DRINKING MARTINIS!” Innit barrelled through the wall of his offices. He needed to get to Bay 7 as fast as inhumanly possible.
Onboard systems suggested several different paths to achieve this goal, adroitly skipping the most obvious. The displaced God soldier, lost to The Cordon for thousands of years before being rescued by Commander Aleksander Politoyov, angled himself for the nearest bulkhead that was also in a direct path to Bay 7. “MOTHERFUCKING UTE TIZHEN! FUCK MY LIFE.”
***
Ute allowed Cronkite to move closer, reluctant to end a doughty opponent's life so swiftly that he had no opportunity to showcase his skills; many of the newer God soldiers -especially those freshly embraced into Harmony- proclaimed their intention to destroy all comers in as short a time as possible, but Ute and the Fours held fast and true to old values. No soldier who took another's life without giving them courtesy on the field of battle was truly valiant.
The Goddie saw tendrils of desperation in the Heavy's scarred face, felt the cybernetically enhanced Specter's internal systems pull more power from batteries that by no means possessed the power to maintain increased speed and strength for overlong, caught sight of muscles twitching in response to the augmented capabilities.
Saw all this, and grinned, his broad, homely face lighting up with enjoyment. It'd been too long since he'd had a truly worthwhile fight, and this one finally seemed to be shaping up to be fairly decent.
Cronkite dismissed the lunatic grin on the Goddie's face as just that: signs of utter madness. He pressed into the Latelian soldier's personal space, deadly glass swords casting those same lurid, red shadows on his enemy's massive body. Speed and strength trembled through his body, power needing an outlet, so as the Goddie stepped briefly to the left, the Heavy brought one sword high overhead with the intent of skewering the man's neck, the other sword being brought low, destined towards the theoretically soft guts.
Only to find one hand closing tightly around the hand holding sword aimed at those guts, with the other sword clashing with -and bouncing off with a resounding, bone-jarring clang- the fiendish hammer. Shards of glass lit with frenetic, fading lightning burst from the center of the sparking blade, raining down over both men, a razor-sharp shower of glittering flakes.
"No more swords for you." Ute said apologetically, wrenching upwards with his prote-arm, literally dragging the Heavy melee combatant upward until they were both eye to eye, sole remaining weapon held even higher aloft. With a bit of a sad smile, the Goddie squeezed with all his strength, turning the unnamed Heavy's wrist and forearm into microfine dust.
Cronkite yowled lustily, black pain threatening to steal his consciousness away, fingers reaching towards his sole remaining sword even as it fell from those very same fingers, feeling the familiar slickness trickle past scarred fingertips. Before his very eyes, the smug Goddie twitched quickly, driving his hammer into the falling sword to piledrive it directly into Bay 7's deck.
As brilliant flakes of particulate sprayed upwards, flickering morosely with pale red light, Moorehouse -having successfully applied the loathed hemovac bandage- was kicked off his feet once more as the deck started rolling from Ute's titanic downward slam, a wobbly metal ocean dashing a boat against the rocks; the beleaguered Heavy flipped head over heels, smacking his head hard enough on the rolling deck plates to crack the skull.
He lay there, choosing for the moment to reflect on life and all it's wonders.
Sliverslick, finally on the descent from his surprising -and unwanted- aerial acrobatics, managed to gain control of his body as he fell. Using his powerfully enhanced speed and agility to choose his path downwards, the Heavy opted to aim himself directly at the fucking Goddie. Intent on drilling his feet into the massive soldier's face, thereby allowing Cronkite -now weaponless- and Moorehouse -laying on the ground like a child- to regain some kind of dignity.
This was going to work out very well, yes. Very well indeed.
***
Evershot danced back and forth, combat data streaming endlessly across Cordon-augmented eyes. Of all the Heavies currently attempting to bring down a single God soldier, he was the most suited to handle the phenomenal speeds their impressive enemy was showcasing for them today; robotic eyes running software so advanced that the blocky titan moved through treacle continually tracked and monitored everything in eyesight, going so far as to trap the as-yet unengaged Black Angus into a slowly wavering shadow.
Which was disconcerting. When he was running on all gears and full barrel, ready to drill the opposition with one or more -rarely was more than a single bullet
needed, but it did happen from time to time- of his beautiful bullets, the whole world was frozen solid, a gorgeous, immobile tableaux that was honestly his preferred view of the … everything.
To his eyes, Cronkite was frozen mid-scream. Lightning played around the Heavy commander's feet, the air around them both was caught up with flickering, nearly gossamer cotton candy red clouds, the deckplates shivered mid-ripple. Somewhere in the upper range of his peripherals, Sliverslick was caught mid-air, scheming eyes narrowed to points.
There. Now. The God soldier was twisting slowly, clearly -from projected data analysis of recorded movements already stored on combat drives- intending to toss Cronkite, who's scarred face was twisted into glacial agony, into the back wall where Black Angus lurked, preparing himself for attack.
Evershot licked his lips, slotted a round, this one a virulent green that spat sickness into the air, turning flecks of light into diseased rottenness.
This'd be over soon. Evershot had yet to meet something capable of surviving a sickshot. He himself would pay the price for manifesting something as deadly as this, but there was no other choice. The Goddie needed to go down.
The Heavy pushed his mech-systems further, faster, harder. He needed to slow the world down further still. No matter the consequences.
There. The Goddie turned into a frozen statue.
Evershot pulled the trigger…
***
Kaptan Innit wished he could scream as he sped through the void towards where Bay 7 was moored to Tarterus; cybernetic intellect still connected to the space station's cameras in that area, Innit could scarcely believe what he was seeing. That the Goddie handing asses to the Heavies deployed to deal with any possible threat was Ute was undeniable, but the sheer speed with which he moved was nearly inconceivable.
It appeared as if the God soldier had undergone some serious upgrades since the Shield had gone up. One or two Heavies versus a God soldier would almost definitely see the Goddie coming out on top, especially one that'd hit Foursie status.
But six on one? Even if it was Ute Tizhen, the old bastard should've been pinned to a wall by now, head pulled clean, limbs on the ground, cavernous cybernetic heart stomped on.
Faint tremors of concern passed through Kaptan Innit.
***
Several things pinged simultaneously on Ute's Harmonically driven cybernetics; first, he felt a pinch of space off to his left which was immediately verified by systems as a bullet, of unspecific but deadly variety, flying right at him, two, the broiling blob of shadows hugging the walls flexed suddenly, sending warnings throughout various levels of consciousness, third, the quick-as-lightning Heavy who had yet do anything remarkable was en route back down to earth and fourth, at the furthermost regions of his awareness, a half-organic, half-metal form was hurtling through the breach of space.
That last struck Ute's avatars as the most worrisome but least … pressing.
The handless Heavy was down for the count a second time, having most likely crushed the back of his skull on the decks only a few moments ago, requiring no further thought from Ute until or unless he specifically re-engaged, which seemed … unlikely.
So. First things first. While he was still deciding what, specifically, he planned on doing with the Heavy in his hands, Ute deployed a veritable raft of high-density scatterlogic bombs into the virtual atmosphere of the bay, specifically targeting the speedster intent on driving his feet into one poor, humble God soldier's forehead.
Quickly adapting to the linguistic parameters in use throughout Trinityspace thanks to a little bit of Harmonic nudging -and a whole lot of Intel left behind by Garth Nickels- the nasty code bombs tripped zero of Sliverslick's onboard antiviral programs and promptly shredded the primary control mechs giving the speed demon his speed.
Mid-air, Sliverslick convulsed, throwing his descent pattern off by a considerable margin; instead of colliding with a handsome Goddie's immaculate face, the speedster would zoom past the towering enemy in a clatter of arms and legs, coming to a crushing stop some ten feet away.
If no other obstacles were providing...
Satisfied that the zippy little fellow required no further effort on his behalf, Ute's consciousness branched off to deal with both the onrushing bullet -which loomed in his HUD like a poisonous missile- and the Heavy in his hands; the latter was tossed easily on a trajectory that'd see him colliding with the speedster, at which time, the two men would be reintroduced to the thick deckplates, and the former...
The former required... special attention, if for no other reason than these Heavies needed to see just what a revitalized Goddie could get up to when motivated.
Off in the distance, Ute plainly made out the excited look on the shooter's wan face, and why should he not be celebrating early? The Cordon-augmented sniper rifle had launched the deadly poisonous round at a velocity that was awfully close to light speed. As far as that Heavy was concerned, there was nothing anyone could do, no matter how fast the enemy moved. The terrible, evil God soldier with the shocking array of powers would soon be dead, either from the bullet wound itself or whatever weirdness it was laced with.
He just didn't know it yet.
Pulling Harmony from the seat of his soul and channeling it through his prote-bearing arm, Ute Tizhen held out his hand and simply froze the bullet right where it was. Then, because no matter how powerful he was, holding a bullet moving at those speeds was more than a little difficult, Ute instead revved his own speed up further still, faster and faster until the shooter's roar of disbelief slowed into chunky blocks of indecipherable gibberish.
Off to his left, Ute felt the shadowmaster shifting, so it was time to help that Heavy off the board by doing nothing more complex than stepping backwards and releasing his hold on the deadly round at the same time.
***
Black Angus had never really enjoyed direct combat. Wasn’t his thing. Far better to be deployed in a city or other suburban setting with lots of shadows and corners to hide in, where he’d remain all but invisible until the time to strike came around.
Here, in Bay 7, there was barely enough room to move, the light beat down into his second, shadowy skin like remorseless stars bathing him in painful radiation, and his ‘friends’ were far, far too close to the target for anything he might do to be effective.
Not without causing them harm as well.
Since … since changing on the other side of The Cordon, he was a creature of darkness, not some … barroom brawler! He was better than this, he was magnificent. He could pull flesh from bones, whisper malaise into ears, slice throats with a blade of shadow…
Still, he’d been deployed by Kaptan Innit, and while he –and the rest of the Heavies, up to and including mostly pathetic Bulldog Barnes- were an order of magnitude beyond the old Specter’s skills and abilities, there was a weird combination of respect and fear –he’d been and probably still was the source of many nightmares for rookie Specters, and that kind of thing takes root and digs deep- that kept everyone following his orders without hesitation.
From his place on the walls, Angus considered the Goddie as best he could. It wasn’t easy, for the fifteen foot tall maniac was a speedy blur of motion, cybernetics and who knew what else allowing him to move so much faster than any of them could’ve ever dreamed, but with the special abilities of shadow and darkness under his command, Angus saw the soldier more efficiently than poor Cronkite, who kept attacking when it was clear he was outclassed.
Were he in his corporeal form, Black Angus would be rubbing the top of his skull in concern over the situation. There were no good ways to attack the Goddie. Leastways, not without risking collateral damage, and not to put too fine a point on it, there was no getting around the fact that most of the Heavies in the room were already hurt pretty badly.
Under normal circumstances, Black Angus had no issues leaving his comrades with a few friendly-fire cuts and scrapes but … the gamut of injuries was too severe to risk.
Bulldog
Barnes was still out of the game, and regardless of her vaunted regenerative skills, she’d still need a week or more to properly recover. That idiot Moorehouse was missing one quarter of an arm and was presently leaking brain juice all over the cold metal floors and Cronkite … Cronkite was gearing up to be killed any second.
The only other Heavy in the room was Evershot, and he was in the same boat; too powerful in all the wrong ways to be of any use in these types of quarters.
“This is a goddamn tragedy.” Angus’ voice was nothing more than the hint of a whisper, all sibilance and fingernails on chalkboards. “We’re getting our asses handed to us, here.”
But Angus remained vigilant, a thin layer of oily shadow stretched across the walls. Faint and furtive motion from the escape pod caught his attention, drawing speculative senses away from Cronkite and the Goddie –the former was getting his ass hoisted into the air while the latter was still humming that fucking song- just in time to catch sight of a tiny old man with a walking stick crawling surreptitiously upwards across the lip of the entryway carved into it, almost as if he’d been inside the reclaimed vessel.
“Well.” Angus might not be able to deal with the God soldier without bringing harm to any of his compatriots, but there'd be no such difficulties in bringing down one old man. He looked like he was ten thousand years old.
What kind of harm could an old man do?
Black Angus began shifting closer to the second escapee from Latelyspace, brain full to the brim with delicious thoughts of the horrors he’d visit upon the elderly fool.
Conscientious enough to keep part of his awareness trained on Cronkite and the others because that was how people got accidentally killed, there was just enough time for Angus to piece together the chain of events that'd occurred during the two second lapse in attention; Cronkite, flying towards Sliverslick, both men looking like fucking goofs, one of Evershot's deadly rounds, released, the Goddie, stepping back just enough to let the damned bullet zip by his massive chest…
