Shadowstrike

by T W Iain

  Keelin’s head jerked back, and she grunted. Murdoch shook his hand, wincing. But the pain didn’t wipe that sickening smile from his face.

  “Enya.” The NeoGen stepped closer. “Get rid of Harris. Permanently.”

  The NeoGen raised her arms, extending her talons. She looked down at Ryann, her breath warm and stagnant, and her thin mouth turned up at the edges. “With pleasure,” she growled.

  All this power, and she was impotent. These fine muscles, these deadly talons, these teeth that could tear flesh so easily‌—‌Keelin wanted to use them all to rip Murdoch apart piece by piece. She wanted to hear him scream in agony, to taste his cold, metallic blood as it flowed from the wounds she would inflict. She wanted to hear the crack of his bones and the squelch of his organs.

  But she couldn’t move. The pain behind her eyes drowned her. Even breathing was a struggle, left her drained.

  <‍This is how it should be done.‍> Enya’s voice bored through the pain, drilling into Keelin’s mind. The first NeoGen loomed over Ryann.

  Hands grabbed Keelin’s upper arms‌—‌Murdoch, trying to pull her round, trying to force her to watch.

  Because this wasn’t about giving or following instructions, not for Murdoch and Enya. They were enjoying themselves.

  <‍Keelin! Please!‍>

  Ryann’s voice tore into Keelin’s heart. She gulped air, the silent sob wracking her chest.

  Enya move in, slowly, savouring Ryann’s terror. The steady tread of her feet echoed through the floor. She pulled one arm back as she brought the other forward, reaching for Ryann’s head.

  Keelin knew this move. They’d both trained in it. One hand to hold Ryan steady, the other to rip into her chest.

  Keelin’s fingers twitched as her talons extended.

  Murdoch pulled at her, and this time she gave in to the pressure, allowed him to turn her.

  But she didn’t look at Ryann. Through the waves of nausea, she focused on Enya. On her body, her trace, and the possibilities they contained.

  Nothing was written in stone until it happened.

  The invisible band tightened around her head, but Keelin knew pain. Synapses firing, chemicals raging, pulses of power.

  Her muscles tensed. She felt the energy in that pain, and now she focused on it. She let it run through her, let it consume her. She welcomed it.

  Because it was only physical. It would never touch who she really was.

  She allowed the pain to grip her tight. Her body responded‌—‌lactic acid, adrenaline, a host of hormones all building up, ready to boil over.

  Enya’s hand shot forward, to Ryann’s neck, and Keelin let the pain and those chemicals ignite. She screamed, and her body unwound.

  Siren yelled every time she pulled the trigger. She swore, and shouted insults at the ghouls. Her weapon blurred in a constant heat-haze.

  Soldier, Piran and Eljin fired less frequently. They cursed under their breaths.

  The crate was beyond pitted now, a dark gash ripped in one of the plates. Siren shouted something about shooting them through the crate, which almost made sense to Deva.

  As much as any of this made sense.

  The ghouls returned fire. Hot air raced past Deva, and a storage unit door jerked open.

  Soldier spun to one side, out of the open hatch-way. Piran flattened himself to the floor. There was a flash and a spark by his arm, and he flinched.

  Eljin flew backwards. A red mist clung in the air as he fell, and something splashed against Deva’s arm. He thudded down on his back, arms wide. His weapon clattered beside him.

  A dark stain grew beneath his body.

  “No!” Piran shuffled across the floor of the Proteus and threw himself down beside the motionless Eljin. He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook. Eljin flopped, and when Piran pulled him tight, his head fell back, and Deva saw the pilot’s lifeless eyes.

  The pilot who was supposed to fly them out of this nightmare.

  She pulled her knees tight to her body, wrapped her arms around them, and pulled her head in close. As the metal around her once more came alive with gunfire, she waited for the end.

  Light clouds rolled across the sky above Brice. The grass brushed against his face. The sound of gunfire blasted from the far side of the Proteus, accompanied by metallic thuds.

  The ghoul didn’t move. He turned his head to watch it.

  He knew he should feel something, now that it was dead‌—‌now that he’d killed it. Pride, or even relief. Maybe hope, in the knowledge that they were not invincible.

  Instead he felt emptiness. The pain drained him. It was a struggle to keep his eyes focused.

  There was no way he could kill another of these things. And that meant he could no longer help his friends. He could no longer protect Piran and Eljin. Or Deva.

  A yell, or maybe a scream, erupted from the Proteus, and Brice shut his eyes to the images in his mind. But as shots peppered the Proteus, he couldn’t ignore what was happening.

  His body complained, but Brice rolled over, then pushed up onto his knees. His right arm hung by his side at an obscene angle. He was covered in blood, large portions of it his. And every muscle screamed as he tried to stand.

  The world spun, and Brice’s stomach clenched. He toppled forward, his left hand hitting the soil. He fell, the impact of his body on the ground nothing more than another sensation.

  The grass was sticky, stank of blood. But Brice didn’t have the strength to move.

  There was a crack as Siren fired again, and Deva looked up as the shot struck metal. Siren aimed again, looking along her weapon, and squeezed the trigger. But nothing happened. She tried to fire again, and a third time.

  Soldier fired a single shot, and Deva heard a sharp metallic ping from the crate.

  Siren cursed, dropped her weapon, and looked around. Then she crouched, scooting up a weapon that lay discarded on the ground.

  Eljin’s.

  Before turning back to the hatch, she kicked Piran. “He’s dead. Get shooting, or I’ll make sure you join him.” Then she brought her weapon up and fired out of the hatch.

  To one side of Deva, Piran yelled. He left Eljin on the ground as he rushed to the hatch, his face red, veins prominent in his forehead and down his neck. He held his weapon at his waist, and as he barged Siren to one side it jerked, sparks of heat bursting from the end.

  Siren stood by him, smiling manically. She fired, and there was another dull thud, another cheer exploding from her mouth. But then she lowered her gun and thrust one arm out, pointing. Sunlight glinted, light flickering into the cabin from something outside.

  “What the hells is that?”

  As the NeoGen’s fingers slid round Ryann’s neck, she squeezed herself back against the wall. She closed her eyes, waiting for the end.

  But it never came.

  There was a rush of air, a thud, then something crashed into the wall, sending tremors through Ryann.

  She turned, her eyes open. She had time to take in two grey shapes fighting, then a figure ran at her.

  Murdoch.

  He raced forward, his face hard, his fist clenched. His other hand was flat, and he planted this on the wall as he leaned in, bringing the fist down.

  But Ryann had a fist ready, too. As he stood over her she swung up, crying out.

  She wouldn’t have put it past him to wear some kind of protection, like a box. But he didn’t. And as her fist ploughed into his crotch, he doubled over, his fist sliding past Ryann.

  Not the most lady-like of defences, but Murdoch was no gentleman.

  Ryann pushed from the wall, her head slamming into his chin. Dots swam before her eyes, but he’d cried out, and fallen back.

  That gave her time to find her feet.

  Murdoch straightened out, now a couple of steps back. He brought a hand up to his nose, already darkening with swelling, and seemed surprise to see blood.

  But his eyes hardened when he turned his attention back to Ryann, and he rushed
in once more.

  Keelin knew she’d caught Enya off-guard‌—‌no way would the NeoGen have toppled so easily otherwise.

  But she hadn’t fallen to the ground. She’d slammed into the wall‌—‌she was still on her feet. And now, she spun.

  <‍Bitch!‍> The word stabbed into Keelin’s mind, and the band of pain tightened. Her vision blurred as Enya pushed away from the wall.

  Keelin side-stepped‌—‌not enough to avoid being hit, but it was only by Enya’s elbow. And in return she swung one foot, felt the boot crunch against something solid.

  Enya staggered, but rounded quickly. She stunk‌—‌Keelin was only aware of it now‌—‌a cloying combination of sweat and over-confidence.

  Keelin shook her head, losing the pain, using the moment to focus.

  They’d trained her. They’d taught her how to fight. They’d shown her what she was capable of.

  And when Enya pushed forward again, Keelin was ready. She ducked, Enya’s talons swiping the air above her head, and at the same time she thrust one arm out, fingers straight.

  They met pressure. Then there was warmth, and Enya cried out. The pain in Keelin’s head lifted, sufficiently for her to see the thick blood that ran down her own arm. It pooled at her elbow and dripped to the floor.

  Enya’s cry became a gurgle, and a stream of insults poured into Keelin’s head. Keelin looked up, just in time to see Enya’s arm come round again, talons primed.

  She had no time to respond, and those talons tore through the sleeve of her jacket and deep into her arm.

  Metallic explosions ricocheted off metal and echoed round Brice’s skull.

  He lifted his head, pushed his shoulders off the ground. The Proteus was a grey shiny blur. His friends were in that craft. He had to help them.

  Brice started to crawl. The grass was warm, then cold, and when he looked down his hands were red. There was a sharp, acrid stench, and his mouth was dry. He managed to bring a hand up to his cheek. He brushed free lumps of something that was stuck there, something still warm.

  He had no idea when he’d been sick.

  He crawled on. Metal glinted in the grass, and Brice reached out, his hand closing round the soft grip of Deva’s screwdriver. It was messy‌—‌somehow he was aware of that‌—‌but he pocketed it anyway. Then he crawled on, heading to the cool shadows under the Proteus.

  But the metal was hot, and Brice flattened himself to the ground. Harsh noise fell on him, sharp crashes, and the hull vibrated as he wriggled beneath it.

  Ahead was the ramp, a dark slab blocking his view. Brice changed course, aiming to the side of this. Dangerous perhaps‌—‌the occasional shot kicked up soil and grass‌—‌but he had to know what was happening. Then, maybe, he could figure out how to help.

  Brice told himself this, even though he knew it was a lie. There was no way he could help. Not against six armed ghouls.

  He rested when he reached the ramp, breathing heavily, his lungs aching. The grass was still sticky. Something dripped on his cheek from above. Siren shouted.

  Two more breaths, then he moved. He raised himself onto elbows now rubbed raw, and he shuffled to the edge of the ramp. With another breath, his heart pounding, Brice peered round.

  The crate had grown. That was his first thought. It was plainly nonsense, but the metal stretched out longer than he remembered it.

  A portion of the metal moved. Brice closed his eyes tight, shook his head to clear his vision.

  When he opened them, he knew they were not deceiving him.

  There was a strip of metal, taller than a person, sticking out from the crate, and it was getting closer. It moved slowly, but when Brice concentrated on its position in relation to the crate, he was certain.

  It was long enough for six ghouls to hide behind.

  A part of Brice’s mind still thought clearly. It doubted that the ghouls were poor shots, and so it stood to reason that they were firing on the Proteus not to kill, but‌…‌but to scare those within. And now, they were able to move closer. Then they would attack, killing with their bare hands.

  The metal looked the same as the crate, Brice realised, because it was the crate. The ghouls had ripped off a strip somehow. And they were using it as a barrier.

  He saw flashes as shots hit it, sparks that left imperfections.

  And then holes opened up in the barrier. They were small, and as Brice watched metal tubes protruded.

  He recognised them instantly. The barrels of weapons.

  The barrels flashed, and the Proteus over Brice’s head shuddered, as the barrier protecting the ghouls moved closer to the craft.

  Deva had no idea what Siren was shouting about, but she sensed the change in atmosphere in the Proteus.

  “Barrier.” Soldier punctuated that single word with a shot, the metallic thud an instant echo. “They’re going to come closer.” Another shot, and another thud.

  Deva looked out, and saw the sheet of metal that stretched from the crate. It shuffled closer. Holes opened up, and Soldier and Siren darted from the open hatch. Soldier pulled Piran back.

  Shots pelted the inside of the cabin, loud and fast. A couple of the storage unit doors jerked and bent. The air was sharp and warm, the burning stink of weapons barely masking the stench of sweat.

  Deva wanted to cry. This wasn’t fair! She’d managed to open the Proteus’ hatch, and she thought they’d be safe in here, behind the closed door.

  That was the answer!

  “We need to shut the hatch,” she yelled, throwing herself to the panel to one side of the opening.

  Siren was back on her feet, running through Eljin’s ammunition as she sprayed the metal barrier. “Stupid! We’ll never be able to stop them coming closer!”

  But Soldier nodded to Deva. “Leave it open a crack. Enough for a barrel.”

  Deva smiled, and released the panel’s catches. As it fell with a crash, she reached inside and turned the cog.

  The mechanism clunked, and she twisted her wrist, turning again. The hull vibrated with a metal-on-metal grinding sound.

  The hatch started to close.

  Murdoch came at Ryann fast, but instinct kicked in, and she turned. His fist grazed her stomach, forcing her to wince. She pushed, again by instinct, and he staggered.

  Ryann knew she should do more. She should fight. She should attack. But she’d never been a fighter. In training, she rarely won bouts.

  But this wasn’t training. This was survival.

  Murdoch kicked, and pain shot through Ryann’s left thigh. Her leg buckled, and she only stayed on her feet by planting one hand on the wall.

  Spittle flecked her face, and Ryann spun to find Murdoch inches from her, his jaw clenched, veins bulging in his neck. She felt rather than saw his fist racing forward.

  And she let one leg go from under her.

  As she fell, Murdoch’s punch sailed over her head. Ryann dropped, hitting his knee.

  She reached out and grabbed a leg as she hit the ground.

  Murdoch cried out. Ryann gripped the leg tight to her chest, arms squeezing it, and rolled as fast as she could.

  Murdoch thudded to the ground next to her. He cursed loudly.

  Ryann scrambled her legs, feet slipping on the floor. She twisted her body, brought it round, felt the man’s legs now beneath her. Still gripping tight, she twisted, put her whole weight behind the move.

  Something snapped. Murdoch’s yell was high-pitched. Ryann swallowed bile.

  She released his leg and shuffled away. His shiny black boot twisted at a sickening angle. The medic in Ryann knew he’d need a lot of work to fix that break.

  His features contorted into a grimace. His stink of sweat hung in the air, and when he cried out his breath was warm. One hand reached for his ankle.

  But beneath the grimace, his eyes shone.

  His other hand slid up his leg, but Ryann only noticed when it reached the bulge on his hip.

  The talons tore into muscle on Keelin’s arm, and the pa
in was excruciating. But it was only pain, and she could use that.

  She concentrated on the heat in her arm, and that reduced the hammering around her head, gave her clarity.

  Her own hand ripped free from Enya’s stomach, and in a flash Keelin saw the wound was not as deep as she first thought. To a NeoGen, it was little more than a scratch.

  <‍You’re going to pay for that!‍> Enya’s voice overflowed with hatred. Keelin glanced into her eyes, and there was no spark, no life. Only a black emptiness.

  Enya attacked.

  She came at Keelin like a dervish, twisting and spinning, arms and talons slicing this way and that. Sweat and blood flew from her body, a mist that helped mask her movements.

  But Keelin knew them. Enya’s training had been the same as her own.

  Keelin let her body react, twisting to avoid each attack. She danced to keep from contact. The muscle in her arm burned, and she pushed that fire through the rest of her body.

  Enya grunted. She lunged. She kicked, but Keelin was no longer where she had been. She back-handed one arm, but again Keelin had moved.

  Keelin pulled in air, felt the oxygen in her muscles depleting. She couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

  Enya spat wordless aggression into Keelin’s head. She attacked, relentlessly.

  Enya was stronger, and they both knew that. Keelin’s injury was more serious‌—‌that arm already swung ineffectually at her side, nothing but dead weight.

  But the fight wasn’t over yet. As Enya came at her, Keelin stayed in control. And when she saw an opportunity, she grabbed it.

  Her talons tore into the wound she’d made before, but this time Keelin pushed her arm harder. Enya shrieked as Keelin’s hand drove upwards.