The Goddess Gambit

by B Michael Stevens

  "From this far they look like insects," Jon mumbled aloud, squinting at the workers.

  "They are insects," Max guffawed. Jon turned, confused, and saw that Max was looking down, not out, at the Shanty below. Jon didn't answer but looked down at the sprawl below them—something he hadn't done very often. And with good reason. Where the Ziggurat, the ramp, and the monuments represented the best of humanity, the Shanty represented the worst. From this high vantage, Jon could not tell if the little moving dots were pure, Unpure, Drop-trash, or human refugees. He shrugged. It didn't matter. From up here, they all looked equally filthy. They all looked to be a drain on the Republic’s resources; a threat to the survival of the pure species. He supposed that once the Harvesters were beaten for good, the pure human refugees could, and hopefully would, return to their farms in the Rough. He hoped that when that day came, the Rough would no longer be the Rough anymore. It would be Home.

  "They do live like animals," Jon admitted.

  "Trash... crime. It's disgusting," Carbine added.

  Max scoffed. "Worse than that. It's a haven for esoterror. Any one of them down there, or maybe every one of them down there, are enemies of the state. Just waiting to attack another convoy or spread their Strange, making all of us Unpure. Can you imagine what would happen if they got inside the Zigg?"

  "You aren't wrong. I just… I don't know. Wish there was a good solution," Jon mused.

  "There is a good solution, sir. I, for one, can't wait to see what the Chairman has in mind." Max grinned. Jon thought about it and worried about his lack of enthusiasm when suddenly the MP called to them.

  "You're clear!"

  Phew.

  A minute later, Jon and his squad had left the Ramp's top-level checkpoint and were cruising down the highway that spanned the Shanty. Max's words and his musings on the people who occupied the ever-growing refugee camp that surround his beloved city plagued him, just as the Lily Sapphire episode had the day prior. Snap out of it, Jon! You're riding now. Your first real assignment. This isn't a field drill. This is the real thing. Everything you have worked for, lived for. He shook off the troubling thoughts and focused on the road ahead, along with its promise of adventure. Carbine may be right. Assigned to the 23rd but getting to assist the 51st. It is an honor...

  The slope of the highway became more pronounced, more noticeable, signaling the beginning of their gradual descent. Another twenty minutes or so and they would be on the ground. I think. While he and Carbine had been 'outside' many times throughout the years—field training exercises into the western mountains, practice patrols in the northern farmlands—this was only the second time he had ridden the highway out south. South was serious business. South meant action. He had arrived.

  His memory proved to be accurate. At around the 15-minute mark, he saw the twin towers that guarded the base of the highway ramp draw close. His squad passed under frames of metal, littered with small clusters of sensors that looked like oversized versions of the antennae on a Handler’s helmet. As they sped along, Jon caught the blinking lights going off in several of them, signaling in green hues that he and his men were both expected and cleared to pass without delay. And so, without so much as slowing down, let alone showing their orders to the guards up ahead, they exited the ramp at last and tore off down the earthbound highway stretching off into the distance.

  Having cleared the stench of the Shanty, Jon raised the visor of his riding helmet. The armor that they wore was a technologically advanced suit of battle armor that fully protected the wearer from hostile environments when the face-plate was attached. It was capable of filtering biological and chemical weapons and could even go into vacuum, underwater, or enable the wearer to enter a hostile atmosphere for up to a half-hour, due to a small built-in reserve tank of breathable air. Although the suit's air smelled bad, Jon thought it a small price to pay compared to possible death. The suit also boasted such features as a heads-up display, which assisted with targeting in the visor, damage control materials, shock absorbers, and built-in storage compartments.

  While not one of the more heavily armored units in the Republic Military, the mechanized infantry special, Easy-Rider detachment of the 23rd Mechanized Infantry, the motorcycle units, were quite versatile. Their bikes were built of the same lightweight armored alloys that had made the Republic’s Mecha and tanks so successful in their sorties against the supernatural invaders from the Drops. The bike's engine was fusion-driven, super quiet and could run indefinitely without needing refueling. Capable of speeds up to 200 kph, the bikes were also rated as all-terrain vehicles, equipped with a booster that could give enough juice to cause the bike to leap and float for several seconds. Decked out with communication and recording equipment and a wide variety of attached ordinance, the Easy-Rider units had proved to be accomplished scouts and lightning-quick strike units. In addition to recon and blitzkrieg, the units were also being utilized in search and rescue operations. Overall, since they had been introduced to the theater of operations almost ten years ago, the units had enjoyed a very successful career. Now that the New Breed pilots were being married to the equipment, many in the Republic were excited to see what the results would be.

  The air was brisk, and later at sundown, it would be downright freezing. It was close to Holiday and the New Year, and the weather in the country surrounding Home could be downright brutal, though Jon felt blessed not to be assigned to the northeastern territories, which saw much colder winters than even the mountains west of Home.

  He breathed deep of the cold air and allowed himself to forget about the events of the last couple of days. Slowly he felt better about the whole thing, slowly accepting that any bizarre and inexplicable feelings he’d had during his encounter with Lily Sapphire had been nothing more than a product of her sorcery.

  The witch. Anger began to bubble up from somewhere deep inside, but he caught it and let it go.

  Nothing extraneous, in mind or body. He reminded himself of his battalion's motto, and to be strong-minded. And with that, the thought of Lily vanished into the air along with the dust his bike kicked up. He and his men motored on into the day.

  By late afternoon the rebuilt ancient highway had given up the ghost and gave way to a well-worn dirt road, often used by Republic troops as they headed to their various outposts. They were still in the Near Rough and would be for another day’s ride. This close to Home there were several human-occupied outposts where people still lived and farmed, where they fended for themselves rather than pull up roots and make for the Shanty. Not as many as there were to the east and north of Home, but a few. The main dirt road often had smaller roads branching off it, no doubt leading to some of these enclaves, but Jon and his boys would be headed south-south, were the Near bordered the Far.

  According to the dispatch orders, the 51st had bivouacked near the outskirts of the Glass Forest. The ruined city had been a hotbed of Harvester activity in times long past, the Republic having cleared the threat from there before Jon was born, during the first campaign. Once they met up with the 51st, they would receive their specific mission details from the unit's colonel. Jon wondered what exactly was in store for him and his men. Time would tell.

  By early evening they had met up with the 51st. The company had built their impromptu tent city—like parts of the Shanty, but in a nice, clean, garbage-free military grid—at a crossroads that ran northeast/southwest and east/west. Even when they were over a kilometer away, Jon could make out row after row of stationary Mecha. The setting sun gleamed a brilliant amber off their armored hides. The infamous Mechs; the Heavies. The tool that’d helped Accoba Warbak and his inner circle stand their ground against the darkness. Nothing to date that had stepped foot outside a Drop and invaded Earth could withstand the might of the Heavies, not even the Harvesters, which were by far the most organized of all Invasives. The Mech coupled the mobility of a Hopper with the firepower of a tank, sacrificing very little of either. Vaguely humanoid in shape, the gargantuan knights virt
ually bristled with firepower. Short-range missile launchers decorated their shoulders; their arms were massive .950 JDJ-caliber machine guns, fully automatic. Variations existed—some wielded claw-like clamps, others flamethrowers. Most had thrusters built into their backs, enabling them to maneuver nearly as nimbly as the Hoppers, leaping, almost flying over any obstacle in their path. They truly were the pride of the Republic.

  When the road neared the camp proper, Jon lost sight of the parked Heavies, only catching glances of the tips of one's shoulder-mounted weapon pods here and there. Hoppers patrolled the perimeter. A pair of them—Jon winced, hoping to every force in the universe that they weren't Hegna and Chad—met them as pulled up.

  "Report," one called out as Jon and squad halted.

  Not Hegna. Good.

  Jon did as ordered and reached into one of his suit’s cargo compartments, producing his N-Tab and handing it to the questioning soldier. A quiet minute passed as the guard read Jon's orders. Finally, the man nodded and returned the device. He pointed down the trail and told Jon where to meet the camp’s master sergeant up ahead. Jon thanked him and then motioned for his men to follow.

  They lowered their speed to a crawl and made their way through the outskirts of the camp towards Command HQ. Jon was immediately taken aback by the lack of disciplined behavior from many, if not most of the soldiers that he saw. There appeared to be much carousing, drinking, and even a few brawls. Jon spied a fair amount of non-military women fraternizing with the soldiers, more than a few of which who were Drop-trash and looked less than happy to be there.

  "What the fffuuuh...?" he mused to himself. He glanced over his shoulder to Carbine, who flanked him on the left.

  Carbine had a sort of puzzled/disgusted look on his face, one eyebrow raised, and threw Jon a jerky little upward nod, as if to say, "Yeah, I see it too."

  Jon ignored the tough guys who stood up to come check out the fresh meat and tried not to look too concerned at the antics of the men in the camp. He kept up his stony face and guided his squad to the motor-pool and spoke for all of them to the Master Sergeant who ran the place.

  "Lieutenant Jon 310-257, reporting in. I request that my men's bikes be racked up and further require an opportunity to check in with the Colonel." The Master Sergeant threw Jon a salute, which Jon promptly returned.

  "Yessir," the man said with an accent that betrayed his origins to be somewhere in the southern Far Rough. "We've been expecting you. I will take care of your bikes. You can go here to receive accommodations." He handed Jon a little folded paper with a diagram showing where things like the mess hall and sleeping tents could be found. "If you follow this path right here, it will take you to HQ." He leaned out from the motor-pool tent’s archway and gestured to a rope-framed walkway that meandered off through the labyrinth of tents.

  "Thank you, Sergeant, that'll be all." Jon dismissed the man with another salute.

  Jon turned to his team. "Okay boys, you go check in with the quartermaster, then get some chow. I'm going to report in with Command and see what's up around here." He handed Carbine the map.

  "Thank the Chairman!" Carbine exclaimed. "I'm starving!"

  "Ow, c'mon man," Quiteke replied. "You always hungry."

  Carbine instinctively covered his belly with his hands and frowned. "Yeah? And you don't eat enough, skinny boy! You don't even know me, dude! You don't know my life story!"

  Jon left the foolery behind, making his way to the command tent, on the way passing a couple of drunken soldiers who called out to him, offering him a sip from their bottle.

  "No, thank you," Jon replied through tight lips, his jaw firm. "I'm on duty."

  "Wooo! We got us a proper one!" The two men burst into mocking laughter. Jon shook his head in disgust, feeling his cheeks flush, and carried on before the situation could escalate.

  They called after him, but he walked on, ignoring them as he hurried to find the command tent. The entrance was flanked by two armored troopers who seemed to be the only ones in the camp who were taking their job seriously.

  Jon stopped, saluted as he came to attention, and gave his name, rank, and purpose.

  The men moved their rifles from the guard position to one of passivity, bringing each weapon to rest on their shoulders, and executed a right- and left-face turn respectively, signifying that Jon was now granted passage into the tent.

  The inside of the tent didn't look like what Jon had expected. In his mind, he had anticipated all sorts of screens and maps, Intelligence officers discussing maneuvers and enemy troop locations, but instead, he was greeted with what resembled a bachelor pad. One man was wielding a set of tongs at a BBQ grill on the far side of the tent, near an open flap. Another was playing what appeared to be a video game at a computer station alongside the wall of the tent, while the last was getting up to greet Jon from a ragged couch, on which lay a half-naked, red-skinned girl. Other than her bright red skin, which betrayed her Invasive origins, the girl looked very human and also very young. Questionably young. She glanced up from the couch into which her face had been pushed, presumably the moment before Jon arrived. It was hard to tell, thanks to the hue of her skin, but it appeared that she had been crying; her eyes were puffy, and there was what Jon guessed to be clear snot running out from her nostrils. Jon thought he saw a white plastic zip-tie binding her wrists together and was trying to get a better look when the man who had gotten up from the couch stepped in front of him and addressed him.

  "You must be Jon." The man smiled and spoke with the same southern territory drawl as the Master Sergeant had.

  "Sir, yes sir!" Jon snapped to attention, recognizing the rank of Colonel pinned to the man's lapel. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt a rush of adrenaline hit him.

  "Welcome to the Rough, Lieutenant. I'm Colonel Taylor. Over there is Captain Jackson." The man at the BBQ waved two fingers. "Come walk with me." The Colonel stepped towards him and placed his hand on Jon's shoulder, ushering him to turn around and walk outside.

  Jon couldn't resist a glance back into the tent. He saw the girl lock eyes with him. She looked like a scared animal. He glimpsed the man from the BBQ cracking a fresh beer and walking towards the couch just as he was ushered outside by Taylor into the light of an electric torch pushing back the night outside.

  'Somethin' botherin' you, son?" Colonel Taylor inquired in a menacing tone.

  "Sir? Um. No, sir, it's just that girl..." Jon stammered.

  "Girl?" Taylor practically choked, his eyes widening. He recovered and then smiled his creepy smile again. "Girl? She ain't a girl. That's a human term. That little bitch in there is just Drop-trash meat." The colonel peered at Jon, watching his reaction.

  Caught off guard somewhat, Jon just stared back, his lips parted. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He forced a noise somewhere between a laugh and cough. "Yeah, I know... I was just gonna say..." Jon started but lost where he was going.

  "Gonna say what, son?"

  "I was just gonna say that you're gonna have to clean the trash stink off your couch later." Jon forced a laugh.

  The Colonel considered him for a second and then resumed his walk with Jon under his arm. "Dammit Boy! You're all right!" He laughed out loud. "I like you, son. You're gonna fit in fine here."

  "Oh. Great!" Jon managed, swallowing guilt and confusion.

  "So, looky here, son. We have been looking into rumors of hostile Invasives in the area for some time now."

  "Harvesters?" Jon inquired.

  Colonel Taylor raised a single eyebrow. "Well now, wouldn't that be a problem, this far north and all? People might be inclined to panic. Maybe even question the effectiveness of this here military. That wouldn't do at all. But don't you go thinking that we aren't being extra careful, just in case. We have sent three squads of Heavies into the Glass Forest east of here and just last week sent an EOD unit to help them look for booby traps. If there is any activity in these parts, say, bandits or whatnot, they would most likely be setting up shop
in the Forest. But now, in case we are looking at a Beastie, we have patrols going out into the hinterlands as well, you follow? So here you come in. We got us a distress signal three days ago from a village near here. A Republic-protected, human farming community. When we showed up there yesterday, there whatn't nobody there. The whole damn town. E'ry one of 'em. Gone. Like a fart in the wind. Ya follow me?" the Colonel asked as they walked through the camp.

  "Sir, yes sir!" Jon answered.

  "Now that farming town is just south of here, maybe an hour's ride. We searched it thoroughly but couldn't find any clues as to the whereabouts of them villagers. So, tomorrow morning, I'm splittin' the company up into eight squads. We will each set out in a different direction and see if we can't find the villagers or at least the perps that took 'em. Follow?"

  "Yes, sir. We will find them and bring them to justice, sir."

  The Colonel frowned and stopped walking again.

  "Listen here, son. We don't need to be wasting time and resources with prisoners. You find the monsters that took 'em, you take 'em out, ya hear?"

  Jon nodded at his superior in silence.

  "I said, ya hear?" the colonel insisted.

  "Sir, yes sir. I hear, sir." Jon set his jaw and clenched his teeth.

  Taylor slapped him on the back, making Jon lurch. "Good! Good. Now, get yourself some grub ‘n some rest, a'ight?" The Colonel left Jon at that point, standing in the middle of the multitude of tents, and he walked on back to his own without another word or backward glance.

  What the hell have I been born into? Jon wondered; a small seed of despair lodged itself into his heart and began to germinate.

  This wasn't how I thought it would be.

  The top floor of the Ziggurat was over a kilometer and a half from the surface of the earth beneath it. There, in the center of that floor, surrounded by a several-meters-thick armored wall, was a garden as big as a city block. The garden was luxurious, idyllic. A man-made river—working off a series of pumps and drains—ran through a forest under a reinforced ceiling of steel and artificial sunlight. Despite the gurgling of the stream, the forest was quiet enough to hear the chirping of birds and the soft footfalls of the deer that wandered the park.