The Goddess Gambit

by B Michael Stevens

  Her thoughts quickly shifted to the other duties available to citizens and that in turn led her to think of the missing line cook and his missing limbs. She shuddered. Maybe serving food isn't so bad after all. Her reflections rotating around her veteran coworker were beginning to take on a tone of worry. It wasn't like him to miss work, especially two days in a row. The café's manager noticed too and had told them all that if Miller didn't show up tomorrow, they would have no choice but to report his absence to the Ministry of Social Purity. It was possible that he had been the victim of some Strange or esoterrorist attack after all.

  Candice reached the now unoccupied table and sighed again. Spilled sauce everywhere, and a constellation of breadcrumbs. Slobs. She reached down and began gathering the dishes first, stacking them into and on top of each other as she cradled them in one arm and pressed their weight into her practiced hip.

  She had just nested the last bowl atop the mountain of cookware when she heard the screams, as voluminous as the cheers at a Lily Sapphire concert, but without the bright euphoria that came with a satisfied crowd’s outburst. These screams were icy cold, sharp, and laced with terror.

  The hairs of her arms and neck bolted upright as if she were about to be struck by lightning. Terrified at what she might see, but unable not to look, Candice raised her gaze over and out, across the table and through the window into the courtyard beyond. A herd of citizens was coming around the corner of the center core and running straight for her and the café. To a one, they were screaming at the top of their lungs. Candice froze up, trying to imagine why they would be screaming and running towards her.

  They aren't running towards... they are running from!

  A wave of green light surged around the corner as if the hallways and byways of the Ziggurat were nothing more than aqueducts, designed to funnel this very current. The wave of light quickly reached the heels of the screaming runners and overtook them. Their screams cut off into abrupt silence as they disappeared.

  The haunting silence was punctuated by the crash of dirty dishes that fell to the floor from Candice's limp arms the second before the wall reached the window and flooded the café.

  017

  SHAPIN' up to be a beautiful morning, Colonel Taylor thought to himself as he peered out the transport’s small viewport. I think I'll let in a little fresh air 'n sunshine. Turning around, he spied his guest of honor: the alien known as Umbra.

  It wasn't so much the long, light purple hair or the double-iris eyes that put Taylor on edge. It was the cool, ambush predator-like manner with which Umbra conducted himself. The way Umbra would stay silent and motionless yet retain an aura of a threat at the same time. He reminded Taylor of a scorpion that stood as still as a rock, allowing its smaller insect prey to scurry or crawl by, or even onto its body. Then, when the moment was perfect, it would spring into action as swiftly as a lightning strike, closing its wicked pincers, wounding and trapping its next meal.

  Taylor frowned. He preferred to be up-front. Head games were for politicians and womenfolk. If somebody or something was this unfriendly, then it needed prompt and effective fucking up. No waiting around for the right moment or feigning motives. One simply tossed every goddamned thing you had at the sumbitch till it stopped breathing or stopped working. That was the Army way. That was his way. And damn, it was a good day to be a soldier.

  "They got sunlight where you from?" Taylor asked.

  Umbra slowly turned and fixed the colonel with his alien gaze. "Of course," he said nonchalantly.

  "Well, then you won't mind if I just—" Taylor left his words unsaid and strode past Umbra to the fixed ladder that stood in the center of the command room like a column. He climbed the ladder to the transport’s vestibule and opened the top hatch by holding his hand in front of a fingerprint reader. There came a harsh buzz and flashing red light, and then the hatch popped open with a suck of air. Leaving his unnerving guest below, Taylor stuck his upper body out of the hatch and breathed in a deep lungful of the crisp mountain air. It was nice to be coming to Home, but Taylor hoped he wouldn't have to stay awfully long. He preferred the Rough. Fewer politicians, less bullshit. Out there, he was the lord of his kingdom.

  Despite the freedoms he enjoyed while commanding his men in the Rough, he still had to follow orders. Orders that stuck in his craw. Shit he didn't like all that much. Reminding himself of this fact, he turned around to view the bulk of his marching battalion. There, sandwiched on all four sides by marching phalanxes of Heavy Mecha was the thing that bothered him almost more than the purple-haired freak down below.

  A Harvester land-yacht.

  He didn't know what they called it in their language. If they even had a language. So, land-yacht it was. Though he supposed ‘tank’ or ‘transport’ would work just as good. It was roughly twice the size of his own command transport, the behemoth of a treaded vehicle that he currently rode in, though the land-yacht lacked tread. For that matter, it lacked wheels and any other ground-based means of locomotion. It wasn't the first flying transport Taylor had seen in his day—the Republic had a small fleet of flying warehouses, usually used to bring supplies to men stationed out in the Far Rough, or carry a platoon of Hoppers into a battle-zone farther away than their range could take them. No, the fact that this land-yacht wasn't ground-based wasn't what bothered him.

  It was the fact that it more floated than flew. About ten feet off the ground, soundless, frictionless, and with no visible means of propulsion, the alien vessel just floated along, matching the speed of Taylor's march. The shape of the yacht was unsettling too. Bulbous and curved, like a lumpy snail shell or giant beetle carapace that may have evolved in a radiation zone. The fact that it was at least symmetrical was the only natural-looking thing about it. No viable weapons, just a ring of levitating glass orbs, spinning above it like a crown of stars. Everything about the damn thing screamed alien. And Taylor liked to destroy alien shit, not escort it.

  Soon. A smile crept across Taylor's face as he daydreamed about the moment of truth coming up. When, on his order, the dozens of Heavies that presently marched beside and protected the alien transport would turn and unleash more firepower on it than there were devils in hell.

  He hadn't liked it when Chairman Warbak himself gave him his orders all those years ago to play into the Harvester's hands. Purposely letting them go, not engaging, hell, even allowing some of his men to fall to them. All to meet their quota, whatever the hell that meant. But he was, if nothing else, a soldier. And he followed his orders without question. Nevertheless, when the orders and instructions came down to him, explaining what his role in the Purge was to be, he’d felt a deep satisfaction. Warbak knew what he was doing after all. This was just a long game to lull Umbra and his alien Beasties into the lion's den. Once the trap was sprung, Umbra would be out of the way, leaving the Harvesters headless. Couple that with the new Spartan army and we will be unstoppable. Tartarus, the Harvester homeland, if it exists, will be ripe for the pickin'. Damn, it was a good day to be a soldier.

  "Sir!" Captain Jackson called out from below. "Sir, you’d better come down here." This had better be important. Taylor grunted and climbed back down from the vestibule, leaving the hatch open.

  "We are picking up some radio chatter from Home, sir."

  "Whoop-dee-do, Captain. We're only a couple hours from the southern highway. Radio chatter is to be expected."

  "Yes, sir," the captain agreed, then continued with, "It's just what they're saying, sir. There seems to be some trouble."

  Taylor nervously shifted his eyes to Umbra, trying to read the alien man's body language for any tells or signs. Umbra was as stoic as ever, a look of bored amusement on his porcelain face. His double eyes half closed like a sunbathing cat's.

  "The Purge?" Taylor inquired. “It wasn't supposed to happen until later, until we were closer.”

  "Sir, yes, sir," Captain Jackson reported. "It would also seem some esoterrorists have launched an attack on the obelisks. Hopper and S
crubber teams have been dispatched."

  Colonel Taylor saw Umbra's eyes narrow to knife-like slits and study him from the side. He gulped, then barked an order to his man.

  "Put it on speaker."

  A series of confused calls between radio dispatchers and last-gen soldiers began to filter in over the HQ transport’s speakers. Alone, they were disjointed and chaotic. Together, they wove a tale of New Breed soldiers transforming into metal demons, waves of light passing over the Shanty and into the Ziggurat, people screaming and then going radio silent. Somewhere in there one man gave a report of a man with a glowing hammer, a relic of a Mech, and a three-armed cyborg taking shots at one of the obelisks.

  "Turn it off," Taylor grunted. The captain did as commanded and the deck returned to the relative quiet of engine hum. "Put me through to the Chairman. Secure line."

  Colonel Taylor didn't have to see to feel the double eyes of Umbra, boring holes of suspicion into his back. He suddenly felt very much like a cricket, crawling over the body of a very still scorpion.

  Ratt felt the fire of pain spread through his body as he slammed onto the table. Random objects, some soft, most hard, poked and struck him as he rolled over the table's surface, only coming to a stop when he smashed into the wall at the far side. He supposed he should give thanks that Chad, or whatever Chad had become, had only picked him up and thrown him. Based on the ease with which the Spartan had done that, he guessed it would be no difficult task for the demon-bot to rip him in two. His face twisted in pain as every new bruise and cut sounded off in roll call, announcing themselves as he struggled to right himself and climb down off the table. The Spartan that had been Chad cocked its head and watched him for a second, and then began to march across the lab.

  "Get away!" Ratt screamed and pawed through the piles of stuff on the table, desperately searching for something, anything, that he could defend himself with. Where was that Colt? His hand felt cold metal and closed around it. He raised the unknown object, which turned out to be an 18" aluminum pipe wrench, just as the Spartan reached the table.

  Pushing through the pain as best he could, Ratt swung the pipe wrench with all his might. The head of the wrench contacted with the Spartan's skull and snapped clean off, skittering across the lab floor. Ratt's heart sank, even as his body rose. Once more, Chad lifted him from the table into the air and, twisting with all the speed and momentum of a trebuchet, flung Ratt back across the room and into the operating table in the center.

  Ratt would have screamed again, for such was the fear and pain he felt, but the edge of the table struck his diaphragm, cracking ribs and knocking the air out of him. He collapsed off the edge and fell to the floor like a discarded ragdoll, bringing with him an assortment of small tools that had been resting on the table's edge. I'm going to die, Ratt thought pitifully, but could do nothing but clutch his chest as he lay crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath. In his peripheral vision, he saw the darkened and bony feet of Chad the Spartan slowly walking over to finish him off.

  A creaking sound.

  The Spartan stopped walking.

  A deep voice called out, "Ratt, you a'ight?"

  It was Miller.

  Run! Ratt tried to call out, but only croaked like a dying frog.

  Like the spectator he was, Ratt watched in horror as the Spartan's feet shifted slightly and took off running towards the new arrival. Miller called out, "What in the—?", while simultaneously from across the room, from somewhere on the mess of a table that he had crashed onto, came yet another voice. It was the voice of Lucy.

  "Ratt, mission failed, abort mission. We are standing by at Elena's ready for portal out. Repeat, we are ready for my Lady's portal out."

  Oh no. Something had gone wrong on the surface. It was only then that Ratt realized the Purge must be happening. Of course! If Chad had transformed, then that meant Jon and Carbine... The orbs! Ratt needed to alert Maya, and fast, or Lucy and the new guys would be as good as dead.

  If they aren't already like this guy here.

  Chad closed the distance to Miller before the big guy even comprehended what was happening. He had only ever seen one other person move that fast, and that was Lucy. The Spartan was in his face before he could draw, thrusting its skeletal arm into his face like a rapier. Miller managed to take half a step back as he raised both of his meaty hands up to grasp the robot’s arm. The tips of the Spartan's bony fingers stopped mere millimeters from his face. Its attempt to run its hand through Miller's face thwarted, the demon-bot pulled its arm back, freeing itself from the man's grip. As the Spartan pulled back for another strike, Miller knew he had one second to make a move. He could draw but doubted he would have time to fire.

  Tossing all his chips in, Miller dove for the thing, tackling it around the waist like the linebacker he could have been in a previous life. The Spartan was tough and heavy, but it was still thin, and when Miller slammed into it with all his weight, much of it as robotic and heavy as the Spartans, the bot had no chance to remain upright. Clasped together, Miller and Chad crashed to the floor and slid backward. A life-and-death wrestling match ensued as Miller alternated between trying to keep the robot's arms pinned and also attempting to reach his double-barreled sidearm.

  The big man proved to be nearly as strong as the Spartan. He rolled to a side guard, pressing the robot to the floor with his bulk and pinning its arms down with his own. He shifted in an attempt to move his knee up, hoping to relieve one of his hands long enough to fetch his weapon and finish the struggle. He miscalculated by an inch, or a second, and when he reached for his gun, the Spartan freed one of its arms. The cold appendage shot up, clamped its metal fingers around Miller's throat, and squeezed.

  Miller's vision began to go dark and fade out. In the background he could hear Lucy's voice calling for Maya to open the portal and extract her and the others from the hot-zone. At least Maya survived, Miller thought, but wondered how long that would last, what with this killer robot loose in the Vault and all hell breaking loose up top.

  Suddenly Ratt jumped into Miller's fading view, medical defibrillator pads in each hand. The nerdy kid pounced on the Spartan, yelling, "Clear!" and gave the demon-bot a jolt of electricity. The jolt did not disable the machine, but stunned it, distracting it just long enough. Miller blindly found the handle of his pistol and drew, firing twice, point blank and without aiming.

  The Spartan rocked and shock, parts of it flying off and scattering across the room. Ratt would have to be lucky; there was no time to be careful. Miller felt the Spartan's hand release his throat and he pulled back on top of his haunches and squeezed the double trigger three more times, completely obliterating the machine’s head, neck, and torso.

  Panting, Miller held his gun trained on the now motionless robot before him. He looked up to see a shocked and battered but alive Ratt.

  "We need to get Maya, now," the kid said.

  "We need to get underground!" Jon shouted over the din.

  The octagon of stacked containers was now barely a half-circle, most of them having been shredded or knocked over by the Hopper mini-missile barrage. Through the gaping hole, Jon could witness the pandemonium in the Shanty. Four walls of green light were emanating from the Zigg, powered by the alien orbs atop the obelisks that stood at the Ziggurat's corners. The wave of light grew and grew, swallowing up every living being in their path like a ravenous beast. Jon watched in horror as the denizens of the Shanty screamed and fled the onslaught. Their efforts were in vain. Even if the ways and byways of the Shanty were not circuitous and winding, no one could have outrun the Harvest.

  Jon and Lucy would share in their fate, sooner than later, if they could not find a way back into the Underground; even now, two glowing walls of Strange that seemed to reach clear up to the heavens were converging into one and closing in on their location. Jon scanned the rubble, attempting to place the location of the ground-level bar. "I think the entrance was over here," he called to Lucy, pointing to a crushed container.
/>   They both rallied at the sight, or as near to it as was possible. What had been the container that served as the bar, as well as the one behind it that had served as both storeroom and entrance to the Underground elevator, was crushed nearly flat, the wreckage of three other containers directly on top of them. The average person would have given up before they started, such was the magnitude of the task at hand. However, there was nothing average about Lucy and Jon.

  "Do you think we can clear it in time?" Jon asked.

  "Only if you shut up and get to work!" Lucy barked, making the most of her extra limbs as she began to tear and peel layers of crumpled steel off the pile, even as the wall of alien light loomed closer over them. Jon joined her efforts. They were halfway to their goal and the light halfway to them when suddenly the pile began to shift and move under their feet.

  "What the—?" Jon called as he lost his footing. The section of container that had been standing on shifted and was flung high into the air. Lucy, too, was forced to backflip out of the way as the mound of rubble burst open. Aghast, Jon watched as the Mini-Mech rose out of it, railgun swinging around into firing position.

  "Watch out!" he called even though the barrel of the powerful gun was pointed at him and not Lucy. Diving into a roll, Jon heard the crack of the sonic boom just as the back of his neck struck the ground. His back and buttocks were pelted by grit and shrapnel as the ground behind him suffered the slug meant for his flesh. Another sound rode in on the coattails of the railgun's boom: it was this unmistakable brrrraapptt of Lucy's BFG.

  Jon twisted out of his roll into a standing position, unslinging his hammer as he did. Lucy was letting the Mini-Mech have it, and with a free hand, she was raising the primitive radio transceiver to her face once more.