by J G Cressey
All of a sudden, he wanted to cry. This was too much, too great a test for his newfound bravery. Surely, even his father would have given in to fear at this. Buried alive… God no. He sucked in a few shuddering breaths. Then, instead of crying, he found himself letting out a long, low growl. Anger was taking hold, bubbling up from the depths of his mind. If nothing else, it proved a blessed relief from the fear. There was no way he’d go out like this, not after all he’d been through, not after all he’d grown.
Urgently trying to steel himself, Laurence bent—practically contorted—his arms to feel above his head. There was a smooth, unyielding ceiling: the hull of the cube ship. He began slamming his palms against it, pounding at it with everything he had. Then he gave the rocks around the tiny gap the same treatment, letting his rage team up with a sudden burst of adrenalin to fuel his strength. Pushing, pounding, heaving as silent prayers repeated in his mind. He directed the prayers not just to God but to all the gods, to anyone, anything that had the power move a mountain.
The rocks didn’t budge an inch.
The panic returned then like an invisible claw come to grip him around the chest and squeeze away any last drops of courage. Frantically, Laurence increased his efforts, slamming his elbows, knees, and mistakenly his head, against the walls of his tiny prison. The serum still in his system gave him strength, but his flesh and bones couldn’t match it. Blood began running down his arms and legs, and only after he felt some knuckles and an elbow crack did he force himself to stop. He wanted to cry out for help or at least for someone who could ensure he didn’t die alone, but as hard as he looked, he could see no humans among the outside chaos.
Eventually, with his breaths nothing but ragged gasps, Laurence dropped his head and rested it against a bloody forearm. He lay still for a while, the sounds of the outside chaos echoing around his little prison. So close but a world away. His body felt numb, a numbness that was blessedly creeping into his mind. Part of him still wanted to cry, but a larger part of him decided to simply close his eyes and quietly accept his fate.
Seconds later—or perhaps hours—Laurence’s eyes snapped open.
An explosion was rending the air…no, maybe an earthquake. The ground was shaking, causing his rocky cocoon to crumble. Then, the ground began to shift, rocks began to churn, twisting him like an insect caught in a pepper grinder. Laurence broke his silence then. He screamed as loud as his raw throat could manage. Screamed for someone to help him, anyone, even if was an enemy wanting the pleasure of killing him, anything but being buried alive. He called out Tark’s name, then random names, all those he’d helped in recent days, all those he’d been a leader to. Some leader he was now. Every muscle in his body burned in strain as he attempted to push, crawl, heave himself through the crumbling rock, through the gap to the outside world.
Even in his panic, Laurence could see that the gap had widened. Frantically, he thrust one arm out into the open air, his free hand finding a solid, jutting hand hold. Roaring with effort, he pulled with all his might. But the weight of the disintegrating rocks on his legs and body was too great. Then, the rocks were coming down on his neck then his head. He tried once more to cry out, but fragments of rock were pressing into his face and entering his mouth.
Then the light was gone.
Laurence remained conscious. The relatively cool, gusting air of the outside world teased the skin of his blood and sweat-soaked free arm. Possibly due to shock, the sensation felt oddly pleasant. Then, there was a similarly odd sense of disappointment as a new pressure began to bear down on the arm. It seemed fate wasn’t going to allow death until every inch of him was buried.
His lungs were beginning to burn. It wouldn’t be long now.
But there was a strange, tugging sensation.
Somewhere deep in his fading mind, Laurence dreamily became aware that the pressure on his free arm was different, very different. Not rocks but flesh gripped him. Multiple hands, no, claws. Then, the tugging became more violent. Loose rocks scraped across his flesh. His spine seemed to stretch and pop, and his legs felt they might leave their sockets.
Then, quite suddenly, he was free, the only pressure being that of the hard ground underneath him. Painfully, he rolled over and blinked his eyes open. With the amount of grit that had assaulted them, he was surprised that he could see anything at all. Nevertheless, there, standing tall over him, were four figures: three Carcarrions, their bodies smeared with gray, and one white-haired little man.
“The gods are most definitely looking out for you, young Laurence.”
Trying to break free from his lingering shock, Laurence managed something akin to a smile. Then he attempted a verbal reply, but it quickly became a painful, bloody coughing fit.
With no time to catch his breath, Laurence again felt clawed hands gripping him then lifting him to his feet. It was at this point that he realized just what a sorry state his body was in. Fiery pain ignited in every joint, shot up every muscle, and burned its way down every ligament. He wobbled for the briefest of moments before being lifted again and thrown over broad, solid shoulders.
The bedlam all around him was overwhelming. Laurence was well and truly amid all the chaos now, and for that, he was pretty damned grateful.
Chapter Forty-Six
RELENTLESS
As he hit the last control for the activation of the dropships, Cal felt an enormous wave of relief wash over him. He just hoped to God his efforts weren’t too little too late. He imagined it would be nothing short of chaos down on the planet surface by now—an easy thing to picture when a similar chaos was happening right before his very eyes. The far end of the laboratory looked as though it had fallen foul to a crate of pressure grenades. Amid the mass of smashed equipment and cracked workstations, he could see one of the synthetics in a fierce embrace with one of the Carcarrion drones. The din they were creating was bordering on absurd as they crashed around in a rapid, violent dance.
As he took in the rest of the carnage, Cal felt his heart begin to thud increasingly harder and faster. The second fight was over. The synthetic with the tattooed face was standing victorious over the other drone, its lifeless form slumped over a console. Even from this distance, he could see the slug-like Insidion crushed in her cybernetic hand, its long, torn tendrils hanging limp down her arm. Throwing it to the floor, she turned her deadly gaze toward him. Cal swore and clenched his jaw. If the activation of the dropships had taken even a few moments longer, he’d already be dead, and he wouldn’t have seen it coming.
As if reacting to the sight of the tattooed bitch’s gaze, the Xcel within Cal’s body seemed to reignite, offering some blessed strength to his damaged body. The dropships were on their way. All that was left now was one last-ditch effort at survival, one last fight. Moving with all the speed available to him, he snatched up both pistols and pointed them towards the synthetic. He was breathing heavily, and the wound in his side was doing its best to oppose his will and fold him in half, but he was damned if he was going to give up now.
The synthetic began her approach, and Cal steadily tracked her movements with both pistols. He fired a couple of quick, controlled blasts. She was too far away to hit, but he wanted to get the measure of her speed. The swiftness of her reactions shouldn’t have surprised him, particularly after spending so much time in Melinda’s company, but still, they did. She was impossibly fast, leaping and spinning away from the blasts in a blur and only taking minimal cover before resuming her steady path towards him. It was as if she could see into his mind, fully aware of when and where he was going to fire the weapons.
Cal was careful not to become distracted by the almighty crashes at the far end of the lab. It seemed the other drone was putting up a far more effective fight than its companion. Strangely spurred on by the drone’s unwillingness toward defeat, Cal let instinct take over. Taking a step back from the console, he leapt up onto it. The time for caution was over. He knew the synthetic would never be intimidated by aggressive actions but,
just as Kaia had surprised Melinda on their first meeting, perhaps a bold attack might just throw off her programming for a vital second.
Launching himself forward, he unleashed a barrage of fire from both pistols, doing his best to track his opponent’s movements as he did so. The rest of the lab became a blur. All he saw was that soulless, tattooed face, clearly framed amid the light of his blazing pistols. He leapt from one workstation to the next, his need to survive manifesting into a near animalistic fury.
Then one of his shots found its target, pounding into the synthetic’s shoulder. Clothing and synth-flesh instantly disintegrated as the blast met her hard, cybernetic chassis. The blast did little damage, but the force tipped her off balance for the briefest of moments. Cal took full advantage. Continuing to bolt directly towards her, he made sure that every one of his shots found its mark, hammering directly into the synthetic’s body, twisting her, never giving her a chance to regain form.
By the time he’d closed the gap, the force of the onslaught had turned the cybernetic woman almost one hundred and eighty degrees. Throwing down the pistol in his right hand, Cal launched himself through the air and slammed into her back. He felt as though he’d hit a boulder, but he wrapped his right arm around her neck and held on with all his might. Lab equipment flew and disintegrated as the two of them crashed about, slamming into anything and everything. Cal felt his body crunch under the impact, but still he clung on, Xcel and determined rage fuelling his arms.
Raising the pistol in his left hand, Cal pressed it hard against the back of the synthetic’s neck and held down the trigger. Blinding, orange and white light dazzled his vision, and intense heat scorched his face as the pulse pistol objected to the point-blank range. But despite the heat, he retained his pressure on the weapon’s trigger, holding it desperately like the lifeline it was. The weapon’s discharge backfired and blistered into the air around him like snakes of pure energy, writhing furiously as they tried to bore directly into the near indestructible metal.
Once again, the synthetic slammed him back against a workstation, making him feel as though he’d been sandwiched between a tank and a wall. The pistol’s grip became red hot in his hand, but it would be suicide to let it go. Calling upon every last spark of energy, Cal angled the weapon up toward the underside of the synthetic’s skull, causing something to shudder violently beneath him. Every part of his being screamed at him to let go, but he roared back a wordless answer of defiance and somehow found it within himself to cling on to consciousness.
All sense of time and space seemed to slip away, and it was only with a vague, dreamlike awareness that Cal felt one of the synthetic’s hands grasp his right arm. Over the sound of the pulse pistol’s continuous discharge, it was impossible to hear his bones break, but even with his wildly distorted senses, he felt the crunch. One more drop of pain into a sea of hurt. He couldn’t breathe. His muscles were refusing to respond. He tried his best to turn his face from the writhing, electric snakes, but he failed. It felt like staring into the core of a great sun, his eyes burning in their sockets. There was a terrible noise, a scream painfully filling his ears. Was it the burning weapon or the synthetic beneath him? Or perhaps it was issuing from his own throat. Then, quite suddenly, he was plunged into a dark ocean, no longer able to see, hear, or feel a thing.
Cal came to…but only just.
He could make out a distant commotion: fighting, crashing, thumping, screeching. Blurred visions were swimming dreamlike in front of his throbbing eyes. He was lying on his back, limbs sprawled awkwardly and unresponsive. His body was rhythmically searing with pain as if his heart was pumping liquid fire through his veins.
Slowly, his vision began to clear. He managed a weak shake of the head in an attempt to hurry it along. He felt confused. There was something coming at him, a horribly disfigured form. He shook his head again. It was a woman…a woman turned wild. She had a crazed expression made fierce by tattoos and thin, blackened scorch marks that wrapped around her face like the legs of some arachnid. The woman was stomping forward on one stiff leg. Her other seemed useless, twitching and dragging behind her. One of her arms appeared similarly useless—joints completely rigid, the fingers of the hand splayed and frozen. The other hand, however, appeared fully functional and was reaching determinedly. Reaching for him.
Cal’s brain fought its way through the fog. He managed to disengage from the pain to capture some understanding of what he was seeing. He had damaged his opponent, seriously damaged her, but it still wasn’t enough. Her reaching hand was close, seconds away. He attempted to get to his feet, but was far from successful. Instead he settled for a desperate, crawling retreat, keeping his back to the floor and his blurry eyes on the grasping hand. As he moved, he realized that, similar to his attacker, only one of his arms was any good to him; the other was shattered and barely had enough function to remain tucked at his side. He tried to ignore the trail of blood that he was leaving in his wake, astonished that his body still retained any. Unconsciousness continued to threaten, but he kept crawling back, relentless in his efforts, desperately shaking his head in an effort to keep the darkness at bay.
The demonic-looking synthetic loomed closer still, her spasmodic gait proving just that bit faster than his desperate crawl. Suddenly, her leg buckled, and she dropped down onto her knee. Cal felt a glimmer of hope that she was dying a cybernetic death. But the hope was quickly and brutally extinguished as he realized she was simply increasing her chances of getting a hold on him. Her hand was now practically touching his foot.
Cal searched frantically. He needed a weapon, anything to give him some sort of fighting chance. Then his bleary vision homed in on a pulse pistol—the very one that had already proved its worth tenfold. The weapon lay on the floor, thick, blue smoke oozing from its muzzle. It was a little further than an arm’s reach away. He turned and stretched, his pain manifesting into an audible cry. His fingers scratched desperately at the smooth floor as he tried to pull his broken body closer. He touched the weapon, its metal grip still hot as his fingertips brushed against its surface. There was a voice in his head, encouraging him, urging him to stretch further, just a little further. Unfortunately, that voice could do nothing about the steely fingers that closed around his ankle. The pistol rocked slightly as his fingers pressed against its edge. Then, within one terrible blink of the eye, the pistol was further away. The hand around his ankle had given one violent jerk, and his reaching fingers met nothing but air.
Cal twisted onto his back, a grim sense of defeat pouring through him. He felt the steely hand grip his thigh. Another violent jerk, and he was again yanked through his own blood across the smooth floor. The synthetic leaned over him like a jackal over a carcass, and Cal couldn’t help but focus on the hideous, scorched face. The hand was reaching for his throat now, soon to meet flesh and begin its squeeze.
Something exploded to Cal’s right.
A workstation split apart, countless canisters splintering into a million shards that rained down on him along with bright blue liquid. Cal’s fragile senses span in confusion as a large, jet black shape crashed down on top of him. He tried to make sense of the situation—a near impossible undertaking for his failing brain. Then he realized, with only a faint sense of relief, that the tattooed bitch had gone. He managed to stretch his neck to see the dark form of a Carcarrion lying across his legs. The drone looked to be in a similar state to himself: bloody, broken, and struggling with unresponsive limbs. There was another movement, a flickering that was almost lost in the haze of his peripheral vision. He turned just enough to see the dying throes of his tattooed foe.
Then there was foot fall, glass crunching under the weight of a heavy frame. The second synthetic appeared, fists balled at her sides like a prize fighter looming over a felled opponent. In contrast to those she stood over, her body still looked well within its physical limits. Other than torn clothing and long gashes to her already healing synth-flesh, the cybernetic woman appeared all but intact.
Her gaze briefly dropped toward the tattooed synthetic. There was not the slightest hint of pity or grief as she assessed her broken sister nor did she show any sense of anger as she turned her doll-like eyes toward Cal and the fallen drone. Indeed, it was with an entirely impassive, machine-like efficiency that she dropped to one knee and began slamming her fist into the struggling drone—or more specifically, the Insidion that clung to its thick, muscled neck. With the drone pinning his legs, Cal felt every blow.
Once satisfied that her alien opponent was no longer a threat, the cybernetic woman looked at Cal. Strangely, he felt no fear. He didn’t want to die, far from it, but in that moment, he felt too much pain, too much confusion. There was no longer any room for fear. At least death would put an end to the searing agony, and it would be quick; this cybernetic killer wasn’t damaged or malfunctioning; she wouldn’t falter or hesitate.
He gritted his teeth as she took one mechanical stride over the drone before again dropping to one knee. Her pale face filled Cal’s vision as she leaned forward and drew back her right fist back for the killing blow.
But it didn’t come.
A black arm had threaded around the synthetic’s neck from behind, causing a hint of confusion to flicker over her face, briefly betraying the impassive countenance. Surprise hit Cal as hard as his delirium would allow. At first, he thought he was seeing the arm of a Carcarrion, but even through his damaged vision, he realized the arm was far too slim. Also, there was a hand, a human hand, feminine and pale with immaculate, snow white fingernails. Cal stared at it, time seeming to slow almost to a stop, a strange, disconnected curiosity fending away unconsciousness, denying it a hold. All he could see was that beautiful hand contrasted against the synthetic’s deathly face. Then there was an abrupt, violent lurch that seemed to nudge time back into action. The synthetic killer had been wrenched away from him and forcefully pulled to her feet. Painfully, he craned his neck and watched as she was spun on the spot then launched through the air right over his head.