by J A Stone
“Once we do there is no going back my Liege,” an aide offered to no avail.
“I am aware—launch the fleet.”
Twenty paces away, a radar technician failed to catch the glitch on his screen the very second his mug of tea suddenly fell to the floor.
“Dammit Terrance, watch out,” the adjoining tech replied, shooting his coworker a disapproving glare at the exact moment his screen twitched, the virus successfully injected into the radar software by the Spirit of Caelum Fovea in legion with the Aequitas Caelum, the subtle Phantom standing right next to the men—invisible to their eyes.
Fifty thousand feet above the palace, the Vapor-7 Moorcraft 425 Fighter, better known as Snowflake, began a rapid descent—more like an impact plummet, booming in at full speed.
“Gunners to the pods, it’s time,” Brey commanded.
“Star is go Captain,” Tawnee said.
“Port is go Captain,” Warfell added. They were ready.
“Okay, this is a loose plan of attack. Dad has us completely off the radar but we will be spotted with human eyes when close enough—by then it will be too late. Gunners, target the infrastructure stress points outlined here,” Brey tapped her screen and the weak areas appeared in red on the fortress blueprints. “We get one flyover with Snowflake then we hit the deck running, Savvy?”
“Where did you get the plans to the palace Captain?” Bigfoot was curious.
“From the data banks on the Vengeance, that ship carried a lot of classified material,” said Brey.
“Downright stupid,” said Rob. “All weapon systems green.”
“Back on task, gunners on my mark—eighteen thousand feet and closing,” the small, determined Captain’s eyes darted across her panels and screens.
Deep within the palace, Chancellor Atria was about to eat, when the first explosions erupted. Brey had the girls target the exhaust vents for the building’s incinerator. In the event of siege, Atria’s home was designed with a boiler room to provide heat and energy without the need for electricity. Primitive? Not in the least as the flames were powered by hydrogen fuel. Dangerous? Only if one knew exactly where to strike, and only then if one used heat seekers, or magnetic warheads, like Brey did.
“What just happened Bobbi?” Atria rose as the entire building shook and a squad of armed men hustled through the door.
“We are under attack, come with me Sir—through here,” Bobbi grabbed an arm and the two joined the armed escort. “Get us to the flight deck,” she instructed an officer.
“Negative Ma’am,” the curt reply as the small team changed direction, their escape route now blocked by raging flame. The sprinkler system enacted, sending a thunderstorm torrent of water over Atria, Bobbi and their escort.
“THIS WAY!” Bobbi yelled, pulling her pistol and waiving the team down a different hallway. Twenty paces in, she held a fist up. “Hold,” Bobbi’s eyes were glued to her left gauntlet screen. “Through here, quickly,” she said not telling them the path to the bunker was now cut off by heavy fighting. She led the Chancellor towards an exterior door as the water subsided…
While his men banged on the locking mechanism with the butts of their rifles, Atria brought Bobbi to the side.
“It’s no use,” he said to his loyal Aide and friend. “Once the palace is locked down, nothing short of…less than a…” Atria froze in place, his eyes wide with sudden fear. Two hundred feet across the fountained chamber—they were coming.
“What kind of people are they?” Bobbi asked the air nervously; realizations were settling in, heart pumping like a machine gun in her chest.
“They are the Seven Devils my friend,” Atria placed a hand over the barrel of Bobbi’s extended weapon, pushing it down as he watched…
Brey Fovea shot impossibly fast through the masses of soldiers, cutting deep at waist level with the Wakizashi, issuing critical stabs and cuts with every motion.
Behind her, the tall platinum haired twin of Denali Warren slashed the bone pommeled Katana in flashes with her right hand, firing a long barreled repeater with the left—both arms acting as if possessing their own minds.
Aside them, an eight-foot giant of a man roared like a great bear, swinging a metal pole, a solid steel support bracket—thrusting the brutal implement into and through helmets, removing or displacing the skulls of his victims with loud cracking sounds and muffled screams.
Atria’s face burst into tears when he saw Iris spring past Brey Fovea like a feral wolf—bloody fangs extended, fingered talons snatching a head and twisting, then gouging a throat wide with her mouth. The creature snarled and growled deep, riding the corpse to the floor and then bounding free to the next.
Tawnee fought gracefully with a thin, slightly curved Scimitar, lashing the weapon into the soldier’s necks with astounding accuracy—dancing amongst the enemy.
James was close, keeping two rapid-fire pistols aloft and twitching independently, long banana-clips spewing shell casings everywhere as she fired mercilessly—her aim-focus on anything breaking through to the team—especially Tawnee.
And the Snowman? Atria watched in disbelief as Tom took shots with a hand-held plasma rifle, sending high-energy blasts into the crowd first, killing dozens, and then above, to the critical superstructure of the palace.
Most alarming and prevalent to all was the Aequitas Caelum, screaming a macabre wail of death, torture and sorrow at a thundering rage, instilling a fear within the soldiers deeper than anything experienced before. The psychotic Phantom lurched from victim to victim, violently grabbing and breaking them as a child snaps twigs, hurling the corpses away into the arms of their comrades, one after another.
Between his kills, the Daemon Spirit howled like a wild animal in pain, darting very distinct bloodshot eyes side to side in search of his next with the twisted face of a mad man. Defenders of the palace were dropping their weapons, trembling from raw terror, but it did not save them—the last vestige of mercy as dead as the men and women on the crimson marble.
“Live or die—depends on what you say and do,” Brey advised only moments later.
“Don’t be a fool, issue the surrender Chancellor,” Warfell added.
“I shall not. Fight your way out,” Atria picked his pride up from the floor. The battle was over for now—the palace lost, but he knew reinforcements would be coming, his vast fleet still in orbit. “If you do make it clear of this building, I will have my revenge in the sky.”
“Yeah, that’s what I would say and do,” Brey lowered her head and clacked open the short Wakizashi blade. “Last chance Sir.”
Atria didn’t care anymore, they killed Bobbi. He laughed to himself and smiled wide.
“Do it Fovea, I signed off on your Fa...”
Her hand was fast—the excision clean.
Snowflake, outside Atria’s palace
“Boot, boot, boot!” Fovea took her seat behind Tom and Rob.
“Damn skippy Captain,” Snowman ignited the coils, bouncing at the helm with impatience to get airborne. “Five seconds to flight.”
“Make it fast looks like half the damned fleet returning. Some are already here,” Brey said the words as bullets struck the outer fuselage with muffled clinks and tinks. “Like those assholes.”
“What did you make this hull out of?” Bigfoot asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Never tell. Gunners to the pods, we have incoming, bow cannon fire.”
“Firing bow,” Bigfoot watched the northern wall of the building cave in from the blast as Snowflake rose, the vertical thrusters whining at a high pitch.
“Tom, give us an evasive yaw on a contour flight to keep the big gunships above from wasting us,” Brey began calculations for a Tibor-glide flight jump. “Get us in the northern hemisphere please.”
“On it,” Tom concentrated on the yoke and his flight horizon.
“Is everyone okay back there?” Brey bent around, facing James and Iris to see four thumbs up.
“Better than okay, that was some crazy
shit boss, like I said—you got balls,” James nodded her admiration and the first thing Brey thought was, Gods do not start crushing on me!!
“Love my balls. Alright then, gunners?”
“Star is go.”
“Port is go.”
Warfell acclimated to her favorite place on any world. She flicked on the pod gyroscope and whipped the turrets around to loosen up.
Across to her right, Tawnee settled in, lowering the zipper carefully on her neoprene suit and pulling the sticky material forward to look at the entry wound.
Oh fuck me, she thought, letting the rubber snap back into place with a wince.
”I’ve seen worse,” Tawnee whispered aloud for self-assurance.
“Worse than that?” Danica responded, her cunning blues admiring the growing pack of ships chasing after them as Snowflake sped across the landscape, darting left and right at two hundred feet absolute altitude.
“What? Yeah, well not really,” Tawnee replied.
Several tense moments passed until mountains and snow filled the horizon.
Up front, Brey continued her math, entering the necessary algorithms for a magnetic pole jump and double-checking the numbers—making sure.
“Okay, I’m ready. Is everybody ready?” the pixie steeled her mind as her crew chimed in one by one over the com.
“On my mark, cut the aft, hard about, gunners fire at will, engage bow cannon and howitzer, everything we have people—punch us a hole…NOW!”
Warfell’s Aleutha, Fort Salvos, Tower Main
The Aequitas Caelum hovered across from British Fey, whispering the account of the sky battle to his Daughter, darting glances back to the gathered Knights. After several moments, British nodded solemnly, placing her deep sad browns on Shadoweye…
“Tawnee, would you come here please?” British asked and the Assassin turned Knight approached, taking the steps cautiously.
“What’s happened?”
Alternate Reality, Tibor, Northern Hemisphere, low orbit
“Level out, there Tommy, three degrees dorsal, get beneath her,” Brey spoke calmly enough despite the insanity of what they had just done. In typical Fovea fashion, Brey had Tom corkscrewing through the mass of Fighter craft with weapons ablaze, approaching one of the many larger gunships capable of atmospheric flight. Taking heavy fire, the V-7 twisted faithfully through, Warfell and Tawnee bringing down dozens of Fighters each.
“Engaging Blunderbuss,” Brey tapped and rolled the crosshairs on screen, igniting the weapon in flashes, ripping sizeable holes along the ventral belly of the huge vessel. The massive howitzer-style machine gun mounted on Snowflake’s shoulder was loud, the vibrations emanating through Brey’s high-backed chair.
“She’s adrift Captain—compressors and coils offline completely,” Bigfoot advised, yet Brey continued her salvo, drawing a line across the ship with six-inch slugs until the craft ignited from the inside, cracking apart at the seams—every sealed window sparkling bright orange from the internal flames.
“Bring us broadside Snowman,” the Captain moved her browns from the tactical screen to the name emblazoned on the side of the Command ship: Cetacea, ancient Tiborean for ‘Great White Mountain’.
“Is that the one?” Snowman asked.
“Yeah, that’s her.” Cetacea was the Gunship with the remainder of Tibor’s High Command, now swimming in raw fire. Brey entered her codes. “Initiating Tibor-glide, stay frosty gunners, several will likely follow us in four, three, two…”
Open space between Tibor and Aleutha
“That was amazing you guys, gunners to the bridge. Tommy? What can I say Mister? Damnit-man you can fly!” Brey hugged her Pilot’s neck and then her Navigator. “Good shooting girls—gunners to the bridge. Tommy, how do you corkscrew like that and still keep your horizon?”
“I close my eyes.”
“Don’t you say that dude.” the brown haired pixie rose with a smile, stretching and turning around. ”I swear, I never…seen?”
“Stay with me! TAWNEE! no-no-no BREY! sweetie no, BREEEY!!” Warfell’s screams from inside the starboard gunner pod.
Brey ran, pushing past James and Iris, grabbing the edges of the tube and thrusting herself inside.
Warfell threw her back against the transparent pod wall, sliding down with her hands to her face as Brey catapulted herself to Tawnee—still in the chair. She snatched the listless cheeks and spoke beneath her breath, glassy eyes darting over the beautiful tribal-black tattoos.
Brey’s whispered words faded to silence. She lay her head on Tawnee’s chest and closed her eyes, sending a lone tear trickling down…
At the portal, James watched emotionlessly for a moment as Robert and Iris crowded in at her side. Then her face changed, twisting in pain. James’ eyes flushed and her knees buckled…Bigfoot caught her and held her tight in his massive arms as the girl convulsed in waves, tensing every muscle in her body. She struggled away violently.
“GET OFF ME!” James ran to the far wall and collapsed, pressing tight against the metal. Iris took three steps her way and the Assassin placed a hand on her pistol grip, staring back at the Arenthian through the distortion of the tears. “Leave me be,” she choked at a whisper, letting her hand fall limp to the cold grating.
Fovea Mansion
Danica’s boots clacked on the marble tiles, a barefoot Iris having to skip every third step to keep up.
“How many days?” Iris asked the tall silent warrior.
“Six,” said Danica. “How is James?”
“She won’t talk to meh, only the boss.”
“She loved Tawnee—we all did,” Warfell stopped and faced her grey-haired friend. “Iris, when I leave, will you take care of them?”
“I will, on meh life.”
“Thank you.”
They walked again, through a lone hallway to Brey’s study. The small woman behind the desk raised her eyes from a parchment and nodded. Danica took a seat as Iris admired a mounted array of bladed weapons on the wall. She touched the edge of a dagger and retracted the finger.
Danica saw a paper on the desk with writing. It was a poem.
“May I?” she asked. Brey raised the corner of her upper lip.
“It’s embarrassing,” said the pixie, but Warfell’s eyes were already taken in, glass-like patina welling over the brilliant blues.
Man shall not rule, lest he cut deep and cruel.
The fate of the fool’s eye blind, beneath the sparkling steel unkind.
I shall never love again, rein in the pain,
Snatch the teeth on that lightning steed and ride it to the ground.
My Angel falls to the cobble-cold, and
Yet she contrives to sell her life unto the beast. The bold hand
Of the Justice mockery revolves,
And my love is tossed unto the wolves…
Danica set the paper down with reverence, gently touching the written words with her fingers afterwards.
“I have always loved your poetry British—Brey, I’m sorry.”
“British writes?”
“Yes,” Warfell gazed into her partner’s eyes. “They are dark but insightful and they always make me cry…” Danica laughed the sorrow away, touching the corner of an eye carefully with the back of her hand.
“Iris, are you practicing with the pod simulator?” Brey changed the subject as the girl whipped about, startled.
“I am boss.”
“She sucks at it,” Danica added.
“That I do,” Iris lowered her head.
“I don’t,” James said from the doorway bringing all eyes to her. “I’m a certified turret marksman. You’ve seen me shoot Brey.”
Snowflake’s Captain nodded sagely, blinking her eyes slowly as a predator might—the unspoken words; ‘it’s okay, it’s alright.’
“Thank you Captain,” James turned and left.
Six days, Danica thought. Then what?
The morning arrived in silence…
Danica awoke
with a warm heart, quickly getting dressed and hustling through the door to see Brey down the hall. The Aequitas Caelum floated outside her chamber. Several paces away, Robert, Tom, Iris, and James were gathered, waiting. Danica flashed them a smile and then faced the benevolent Spirit.
“Do we dare open the door my Lord?” Warfell asked, though she knew Brey made it, spent most of the night at her side.
We dare indeed, Swordsman. Are you ready to rejoin your friends back home?
“Yeah…I…I guess so Sir,” Danica rapped on the door—no answer. She knocked, louder. “Brey, don’t play games honey, Brey?” Danica opened the door—she was gone?
“HEY!” the elf-girl shouted from down the hallway with a sandwich in hand. Her friends jerked like terrified kids.
“Don’t do that boss,” James exhaled, relieved.
“No doubt partner,” Warfell approached within kissing distance, thrusting her steely blues into the deep puppy browns.
“I was hungry.”
Danica smiled wide as a moment of serenity flew through them, a fleeting peace within each heart.
It happened so fast.
The Aequitas Caelum lunged with insane speed, thrusting bony, clawed fingers around the necks and twisting the vertebrae apart in his grasp with horrid snapping sounds. The Daemon Spirit roared like a wounded beast, stretching his ethereal face to the ceiling, spreading his powerful arms wide, lifting both women from the marble tiles. He then dashed the bodies together, clacking the limp craniums against one another, throwing Danica and Brey to the cold white stone—but they were already dead.
*
Warfell’s Aleutha, Fort Salvos, Warfell’s Quarters
Danica thrust her eyes open.
“No,” she said, slinging the covers away and leaping to a stand. “No, not like that,” half-naked she roamed her blues about the room, recognitions forming quickly.