by J. N. Chaney
“Altitude, five hundred meters,” the ship’s voice announced calmly.
Awen clutched her harness straps, willing herself not to black out. She scrunched her eyes shut as the ship’s voice continued to call out the altitude. Visions of the Spire exploding in midair played with the edges of her imagination. She wondered whether, having survived the initial event, she would survive a fall into the ocean. Maybe her acceleration couch had a parachute.
“Altitude, ten thousand meters.”
Awen opened her eyes. She grunted against the constant press until she felt her throat burning. The purple sky darkened, and clouds raced passed her. Then she noticed that the displays showed opposing images, one of the ship growing smaller as it vanished into the atmosphere and another of the city receding to a textured patch protruding from the belly of a large continent. Shouldn’t this be over soon? She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
“Altitude, twenty thousand meters.”
Ezo yelled something at Awen.
“What?” she asked.
The ship shook as he shouted some more, but she was no closer to understanding him.
“I can’t hear you!”
TO-96 spoke up then, his voice output at a seriously loud setting. “Ezo would like you to know that he is sorry he forgot to pack you a vomit bag.”
Awen laughed and, for the first time, realized she didn’t feel any nausea. She was probably too scared to be sick. She offered Ezo a shaky thumbs-up, her hand straining against gravity’s multiplied pull. It was no use yelling back, as he probably wouldn’t hear her. Ezo winked, his head jostling from side to side.
“Altitude, thirty thousand meters.”
The sky overhead was getting darker, fading to a deep purple. On the displays, Awen saw Ithnor Ithelia’s entire continent as a lush green patch bordered by purplish-blue oceans on three sides. White clouds smeared the scene like a painter’s brush strokes, giving the image a sense of depth.
The Spire climbed higher and faster, surging toward the stratosphere. She wondered how many other species had launched from the planet’s surface and how long ago it had been. Surely, this was the first crew of humanoid life-forms from the protoverse to ever do so—and on a Novian ship, no less!
“Altitude, forty thousand meters.”
The sky was blackening. Or is it my vision? She gritted her teeth as the starship continued to accelerate. She knew that vessels this size were never meant to return to atmosphere and stayed in orbit precisely because of how much energy was required to launch them again—if their structure could even handle such force. Most were built in space. But the Azelon Spire had been in its hangar, sleeping soundly, waiting to surge into the void.
“Altitude, fifty thousand meters.”
Awen wasn’t sure how much more she could take. Her body felt as though it had just been through twelve rounds of a Saratian boxing match. The straps rubbed against her collar bones and hips, buckles digging into her chest and waist. Her muscles were burning, and that stupid sense of nausea was starting to haunt her again.
With a sudden jerk, Awen snapped forward, slamming against her restraints. The air rushed from her lungs.
“Main launch sequence complete,” the ship’s voice said.
Awen gasped. Gone were the violent shaking and the loud roaring. In their place were silence and zero gravity. She watched as her braid floated beside her face. Likewise, her necklace touched just beneath her chin.
“Artificial gravity initiating in ten seconds,” the ship’s voice said.
Awen looked over to see Sootriman’s head tilted sideways. Small bubbles of drool hovered near her lips. She was unconscious but looked to be breathing. It’s probably for the best. There was no sense being awake for the pain of a blaster injury compounded by atmospheric launch.
“Artificial gravity at twenty-five percent.”
Awen felt her necklace touch her chest again.
“Fifty percent.”
Her body was sinking back into her acceleration couch, the extra blood draining from her head.
“Seventy-five percent.” And then, within a matter of seconds, gravity had been restored to normal levels. “Gravity at one hundred percent of normal. Low planetary orbit achieved.”
“Thank you, Azelon,” TO-96 said.
Ezo was out of his straps and moved toward Sootriman. Her chin was on her chest. “You okay, baby?”
“Her body appears to be in shock, sir,” TO-96 said. “I advise we move her to sick bay immediately.”
“Let’s do it, ’Six.”
The robot climbed out of his acceleration couch while Ezo unbuckled Sootriman. TO-96 helped Ezo cradle her—Ezo insisting that he carry her himself. Awen was struck by his sincerity and wondered if Sootriman had been wrong about Ezo’s desire to be alone on an island.
Awen unbuckled herself and was about to follow everyone out of the bridge when the ship’s AI spoke. “TO-96, please be aware that a ship has locked on to our position, approaching from the following coordinates.” A map of the void immediately surrounding the planet appeared in front of the main window. Targeting reticles showed the Spire and a second ship approaching from the other side of the planet. “I will classify the ship as hostile. Please acknowledge.”
“Hostile?” Ezo turned around to examine the display, Sootriman’s head lolling back over his arm. “Why?”
“Idris Ezo, second-in-command,” the AI said. “Weapons and targeting systems have been detected. Shields have been detected. Speed has increased to—”
“Okay, okay, I got it. They’re hostile.”
“Acknowledged. Would you like me to take evasive measures?”
“Hell, yes!” Ezo said.
“Response unknown.”
TO-96 cleared his throat. “The phrase ‘hell, yes’ is a colloquial expression meant to convey adamant agreement, encouragement, or assent, despite the negative connotation of the modifier.”
“Acknowledged,” the AI said.
“That wasn’t already in your lexicon, ’Six?” Ezo asked.
“It knows what I know, sir. However, it still takes us several years to understand you biological life-forms.”
“Copy that, buddy.” Ezo shook his head. “I still don’t understand myself half the time. Listen, you think the ship’s AI—”
“Her name is Azelon, sir.”
“Fair enough. You think Azelon, here, can walk me through firing up sick bay?”
“Most certainly, sir.”
“Good deal. Then you and Awen stay put and get us outta here.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
Ezo froze. “Oh, and ’Six?”
“Yes, sir?” the bot said.
“Since when did you make me second-in-command?”
The bot straightened his shoulders. “Ah, I am sorry for that, sir. I will gladly—”
“’Cause it was a damn good idea. It’s about time anyway.”
TO-96 pulled his head back in astonishment. “Why, thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome,” Ezo said. “Get to it.”
TO-96 turned back to face the main screen as warning indicators illuminated, signifying weapons systems on the enemy ship. He made a show of cracking his knuckles and walked toward the captain’s chair. “Let us blast these sons of unmarried female dogs out of the void.”
26
Magnus watched as a violent battle broke out on the ramparts. His eyes zoomed in on the action as if he was standing ten meters away. Despite the fact that Basket Case was still hurtling toward the doors at breakneck speeds, his eyes kept perfect focus and brought everything to him in vivid detail.
“They’re Tawnhack, aren’t they?” he said to Abimbola.
“Indeed they are.”
Jujari bodies clicked with one another in a colossal display of carnage. Claws raked faces, gouged eyes, and tore at soft tissue. Mouths clamped down on necks, shoulders, and arms. Bodies wrestled against walls, pairs of them tumbling off the ramparts and falling a
hundred meters to the hard-packed dirt.
“I thought you said Rohoar was only sending twenty.”
“I did. Those are the ones he sent for free, to cover the rear of our column during the advance.”
For free. Magnus figured it out. “But you hired more. Poker chips.”
“You are learning, buckethead. Gambling is currency.”
“So you knew we’d egress to the west all along.”
“Not necessarily. It was just one option.”
Magnus whistled. “You must’ve paid them a pretty chip.”
“You could say that. But do not tell my secret.”
Magnus pulled back from the gruesome spectacle unfolding above them to focus on Abimbola. “And what’s that?”
“I print my own.”
* * *
“Next problem,” Magnus said. “I don’t see that gate opening. And I see plenty of Selskrit looking for some action when we slow.”
“It is not a problem. But it is going to get intense.”
“You mean…”
“Yes, we must wait for them to open the gate.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No.” Abimbola reached under his seat and handed Magnus three more energy mags. “You might want these.”
“Thanks.”
Abimbola pulled the BFT6 Tigress from his thigh and racked a charge. The thing was menacing. Its square receiver opened just wide enough for the pistol grip and had cooling slots down the top of the extended barrel. Abimbola used it more like a sidearm than a blaster—at least, that was how it looked in his large hand. “Time to go hunting for some dinner.”
Magnus didn’t like the prospect of eating a Jujari, even as a joke, but the idea of dinner brought saliva to his mouth. Just make it to your next meal, Marine. It was another of the Recon’s unofficial mantras for when splick got bad. Keeping such a basic goal in sight had a way of connecting Marines to the fine art of staying alive.
Abimbola slowed the skiff as it approached the wall, the gate towering high above them. They moved into the structure’s shadow as Selskrit started filling in from the side streets. This was about as crazy as Magnus could imagine things getting. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as howls and cackles went up on all sides.
“These plates will hold against their attack, right?” Magnus asked.
“For a while.”
Magnus nodded. “Great. Just great.”
Abimbola raised the skiff as high as the thrusters would allow him, but Magnus had a feeling the height wouldn’t matter much, at least not for long. The Selskrit ran at them, and Magnus felt his rear end pucker. Mouths sneered, ears lay down flat, and snarls echoed around the convoy.
All down the street, blasters, turrets, and missile banks opened fire on the approaching enemy. Magnus held his MAR30 up between slats and squeezed his trigger. Bursts of blaster bolts lanced Jujari who reached for Basket Case. Heads snapped, paws flipped backward, and shoulders buckled.
Magnus selected Wide Displacement, adjusted the wave frequency to medium, and squeezed. The weapon ingested the needed power then belched. The power wave divested several combatants of their heads, arms, and torsos but sent the majority colliding with those behind them. The heap of bodies writhed as more Jujari took the places of those who’d fallen, trampling them underfoot.
Magnus shuddered at how ravenous the Selskrit were—their bloodlust was driving them mad. He fired several more times into the crowd, but not even his MAR30 could keep the horde at bay. At least four Selskrit climbed onto the skiff and placed their fingers between the metal window slats. Others pounded on the plates. Of the most concern, however, were those who stuck blaster barrels into openings. Magnus moved away from the weapons’ sight windows then shot at them point-blank. Blasters exploded backward, pummeling their possessors with shrapnel and burning their flesh. Wrists shattered, elbows crushed, and shoulders dislodged. The shrieks of injured and dying Selskrit were just as deafening as those who rallied the advance.
Magnus continued to fire on the Jujari who stood on the Basket Case. Their bodies were so numerous that the compartment grew dark. Several metal welds started to give way, bars and slats bending under the Jujari’s terrific strength. Magnus fired and fired and fired, striking flesh with bolt after bolt, but no sooner would one combatant fall than another would take its place. Despite the constant barrage of turret fire, the convoy was quickly losing the battle. Abimbola’s skiff was sinking under the weight, which only encouraged more assailants to climb aboard.
Magnus was reaching for another energy mag when Abimbola handed him one, saying, “Last one. Make it count.”
Last one? This wasn’t looking good. “How soon before those gates open?”
“I do not know,” Abimbola said.
“Not even a guess?” Magnus had loaded the new mag and was dispensing its contents with extreme prejudice. Several Selskrit snouts snapped between the gaps they’d opened in the slats. Magnus was determined to make them taste hot blaster fire.
“They will open it when they open it.”
“Fabulous.” Magnus’s sarcasm dripped down the skiff’s interior like rivulets of Jujari blood.
When his MAR30 went dry, Magnus pulled out his Z and started firing. The pistol bucked in his hands, sending blaster bolts into Jujari flesh dangerously close.
“LT,” Dutch said over comms. Magnus could sense the strain in her voice at once.
“Go ahead.”
“We’re out of mags back here.”
As if prompted by her words, Magnus’s Z also went dry. He reached into his chest plate and withdrew his duradex combat knife. “Then find something to stab them with.”
“Copy that.”
Magnus started swiping, stabbing, and cutting anything that came inside. The gaps between slats were big enough that whole arms were getting through. He severed fingers and wrists and even cut a forearm in two. His eyes tracked every limb—connected or severed—displaying targets as fast as Magnus could swipe at them.
By that point, Magnus and Abimbola were trapped beneath dozens of rabid Jujari, each bent on slicing them to ribbons. Abimbola had two blades of his own and was cutting and slashing like a Kinshawan chef at a performance restaurant. Between the two of them, the entire cab was bathed in hot blood.
Severed veins sent crimson streams shooting across the skiff’s interior, splattering the dice hanging from Abimbola’s rearview mirror and soaking the seats. Magnus hacked furiously, inflicting wounds that—if left untreated—would bleed out even the most ardent warrior in less than a minute. The heart was a powerful pump—all it needed was a place to release pressure.
Covered in blood and panting from exhaustion, Magnus lost his grip on his knife. It clattered to the floorboard. He ducked under the wayward swipe of a clawed paw and reached for the blade. The handle was sticky with congealing blood. Still, he squeezed it and sat upright again.
The skiff rocked back and forth under the assault. The drive core whined as it struggled to stay aloft under so much weight. Magnus knew if that gate didn’t open in the next few seconds, this entire op would be over.
As if summoned by his desperate thoughts, a howl went up from somewhere overhead. Then a rumble bellowed from somewhere deep in the city, so low that is shook Magnus’s gut. He knew this sound. He remembered it from the mwadim’s palace before the ambush.
“The desert shofaree,” Abimbola said, wiping blood from his face. “Horns of the deep.”
It took a second, but eventually, the Selskrit on the skiff stopped attacking and looked up. High above them, Magnus could make out the pack of Tawnhack raising their keeltari swords in defiance.
“Well, what d’ya know,” Magnus said, soaked in blood and offal. A new low-frequency rumble came from the gate as the doors began to open.
“You seem surprised.” Abimbola wiped his blades across his shirt and shoved them back in their sheaths.
“It’s because I am. Hey”—he pointed at Abimbola’s knives�
��“you done fighting or something?”
Abimbola tilted his head at Magnus. “Yes, and so are you.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The Jujari have some unique battle customs, one of which is yielding to a strong show of force. The Tawnhack just bested the Selskrit on the gate.” The warlord nodded toward the ramparts. “It was an easily defendable position, but the Selskrit lost it. As an acknowledgement of honor, the remaining Selskrit stand down.”
“Even though the Selskrit still outnumber them on the ground?” Magnus asked.
“Correct. It is not about numbers; it is about honor.”
Magnus looked out the front window and watched the Jujari leap from the skiff. “Well, how do you like that.”
“I like it very much.”
“As do I.” Magnus shoved his blade back in its sheath. “As do I.”
* * *
The convoy passed between the massive stone doors and drove toward the open desert. Magnus marveled at their luck. One minute, they were seconds away from being eviscerated; the next, they were cruising effortlessly into the wastes outside Oosafar.
“Lord Abimbola,” someone said over comms.
“Go ahead,” the giant replied.
“This is Titus, picking up the rear. Seems we have a problem.”
Abimbola began to slow the Basket Case. “What is it?”
“Fighting has resumed on the ramparts, and we still got three skiffs that haven’t cleared.”
“Come again, Titus?”
“The Selskrit—they’re attacking the Tawnhack above the gate, and they’ve cut off our exit.”
“Dammit.” Abimbola threw the skiff into a sliding turn. The western gate came back into view along with the rest of the convoy.
“I guess they changed their minds about doing the honorable thing today,” Magnus said.
“It would seem so.” Abimbola crushed the pedal to the floor, and the skiff lurched forward. “Get ready to light that gate up, Marauders! I want heavy suppression.”