by J. N. Chaney
“What are you going to do?” Magnus asked.
Abimbola glanced over at him then back at the gate.
“You don’t know yet, do you,” Magnus said.
“No. Any ideas, buckethead?”
Magnus cracked his neck. “And just when I thought we were home free.” He sighed and studied the situation unfolding before them. The gate was still open, but the ground in between had filled with Selskrit, their numbers growing rapidly. Up on the ramparts, more Selskrit were filling in from either side, putting pressure on the smaller Tawnhack force in the center. “How many skiffs you think we can fit between the doors?”
“As in, side to side?”
“Yeah.”
Abimbola leaned forward and squinted. The gate was coming up fast. “Four.”
“Then let’s jam the four strongest in there. They will—”
“They will keep the doors from closing and provide covering fire long enough for my trapped Marauders to make a break for cover. I like the way you think, buckethead! That is ballsy.”
Magnus chuckled. “Whatever you say, Bimby.”
Abimbola called out to three other skiffs and shared the plan. They acknowledged his orders, and Magnus saw the identified skiffs break from formation.
They were only a few hundred meters from the gate when blaster fire started pinging off Hell’s Basket Case. The M109 belched out rounds as they closed the distance, sand spraying up in plumes as Jujari blew apart. The three other skiffs slid up to the Basket Case’s right and left as Abimbola began slowing. Magnus heard the whine of the MUT50 and the steady whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the 70mm RBMB spewing out missiles.
Within moments, there was enough room cleared for the four skiffs to nose into the gap. Their combined firepower served like a sandbag dam that held floodwaters at bay. Slowly, the enemy fell away from the stranded skiffs until the vehicles sat like boulders amidst a tidal pool of Selskrit corpses.
“Are you ready to make a run for it, Titus?” Abimbola yelled over comms. Blaster fire continued to be exchanged as the skiff pilots acknowledged their leader. “Good. On my mark. Those of you in the breach, prepare to—”
Abimbola was cut off when the gate doors closed on the skiffs, pushing the vehicles into one another. Magnus was jarred, his head hitting the side of the passenger door—not enough to knock him out but enough to give him a decent-sized bump. He heard the drive core strain to keep the skiff from tipping too far. The sound of girding metal filled the cab as the skiffs jostled against one another.
“Screw this,” Abimbola said. “Full auto! Titus, it is now or never!”
“Roger that!”
The fours skiffs’ weapons’ systems went frenetic as they tore into the Selskrit ranks. The melee was absolutely deafening, the display of firepower… awe-inspiring. Magnus knew that the guns were tired; they wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long. Still, the skiffs put up one hell of a fight, turrets strafing left, then right, then back again on the encroaching enemy lines.
Magnus saw at least a dozen Marauders jump down from the stranded skiffs and duck as they crossed the distance toward the gate. Renewed blaster fire erupted from the Selskrit as they noticed the new targets. Magnus felt utterly helpless without a blaster, unable to fire on those who were shooting at Titus and his men. His eyes selected targets as if he still had a functional weapon. All he could do was watch.
One Marauder took an enemy blaster round between the shoulder blades, thrown to the ground like a rag doll. Another was hit in the shoulder—spinning him one way—and then the other shoulder, spinning him back. A third Marauder was struck in the knee and then the side. He’d crumpled to the ground when a third shot struck him square in the top of the head, drilling a ten-centimeter hole in his skull.
The Marauder who was bringing up the rear hesitated.
“Leave them!” Abimbola ordered over comms. “They are dead!”
The man snapped back to motion and ran for the skiffs. That’s a good soldier, Magnus thought. It was probably Titus.
The survivors raced at full speed toward the skiffs. At the last second, they dropped under the front bumpers and slid beneath. Magnus knew the repulsers wouldn’t hurt them—hiding beneath skiffs was a common tactic taught in boot camp—though these Marauders would have a killer headache for a few days.
Sensing the imminent retreat, the Selskrit began a suicidal press forward.
“Are they insane?” Magnus asked Abimbola over comms.
“They hate to lose.”
Just then, the M109 went silent.
“She’s out!” the gunner said.
“Dammit.” Abimbola pounded his fist on the dashboard.
At the same time, the Basket Case lurched and shoved up and over the side of the skiff beside it. The vehicles’ drive cores were no match for the powerful city gates. Magnus was sitting on top of his passenger-side window as the monstrous doors squeezed the skiffs together.
“There’s no way we’re backing out of this,” Magnus said.
“Everyone out!” The giant threw open his driver’s-side door—now a roof hatch—and climbed out. A big black hand appeared above Magnus’s head, and he took it. Abimbola lifted Magnus through the cab and helped him stand. Blaster fire ricocheted off the Basket Case, splattering Magnus’s armor with molten metal.
Abimbola yanked the door off the M109 turret and pulled the gunner out. Two more men leaped from the cargo bay and ran toward the convoy no more than three hundred meters away. Titus and his Marauders had finished their crawl and were on their feet, retreating in the same direction.
Magnus looked over at the skiff with the MUT50 as the barrels seized up with a loud kuh-thunk.
“Come on!” Abimbola yelled. “No more heroes! Get clear of the skiffs! Get back to the convoy!”
Magnus, Abimbola, and the gunner all jumped off Hell’s Basket Case and started running. The other Marauders dismounted and joined them as they fell back.
Within seconds, the four skiffs were overrun by Selskrit. They crawled over the vehicles like Nizwick acid ants on ramble rat corpses.
Magnus ducked as the Selskrit opened fire. Sand erupted in plumes all around him as he beat his way back to the line. With clear targets to shoot, the convoy began returning fire. The convoy skiffs—spread out in a wide crescent—focused their collective fire on the gate’s mouth—and gave them hell.
“Hey, buckethead,” Abimbola said, getting Magnus’s attention. Magnus glanced over at him as they ran, blaster fire zipping over their heads. “Watch this.” The giant raised a small detonator in his hand and pressed the button with his thumb. At the same time, he looked over his shoulder, as did Magnus.
A violent explosion ripped Hell’s Basket Case apart, sending fire and chunks of metal into the Selskrit ranks. Magnus covered his head as the shock wave kicked him in the gut. The three other skiffs bucked under the force, generating secondary explosions in quick succession. The blasts tore holes in the doors and sent Jujari bodies flying in all directions.
“Boom, boom,” Abimbola said with a wide grin of satisfaction. He turned back to his retreating men. “Mount any skiff that has room!”
Magnus slowed as he approached the nearest skiff. Three Marauders waited to board just ahead of him. Feeling he was beyond the Jujari’s effective range, Magnus turned to examine the wall. Abimbola’s scuttled skiffs were keeping the Selskrit at bay, at least for the present. But it wouldn’t be long before they started climbing over the flaming wreckage. Another battle, however, was unfolding on the ramparts and drew Magnus’s attention toward it. His eyes zoomed in on the action.
A small group of Tawnhack swung swords and fired blasters against a seemingly endless supply of Selskrit that closed from both directions along the wall. The fighting was brutal. Claws swung, digging into flesh, while jaws snapped, closing on limbs, shoulders, and necks. A fine mist of blood and hair hovered over the wall as Jujari hacked one another to death.
Suddenly, a Tawnhack pitched backward,
toppled over the half wall, and hurtled toward the ground. As if in slow motion, the shoulders of the warrior appeared—painted red.
It was the mwadim’s blood wolf—the one who’d greeted them at the tower mere hours ago. Did he really volunteer for this mission, or did the mwadim order him to go?
The blood wolf hit the ground. Sand shot up from the impact. Magnus held his breath, sure that the Tawnhack had died from the fall. “Please just be dead,” he whispered, willing the beast not to move. The scenario put a knot in Magnus’s stomach that he knew would only come undone one way. “You’re dead, right? Just be dead.”
The Tawnhack raised a paw in an attempt to ward off the Selskrit emerging from the gate.
“For all the mystics!” Before Magnus could change his mind, he tucked his sunglasses away, threw his spent MAR30 inside the closet skiff, and took off at a run. “Cover me!”
“What?” Abimbola asked.
“Cover me, dammit!”
“For the love of the gods, what are you doing, buckethead?”
“Trying to live up to my name! Now, start shooting at something!”
Abimbola swore as he gave orders to the convoy to cover Magnus. The skiffs sent a renewed volley of fire into the gate as more Selskrit appeared. But Magnus wasn’t fazed. He kept pumping his arms and legs despite how they screamed at him.
These moments, Magnus thought… These are the ones that count. He sucked in air and pushed it out with disciplined control. This is what it all comes down to.
Blaster fire crisscrossed overhead. He was committed now, out in the middle of the danger area without any cover. If anything went wrong, that was it. No second chances. No opportunities to regroup. For a split second, Magnus marveled at how utterly stupid he was. He could die at any second. All it would take was one stray blaster round to the head, and it would all be over.
The realization of how much peril he’d just put himself in sent a new jolt of adrenaline into his bloodstream. Time slowed as he raced across the open ground. His eyes tracked blaster rounds. His ears heard animalistic screams. His nose smelled burnt flesh. His skin felt sand grains pelting it. His tongue tasted the salt in his beard. Then his inner self spoke in oddly poetic prose. These are the moments you train for but are never ready for. You have to embrace them when they come and hope to all the mystics that you’ve done enough. This is what you were born to do.
A blaster round glanced off his right shin and knocked the leg out from under him. Magnus tumbled head over heels through the sand. It burned his eyes and filled his mouth. He coughed then struggled back to his feet.
“You are the craziest damn son of a bitch I have ever met. You know that, right?” Abimbola said in Magnus’s ear.
Magnus responded with a grunt. He neared the downed blood wolf, who was now crawling toward him. “Hey there, ugly,” Magnus said. He was out of breath, but adrenaline made up for the lack of air. “Time to get you out of here.”
27
Awen watched in awe as TO-96 assumed control of the Azelon Spire. He strode to the centermost acceleration couch, sat down, and began sliding his arms through the restraints. Then he stretched out his arms as spheres of orange light appeared around his hands. Blue lines seemed to designate axes, orientation, momentum, and direction. Then, with a sudden twitch of his head, TO-96’s Unity-connected AI seemed to marry with the ship’s AI to create what Awen could only suspect was the most hyper-intelligent super-starship in the universe. Universes, she corrected herself.
“I suggest you sit down, Awen,” TO-96 said.
“Right.” She snapped out of her trance and returned to her chair then secured the harness once more, the straps touching already tender spots on her torso. “All set.”
“And you, Ezo,” TO-96 said, hailing him through the ship’s comm. A small holo-display appeared beside the command chair. Awen could see Ezo blinking at the camera light.
“What is it, ’Six?”
“Are you and Sootriman secure, sir?”
“She’s strapped down on the medical bed, and I’m buckled in. I think it’s diagnosed her. Something’s already been administered.”
“Good to hear. Please stand by for evasive maneuvers.”
The holo-display vanished. Then the ship lurched as TO-96 moved his hands, rotating them through the orange spheres as if performing some sort of strange dance move. Multiple images appear across the main window, depicting the Azelon Spire from numerous perspectives—as seen by the nearby planet, the enemy ship, and the greater solar system. Other displays showed long-range-sensor scans of the enemy ship as data and images streamed across the bridge.
Awen doubted TO-96 needed all these screens, given his integration with the ship. She guessed they were there simply to serve her or any other biological sentient being on the bridge—and they did that task extremely well. The visual tapestry was awe-inspiring. Her eyes moved from panel to panel as they hovered in layers around the main window.
“You feeling pretty confident about this, then, Ninety-Six?” she asked.
“I am indeed, Awen. Azelon’s responsiveness is unprecedented when compared to any starship in our galaxy.”
“Nice.” Her eyes flitted across the images of the enemy ship, which seemed to be some sort of Republic vessel. The ship looked like a blunt-tipped arrowhead, and its body was adorned with stabilizers. Glowing thrust cones shot from sleek cowlings that looked like talons extending from its hull. “What kind of ship is that?”
“It is definitely a Republic destroyer, Awen. Raider class. The designation number on its hull does not correspond with any known vessel.”
“How is that even possible?”
“There are a few explanations,” the bot said.
“Any that might suggest it’s actually friendly and just being cautious with its weapons systems?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Captain,” Azelon said, “the enemy ship is attempting to hail us.”
“Bring it up,” TO-96 said.
The image of a high-ranking human officer in a Republic-style navy uniform filled the front window—his head at least five times its actual size. Awen winced at the sheer size and brightness of the image.
“Unknown vessel,” the officer said without offering his name, rank, or command. “Cut your engines, lower your shields, and prepare to be boarded.”
TO-96 flicked his index finger. A small icon appeared in the lower portion of the display, showing the bot’s ovoid face and glowing eyes. “Unknown vessel,” he replied. “No.”
The officer jerked his head back. Awen wasn’t sure if the reaction was from seeing a navigation bot at the helm or from TO-96’s curt reply. The man attempted again, this time in a slightly more strained voice. “Unknown vessel, I order you to cut your engines, lower your shields, and prepare to be boarded.”
TO-96 turned in his chair and looked back at Awen. “Is his head too big?”
“What?” She looked between the bot and the officer.
“I said, do you think his head is too big? I feel as though seeing something so unnaturally large is quite imposing and gives him an undue sense of power that is disproportionate to his actual station.”
“Ninety-Six, is now really the time?”
“I believe it is the perfect time. Here, watch this.” TO-96 looked toward the window again. Suddenly, the image of the officer shrank to the size of a small data pad and floated a meter from TO-96’s torso. “There. That is so much better. Look how cute he is.”
“Unknown vessel!” The officer was spitting mad.
“Bye-bye.” TO-96 flicked the image away with a thumb and forefinger, and it vanished. “He was annoying me.”
“Shouldn’t we try to talk to him?” Awen asked, both amused and bewildered by TO-96.
“Negative. They mean to kill us—that’s all we need to know.”
“And so… you’re pretty sure they won’t be a problem, then?”
“They will not be a problem, Awen.”
Som
ething flashed under the ship’s hull.
“What about those?” Awen pointed at three projectiles that shot forward.
“Torpedoes fired,” Azelon said. Red targeting reticles appeared onscreen, circling the incoming munitions. “Time to impact, twenty-one seconds.”
“Ninety-Six?” Awen asked, suddenly tense.
“Attempting to compromise the munitions,” the bot reported.
She looked back and forth between the three torpedoes and TO-96. “Compromise? That’s a good thing, right?”
“For us, yes.” Then the bot said in a playful singsong tone, “But not for them.”
“Time to impact, five seconds.”
“Ninety-Six!”
“Munitions acquired,” Azelon said. “Impact avoided.”
“There we are,” TO-96 said, as chipper as someone out on a morning walk greeting his neighbors. The targeting reticles around the torpedoes changed from red to purple. Then each projectile veered off course.
“Wait. Munitions acquired?” Awen asked. “Did you… are you controlling them now?”
“Indeed, I am, Awen. And my, how maneuverable they are. The Republic has certainly made several improvements to their latest iteration. Watch.”
The purple reticles tracked the torpedoes into giant loops and sweeping barrel rolls. The bot even seemed to be drawing some sort of design with one of them.
“You’re doing all that?” Awen couldn’t believe her eyes. “With your connection to the Novia?”
“Indeed. Is it not fun?”
“I’m not sure fun is exactly the word I would use to describe it. Can we play later? Let’s take care of that ship first.”
“As you wish, Awen.”
The torpedoes’ paths straightened out and then converged on the enemy ship from three different angles of attack.
“Time to impact, fifteen seconds,” Azelon reported.
“You’re going to disable it?” Awen asked.
“If by disable you mean obliterate, then yes.”