Glyph

by T. M. Catron

  The pain was gone. Whether it was because his body had finally gone into shock or he was too focused on the aether swirling out from behind the Nomad, Doyle didn’t know.

  The aether had been lurking behind the ship for some time. That’s what had stopped the Condarri. They couldn’t control it. Now, he felt it blow past him like a gale-force wind as it headed straight for their black ropes.

  Doyle stumbled, but Mina held him upright as the two dark forces clashed with a blaze of lightning. The hangar lit up in a harsh white brilliance, bringing light to parts of the ship that had probably never seen it.

  They glimpsed a tall, stone ceiling, walls covered in adarria, and then the aether did battle with itself.

  Doyle no longer felt like he was controlling the aether. He knew he was, but he wasn’t giving it any conscious thought. Rather, the aether had become an extension of him. Every blow to the Condarri shook him to the bone.

  Unable to brace herself against it, Mina shook with him. And since Doyle couldn’t block his thoughts and wield the aether at the same time, he knew she was feeling everything he felt. But she didn’t give out, even though by now she wouldn’t be able to breathe, either.

  The fight continued, surrounding the three Condarri like black storm clouds. The lightning moved deeper within the clouds as the two forces became more entwined.

  Seeing they couldn’t beat Doyle with overwhelming force, the Condarri began to move. With an ear-splitting screech of rage, the first monster charged.

  It broke through the clouds of aether, which parted and then swirled back together. Mina gasped. Doyle glanced down at her. She struggled to stay conscious.

  Behind him, Doyle felt the Nomad prepare for take-off. The ship was part of him too, a presence in his world. Just like the aether, it obeyed his whims. Morse was the only person who could be controlling it now. Even though Calla still lived, she didn’t have the strength.

  Everything seemed to take too long.

  The Condarri running for them, the ship humming behind him. Mina even faded. When Doyle looked, she was slumping, finally succumbing to the absence of oxygen and the unearthly forces doing battle mere feet away. He watched her body crumple to the ground.

  Doyle could do nothing. Too weak to catch her, too far gone to try, he braced himself for the Condarri’s onslaught. If he held out a moment longer, maybe Morse could get away.

  At least he would have corrected that mistake.

  Doyle, Mina said.

  She was still alive.

  In preparation for giving the final blow, the Condarri raised its arm and bared its hideous fangs. But Doyle’s inevitable death still didn’t compute in his brain. Mina was still alive. If only he could get her on the ship…

  Doyle screamed at the oncoming creature. He poured all his hatred, rage, and fear into it. Something tore in his throat. Then, he summoned the aether away from the battle.

  He could still protect her. The aether could take Mina away.

  The blackness engulfed the Condarri as it passed, momentarily halting its advance and disorienting the creature. Then, as if Doyle were picking Mina up with his own arms, the aether lifted her off the ground and floated her into the ship behind him. Doyle didn’t need to see it to know she was on board.

  With every bit of strength he had left, he said, Morse, go!

  And then he fell.

  The Condarri swooped down on him.

  Everything went black.

  Calla crawled forward, watching the battle from the far corner of the room where Doyle had thrown her. Both legs were broken, useless. But she wasn’t dead yet.

  She ignored Cummings’ body as she slid past, pulling a trail of his blood with her. His hand moved, and Calla wondered if it were a lingering twitch in a dying body, or if he were reaching for something unseen. Calla assumed that Morse had taken out his long-dormant rage on Cummings. He had probably imagined he was killing Calla.

  A glint of steel on the floor. Calla reached for it. Her hand closed on the cold hilt of Doyle’s knife. The knife that had sliced her shoulder to the bone. She couldn’t walk, but she could throw it.

  Calla watched as Mina fell and then as Doyle abandoned his fight with the Condarri to get her into the ship.

  As Doyle finally died, she watched the Condarri raise its arms. A long blade detached from the creature’s armor. It lit up, shining with hot, white light. The creature swung, sweeping down to sever Doyle’s head from his body.

  Time stopped as Calla watched Doyle’s final moments. Maybe it had something to do with the aether. Maybe it was Calla’s own heightened sense of awareness. Whatever the reason, she didn’t feel the joy she had imagined she would. Instead, the world had gone cold. The hybrid she had learned from, fought with, her first and only mentor, was dying.

  He had always shown her mercy.

  Something hard in Calla’s chest broke, shattering on the floor as if it were glass. Doyle couldn’t die. Why was she letting it happen?

  If it were in her power, she would stop it.

  It was within her power.

  Calla screamed, rising up on one elbow, ignoring the pain in her legs, hand stretching back with the knife.

  She threw it.

  The blade sliced through air, through aether, and straight into the base of the Condarri’s skull.

  The clash of steel on steel. A burst of sparks. The others shrieked, turning toward Calla. She could feel the dismay and anger radiating off of them.

  The knife had struck true. The Condarri stumbled sideways, trying to stay in control of its body but failing as silver blood flowed down its spine.

  Calla stayed where she was. She wouldn’t be able to get past the other Condarri to get to the Nomad, even if Morse wasn’t there ready to slit her throat the minute he got close enough. And she didn’t have another weapon. She’d lost them all in her fight with Doyle.

  Calla lay back, looking up at the ceiling still illuminated by the white lightning inside the aether. Whatever happened now, she had fought well.

  Then, the hangar began to glow with golden light.

  The adarria began to whisper, strange things that Calla felt, rather than heard. She didn’t understand them, but something was happening. That, more than a desire to live, made her roll painfully to her side.

  A yellow light flashed. The adarria were moving, as Calla expected. But the aether was doing something odd. Instead of swirling around in graceful clouds, it shook, vibrating like it was being frozen in place.

  The two remaining Condarri halted in confusion.

  And then the adarria on the walls opened wide. Everything flashed at once. The light grew so intense that Calla had to bury her face in the crook of her arm to keep from being blinded.

  The aether picked her up. She howled in pain as her broken legs shifted, bone grating on bone.

  Still blind, Calla felt her body glide over the floor, smelled the sickly sweet stench rising from the body of the Glyph she had killed, and then felt the cool floor of the Nomad.

  Calla sensed it take off.

  A sense of urgency took hold of her. If the Condarri recovered, they would come after them.

  Calla sat up, ready to fight for her life.

  Instead of seeing the Condarri, she looked straight into the face of a dark-haired young woman, looking at her from over the bodies of Mina and Doyle.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lincoln sat beside Carter’s body for a long time, shocked into inaction. The man’s death was pointless. So pointless.

  As the warmth left Carter’s body, Lincoln’s shock turned to anger. It burned inside him, and he was like a man waking from a dream. The creatures had stolen Lincoln’s life. Stolen his friends. The young Glyph represented more than just an invading force, but a bringer of death and destruction. A bringer of darkness.

  And Lincoln was tired of letting them ruin his life. As he sat on the cold floor, something snapped inside him. His weariness was forgotten in a stream of guilt and anger and revenge. But i
t was more than that. Ever since he had seen the alien symbols under the mountain, he had wanted to do something about them. Yearned to know more. And here he was, knowing more than he had ever sought, with one friend dead and who knew how many more.

  And then there was Mina.

  He loved her. But he couldn’t stand by idly and fume about her anymore. She had plotted her own course these last few months. Lincoln could do little to change that. There was work to do.

  He vaguely registered people running past him. No one stopped to check on the two humans in the middle of the floor. Shouts rang out.

  The gunfire finally startled Lincoln out of his mourning. A group of boots pounded toward him. He looked at Carter one more time, shining his light on the older man’s face, which was covered in blood but oddly calm and peaceful. Lincoln hated leaving him there, but he didn’t have a choice.

  The sounds of battle carried down the hall—more gunfire and shouts. Flashes of light as the adarria lit up the corridor. Through the streaks of yellow light, Lincoln glimpsed the young Glyph hulking further down the hallway. The hybrids had found it. They were attacking. Men and women scattered as the Glyph screeched and swung its massive arm. The young Glyph was more nimble than Lincoln would have thought. He dodged their blows. And the bullets only ricocheted off him.

  The hybrids jumped at their prey, but the prey was powerful. It sent one hybrid reeling back to smash against the wall. The man slid down the stone and did not get up. Lincoln saw a pistol go flying. If he could get hold of one, he would at least be armed. Hadn’t Mina said she brought down a Glyph by shooting it in the eye?

  But an opening didn’t present itself.

  Slowly, the Glyph beat back the hybrids until only two remained. The woman had a spear. They attacked relentlessly, fearlessly. The hybrids had been created to fight. Even against insurmountable odds. Although Lincoln knew they must have been afraid. Somewhere deep down, all living things were afraid of death.

  The woman drove her spear into the Glyph’s side, its point piercing through armor-like skin. The creature howled in fury. When she jerked it out, silver blood flowed freely from its side. But the wound only enraged it more, and it struck before the hybrid had time to step away.

  She flew down the corridor toward Lincoln, her spear flying with her. She landed with a dull thud and slid to a stop right at Lincoln’s feet. The spear clattered against the wall and rolled next to her.

  Lincoln froze. The Glyph was staring right at him. He hadn’t seen what had happened to the other hybrid, but he had disappeared. The woman at his feet didn’t move.

  He glanced at the spear, judging the distance to pick it up. Three feet, at most. The Glyph didn’t take its eyes off Lincoln, daring him to move.

  Either way, Lincoln thought, I’m dead.

  There was no way the Glyph was going to let him leave. And he didn’t want to. At least if Lincoln had the spear, he would die fighting. Odd that he had never considered such a scenario before. Even after the invasion, he hadn’t thought how he would act just before death.

  But he knew now. He lunged. The Glyph bellowed and bolted for him. It had no trouble running in the increased gravity. Lincoln’s hand closed around the spear. It was heavier than he expected, but he hefted it around to find a balance.

  Not trusting himself to throw it with any kind of accuracy, Lincoln knelt and planted himself with the butt of the spear on the ground, hoping to impale the Glyph before it broke his neck with a swipe of one powerful arm.

  Lincoln braced himself for the blow, squeezing his eyes to slits because he couldn’t watch, but he couldn’t look away either.

  The Glyph side-stepped the spear, and Lincoln ducked just in time to avoid being flung against the wall. But the Glyph’s momentum prevented it from coming to a full stop. It slid along the smooth floor with an eerie scraping noise like stone on stone.

  Breathing heavily, Lincoln turned, hoping to find an opportunity to launch the weapon into the Glyph’s eye. As it spun around, he lamented his poor fighting skills. But what was an engineer to do?

  The Glyph lunged for Lincoln. It gave Lincoln the opening he needed to drive the spear upward toward its face. First, he struck stone, but the spear slipped and he felt it dive through flesh.

  The Glyph reeled back, yanking the spear out of Lincoln’s hands. In the feeble light of the flashlight, the Glyph thrashed around with the spear in its eye. It wasn’t dead, though—the tip of the spear hadn’t penetrated very far.

  Lincoln scrambled back, realizing his daring move had bought him a few seconds but nothing more. He grabbed the flashlight and shone it down the hallway in the direction of the dead hybrids. Limping along, he looked for the guns they had dropped when they fell. One was a rifle. Lincoln picked it up, but he didn’t have time to aim.

  The Glyph came after him. He heard a sickening squelch as it drew the spear out of its own eye. A cry of agony. And then silence.

  But the creature hadn’t fallen, it was softening its footfalls. Lincoln shone the light down the corridor.

  The Glyph had disappeared.

  With a racing heart, Lincoln turned 360 degrees, shining his light on every corner, hoping to find the Glyph. He didn’t doubt it was there, though. It wasn’t going to let him get away. With the creature critically injured, it wasn’t going to risk another direct assault even from a human.

  He was being hunted.

  A shiver ran up Lincoln’s spine. He pressed his back against the wall, shining the light up and down the corridor. Every time he swung it to the right, the area to his left became completely dark. Every time he shone his light to the left, the darkness swallowed his right-hand side. With each turn of the light, he expected to see the Glyph at his shoulder.

  After sixty seconds of panicking, Lincoln turned right, in the direction he had last seen it. He wasn’t going to run from it but toward it. If it was hiding, it was scared.

  Maybe.

  Did the Condarri get scared? He hoped so.

  Lincoln held the rifle to his shoulder, limping along, holding his flashlight underneath the stock to light his way. His foot hit something on the floor, and he looked down. A pistol. He picked it up and stuck it in his belt.

  Feeling a bit more secure, he stalked the corridors, occasionally pausing to listen for anything other than the sound of his own breathing. He thought of Grace and Carter, but more of Alvarez and Nelson. As far as he knew, they were still alive. He hadn’t seen or heard from them since the Glyph attacked. He hoped they had got away. They just had to get away. If Lincoln were going to die in the Factory, at least he could do something worthwhile.

  He was going to kill the Glyph.

  Without thought as to where he was going, he moved further down the side passages. The Glyph would eventually follow if it were coming after him. All he had to do was stay on guard.

  In the back of his mind, Lincoln thought of the foolishness of his errand. At least ten hybrids had attacked the Glyph and failed. But Lincoln’s partial victory with the spear spurred him forward. After all, what did he have to lose? He was lost in the tunnels anyway.

  When the passage he was in widened into a tall doorway, Lincoln couldn’t believe his luck. He recognized the door and the room beyond—the training room. He entered, no less wary because of the familiar space.

  It was empty except for him. The hybrids must still be hunting the Glyph. Maybe some were hiding—he wouldn’t blame them. The hum of fans and hard drives filled the room with white noise. The sound was comforting—it had surrounded Lincoln his whole adult life. But it set him further on edge, as well. The thousand tiny machines sounded like breathing. Since the Glyph was incredibly silent, the whir of the computers would make it easier for it to sneak up on Lincoln.

  Thankfully, the glow of the screens provided a bit more light. But they also cast weird shadows on the adarria on the walls.

  The hair on the back of Lincoln’s neck stood on end, and he swung his light around to the door.

  Ther
e, standing as confidently as an oak tree, was the young Glyph.

  It stared directly at him, its one good eye glowing with fire. The effect of one eye staring at Lincoln out of the semi-darkness was more disconcerting than two.

  He kept his gun trained on the animal like he would if he were hunting. Before the invasion and before having to live off the land, Lincoln had not been hunting since he was a much younger man. His father, Adam, had taught him from an early age.

  Thoughts of the quiet, gentle man caused Lincoln's eyes to water. He blinked them away, focusing on the invader staring at him hungrily. It took a step into the room, creeping around the tables, stalking Lincoln, who was now trapped.

  But Lincoln’s thoughts, while random and agonizing, did not stop him from training his sights on the Glyph. In the dark, he needed to be sure it was closer before he fired. The eye was the only vulnerable part. The Glyph must have known it too, because it walked cautiously, keeping its good eye shielded from Lincoln’s scope as it came closer.

  Lincoln cursed. Thought of his dad again. The man who had helped his son out of a terrible depression after his mother left. Mina was named after their dad—her real name was Adamina. Funny how he was thinking of this now.

  If it weren’t for their father, Lincoln wouldn’t have become an engineer. He would have chosen a different path, one that was much less safe, much scarier.

  I’m an engineer, he thought, not a hunter. The Glyph paused in a shadow. What was it doing?

  Oh. It was scared of the computers? That didn’t make sense, but something about the room must have been disorienting the animal. It should have charged Lincoln a long time ago.

  Still, without a clear shot, firing would be a waste of ammunition. One shot was all he would get.

  Then, Lincoln had an idea, one that had nothing to do with the rifle in his hands. The adarria were wired to the computers. The cable rigged to the power line would carry a lot of punch. More than a single bullet. He wasn’t far from the line that rigged it to the adarria.