by Ann Aguirre
“I’d like that,” she said, smiling.
Alastor had a job to do.
Clear the path or die trying.
Ahead, the broken city streets were clotted with the Golgoth who had shattered their defenses, now free to loot and pillage. Wheeling the heavy gun, he unleashed a spray of bullets on the brute-Gol squad storming toward them. The ballistic hailstorm tore through even their armored bodies, decimating them in seconds. Their corpses toppled into a twitching pile of tissue, and the survivors scattered.
“Don’t stop,” he called to Zan, past the howl of the wind. “The Exiles will mop up stragglers, and I only have so much ammo.”
The Eldritch called back, “Like I would! I have two modes, fast and faster.”
An enormous brute of a Gol stomped into their path, bigger than Alastor when he changed and twice as armored, all plates, horns, and claws. This must be one of Tycho’s Elite. He unloaded, but the warrior took little damage… until a rocket whistled in from above and reduced him to a flying foot and a spray of blood mist. Alastor glanced up and spotted Korin and her cadet, air support as promised; he raised an arm in a gesture of thanks and she flashed her lights to show acknowledgment.
“We have a problem!” Zan shouted.
“I think we’re—oh shit.” Alastor locked onto two additional units entering the fray, likely tracking the Sol’s movement, at the intersection up ahead, all changed and ready for slaughter, with at least four Elites among them.
“Thoughts? Some of them look like runners, and we can’t afford to stall out here.”
“We get creative,” Alastor called. “Korin, do you copy?”
“Affirmative.”
“Are the buildings fully evac-ed here?” In truth, many of them had taken damage, fire, shells, and burn from long-distance RVAC. The one he was eyeing looked like it might collapse on its own, but he couldn’t risk this plan if it meant injuring innocents.
“Make it quick,” Zan snapped. “We’re closing fast.”
The Sol raced closer to the knot of Gol invaders, way more than they could handle. Alastor’s shoulders tensed.
Korin answered, “There should be no civilians, only looters and shooters.”
Alastor released the controls and went for his launcher, unleashing a missile. When Korin saw the side of the building cave in, she likely figured out his plan in a hurry since she launched a swarm of rockets at two load-bearing pylons. It fell like a dying giant, crushing one of the units, and blocking the road, so the Elites couldn’t touch them.
With a triumphant cry, Alastor lobbed grenades to the left and right, so they sped by in an inferno of shock and awe. Behind them, more of his brother’s soldiers died in the blasts, the rest went down in a hail of shrapnel. Each jolt of the damaged road sent pain slicing through him, and his hands hurt from clenching the artillery. The air was so thick with smoke, rubble dust, and chemicals that it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out yet.
“With our numbers, this would’ve been impossible on foot. Our forces would’ve been flanked and slaughtered.”
Zan nodded, swerving to avoid an Elite that burst from the ashes of a charred structure right nearby. She was immense, charging toward them with intent to flip the Sol. Clearly a veteran, this warrior had only one eye, the other scarred shut, and she roared a challenge in base-Gol, with her gaping mouth, revealing uneven yellow teeth.
“Fuck,” Alastor said.
“Less whines, more mines,” Zan shot back.
If they weren’t about to be rolled, he would’ve laughed. The Sol was nearly out of juice, and there was no sun in this dark night of the soul, plus this bitch could run. She was about to take them from behind, too close for Korin or Ria to have a shot.
The gun’s useless, won’t penetrate.
With a growl, Alastor went for the last of his grenades. He pulled the pins off four, let them cook for a few seconds and dropped them onto the road, where they rolled under the target and detonated. Not a clean kill, but with her four limbs crippled, she wouldn’t catch them. Once they had some distance, Korin went nuclear and blazed the bitch to dust.
From there, the coast was clear, Old Town in his sights. The Sol was choking, batteries just about dry. His comm popped, hissed, then Korin came across. “You good? There are multiple fires for us to put out.”
“Free and clear. Come back when you can,” Alastor said.
“Copy.”
All around him, the city burned. His impression of Old Town was heartening, because the old fort walls had been shored up and all the artillery produced by the converted factories had been concentrated here. For our last stand. Wall-mounted gunners at the ready, this place was grim and focused. The gates opened slowly, permitting Zan to guide the dying Sol inside. Civilians and Exiles should arrive soon. Hopefully, there would be some breathing room before the next wave.
Weary and half-deafened from the killing spree, he swallowed a groan as he rolled out of the vehicle. Zan touched his shoulder.
“You good, boss?” A clear indication that the Eldritch didn’t see him as some asshole royal. Apparently, they’d bonded in those fast, furious moments.
Alastor responded as he would’ve with Ded—with a friendly nudge and, “Yes. Thanks.”
The horizon was lightening, a gray day with hidden pearls. Dawn now, maybe my last.
Given how fucked Hallowell had seemed passing through the center of it, Alastor fought the seductive numbness of despair. The damage he’d witnessed, devastating and heartbreaking. Broken streets, bodies burning where they fell. Hallowell was a hellscape, and moreover, a vision of the world his brother would create. Here in the sanctuary of Old Town, the med tent was overwhelmed with the injured, mostly children who couldn’t shift. Their dirty faces and disconsolate eyes would haunt him forever.
I didn’t do this.
I tried to stop it.
Alastor would give a lot for just five seconds with Sheyla—to hold her and breathe her in. Having her nearby would dispel the lingering specter of colossal failure, that he was about to fuck things up so prodigiously that there could be no recovery for generations. Eventually, he collected himself enough to climb the walls, watching for the rest of his troops.
Gavriel’s Eldritch stumbled into Old Town first, worse for the wear, their numbers much reduced. The Hallowell western outpost force arrived next, and it looked like they’d scrapped with some of the survivors, despite his best efforts. Alastor kept watching the pavement as the sun climbed steadily in the sky. No enemies. No allies.
At last, the Exiles rolled in, much later than he’d expected. No Rowena. His chest tightened so hard that he saw sparks.
“Where is she?” he demanded. “If she fell out there, you should’ve brought her body, even if it killed half of you to do it.” Rage gave his voice power, even though he knew he was talking shit, being wildly unfair.
She deserves so much better. I should have been there.
Graff stepped forward. One of the youngest, he still had seniority with Ded and Rowena out of the picture. He dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. We’re all so sorry.”
“No apologies. No excuses. What the fuck happened out there?”
“A group of Tycho’s Elite jumped us. Rowena… they took her. Cut and ran. Maybe for ransom…?” His voice went up on a hopeful note. “The king knows that you hold her precious.”
He closed his eyes to control the absolute fury that rolled over him. Spikes half-shot from his back before he locked his emotions down. “Get out of my sight.”
Graff ran.
Not fair.
Don’t care.
As if that wasn’t enough, his comm vibrated, a new user looking to connect. With an angry gesture, he permitted the link. “Who’s this?”
“Finneas Furbander, at your service. With my first and final report.” A ferocious noise clamored in the background, nearly drowning the man’s voice. “The invaders are everywhere. Swarming. We cannot permit our factories to be take
n. Rather than putting weapons into our enemies’ hands, we shall take them with us.”
“What are you talking about?” Alastor had a terrible feeling, chills rolling in infinite loop.
Furbander went on, “The charges are set. Five factories in all, and we count the sacrifice well worth it. If we time this properly, most of these bastards will die at our hands. It may give you the edge you need.”
Suddenly he understood. “There has to be another way, sir.”
More noise, like a ram slamming into a metal door.
“Sadly, there is not. I won’t say it was a pleasure meeting you, Alastor of Golgerra, but I do thank you for your service. Advise the chancellor that I would like a statue in the plaza. Bronze, I think.” Crunch and bang, like a broken door. “Now, good sir, I am out of time. Please tell my wife and children I love them.”
An immense boom, and the comm went eerily silent.
25.
After that young patient died, things went sideways.
It was slow at first, whispers that ceased when Dr. Seagram entered the room. Normally Sheyla didn’t pay attention to gossip, but the words she caught were edged with desperation and malice. Nurse Harlow was usually in the thick of the talk, no reassurance there, for she’d already observed that the woman didn’t possess the steadiest personality.
The silence of the signal machine troubled everyone. Nobody had paid much attention when she first sent the test message, but the longer they went without a reply, the harder it became to control the fear of what might be happening in the city above. Earlier, Dedrick had used the word ‘entombed’ and if they were down here long enough, it might even prove true. Dying in confinement? It would be hell, and in the end, they’d probably go feral and turn on each other when the deepest survival instincts kicked in.
Her stomach churned at the mere contemplation of such a potential outcome. Dedrick called out, rescuing her from the mental image of blood-spattered walls. Sheyla went over to his bed, raising a brow in query.
“You rang?”
“My own personal physician? This is service. I was actually talking to Aide Cabueze.”
Who was paying no attention whatsoever. Sheyla smiled. “You have two minutes. What do you need?”
“If you won’t unhook me, I was wondering if you had more portable units I could drag around behind me. I won’t get stronger lying in bed.”
Sheyla shook her head. “What you see is what we have.”
They hadn’t come down here with plans in place for recovery or the dead, best and worst case scenarios. It seemed clear Dr. Seagram hadn’t expected them to hide for this long, more of a precaution than a long-term strategy. Yet Hallowell was silent. Logically, that suggested Alastor was losing. Perhaps no one is left to answer.
“Which means I’ll be drinking that protein mess again.”
“Now that you’re stronger, you can chew it if you wish.”
Dedrick sighed. “There’s nothing that can get me out of this bed faster?”
“For a big, bold warrior, you certainly complain a lot.”
In fact, she was already doing it. The fluids he wanted to remove so badly should have him on his feet in half a day. She’d analyzed their cross-compatibility and had deduced that there was no reason he couldn’t receive an Animari plasma transfusion. At first, she wasn’t certain he could tolerate it, fearing that his system might fight an Animari donor, but she’d tested her theory before he woke up and had found no adverse reactions, so she’d switched his IV as soon as he woke up.
“Your bedside manner is terrible.” He was smiling, though.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
Nurse Mills interrupted the conversation to point out, “There are other patients who need you, doctor, even if they aren’t so vocal about it.”
The mild rebuke didn’t irritate her because it was true. With a nod of apology aimed at both Dedrick and Mills, she went about her work. As she’d predicted, before the end of her shift, Ded was moving around his bed, testing the range of his tubes. She could tell he was chafing to be cut loose and while there was no discharge, per se, it was time to evaluate his condition. Since Dr. Seagram had been studying Golgoth anatomy as well, she called him to consult.
She handed him in the data stream chart, not printed since their supplies were limited. “Everything looks good to me. He’ll need to rest and take it easy, but I don’t see any reason why we can’t let him ramble around the bunker.”
Seagram ruminated over the various test results and then checked Dedrick’s wound—cleanly sealed, stitches dissolving as intended. “That looks good. Why don’t we peek inside?”
“Hold very still,” she told Dedrick.
Sheyla fetched the wand and the 3D anatomical map that had so fascinated Alastor what seemed like ages ago appeared over Dedrick. Some of his organs still showed traces of damage, but they were clearing him to stroll between three rooms, not fight a war.
“I see you’ve used an unusual treatment…” Seagram questioned her about the plasma transfusion and they talked for ten minutes past shift change about the theoretical benefits of cross gene therapy betwixt the Golgoth and Animari.
Until Dedrick cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Still here. Still a person.”
“I don’t see any reason why you can’t get up,” Seagram said.
“Congratulations.”
Their group was drawing definite attention, most of it laced with disapproval, so she hurried through a facsimile of discharge and brought Dedrick the biggest pair of scrubs she could find.
“You’re probably tired of pajamas.”
With a surprisingly warm smile, he took the clothes and went to the bathroom to get dressed. Alastor will be so happy, she thought, and then uncertainty crashed down.
As she headed for the lounge, she caught the tail of an ominous whisper. “…can’t kill him. The biometrics won’t work if he’s dead.”
She stilled in the corridor. Those in the rec room were the first shift staff who had already gone off-duty, which meant the mutiny was pervasive.
“We’ll die down here if we don’t do something. Just like that Herovi kid.” Barely a breath, but Sheyla still caught it.
Dedrick came up behind her and started to speak; she lifted a hand, warning him, but it was too late. The voices stopped. They had Animari ears, too.
What? His eyes asked.
She shaped the word ‘mutiny’ with her mouth, once, twice, each time slower until cognition sharpened his expression, and then Dedrick tipped his head toward the great room. She nodded.
“There’s no point tiptoeing anymore,” Dr. Seagram said loudly.
Too focused on eavesdropping, she hadn’t heard the old man. Again. Before she could stop him, Seagram marched into the rec room with a pugnacious expression. “You want to knock my head against the wall, turn the lift on, and flee, do you?” Seagram let out a deafening roar, dropped his clothes, and bristled into a large brown bear.
That escalated quickly.
As others followed, Sheyla mumbled a curse, got naked, and slid into cheetah form. Her growl said, Over my dead body. Settling beside Dr. Seagram, she doubted the two of them were enough to get the rest to back down. It’ll probably end in bloodshed. Why are people so fucking foolish and impatient?
The opposing group suddenly took a step back and when Sheyla spun, she understood. Dedrick had changed too, and these people had probably never seen a brute-Gol before. Unlike Alastor, Ded was quadrupedal in this form, huge and armored, ridged, and awe-imposing. It looked like he could bite somebody in two, one blow, too severe for quick-healing to save anyone. She didn’t speak base-Gol, but she could guess he was rumbling a threat, like, keep at it and I’ll fuck you up.
The would-be mutineers shifted back first. “Let’s talk about this. No need to be… impulsive.”
Sheyla stretched and luxuriated in being a cat for a few moments, making sure the others understood that she wasn’t in the mood to play. Give me a
reason. She said it by prowling around them, and then she swiped at one for good measure.
Skittish, huh?
It took a few minutes to get dressed, which made the standoff feel slightly ridiculous. Dr. Seagram was clearly still pissed, and she didn’t blame him.
“Listen up, you fuckwits. Yes, we may die if we don’t hear from the defenders soon, but if you try to take the lift without knowing the situation, you could be stranded in the shaft, and then nobody’s getting out. So shut up, do your jobs, and wait. We’re here for one reason only—because these patients will die without us. Trust me, I’d rather be working in a triage tent, too. Instead, I get to hole up with you worthless shit biscuits. Any complaints, choke on them and die. That’ll leave more protein packs for the rest of us.”
“Damn,” Dedrick said as Seagram marched out. “Shit biscuits?”
“I know. He’s magnificent when he gets going. Once he called me a festering sack of fermented assholes.” Sheyla wasn’t trying to be funny, but everybody in the lounge heard it, and they couldn’t stop laughing.
“We’re all gonna die,” Nurse Mills said, but he didn’t seem troubled.
She frowned at him. “Eventually, everyone does.”
When Ded smiled and slung a comforting arm across her shoulder, she leaned in. Faith wasn’t something she had a lot of, but the demon prince had never let her down.
He won’t start now.
Five factories. Five sacrifices.
Hours later, Alastor was still reeling over what Furbander had done. In blowing those facilities, the owners had taken out an incredible chunk of Tycho’s force. Smoke was still rising in black columns, a spiraling monument to the power of people defending their homes. There was no price too high; he saw that now.
Alastor wanted to storm out and scour the city for Rowena.
He couldn’t. It was likely she’d been taken as bait, not for ransom, as Graff had suggested so optimistically. When he didn’t come for her, Rowena would be returned to Golgerra in hopes they could torture some of his plans out of her. Once she proved useless, Tycho would execute her, as planned before Alastor saved her from the block.