by Ronan Frost
When she brought her eyes back to the fore her conflicting emotions had been put behind her. The bizarre changes in her head had been confusing, like the opening of a door in her head and cold blue sea water gushing in. She didn't fully comprehend what was happening to her and the changes that were coming about, but all she knew was that she wanted to get back in touch with Ashian and Capac as soon as possible.
Shaun was already halfway down the corridor.
"Hurry up Myshia. This way to the com-lab."
She slung the pistol into the belt looped over a shoulder, dancing over the shattered metal pieces of machinery that had once been a robotic barricade. Her leather moccasins hit smooth floor again and she broke into a run after Shaun, following him closely down the confusing maze of passageways of the Urisa.
Chapter Fourteen
City.
Alas, my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.
- Thomas Hood.
The orange orb that was the sun hung just above the treeline, casting long deep shadows over the red baked earth. A line of ten combat tanks rumbled in orderly precession, metal creaking on metal and tracks slicing and crunching through hard soil. Cyclic whining noises filled the air as the huge vehicles of war rumbled past, shaking the very earth and sending small creatures scurrying for deeper cover. The tanks were squat, the widely set apart tracks giving them the appearance of a crouching monsters hugging the ground. Atop the black smooth hull was a rounded turret and cannon that turned lazily like a head inspecting the passing terrain.
Following closely behind the ten combat tanks were six rows of troopers in full scale battle armour, red sashes whipping in the breeze indicating they were of the Hartrias forces. There were five hundred in all, each moving with regulated steps to appear as one great interlinked machine.
Footsoldier Crane moved his eyes sideways in the confines of his helmet to better gaze at the sinking sun. His eyes narrowed as he took in the splendour of the sunset, the shielding of the faceplate allowing him to look directly at the burning sphere. He suddenly stumbled, his heavy boots catching on a root that had been pulped with the passing of the tanks, and had to break into a quick step to maintain his balance. He had often seen veterans move easily in the hydraulically controlled exoskeleton that was the combat suit, the old soldiers making the two-hundred kilo armour look like a leisure suit, but footsoldier Crane was new to its bulk. He managed to regain his balance, flushing behind the shaded visor.
"Footsoldier 29051 dash 7," came a voice in his ear. "Report."
Crane turned and saw the Footsoldier marching alongside staring directly at him. The others face was visible through the tinting of the helmet visor, his eyes deeply set into a visage etched with experience, the muscles around the snoutlike Hartrias jaw pronounced. Crane spoke into the microphone that curled around his head and terminated a few centimetres before his lips.
"Sorry sir. Equipment is alright, I just stumbled."
The older footsoldier studied him for a moment longer, then turned his eyes back, turning the microphone off with a brief snap of static. Crane pulled his eyes away and set them upon the back of the marching footsoldier before him in a steady gaze that would have to be kept up for hours on end.
Crane had first joined the Royal Fleet only five years ago, and was part of the contingent sent by the Rplore that was to help the Urisa teams establish the defence bases. Unlike many of those aboard the Urisa, the Rplore was a relatively new battleship that had been newly commissioned into service, its crew well qualified - the best technicians of their class - but few of the soldiers had actually seen combat. The war had taken a heavy toll of the Hartrias population and as many hands as possible were being put to use aboard newly constructed ships of war. Of course, the bio-labs were busy producing hundreds of genetically perfect crewmen, but even those took time to develop. It would be a matter of years before the new breed of crewmen controlled the Rplore, a breed that were so remarkably alike they would work together as a single organism.
Footsoldier Crane had been taken from his home on the planet Roiadia, a hot red planet terraformed and settled by the Hartrias three generations previously. The recruitment ship had gathered all the young fit men, and had put them into immediate training. Of course, Crane didn't realise that within a year he would be marching over the soil of a planet that would secure the place of the Hartrias throughout the galaxy.
As a well read crewman, Crane knew the full implications of the Critical Point. Although the Rplore's mother computer had been quiet concerning details of the matter, Crane knew that when they controlled the Critical Point they controlled the universe.
He shifted the weight of his heavy gun, the synthi-leather strap creaking in chorus to the rest of the squad's as they marched forward.
Footsoldier Crane had been briefed on the short trip planetfall. They were going to take control of a nearby native settlement that was located in a strategic position near the world's equator. Geosonic research indicated it was the only patch of hard soil for miles and the primitive city would be put to good use as a solid foundation for one of the massive skycannons that would be constructed.
Crane lowered his jaw and sucked on a straw, drinking the vitamin and energy enriched liquid that would keep his muscles moving tirelessly. His eyes never left the back of the footsolider before him, studying the notches in the battlearmour in vague interest and hearing the rumble of the forerunning tanks in his ears.
He was momentarily startled when a mechanical voice clicked on full volume over his earsets.
"In range. Target closing - estimated arrival 198 seconds."
Crane immediately snapped to attention, the computer aided vision of his helmet making light the darkness of night around them. He saw they were atop a hill, flat barren plainlands stretching down towards the square blocky shapes of the native city.
They took a direct route into the city, not fearing any opposition. The tracks of the tanks crushed over rows of irrigated land, ripping up the cultivated land and half-grown crop. As they crew closer Crane could make out details of buildings, all nestled close to one another and constructed off crude blocks of limestone. A few of the natives emerged, blinking in the dark and holding burning torches above their heads, looking for the source of the heavy rumbling that grew louder with each passing second.
Footsoldier Crane couldn't help but grin as he watched the small thin creatures fleeing down cobblestone streets calling their panic. The tanks crashed through the city walls as if the latter were made of paper, blocks of chiselled stone breaking apart as the sledgehammer face of the tank hit. The tanks made their own gate through the city walls, making a passage wide enough for all four columns of footsoldiers to march through unchecked. They walked over limestone that had been reduced to rubble, a layer so flat it was almost sand.
The contingent from the Rplore split into five groups, peeling apart in precise military formation. Footsoldier Crane followed out the orders that came through his headset, fitting into the working machine that was the Hartrias army as if he was a cog. Although his face was steely flat inside he felt a growing sense of power in his stomach. The natives were fleeing from their approach, stumbling away like water beading from the oily surface of a sphere. He swung his rifle around and unclipped it from its catches, sliding back the heavy bolt - internal machinery clicking into place. The other footsoliders moved in similar patterns, and within moments all had their rifles cocked and levelled.
And then the firing began. Crane grinned as his computer sighting picked up target after target, each burst from his wide muzzled rifle finding its target.
The currach had no place to hide. Wherever they hid the Sunlords always seemed to able to see them. No barrier could stop the raking fingers of bullets that tore through walls and splintered wood.
The screaming of many pierced the cold night air. Formerly quiet still streets echoed with the rattling of multiple machine guns, the dark night lit with finger-like flames fr
om steaming muzzles.
* * *
A dull glow lit the confined room, the flickering of the hurriedly lit the fire casting pockmarked shadows over the rough surface of the walls. The leather door flap was cast aside and three more currach entered, stumbling over themselves in their efforts to keep in a tight group. The forerunner of the three bowed his head into his hands, dragging his long shaking fingers through a scalp of short hair, his eyes still bleary with sleep but wide with terror.
Ten other currach crowded the room but hardly took any notice as three more joined their ranks. They were all speaking at once, trying to ascertain what had happened and if anyone could make any sense of it. The sounds of screams and destruction could be heard outside, deep reverberating thumps vibrating through the floor as distant buildings collapsed in a heap of rubble. Bright yellow flashes accompanied the heavy fthump fthump of the tank cannons, intermittent burst of machine gun fire sounding like thousands of giant bees all taking to flight at once. Lulls in the gunfire allowed the mingled screams of Currach to reach their ears, cries of mass hysteria as an entire city of hundreds erupted into chaos.
"Quiet down!" called a grey haired Currach to those inside the room. When he saw no abate in the confused hurried conversation he raised his voice. "Listen to me!"
The thirteen currach stopped mid-sentence and turned their wide, emerald eyes upon him. In the dying light of the fire their jaws seemed gaunt and their shoulders slumped, the panic in their veins turning limbs to lead.
The old man was the head of the building establishment and it was his duty to represent the currach dwelling nearby in the Council. He was an old man, but well respected, and that was why everyone had gathered in the Caretaker's room as soon as the fighting had begun.
"The Sunlords are here," said the Caretaker abruptly. There was no time for the verbal pedantic so often associated with currach activities. Even as they spoke the sounds of fighting seemed to close in on them like a sweeping tide.
"They have finally come to take the city." The Caretaker nervously scratched the side of his hairless jaw with a bony, wry finger. "The only thing I can see is to send for the League of Steel."
None of the currach spoke but the room was far from silent. A nearby structure had fallen, littering the cobblestone street below with pieces of limestone and granite. A fire had started and it licked at the fibrous roofing of the rows of houses, growing and crackling like a hungry beast. A weakened beam atop the Council Chambers collapsed with a terrific crack, spitting a shower of red embers like cast confetti.
The old man's eyes reflected the red flickering light from the window. For a moment nobody moved. Their voices dropped as glances were cast amongst the midst. An aged woman who lived the floor below the Caretaker coughed heavily, her breathing heavy and laboured as if she had just scaled ten flights of stairs. Towards the back a young apprentice at the Council Hall bowed his head and stared at his feet, his mind blank. Nearby, Georn reached out his hand to find his wife's. Their hands clutched tightly to one another, Georn anxious to give comfort to his pregnant wife.
The world seemed to have stopped for that space of a few heartbeats. The fire and destruction outside seemed to have lost relevance as the closely knit community group drew together, their breathing slowing and seeming to fall unconsciously into a communal rhythm, like a single organism. The smell of fear was stale in the darkness of the Caretaker's small room. They had seen the work of generations come tumbling down in the space of minutes, the very fabric of their lives torn asunder.
The quiet currach let the Caretaker's words sink in. Calling upon the League would be admitting defeat, for the Church had outlawed them. But now was different. Now their homes was at stake and not a single person voiced disagreement.
The Caretaker watched, taking the silence as reluctant agreement to his proposal. He opened his mouth and spoke. "Who shall call upon the League?"
His words were dramatically highlighted with as a nearby shell hit a neighbouring building, this time the shock wave making them all stagger. Georn drew back as he sensed a movement from the corner of his eye. The small shadow moved between him and his wife, moving between the legs of the gathered currach to stand before the Caretaker.
"I will, sir."
The Caretaker seemed surprised at the boldness in the boy's voice. He peered in the darkness and made out the dirt streaked face of Surk, the thirteen year old boy who had been unofficially adopted by the block. From the very beginning his life had been a difficult one; his mother had died when he was a child and nobody knew about his father. But he had been taken into the care of the block, the residents always giving him food and shelter whenever he requested it. He had often stayed in Georn's room, and would even come into the Caretaker's. The Caretaker had let him in with a gruffness in his voice that did little to disguise his delight in having the boy around. Surk reminded the old man of his own son, and he enjoyed the lively boy's company. But Surk refused to live in one spot permanently. He preferred to be alone, and was known on occasions to stay away for weeks on end. Some speculated he trekked in the forest, camping alone and fending for himself. He preferred it that way.
The Caretaker opened his mouth to dismiss Surk's offer, but stopped as he noted Surk's eyes glinted in the darkness, the determination in his voice making him stop to think. Surely the boy was not serious?
The other currach whispered among themselves.
"But boy, it is dangerous," pleaded the Caretaker. "Please let one of the men go..." He looked up, but his gaze was not met. Rather, the men hung their heads, the fear in their hearts too heavy to overcome.
"I can," said Surk resolutely.
The Caretaker paused, his thin brows coming together. It was dangerous and almost suicidal to try and escape the city. The Sunlords were all around and the Caretaker was sure anybody caught leaving would be shot.
But then again, did they stand any chance here...? Besides, nobody was a better climber than Surk. The Caretaker nodded decisively. "Very well." He strode to the leather door flap and peered out into the darkness, sniffing the air. He could smell smoke.
"I wish you luck," the Caretaker said solemnly as Surk paused at the doorway. "We are relying on you, my boy."
Surk nodded slowly, and before anybody could say any more had darted out into the corridor. His soft leather shoes slapped against the sandstone floor as he retreated into the darkness without a word.
The Caretaker turned slowly back to the crowd, holding a hand to his arthritic back as it jabbed with pain.
"We have work to do," he began. His gaze roved over their fear filled faces upturned to his like a row of shinning dinner plates. "Gather together some food, and met in the cellar. We will be safe there."
"I have some dried meat," spoke up the young councillor. "I've stocked up four boxes - that should keep us going if we are stuck down there for long."
"And I'll get my hammer and some boards," said Georn. "They should be able to close up the basement door once we're all in."
A small wave of comments picked up as various individuals planned what they would contribute. The Caretaker nodded to himself as the plan for their retreat grew in depth. A few currach had already broken the shackles of fear and were moving to their own rooms to collect their gear. Once in the basement they would hole themselves up as much as possible, and hopefully re-emerge when order was restored.
The Caretaker found himself wondering if they would find anything but a land of bloating corpses and rubble awaiting them.
Surk knew where he was without the aid of his eyes. He ran at a fast jog that could be maintained for hours on end down the dark corridors and leapt down the stairs four at a time. He sprung from the stone stairway and landed awkwardly at the bottom, cursing as his ankle twisted slightly. He stood without a pause, ignoring the dull throb in his foot, and was off at a run towards the front door.
He skidded through the wide door and out into the star speckled night, the blast of cold air hitting him like
a sheet of icy water. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, squinting in the red light of a magnificent fire that engulfed the council building. His breathing was harsh in his chest and he found himself on his knees in a crouch, looking around like a hare that had stumbled into blinding light.
All around was destruction. Only three buildings remained standing that he could see, the rest were either half collapsed like the one had just emerged from, or completely demolished to their very foundations. The cobblestone streets ran with a slick, oily grease, reflecting the flickering light of the fire from its surface. Surk heard the steady thumping of the tank cannons, distant and heavy like thunder.
He drew himself together and scurried away, moving from the centre of the road and into the shadows of an alleyway. As he moved behind the towering wall of a residential building he caught a flicker of movement from his eye, noting that he had moved away just in time to avoid a group of Sunlord troopers that had rounded the corner.
Surk threw himself into a pile of rubbish that had gathered behind an old shed in the alleyway, raising his head just enough to get a clear sight down the alleyway. He held his breath as he saw at least five Sunlord troopers walk past, looking like towering black monsters, their armour glinting like a bug's. They did not fire their massive guns, rather they had them thrown over one shoulder, wide black metal muzzles pointing up at the night sky. They moved like shadows, their footsteps a regular tromp, tromp, tromp over the flagstones. Surk couldn't help but feel irked, as if his personal space had been invaded. The Sunlords are here, in our city, he thought. They had been the subject of feared talk and many tales had been told of them, but now that he had seen them with his own eyes walking the streets of the city Surk felt a new bolt of fear in his guts. They had been invaded.