Sunlord

by Ronan Frost

  Myshia gripped the pistol in both hands, waiting anxiously, eyes on the empty corridor. "What is it?"

  The steady rhythmic footsteps rang louder along the narrow walkway. "It's a warbot."

  Myshia's mouth dropped open as a huge shadow unfolded itself from the darkness, expanding on and on like a rising mountain. The towering robot moved with carefully placed footsteps, the corrugated plates that were its feet shifting as hydraulics whined, the massive framework of its body morphing as a thousand mechanisms slid between one another. As it moved beneath the light of a fluorescent Myshia saw its head was a featureless black plate, the broad shoulders smooth except for a grid of ventilation slits running lengthwise across the shinning armour.

  The warbot walked forward like a pacing cheetah. It had pulled itself down in order to move through the confined passageways, but if the situation demanded it could stand up on its rear legs, revealing a massive arsenal in the plated chest. Computer controlled, it was deadly accurate and merciless. As it stalked forward Shaun saw multiple ball-jointed cannons swivel silently in his direction.

  His hand pushed firmly against Myshia's chest.

  "Get back," he whispered out the corner of his mouth, not taking his eyes from the approaching Goliath. "Into the shadows, where it can't see you."

  Myshia resisted for a moment. "What are you going to do."

  "I've got an idea. Now get moving."

  She moved reluctantly away, keeping the pistol held at waist level - a futile weapon against the impenetrable armour of the warbot. Electric sparks of adrenalin ran the length of her spine as the warbot pulled to a halt, the steel block atop its shoulders that might have been a head lowered bull like. Its poised stance was like that of a spider, springy and light.

  Shaun waved his hand urgently, urging Myshia backwards. "Get clear!"

  Not wanting to leave Shaun facing the looming machine of death alone Myshia pulled away only at the last instant. Then suddenly the spiderlike machine bolted forward with its metal feet clittering on the floor like the rattling of a skeleton. Throwing herself backwards Myshia's foot caught and she tripped. Her back connected with the wall, striking her head against the hard surface as she drew away. Her mind swam, fingers clutching desperately to keep ahold of the pistol. The sound of gunfire assaulted her ears, stunning her for an instant, her pistol slipping away from her hand like a struggling, slippery fish as she raised her arms to shield her face.

  Shaun stood his ground, legs spread, centre of gravity held low. His sharp eyes saw movement atop the massive domed shoulders of the warbot and he ducked aside. Bullets lanced through the air where he had been a moment before, carving a path of hissing energy. He backed up hard against the door to the comm lab.

  The warbot came at him. Snorting a pneumatic symphony of hisses the spiderlike robot charged forward. Shaun dove directly for the warbot, knowing he had bare milliseconds to spare either way. In a quick motion he was under the hot metal surface of the robot, gasping, moving to avoid the mass of steel that shot over his head like a train. He knew he had to keep moving. He ducked low just as a length of tubing brushed past, sweaty palms finding the smooth cold lip of the warbots frame, hauling himself up and swinging his legs over like a gymnast. The warbot pivoted three-sixty degrees, dropping lower still, in an effort to shake off its troublesome prey. It spun too quickly. Shaun heard the high pitched wailing of metal against metal as the robot's feet lost traction on the polished floor. The sound was like fingernails drawn sharply down a blackboard, the warbot's six legs skidding like ski's, carving furrows as it spun in a lazy pirouette.

  Shaun ducked away, slipping through a clear space seconds before the warbot swirled, upper leg mechanisms retracting in a quick scissoring motion that sliced the air behind him. Shaun threw himself away, clearing the underside of the machine just as it crashed sideways into the wall. Metal buckled, the sound was as if two high speed cars had just collided head on. Shaun caught a split second glimpse of the comm lab door giving way, smashing inwards like eggshell as mountings tore apart.

  The warbot recovered instantly, raising itself from the twisted frame of the door Matt black armour glistened like a hardy cannonball. Scanning the large gash in the door to the comm lab Shaun judged that the gap would be big enough to squeeze through. A wry grin flickered across his face, amazed his ploy had succeeded. Now all that remained was to take care of the warbot.

  His moment of respite was all the warbot needed to cover the ground separating them. It caught Shaun by surprise. He threw himself away but this time the warbot was quicker, a steel bolt catching and spinning him roughly. The air was crushed from his lungs as he was pushed savagely against the wall, feet leaving the ground as something hard and heavy pushed against his right shoulder. Mind spinning with panic he didn't know what had hit him until seconds later, his eyes glazed with pain. The warbot had him pinned.

  Shaun couldn't move as the intense pulsing tendrils of agony wrenched and stretched at his mind as if it were a lump of dough. He struggled to draw breath but it seemed a great weights were pinned against his efforts. He was painfully aware that his lungs were empty and already white spots flashed before his eyes. His shoulder ached with sudden pain and a gush of blood spread over the warbot's javelin-like arm. It had him held like a butterfly, pinned to the wall through the flesh of his shoulder, holding him there. The rod had caught him high, just below the collarbone, the cold steel wedging itself tight between his flesh. Shaun tried to pull away but froze as electric bolts of agony shot the length of his arm, the pain almost paralysing him. Shaun heard Myshia wildly screaming his name but it seemed somehow distant. All of a sudden the only thing that mattered in the world was the pain, the pain that washed over his brain, driving the strength from his limbs. The heavy feeling of fear was in his gut, rising in his throat, primitive instincts crying out to run, to hide.

  A feeble light shone in Shaun's eyes as he opened them, raising his head, a small cry escaping his lips, watching helplessly as the warbot prepared the death blow.

  * * *

  The steady, rhythmic pulsing of drum beats echoed down the long stone corridors, thumping eerily, quiet with distance. Footsoldier Crane dropped his tube of synthi-drink, his ears prickling.

  "What is it?"

  Crane pivoted, turning to see his mess officer had spoken.

  "Can't you hear it?" replied footsoldier Crane. "Sounds like...drums."

  The mess officer's heavy brows furrowed. He made a sudden movement to clip fasten the front of his helicasuit. "You're right."

  Footsoldier Crane picked up his rifle that lay propped up against the wall and bolted outside, jiggling his pack over one shoulder. His heavy GP boots thumped on the narrow stone stairs as he climbed, cursing the shallowness of the staircase. Under the light of a few makeshift fluorescent that hung from the walls like hollow insects he made his way to the top and leant against a heavy wooden door. He burst into the orange light of evening, the air cool against his cheeks.

  He stood for a moment, poised, listening. The sound was louder here, more distinct. It was definitely the beating of many drums in the distance. It had alerted a score of other footsoliders too. They cast confused looks at each other as they emerged from the rooms of the currach building.

  The small courtyard they stood in had once been filled with currach but the Hartrias had claimed it as their own. As instructed by Avatar they had established as a makeshift mess hall in the old stone building. Footsoldier Crane had helped set up the cooking machines in the ancient primitive rooms, where enough rations would be produced to feed the nearby legions of soldiers. Their domination of the city had been effortless - no Hartrias casualties had been reported and the surviving currach were rounded up and locked into great rectangular transport cells that had been dropped in by Haulers. The transport cells were twenty metres in cross section and fifty metres long - a polished silver containment vessel that fitted to the underside of the workhorse craft of the Hartrias army: the Haulers. Used exten
sively in construction and transport the Haulers were the heavy freight vehicles of the Urisa. The natives were to be kept sealed in the transport cells indefinitely, not that anyone particularly cared about them.

  Footsoldier Crane studied the horizon, finally shaking his head in defeat. He could make out where the drums were coming from, and how far away they were. It was a spooky sound, a sound that made the short hairs on the nape of his muscled neck stand on end.

  The mess officer had come up behind him.

  "Frug'n natives. Looks like they're having some sort of festival."

  Footsoldier Crane turned. "Shall I report it to Avatar, sir?"

  The mess officer shook his head, and pointed down from their vantage point. Looking closely, Crane made out a movement in the shadows of evening moving swiftly away from them.

  "Looks like a squad has already been sent. Come on boy, the droids have to be activated before 1900 hours."

  Footsoldier Crane watched the fast moving block of shadow disappear into the distance, his narrow eyes glazed with thought. As he turned away his gaze caught on sudden movement flowing between the shadows. He watched in mute awe as a cloud of green gas spread, pooling about the base of stone pillars like wisps of coiling water. He moved away quickly, opening his mouth to shout a warning, but all of a sudden he started wrenching, gasping and clawing at his throat. It was as it his oesophagus had burst into flame, a flame that twisted and burnt from the inside out.

  The nearby mess officer saw Crane double over, and moved quickly to snap his mask over his face.

  "Respirator's on!" the mess officer bawled.

  It was too late for Crane. Without being aware of it, he had hit the ground. Even now he seemed to be drawing away, feeling distant from the raging fire in his throat. Silently, in the panic of his mind, he cursed his stupidity. Avatar had instructed them to wear their respirators, but the air on the planet was perfectly breathable, and he had worked up such a sweat moving the cooking machines around the masks had been an inconvenience. Now, fumbling with the straps of his mask, he wished he had listened to the computer.

  The mess officer studied the cloud of advancing gas. It had seemingly sprung from nowhere, as if the drums had been to lure them out into the ambush.

  "Load your weapons," instructed the officer to the four other footsoliders. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that they had hurriedly fastened their respirator's as soon as they had seen Crane fall.

  The officer withdrew his pistol from a boot holster. "Get back against the wall," he instructed, eyes moving through the smeared plastic faceplate of the respirator, looking for any signs of the enemy. He backed up slowly, watching in morbid fascination as the cloud of gas spread and bunched up at his feet, coiling tendrils spiralling as the green mist thickened. He was confident that with his faceplate he was impermeable to the gas.

  He found out he was wrong only when it was too late.

  "It's skin sensitive!" he shrieked into the comm link. He hastily wrenched at the gloves that hung by fastenings from his belt and pulled them on. He sealed the black gloves about the wrists of his helicasuit to form an airtight seal, already moving to buckle tight the neck seal. Hurry, his mind thought urgently as the first twinges of pain shot the length of his arm. In his mind he saw the skin along his forearm blacked and burst into a craterous mass of sores, the sensation of heat prickling his flesh. He coughed, shaking his head savagely as if this would clear it of the leaden sensation that had suddenly descended. He slung the strap of his rifle over the shoulder armplate, freeing a hand that allowed him to switch the comm link open.

  "Officer 5476," he snapped. "Some sort of gas here. Don't know what...it's burning my skin." He stumbled backwards, feeling the hard surface of the wall against his flesh, his fingers clawing at the air. Burning, his mind yelled.

  "Officer five-four-seventy-six report," snapped the voice in his earset.

  The mess officer opened his mouth, forcing the air from his lungs with visible effort to try and speak. But he couldn't. Something was happening inside, his guts were turning into a melting pot of pain.

  "G...gas," he managed to whisper hoarsely a moment before falling limply to the flagstones, his vision hazy, his mind a twisted knot.

  The surrounding footsoliders stepped back a pace, watching open mouthed as the mess officer convulsed, scratching his helicasuit, the plastic front of the respirator mask thumping dully against the stones as his head jolted forward. Their attention was distracted, and did not see the flicker of movement in the shadows behind them.

  * * *

  Priar slumped into the corner of the room, his vision already blurring. He raised his thin currach hand to brush the beading sweat from his brow. His wide insect eyes wandered weakly down and a thin smile stretched across his lips. He looked at the broken canister in his hands, triangular shards of broken glass scattered about nearby. He found it hard to keep his mind focused - the gas seemed to be pulling and wrenching at his mind, pulling it away from reason.

  Priar was a member of the League of Steel. Infiltrating into the city had been child's play, he mused idly. He had been one of the currach who had designed the drainage system and it had been easy to place himself atop the building. The reality of what he was about to do only really occurred to him when the drums had sounded. The drums were the signal, and it was then Priar realised it was all a very serious matter.

  Of course it was a suicide mission. No-one could break open the canister's of Shata-Bera's deadly gas and then run for safety. No, Shata had asked for volunteers, and Priar had been one. Watching the dark green gas dissipate into the evening air he felt of sudden weariness shackled him to the spot. There was no use running. Instead he just sat back, waiting for death.

  The burning fire of pain ran up his skin, making it crawl and blister painfully. A small sound escaped Priar's throat as he tried, unsuccessfully, to block out the pain. It would not be long now, he thought. It wouldn't be long until it was all over.

  Before he dropped unconscious he heard the guttural shouts of the Sunlords as they spotted the gas, the heavy thumping of their boots and the slamming of doors.

  His last thought was not the satisfaction of revenge.

  The small huddle of tents lay banked up against the steep slope sheltered from sight behind a bank of soil, the fabric of the tent camouflaged with brown dyes. From his vantage point Shata-Bera could see the city small with distance, the orange ball of the sun setting behind the silhouettes of towers and buildings, faint lights flickering briefly between buildings as Sunlord's went about their tasks. A crescent formation of mountains surrounded the city which from this distance looking like a pair of sheltering arms with numerous streams running off the mountains and pooling together like a network of veins to form a wide, slow moving river that running directly through the middle of the city.

  Shata-Bera squinted into the sun and made out movement on the two-hundred metre stretch of plainland that separated the mountains and the city. Cover was sparse there and the group of fifty currach moved swiftly from one hollow to another.

  Shata shifted his weight and glanced at the shadow laying concealed behind the ridge beside him.

  "They're on their way," he said. He smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting, the other side a mass of rippled scar tissue.

  The white of teeth flashed in the shadows as Mosata grinned and nodded eagerly. "You have trained them well, my lord."

  "We'll take back the city," muttered Shata under his breath.

  He spun as the snorting of a tosutri sounded behind him.

  Shata stood and examined the figure that dismounted from the orange skinned horse-like beast. "Parshan. What news?"

  The rider, Parshan, bowed briskly. He wore a heavy black leather vest and a tight fitting mask pulled over his head with only eye holes punctured into it. At his belt were four knives, of varying sizes, in crudely made leather sheaths. One of the Sunlord's fire weapons hung over Parshan's shoulder, the dulled silver surface of the sleek
rifle dangling close to his four fingered right hand, ready. Parshan pulled the mask from his head to reveal the currach's angular features and dark green eyes. "The Jargoon group are moving in," he reported.

  "I saw them," replied Shata. "Concealment on that plain is difficult."

  "The gas should distract the Sunlords long enough," said Parshan. "From all reports I gather that Priar and Croix made it to their positions."

  Shata nodded slowly. The task of infiltrating into the city to break open the canisters of gas was crucial if Shata's hastily constructed plan was to succeed. Priar would break the first canister in the heart of the Sunlords encampment, and Criox's duty was to take out the Sunlords that guarded the city gates. From there the bulk of the Leagues' attack force, the Jargoon group, would enter once the deadly gas had dissipated to finish off what remained of the enemy defences. Time had been short and preparation hasty. They had barely enough time to pack their weapons after the boy had arrived at their camp with the news the city had been taken. On the way Shata briefed his band of less than one hundred fighters.

  The numbers in the League had steadily diminished after the Locantar's disappearance for many currach had been extremely affected by the old man's preachings and left discretely into the night. Shata found himself cursing the passive nature of the currach race for he had lost more than half of his 'army' in one night.

  Shata was snapped from his reverie by a shout. "They are positioned, sir!"

  Looking, Shata saw another brief yellow flash on the plainlands below. It was the signal from the Jargoon group, striking together flint to form a spark.

  "It is time," Shata breathed. "Order the drummers to begin."

  Parshan ran back to his tosutri and rummaged for a second in the saddlebags. He returned with two pieces of heavy rocks in each fist which he struck, letting the spark fall to a wad of rags which had been wrapped about the head of a long pole. Parshan held the flaming torch above his head and swung it back and forth.