Darwin's Soldiers

by Ste Sharp

  ‘A city?’ John stared at the Brakari soldier.

  How could he escape from a city full of creatures like the one who had tortured him? He pictured his father but couldn’t remember any advice that would be useful now… his mother? Nothing. An image of the armchair by the fire came to John, and one of his grandfather. ‘You’re a useless boy, John,’ he grumbled. ‘You never take your time and you never ask for help – you just blunder on through without a care…’

  He was right. Maybe now was the time to accept some help?

  ‘Your name is Millok?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘You can call me John… I would appreciate your help.’

  ‘Good,’ Millok replied. ‘We must make the most of the time before the general returns.’

  ***

  John leant in the shadow of the uneven mud-brick wall that surrounded the city of Abzicrutia. He’d never seen such a place. Beside him, her eyes constantly scanning, Millok explained how the Brakari army had marched out to confront the humans, leaving behind only the slave soldiers too weak to fight.

  ‘Can’t we free them too?’ John asked.

  ‘Just keep moving,’ she snapped.

  Keeping close to the wall, they kept out of sight of the watchtowers where the last few Brakari soldiers stood guard.

  ‘Stand back.’

  John hopped away as Millok pulled up a section of ground, spilling debris, and rested a metal grate against the wall. ‘Climb down,’ she ordered.

  John paused for a second.

  Stay strong, he told himself, and descended foot first into the hole. A muddy and dark hole. Probably the sewers, going by the smell. It was preferable to the torture rack, he reminded himself, and, with his gun-arm strapped tight, he slipped along the tube.

  ‘Back in the trenches again,’ he muttered but Millok ignored him as she pulled back the grate.

  ‘Out that way.’ She gestured towards a dim grey light.

  It took John a while to get a good rhythm going, crouching with one good hand and one foot. He slipped a few times, covering himself in whatever it was the Brakari defecated, but after ten minutes they reached the clean air and John could see leaves fluttering.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Millok said, urging John on, ‘we can’t be spotted from here.’

  Tentatively, John stepped out and hopped to the nearest tree.

  ‘Never again,’ he grunted and sat on the ground to stretch his leg. Although the outlet was in the centre of a small copse of trees, the walls of the city were just a stone’s throw away. ‘And now what do we do?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a blind spot all the way to the trees.’ Millok pointed towards the fringes of a forest some fifty paces away.

  ‘After you then.’ John pulled his straps tighter.

  ‘We go together,’ Millok said, looking around.

  John noticed two new protrusions on her head, wafting.

  ‘We must be quick.’ She turned to John. ‘Let me help you up.’

  ‘No!’ John cringed from the Brakari’s touch. ‘I’m fine,’ he lied.

  He reached for a low branch to get up. His left arm was getting stronger but the weight of his gun and bags and the lack of a left leg made it impossible to get up. ‘Just do it, John!’ he growled and pictured his grandfather. With a surge of anger, he pulled himself upright.

  ‘You can lean on me.’ Millok had been watching him. ‘It would be quicker.’

  It would, John thought, but that would be a sign of weakness. He spotted a forked branch and reached for it. ‘No thanks, I’ll use this.’

  The branch snapped off.

  ‘Quiet!’ Millok hissed.

  John tore off the loose twigs and wedged a stick under his armpit. ‘Come on then!’

  Millok scuttled ahead and John swung into action behind her, determined not to fall over. He took it easy to start with: footstep, crutch step. It would be easier if he had two, he thought, but how would he grip it with his gun-arm? His steps picked up as the ground sloped away from the city, faster and faster until the trees were around him.

  ‘What’s that thing?’ John asked when he caught up with Millok and stared at the long metal vehicle she stood beside. A hum could be heard coming from an open panel where Millok tinkered.

  ‘It’s a machine,’ Millok replied. ‘It will take us to your army.’

  The smell was familiar to John. Of course! Crossley had taken him on one of these when he left the hospital. ‘I’ve seen it before,’ John almost whispered.

  Millok turned to him. ‘Yes. The Draytor brought you here.’

  ‘The what?’ John asked.

  ‘The shape-shifter. It brought you to General Panzicosta.’

  A shape-shifter? That made sense. He knew it couldn’t have been Crossley, but had never worked out how he had been tricked. His memory may have been wiped since the field hospital but, deep down, he knew it had all been make-believe and trickery. Anger stirred deep in John’s chest again, but he had to control it – he needed to get clear from Abzicrutia and then worry about getting away from Millok.

  ‘Right then,’ John rested a hand on the metal behemoth and felt its warmth, ‘where shall I–’

  ‘Shh!’ Millok hissed and crouched. Her feelers waved through the air with a noise that sounded like sniffing.

  John stared into the forest, blood pounding through his ears, as he listened to every branch creak and leaf brush. Then he saw the unmistakable shape of General Panzicosta.

  Chapter 14

  ‘And they won?’ Mihran asked Li, marvelling at the details of yet another battle she held in her database.

  ‘Against all the odds,’ Li replied, walking beside him. ‘One in three killed, yet the English only lost five percent.’

  Mihran remained silent. He felt comfortable being quiet with Li. She didn’t expect him to reply to every question like the others. But still, he had questions. ‘And it was down to one weapon: this longbow?’

  ‘The range and sheer number of archers overwhelmed the French,’ Li replied.

  ‘But the hill was a factor too,’ Mihran was speaking to himself now, ‘and the arrogance of the leaders.’

  Li knew when to stay silent too.

  They had been walking for two hours, by Mihran’s reckoning. The Lutamek robots had skilfully disappeared from sight and were scouring the land for potential enemies. The army was safer than it had ever been in this land, yet Mihran couldn’t relax. Each step drew them closer to battle. He glanced at the ragtag group of soldiers. Heads were down and the injured were limping or being carried by their comrades. They needed to be stronger. They needed more firepower. They needed… an idea came to him.

  ‘When we first arrived here, did you take notes on every soldier you saw?’ Mihran asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Li replied, as ever without emotion.

  ‘And you have logged every adaptation – every death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  While the group took a water break in the lee of a low hill, Mihran obtained all the information he needed and, in return, allowed Li to bounce her theories off him.

  ‘So although the mutations appear random in nature, there is always a root cause or trigger and, as Ten-ten pointed out, these changes can be traced to biological enhancements.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mihran tried not to think about the fungal growth in his brain. Unlike the rest of the group, for whom only the language and aural areas were affected, his brain was riddled with mycelium, providing direct connections to distant cerebral regions. All the fungus wanted in return was a small amount of energy.

  ‘I suggest we try an experiment to kick-start…’ Li was still talking, he noticed, ‘…and measure the effects.’

  Mihran took a moment to recall what she had been saying. Purposefully injure some of the troops to see if it triggers an adaptation? Mihran couldn’t allow anything to weaken his army. He saw them as a frail web of connected parts: some weak, some strong, but all intertwined. Take some out and the bala
nce would be warped.

  ‘Not this close to battle – we can’t risk any more injuries.’

  ‘But the potential adaptations would outweigh the losses,’ Li argued.

  ‘If your theory is correct,’ Mihran said.

  ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘We have been weakened.’ Mihran stood, ready to resume their walk. ‘But I have a plan. We’re not desperate enough for your experiments yet, Li.’

  It was another hour before they found anything of interest, after skirting more battle sites and obelisks that grew thin this side of the plain.

  ‘I found another battlefield – looks a bit different to the others,’ Bowman reported to Mihran. ‘Only one set of bodies. No graves either.’

  Mihran was intrigued. ‘Let’s detour to visit it.’

  Bowman wasn’t wrong. The obligatory white obelisk with its sharp, black script stood proud, with a ring of burnt bodies splayed out around it like a giant, dark flower.

  ‘I suggest we walk around the bodies,’ Li said.

  ‘Can you read the obelisk from here?’ Mihran asked.

  Li tapped some buttons on her sleeve and started reading. ‘Here the Stobardorian army was erased. They dishonoured the true warrior and refused to fight within the chosen time period.’

  Mihran sighed. It was as he had predicted. He needed to turn this into an advantage.

  ‘We knew we had to fight and now we know the consequences of not going to war,’ he said to the whole group. ‘We are fighters.’ He let the words sink in. ‘Now we know we must fight for our honour.’

  Mumbles could be heard around the group. What did they fear? Mihran had resisted using his mind skills since his run-in with Peronicus-Rax, which had left him bruised, but Mihran had to try something. Gently, he pushed his mind out to feel his way around the group.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Mihran kept his eyes open as he talked and tentatively touched the minds of the men and women. He imagined a wide net reaching out, which was blue for some reason. He could sense emotions through it. They were scared: not of death, but of losing. ‘Any army we meet has already lost a battle.’ His mind net was spread thin but he could feel the emotions quicker than by delving into each person’s mind. ‘Our enemy will be weakened after losing. They will be demoralised,’ he could feel the mood lighten, ‘and they will lose again!’ He saw heads rising and pulled back his mind. ‘War is near. Victory is near!’

  ‘Yeah!’ Crossley was nodding with other soldiers who grunted in agreement.

  Some didn’t look convinced and Mihran had to work on them. ‘But rather than wait for them to attack us,’ Mihran pointed to the burnt remains, ‘this reminds us we need to take the battle to them.’

  He smiled as he walked away. The mind net, as he pictured it, felt easy to control and would give him new insight into the army as a whole. These people were parts in a bigger machine: a machine that he controlled.

  ‘Wait!’ Someone shouted and Mihran froze. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’ It was Crossley, who was coughing now.

  What was he doing? Was he challenging his authority? Mihran stayed still and pushed his mind out behind him to where he felt the American stood. He was excited and a touch scared.

  ‘What is it?’ Mihran asked.

  ‘One step ahead of you, a finger’s length under the ground,’ Crossley coughed again, ‘is a mine – an explosive.’

  Mihran’s breathing grew heavy. He was no longer in control. Worse, he was relying on one of his men to help him. Mihran spoke quietly so few people could hear him. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Step backwards, but very carefully,’ Crossley was almost whispering, ‘softly.’

  Mihran waited a second to show he was in control of his own actions, then slowly lifted his right foot and stepped half a pace back. It was the slightest of movements, yet the shift in weight triggered something in the ground ahead of him: he was sure he had seen movement.

  Crossley coughed. ‘Wait!’ He coughed again. ‘One of the sensor arms moved… slower this time.’

  Mihran clenched his fists. With controlled effort, he lifted his left foot with such a slow movement he was unsure how high he had lifted it before he swept it back half a step.

  ‘And again,’ Crossley said before coughing. ‘But watch your robes!’

  Mihran raised his long coat then stepped back with his right foot and again with his left until he saw Crossley in his peripheral vision.

  ‘You did it – thank God for that!’ Crossley was laughing.

  Mihran gave a little smile of thanks. It was good to know his men cared about his safety.

  ‘I thought you were going to blow up all the explosives!’ Crossley was on his knees now. ‘Just give me some room and I’ll dig it up.’

  Mihran’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Actually,’ Crossley stared up at Mihran, ‘can I use your sword?’

  Mihran’s teeth hurt as his jaws clamped together.

  Crossley got the message. ‘No? Okay. I’ll use this stick but–’

  ‘I can help you.’ Li tapped buttons on her wrist. ‘I can remove the sand, one layer at a time, and then…’

  Mihran exhaled and unclenched his teeth. What if the rest of the land was littered with these devices? And why hadn’t the Lutamek or Althorn set them off when they passed? He watched as Li used an unseen force to lift thin discs of sand from the ground. This would take some time.

  ***

  Dusk was upon them by the time Bowman spotted the Lutamek fighters, huddled on an incline. They had reached the gentle hills as Althorn had predicted.

  ‘Are they walking?’ Crossley asked. Mihran noticed the American had become more vocal since he and Li had managed to safely remove the explosives from the swathe of mines he had discovered.

  ‘No,’ Mihran answered, remembering the books he had studied with Li: dust low and spreading was the sign of infantry approaching.

  ‘Right, so what are they doing?’ Crossley asked.

  ‘Resting by the look of it,’ Li replied.

  To Mihran they looked like nothing more than a series of low-lying buildings.

  As they neared, a burning aroma came to them in wafts on the slow wind.

  ‘Smells bad,’ Crossley winced.

  Mihran opened his mind net and pushed it forwards to feel for any conscious thoughts from the Lutamek. He had been developing the skill as the group walked, spreading it thinly across the land around the army in an attempt to pick up living creatures other than his troops.

  Nothing. Not even a creature scuttling about – wait, he could feel something. It was different to his men. There were shapes pulsing… yellow. Peronicus-Rax had been orange and then blinding white when he attacked him. He would tread carefully and feel around each shape. Yes, it was them! He could see the waves of communication between them and feel the warmth of their organic parts. He could feel emotion too: they were tired and lonely. They pined for their lost comrades.

  Mihran reeled in his mental net and whispered to the wind. ‘I know what I have to do.’

  ***

  Isao stood still and breathed in deeply. He didn’t need to breathe but he missed the simple act, just like he missed eating and drinking. He soaked up the view: the light; the colours; the sounds; the smells. These were the few glorious minutes he and his comrades fought for: the space between the end of the battle and the inevitable return of the muffled veil that cursed them.

  Around them lay the bodies of their red foes, shattered and broken. As ever, Isao and his companions were unscathed. They stood in a triangle with their weapons pointing to the earth. Hori was smiling but Masaharu’s face wore a shadow of a frown.

  The mist was returning.

  Isao could feel it, like hearing the footsteps of the jailer returning with his key.

  ‘Time to go,’ Isao whispered to the other two, who nodded.

  Their bushido code of honour had decreed they commit seppuku. If not, they could have fallen into enemy hands and been tortured for information. But
had they known the true cost of their sacrifice, would they have carried it through? Isao shook his head to remove the thought. They were samurai: this was their burden.

  As they slipped back into the shadow world, Isao took one last breath, savouring the pine forest. Then the colours of the real world disappeared.

  ‘Did you see them?’ Hori asked as they floated together through the clouded landscape, peppered with shadows of the real world.

  ‘Yes,’ Isao replied.

  ‘They tried to help us,’ Masaharu said, ‘at the end.’

  ‘They did help,’ Hori said. ‘They killed the injured.’

  ‘But finished the battle too soon.’ Isao already missed the colours: the scarlet of the enemy; the ochre of the earth; the jade of the leaves. This world lacked definition. Even Hori and Masaharu were poorly formed smudges of their true selves.

  ‘We were given longer this time.’ Hori sounded cheerful.

  It was true. This had been their third battle and they had enjoyed more time in the real world.

  ‘But only a few minutes,’ Isao said.

  ‘We are being rewarded,’ Hori stated.

  ‘And if we win more, will we be able to return?’ Masaharu asked.

  ‘You want to return?’ Isao snapped at the wispy image, whose body flowed about him like robes in a storm.

  ‘Yes.’ Masaharu’s eyes were sharp. ‘If returning means I have regained my honour.’

  Isao looked towards the shadows of Gal-qadan’s troops riding their tocka. Was it possible to wash away one’s wrongs with blood? It seemed wrong. And would they be able to return to their homeland after regaining corporeal form? Isao didn’t know if he wanted to, not after the things he had seen. He had attained everything his family had wished for: a high position in the army; land; a beautiful wife. His status was envied by many yet, if he was honest, he wanted more. He had to be honest with himself. Life was short. His old life had ended and if he had a chance to live it again he would do things differently. He couldn’t say how, but it would be different.

  ‘Their steeds didn’t fight.’ Hori was talking to Masaharu and Isao focused on them to make sure they didn’t get separated.