Darwin's Soldiers

by Ste Sharp

  Time slowed as John spun through the air and manoeuvred to land on his back. The ground loomed up and past him… he was still falling. Swallowed by the earth.

  Down.

  Darker.

  Until he hit the ground.

  John rubbed his head with his good hand. His back had absorbed the fall but he was still dazed. He looked up to see the sky framed by a ring of broken earth.

  ‘A crater?’

  John sat up slowly. His head felt woozy but, if he strained his neck, he could see over the crater’s edge. It was just like the crater from his war. His heart started racing. Wherever he looked he saw Brakari. They must have swarmed back to defend the rear lines and he was surrounded. He lay down and rolled to the safety of the crater’s edge. Explosions sent tremors through the ground and the earth smelt of faeces. He heard a scratching sound and kicked his feet.

  ‘Bloody rats.’

  He clenched his eyes shut but all he could see were the eyes coming for him – always getting closer. Was he really here again? Mud had formed a crust on his gun-arm, which clicked nervously. What was he going to do?

  ‘Get a grip, boy!’ His grandfather’s voice sent a chill through him.

  John’s eyes snapped open. All he saw was death. Broken bodies lay everywhere. Soldiers were pushing their bodies to their physical limits: straining every muscle and shell; twisting; stabbing; leaping; smashing.

  Unpredictable, animal power.

  John was panting, close to hyperventilating. The sound of his own rasping lungs was lost in the barrage of war surrounding him. The sound distorted and he mistook it for giggling. He turned, looking for the source of the noise.

  ‘Joe?’

  The giggling continued.

  Was it another trick? Were the Frarex here to make a fool of him again?

  ‘Silly…’

  John turned. ‘Who said that?’

  The crater was empty.

  ‘Silly Daddy.’

  It was Joe’s voice.

  ‘Joe?’ John closed his eyes and felt tears run down his cheeks.

  The sounds around him faded away and he pictured his son running up to him with his beaming smile and his arms outstretched for a hug. Rosie was kneeling behind, smiling.

  ‘Gotcha!’ John caught Joe and picked him up in a bear hug.

  Joe looked straight into his eyes. ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, Joe?’

  ‘It’s time to fight now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ John took a second. If he couldn’t be honest with his son, when could he? ‘The trouble is I don’t want to.’

  ‘Silly Daddy!’ Joe giggled. ‘If I can do it, you can do it.’

  ‘What?’

  Joe climbed off John’s lap and ran away. The sounds of battle came back as the vision faded.

  ‘It’s time to fight, Daddy!’ Joe voice echoed away.

  A pulsing vibration by John’s arm distracted him. He opened his eyes. Explosions rocked his senses and he could see a yellow haze spreading across the battlefield. Gas mask! In a well-drilled manoeuvre, John swung his satchel round, grabbed his cloth gas mask and pulled it over his head. He looked up as a large silhouette stomped out of the yellow mist and fired a bolt of energy at an unseen enemy.

  The Lutamek were free.

  ***

  Mihran lay broken and bleeding into the grass. His breathing was laboured and pain flashed across his body when he moved. Beside him lay a severed claw. His last view of Panzicosta had been watching him limp away.

  He looked up at the immense towers of the ruined fort pointing to the sky like giant fingers. His tocka had left to join its herd so he was alone. Mihran pushed his mind out one last time: less than half the humans survived but they still had a chance.

  The Lutamek are free. A voice came to him. He didn’t know who.

  Mihran smiled. His job was complete. Belsang was dead and the Lutamek would fight on their side. The Brakari would lose. Victory was theirs. He didn’t need a model to tell him that. He had served his purpose. If he had been part of someone else’s plan then he had done well.

  God is great, he thought, and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 22

  John didn’t get a response from Mihran.

  The Lutamek are free, he thought-cast again. Commander?

  He couldn’t explain it but it felt different now. Maybe the gas mask was interfering with his message? He tried someone else. Lavalle, have you seen Mihran? The Lutamek are free.

  No response.

  Crossley?

  Anyone?

  He was just saying the words in his mind now, he realised, as normal thoughts.

  He stumbled forward. All he could see through his gas mask and the yellow mist were silhouettes and the tops of the fort towers. Shapes came and went in the deadly fog and John heard muffled screams and explosions. A gust of wind cleared the view and he saw three swordsmen he didn’t recognise fighting a heavily armoured Brakari. Then the mist moved to reveal Olan in his gleaming, golden chest plate. Was that Panzicosta he was fighting? John’s gun-arm clicked and he formed thick, armour-piercing bullets. Olan was swinging his axe low and aiming for the legs, but the gas drifted back.

  John ran forward, jumping over a dying Brakari, and nodded up and down to see through the mask’s glass eye holes. There! The gas thinned and Olan came back into view but now he was fighting Crossley.

  Olan, John thought-cast, then shouted, ‘Olan! What are you doing?’

  The large Viking was too busy charging at Crossley, who was far quicker than John had given him credit for. The mist drifted in and, when the view came back again, Olan was fighting Mihran. A thin cloud of yellow passed between them and Olan was fighting John. He stopped and watched in confusion. There he was: dressed in khaki; his machine gun stuck on his arm; both legs back to normal.

  Then it made sense: Olan was fighting the Draytor.

  A large shadow to John’s right made him turn as a Lutamek stepped out of the gas and said, ‘Come with me, human.’

  ‘But what about–’ John pointed at Olan.

  ‘You are needed elsewhere, the battle is over,’ the Lutamek replied.

  John saw the yellow mist drawing into vents on the robot’s legs.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ John said and followed it across the scarred grassland with the gas thinning about them. Slowly, the battlefield was coming back into view and he saw more Lutamek silhouettes, gathered in a circle.

  ‘Here he is.’

  A thin robot, a shade shorter than the rest and covered in red stripes, stepped forward. ‘John Greene, I am Nine-five, the original Lutamek leader. I believe you have our Lombetulat unit?’

  John looked from side to side, unsure how to reply. ‘Is it safe to take off my mask now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nine-five replied, ‘we have neutralised the chemicals.’

  John pulled the canvas bag off his head and felt the breeze cool his sweaty forehead. ‘That’s better. So, this combobulater?’

  ‘The cube, John Greene, please hand me the cube you retrieved from Abzicrutia.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ John swung his satchel round and pulled out the cube. ‘They’re all red now.’ He pointed at the panel as he placed it in Nine-five’s enormous metal hand.

  ‘Thank you.’

  John felt his cheeks redden. ‘I’m glad you’re free.’

  The gas had dissipated now and, apart from a distant melee, the fighting had stopped.

  ‘What now?’ John asked.

  Nine-five gestured to a patch of ground near the ruined fort and John felt rumbling through his good foot. He stared as the ground rose and cracked, sending clods of soil rolling away from its epicentre. Then the white obelisk John and his companions had longed to see pushed up through the earth like a new tooth. John was drawn to it along with scores of other soldiers, including Crossley, who had managed to pilfer a cigarette and was coughing between puffs.

  ‘Hi,’ John said but Crossley held up a hand as he produced another round of rapi
d, gurgling coughs.

  He left the American to his own amusement and read the black words on the pristine white stone:

  Here the allied forces of the humans , Sorean and Lutamek defeated the Brakari and Comglo pact.

  ‘So those red worms were the Comglo?’ Crossley said when he stopped coughing.

  ‘I guess so,’ John replied.

  Crossley looked over to where the titans and their drivers lay dead under the weight of their catapults. ‘Bad choice, Comglo!’

  John looked around, taking it all in. ‘So that’s it then? The fighting’s over?’

  Other soldiers had been drawn to the obelisk, reminding John of what they had looked like when they first arrived: battle-weary and wearing confused looks. Delta-Six was among them, scanning the obelisk, just as he had done with the first.

  ‘There are still a few mean-looking Brakari out there,’ Crossley pointed to where a platoon of the blue-shelled arthropods had regrouped, ‘but the Lutamek will take care of them.’

  Nine-five and his band of emancipated soldiers were fanning out to create a barrier across the burnt battlefield between the Brakari and the humans and Sorean. The other slave soldiers had abandoned the field, fleeing across the prairie or taking shelter in the ruined fort.

  ‘Who did we lose?’ John asked.

  Crossley’s shoulders dropped as he listed the names. ‘Li, Tode, Sakarbaal…’

  John raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

  ‘…and Kastor.’

  ‘And Mihran?’ John asked, feeling he knew the answer already.

  Crossley nodded. ‘His tocka led Lavalle to his body.’ He nodded towards the fort. ‘Some big Brakari bastard killed him apparently.’

  John pictured Panzicosta and forced the thought away – it could have been any Brakari.

  ‘We should pay our respects.’

  Crossley looked John in the eye but said nothing.

  ‘He gave us our victory and–’ John said.

  ‘I know,’ Crossley cut him off. ‘I just want to check a few things here first.’

  ‘Okay, but keep an eye out for Euryleia – you have to see what happened to her.’

  John patted Crossley on the shoulder and headed for the fort. He could hear Crossley coughing for several steps before his thoughts took him away. Who would be in charge now? One of the captains, John guessed. Samas probably. Bowman was too new to the post. Lavalle? The Black Sword had redeemed himself and the army’s opinion of him must have changed. And what about Gal-qadan? Did his soldiers still follow him? They made up a good proportion of the survivors. John shook his head and peered up at the green clouds: there was plenty of light left but they were tired. Better to rest during the night and walk the following day, he thought.

  ‘John Greene.’ A deep voice made John jump and his head shot up from his daydreaming.

  ‘Panzicosta?’ John stumbled back.

  He looked around for help but he’d wandered far from his army.

  ‘You recognise me?’ Panzicosta’s voice was as demonic as John remembered. ‘I worried you would forget me and we would have to be reacquainted.’

  The large Brakari stalked slowly forward.

  John backed up towards his army. There was no way he could outrun such a large beast and his bullets wouldn’t stop Panzicosta if he charged. Still, he spun a few bullets in his gun-arm’s chamber just in case.

  ‘You know, I could bring those memories back for you.’ Panzicosta was walking at an angle, trying to guide John into the shadows of the fort beyond.

  ‘I remember enough.’ John tried to hide his nervousness and anger.

  ‘The memories Krotank and Millok took from you?’ Panzicosta replied. ‘Such cherished memories…’

  John held his tongue. There was no point talking to this mad creature who was only here to feed his bloodthirst. Any sign of weakness or defiance fuelled his fun.

  ‘I remember it all,’ Panzicosta continued and John carried on stepping backwards. ‘How easily your leg detached at the knee… once I stemmed the blood flow, it was only a matter of a few snips and it came away easily.’

  John fought the urge to look at his metal leg. He could feel the anger burning in his stomach again – the need for vengeance for being taken from Joe and for his injuries. But he knew when he was outgunned.

  ‘I could show you again, would you like that?’ Panzicosta stopped walking.

  John saw tocka swinging over from the right. Were they looking for Mihran’s body? Bowman was there, with Lavalle and Euryleia. Would they see him in time?

  A sharp snapping sound made John turn as Panzicosta clacked his shells.

  ‘Answer me, human!’ He lunged forward and swiped at John, who fell back and rolled over.

  John scrambled away, keeping his eyes on the Brakari.

  ‘I could make your death quick – like I did with your commander.’

  ‘You killed Mihran?’

  Saying it out loud made it real. Another reason for vengeance.

  Panzicosta advanced. ‘He put up a good fight.’ He raised a blue arm stump where one of his main claws had once snapped menacingly. ‘This will grow back. Your commander will not.’

  John saw the tocka approaching behind Panzicosta, suggesting they had seen him. If he could keep Panzicosta talking, he would be in with a chance.

  ‘You’ve lost!’ John shouted. ‘So just give up… leave me alone.’

  ‘Why?’ Panzicosta’s head twisted at an odd angle. ‘We were having such fun before, and our time is limited. I need something to take the pain away – the pain of loss.’

  ‘The pain of loss?’ John shouted and couldn’t control his emotions any more. ‘I’ll tell you about loss – losing my wife, losing my son, my friends and my whole bloody world!’

  ‘I don’t give a Vaalorian shit about your losses, you little soft-bellied worm.’ Panzicosta’s mouth-pieces sharpened against each other and two of his smaller bladed arms unfurled. ‘This is war! Fight me if you want, but either way you are going to die!’ He flew forward and slashed at John, who ducked and rolled. A blade scraped against John’s back and he fired his gun as soon as he saw the black mass above him, then scrambled away as a club-claw came crashing down.

  As quickly as he could, John was on his feet and running towards the tocka. Panzicosta gave a howling roar and John did not dare look back.

  ‘Bowman!’ John shouted. ‘Three! Use three!’

  It was useless, they couldn’t hear him.

  Feeling the ground shake behind him, John dropped and rolled into a small pit. Black blades and claws came crashing down around him, but John had escaped. He crawled away, avoiding another swipe, and ran as fast as he could. He looked back to see Panzicosta hadn’t followed him. He had seen that the incoming tocka had turned to face them: twenty of them bearing down on him.

  ‘Bowman!’ John shouted. ‘Use number three!’ He held up three fingers.

  Panzicosta stretched tall on his legs and was making an odd, low sound. Then segments of his shell fell off. Was he dying? No, it had to be the enhancement Millok had mentioned – something Panzicosta didn’t want to use. Lumps of dark shell fell away, revealing a pure white body beneath with tiny electric-blue ripples running over it. Then, out of his back plates, four large wings unfolded and pumped full of blood.

  The tocka were still out of firing range but closing by the second.

  ‘Bowman!’ John held up three fingers. ‘Three!’

  Panzicosta’s transformation had been quick and he stood like a huge brilliant-white dragonfly. With little effort, Panzicosta’s wings flapped and he lifted off the ground. He opened his jaws and spat electric-blue fireballs at the tocka, sending riders spinning into the grass and setting the tocka ablaze.

  John snapped into action and fired his gun. Long, thin bullets ripped through the air and tore into Panzicosta’s tail and wings. Panzicosta spun around in response and released a fireball at John. It exploded near his feet, sending John stumbling backwar
ds.

  Panzicosta opened his mouth to fire again but paused mid-air as a bright burst of light shot from the tocka. The energy bolt hit Panzicosta in the back and he spent a motionless second in the air before crashing to the ground like a stone.

  John scrambled to his feet and ran to get to Panzicosta before the tocka tore him apart. He held his arm up at the riders. ‘That’s enough! You’ve got him!’ He waved Lavalle’s cavalry down.

  ‘Setting three?’ Bowman asked, as he pulled up to John.

  ‘It’s the one Li used on Millok. It froze him.’ John was still catching his breath. ‘When it wears off he won’t be able to walk for hours.’

  Lavalle and the other tocka pulled up alongside Bowman.

  ‘You want to kill him yourself?’ Lavalle asked, with a sideways glance at Euryleia.

  John looked at Panzicosta. His mouthparts were the same, if frozen, but his body was the opposite of before: white and soft. John placed the barrel of his gun-arm on the centre of Panzicosta’s forehead. He remembered letting the Draytor go and remembered the carnage it had caused on the battlefield. Doing something or doing nothing seemed to have an effect later on, so what should he do now? The battle was won. John had his victory, so he could leave through the silver gates, wherever they led. That was the only reason he had fought, so would killing Panzicosta make a difference?

  Joe was dead and there was no going home.

  John formed a long, spiked bullet and stared into Panzicosta’s numerous eyes. Panzicosta’s face twitched and, for a second, John felt sorry for him. He knew he could still see and hear him, just as John had when he’d been tortured, and John felt a wave of power. One bullet and Panzicosta was gone, forever. No more threat. The memory and the fear would disappear and John would be one step closer to getting revenge on those who had brought him here.

  Or would he?