Determination

by Angela B. Macala-Guajardo

  Nexus blanched. “And why would anyone want to do that to me?”

  Baku thought a moment. “I hadn’t considered that question. I’ve been so focused on trying to stop your prophecy and find a way to help you. We’re going to have to figure out the who before the why.”

  The air pressure in the small room dropped. Baku and Kara turned around and saw the satyr god Vancor materialize in front of the marble door. His fur-covered legs and hips were auburn, his bare torso and face a smooth light brown skin, and his eyes gleamed an intense black and looked like he was internally laughing at a private joke. He had a goatee that ended in a curled tuft of hair, and the horns on top of his head reached for the ceiling, stopping inches away. Like Leviathan, Vancor settled on a larger-than-life form.

  Nexus surged to his feet. “Leave, Vancor. This is private family matters we’re discussing.”

  Vancor smirked. “Finally having a heart-to-heart chat with your father, my little prophet?”

  Chapter 9

  The War Wages

  Corporal Roger Alcadere, nephew to the president of the United States, stood stationed in the very back of the army, right near the edge of the mammoth asteroid the war waged on. He was assigned a communications role, keeping in touch with other American forces and the telepathic manticores, while everyone else fought for their lives and worlds. Despite the multitude of races, the language barrier was null in this place. Magic, gunfire, projectiles, flying creatures, and aerial craft filled the stormy sky. The ground was filled with the rest of the armies, two massive forces converging like swarming ants.

  His brain still wanted to short-circuit and just ogle at everything, but military training kept him from losing control. He focused on relaying Fleet Admiral Reginald Whitman’s orders, guiding troops to meet the enemy head-on. The enemy vanguard was constantly testing theirs for weaknesses. They would amass at small points and try to punch through, especially on their flanks. Whitman guided soldiers to match their numbers and push back the assault. Many died on both sides, yet Whitman’s tactics pushed the fighting to a draw every time. He also made sure not to pull too many soldiers away from the middle, lest he make it easy for the enemy to split their vanguard down the middle, beginning a domino effect of divide and conquer.

  At least that’s what it all looked like through Roger’s binoculars. He was struggling to keep track of who was on which side. There were too many races and uniforms, and even with all the introductions and roster building, it was too much information to juggle while trying to make life-or-death decisions. On top of that, both vanguards were growing scattered.

  Whitman stood near a manticore, watching the warring intently through his own pair of binoculars. The manticore towered over both humans at eight feet tall, the peaks of her--yes, her--folded wings reaching another two feet above her braided mane. She had tan fur, a dark mane, and sparing bits of black leather armor with stainless steel loops and studs holding it all together over her feminine curves and muscular build. The armor looked like it belonged on a goth kid--a furry one named Mishitan.

  Whitman shouted, “Mishitan, order the redheads to cover mid! Incoming wave of armed melee combatants.”

  Mishitan closed her eyes and telepathically relayed the order. The redheads shifted closer to the middle of the front line. In seconds they battled their way though a unit of humanoids wearing heavy black armor and wielding two-hand weapons. The redheads were never where the big weapons swung, and the armored enemies fell and became a bloody obstacle pile for ground forces.

  Bullets peppered the redheads and their accompanying manticore. Half the redheads dropped. The manticore doubled over, clutching a shoulder. Arrows arced for them, but the redheads darted out of the way, and a woman with fairy wings landed next to the beast and raised a domed forcefield over them both. The fairy lady was a called a Pneuma. During the strategy session that had ensued after the manticore Brevelan had been established as unofficial leader of the entire army, everyone had described their strengths and weaknesses. The Pneuma were spectacular with magic defense, but they had to mitigate their powers, or they’d tire out in a hurry. Magic barriers were constantly popping up all over the battlefield.

  Mishitan said, “Whitman, another manticore is on its way to replace Sacritan. She has taken a mortal wound and will fight to the death with abandon.” A manticore from nearby took flight, skimming everyone’s heads, and flew towards the redhead unit as Sacritan lurched to her feet. She roared as she charged through the enemy vanguard, clawing and slashing everything within reach. She carved a line of death into the army, taking blow after blow as she cut down dozens of humanoids who couldn’t match her strength and size. She staggered once, then fell to a round of bullets to her head and chest. Roger swallowed.

  Whitman cursed. “This is such a mess! I’m losing so many lives because I can barely keep this army organized.” During the strategy session, Whitman had claimed responsibility for communications, meaning he was the one making sure every unit was supported by a neighboring one, and that everyone had a manticore and a Pneuma. The manticores were struggling to stay alive since their sheer size made them a choice target, and the Pneuma could defend against only so much, since their magical shields had to be taken down to allow for allies to go on the offensive. The war had started only several minutes ago, yet they were already losing cohesion.

  Roger didn’t expect this war to last long, but it was unfolding slower than anticipated. Both sides had so much defensive magic and technology, forcing each other to do more than run in and fight head-on. Lives were steadily lost, everyone fighting for the safety of their own worlds so they wouldn’t find themselves suddenly belonging to another god. “Sir, there’s a lot of activity going on in the upper left quadrant.”

  Whitman trained his binoculars on the movement. “Missile launch by the looks of it.”

  “I agree, sir.” A unit of humanoids were taking aim with what looked ten surface-to-air missile batteries, pointing in several different locations and cranking them to desired angles.

  Whitman yelled, “All eyes to sky, all eyes to sky! Prepare to go on the defensive.”

  * * *

  Grandmaster General Kwon Oemaru was ground bound, locked in a fight with a huge manticore. Oemaru’s Sky Fang had been ripped apart and crashed, and now he had just a few weapons at his disposal. The manticore appeared to be armed with only teeth and claws, both as big as Oemaru’s pale fingers. Intimidating and dangerous, but nothing he couldn’t handle. And a target that big would be easy to bring down, once he tired it out and got inside its defenses.

  The manticore crouched on all-fours, teeth bared and bat-like wings tucked at its sides, circling him. Oemaru used footwork to keep them facing each other as he donned is starcallers, a pair of gloves attached to throwing weapons that could be remotely controlled with hand movements. The weapons themselves were sharpened discs that had five curved teeth capable of rending flesh and weaker metals. Starcallers were a personal favorite in close-ranged fights like these. Yes, he had a plasma pistol but its ammunition was limited. His starcallers’ energy cores would last for hours, far longer than this war should last.

  With a squeeze of his fists, the starcallers whirred to life above his knuckles, spinning faster than the eye could follow, and emitted a gentle hum. The manticore charged him on all-fours and Oemaru sent the blades at the beast’s face. It dodged out of the way and sent Oemaru flying with a swipe of a paw the size of his head.

  The blow knocked the wind out of him and he went somersaulting. Checking his surroundings as he lurched to his feet, he found himself surrounded by friends and foes, recognizing allies by their uniforms--at least the ones he remembered from the pre-war meeting. Head pounding and back aching, Oemaru guided the starcallers back to him, making them slice through the manticore’s wings, getting a growl and flinch out of it. With another gesture, he sent them back out, aiming for the head once again. The manticore dodged and came at him again, but slower. The starcallers double
d back and the beast lost several locks of braided hair as it batted Oemaru again.

  He rolled and found his feet quicker this time, having anticipated the blow, and harassed the manticore with attack after attack, scoring cuts and nicks as he kept the blades between them. He couldn’t take more swipes like that. The first two had left him dazed, winded, sore, and acting on instinct. His body moved in trained fighting routines as his mind recovered from the body-rattling blows, and luckily he had no broken bones yet. The beast had to weigh at least five times as much as him. Brute strength was not a Neo-Joso’s advantage in battle.

  The manticore shifted his approach as the blades kept him out of claws’ reach. He was trying to use feints to trick Oemaru into wasting an attack so he could dash in and land a blow. Oemaru sent his blades in one at a time in response. His foe had no clue how experienced Oemaru was, how many centuries he’d spent learning how to anticipate an opponent’s moves, even as they adapted to him. Still, he wouldn’t get complacent. If the manticore could use extended reality, he’d yet to show it. No smart warrior rushed to a trump card. For now, he would continue tiring the beast out as he kept his distance.

  The sky darkened and Oemaru chanced looking up. What looked like a boulder wreathed in black flame arced towards him. He guided the starcallers back to him and ran behind the front lines, but managed only several steps when the ground shook with an explosive boom. He staggered without falling, and the fighting around him lulled, everyone taking a moment to stare at the void in the ground--or maybe it was a flat surface. It was hard to tell. The void’s fringes writhed with black tentacles. Two fighters warred too close and a pair of tentacles snatched them into the darkness. Oemaru backed several steps away, friend and foe alike moving with him.

  He swallowed and craned his neck towards the back lines of allying army. That void blast--or whatever it was--had come from his side. What fools were indiscriminately raining fire? He had a sinking feeling that wasn’t what just happened, not when the void writhed like that hooded lady’s aura from the pre-war meeting. Daevra Acherontic. She had persuaded everyone to recognize Oemaru as the army’s ultimate authority, yet exposed his one humiliating defeat. Envisioning her shadow of a face and maniacal, fang-filled grin sent a fresh wave of chills down his spine.

  If he was going to defeat this manticore and live, he needed Daevra to not be trying to kill him from afar. It was no coincidence that the void attack had landed so close to him. And not only was he dealing with the manticore and Daevra, confusion was spreading among the fighting. People hesitated or stopped altogether, asking potential opponents who they fought for. Oemaru’s name escaped many lips, along with one named Brevelan, one soldier pointing to the manticore while naming his leader.

  So that was the manticore’s name.

  Brevelan dived at him, claws leading the way. Oemaru dodged and peppered the beast with his starcallers as he watched the confusion spread.

  Was this confusion an overlooked detail, or was this part of what Nexus wanted? Was he expecting one side to rise to victory, or just have a mass slaughter until there was no one standing? Would Vancor really send his prized General to a death like this? Oemaru doubted that. Vancor had poured so much time and effort into him, taking great pride in Oemaru’s achievements and rewarding him with praise and glory. This unfolding chaos... it couldn’t be what Vancor had anticipated.

  Still, a seed of doubt took root. Was he really no more than some puppet flung into a massive free-for-all? Was all that praise and pride a façade? If so, then he needed to get back to his men, recall the ninety nine acting as communicators and coordinating armies, and focus on defending just himself and his men. They weren’t dispensable to him. He’d achieved his greatness because of his men. He wouldn’t abandon them like Vancor might have.

  * * *

  Roger watched the warring unfold with increasing confusion. While there were two distinct sides, the front lines were one mass of confusion, fighting haltingly as soldiers lost track of who was sided with whom. Words were exchanged as often as blows and Whitman grew increasingly frustrated as he tried to keep everyone certain with help from the manticores’ telepathic powers.

  Roger had the sudden feeling that eyes were on his back. That shouldn’t be right, since he stood mere yards from the edge of the realm, but he lowered his binoculars and turned anyway.

  His stomach dropped at the sight of jet-like crafts silently rising above the rim like crocodiles breaking a water surface. “Whitman.” He tapped the Fleet Admiral’s shoulder.

  “What is it, Alcadere?”

  He swallowed as he put his binoculars down and reached for his rifle. “Behind us, sir.” His life began flashing before him as twin barrels on each jet brightened with molten glows.

  * * *

  Oemaru recalled his blades, making them hover over his fists. Brevelan crouched for another attack. “Wait! Stop! Look at the confusion unfolding around us.” He wasn’t sure if this ability to communicate unhindered spread to the opposing side but it was worth a shot.

  Brevelan’s claws screeched on the rock and he halted, still crouching. Without looking away, he said, “It has not gone unnoticed. What of it?” His voice was a deep baritone, round and intimidating. He began inching closer, clearing the ground of debris. He effortlessly swatted aside a rock that was as big as Oemaru’s head that had to weigh over a hundred units.

  Oemaru pushed aside the intimidating display of strength. “Don’t you care about the wellbeing of your... kind? Your allies? Neither of us want our respective allies killing fellow allies. We need to save our strength for each other. Let’s call a temporary truce so we may reorganize.”

  “We are already working on the confusion.” Brevelan took another step closer.

  “We?” he asked, but the manticore didn’t elaborate. Oemaru took a calculated step back as he considered his opponent’s choice of words. Oemaru had enough fighting room to not have to worry about other melee combatants for the moment, nor were any more shadowy projectiles heading his way. In all his intergalactic travels, those who’d referred to themselves as “we” often possessed the power of telepathy. He’d seen it too many times to be unsure. No point in letting his opponent know, though. Brevelan inched closer and Oemaru held up his hands and spinning blades, yet held himself ready to go on the defensive. “Wait!”

  The manticore leapt at him once more.

  Oemaru dodged and sent his starcallers in the beast’s path, and their fighting began anew. Oemaru did what he could to coax Brevelan to follow his retreat. He had a general idea of where he stood in relation to where he’d set up the veladome, the device he’d used to cloak everyone during the pre-war meeting, but he had far too much ground to navigate through. He was going to have to find a way to kill the manticore faster so he could save his men.

  Brevelan followed, slashing out at soldiers as he dodged and took an occasional hit, sticking to the ground on all-fours, yet moving with swift, deadly precision. Oemaru avoided attacking anything but the manticore. With no helmet on, he was all alone, unsure of who was friend or foe.

  Chapter 10

  Disappointment and Forgiveness

  Roxie woke feeling emotionally drained. Her chest felt hollow, yet heavy with tears she needed to keep at bay for now. The emotional pain made her feel leaden and tired enough to continue sleeping, but she needed to keep going for the sake of the greater good. Too many people, mortal and divine, were relying on her to embrace her role as an Aigis and stop Nexus in any way possible.

  She was lying on a snowy ground, her body coated in a dusting of snow. Neither that or the ground felt cold; just room temperature. She brushed herself off and sat up.

  “Welcome back,” Sekiro said from atop a large boulder. She wore a serene smile, yet had sadness in her silver eyes.

  Roxie got to her feet and brushed off her skirt. “Thanks. How long was I out?”

  “Doesn’t matter, remember?”

  “Sorry. I’m struggling to let go of the co
ncept that it does.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Dare I ask how you feel? You look healthy but sad.”

  “I feel tired and like I don’t want to move, but I have to do what’s necessary to get back to Nexus and stop him. That’s more important than how I feel right now.”

  “Not true.” Sekiro waved Roxie to come join her atop the semicircle of elephant-sized boulders. “You’re in a place that focuses on your internal thoughts, your personal journey. There are physical places I must take you to, but we can’t reach your next destination until you’re at peace with what you just went through. Please come up here and talk with me.”

  Heaving a resigned sigh, Roxie sized up the leap onto the boulder she’d slept against, then decided to forego her wings and instead hop her way up the stepping stone path to the top. Most of the boulders were huge, but they gradually shrunk to knee height on either end. Wings spread for balance, she hopped one rock at a time, and on her final hop her foot slipped out from her. Flailing her arms and wings, she twisted midair and landed in a pushup position, only to have her hands slip, too. She belly-flopped onto the boulder with her cuirass making a metallic clang, squishing her chest. Snow puffed out in clouds on either side of her and Roxie started laughing as she wrapped her arms over her tender bosom.

  “That looked painful, but I guess your laughter means you’re alright.”

  A genuine smile on her face, Roxie carefully got to her feet and fanned the powder snow off the boulder with a few wing beats and sat down. “I needed that. Not only must it have been funny to watch, it let me know I’m still me, still a klutz now and then.” Her chest felt fine already. The fall had surprised her more than anything.

  “But being a klutz isn’t exactly a good thing.”

  “No, but I’m happy to know I’m still me after all I’ve been through, and despite how much I’ve had to grow up lately.”

  “Yeah, by the sound of your story, you’ve been through a lot.”