Determination

by Angela B. Macala-Guajardo

  Bowing her head, Kara turned to Baku with tears in her eyes. She looked up at him and his heart broke with her.

  “I tried,” she whispered.

  Chapter 24

  Glory

  Oemaru felt sick to his stomach when the round from the ivory tower failed to bring the warring to an abrupt close. Some huge... flock... of winged females had created a bowl to catch the plasma round by linking their bodies and creating a magical shield to contain the blast. His trump card had been rendered almost useless, killing only those females. Glory had not yet been achieved.

  If only he’d been permitted more than a thousand soldiers, counting himself, this battle would’ve been won with ease. But no. Vancor had spoken of limitations due to the need for balance for reasons that couldn’t be helped. That was the way of the universe. Oemaru cared about winning; not balance, but Vancor had repeatedly assured him that the head count limit was beyond his control.

  Oemaru was beginning to regret partaking in this war.

  Brevelan and a handful of other manticores wrestled with the last ivory tower’s stability legs, pulling on one together, until the tower shifted with a metallic screech. The cannon swayed as it smoked and cooled. The manticores yanked again with their concerted efforts and the tower began to list.

  Shaking his head, Oemaru snapped out of staring like a novice idiot and sent his starcallers at them, aiming for their wings. He also ordered a handful of soldiers over and they opened fire on Brevelan and the others.

  The first volley peppered them and one of the manticores stepped in the line of fire, shielding its comrades. The manticore presented its back and Oemaru guided his starcallers around it as his soldiers turned the lone beast to a burnt heap of flesh and fur. The manticore flinched at every plasma round as they tore up its wings, ignited its mane, and by the time its body toppled over, the other manticores took cover behind the tower, which stood with a severe list. His men ceased fire and studied the cannon.

  It tilted towards them, moving slowly at first, then built momentum as it began to fall. Metal groaned and snapped.

  “Evasive maneuvers!” Oemaru shouted.

  They scattered, shouting to allies as they pointed towards the cannon. Friend and foe ran together and Oemaru took cover by a crippled ivory tower, his starcallers back near his head. He still had his plasma pistol and one last surprise for Brevelan, but hopefully his blades would get to finish the job they started.

  Brevelan flapped his ripped wings and more hopped than flew at Oemaru, who sent his blades after the manticore. Brevelan landed and, skidding to a halt, blasted him with air, sending the blades to the ground. Oemaru recalled one but the other lay jammed in the ground, sticking up like a tombstone. He pressed a button on a glove and the blade wobbled and whined until it popped free.

  Right as the blade became airborne, Brevelan’s massive body cast a shadow over Oemaru, and three sets of claws came down at him.

  Desperate, Oemaru pressed a button on his belt and an energy shield winked to life, encasing him in a golden sphere covered in hexagonal lines. Brevelan’s claws bounced off but the impact sent Oemaru rolling inside his shield, tumbling backwards into an ivory tower. He looked up between his boots as metal groaned. The cannon loomed overhead, falling towards him like a hammer coming in for the strike. Oemaru cancelled his shield and scrambled away, chased by ear-piercing screeches and deep thuds as the cannon shaft snapped off. Oemaru ran until the ground shook. He fell on his hands and knees but popped right back up, directing his starcallers back to him. They orbited his head, but one wobbled with the telltale sign of a bent blade. That one he could no longer aim with, unless repaired.

  Brevelan charged him, crouching low, tucking his intact arm against his torso, wings out for balance. Oemaru sent his starcallers at the manticore’s face, but the beast swatted the wobbly one into the ground as he jumped over the other with agility Oemaru hadn’t expected from such a large creature. He activated his energy shield again and felt bile rise in his throat when the shield bent under the manticore’s paws. He’d seen firepower do that, but never a foe’s brute strength.

  This one-on-one duel for a bit of glory wasn’t working. His starcallers couldn’t move fast enough or bite deep enough to slow the manticore down. His energy shield was failing, the ivory towers were destroyed, and it’d take too many shots from his plasma pistol to kill him. Oemaru was going to have to swallow his pride and ask for help.

  During his training and lifetime of conquest, he’d come across an array of leaders with varying degrees of prowess, yet a common character flaw in most: hubris. It often led to their death. Oemaru had almost fallen down that path, but he almost lost one of his early campaigns because of his own pride. What’d saved him was his desire to win no matter what. He’d asked his underlings for aid and the tide of battle shifted to victory. He’d felt humiliated for not being able to win alone and feared his men would look at him as weak. Instead, they loved and respected him all the more for not having a swollen ego. They trusted him even more as well. He wouldn’t throw away a single life for the sake of pride.

  This was how he’d stayed alive so long. This was how he’d achieved a lifetime of conquest: being honest and candid enough with his and his men’s limitations, and never underestimating a foe. Brevelan, quite honestly, was beyond his ability to defeat alone.

  Brevelan swatted the energy shield, putting all his weight into the blow, and the shield crackled with electricity as Oemaru went tumbling backwards. He bounced around inside as it rolled over corpses and into a boulder. He scrambled back to his feet, pistol in hand. He couldn’t fire his gun or control his starcallers while the shield was up.

  Brevelan charged him again and Oemaru, canceling his shield, ran to his nearby men. “Turn your fire on the manticore!” He pointed at the beast. “Be prepared to use energy shields.” He turned and took aim, and a clawed paw swiped at him. Pain lanced up his arm and he dropped his pistol as his body spun. His men opened fire and cries filled the air as Brevelan took them down one by one, slashing throats and bashing them with each other’s bodies as he absorbed round after round of plasma fire.

  Oemaru sat up, retrieved his pistol, and fired, aiming for Brevelan’s feet. The manticore ignored the shots as he slashed the last soldier and chucked him away. Oemaru kept firing and Brevelan presented his shoulder connected to the ripped-off arm and flapped a wing.

  Oemaru staggered. The gust hadn’t been as strong as the others. The manticore’s wings looked too ripped up for flying. He looked too bloody and shot up to be alive but somehow he was.

  Oemaru was bleeding from his shoulder wounds again. All that tumbling had ripped the bio gel from his skin. Brevelan came at him with a bloody claw and Oemaru activated his shield, crouching low in case he was sent rolling again, but the manticore stopped with his paw hovering over the golden sphere and glared, baring fangs tinted with blood.

  Oemaru flipped a switch on his pistol and held the gun low in both hands. Brevelan glanced at their surroundings. If anyone was paying attention to them, they were all preoccupied with their own fights. Brevelan eyed the pistol, then studied the shield a moment before placing his paw on one side, his bloody stump on the other, and began squeezing.

  Oemaru’s heart started pounding. This was it. Either the overloading pistol shot would take the beast down, or it wouldn’t. At the very least he hoped it’d take Brevelan down with him. If he could at least accomplish that, it would be enough consolation.

  The shield warped under Brevelan’s exertion as blood trickled from his stump. The pistol vibrated in Oemaru’s hands, signaling that it was ready. He aimed at the manticore’s head.

  Oemaru didn’t want to die but death would find him eventually. It was one foe no mortal had ever defeated, one foe he’d never dared try to beat. He’d lengthened his life with centuries of cryosleep, but that’s all it was: sleep; not living. He didn’t want his life of conquest to end today but his gut told him that this was it. He’d been maneuv
ered into a corner. If he tried to flee, he’d be killed with his back turned. But if he bravely held his ground, he might not die alone. His chapter in Neo-Joso’s vast history would have a heroic storybook end. Neo-Joso’s greatest military mastermind would die while staring death in the face, humbling accepting it, instead of denying his own mortality. Future Generals would study his career and learn much.

  Brevelan tried sinking his fangs into the shield but he couldn’t wrap his bite around the curve. He adjusted his balance, raising a foot and bearing more of his weight on the shield, and it began to crackle and flicker.

  Oemaru felt a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his elongated face. He was scared. He was staring down death, about to enter the great unknown. His only regret was that he’d never learned who those glowing-eyed beings were, or gotten a rematch with them. Still, compared to all he’d accomplished, it didn’t matter. However, it was one blow to his pride he’d struggled to recover from.

  If Brevelan was smart, he’d back away, instead of present himself to a pointblank shot. Maybe he believed he’d survive it. The beast was proving to be exceptionally robust. Or maybe he didn’t care if he died. Whatever the motive, it didn’t matter. Yes, Oemaru was curious. He wanted to understand all his foes, but many questions that’d cropped up over the years had gone unanswered. This would be yet another one.

  He adjusted his am and focused on steadying his breathing. He needed all his concentration for this one shot.

  The shield crackled and began to fade. Brevelan growled as he bore all his weight on it. Oemaru tunnel-visioned on the beasts jaws, intending to send the blast down its throat. His belt button controlling his shield warmed against his belly and began beeping furiously. The shield flickered one last time and went out with a pop. Brevelan’s massive body came down on him as Oemaru pulled the trigger. The blast buried itself in Brevelan’s throat, and his gaping maw came down on his face.

  * * *

  Roger and Whitman were struggling to keep the army organized by communicating through walkie talkies and the manticores. Mishitan had returned shortly after the dragon had fallen out of the sky. She was covered in injuries and missing one eye, but she helped bring organization back with her telepathic communication.

  They were down a lot of allies, but so was the other side. The front lines were a mess and only half of their allies were sure of who was fighting with them. The front half was in the fray, taking down enemies in short bursts, until confusion reasserted itself. Whitman barked out order after order, pulling people back in some places, and needling with attacks where it became obvious their enemies lay.

  Mishitan let out a bellowing roar that made Roger flinch and Whitman fall silent. She roared again and again, her fur bristling and feral eyes glazing over with rage. She flew off without saying a word, heading straight for where that cannon shot had come from.

  “Mishitan!” Whitman yelled, lowering his walkie talkie. He ran a few steps towards her dwindling frame. “Mishitan, get back here! That’s an order!” The manticore flapped her wings and dodged over and under projectiles, flying out of hearing range.

  Whitman raised his talkie like he was about to bash it on the ground, but then paused, thought better of it, and took a breath and cursed.

  The ground under Roger’s feet shifted and felt loose, as if he was standing in surf and a retreating wave was pulling the sand out from under his feet. He backed towards the edge of the battlefield and hefted his rifle in both hands. Whitman grabbed a second rifle and backed away as well.

  “What in--?”

  Dirt and rock sprayed the air, and out burst huge blue monsters that looked like mutated snapping turtles.

  “Whoa, there!” Whitman bellowed, undaunted. “Looks like we made some friends, Alcadere. Let’s give ‘em lead presents as a welcome gift!” He wielded a rifle in each hand, clamping them tight under his arms, and opened fire.

  Roger fired as well, aiming for the monsters’ heads, which were as big as car tires. His bullet fire glanced off their armored backs, but shots to the eyes and mouth made them flinch and turn away, and a few fell lifeless on the ground. More monsters sprang up all over the back lines. Archers and spell flingers adjusted their aim onto their latest foes.

  Whitman laughed every time a monster went down under his fire. It was awesome taking down monsters as big as elephants, but Roger couldn’t bring himself to join in the laughter. It was taking all his concentration to make every last shot count, along with not hit an ally.

  The monsters’ numbers dwindled but they took many fighters down with them. Whitman and Roger burned through magazine after magazine, but they couldn’t slow down, or they’d be overwhelmed. The monsters were trying to reach them, approaching from around a mound of corpses.

  The ground loosened again and they ceased fire, backing to the very edge of the asteroid. Glass littered the airless space in a constellation of glittering and rotating shards. Roger switched to a fresh magazine and took aim at the monsters.

  Half a dozen heads erupted and the two men opened fire. One monster went down, falling back into the hole, and the other five stomped towards them as dirt rolled off their shells.

  The section of rock Roger and Whitman stood on shifted, making them flail to maintain balance. Roger resumed firing at the nearest monster, heart pounding. Those turtle things must’ve dug big enough holes to start making the asteroid fall apart. They needed to move. But, to do that, they needed to get by the monsters.

  “Make a run for it, Alcadere. I gotcha covered.” Whitman gestured with his chin to their left.

  A large fracture in the ground lay a good thirty yards away, but beyond that the ground looked intact. To their right stomped more monsters, along with allies attacking them.

  “Come with me, sir.”

  “No can do, son. I ain’t no sprinter. Now go. That’s an order.”

  The ground shifted again and teetered farther away from the bulk of the battlefield, one huge slab tilting like a seesaw. The monsters began bounding closer, making the ground shake and crumble under their lumbering strides.

  Whitman smiled, looking completely at peace with the situation. Roger glanced at the open stretch of terrain he had to cross, then started strafing as he fired.

  Whitman shot the monsters who veered towards Roger. “Over here, you bastards! Leave the kid alone and pick on someone your own size.” One monster dropped, sending up dust, and stopped moving. Roger shot it in the head a couple of times to make sure it wouldn’t move again.

  The ground tilted steeper and steeper, forcing Roger to shoulder his rifle and just run. Two men from the Swiss army waved him over, yelling at him to hurry. They stood close to the stationary edge as Roger sank lower. He broke into an all-out sprint, arms pumping, and jumped off the edge as hard as he could, but the portion of rock under his boot snapped off and he arced downwards.

  Thoughts of everything but finding purchase fled his mind as he began to free fall. His forward momentum carried him across the gap and he crashed into the rock. He tried to grab hold as he bounced off, but his fists curled around dust and air. Pain filled his body and his thoughts blanked out completely, but his hands groped for purchase as he slid down the rock face.

  When his body jolted from the sudden loss of downward momentum, he blinked and took in his surroundings.

  His hands had found an outcrop fifty feet below the lip. They were covered in dirt and blood. He still had his rifle slung over a shoulder and his entire front side hurt like hell. Two faces peered down at him.

  “Can you make it?” one shouted in a Swiss accent.

  “Yes, sir!” Roger started climbing, blocking out his pain. He didn’t have time to deal with it; he had climbing to do. That and Whitman needed his cover fire.

  He climbed steadily, testing each hold before committing his weight. Rock crumbled and shifted behind him, loosening up dirt, but he blinked as needed and kept climbing. The din of war got louder the higher he climbed, and once he was a few feet fr
om the top, the two soldiers held out their arms. He latched on and felt a surge of relief as he made contact with another human being. They hoisted him to his feet and patted him on the back.

  “Good job,” one said, “I thought you were a goner.”

  “Thank you, sirs.” Roger armed himself and aimed in Whitman’s direction. There was only one monster left trying to kill him, a semicircle of elephant-sized corpses surrounding him. Whitman was down to one rifle and firing wildly at the last monster. Roger aimed for the head but from his angle, its shell blocked a clear shot. He glanced at the battlefield, making sure he had no imminent dangers within firing range, then watched soberly as Whitman faced off with the monster.

  Whitman patted himself down for more ammo, but when he found none, he charged the monster, rifle butt held high, and bashed it in the head. The monster swiped the rifle out of his grip with its jaws and Whitman backed away, drawing his knife. Roaring, he charged back in. At the same time as he buried his knife in the monster’s scull, its jaws closed in around his neck and shoulder. Whitman went limp and the monster started thrashing.

  Roger took careful aim, waiting for the right moment as the monster let go and shook out its head. It stopped shaking, presenting its head, and Roger fired one round. The monster’s legs gave out and it fell dead. The section of rock slowly broke away and joined the glass debris.

  “Rest in peace, sir,” he whispered. “I’ll never forget you and your sacrifice.”

  Chapter 25

  Judgement

  Show them her worth? After all she’d been through, what was left to prove? She’d walked away from the man she loved so both of them could do what needed to be done, embraced her role as an Aigis and pushed herself to be the warrior everyone needed her to be, overcome those six trials without giving up, and dug deep for the courage to put her life on the line for others. And these two had the nerve to tell her they still wanted her to prove herself? Fine. Whatever it took to get out of the Realm of the Dead.