The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Worse still was the juggernaut that marched behind them.

  At nearly ten feet tall, the monster wore powered armor on a scale Firenze had never seen, something outside the knowledge of the imprint voice. Every surface was covered in glinting metal, from the plated boots to the mirrored helmet. The beast didn't so much walk as lope, covering massive bounds with each stride. Hard points, for a half-dozen weapons, jutted from its tree-trunk arms, a v-rack grenade launcher commanded its shoulders, and upon its back, the behemoth carried a small reactor, cabled to the anti-vehicular laser in its massive paws.

  Oh, shit.

  Firenze toggled his radio, “Captain Lee, this is Firenze-”

  “Use your call signs, Delta Four-Three!”

  “Yes! No!” Firenze pushed the stray thoughts aside, focused on his words. He said, “Sir, there is something nasty coming down the utility shaft at your seven o'clock. Three enemies in power armor, center one is massive, like a tank. They're carrying energy weapons. You've got thirty seconds! I can't lock them out, auto doors are down.”

  “Roger that! Thanks, Delta Four-Three.”

  Through the cameras, Firenze watched as Lee moved his team into ambush positions. They spread across the chamber like spilled water, set converging angles on the door. They can do this.

  In the scorched network center, Hill asked him, “Powered armor? What kind of weapons you seeing, Princess?”

  Firenze piped a feed to Hill’s visor, and the soldier’s frown morphed into fear. “Plasma casters? Is that a SLAW-” He toggled his mic, and snapped, “Delta Six! Delta Four-Six! This is Delta Four-Three! Closing tangos have a century laser!”

  His warning was too late.

  The hulking figure stepped through the doorway. It stood, silhouetted, in brain-dead ambush position.

  Delta team fired. Eight soldiers, with perfect lines, poured out their fury upon the armored goliath. Bullets glanced from the silver shell, shattered and bounced like sparks from concrete. A rifle grenade struck its chest-plate, detonated at its feet-

  It stepped from the haze, unmarred.

  Without emotion, without bravado, it raised its heavy laser-

  The camera blanked, its sensor burnt out by the flash of the beam. Firenze couldn’t see, but he could hear. There was a crackle - a snap. A roar, like thunder. The howls of superheated metal and boiling meat followed.

  Firenze felt his fingers go numb as he clutched his computer.

  The radio clicked, “Delta Four-One, this is Delta Four-Six!” That was Lieutenant Stevens. “Dag! Get your people out of here. Fall back to the rally point! We've been cut off short of the Captain-”

  Firenze tried to jump to Steven’s position, but the camera was black.

  Kawalski answered, “Sir, you need to get out of there! OPFOR has light armor - bipedal - two rooms east of your position!” Firenze could hear her jaw, clenched tight around her words.

  “Acknowledged, Delta Four-One. We are falling back, but we've seen multiple points of movement, and-” the voice became distracted, “What's-” the feed cut off in a roar.

  “Delta Four-Six! Come in!” Kawalski demanded.

  There were more cries, more crash and thunder. Finally, Steven's broke in, “Fall back, Dag! Pull out!”

  “Sir, we can reinforce your position!” Kawalski replied. Firenze heard the footsteps, flicked to local feed. Hill sprinted towards the door, gun ready-

  “Negative! Fall back and secure-” The transmission cut with a sickening hissing-pop.

  Hill stopped, glanced back. He was tense, like a spring, about to snap free, and rush into the inferno. Kawalski froze for a moment, stared at her radio, torn between honor and duty.

  Firenze scrambled to his feet, grabbed at her arm. He begged, “You can’t do anything!”

  “They're dying-” She snapped back, blood leaking down her face.

  “To protect us.”

  “You.” She aimed her eyes like a dagger. Dag. “To protect you.”

  “Yeah, but I can't run the net, and save my own ass. You go down there, I’m done, net’s done, we’re done!”

  “The unit-”

  “The mission!” Firenze cried.

  They stopped there, in silence. Firenze could see it on the Sergeant's face. She wanted to go down that hall. Every ounce of her wanted it. Firenze couldn't blame her. He'd never felt so useless, so pointlessly guarded. But he couldn't let them die. Not when he had any tools in his belt.

  “You’re right.” She said, as her glare broke. “You’re fucking right.” She turned to Hill, “Fall back! Everyone, displace! Princess, where's the nearest node?”

  “Two sections back, by the medical bay.” Firenze answered.

  “Do it. Reaper, take Princess back, get him jacked in. Haul ass.” She ordered. For a moment, Hill looked like he might argue. Kawalski shook her head. He glanced to the door, and snarled in defiance, towards the dead mercenaries beyond. He fell back.

  They were halfway down the hall when their radios came to life. Halstead’s voice emerged, “Attention, all units, this is Alpha Six. Evacuate immediately. Abort all missions and evacuate.”

  Firenze glanced to Hill. Hill spat on the deck, and pointed down the hall, “There's a lifeboat, twenty meters. We secure it. Don't punch out until we're full on civies. Princess?”

  “Checking on the others. Don't want them getting sealed by a power door. Can you cover me?” Firenze tore open a communications panel, wired in his computer.

  “Yeah, gotcha.” Hill said, as he laid the gun out near the corner, set it onto its bipod. He checked the front of the frame, made sure his last unburnt barrel was secure.

  A moment later, Kawalski caught them, squad in tow. She said, “Bubble, Tarn, stick with me. We’ll hold this corner. The rest of you, secure the boat.” She pointed, towards one of the life boat hatches.

  The computer chimed an emergency tone, as the evacuation alarm triggered. A pleasant intercom voice said, “Attention, all passengers and crew. Please proceed to your assigned evacuation points. Do not panic.” The computer's voice was pitch perfect, as if it were discussing tea. It repeated, over and over.

  There was a deep click, resounding down the hall, as the all cabin doors unlocked, as one.

  In an instant, the halls flooded with bodies, and screams.

  Civilians, stinking and terrified, poured from their prison-cabins. Gunfire sounded, deep within the belly of the ship. Screams followed, and the crowd surged back up the hall. The human sea pushed around Firenze, shoved him against the wall. They surged over Hill, ignored his gun, and threatened to trample him until he pulled safely into his alcove. Kawalski vanished, into the tide.

  The power flickered. The repeating voice shifted from perfect to demonic.

  The ship rocked.

  The human sea tossed. Bodies slammed from the walls. Men became corpses, as they fell underfoot.

  More gunfire. Closer.

  Kawalski fired her rifle, into the ceiling. The crowd recoiled, and she pushed through the tide, broke into the open air. She struggled forward, as the crowd pushed her back. The rifle barked, and the tide broke, screamed, and bent around her. She pressed towards them.

  It was chaos, but Firenze was focused on the net.

  Alpha was under fire, but Bravo was going to die. The killbots that had overrun Charlie now flooded through the lower decks, unleashed by fleeing mercenaries to maul Clausen’s retreating team.

  They're going to die. He toggled Sergeant Clausen's radio channel, “Bravo Four, this is Delta, uh, something. I managed to get some of the net under control-”

  “You're late.” Clausen was cold, dead. It didn't sound like the man Firenze knew. I was too late. If I'd been better, I could have warned the others. Kawalski, Hill, all of them keep trying to save my sorry ass, but I couldn’t even do my job. I failed. People died. I am a failure, a lethal fucking failure. He almost broke, right there in the hallway, but the camera feed of the swarming robots put him together.

 
“... I … Sir, you've got three squads of killer robots coming your way.”

  “I don't have time for-”

  “No!” Firenze almost screamed. Believe me! Run! “They've got some sort of armature-frame bots! They’ve got guns, armor - they’re coming down on you from above! I count - three dozen! They killed Lee - they - nothing works on them!”

  “How long we got?” Clausen’s voice was tense, like he was talking through his teeth, trying to keep from screaming.

  Firenze tried to guess, to figure from speed and distance. His math wasn’t right. He knew it wasn’t. He needed to sit down. Get a desk, a notepad. Do some figures. Anything. Just not here, not like this- “A minute? Maybe less.” He heard himself say. The numbers sounded right. He hoped they were. He tried to key up, to hesitate, equivocate - to tell Clausen that he wasn’t quite sure, but that it was the best he could do-

  The line was dead.

  Hill was ahead of him in the hall, pressed into a bulkhead, his machinegun pulled tight. The soldier waved his hand, short and direct: ‘move!’. He raised his gun, and it snarled, sent dust cascading from the ceiling. The tide broke, and Firenze obeyed. He sprinted with Hill, holding onto the buddy-handle on Hill’s back. They ran for the next hatch.

  In the hall, the crowd surged, like a wave breaking against a wall. Someone shoved Firenze, and he crashed into the bulkhead. There was pain, on his jaw, and he tasted something wet. He tried to push back, before he was crushed-

  The hallway became an oven.

  A wall of rolling heat slammed him, punched the air from his chest, knocked him into the wall, once more.

  The heat vanished, and he staggered back-

  The fire suppression system must have kicked on. Warm water poured over him. It drenched him, matted his hair, his clothes-

  He raised his hand, brushed his eyes clean-

  The water was red.

  It wasn’t water, at all.

  Boiled, mangled, corpses filled the hall. The crowd parted, along a laser-straight line, a tunnel of flash-fried flesh and rent limbs which carved a grim path, a forty meters long. Shoes and packs littered the corridor, some burning, some melted-

  The walls were red. The ceiling was red. Drips began to form, thick and red, and threatened to fall-

  At the end of the horrible tunnel, past the legions of charred corpses and whimpering wounded, the armored goliath held its laser cannon steady, steam rising from its shining armor.

  Firenze felt himself scream. He felt the ragged tear in his throat, the air moving through his mouth. He couldn’t hear anything, though. I’m deaf.

  Firenze froze, half dazed and half petrified. There was still a crowd between him and the beast, still dozens of people.

  The human sea fell in on itself. It pushed back, the wounded and miraculous alike fleeing the leviathan. The wall became solid, a mass of burnt clothes, bloody flesh, and silent screams-

  Hill shoved him down, behind the bulkhead-

  Flash.

  Another wall of heat. Another blinding burst of light.

  The crowd vanished, run down by an invisible freight train. One moment, they were human. The next, they were burning cinders, ragged limbs, and liquid heat. Firenze felt the waters splash over his face. He felt the burn, on his cheeks and brow. He stared, white eyes through reddened skin-

  Gone. They’re just… gone.

  A wounded man staggered into view, his right side ablaze-

  Flash.

  He was gone. A single boot stood absurdly on the deck, burning.

  Reason failed him. Firenze ran, with the blood-drenched tide.

  Flash.

  The heat came from his right. The wall burst.

  Plastic sagged, turned to water. Wood exploded, burnt away. Ash flooded past him, driven ahead of the hot spray-

  More bodies vanished into the terrible light.

  A woman ran beside him-

  Flash.

  Liquid heat sprayed over his side, and empty corridor, beyond. Red rain fell.

  Kawalski emerged from the hell. She broke through the tide, a rock in the stream. She pushed him aside, raised her rifle-

  Despite himself, he turned back.

  She stood, behind the crowd, between the flood and the beast. She stood, silhouetted against the slaughterhouse, her armor charred, her helmet half-melted. Her mouth moved, to utter curses or prayer.

  She stood, alone, in the empty hall, and dared the monster to face her.

  We’re the idiots running the wrong direction.

  Her rifle snarled. Her aim was true.

  Bullets bounced from the goliath. One burst, two. Three. She was good. She bought seconds.

  Flash.

  Kawalski was gone.

  Firenze froze, but a hand grabbed his buddy-handle, just behind his neck. Hill pulled him past, screaming wildly, and hurled him through a door.

  The threshold passed in silence, as he moved from red hallway to white. He struck the deck, felt the distant pain. There were screaming people, all around him, shoes and boots wildly flaring. He tried to stand-

  Someone stepped on him.

  Flash.

  The pressure was gone.

  Hill stepped around the corner, aimed his machinegun down the corridor. The muzzle flared, jumped. Dust sprayed from the vents.

  Flash.

  The bulkhead bent, burst. Hill toppled back, his hands burnt, warped metal shards lodged in his armored chest. His gun was gone. He was on fire.

  Half-mad, the soldier rose, hurled away the melted lump of his gun. He glanced back to Firenze, for just a moment. Hill stood, covered in blood, bits of flame wreathed his back. He drew his knife, a flash of gleaming silver against the red-washed and burnt walls.

  We're the idiots running the wrong direction. Clausen hadn't been bragging when he’d said it. ASOC fought, and ASOC died. They did not quit.

  Hill staggered into the hallway, armor aflame, and pointed his knife like a spear. He howled, half pain, half challenge. He ripped his burnt helmet aside, let the dammed blood pour over his face. He screamed, incoherent, and charged-

  Firenze tackled him. He grabbed Hill’s buddy-handle, dragged him down, towards the airlock-

  Flash.

  They crashed to the deck.

  The leviathan advanced, raised its cannon-

  The airlock slammed shut.

  The metal blackened. Bulged. The infernal beam caressed the far side.

  With a ripping pop, chunks of the hatch burst free, spalled into the lifeboat like a scattergun, and cut the crowd with an arc of silver-

  Firenze stared, hands and knees drenched in carnage, as the door bulged- threatened to burst-

  The ship fell away.

  They were over the water, the sun streaming in through the windows.

  High above, the Plymouth bucked, shook. It twisted about its keel, wrenched up, down, up again. Firenze stayed there, bleeding, burnt, drenched in gore, and watched - unthinking, unfeeling - while the ship writhed and receded. Hill howled, and pounded against the wall, fury falling to sobs.

  Firenze watched, hands clenched on bits of intestine, while the Airship lunged up, then fell. A great spire snapped from the top, sheered clean. It rolled across the surface-city, smashing smaller buildings like a giant bowling pin, shedding debris and bodies as it went, before it kicked free, and broke over the aft of the ship. The two fell, parallel, joined by more and more, as the Airship turned from falling star to falling cloud, to a thousand separate deaths.

  On the Plymouth's keel, the radiators blazed white hot, except where they frosted cold.

  Lifeboats popped free, like seeds from a flaming pinecone, little specks dwarfed by the larger debris.

  Firenze couldn't look away as ship broke apart - fire and light and dark and ice and all hell at once - until the wreckage-cloud slammed into the ocean, and boiled up the sea with its wrath.

  He closed his eyes, then, as the sea churned red, and drowned the lightning in her depths.

  Whe
n his boat landed, and the doors opened, the ambulances were waiting. Medics dragged him away. Police followed.

  Everything was a blur. Time lost meaning.

  He was on the lifeboat. He was on the beach. He was being dragged towards the medic station.

  He was sitting in a jail cell, cuffs on his wrist.

  He began to laugh, manically. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t think. There was nothing but the blood that drenched his hands, the mad horrors burnt into his mind, and the terrible, hilarious irony: they'd charged him with treason, after all.

  Initiation

  The room was sterile white, perfectly cubed, and spartan in its decoration, just as it should be. In the center of the chamber, at a simple table, two boys, perhaps in their late teens, watched a slowly evolving board. Each held a stone, white against black, engaged in an elegant and ancient ballet. This was the latest in a long series of games, each iteration more perfectly played than the last.

  The first boy, very close in resemblance to the other, but with dirty blonde hair and cool eyes, pressed his hand to his cheek, as he examined a corner of the board. “It is already decided, Tiberius.”

  The other, a mirror of the first, but with fairer skin, white-blonde hair, and brilliant blue eyes, smiled, in turn. “Of course it is, Antonius. It has been since four moves ago.”

  “There was a chance of variation if I had accepted your ladder.”

  “You never take the ladder.”

  “But there was a choice. And now there is none. The game is yours, in twenty turns, unless I drag out the victory, from spite.”