S.T.Y.X. Humanhive (S.T.Y.X. Humanhive Book 1)

by Arthur Stone

  Boiler’s vision began to clear then, and he saw his wrists bound by white plastic. The man yelled again. “Get up. I said get up! Out into the hall. You make one wrong move, I’ll cut your balls off and ship them to the edgers!”

  Boiler spat blood and struggled to get up, unable to hold back a snide comment. “Solid business model you have here.”

  “Who told you you could talk?” Yet another strike to his kidneys dropped him back to the floor. Boiler didn’t know what was happening, but clearly any initiative in this situation would end only in pain. He decided to keep quiet, to watch, to listen, rather than to become their whipping boy and human floor mop.

  The attackers yanked Tiny out of the next room. He was covered in blood, but apparently too drunk to realize it. The pair of dark figures, their faces hidden, hurled him unceremoniously down the stairs as he grunted like a champion weightlifter.

  “The fatso just crapped his pants,” their comrades hollered up the stairs.

  “Who gives a shit?” one of the masked men replied. “Drag him over to the others.”

  Boiler understood nothing except that hurrying down the stairs on his own would save him from being “helped down.” A short burst of automatic gunfire sounded nearby, then another, followed by a pistol shot.

  The streets were poorly lit. Dicer’s searchlights were out—in fact, the only source of illumination he could see was a large car’s headlights. He peered more closely. It wasn’t a car at all, but an eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier, of some foreign make unknown to him.

  Had the edgers attacked? How did they get past the mines and other defenses without waking the entire town? Perhaps their drones and advanced vehicles were sufficient tech to bypass simple defense systems.

  If these were really edgers, he was in trouble. They would gut him like a pig, preserving the organs they needed for transportation and discarding the rest. For them, he was just a sack of valuable raw materials.

  But these were strange edgers. Boiler had pictured them differently: one uniform style of dress with an insignia on it, respirators, standard weapons. These guys were the opposite. They wore whatever they liked and masks instead of respirators, some as rudimentary as scarves. They carried automatic and single-shot rifles of all different kinds, submachine guns, hunting rifles, shotguns, pistols—one even ran by wielding an ax.

  Whatever this was, it was no ordinary army. “I’ll cut your balls off and ship them to the edgers,” the man with the blunt force alarm clock had said. Why would he say that if he was an edger? So perhaps they were moles, traitors to humanity itself. The realization of this alternative failed to soothe Boiler’s nerves.

  A battered man was pulled out of the house across the street, where Boiler had met the healer yesterday. Reader had left just in time, and the newcomer regretted not having the foresight to have run off with him. Whatever peril this invasion was, it was so rare no one had mentioned it before. He doubted that meant it was a good thing.

  They were brought to the square in front of the headquarters building. Dozens of gathered people were here, on their knees, and one man lay face down by the porch in a dark red pool. He would not be getting up.

  Boiler heard them yell at him again. “Down. On your knees, hands behind your head. Now! You make a move I’ll rip your liver out!”

  He investigated the people who had been brought here, trying to do so without turning his head. There were several familiar faces, and they were all afraid. These people knew what was happening. And it was bad.

  The generous Hive insisted on providing Boiler with fresh shit to step in each day.

  More people came to the square, against their will. The town was being ransacked of its human resources. He overheard the invaders mention one clever man trying to hide himself in a pool. Now his pool of refuge churned red with his blood.

  Sometimes a few shots were heard here and there, but it was clear that Smoker had been overthrown without a fight. The lightning-fast strike team had set the town aflame before its defenders could assemble. Without triggering any alarms, the assailants had apportioned the town into sections, attacking from several sides and clearing one after another. Perhaps the defense force itself had yielded the perimeter.

  No, they were not to blame at all, Boiler realized as Dicer was dragged out. He was beaten to a frightening level of disfigurement, but still recognizable. Caught unawares, as everyone else had been. Had one of his subordinates betrayed him and his stable? After all, if Nimbler was right, the basement of his headquarters was a hub of all the information from the cameras and surveillance systems watching the perimeter. The many landmines could be triggered from there, too.

  Someone had reached that post. Or maybe the night watch had even conspired with the mysterious invaders.

  “Where’s Dicer?” The voice was vaguely familiar.

  Squinting, Boiler saw the soldier he had gotten into a knife fight with earlier. Of course. The man was not bound or restricted in any way. He was clearly one of them.

  A masterful bruise was positioned just under the monster’s eye, well visible even in the waning twilight. The bastard’s time in his basement cell had been eventful, if not particularly joyful.

  “Hey, Sting, I found Dicer!” said a passing man with broad shoulders and a machine gun held at the ready. The knife fighter approached the town commander, spat on his head, and greeted him with sarcastic enthusiasm.

  “Hello, Dicer! How’s life? Looking too short? That happens, you know, when you fail to use your head. Or mistreat someone else’s. Why did you have to throw me in the basement, huh? I’m a good man, you know. And your own people told you I had kinetic powers, which of course were beyond the comprehension of a pea-brain like yours. Your basement locks are mechanical locks. Getting them open was easy. After all, once I had killed all the guards, it was the only way I could get out.”

  Dicer lifted his blood-stained face and spit full strength at the villain–who managed to step aside and kicked the commander with shattering force. “I told you, Dicer, I always pay my debts. That was just a down payment, but the rest is coming, so don’t you go anywhere.”

  Boiler hung his head to hide his face, just in case. Otherwise Sting might recognize him and deem him worthy of a “reward.”

  Two vehicles pulled up, both similar to the pickup that had brought Boiler to the village early that day. Three times the number of headlights now illuminated the area. More people were still being brought to the street, but most were already here. Only a few clever hiders remained to be found.

  There were over two hundred people on their knees, surrounded by about fifty assailants. In a fair fight, the townspeople would have crushed them. But Boiler had to admire, in a way, the attack force’s ability to conduct a clean operation with no losses, except for the basement guest’s bruise. So no, not a regular army. More like a stealth SWAT team.

  Another motor engine roared, and an eighteen-wheeler pulled into the lit area. It could barely contain its cargo, a hideous monster of immense size. The beast weighed at least two tons, maybe three, yet there was nothing human or even animal about it. Its body was as asymmetrical as a lumpy potato, and its four limbs looked powerful enough to overtake a car, break it in half, and skewer the driver and passengers on the long, crookedly curved spines growing from its forearms. Its head looked assembled, like Frankenstein’s monster reborn as an elite. The lower half had been scavenged from a dead Tyrannosaurus Rex whose eyes had somehow remained intact, while the top half was part of a repurposed tank tower welded onto it.

  That tank, incidentally, had been refitted with several layers of overlapping armor. The whole beast was covered in bony plates, often intersecting. In addition, someone had made armor for the creature, a vomit of steel as ugly as the monster itself. As if its natural protection was insufficient.

  “An elite! A pearlmaker!” the captive crowd whispered in terrified tones.

  Not even a broom-stabilized crowbar could do anything against that monst
er. A grenade launder, perhaps.

  Someone shot a gun, and a violent yell followed. “Silence, animals! Shut up!”

  Even without this directive, Boiler had held his tongue. No situation before this had been so dire. These were psychos. No one in their right mind would cart a monster like that along with them. Not even chained hand and feet with the chains welded to a massive frame. It took no genius to see that the creature could easily smash its fetters. The unsightly muscles rippling through its body announced its insuperable might, its raw carnage potential were it free of its bonds.

  A meat-grinding villain worthy of the darkest comic books.

  Boiler knew full well how strong the ghouls could be, and this was an elite, the apex of parasitic evolution. Perhaps there were more powerful elites out there, but he could hardly imagine. How the hell had they caught it and locked it up? Even with the best equipment, hunting that elite would be more dangerous than restraining a tiger with nothing but your bare hands.

  Yet another vehicle approached, a Humvee with a black on black color scheme, equipped with a machine gun nest and a gunner protected by tough metal bars. Like many other vehicles in the Hive, it sprouted spikes in several places. Another Jeep followed, just as fortified as the first but without armament.

  Someone stepped out of the Jeep, and Boiler gulped.

  Until now, he believed he had seen every kind of woman there was—as beautiful as Venus and as ugly as nuclear fallout, as smart as Solomon and as stupid as Dakota dirt, as sexy as a succubus and as frigid as an Antarctic iceberg. He had been sure no woman would ever surprise him.

  But she was something else. Even hidden by the elegant, intricate carnival mask over her face, a masterpiece of black outlines and rows of gems and sequins, her beauty was stunning.

  Why did she hide her face, the most important part?

  Yet that small glimpse was enough for Boiler. This woman possessed that beauty that would not land her a cover page on a fashion magazine but was dreadfully natural, raw animal attractiveness, unburdened by chemicals and tinsel. Captivating, without a shade of vulgarity about her. Despite her obscured face, enough of it was visible that she could not hide her grace, however hard she might try. Her tight black dress, likewise, failed to conceal her perfect proportions.

  But her looks were not the real prize.

  Boiler had seen beautiful women before, but he had no trouble forgetting about them later. And he had seen the stereotypical honey pots whose flagrant sexuality trapped the average man like so many fish in a net. He had seen...

  Every kind of woman. But he had never seen anyone like this before. Everything wonderful about the fairer sex was collected inside her, and with impossible harmony. A little of this and a little of that added up to a woman beyond estimation by any scale. He had to resist rising, approaching her, and yanking off her ridiculous mask to gaze into her eyes.

  Ah, her eyes. If only he could see them...

  What the hell has gotten into me? He was acting like a pimply-faced teen tormented by eternally blue balls.

  She was a witch, with the face of an angel, and she had enchanted him at first sight. It sounded like nonsense, but for some reason it was happening to him.

  No, he was wrong. He had to be wrong. But dear God, how hard it was to take his eyes from her...

  Boiler could barely stand to look at the ugly old woman, especially when the love of his life stood nearby. But he had to pay attention to the ragged old hag, her further ruined by far too much makeup, as she approached the open truck and extended her hand, without even a touch of fear. The monster bared its shark-like rows of fangs ominously, rattled its massive chains, and crouched.

  Well, old hag, prepare to die. No way that flimsy muzzle will save you, and that beast will have no trouble tearing you apart with a single sweep of its jaws.

  Instead, the creature sniffed the woman’s outstretched hand and licked it, forcing its fleshly but narrow snow-peaked tongue through the bars.

  One of the captives cursed in shock, earning a quick rifle butt to the face. The old woman turned her bright red lips up in a hideous smile, then pronounced something in a manner so sexy Boiler was surprised she didn’t just dress in red entirely and burn people alive.[2]

  “Remove Jupiter from the square. Our boy does not like bright lights.”

  Patting the monster’s chin, she stepped back and waited for the truck to melt into the darkness, then turned to the girl who had won Boiler’s heart.

  “Aurelia, my child, you should be examining these people. You know that. Do not be hasty, my dear, and skip no one.”

  The girl rotated and strode toward the prisoners. An escort of three well-equipped soldiers followed her, their faces protected by tactical helmets and their weapons outfitted with so many attachments and scopes and modifications they looked more like alien blasters from some overly complicated first person shooter.

  Boiler showed no surprise when Aurelia passed dozens of other prisoners and stopped directly in front of him. She stood over him for a few moments, then knelt down with such grace that he involuntarily forced down a gulp once more.

  His stomach must have held a gallon of his own saliva by now. This was some kind of dream, delusion, or illusion. It had to be!

  Damn that mask! He could not see Aurelia’s eyes through it, just fleeting and barely noticeable reflections of the lights. Come on. Take it off. You and your wicked games, making me feel this way. Take the mask off! The girl’s lips twitched a little, and she spoke. Her voice was barely audible, yet the terror in the five words she whispered was discernible all the same.

  “Release Jupiter. You are able.”

  The girl’s slender fingers caressed his cheek, and he nearly moaned with pleasure, but that delightful moment passed as quickly as it had come. Her fingers slid up past his eyes, along the tip of his eyebrow, across his forehead, and the palm of her other hand touched his. She slipped an elongated metal object into his hands, and Boiler reflexively grabbed it with a clenched fist.

  Aurelia straightened, as elegantly as she had knelt, and turned towards the older woman.

  “I have found what we came for, Sabina.”

  “Stay there, my child, for I am on my way.”

  Unfortunately, the girl did not literally follow her elder’s command. She took a step back, and seeing how Boiler could not move his head without risking a strike from the butt of a rifle, he had to content himself with a view of the edge of her dress.

  The old woman approached and gasped out a command racked with indifference. “Have him look at me.”

  A moment later, powerful, rough hands turned his head, forcing him to contemplate the unpleasant sight. The woman looked too old to still be alive and smiled at him so lasciviously he nearly lost his dinner. Her fleshy lips parted, giving birth to words full of insinuation and even bestial lust.

  “What an interesting young man. Nice, but not cloying. Not a drop of that vulgar, boorish manliness everyone has, and yet he does have a raw animal force within him. We have not seen such an original combination for a long time. What is your name, my dear young man?”

  The man knew this was not a time to hold his tongue, and he squeezed his name out of his mouth, failing to fully hide his displeasure. “Boiler.”

  “Boiler? No, that cannot be it. I need your other name. Your first, original name. Tell it to me.”

  “Leland.”

  “How long ago did you lose your first name?”

  “Five days past.”

  “My boy, you must have had a terrible time these past five days.”

  “To put it mildly.”

  “The people around you are savages. Their lives are short, and they have no wish to remember the old world. All of them try to forget their old names, a token of their struggle to abandon the very basis of who they are. Do not be like them. They are wrong. I and my brothers and sisters remember everything. We remember the primitive wilderness of Styx, the chaos that prevailed here before we were, before time
began. We are the guardians of this terrible world’s mysteries, and we are its only hope. The higher powers are upset when the young and naive, those just beginning to comprehend the greatness of Styx, fall before even taking the first step. Foolish superstitions reign, but even in such superstitions, there is truth. Have they told you it is bad luck to harm a newcomer?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is true. For Styx’s patience must not be tried. His mercy is not limitless, and he ruthlessly punishes those who defy him. No, Boiler, fear not, for no threat stands against you. You have not completed your first step, for you only arrived recently.

  “Aurelia has determined that you are gifted—that you have potential. The story of your life will not be broken today, for people like you have no place in this little festival of ours. Styx refuses your participation. But remember that you will not always be a naive novice. Remember who you are, and do not squander your chance. You are fortunate, even though you have not realized this. Perhaps a tiny ray of the light of truth will reach you today, a ray that will eventually bring your heart to me. We will be glad to see you, whenever you come, and glad if you begin thinking on these things with all haste.”

  The old lady touched his cheek. The feeling was the opposite of what he had felt when Aurelia touched him.

  Sabina turned and gave an order.

  “Put this one in the basement, or somewhere else. He must not be here, for he does not possess the right to attend the ceremony.”

  Boiler knew he should feel grateful.

  But they were about to take him from the square, meaning he would be unable to see Aurelia, or the fringe of her dress, again. He hated that possibility. He would have paid the whole world for just one extra minute. Why do all good things come to such quick ends?

  Chapter 31

  The cell was as spacious as a coffin. A child’s coffin. It was nothing more than a fissure in the concrete wall with a barred door mounted in front of it. No furniture—none would fit, anyway. The only decor was primitive graffiti and obscene inscriptions left by former prisoners. Suspicious dark spots floated through his vision, possibly from the beatings he had just received.