War Machine (The Combat-K Series)

by Andy Remic

  “This feels like the beginning of the end,” said Pippa, finishing the cigarette.

  “I wish Franco were here.”

  “So do I.”

  They came to a square, surrounded by towers and filled with...

  “Ships,” said Pippa, her eyes gleaming suddenly. Before them, clustered and cramped, squeezed into every millimetre of available space stood row upon row upon rank upon rank of Hornets, Gunships, Scouts, Hunters, and a myriad of ships on which Pippa had never before laid eyes. They were dull, black, and unmarked with insignia.

  “Someone’s private airfield,” said Keenan, his voice gentle, “a private navy, in fact.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “Maybe The Factory produces warships?”

  “No.” Pippa shook her head. “I’m not sure what this place creates, but it isn’t space vehicles. But don’t you see, Keenan? This is our ticket out of this place. A way home.”

  “We’re under the ground,” said Keenan. “How could we escape this prison?”

  “There’ll be a way. There always is.”

  “They look... old,” said Keenan, “despite their lack of use. There’s something wrong with them, as if somebody built the damned things, and then left them here for a million years. Can’t you see it?”

  “All I can see is a one way ticket off this shit-hole.”

  Keenan nodded. He didn’t argue, there was no point. Maybe Pippa was right. However, their mission was still incomplete, and he still hadn’t received his prize.

  They moved past the huge gathering of ships, and Emerald remained silent, leading them by a hundred metres, her legs striking the metal ground in rhythmical clacks. Then the ship graveyard was gone, and again they were walking broad avenues, smoking like two condemned criminals sharing their last cigarette.

  Suddenly, the metal road came to an end, and a vast chasm fell away before them, into darkness. The chasm was spanned by a wide bridge, ornate, intricate, and ancient. Standing at the start of the bridge, Keenan glanced left, then right. The machines of the Factory stretched for as far as the eye could see, along the ridgeline of this mighty cleft in the world.

  Keenan heard Pippa gasp. He looked up, focused.

  Somebody was walking towards them.

  It was a woman.

  Franco and Betezh lay on their bellies, staring out through the dense tangle of metal trees.

  “What is it?” hissed Betezh.

  Franco waved him into silence.

  Howls and the rending of steel echoed in the distance, and Franco frowned. This isn’t good, he thought. At first, what looked like a deserted metal forest seemed like an easy bit of trekking, a simple exercise in catch-up. Now, however, there seemed to be other things in the woods, in the dark, and Franco was flung back to childhood, and the monsters under his bed.

  “This is an evil place,” said Franco.

  “I’ll agree with you on that.”

  “OK. What weapons have we got? One working Kekra with a full magazine. One sticky, shite-filled Kekra with half a mag of shite-filled sticky bullets, which no longer work.”

  “And an ice axe.”

  “Yeah.” Franco grimaced. “Let’s not forget the ice axe.”

  “We’re tooled up,” said Betezh optimistically.

  Franco stared out over the metal woodland. He pointed to the army of machines in the distance. They filled the pathway, the tangled woodland, the air. They moved slowly, distantly, in a wide sweeping line that seemed to be—

  “They’re searching for something,” said Franco uneasily.

  “Us?” There was a warble in Betezh’s voice.

  “How could they possibly know we’re here?”

  Betezh pointed. A small metal creature with large black eyes sat not ten feet away. It was watching them intently, metal jaws working noiselessly, all six limbs planted firmly on the ground.

  “Ahh,” said Franco.

  The Kekra levelled, there was a boom and the creature was blown apart in a tangle of gears, shards and circuitry. In the distance, a metal scream rose over the woodland. Franco and Betezh turned, licked dry lips, and watched, as, like the two flanks of some mammoth distant army, the line of machines started to fold and close, and turn, thousands of integral units acting as a single entity.

  “I think we should, like, get moving,” said Franco.

  “Good idea.”

  “Which way?”

  “Away from them?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “This way?”

  “Yep, this way looks just fine.”

  Their lumbering, accelerating sprint held just a little bit of panic.

  The woman stopped, and seemed to be waiting. She was naked, her body slim, athletic, and toned. She carried a black sword in one hand, pointing at the floor. Her stance suggested defiance, an unwillingness to let the group pass.

  Keenan heard Emerald hiss. He turned, and looked at the Kahirrim. “You got my answer yet?” he said.

  “Soon,” said Emerald. Green eyes fixed him. “This is General Kotinevitch, the one who sent the Seed Hunter after you. This is one who colludes with my brother, Raze. He must be nearby.” She seemed suddenly tense, nervous, jittery, “You must kill this human, kill her now!”

  Keenan nodded. He walked out onto the bridge, Pippa a couple of steps behind him. He eyed Kotinevitch’s sword warily as he approached, then looked up into brown eyes, which seemed, at the same, both gently amused and deadly serious.

  “Mr. Keenan,” said Vitch, ignoring Pippa. Pippa scowled.

  “You are General Kotinevitch?”

  “I am.”

  “I keep hearing your name.”

  “Probably because I keep trying to have you exterminated. It would seem that my best efforts have been thwarted. What did you do with Mr. Max?”

  “He died a painful death,” spat Pippa. She drew her sword with a slither of snaking steel, and grimaced. Her hatred was real. Kotinevitch, however, remained cool: calm, calculating, almost emotionless.

  “A very great shame.” She gave a brief smile, green lips parting. “You’ve done an incredible thing, bringing Emerald home, Mr. Keenan, but nobody will thank you for this act of awesome stupidity.”

  “Stupidity?” Keenan grinned. “She merely wants to die. Who the fuck are you to stand in her way?”

  Vitch shook her head. Her lips compressed. “Is that what she told you? You are so out of your league, little man, it is painful to watch. You know nothing of the devastation you are about to wreak. Look at her,” Vitch sneered, “she is still weak, still a victim of the toxins that keep her less than a true Kahirrim. That is why she needs you to do her dirty work. This is why she needs your protection.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She would resurrect Leviathan.”

  Keenan blinked. He heard Emerald approaching from behind, and away beyond Vitch he saw movement. Something huge, black-skinned, the same form as Emerald only larger and heavier; it moved out onto the bridge like a titan, a giant four-legged insect... a monster. Keenan glanced over his shoulder.

  Vitch attacked. Pippa hurled herself forward, her sword striking the yukana with a clash and blur of motion. The blades clashed and clattered in a furious exchange of skill. Then Vitch suddenly turned, moving a few steps, her finely chiselled buttocks the focus of Keenan’s attention, before gesturing across the bridge to the huge hulking figure of the male Kahirrim.

  Raze.

  Vitch glared at Keenan. “Leviathan is the Devourer of Worlds. You would doom us all, Combat K man, for your petty personal revenge. I can tell you who killed your family and your children; it is no great secret in military circles. It was the reason she was condemned to a fucking eternity of imprisonment on the prison circle of Five Grey Moons.”

  Keenan swallowed, stared into those brown eyes, and watched the moist, green lips smile, a smile filled with malice. “Yes, Mr. Keenan. It was Pippa, the woman by your side, your old lover, your new lover; Pippa, your lit
tle gem, your sunshine, your butterfly, who murdered your wife and your family.”

  Vitch twirled her sword several times, as behind Raze’s bulk moved closer, huge heavy legs striking sparks from the ornate metal bridge. Vitch charged, and Pippa gave Keenan a sideways glance. There were tears on her cheeks, and guilt in her eyes, and Keenan stumbled back under the onslaught of the truth.

  Pippa and Vitch met at the centre of the bridge, swords hammering and clashing. Pippa fought with fury, with energy, with hatred. Vitch fought with a coolness and skill that was psychologically disarming.

  Keenan found himself at the rail of the bridge. He stared down into the yawning chasm. He couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t believe it. So many questions queued in his mind that his head spun and thundered with pain. It was so unbelievable as to be inhuman, so painful it was like having his heart ripped out by taloned claws, like having his spine torn free with razor teeth. He screamed. He leant over the chasm and screamed, and vomited, and tears fell, and behind him Pippa and Vitch fought with savage ferocity and consummate skill. Vitch’s blade cut a line down Pippa’s cheek opening a flap that showed teeth. They fought on, Pippa’s blood dripping making the metal walkway slippery under slick boots. With a dazzling riposte, Pippa’s sword opened a wound across Vitch’s left hip, and blood pumped, running down into her pubic mound and dripping, a premature menstruation. They circled warily, both panting, both bathed in sweat and streaked with crimson.

  “Keenan,” hissed Vitch, “you have to stop this. You have to stop Emerald! She will resurrect Leviathan. He will build an army and the Quad-Gal will never be the same. We will be slaves, as we were slaves before! Listen to me, man! Emerald was one of the Protectors until she turned to the Paths of the Dark Flame... and just as Raze guards the Prison Cell that holds Leviathan... so Emerald seeks to open it!”

  “You lie,” coughed Keenan.

  Emerald leapt forward, over Pippa’s head, sharp pointed appendages striking out with insane speed at Vitch, who retreated, yukana sword blurring, fending off the sudden, brutal attack. Then Raze was there, and he was huge, terrifying, his jaws glittering with crystal saliva, his six dark eyes burning with fury. Emerald threw Vitch aside, hammering a blow to her chest that smashed her against the ornate iron rails of the bridge, buckled her, smashed her, bloody and pulped and groaning to the slick ground.

  Raze roared, and Pippa stared up in disbelief as he reared above his alien sister. Emerald charged him. They clashed, the bridge rocked, and their limbs hammered at one another, pounding and slashing, jaws tearing and scoring, and biting chunks from armoured flesh. A blow hammered Emerald’s head with staggering force and she stumbled, two back legs collapsing. She swayed, as a point missed her eyes by inches and buckled a section of iron railing with screams of twisted metal. Emerald slashed upwards, cutting a line of flesh from Raze’s abdomen. He roared again, in pain, jaws yammering in a frenzy as something dark and oil-slick poured from the wound.

  Pippa staggered to Keenan. She was bleeding heavily. She did not meet his intense stare.

  “It can’t be true,” he said.

  Pippa did not reply.

  He grasped her and shook her. “It cannot be true! Tell me it’s not fucking true!”

  Pippa looked up. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She chewed her lip. Beyond them, the bridge rocked again as the two aliens clashed, beating one another, drawing blood, screaming with hatred and with a rage far surpassing human anger.

  “I’m sorry, Keenan.”

  He staggered back as if struck, and sat heavily on the ground. He stared up, through tears, through panting, through snot. He stared up with confusion acid-etched on his features. “Why, Pippa? In the name of God, why?”

  “You betrayed me.” Her words were hollow, brittle, as empty as an abortion wracked womb.

  Keenan barked a laugh. “I betrayed you? That’s a fucking reason to kill my wife, my Rachel, my little sweet Ally? You fucking whore. You fucking disease. How could you do it to them? How could you murder my babes?” He was on his knees. His eyes burned with Hell. His teeth snarled poison. He staggered up, face wild, hands clawing, MPK clattering, forgotten at his hip and, appearing to remember the weapon, he grasped it, solid and real, and stared down at the black alloy, at the drilled barrel, at the elegant gleaming curve of the magazine.

  “No.” Her voice was little more than the whisper of a confused child.

  Keenan stalked forward, gun in fists, and rammed the barrel hard under Pippa’s bruised chin. Behind them, the bridge rocked under a terrifying impact. Keenan’s eyes met hers. She was crying, but Keenan’s tears had gone. A harmattan blew across his soul and all that was left of his sanity was... emptiness.

  “No,” insisted Pippa. “Keenan, I love you. We can make this right!”

  “It can never be right.”

  “I was mad, with jealousy, and hatred. I was a different person then. I have changed. I am repentant.”

  “I’m not.”

  He jabbed at her with the edge of the barrel, which sliced her skin. Blood ran down, over the drilled cooling holes, and Keenan’s face was a brutal caricature of human.

  Then he was gone, past Pippa, to a heavily wounded Raze who reared above Emerald, cowering and battered and broken on the metal bridge. Keenan straddled Emerald’s wounded form and looked up into the six eyes of her enemy. He lifted his MPK and unleashed a payload of bullets into Raze’s face. The Kahirrim screamed, squealing as the gun lowered and bullets tore at his soft wounded underbelly. Raze staggered back, and Keenan kept firing, his face neutral his eyes blank plates, lips a line of blood: fifty bullets, a hundred. Still Keenan fired, his gun-barrel glowing white hot. The gun gave a warning beep, and, still striding towards the retreating injured alien, Keenan swiftly switched mags. The roar filled the sky, the air, the world. The gun glowed and Raze was forced back under a hardcore metal onslaught until he stood, cowering at the edge of the bridge, limbs trying to protect his face. Keenan grasped the MPK, willing Raze to die, willing him to be no more. With a final wail the alien reared back, folding, his body a shattered torn marionette, and he tumbled into the darkness of the chasm.

  Keenan did not move, did not rush to the edge.

  Raze fell in silence and was gone, dead and gone.

  Emerald staggered up, lifted something to her face. Energy crackled, in the air, along her limbs, and Keenan turned, frowning, as energy moved out from Emerald’s crumpled body in tiny fluttering arcs, discharging across the bridge, and lifting Kotinevitch, bearing her broken body across the ground, and lowering her gently onto a silver disc embedded in the dark steel. Keenan blinked. There were two more discs, the three forming a triangle.

  “Emerald?” he said.

  Slowly, she heaved and dragged her wounded body into a swaying stance. The energy still poured from her, crackling and fizzing, and with a yelp Keenan dropped his MPK as it bit him.

  “Stand on the discs,” said Emerald, her voice a dry croak.

  As if in a trance, Pippa moved to stand on the silver circle. Keenan eyed the third and felt the pull the need the want the lust. It was more powerful than sex, more needy than lust and, every emotion within him fired him. He knew that the revenge he sought would happen: was a certainty. If he stood on that disc his dreams would be fulfilled and his emptiness and hollowness would fill with purity and love, and everything would be perfect again in a perfect beautiful world.

  Keenan moved to the disc.

  “No,” croaked Vitch.

  Keenan felt it, a discord, something shattering the harmony. But he could not move. He was locked, imprisoned without chains, incarcerated without bars. He glanced at Pippa. She was crying mercury tears. Vitch was twitching spasmodically on the ground as if in a fit. Then he stared at Emerald, who moved, severely wounded, leaking oil-blood, to the centre of the three inset discs.

  She forced herself to stand tall, then lifted two limbs into the air. Everything crackled. Black sparks ran along the metal of the bridge in waves of scr
eaming energy. A wind blew, thick with the stench of metal. And Keenan knew, knew with a sudden, terrible and certain dread that he had killed the wrong Kahirrim.

  Emerald was not a saviour.

  Raze had been, as Vitch insisted, a Protector.

  Of what? His mind whirled, filled with fallout: Leviathan? The Dead One? The GodRace?

  His eyes lowered, and met Vitch’s. She smiled at him, and he realised that she had wanted him assassinated, not out of some personal vendetta, or for some petty financial gain; she had simply sought to stop this moment coming to fruition. Her motives, no matter what he thought, had been good. She understood the bigger picture. While he...

  He smiled sardonically.

  Why, he’d just been thinking of petty revenge.

  “You must stop this,” said Vitch. Keenan did not hear the words, but could read her smashed lips.

  He tried to move, and could not. He tried to reach his bombs, but could not.

  “I am trapped,” he mouthed.

  Emerald whirled on him, black electric arcs spearing out and smashing him with an agony he would never have dreamed possible. Energy ran in coursing rivers down his arms and legs, rippling through his neck and face, brain and heart. He could not scream, could not fall, could not die. His mind became a useless thing; a template of emptiness.

  Emerald was speaking in an alien language. Her head lifted. She stared up into the vaults of darkness high above. The world seemed to glow black.

  And Keenan became aware of a presence.

  He forced his head around, teeth gritted, pain searing him, every nerve on fire with a billion volts of electricity. And there, at the edge of the bridge, stood a man.

  He was of medium build, with oiled jet black hair tied back in a bun. His face was plump, cheeks an unhealthy red, and he wore a long black drooping moustache. He looked normal, inconsequential, but Keenan scowled and his face became a broiling pit of seething fury.

  “Akeez,” he forced between twitching lips.