Sure, by doing this he was helping keep Octavio Ascher alive – it was more than likely the Celebrants who had sent those warmekan, and not the embattled Machine itself. But nevertheless, there were thousands of others in the beltway who didn't deserve to die. His own family, for example.
Years ago – back when he really was just a raw recruit, when Gerhard Mitchell was like a god to him in the little world of the Academy, he'd taken an oath to protect the innocent. It wasn't really for him to judge whether the people of the Bimburb belt had led blameless lives. He rather doubted it. But it was a good enough excuse to show Kronos just what it had created when it stole his humanity.
St Jules Benoic hadn't had this much fun in years. Of course, he was out of his mind - there was no way he'd even be here if he were still sane. But there was a sweet freedom in knowing that he was over the edge, that nothing he saw tonight mattered. They couldn't touch him now, and he was free to live in his glorious memories. If his tired old body could keep up with his sizzling, crackling brain he might even survive...
Around him the iron-shod feet of the ancient tankhunter mekan marched on, slamming into the ground in perfect unison. Now that was discipline. The kind of mechanical perfection he'd never been able to drum into his troops, no matter how he shouted and cursed. These were his boys now, these rusted things - thrown away like he was... and yet when Kronos needed them, needed him again, where were they? On the damned front lines, that's where, while the young upstarts who'd replaced him blubbered like babies over a little blood and death...
Benoic could feel his mind getting away from him, his focus slipping as he pretended to lead his mechanical soldiers into battle. Part of him knew full well that he had no idea where they were headed, or what the hell a one-hundred-twenty-year old has-been with a necktie cinched around his head could possibly accomplish when they got there. The sliver of sanity was like a devil on his shoulder, whispering to him that things like these didn't get raised from their oily tombs unless there was some serious business to attend to.
The gunfire almost stopped his heart when it began - could it really be that loud? He seemed to remember it was much easier to deal with, back when he was young. Oh well- Benoic ripped the hearing aid from his ear, muffling the sound of screams and the sizzle and hiss of the Tankhunter's masers as they returned fire. The jagged edges of the past and future blurred as he squinted down the sights of his rifle.
The old Centurion knew this place - he'd been through here almost every weekend with his wife, through those gates and into the Beltway for some tedious cocktail party or charity dinner.
But now - well, it was just as well he was out of his mind, wasn't it? Because if all this was real, that would mean he was charging the gates of the Belt with a dozen rusting warmekan at his back, burning and blasting troopers of the Compliance Division to pieces as they struggled to bring the gates' ancient weaponry to bear.
It must be some kind of fever dream, he thought, as he sighted along the barrel of his longrifle and cut down a scurrying blue-suited trooper. He'd always fantasized about laying siege to the pompous courtiers and simpering bureaucrats who lived in the Beltway. He'd rather choke down canned rations in a tent with honest soldiers than pick
at tiny canapes among those fools any day, by the Gods!
Yes - it was mighty fine to be insane at last. He didn't know what he'd been worrying about all these years. The bolt snapped back, locked forward, and Benoic took another trooper in the shoulder, grinning fiercely as he watched the man tumble from atop the gatehouse wall.
"For Kronos, the Lords, and Manifest Dogma!" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips as he brandished his rifle, exultant. "Forward the Fighting 23rd!"
The tankhunter next to him rocked back on its heels as a shell exploded against its chestplate, sending shrapnel whistling past his face. Another bast tore its featureless head from its shoulders, and it toppled backwards, falling to the ground with a tangle of spitting wires spilling from its neck.
Benoic scuttled sideways to avoid its collapse, staring in horror at the pool of hydraulic fluid which spread from the stricken machine's innards.
"Medic!" he yelled, as bullets skipped and whined across the concrete of the ramp around him. "Man down! Man down!"
As if on cue the gates of the Beltway lurched open a crack, grinding slowly apart as white light spilled from within. There was a figure outlined against that blinding radiance - something almost human, but too large, malformed, with three points of red light in a tight triangle where its face should be.
Benoic knew he wasn't the only madman present when he realized that one of them was the glowing tip of a cigarette...and the other two were its eyes. The ragged shape seemed to be wearing the shreds of an old trenchcoat, over what appeared to be a bedsheet toga. Now, what the hell was that doing in his dream? Some kind of fraternity party stunt, half-remembered from more than a century ago, perhaps?
For some reason the warmekan had stopped, their guns silent, standing to attention like great guardian statues. Benoic picked his way forward, around the burned-out wreck of an armored car, and stood, wheezing, using his rifle as a crutch. The shadow-thing in its ridiculous clothes took a final drag on its cigarette and looked right through him, those hot-coal eyes unblinking. He guessed he should say something, play the diplomat, but it was one of the Tankhunters which spoke first.
"Edward Tsien!" it crackled, through a pair of speakers mounted in its shoulder pauldrons. "This is your maker, Lieutenant. This is Kronos, your duly empowered ruler. I must insist that you stand down, and deactivate your Cyben implants. That hardware is government property, and it must be returned to the labs for further testing."
For a second, for two, there was nothing. A gust of wind stirred the dust and smoke, and a handful of empty shells clattered and chimed as they rolled away down the ramp. Then Tsien began to laugh, a sound so chillingly inhuman that even Benoic, the self-confessed madman, shivered with dread.
"Turn them off?" asked the Super-Cyben, flicking his cigarette butt away contemptuously. "Turn them OFF?! You know what would happen then, don't you? And while I'm sure I'd be much more convenient out of the way, I really don't feel inclined to obey you. Not least..." (and here he began to walk down the ramp, nonchalant, sliding a fresh tailormade from his pocket and into his mouth) "Because that order raises a whole predicament for me. You see, I'd love to be able to live without all this shit inside me. If you told me you'd fix me up, and if - a big fucking if, mind - I believed you, then I'd
have all this ironmongery out in seconds. But then....then, you fucking cold bastard, how would I smash the shit out of you and your bloody toys?!"
The Tankhunters leveled their guns at him then, locking bolts, chambering missiles, priming masers. A swarm of tiny red dots played over Tsien's chest, blazing crimson like his eyes.
“I'll ask you again, Lieutenant.” said the voice of Kronos, broadcast from every one of the mekan now, a thunderous hammer of noise. “Deactivate your implants, and stand down. We will do what we can to return you to what you would consider humanity.”
This time there was no laughter – just a cold and merciless silver grin sliced across the Super-Cyben's face.
“And why don't you just do it yourself, hmm? Kronos the omniscient? Are you going to tell me the wetsystems and the datanet are down for routine maintainence? Or are you afraid I wont believe that either?”
He'd reached the shadow of the first tankhunter now, and stood between its massive feet, looking up with utter scorn at the rusted faceplate of the giant machine. Here he was inside the arc of its guns, and none of the others could fire lest they blow their companion to pieces.
“I think you're in more trouble than you let on. I think Octavio bloody Ascher, be he ever so much an asshole, is smarter than you. I think you need all this shit inside me. I think that poor mad old Gerhard's right.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the kneecap of the mekan, grinding the ashes hard into the corroded metal.
“The Direktor has nothing to do with it.” boomed the multiple voice of Kronos, a tinge of vexation creeping into its cold inhumanity. “If you defy me, you condemn yourself and everyone you care about.”
“Threats? You really are rattled.” said Tsien, flexing his hands as he looked up at the mekan, sizing it up.
“I've had subcity thugs try that on before, Kronos, and I think you know what happened to them. I filled out all the paperwork when they got recycled into petfood.”
“Enough!” yelled Benoic, trembling with anger. “You're an officer, godsdammit! You took an oath to serve and obey! Now, do what he says!”
The old man still had it in him; his fury would have made any number of drill sergeants proud.
But Edward Tsien looked him over with a sneer of contempt, the steel irises of his cameras whirring and clicking, and he was suddenly painfully aware that he was nothing more than a fat old man with no shirt on, his necktie tight around his bald head, his paunch hanging over his belt.
“With all due respect, sir, I know the rules. I know the oath I took. It was to uphold the law, and protect the innocent. Do you and yours want to be made into things like me? The whole damn city? It's gone insane, and I'm relieving it of its command.”
“INSANE?” howled Kronos through its multitude of speakers. “That is nothing but a HUMAN frailty, Tsien! I will do what is necessary to preserve this city! And that means you must submit!”
The Tankhunter took a step back, bringing the muzzle of its left-hand plasma cannon down into the Super-Cyben's face. Tsien reached out his hand and gripped the very end of the scarred old gun, holding it at arm's length.
“See, I know your type, Kronos. I've known them for years, thanks to the job I did for you. Grady Townsend's boys. The Liquid Tong. Vexx's hired thugs. I know that they never ask for what they want, they just take it. Unless they're shit-scared. And that's exactly what I'm picking up from this little display. Twelve tankhunter mekan, just for me?”
Kronos seethed with perfectly replicated anger, his minions lumbering in around Tsien, blocking out the light.
“Not just for you. This is a corollary mission. I must defend the Tower from...” But the Lieutenant cut him off, producing a third cigarette from within the tattered remains of his coat.
“I know about Blaire, too. And this time I'm ready for him. So there'll be no need for your tin soldiers, Kronos. You made me to do this job, and I'm going to see it through to the end.”
There was another endless moment of silence as Tsien stood there, one hand braced on the muzzle of the tankhunter's maser, his head bowed, the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.
“I won't let you take any more of them, you hear me? Not even the scum, not even the dying. Not now that I know what you do with them. So damn your Forge, and your Lords, and your endless stupid games. I'm coming for you, tonight. But first....”
Benoic hardly heard that last little speech, a whisper between the Super-Cyben and the machine he faced. But he heard Tsien strike a match against the warmekan's leg, saw the tiny phosphorous flare light up his haggard features.
“First, I'm going to mess up your plans a little. And no matter what happens, I'm taking your mark-four program to the grave with me.” He raised his hand up, palm cupped, and Benoic watched a little trickle of silver liquid spill out between his fingers, splashing like mercury as it hit the ground. It slithered and melted into his steel-clad foot, sucked back up into his body. “This nanotech is terribly volatile stuff, isn't it? You must need a whole lot of Assemblers just to make enough for a single Core Drone.... but of course they're all offline. What a crying shame.” He grinned crooked, taking a long drag on his cancer stick. “So if you burn me down to charcoal, how are you gonna make more? And if you don't....”
Benoic swore later that he didn't even see the punch. It was too fast to follow, a metal blur slicing the air, a perfect uppercut which slammed into the warmekan's carapace, actually lifting the ten-ton machine off its feet.
Before it fell back to earth Tsien was airborne, spinning as he kicked out, planting his boot in the middle of the huge robot's chest. Its arms and legs flew out in front of it as it folded in the middle, a clear boot-print stamped into its steel armor.
It crashed down in a cacophony of metal and a shower of sparks, servos and pushrods twitching as it scrabbled to regain its feet, a beetle turned up on its shell. Tsien landed, neat, poised, taking another puff on his cigarette.
“So what's it gonna be, Kronos? You want to see what you've done to me? You want to see what a gods-damned subhuman can do?” His eyes blazed brighter than the glowing ember at the tip of his smoke, reckless, facing down enough firepower to level a small town.
“Don't be a fool, Lieutenant!” shouted the voice of the machine, rattling the very gates of the Beltway with sheer volume. “There's something coming, now! Tonight! This city needs every defense I can muster! Didn't you feel it, when you were connected?”
Overhead thunder rumbled, and fitful lightning split the wrack of poison clouds.
“I won't be fooled again, damn you!” raged Tsien, ripping the coat from his back, exposing gleaming armor, coils and tubes and bolts puncturing his flesh, cold steel usurping human skin....
Now a single crimson drop fell, splashing across the spiked pauldron of his shoulder, slithering down between the plates of metal...
“For your family, Tsien! For Elysium! For the innocent! Please...” said Kronos, his amplified voice almost drowned out by peals of thunder. The warmekan which the Super-Cyben had struck was up to its knees now, bowed as if in supplication. “You're right. I am....afraid. I need your help. Please...”
A minute ago, an hour ago - that would have stopped him dead. Mighty Kronos, begging on its knees to a gutter cop from down in the subcity? But now it just fueled his rage. Another trick. Another blind...
“For my family. For Elysium. For the innocent – if they ever existed. That's why I have no choice.” he spat, staring up at the sky as the rain began to fall.
Fat, oily drops of it broke across his face, blurring the creeping line between steel and flesh...
It poured down red, painting the concrete crimson, extinguishing his cigarette in a curl of pungent smoke. Tsien looked down at his hands, huge and malformed claws of jointed metal, and saw them dripping with gore. He looked up, his eyes blazing from behind a curtain of matted hair, staring into the barrels of a score of guns, the dead camera eyes of a half-circle of rusted tankhunters.
He saw himself reflected there, and he smiled despite the pain.
“Come on, then." he whispered "Take your best shot.”
Then it all became a bloody, hissing blur, and Benoic looked on in horror as his madness took the world down with it...
Laney Forster stepped up to the windowsill, her head spinning. She'd never liked heights, not even the view from the rooftop of her hab. Halfway up the slope of Elysium there wasn't much to see anyway, even on a good day. But now she had no choice.
No choice, and no breath, her heartbeat a faint flicker beneath smothering pain...
She was sure she should be dead after that thing had fallen from the sky on top of her – after it had arrested its plunge not ten feet above her by opening up like a sticky black sail, its underside a mass of dripping teeth...
Laney whimpered a little, deep inside the corrosive embrace of the saprophyte. But its Voice goaded her on with whips of pain, letting her feel for a sliver of a second what had really become of her flesh. It was too horrible to comprehend, and her mind reeled back in horror, allowing the thing which had consumed her to have its way. It shuffled her feet forward, over the precipice, choking the scream in her throat.
She toppled from the window and out into a hellscape of smoke and fire and searchlight beams, screams echoing up the canyon of metal which separated her Hab from the recycling 'fac next door, a chasm of darkness in which a tangle of panicked people writhed and struggled.
Falling, now, head down, stre
amers of oily dark filth whipping out behind her in tatters, hoping that the impact would be mercifully swift...
Then the Saprophyte pulled her strings, twisting her arms out wide, ripping the bones from their sockets as a pair of membranous wings snapped taut. Down over the mad throng she came, a thing from out of prehistoric nightmares, her fingers drawn out to needle-thin spikes, shaping the edges of the wings, straining for lift...
Her jaw hinged open as she skimmed over the heads of the hapless people below, and an inhuman shriek issued from her throat, a sound of hideous triumph. The powerdive leveled out, became a mad, clawing battle for altitude – and she was flying.
It felt like she was pinned to the air with spikes of pain, but the thermals from a hundred fires buoyed her up, carrying her in a wide gyre over the habs, over the manufactoria and the streets where those who hadn't barricaded themselves indoors struggled and died. Other things like the one which had killed her (and deep down she knew that this was no reprieve from death) ran riot down there, hordes of slippery black shadows dragged along in the wake of massive, formless beasts, all arms and eyes and gaping mouths.
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