Demons of Divinity

by Luke R. Mitchell

  That couldn’t be good. But I didn’t have time to worry about it as the hybrids charged. I dropped two with my telekinetically propelled spike before they closed. The other three, I blasted backward to buy time to reset. Or tried to. The rightmost hybrid, either sensing an attack or looking to surprise me, launched itself into the air just before my blast hit.

  Which left me with a healthy hit of channeling fatigue and a bloodthirsty hybrid plummeting for my head.

  Stupid. I’d been stupid. That was all I had time to think before the beast crashed into me. Reflexes kicked in, and I at least managed to hit the ground with an intact throat. The impact drove the air from my lungs. I struggled with the hybrid, my hands clamped to its wrists, trying to focus enough to hurl the thing off me.

  Franco stepped in and buried his stone spike in the hybrid’s head before I could.

  It jerked and crumpled on top of me. I was opening my mouth to thank Franco when my senses buzzed a warning. I telekinetically ripped Franco’s spike from the fallen hybrid. Franco gave a yelp of surprise as he caught sight of the other hybrid charging toward us. I couldn’t see where I was aiming, but I didn’t need to. My senses guided me, and fourth hybrid died. I rolled the other dead hybrid off me in time to see the fifth and final beast tilting its head back to roar.

  Half its head disappeared in a cloud of red mist before the first breath left its mouth.

  “What?” Franco said.

  I waved westward as I climbed to my feet. “I think we have a guardian sniper.”

  I glanced at my buzzing palmlight, expecting a private message or call from Dillard—likely of the furious variety—but it wasn’t. He was pushing me to Hound Company’s channel. I slipped in my earpiece and accepted.

  “What the scud are you doing down there, Raish?” came Mara’s frosty voice.

  “Was just singing your praises,” I grumbled, retrieving our spikes. “Thanks for the cover.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Dillard snapped. Then, in a private channel, he added in a hard voice, “I told you to get to the damn skimmer, Raish.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t leave these people behind,” I said, already moving toward the cluster of people the hybrids had been moving in on when we’d reached the square. They were dressed in worship attire, and staring around the carnage of the square with wild eyes.

  “I don’t like it either, Raish,” Dillard said in my earpiece as Franco stepped in to tell the good people to run for their lives. “But I have my orders. And you do too.”

  “You have orders to protect us,” I said, watching them worship-goers turn and heed Franco’s advice. “Not to turn tail from a hybrid attack.”

  “We’re coming to collect you,” he said. I almost wondered if he’d even heard me until I noticed he’d added Franco to the channel. Just ignoring my protests outright, then.

  “Hybrid forces are estimated at four hundred,” he added, “and look to be driving half the city toward the great worship hall.”

  “Probably because they’re planning to abduct them like before,” I growled.

  “We’ll rally here,” Dillard continued as if I hadn’t spoken, dropping a nav pin several blocks to the west of our position.

  “We can help them, Ordo,” I said. “We can—”

  “Get to the rally point, Raish. Both of you. We’ll reevaluate from there.”

  With that, Dillard cut our private connection.

  At least he hadn’t told me to stay put this time. And he hadn’t said an outright no to helping once we’d met up, either. Of course, he might’ve just been trying to get my stubborn ass to play along, but I wasn’t so sure. Dillard seemed like a good man.

  And these people needed them right now.

  Either way, thinking about it wasn’t doing anyone any favors, so once Franco and I had seen the square safely cleared, we set off for the western exit.

  Tendrils of dark smoke were rising in the distance off to the left as we hurried on. I tried not to dwell on the bloody bodies we passed—those brave spirits who’d fought and lost—but I ended up looking at every single one anyway, each another cold punch in the gut. No one in their right mind would have considered Humility a military target. No tactical value in the position. No significant resources. Just innocent, Alpha-fearing citizens. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

  They were the resources.

  How many more had already been dragged off in transports, or driven toward the great worship hall to be collected there? I didn’t want to think about it, and I had no idea how we could even hope to stop the hybrids. Between Humility’s entire Legion garrison, their enforcers, and Hound Company, our forces probably only barely matched their numbers in total—and Alpha only knew how many of Humility’s precious few gun hands were still fumbling to gear up and hit the front lines. Add in that we were fighting in the middle of a populated city against inhumanly strong predators, and that put us at a strong disadvantage. No question. They’d wreak their havoc, grab a few hundred new screaming recruits, and be gone by the time major reinforcements could arrive.

  These thoughts circled through my head with increasing desperation as Franco and I pushed on, passing a few small packs of civilians, killing three hybrids that were hounding after a family of four. We were approaching an intersection with one of the major streets when I felt something quite large thundering our way. I held up a hand to slow Franco, gripped my spike tight, rounded the corner—

  And nearly ran headlong into Johnny, who’s cloaked mind I’d missed completely.

  Behind his helmet’s transparent faceplate, Johnny’s face went from startled to relieved to confused all in the space of a second. Then he threw me into a quick, back-thumping hug. “Dammit, broto. What did we learn?”

  Between our near-collision, the chaos screaming around us, and the remaining disorientation from the mess of our run-in with Pasty and Hawk Nose, I was speechless.

  Johnny disengaged and fixed me with a serious look. “Never trust a man who uses paper. That’s what we learned today.”

  “That,” Edwards called, plodding up behind him, “and never visit Humility on Alphasday.”

  That explained the giant something I’d felt approaching. Edwards and Johnny had traded in their civilian disguises for their proper gear—probably around the same time Franco and I had gone missing and spoiled all the clandestine undercover fun—and were both armed to the teeth.

  A scream in the distance shattered our moment of relief.

  “Come on,” Edwards said, handing Franco his sidearm. “Let’s get to the rally point.”

  Johnny slipped me his sidearm, and we set off into the chaos. Mostly, we encountered fleeing civilians over the next couple blocks. We shot a pair of hybrids that were corralling a mother and her two boys, and waved the rest on, urging them to the outskirts. A Hound fireteam fell in with us at the next intersection. Then another at the next. Judging by the sounds of fighting, most of the action was drawing to the great worship hall a few blocks ahead. A quick update from Dillard confirmed as much.

  When we reached the square that was our rally point, I clicked my cloak off and cast my senses out to sweep ahead—too far to pick up many fine details, but the picture was clear enough. People—too many to count—gathered in a dense cluster ahead, their minds burning with crazed fear. Several more minds with the unmistakably alien feel of hybrids neatly corralling them in tighter, tighter. Too tight. Too neat.

  Either the hybrids could operate more autonomously beyond their feral instincts than I’d imagined, or someone was controlling them. One of the missing Seekers, maybe? Or had one of the raknoth come to Humility?

  Chatter from the group drew my attention back to the small square. I dialed my cloak back in to combat range. Dillard was coming, along with the rest of First Squad.

  I was opening my mouth to call out what I’d felt when a nearby gunshot jolted me to silence. In the blink of an eye, half a dozen rifles were aimed in the direction of the sound. But I was still star
ing at Dillard’s party, where the legionnaire next to him had fallen to the pavement, clutching at his throat.

  He’d been shot.

  Another gunshot barked somewhere else. Another soldier fell.

  “Cover!” Dillard yelled.

  My mind was whirling—my heart hammering, eyes scanning for the shooters. The hybrids weren’t tacticians. They didn’t ambush. Didn’t even use guns.

  Another shot from above.

  Johnny drove into me, pushing us toward the cover of a stone fountain. First Squad was firing back now, their slugs ripping through the parapets above at the hunkered down forms of our deadly shooters.

  I started to reach out, thinking to end them quickly.

  Then the hybrids came.

  18

  Limits

  Glass shattered. Hybrids roared. Legion rifles replied in kind.

  In the space of a breath, the quaint town square morphed from quiet rally point to full on war zone, dozens of hybrids pouring out through doors, windows, and—in a few cases—the walls of surrounding buildings, charging with bloodthirsty howls.

  Johnny’s rifle barked to my right, Edwards’ heavy rifle thumping to my left. Behind, Ordo Dillard was barking orders I only barely registered in my earpiece. The thought of Dillard tingled some internal alarm, and I whipped around right as a hybrid launch from a rooftop straight for him. I hurled my mind out to catch it and only partially succeeded in time. The hybrid wobbled into an ungainly spin, slowing just enough for Dillard to backpedal clear. He put a healthy number of slugs into the beast before it hit the stone, then went straight back to the orders.

  “Hal!” Johnny was grabbing me by the arm, yanking me back toward the fountain.

  I turned and glimpsed something that made me freeze.

  It was a hybrid—I was almost certain—but its hide was a far darker green than those of its kin, its mouth more elongated in a fanged snout. It perched on a nearby rooftop, watching me with eyes that glowed soft crimson, almost like those of a true raknoth. And it was pointing a rifle straight at me.

  I threw my hands out, focusing my will. In the chaos of the battle, I didn’t hear the hybrid’s rifle specifically, but I saw the muzzle flash. Felt something slam into me. Not slugs, I realized, but Johnny, throwing himself in front of me.

  My focus teetered dangerously with the impact, as did my balance, but I held on. Johnny jerked in front of me. My insides wrenched with dread. Then I saw the three slugs floating a few inches from his throat and faceplate.

  For a moment, it felt as if everything had frozen around us. Then I let the slugs fall to the stone, and Johnny exploded into a stream of inventive curses, raising his rifle. Above, the hybrid shooter’s chest erupted red mist before Johnny could draw a line. Mara’s long-range work, I had a feeling. The creature hit the rooftop, and I didn’t resist as Johnny pulled me back to cover.

  The hybrids looked to be retreating from the square now—a few leaping from rooftop to rooftop, one carrying a rifle like our late shooter’s, and another dozen or so darting off down alleyways or crashing through windows into the surrounding buildings. Just like that, silence descended on the square, thick with the scent of gun smoke, all the heavier for the thunderous chaos that had preceded it. It stretched for a few breaths, unmarred, then sound resumed.

  The clicks and clacks of empty slug feeders ejecting and fresh ones slapping home. The groans of the wounded. The low chatter of legionnaires checking on their squadmates, asking one another what the scud was that, and since when did those things learn to use proper weapons.

  I was more than a little curious myself. Curious, and horrified.

  “Double tap the fallen,” Dillard’s voice crackled over the squad channel, admirably level, if a bit short of breath. “Every hybrid gets a slug in the brain, people.”

  “And speaking of slugs and brains,” Johnny murmured beside me as First Squad swept out to see it done, “you can catch gropping gunfire?” His eyes were still a bit wide.

  “All two times I’ve tried, at least,” I said quietly, trying to brush it off before the legionnaires who weren’t busy pumping slugs into fallen hybrids could stare any harder.

  A couple seemed to be questioning if they’d truly seen what they thought they had. The rest looked at me like they were wondering why the scud the Demon of Divinity hadn’t seen fit to save the first two men who’d fallen to the shooters. And why hadn’t I, dammit? I should’ve been ready—should’ve felt the shooters coming.

  “That’s… good to know,” Johnny was murmuring, shaking his head. “Guess I owe you one.”

  It was my turn to stare. “Johnny, after what you just did, you don’t owe me—”

  “You would’ve done the same,” he said, waving the comment away as he looked across the square. “At least someone cored that bastard before… Huh.”

  I followed his gaze up to our shooter’s perch.

  The hybrid was gone. Only a spatter of dark blood and a heavy collection of debris and slug holes remained. We traded a look, both wondering if it was possible that hybrid had walked away from a high powered slug to the chest. Dillard’s call for attention broke our silent reverie.

  Seven of our squad were down in total, three of them fatally. It wasn’t much comfort that we’d made them pay with twice as many hybrids. Especially not when one of the fallen creatures who’d apparently avoided the double tap sweep snapped up to grab another Hound. I reached out too late to stop the beast from tearing into the legionnaire’s thigh. We all scrambled to help, but Franco was closest. He shoved his borrowed handgun to the hybrid’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Crack.

  A fleck of dark blood spattered Franco’s cheek. He didn’t seem to notice, reaching absentmindedly down to help the fallen legionnaire. He looked to be in shock—which, given the carnage he’d just witnessed, was completely understandable. He hadn’t been there at the White Tower. Not inside, at least. He’d been busy helping coordinate the civilian evacuation, which meant he hadn’t had to see the rivers of blood on dark stone, and the silent screams frozen on the faces of the hundreds we’d failed.

  The hundreds I’d failed…

  “Lock it down, First Squad,” Dillard barked beside me, nearly making me jump. “Wounded evac in sixty seconds, then we’ve got a date with Second Squad. Ordo Carter has twenty knots they cut through this scudstorm to the great worship hall before we do.”

  That raised a round of shouts and chest thumps. Edwards stomped a dead hybrid’s head in with the heel of a massive boot. The legionnaires all played in, psyching each other up, trying to pretend like a third of the squad wasn’t already down for the fight.

  “Any idea what the scud that was?” Dillard said beside me, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

  I didn’t have to ask what he meant. The ambush. The coordination. The red-eyed hybrid with its rifle, and the way its appearance was shifted from its brethren, more like a full raknoth.

  I thought back to the hybrid that had reacted to my telepathic touch at the labs. “Maybe… maybe the older ones are developing new skills as they mature. Maybe. I don’t know. I think the ones with the rifles might’ve even organized that ambush.” When Dillard didn’t react, I added, “With telepathy. None of the hybrids I’ve seen could do that.”

  He frowned. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

  I was still thinking about the strange hybrid at Vantage. Was it my imagination now, or had its mind actually felt like more of a he than an it?

  The thought chilled me. “I’m not sure yet. I didn’t think what happened at Oasis could happen without the raknoth present, but now I’ve got a bad feeling these older hybrids might be growing into their parents’ abilities.”

  That finally got a flicker of horror from Dillard. As quickly as it came, he buried it, looking around at his assembled legionnaires. The transport was arriving now, descending to collect our wounded. Dillard took a moment to call out a few commands before turning back to me. “Get Fields and make
sure our people get to safety.”

  I tried to keep the tension from my face. “You need me out here, sir.”

  It was a mistake. I could see it in the immediate flash of derision in his eyes. I pushed on.

  “Someone’s controlling these hybrids, Ordo. A strong telepath. Maybe even a raknoth. Let me help you stop them.”

  His eyes flicked to my pendant. To me. To the transport.

  “Let me keep their minds safe,” I said quietly. “Please.”

  That did it. I could see it in his eyes. He grimaced, muttering a curse to himself, then skewered me with a firm glare. “You’ll stick with the squad.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told.” His glare somehow intensified. “To the letter, Citizen.”

  I nodded.

  “Even if you’re told to retreat.”

  “Of course, sir,” I said a bit too quickly, trying to keep the reservation from my face.

  He chewed on that, staring me down all the while.

  “Somebody get Raish a gropping helmet,” he finally called over his shoulder. Then, to me, he added. “Get Fields on that transport before he collapses. You’re with Edwards and Wingard.”

  I resisted the urge to salute, figuring it might only agitate him further. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just don’t die on my watch, Raish,” he growled. He stomped off, clearly still plenty agitated as he cried, “Lock it down, Hounds! We’ve got hybrids to kill.”

  The great worship hall lay only a few more blocks ahead. The sounds of fighting throughout the city, I couldn’t help but notice, seemed to have diminished during the stint of our ambush in the square. Had the rest of Humility’s defenders fallen prey to similar traps? Was it possible the hybrids had coordinated that well across multiple engagements?

  I wanted to think the unsettling quiet was just a product of my confounded helmet muting my sense of hearing with its clunky bulk. But it wasn’t. I knew damn well the helmets actually amplified hearing to an extent. Which in turn reminded me that I should be able to ping any friendly Legion forces in the vicinity on my display.