In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon

by Stu Jones

  Through the blood and the screams, I climb the remains of the hill and run for the opening in the lillipad entrance. The lillipad is enormous and within it, rising out of the rear, is a huge dome of green fire.

  Ghofaun clears the way, while Kahleit covers my hasty ingress. I glance down to align the cold brass in my hand with the holes in the cylinder of my wheel gun. My forearm aches from a death grip too long engaged against the rosewood handle of the heavy pistol. I secure four rounds, the fifth dropping into the snow at my feet. No time. I snap the cylinder closed and raise the weapon back to the high ready position.

  Mila has destroyed the makeshift barricade and charges through alongside Mos and several Creed—their faces lit by the shimmering green thing beyond.

  “Husniya? Where is my sister?” I shout.

  Into the inner sanctum we race, but immediately grind to a halt a few meters inside. In our way stands a wall of Graciles, but not just any Graciles. These monsters wear armor plating and carry melee weapons that burn with blue fire. On their backs are cylindrical tanks with hoses that loop over the shoulders and vent with a red steam beneath the nose.

  The emerald sphere creeps into the room, dissolving the walls centimeter by centimeter. The gate to unspeakable damnations is still growing.

  A voice from the shadows speaks. It’s Vedmak. “Kill them, Merodach.”

  The biggest one of the Graciles, the one called Merodach, swings a fiery mace above his head, his eyes wild with rage.

  I stare down the monstrous Gracile abomination before me. No more games. “Bring my sister to me and I won’t destroy you all.” My voice shakes with anger, the words bolstering my resolve.

  Merodach grunts and bares a sadistic grin as he steps forward.

  Mila and Mos glance at each other, then me.

  Ilah give me strength.

  The towering, armored mute and his brethren come for us. My gold-plated hand cannon levels upon his bulk and fires, the first shot striking low and staggering him. With a scream of rage, he rushes me. My finger jerks against the trigger again and again, each blaze of fire threatening to topple the mad Gracile. One large round left in the cylinder. I dive to the left to avoid a crushing blow from his flaming weapon.

  To my side, Kahleit and Ghofaun work together to take down one of the titans with their blades. On my right, the lead Creed with mismatched arms slams into an armored Gracile with a crushing blow to the skull.

  There is swirling dust in my nose and eyes. I roll to the side to get a fix on my attacker. His breathing labored, a thirst for death in his eyes, he turns on me. But the monster is slowing, blood pouring down from the holes in his plate armor. He struggles to heft the fiery mace again.

  Rolling to my back, I point and fire. The recoil bucks the heavy revolver high. Wide-eyed, the furious Gracile shudders, blood spraying from what must surely be a fatal neck wound. Groaning, bulging muscles shaking, he lifts the mace over his head to pulverize me against the floor. I fumble with the big bore revolver’s cylinder, dumping hot brass across my sweat-soaked shirt. There is no time to ready my weapon. Frozen in terror, my heart slamming against my breast, I wait for the death blow.

  There’s a loud smack. A tattered blue beanbag slams across the chin of the brute. He stumbles, dropping the mace, which flickers and eventually quenches. His eyes wide, searching, he grabs at his neck wound, the blood pumping through his fingers. He drops to his knees with a groan and rolls to his side.

  There’s someone standing over me. A beanbag launcher hangs in her hand. I should have known.

  “Come on,” Mila says, panting. “Let me help you.”

  I shake my head.

  “Faruq. Look at me.”

  I raise my eyes to meet hers, an avalanche of emotion crushing down upon me.

  “Give me your hand,” she says, her voice gentle. “We’re out of time.”

  Slowly, I reach up, my fingers encircling the warmth of her wrist, my heart surging at her touch. She pulls me to my feet and our gazes connect. I can’t stop the tears from building. In a different life, a better life free from the bonds of expectation, bias, and hate, we could have had something special. The thought twists like a knife buried to the hilt and meant to kill. I struggle to push back a wave of bitter anguish. The words I want to say to this woman refuse to come, though I want so desperately to utter them.

  “Mila, I ... I’m ...”

  She shakes her head, squeezing my wrist. “You’ll tell me when this is over.”

  I swallow back my mumbled words, her stare boring into my soul.

  “Faruq.” She holds my gaze. “Will you give me the chance to save Demitri?”

  I manage a feeble nod.

  “Thank you.” She squeezes my hand. “Now go. Save Husniya. She needs you.”

  “Yes,” I say, reluctantly releasing her hand. “I will.”

  Mila turns and separates from me, her stride full of purpose as she crosses the room.

  There’s a scream as a force of Rippers slams against the pikes of my men blocking the entrance to the lillipad.

  “Kahleit, hold them off until this is done,” I shout.

  “Yes, Sheikh,” my captain replies.

  Ahead, the fallen bodies of his Gracile guard at his feet, Vedmak appears from the shadows and shrugs free of his cloak. Hidden behind some kind of mask, his breathing sounds heavy. He is no longer the meek, kindhearted Gracile I met those many years ago.

  Just beyond him, the green orb of pulsating energy swells, enveloping more of the room.

  Something hollow grows in the pit of my stomach as Mila, Mos, and the Creed close in on Vedmak, their bodies poised for action. I ease the hammer back down to the safety position and sprint off into the maze of lillipad corridors beyond. I must find Husniya.

  Chapter Forty-four

  MILA

  The hate in his eyes as he paces back and forth like a trapped predator chills my blood. I hold his withering gaze. He does not look at my companions, jeer, or make idle threats. His silence is foreboding. There’s a pensiveness, excitement even, at my arrival, as though he’s waited his entire life for this moment.

  “Demitri, we’re here to help you,” I say, lightly touching the auto injector on my belt to make sure it’s still there.

  The Gracile laughs, breathing deep the vaporous mist that hangs curling about his mask. “The whelp can’t hear you. He’s locked out. It’s just us now. Are you ready for me to visit upon you what you fear most, little one?”

  Don’t play his game, Mila. Resist. It’s what you do. I swallow the dry lump from my throat.

  Beside me, Zaldov shifts, little whirs and clunks sound as he adjusts his combative stance.

  “You do not scare me.” Vedmak looks from me to Mos and finally to Zaldov. “You honestly believe it will be a problem for me to defeat all three of you at once?”

  “What about four?” Ghofaun says, stepping in line with us.

  Vedmak rolls his shoulders. “What is it you hope to achieve? You cannot save the girl. You cannot wrest this body from my grasp. You can’t stop the machinations of destiny. I was made to rule, and in this perfect shell, I will. You all are nothing more than a momentary inconvenience.”

  “No,” I say, “your scythe is gone. You’re vulnerable without your tech.”

  He raises his severed arm. Secured to the stump with a series of heavy leather straps is a cruel-looking, crudely welded iron hammer the size of two fists. It’s still wet with the blood of his victims. “Worry not. This will serve me well.” An evil grin spreads across his lips.

  Yeos give me the strength to stay true to the path.

  I huff out a breath. The image of my brother smiling and Bilgi’s bloodied fingers tapping my chest flicker in my mind. I touch the edge of the worn picture sticking from the edge of my pocket.

  “Mos, Ghofaun, Zaldov, we hit him in waves. Time it perfectly. One of us right on top of the next. Wear him down. Give me the chance I need.” I take a step forward. “Demitri, if you can hear
me, fight back. We don’t want to hurt you more than we have to.”

  “We are with you, Mila Solokoff,” Zaldov says, his posture locked and ready.

  “‘Til the end,” Ghofaun says.

  “Quit your braying and make your play, woman,” Vedmak rasps.

  Zaldov launches forward, crossing the gap between us in a blur of movement.

  “Ahh, the protector. We have a score to settle.” Vedmak dodges Zaldov’s initial swing.

  Knocking away a second punch, and deflecting a thrusting kick, Vedmak belts Zaldov across the face with the hammer. Shooting in low, he secures the Creed by the waist and twisting, flings him backward against the far wall in a stunning display of strength. Zaldov crashes and slides to the floor.

  Master Ghofaun beats Mos and me to the punch and whips into the air with the natural grace of a carnival performer. Landing three successive kicks, the monk staggers Vedmak back. The Gracile grunts and shakes his head, then repeatedly slaps himself in the face.

  Demitri is trying to come through, I know it. C’mon, Demitri.

  My Kahangan ally seizes the moment and sacks the Gracile from the left, pinning his arms to his sides as they fall tumbling to the floor. In a deft movement bereft of weakness, Vedmak hip-tosses the bulky Kahangan, rolls on top of him, and stretching high, drives down swinging the iron hammer with astonishing fury. Mos is only able to provide a flinch response, his arms seizing to cover his face as the heavy head cracks down on bone. There’s a shrill scream as Mos’s arm crumples beneath the blow. A look of terrible glee fills Vedmak’s face as he swings down again, Mos defenselessly clutching his deformed arm.

  “No!” Jumping into the air and planting both feet into Vedmak’s chest, my sheer momentum knocks him from my friend. I land hard on my back and roll back over my shoulder and onto my knees. Scooping a moaning Mos beneath his armpits, I drag him from the fight. “Hang in there, Mos.”

  “He ... he got me, Mila.”

  I draw Svetlana’s chrome from the holster on his hip and place the heavy magnum in his good hand. Squeezing his shoulder, I meet his eyes. “Fire on him only if you have no other choice, okay?”

  He nods with a grimace of pain. “Go get ’em.”

  Across the room, Ghofaun slams into Vedmak with another barrage of blows. Ducking a backward swing, he defeats an attempt to smash him with the great hammer, rising fast to the inside of the Gracile’s guard with a flurry of open-handed blows, chops, and elbow strikes.

  “Argh, no. Silence, fool child!” wails Vedmak.

  “Fight him, Demitri!” I scream. “Ghofaun, it’s working.”

  With a feint, Vedmak tricks the monk, seizes him by his robes and flings him overhead against the cold hard floor in the same manner a person would bust a block of ice.

  I collide once again with the huge frame of the Gracile. He grabs for me, swinging the hammer down hard where I was an instant before. With a crack, the heavy bludgeon slams against the floor.

  “C’mon Demitri!” I shout, rising outside Vedmak’s guard and deliver a swift elbow strike to his ribs, followed by a strong one-two scissor kick combination to his midsection.

  “Demitri is dead. I killed him!” Vedmak shouts, his eyes wide with fury.

  He catches me in the stomach with a strike that sends me sliding across the floor. Rising to my knees, I watch as Zaldov and Ghofaun together collide with our foe, systematically landing blow after blow. But something is wrong—the Gracile is letting it happen, or ... can it be he’s having trouble reacting?

  Demitri.

  With a wild scream, Vedmak skillfully sidesteps a would-be crushing blow from Zaldov and lands a brutal stomping kick that doubles Ghofaun over. The hammer lands hard against Ghofaun’s back and sends him into a heap against the polished floor. Swiveling his focus, Vedmak jumps into the air, and slams down with the full weight of the bludgeon into the top of Zaldov’s head. The Creed hits the ground hard and tries to rise when Vedmak jams him back against the ground with his boot.

  “Can you feel pain, puppet? Let us find out.”

  “Get up, Zaldov!” I shout.

  The Creed flails and tries to push up, but to no avail. “Mila Solokoff, help me.”

  But I’m unable to reach him in time. I watch in horror as Vedmak shoves his hand under Zaldov’s chin and begins to pull. Zaldov’s neck makes a popping sound as it elongates.

  Vedmak cackles with glee. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  “No. Please. I’m not ready to d-ahhhh!” The Creed’s voice screams in a wash of electronic distortion.

  “Zaldov!”

  Wrenching, Vedmak pulls Zaldov’s head from his shoulders. The Creed’s mouth hangs open, shock frozen on his rubbery features.

  There’s an emptiness in my chest, a sudden rush of loss. “Zaldov.”

  Vedmak stands and tosses the head to the side. He laughs—a terrible guttural sound. “Such profound weakness—to think you trusted this thing, even treated it as though it were human. Disgusting.”

  The Creed was a loyal ally. He didn’t deserve that. I struggle to keep a swell of hate from filling my heart. Hate is not the way, Mila. Stay focused.

  Vedmak looks to the headless Creed, then Mos, his ruined arm clutched against his body, the other outstretched weapon shaking, then to Ghofaun’s crumpled form, unmoving on the floor. He bares his teeth in a wicked grin as his eyes connect with mine. “All alone are we now?”

  “No,” I say fixing my eyes back on the twisted form of my old friend, resolve swelling in my chest. “I’m never alone.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  FARUQ

  The cracked plate glass windows slide past, each one only different from the next in the pattern. My head snaps left and right as I careen down the hallway, which is all polished steel and shimmering glass. Each room offers only glimpses of the chambers beyond, most of which appear to be laboratories of some sort.

  “Husniya?” I stop short in the hallway, listening, the hand cannon raised. I crack the cylinder and assure the last round is still aligned in the staging position—ready to fire with one last cock of the hammer.

  There’s a muffled cry from somewhere down the hall ahead, the sound lost in the ruckus in the main chamber behind me. I hear a scream high and shrill. It’s Mos. They’re getting killed back there.

  “Husniya, where are you?” I shout.

  There’s another crash ahead, the sound of instruments falling to the floor. I take off at a sprint. Damnation. Where is she? All these rooms appear the same.

  On the floor ahead, a Creed soldier twitches, his head jerking spasmodically, a diamond-shaped hole the shape of a well-sharpened blade in the place where his right eye should be.

  “Defend ... the principal ... must ...” Its distorted voice chitters, sparks popping from the gaping hole.

  The principal? There’s another groan. Rounding the doorway to the left, I enter a strange room with glowing glass eggs. On the floor another Creed lies still, its head twisted backward. And beside it ...

  “Husniya!” I cry, crouching next to the shrunken form of my little sister.

  Something shuffles in the dark, knocking metallic trays from the counter. The glass eggs clack together, shining their pink light on the scuffle. It’s a Gracile, bearing down on his prey. A woman. The tall one who was with Mila.

  “Hey. Let her go.” I level my weapon at the brute.

  My gun bucks upward with a blast of fire.

  The Gracile flinches, his right arm dropping to hang limp. He glares at me and starts to come. The female Gracile, wild with fury, erupts from beneath him. Clenching a piece of jagged glass from the counter, she swings upward, jamming it through the floor of the Gracile’s chin and into his brain. He convulses, a spray of blood peppering the nearby wall, before crumpling to the floor.

  With the threat gone, I set the empty hand cannon on the floor and reach for the metallic headgear clamped against my sister’s skull.

  “Don’t,” the woman gasps, rubbing
at her throat. “Sever the connection now and you’ll kill her.”

  I press my teeth together. “I cannot leave her like this.”

  The woman approaches, kneeling on Husniya’s other side. “No, we take her with us. Once Mila has done what she needs to do, we remove it,” she says, still rubbing her throat. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “I’m just here for my sister.”

  “Regardless, you didn’t have to help me, but you did.”

  “What are you doing back here?”

  She swallows and looks over her shoulder toward the strange glass enclosure on the far side of the room. It’s a much larger space than I’d initially thought, the walls extending into the darkness on either side. The little glass light bulbs come into focus. Except they’re not lights. Inside each egg is tiny life.

  “It’s an embryo chamber,” the Gracile woman says as though reading my thoughts. “It’s the fuel source for the VME.”

  “The what?”

  She seems flustered, her hands shaking. “The fiery green bubble out there. If we don’t stop it right now, it’s going to wipe us all out.”

  “Okay, so what do we do?” I say.

  “We destroy the embryos. All of them,” she says, revealing a small pouch with a brick of putty labeled COMP B. Strapped to the brick is an old windup timer with wires leading to a thin tube shoved into the putty. The wires run from one brick to another and another.

  “How many do you have?”

  “Enough. But I need your help placing them. They have adhesive backings so we can place them straight on the glass. Then we set the timer and we get the hell out of here.

  Another scream from the main chamber, followed by the maniacal laughing of the deranged Gracile we all once called friend. This has to stop. I have to finish it. This is why I suffered. All of it brought me to this critical moment.

  Now choose, Faruq.